After being rejected by two guys and then seeing me approaching, he said in a voice that was both inviting and reproachful, “Hey man, don’t be like those guys, why dontcha buy one?” I shook my head, and this brought out his bitterness, “ You’re not in a hurry, man, you’re not doing anything, I can see that!”
He was right, but it still felt like an insult, like it was intended to be an insult, and as I sat down to have a tea on front of the Common, I was now acutely aware that I was no different than any of the other drifters who composed the street at this hour.
A young homeless man with a big, spacey grin on his face and a huge backpack slung over his shoulders came down the sidewalk. Everything made him happy, and when he saw my tea he beamed as if he had just seen a mystical object. I thought he might reach down and take it, but a display bicycle in front of Curbside Cycle caught his eye. Fashionable, with a big, wooden delivery container at the front, it was just sitting there, one of those art objects that got people in off the street to talk to the engaging staff.
The homeless guy just got on this bike, and silently, practically invisibly, turned into traffic and vanished into the city. It was astonishing, this, like something imagined rather than seen. Curious to see how the world would unfold without intervention, I did nothing. Nobody did anything, until one of the employees happened out of the store, noticed the missing bike and had events explained to him by a preoccupied deliveryman, who pointed down the street.
As if created for just such an occasion, two young men rocketed out onto the street from the store and sprinted off after the missing bike. They were built for this. Not for violence or displays of virility, but because their native disposition was to act, to confidently not be a bystander. A pretty girl came out from the store and watched after them, standing on a concrete city planter as if a pedestal and staring off into the horizon after her knights. And there was something beautiful and heartbreaking in this, and in their return five minutes later with the purloined bike, and once again the winners having won, the loser having lost.
Me: Feeling good today, very confident!
Me: You’re right, my Mindful Meditation session did go really well!
Me: Meditated the shit out of it! I was fucking Deerpark Chopra!
Me: No, I think it is Deerpark.
Me: Really?
Me: Deepak? That doesn’t sound like a name at all, more like a company that makes boxes or something.
Me: I don’t believe you.
Me: I’m going to look it up.
Me: Okay.
Me: Yes.
Me: I guess it is kind of amusing that I could get the last name right but still butcher the first name in such a “child-like” and “ challenged” way.
Me: I’m still going to call him Deerpark though.
Me: No, not stubborn, whimsical and playful. Like an otter.
Me: I also went to my first lymphatic massage session!
Me: Well, they tap your face.
Me: And yeah, that drains your lymph glands. Yes, by tapping.
Me: $200
Me: No, they didn’t wear diamond-encrusted gloves while doing the tapping.
Me: No, it wasn’t a topless lymphatic massage, either.
Me: Well, the happy ending is that my lymph glands are draining!
Me: I thought your insurance covered it!
Me: Fuck.
Me: Well, there are only 7 more sessions.
Me: Look, having drained lymph glands is important.
Me: At least as important as your “Power Skating” classes with Pierre. I mean, 3 times a week??
Me: I don’t trust Pierre, don’t believe he played in the NHL.
Me: Also don’t like the way you laugh around him.
Me: No, of course I trust you, my love.
Me: I’m at the Dark Horse Café now.
Me: Decaffeinated green tea, gangster style.
Me: Nowhere to sit in here.
Me: Woman says she’s holding last chair for a friend.
Me: Says she will be there in 5 minutes.
Me: Dazzling smile. Entirely distracting. Have forgotten why I was talking to her.
Me: I wish she did lymphatic massage.
Me: I’ll send you a picture.
Me: Really? Creepy and inappropriate?
Me: On every level? Really?
Me: You’re really weird, you know that?
Me: Okay, 12 minutes have passed now and her friend still hasn’t shown up. I’m going to say something.
Me: I wonder if she’s a model?
Me: Okay, it’s been over 20 minutes! I’m going to give her a piece of my mind!
Me: Her beauty doesn’t entitle her to anything!
Me: You’re right, she is exactly like that Leprechaun guy on the TTC!!
Me: Only radiant and if the Leprechaun were made out of sunlight.
Me: Like Pierre, you said he’s made of light, and what did you say, “thigh muscles,” didn’t you?
Me: I WILL SAY SOMETHING!
Me: I AM NOT A SLAVE TO BEAUTY!
Me: (Except yours, my love)
Me: Ok, here I go.
Me: Losing my resolve. Think it’s melting. Standing with tea is fine.
Me: Hemingway wrote standing up.
Me: Her laptop bag deserves seat in crowded coffee shop.
Me: Laptop bag like a holy relic.
Me: Friend just floated in like a beautiful perfume.
Me: Think Pierre emerging from a spray of ice chips.
Me: Such beauty, should be a cover charge here.
Me: They are now talking together, as angels do.
Me: All is sunlight.
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