As many of you know, Rob and I were enrolled at Carleton University in Ottawa at the same time, and it was at a local pub—Tiddlers—where we became last call drinking acquaintances. We’ve stayed in a weird contact over the years, frequently messaging one another when up late and partying alone. This is my most recent correspondence with the mayor, which took place sometime after two in the morning on Wednesday.
Rob: FORD NATION KNOCKING!!!
Me: Rob!!
Rob: BRAIN ON FIRE! All sorts of ideas!! Need quick feedback!!
Me: You always make me feel like I’m on a game show, love it!
Rob: The Quebec charter of values thing, you know, where the French people say you’re not allowed to wear the jew hat and stuff? I like it.
Me: If you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for anything!
Rob: Damn straight! I’m free market, not going to tell people what they can’t do, but if you live in Ford Nation, you’re going to have to walk the walk, get it? If you have to be a weirdo and ride a bicycle, then you have to wear an Argo’s jersey when you do it.
Me: It’s brilliant, Rob, it can’t miss! What happens if you’re culturally un-Ford Nation and exploit a public resource like a library?
Rob: You got to see Iron Man III and eat a Cronut burger.
Me: And then wear the t-shirt, “ I survived the Cronut Burger! Ford For Mayor 2014!”
Rob: Yeah!! Ford Nation: Not as diverse as you’d think.
Me: How about, Ford Nation: Strength in Unity?
Rob: Love it!!! Man, you really GET the heart of Ford Nation! I miss having these late night jam sessions in person!
Me: Me, too, big guy, me, too.
Rob: Know what else I miss?
Me: Tiddlers!
Rob: Tiddlers RULZ!!!!! But dude, I miss Frosh Week. I could fucken live in Frosh Week. I would take my vacations there if I could. Fuck Florida!!
Me: Frosh Week was awesome. But look, what happens to vegans? They’re not Ford Nation at all.
Rob: If you want to be vegan and live in Ford Nation, then you have to be a stripper once a week, too. Don’t care about their religion. Chicks only, tho.
Me: What if somebody isn’t a man of the people? You know, not the type to go to visit people in public housing and put campaign stickers on their door frames?
Rob: Oh! Just got another idea!
Me: Great!
Rob: My fantasy hockey team?
Me: Yeah?
Rob: Gonna call it, Everybody’s Twerking For The Weekend! After the Loverboy song!
Me: Genius.
Rob: Honest, I think it’s the best thing I ever thought of.
Me: Me, too.
Rob: Hey, you see those pictures of that bear chasing the bison down the highway?
Me: Yeah.
Rob: You the bear or the bison?
Me: Not sure. You?
Rob: Both, little buddy, both.
Behind her barricade was a display of discounted Triscuits. Very carefully, I stepped out of the line-up and moved one of the shopping carts out of the way and stepped toward the Triscuits.
The woman with the mop yelled at me, “Sir, sir, this section is CLOSED!”
“I just wanted to get some Triscuits, some of the cracked pepper and olive oil, they’re very hard to find.”
“I said the section was closed!”
“Well, I said I wanted some Triscuits.”
The woman sighed and repositioned her mop, as if preparing to use it as a defense against my impending attack.
It was a standoff.
“Will you get them for me then?” I asked.
“I’m busy mopping the floor,” she countered, “you’ll just have to wait until I clean up this mess,” and then she shot the cashier a look.
Shemina, the cashier, shook her head, “I’m sorry Tammy, but the manager told ME to keep on the cash, okay?”
I proceeded as if dealing with somebody holding a gun and delicately stepped into the forbidden zone with my hands up in the air.
“I’m sorry to be entering into the restricted area, but as you can see I still have my cycling helmet on so if I slip and fall, I’ll be very well protected and promise not to sue.”
I then reached out and picked a box of Triscuits off the shelf and still facing the woman with the mop, stepped back into the line. I felt like I had rescued a baby from a hostage situation and trying to be funny, held the box of Triscuits over my head as if it was a trophy.
The woman with the mop looked angry and humiliated, the cashier snickered.
A frosh that was wearing a blue, U of T jumpsuit and face paint who was standing behind me in the line said, “I guess the old man really wants his Triscuits.”
Everybody snickered, even Shemina the cashier.
“They’re just hard to find,” I said quietly.
And then he began to spaz around, imitating my raspy voice, “I want my Triscuits, I want my Triscuits! If I don’t get my Triscuits I’ll have a seizure, that’s why I have to wear my helmet! When I was a boy I played hockey!”
The woman with the mop laughed and wiped some hair out of her face, suddenly looking completely alive.
“Thanks, I really needed a laugh,” she said to the student, “ my daughter got in a fight on her first day at her new school and my kitchen ceiling’s leaking, so thanks for brightening my day.”
And everybody in the lineup was smiling like a beautiful scene in a movie had just taken place, as if love had blossomed.
Lonely and sad, I went home, had a three hour shower and then started smoking again.
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