A college-aged woman is making her way through the crowds. She’s wearing a big sweater over which she’s pulled a down vest. Her smile is warm as she cuts through the crowd, a long skateboard tucked beneath her arm. She looks so healthy, so confident, so effortlessly beautiful. It is impossible not to imagine her life, to see her her boldly meeting each new challenge she faces in this fresh world. She must skateboard through the city each day, her foot slapping the pavement as she goes faster and faster. Popping over streetcar tracks and swerving around trucks, she is the glowing velocity of youth. And then she materializes in the hospital like an answered prayer, and for a moment all our boring suffering falls aways, and there is nothing but the hope of spring.
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I often pass Hand Job Park as I take our dog Heidi for a walk, and as fate would have it, I’ve become friendly with Billy, one of the men who spends time there.
Because I have really lousy teeth and travel with an oxygen tank, Billy believes that I am a reformed crackhead, and am thus something of an inspiration to him, evidence that you can turn your life around and one day inhabit a beautiful family. As such, he’s always asking me for advice, and I have taken on the unofficial role as Billy’s Life Coach.
Every Sunday, I walk down to the park, talk to him about his week, and give him a written list of daily goals for the next week. This was my last list:
Monday:
Find public fountain and wash clothes.
Scavenge with your head, not your heart. Look for healthy, nutritional garbage opportunities such as a discarded smoothie, for instance!
Say it out loud to yourself, again and again, “My name is Billy and I will Scavenge Smart!”
Walk for at least six hours.
Learn how to tune guitar.
Affirmation of the day: THERE IS A GIFT FOR ME IN EVERYTHING THAT I EXPERIENCE.
Tuesday:
When busking, perhaps do it in front of Shopper’s instead of the liquor store? Why tempt yourself? Remember Billy, GOOD CHOICES.
Stay away from Hyena’s Old Lady. Remember what happened last time she gave you a hand job?
Walk for at least six hours.
Practice guitar for an hour.
Affirmation of the day: THE VOICES IN MY HEAD ARE NOT REAL. I AM IN CONTROL.
Wednesday:
Today I would like you to go some place quiet (perhaps the Green P Carpark) and center yourself with some light stretching and meditation. Be mindful, Billy. Feel the sun upon your skin and hear the birds singing. You are not separate from nature, but are a perfect and integral component of nature.
Surrender to oneness. Think of everything in your life (guitar, Bo Jackson football jersey, etcetera) that you are grateful for and carry that with you throughout the day like it was a weapon in your backpack.
Remember to walk at least six hours.
Practice guitar for an hour.
Affirmation of the day: THE PAST IS OVER AND MY FUTURE IS NOW!
Thursday:
While busking, take an interest in the lives of those passing by. Remember, they’re people, too. However, remember not to take too intense an interest in the lives of the nearby Sorority girls.
Although you may mean “spicy” as a compliment, they may not take it that way.
Just because you’re homeless doesn’t mean you can’t be a part of society. Make inquiries into joining Choir! Choir! Choir!
Walk for six and a half hours.
Practice guitar for one.
Love yourself for twenty-four. : )
Affirmation of the day: EVERY MOMENT I STEP INTO THE WONDERFUL UNKNOWN
Friday:
Treat yourself to a nice wash in a public fountain.
Feel rejuvenated, in love with yourself and the world around you!
As today marks the opening of the Olympic Games in Rio,
why not jazz up business with a Brazilian theme? When strumming your guitar, add some latin flair! Try to scavenge for food that is unique to Brazil, and if one of the voices in your head speaks Portuguese, have a conversation with it!
Today is a reward day, so score some dope or booze if you can and celebrate the beautiful life that is Billy!
Affirmation of the day: REMEMBER TO GIVE HAND JOBS AND NOT JUST RECEIVE THEM!
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This is my response:
“ What a wonderful and interesting opportunity for a cultural exchange! I think that Rachelle and I would be very keen in such an arrangement, as working at home alone as freelance writer while Rachelle is off at work each day, has left me lonely as I have nothing to keep me company but my masculine energy. I sure could use somebody to talk to, and as you know, I really do like to talk! All sorts of talk, in fact, and you should know I would be really happy to engage in role-playing talk if it were to help Emiko with her English!
Does Emiko like anime and manga? I do.
And shy is cute. But tell me, does shy also mean submissive? Although I love Japanese culture and the women who populate it, I have to admit that I am not up on a lot of the culture nuances. I think submissive is a good quality, as well as a complete lack of confidence and a slightly frightened deference to age.
As you know, Rachelle and I have a Miniature Dachshund named Heidi. All the Japanese girls go crazy when they see me walking her on Bloor. They run over in beautiful Asian waves, squealing and bowing and cooing and stroking our dog with their curious fingers, and it’s so beautiful I feel like I’m in a heavenly nest made entirely of Japanese girls! Anyhow, what I mean to say is that I am sure Emiko (can I call her Iko?) would just love her. However, our dog does not obey me at all, nobody does, and it would be really great if Iko was obedient in nature. (Not a condition, just a statement.)
We have a spare bedroom, but there is no door on it, and you have to pass through that room in order to get to our one washroom. I make several trips to the bathroom each night, but I am quiet and very discreet, so I’m sure that Iko would have no problem with my shadowy, forbidden, paternal presence.
In shorts (Ha! I meant to write in short!) I think we have a perfect set-up for Iko and would very much look forward to tutoring her over the summer!
Let us know if this works for you folks!
Michael Murray
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I’ve never been able to tell who lives in this sprawl of a place, but sometimes I’ll see a girl sitting on the fence or a maybe couple of them standing about smoking furtively. Somehow, they all seem a little sideways, possessing wild, impulsive eyes suggesting that at any moment they might throw a rock through a window or give somebody a hand job behind a tree. There’s just something that feels very delinquent about it all.
The other day there were two girls, both dressed for a humid summer night rather than a cool, windy day in March, standing in front of the place, One of them became intrigued by the idea of our dog, Heidi, a Miniature Dachshund. From the other side of the street she began cooing and flirting, more stripper than schoolgirl, trying to get Heidi to cross over to her, but the dog sensed something wrong in her and grew rigid, barking. And such is this girl’s life, desperate for warmth but always being rebuked by confusion and hostility.
In the line-up in front of me at the LCBO stood an elderly woman– once elegant and the belle of the ball– and her withered husband, now being pushed about in a wheelchair by a Filipino domestic. They were buying a bottle of wine and bickering, getting lost in the small details. The world around them, the people waiting in line, the cashier, the nanny, everything fell away, and there was nothing left but the furious minutia of the moment, this moment to which both of them had travelled together for so long and so far.
A little further along I sat down on a bench and a nearly homeless man, thin as a rail and with the sort of tattoos that looked self-administered, stopped to chat with Heidi. He put his nose right up to hers, his lips pursed, and then he kissed her on the snout. He kept his face there, waiting, and Heidi licked him back, and it was evident that this small, beautiful moment illuminated his day.
Silently, as if an idea rather than an actual person, a young woman in a U of T track jacket ran by us. I could feel her whoosh, like being startled by a deer, and looking up I saw her blonde ponytail bouncing and then vanishing forever around the corner. And then on our way home a guy bounded out of his apartment and smiled at us. Exuberant, he was quickly 20 yards ahead, stretching as he walked, his arms as wide open as possible, as if to gather in the entirety of the day that awaited.
“And so they walked by and this one shouted, ‘How r u doing?!’ What, are they crazy, do they think that’s the right way to talk to a girl? Is that all they know? “
The girl who never got attention from boys nodded her head in some sort of eager accommodation, grateful for this glimpse into the romantic sphere of college life, while the girl who was always disappointed seemed validated, her face now angrier.
And then a gust of wind blew a tumble of leaves over the dog and I, and when I looked up I saw a familiar homeless man pacing the street, negotiating the angles of a completely different world, and then a pretty girl with bouncing blonde hair ran past him, past us and the Sorority girls, bounding down the street toward her destiny.
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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