Declined

DECLINED

The cashier gave me a sympathetic look. "Do you want to try your card again?" she asked.

"Sure," I replied. It should work. It was probably just a mistake. The line behind me shifted impatiently.

DECLINED

The cashier didn't know what to do. "Do you want to try your card again?" she repeated. I had a terrible sinking feeling that somehow my account had been frozen or even worse, my parents had made another unauthorized withdrawal to pay for my grandfather's funeral arrangements, in spite of the fact that I had taken away their signing priveleges a couple of years ago.

"No," I replied. "I'm holding up the line. I'll be back later." It wasn't her fault. She put my textbooks off to the side as I left the store. My next stop was the library, where I logged into my bank account and saw that there was more than enough there to cover the cost of the books I wanted.

Technology is a wonderful thing.

I bought my books.

Somehow it took me three hours to get home. I spent some of that time chatting with Nick, who had to tell me all about the conference that he had been at over the weekend. I of course, knew all about it because we had attempted to sneak in to steal their food as part of frosh weekend.

"Damn, you were there and I didn't see you?" he said, "You should have dropped in to talk to me." I probably would have if I had known he was there, but for now he was fully absorbed in the telling of the delicate inner workings of the Conservative Party of Canada. He's such an arrogant sob. Sometimes I just can't stand him.

He paused for a moment to introduce me politely to a friend. She greeted me with a patronizing smile and a weak-wristed handshake. I was filled with an instant dislike for her. She was icky. As we walked away, he surprised me by saying exactly what I was thinking about her. Always a politician. I wonder what he says about me behind my back. It doesn't matter too much. Smile and nod, smile and nod.

By the time I got home I was filled with enough repressed disgust and anger that I had to yell at my mom about how much I hate Family Circus for its good wholesome 50's sexist patriarchal Christian values, even though it had nothing to do with anything I was thinking at the time. It was just a convenient.

At the bus mall...

Chiuey found me sitting dazed on the skytrain. "How long will it take you to get home?" she asked.

"From here? An hour and a half, maybe," I replied. She looked upset that I was out so late. I assured her that I would be fine. It was definitely not the first time I had ridden transit alone at night. She wouldn't stop frowning. "Just call me when you get home, okay?" she said as she got off the bus and walked off into the night.

I was definitely not dressed to sit out for an hour that night. I shivered in my flipflops and capris, feeling really nonchalant, but finding that my goosebumps were not helping me look that way. Sitting at the bus loop waiting for my ride, I had nothing to do but peoplewatch.

I sat inside one of the bus shelters, underneath one of those disgusting yellow streetlights that I hate so much. There was a group of maybe eight guys loitering around, smoking pot and swearing. Two women were also present, walking around nervously. They made several circles around the bus loop while I was there, unwilling to sit down while there was so much male bravado being tossed around.

"Hey baby, what's up?" he asked as he sidled up to me, pulling his oversized baseball jacket a little closer to his chest. His every movement lacked coordination and he flailed his arms out when he walked in that odd way that addicts do. "Not much," I sang with sweet smile, fixing him with a glare. He stalked elsewhere.

Shortly after a scuffle broke out behind me, to my left. "I don't got nothin'!" the same guy shouted, as two others began to shove him into the next shelter over, clobbering him with shots to the head. He swatted at them ineffectively, too stoned to defend himself. Eventually the transit police arrived and told them to leave. "We were only waiting for the 701," they pleaded politely, but the police would have none of it. With a couple of parting shots and a thorough search of the guy's pockets, they were gone.

The guy in the baseball jacket remained, seemingly unconscious on the bench of the shelter in the sickly yellow glow.

My ride arrived.

Waterbomber

Morning found me sleeping in for the first time in more than 10 weeks. After all the frosh festivities over the past week, it was a welcome change.

Among other things today, I went to see Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead at Bard on the Beach in Vanier Park for some delicious wordplay and philosophical thoughts on death. It was made more poignant as a result of my grandfather's recent passing. I also had the chance to take my camera downtown, and I will be posting pictures from today all week.

I went to North Delta to photograph the fire at Burns Bog as well, but unfortunately none of my pictures really turned out. The one today is a waterbomber in the smoke, but really too dark for my liking.

Random crap

"Look at her," she said, "she's going to take another picture of something weird and then post it on her blog. Then she will write some sort of random post that has nothing to do with anything."

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm going to do," I said, "and I'm going to do it just to confuse the hell out of you."

Harold

I thought I would go to bed early so that I would get a full night's sleep. Of course, things never happen that way.

Some time around midnight the police arrived at the door and invited themselves in. They got my mother to sit down and then proceeded to tell her that her father was dead, and gave her the phone numbers for the coroner and his landlord so we could make arrangements to deal with his personal effects. Then they just stood there.

My mother thanked them for their time, expecting them to leave. They stayed, expecting her to break down and be in need of comforting. Watching from the other room, I tried hard to stifle my giggles. It seemed as if the police were more concerned than we were, and they kept offering advice and condolences that weren't really needed. I felt sorry for them because they were stuck with such a crappy job.

Harold will always be etched into my mind as the drunk that used to harass me over the phone. In my last conversation with him, he told me that my mother was dead and I agreed with him and hung up. That must have scared him because within the next couple of days even the most obscure relatives I have phoned to see if they could get some sort of inheritance from her. Shortly after, I switched to an unlisted number so he would stop calling me.

The last time I saw Harold we talked for a bit on the street near the liquor store. He didn't recognize me, and I didn't bother to introduce myself.

I neither like nor dislike him. I just don't care.

The coroner tells us that his body sat in his apartment for a couple of days before anyone noticed. It is sad that he died alone, but then again, what can you expect? He was an abusive alcoholic. He burned his bridges long ago.

My father says that we must be emotionally prepared to find anything at his apartment. It almost seems like he's secretly hoping to find that he has left money for me or something. To be honest, I don't think anyone will find much, and I don't care. I've never needed anything from him.

My grandmother is jovial. Her memories of him now are twisted into a bizarre and improbable history where she ultimately is the victor. My aunt is overly sentimental, wanting to keep his ashes in her basement and trying her hardest to find pictures of him. Obviously she didn't know him well. My mother is filled with quiet anger and relief. She wants to forget. My sister laughs a lot. We each remember things our own way, and in the end, it doesn't matter.

Uneventful

Lauren was a flurry of words and smiles when I saw her this morning. "Ask Erin, she knows where your class is!" she practically shouted, pointing at me from across the garden. The next thing I knew, a confused looking guy shuffled up to me, and I gave him directions to something in the 4000 level of the AQ.

Lauren had missed numerous busses to get there and soon made sure I knew every detail about her morning. Then I showed her where her class was and she was excited about that too. It will be interesting to see how she is after a couple of weeks of institutionalized abuse at the hands of the university. Until then, her enthusiasm is both entertaining and irritating at the same time.

Kathy got a locker for us to share so the next order of business was to find that. It was located in an odd part of the school, but I'm still glad that I have a place to put my books and computer when I'm not using them.

Then I sat through two fairly uneventful meetings, where we discussed among other things, how to make sauerkraut sexy. To tell the truth, I still don't know the answer to that one.

The fact of the matter is that I really don't know what else to say about my day.

First day of school

I had a strange premonition this morning. I decided that I needed to leave early to catch my bus. I didn't because I was talking on msn.

My regular bus was five minutes late. I got on and flashed my upass at the driver. "No, you've got to put it in the farebox," he said. I sighed and obliged him. It came as no surprise when it didn't work. Translink and the student society had sent out an email earlier explaining that there was a system error that prevented our cards from working. Evidently this bus driver was out of the loop. He took my upass, checked the expiry date and then let me on the bus, telling me to contact a system administrator.

It seems that everyone and her dog decided to take their baby strollers on the bus this morning. Each one delayed the bus a little more, until it was about ten minutes late. The people at the back were becoming agitated.

Just before the bridge another girl got on with a upass. The driver put her through the same routine that I had gone through. She put her pass through the machine and like mine, it didn't work. Then he asked to see her student card and driver's licence. He then decided that he wasn't going to let her on the bus.

He would have succeeded in kicking her off had the complaints of the other passengers on the bus not escalated to a point just short of mutiny. They were angry that the bus was now 15 minutes late, and yet the driver continued to waste time arguing with the student.

What was the difference between her and I you ask? She was black. That makes me very, very angry. There is no reason why she should have been treated any differently than I was. This is happy, racially-diverse, inclusive Canada, not the American south. She's going to lodge a formal complaint with Translink. So will I.

Because my bus was late, I missed my connection and arrived at school 20 minutes late. Not being familiar with that particular building of that particular campus, I managed to stumble in through the only door at the front of the lecture hall, disturbing the entire class, and attracting the full attention of my prof and all the TA's. Lovely. Thanks Translink.

I should have trusted my instinct on that one.

I was supposed to go to work today but I got out of my shift because I had to go to school. Instead I sat in the library and talked on msn until my laptop's battery finally died.

In spite of my crappy first day at school, I think it's going to be a good year. Or at least that's what I'm hoping for...

Endsong

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends

There was nothing to do, so we cleaned. We scrubbed things until they were beautiful. We talked a bit, said goodbye and then left. We have each other's phone numbers, but I doubt we will ever call each other.

That was my last day of work.

I should feel really relieved that I can finally get more sleep. But instead I'm drained. Is it lack of sleep or lack of endorphins? I really don't know.

This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

Two

"Excuse me," she says, tapping me on the shoulder. "How long will it take me to get to Main? I'm taking the skytrain to Commercial and then I'll take the B-line from there, so that shouldn't take too long, but I don't know how long the skytrain takes." She is the cliche nosy neighbour from American films, middle-aged, dumpy, straw sunhat and cardigan, an oversized clutchpurse in her hands. She reminds me somewhat of my kindergarten teacher.

"Probably about 20 minutes from here," I replied. She looks hurt.

"So I can't make it there in half an hour?" she asks.

"Maybe you can," I say, not wanting to disappoint her.

"I'm going to be late," she whines, and then without breathing she switches subjects. "It's terrible what's happening in New Orleans, isn't it?"

"Yes it is."

"It should never have happened."

"No disaster should."

"I was there once. It was a magical city. It's so sad. What are they going to do?"

"I don't know," I say as we board the skytrain.

"It was all preventable, you know," she says, screwing her face into an angry caricatured pout. Her voice is gradually getting louder. "It was George Bush that brought this all about. The Clinton administration told him that the levees needed to be repaired and he didn't do it. No, he had to be such a fucking asshole!" Her voice was shrill now. The last two words had been screamed. People on the skytrain shifted from side to side nervously.

We are at Production already. She apologises as I get off. I tell her she didn't need to.

One

"Do you mind if I smoke over there?" he asked.

"No, go ahead," I replied. I hate cigarettes, but at least he asked. Most people don't.

"You taking the B-line?" he asked, pulling a can of beer out of a nondescript plastic bag. "Yes," I answered. The beer fizzed over when he opened it, all over his hand and the ground he was sitting on. Unphased, he took a sip and began fumbling in his bag again, this time producing a small joint and cheap book of cardboard matches.

"You know, I just made fourty bucks in half an hour," he said, obviously proud of himself. "Really?" I asked. He was making the lady beside me very uncomfortable. "I had to really hustle to do it though," he added, pointing toward his squeegee, "see, I smell like ammonia. You can smell it, can't you? I mean, where else would you go and make that kind of money legally? I mean, with good honest work and all? I'm gonna go home and buy myself a nice steak." Steak, the working class status symbol.

The joint refuses to light. His smile was full of gaps and decay as he lit another match. A small plume of smoke wafts up and fills the bus shelter. Pleasant. He begins to speak again. "I can do 58 different voices," he said, "I'm the best in Canada. Name your favourite song."

Mann Mot Mann by Kaizers Orchestra was playing on my mp3 player at the time, and I was tempted to say it. "What's your favourite song?" I asked. He then began to serenade me as Kermit the Frog, Louis Armstrong, Burt Bacharach and Steve Page from the Barenaked Ladies. He was no Peter Sellers, but pretty good regardless. Then he sang a medley of Elton John songs, his face animated with a manic fervour. I was soon beaming from ear to ear.

"See, you're smiling," he said, still chattering away. "That's why I turned down a recording contract. Everyone's offered me one, but the suits wanted 75% of my profits." He looked to me for some sort of approval.

"That's criminal," I said. He continued to talk. And talk.

The last thing he told me as we got on the bus was that he wasn't a drug addict. The needle tracks up his arms made that hard for me to believe. Denial. Perpetually full of shit. It doesn't matter what I think. I just listen.