Subway Encounter

I glanced up and noticed the woman slathering Nivea onto her chin. The seats around her were empty. Next time I looked, she’d worked it in and spread more onto her forehead. Was she okay? Or disturbed? She stood abruptly, lurched towards me in the doorway, and used the window as a 3/4-length mirror to massage Nivea into her hair with her fingertips. She made fleeting eye contact. “It’s really good gel.”

      “Wow,” I said. “Amazing. Who knew?”

      “This is me,” I said as we rolled to a stop. 

      “You’re a nice gentleman.”

      “You’re nice too,” I said, and fled.

Inspired by life. AI image by Putra.

Rant

I remember when all I had to remember was my home address and my seven-digit land-line telephone number. Now I’ve got hundreds of online accounts each one needing a unique password—because heaven forbid I use the same one. That’s just asking to be hacked. And don’t forget to change the passwords occasionally and to include random characters—letters (capital and non), numbers and specials. And then there’s all the card numbers and PINs and expiry dates and CVCs. Sometimes I so long to go back to an analogue world. Sometimes I want to talk to an actual bank teller. 

Inspired by Saturdays, Sundays and Holidays.

Saturdays, Sundays, and Holidays

On July 28, 1972, you might’ve seen a full-page ad in the paper that read, “Tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. the Royal Bank will open and never close again.” That particular tomorrow was a Saturday, way back when most banks closed at 3:00 p.m. (maybe 5:00 on a Friday) and were most certainly locked up tight on Saturdays, Sundays, and holidays. Twenty-four-hour push-button banking had come to Toronto, and that summer at the CNE, if you didn’t mind waiting in line, you might even have tried it for free at the Better Living Centre, maybe even won a five-dollar coupon!

Now, this was supposed to be the story of an 11-year-old boy—brand-new to the big city—who one Sunday afternoon that September, just happened across the Bankette they’d installed at the east end of the Colonnade on the south side of Bloor. I don’t know how long he stood there watching one person after another just doing their push-button banking, but I do remember he did not want to leave. It was like watching an episode of Star Trek—a glimpse of a future where you could get all the money you ever wanted just by pushing some buttons.

But then, after all that time I’d spent checking the Might’s Directory to verify the exact location of that particular machine, digging through the Toronto Star archives to confirm the date, then searching for images of what those ATMs actually looked like back then, and of course rebuilding the Bankette logo from the small fuzzy photo someone had posted online, I began to feel badly for that weird scrawny kid, who wouldn’t realize just how weird he has been all his life, didn’t realize it until more than 50 years later when he came here to write it all down.

Inspired by Saturday Afternoon and Sunday Morning. Bankette logo based on a photo from this page. Keypad photo by Alina Kushnarenko. Money slot based on a photo by Andrzej Rostek.

I was born with a plastic tree in my house

Pip the Cat came from a hoarding situation in North Bay. That’s all we knew until this week, when a pal told me that in a six-degrees-of-separation way, she may have a personal connection to that very house. When I volunteered for a dog rescue, I did a home visit to a hoarder. The adoption failed, but I still can’t unsee her situation. Yet addictions come in many forms. I personally fight my Bowerbird tendencies: Artisanal pottery, vintage Christmas bulbs, festive garlands, quarter-sawn oak.  It stems from my trailer park roots and a longing for a pedigree that isn’t mine.

Inspired by Sunday Morning and Substitute by The Who. Photo by the author.

Sunday Morning

Inside my skull, every heartbeat strikes like a timpani mallet. Outside, it is blindingly bright. Sunlight pierces my eyeballs with the force of a rapier thrust. I close them in repentance. Whose idea was the tequila? I am shaky, clammy with crapulence. My stomach rumbles, portending rebellion, a traitorous uprising. The dog whimpers, wanting to go out. I breathe in. I breathe out. On the air, there is evidence of canine flatulence. Eyes still shut, I reach for the Tylenol, fingers scrabbling with the child-proof lid. I breathe in. I breathe out. If I remain perfectly still, it doesn’t hurt. 

Inspired by Saturday Afternoon. Photo by And-One.