I was just leaving an outdoor dinner party where the guests were
mostly middle class, middle aged women and the food had been served on
disposable plates, some of which seemed to have a life of their own, as they
and the leftovers they were holding started sliding off the benches where they
were sitting beside the ladies. I was carrying mine to find a garbage can and
caught one plate that was about to slide off the bench from beside one woman
who was chatting with another. I found a trash basket on the corner, where a
dark street began. I had an appointment and went looking for public transit. I
walked up the steps of a pedestrian overpass, similar to the one that goes over
the railroad tracks north of Bloor and Dundas. I was at the top but turned
around. In addition to a little of my own money, I had $200 in my pocket that I
had to give to someone, but there was someone else, a young blonde guy in good
shape that also needed the money. It didn’t seem to matter which person I gave
it to and they could work out who owed what to whom between them. I looked down
to the streetcorner near the foot of the stairs and saw that my bike was locked
there, though it was a different bike than the one I usually ride. I was about
to descend to unlock it because I could get to where I was going quicker that
way, when my phone rang. I dug it out of my pocket but it looked like the
spooky green skeleton of a smartphone, with the circuits exposed. I didn’t even
know which side to talk into but when I put it to my ear and said hello, a
desperate voice said, “Christian! It’s Nancy! I really need to see you! Can you
meet me?” She didn’t have the voice of my daughter’s mother but I recognized
her particular flavour of panic and said, “Okay” and then she hung up. There
was no when and where attached to any meeting though. Around that point I woke
up.
On Saturday I
needed to wash some underwear and since they wouldn’t be able to dry properly
at home I decided to splurge at the Laundromat. I considered washing them first
and then taking them to be dried, but figured the extra quarters I’d have to
spend to get soaking wet clothing dry would amount to about as much as paying
for a washer, in which case, because of the final spin cycle, they wouldn’t be
dripping when I put them in the dryer. So I took a small load of things that
needed to be washed, but not my bedding, since I’d be washing that next
Wednesday when the exterminator comes again.
On my way to the
Laundromat, I was waiting near Lansdowne and Queen and waiting to cross south
when someone called my name. It was Michael Fraser, pushing his son in a
stroller for the purpose of getting him down for a nap. He was already halfway
nodded off, but still holding onto the box of Triscuits he’d been snacking on.
Michael is
featuring at the Plastiscene reading series this Sunday. I told him that because
of the essay I have to finish before Tuesday I might not be able to make it out
that night. I think I’ve been going to Plastiscene every month for about five
years now, and I’ve only missed it one time, which was because I had to study
for a French exam. In this case I really can’t see myself being able to
sacrifice the four hours of writing time I’d lose if I went to Plastiscene on
Sunday night. I would have to make miraculous progress with the essay before
the evening for me to be able to go.
So, after my
laundry I spent the day writing. I finished the required seven pages of text
and came up with a thesis, but I still have to refine those seven pages of
ideas into arguments that support my thesis.
While eating dinner
I watched Buster Keaton’s short silent film, “The Electric House”. Some
diplomas get mixed up at graduation and Keaton ends up with one that says he’s
an electrical engineer, so he gets hired to electrify a house. This takes place
in 1922 when a lot of houses still didn’t have electricity. The family returns
from holiday to fin all kinds of modern innovations have been installed. This
film was mostly interesting only because of what would have been considered at
that time to be innovative. The house had an escalator that sometimes went too
fast and catapulted whoever was ascending out the window and into the pool,
which could drain or fill in a matter of seconds. There was a pool table that
racked its own balls. The bookshelf had an arm that would extend to pass you
whatever book you wanted. The dinner table had a train track that ran to and
from the kitchen and went around the edge of the table to deliver or take away
dishes. There were a few more gadgets as well but things went most wrong when
the real electrical engineer snuck into the electrical room of the house and
started switching the wires.
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