Sometimes
you think of random people you’ve come across in your life and wonder how
they’re doing. On this day, March 31st, 2020, I’m thinking of Wolf,
the pool maintenance man at Living Water, the timeshare resort I used to work
at. He was about 6’ 6” and in his mid-sixties. His long fingers were curled
with arthritis. He monitored all the gauges in the pump room, making sure every
chemical and temperature was just so.
Mainly he could be seen with a dolly lugging in bags of salt. The indoor pool
at Living Water was a salt pool. Every now and again a kid would throw up in
the pool and Wolf had to completely rinse out the pool and resalinate it. I
imagine he prayed for healthy children.
Wolf’s father was a Nazi. His uncle
was killed in WW2. Wolf had a very dry, saracastic sense of humour. He enjoyed
jokes and goofing around, but there was always a saccharine air about him
tinged with sadness. He seemed to enjoy my company because I had a genuine
interest in history and peoples past.
To go along with his long and lean
stature, he had a couple dogs that he brought to work every now and then.
Mastiffs, of course. They lopped down the long corridors just like Wolf did
except he was upright. If he passed you by in the halls, he would give you a
fist-bump and say, “Potato”. Then he’d open his hand up, fingers splayed and
say, “Fries”.
Wolf
enjoyed those Buddhist retreats were you don’t talk for two weeks. I jokingly
said, “I suppose you don’t snort too much cocaine during your vacations.”
He would laugh at my stupid jokes and
cheeseball puns. Laughing like, we know they’re stupid, and life is short and
stupid in general anyways, so why not giggle at some word play? That’s how we
laughed at the cheesy jokes. The first way I judge a man is in how he takes a
goofy word play joke. I hate it when people cringe at me like it’s the dumbest
thing, failing to understand that I, too, am in on the stupidity of the joke.
The joke is not laughing at me, we are supposed to laugh together at the
stupidity. We’re supposed to be on the same team, dummy.
I
don’t have anything against chipmunks, but there’s a critter running around
right above my bed all night every night and I want it dead. It’s driving me
crazy. I'm guessing it is a chipmunk and it doesn't really matter if I'm wrong. Mouse, squirrel, whatever it is, it needs to get the hell out of here or die. Not the best two options from the critters' point of view, but that's the way it is in this wicked world.
I
went out on the back deck for a smoke and noticed a chipmunk eyeing me from
inside the plastic extension on the eaves trough. The little thing was emitting
a slight guttural honk until I heard an identical honk —to my ears at
least—echo back. I got the sense that they had been caught in their secret
little place and were sheepish. I thought about laying out a trap right by the
plastic extension but was put off by the prospect of breaking one of their
necks only for a family member to discover the crooked body right outside their
lair. I couldn’t decide what was worse: the mother discovering their only son;
the father discovering their only daughter; the son discovering his daughter,
etc.
So I decided to put the trap in the
garage. I figure it’s on the opposite side of the house and if they wander this
far they’re on their own in no man’s land.
I cleaned up the house a bit,
preparing for my parent’s imminent arrival from Florida for their mandatory
fourteen day quarantine. I went out to the garage for a cigarette break. I was
listening to Jim & Sam with my earbuds in, but I kept hearing a commotion
of some kind. I chalked it up to the neighbour two houses down who was doing
some serious renovations. Then something told me the noise was too close—it sounded
like it was coming from inside the garage. Annoyed, I ripped the left pod out
of my left ear and the commotion grew exponentially louder.
My eyes were horrified by the sight
in front of me. I would have done a double take if it wasn’t staring me right in
the face. A chipmunk with his neck and head caught right in the snapper of the
trap; feebly dragging it around, the trap banging on the concrete garage floor.
I could see his little heart pounding; little fella was putting up one helluva
fight. I mean, his head was snapped so tightly in the trap I couldn’t believe
he was alive let alone dragging the thing around. Maybe it was one last surge
of chipmunk adrenaline.
I was stunned into inaction. I
didn’t quite know what to do. Let him go? Bash his head? Freeze him in case the
coronavirus destroys the world and all that’s left is chipmunk meat?
I didn’t want to smash his skull out
of mercy and a mild case OCD—I’m afraid some of the chipmunk brain-goop might
splash into my eyes or mouth and I’ll get chipmunk coronavirus. The thought
process goes something like, “It’ll be just my luck that I catch some rare
chipmunk to human virus when I smash his head, some terrible splash back will
wet my lips and I’ll be done. And I’ll go to bed every night wondering if I’m
infected. Seasonal allergies have now become chipmunk corona coughs!
We have to be vigilant in these times.
I could only take so much of one of
God’s funny little creatures in so much distress. Cute almond-shaped eyes, a
warm chestnut brown coat with a garish white stripe running down the length? What’s
not to love!
I
carefully put my boot down onto the back of the trap, releasing the pressure of
the taut spring. The newly freed prisoner stumbled about, slovenly like the
town drunk. Half of his head was grossly misshapen and caved in; one eye was
entirely missing as he went this way and that.
A chipmunk sloth.
He ambled towards me and then
disappeared behind my car into the dark recesses of the garage. Fuck me, I
couldn’t believe it! This was worse than putting the damn trap beside their
lair and having the whole family see the dead loved one and crying their
chipmunk tears! Sometimes life really does kick you square in the teeth. I
didn’t even want to do this in the first place, it’s just that a critter is
rummaging around right above my bedroom at night and it’s driving me crazy. If
you rob me of my beauty sleep, the courts dish out a death sentence. They put
you in The Snapper. It’s just the way it is.
Who
knows what’s going to happen in the United States’ general election. Will it
even be held this November? It’s uncertain at this point. But one thing is
certain, in fact it’s crystal goddamn clear, Trump needs to pardon Joe Exotic
before he vacates the presidency.
The
Town of Wasaga Beach has now closed all parks and beaches as of today, April 2nd.
I don’t know what that means for my
favourite local spot, Tiny Marsh, but I suspect that it’s exempt because it’s
not a park, merely a conservation area.
Went to Tiny Marsh today (April 4th)
and it was the busiest I’ve ever seen it in the last five years. Lots of
families out with the kids walking the dog. I didn’t ask anyone but I figured
we were all their legally. Bird watching has never felt so dangerous! I did
manage to see a pair of Hooded Mergansers as well as a Common Loon with the
ducklings riding on her back. The rhythm of the seasons will keep rocking and
rolling whether we like it or not.
I wonder if this journal collection
of our new times will slowly deteriorate until one day I’m typing in a burned
out tent city on the margins of town, charging for hand jobs just to get a tiny
bowl of garlic soup. Perhaps missing a finger or two; knife scars across my
face. My laptop covered with a mix of blood and soot, half the keys illegible.
I try not to read too much news
because it is an unending, burbling stream of grief. Maybe I’ll regret my
decision, but I’ve decided to start the doorstop otherwise known as “The Stand”
by Stephen King. I figure that only like 99% of the population dies in the
book, so our measly little pandemic will seem like a walk in the park by
comparison. It’s all about perspective. I’m gonna feverishly milk the forces of
the universe, wring out all that karmic juice until my glass is half full.
It’s
April 5th and I’m thirty odd pages into The Stand. I gotta say, the
hooks are sinking in deep. The real question is how bad are the lulls? Because
there’re bound to be some in a 1,500 page book. Indulgent, frivolous scenes
that simply eat up pulp—chew up forests and spit them out. But I don’t really
mind self-indulgence; in fact, I encourage it. I have no problem with a bloated
masterpiece. Not that I’m saying The Stand is a masterpiece. I may get bored
after page 150 and throw it back on the shelf. Feh! I guess we’ll see.
I
got nothing left here. I want to be famous, my light plugged in twenty four
seven. And the method I’ve decided on is this: I will marry the felon Joe
Exotic.
The
HR person at work called me today. The tentative start-up date is May 4th.
Pretty much what I expected. A slight chance I may go in on April 20th
because there is a Paccar order, but it’s doubtful.
In the meantime, I must say that the
government has been good in quickly processing my EI claim. I got $3,500
deposited on Tuesday, April 7th. I’m supposed to get $2,000 per month but there
was a retroactive payment from March 15th. Alright OK, fine by me.
Early April always reminds me, and
many others of my generation, of Kurt Cobain’s suicide. There’s that liminal
period between April 5th and April 8th where he killed
himself but wasn’t discovered. Three days lying there dead and rotting with his
brains being eaten by maggots. I can’t help but picture the electrician that
found him. I believe he thought the body was a mannequin at first, but then he
called the cops after it became obvious it was not. Perhaps when he first laid
eyes on the body he thought, “Oh, those kooky rock stars and their eccentric
lifestyles. He’s probably doing some kind of new brain-exploding drug or
something.”
100 pages into “The Stand” and it’s
pretty damn good so far, I must say. Fella can write!
April
10th 2020
Just
another boring day in quarantine.
April
13th 2020
I
was hiking around Marl Lake, about to go down a snowmobile trail. One of those
straight shots that seem to go on forever. I was about half a kilometre from
Marl Lake, following the edge of a creek. I knew I couldn’t make it to the
lake, but thought I’d trek along the creek for a quarter K or so. I had a nice
view of the lake and the surrounding woodlands. An Eastern Phoebe was perched
on a branch nearby.
Then I saw what any birder is hoping
to see: something weird, wild and new! Like a junkie slamming a new brand of heron,
we cook it up with our binoculars and our heart starts pounding. I was
flabbergasted at first. What I saw before me was a raptor, my initial guess
that it was an Osprey or a Northern Harrier. It was quite a distance off as
raptors tend to be.
It was flying in a most unusual
pattern; kept swooping down and then swooping up, covering a large distance.
Then it flew up to an apex and then slowly careened backwards like it was
putting on an air show; barrel rolling like a pro. There wasn’t a sound in the
area surrounding the lake, the sky concrete grey and not a hint of wind. The
silence was breathtaking and made this performance that much more intense. My
first thought was that the bird had coronavirus. He was acting like a fool!
My research tells me that it was a
Northern Harrier and that the fella was ‘skydancing’. A term I’d never heard
before. Basically, it was a mating ritual. A young male was trying to impress
the female with his swooping maneuvers. I must say, I was impressed. Sorry bro,
unfortunately you can’t impregnate me! Definitely had a birdgasm with that
sighting, though.
April
16th 2020
I
had a random thought earlier today: what if mosquitoes can transmit
coronavirus? Fuck me, we’re all screwed then aren’t we? Then I thought, well
that’s kind of obvious and it must have been wondered a million times since
this pandemic started. The answer is a clear and emphatic ‘no’. Perhaps The
Stand is getting into my head. About 300 pages deep. I’ll read thirty pages and
then come back to reality and go, ‘Oh shit, I didn’t really escape at all now
did I?’
One
funny little detail in The Stand: The United States, realizing that the virus
will essentially destroy the country, deliberately infects China and Russia
with the help of some spies.
Ha!
In our silly little world, China gave it
to us!
All
and all, just another day in the ’Tine. Listen to some podcasts, play some
guitar, have a few beers and a few smokes. Maybe watch some TV.
I did learn that Metallica named the
album ‘Ride The Lightning’ after a line in The Stand. I remember encountering
the phrase early in the book and wondered if Metallica got the name from the
book or if it was a somewhat common phrase that I just hadn’t heard before, and
both Stephen King and Metallica used
it coincidentally. Perhaps there were dozens of instances of the phrase, “Ride
the lightning” in the collective conscious and I merely avoided every one of
them. But no . . . Metallica did it on purpose and that settles that.
In a similar vein, I just learned
that Bob Marley’s father was a plain old white man, just like me. Hey mon, I’m
a Buffalo Soldier too. I never would’ve guessed! One of those cultural nuggets
that somehow sifted through my net.
April
17th 2020
I
went to the bird boxes by Klondike Rd and Golf Course Rd meant to attract
Eastern Bluebirds. I went around giving the twenty or so boxes some glass but
didn’t see a thing. Oh well, I’ll try again in the next few days. Nothing much
else to do. I didn’t hear any bluebirds either. Apparently they come to
Southern Ontario in late March or early April, so they should be around. If
bird watching teaches one anything, it is to be patient with your vigilance and
vice versa.
There
is a tire track in our front yard. It really only nicked our side, but went
long and deep into our neighbour, Angelo’s, yard. He’s an elderly Greek man
who, like many retired folk, loves lawn maintenance like a junkie loves smack.
The tire track isn’t a huge deal, grass keeps growing, and besides, we’re in
the middle of a pandemic. Was it on purpose or was it simply someone
accidentally swerving? Hard to say. Doesn’t much matter, but in these
quarantine times, one loses the plot of what’s important. I became a little
obsessed; I thought I could check the tire track and then match it up to the
guy a few doors down.
Why the guy a few doors down you
ask? Well . . . there’s the rub of the whole story.
Our next door neighbour, Angelo,
thinks that his next door neighbour
deliberately drove his truck over Angelo’s yard because they are having some
sort of dispute. It was an act of lawn graffiti. My Dad happened to mention to
Angelo that he saw a grey van making a helluva noise when he went to pick put
the newspaper at the foot of the driveway around 7:15am.
Yesterday the doorbell rang. My
Mother answered and it was Angelo. He had a pen and a pad in his hand. His
white hair was combed back on the sides as well as what little remained on the
top. He looked stereotypically Greek.
In his gruff baritone, he explained that
the police wanted to speak with my Dad; he was inquiring what my Dad’s name and
phone number was. Mother, the ever polite society lady (and I don’t mean that
in a bad way, she’s just so nice to any random person at the door—manners
first!), gave Angelo the main line number.
A few minutes later the phone rang
and it was Angelo again. He forgot to get my Dad’s last name. Mother enunciated
it perfectly and spelled it out twice.
I couldn’t help but think of how
petty it was to call the police over a stray tire track on your yard during a
pandemic. I don’t dislike Angelo or his family; they’ve been neighbours for
years and we all cordially wave hello like the good suburban prisoners we are.
Though their dog barks like a maniac and it is annoying as all hell, I don’t
begrudge them at all. Just another set of humans in a house; I’ve seen plenty
enough already. Perhaps the dog is the root of the dispute between him and the
neighbour. I don’t know. But the dog does have an incredibly loud and
persistent bark. The kind of bark that, if you’re already in a sour mood, drives
you over the edge. You want to yell and scream at them for having a fucking
retarded dog. Why would you have a dog like that? Are you fools? It just barks
and barks like an idiot. Do you sell meth or something?
I mean, have I wanted to yell that
at them a few times? Sure, but I push it down , nod and smile like a good
neighbour. Another deposit into the rage account only to hope that I never have
to make a withdrawal. (Ha, that sounds like a Joker parody line.)
And then a few minutes after that,
the house line rang again. Private name and private number. Mom and I looked at
each other like a couple of yenta’s and both thought, “Oh, it’s the cops! Go
get Dad!”
I eavesdropped on the conversation.
Dad relayed to the officer that he
went out to get the morning paper and heard a truck revving it’s engine and he
looked and saw a grey truck with writing or something on the side speeding off.
He didn’t think much of it until later when Angelo showed him the tire track
damage to the lawn. Then Dad connected the dots and told Angelo he saw a grey
truck making a bit of noise earlier. Then, of course, Angelo did his own
deducing.
Never did find out what happened. Just
one of the many unsolved mysteries of the quarantine.
April
20th 2020
I
heard the doorbell but didn’t get the door. I was taking a piss. Mom was on the
phone. Dad went and got it and I didn’t hear anything until I walked out of the
bathroom and heard the door shutting.
“Dad, who was that at the door?” I
asked.
Sitting behind his laptop, he let out a
little laugh and said it was a lady looking for a snake.
“Huh?” I asked. “Whadya mean a ‘snake’?
Like she lost it or was she with animal control or what?” A million questions
ricocheted like shrapnel inside my head.
“Yeah, she was a young lady with pink
hair, looking for a snake. She asked if I was ‘Dallas’. I told her she had the
wrong address. She was looking at her phone like she was confused.”
I had never regretted not answering the
door more in my life.
April
29th 2020
In
its infinite wisdom, YouTube’s algorithm suggested a two and a half minute clip
called “The Poison Garden”. True to its
name, it was about a garden in England, specifically in Northumberland County,
which is located in the Northeast of the country. I immediately recognized it
as the county where my Father was born and spent his childhood years.
That Sting fella? Yeah, that’s where
he’s from. That area of England is notable mostly for its shipbuilding glory
days, but has since seen economic decline in our increasingly modern world.
Those sweet union jobs have dried up. My grandfather was the proud captain of a
large cargo ship.
The Poison Garden is located near
Alnwick Castle. I had never heard of Alnwick Castle (pronounced, mercifully, as
‘Anik’) but it looked old and impressive, so I inquired immediately—since he’s trapped
in the same house as me, this was not difficult—and he confirmed that yes
indeed he had heard of Alnwick Castle. In fact, he visited it on a school trip
when he was a child. Building commenced in 1096 AD.
Though he claimed not to remember
anything about the trip, it being so long ago, my inquiry seemed to blow the
dust off an old chest in the attic, and he looked wistfully into the distance.
It seemed to me that he hadn’t considered Alnwick Castle in some seventy years
until I mentioned it. Hell, I only learned of its existence mere moments
earlier. I could almost feel my Father’s dormant memory and my new one
colliding in the ether.
I asked him about The Poison Garden.
“No, never heard of that place. But I’ve been to Alnwick Castle. Actually, somewhere
there’s a photo of my sister standing in front of it with my parents. It hung
in their bedroom for years.” My Father’s sister is a couple years older, and
for whatever reason my Dad visited the castle for a school trip, sans parents.
I thought of my Father as a young
English schoolboy sitting on a bus of other boys dressed exactly as him.
Perhaps a newsboy hat and a cute little tie sitting on his chest. But who
knows, maybe they dressed like slobs. I just picture English schoolboys in the
late 1940s to be very prim and proper.
There must have been an air of
excitement as the date of the trip drew nearer. No math or boring spelling
drills today! We’re going to a freaking castle! Castles are about on par with
dinosaurs for young boys. I wonder if my Father even slept the night before. I
remember a couple of my school trips in some kind of mystic light now that time
has separated the experiences like some ball of ethereal silly putty. The
drudgery of school at a young age where time seems to drag and drag feels like
Groundhog Day over and over again, kind of like living in quarantine.
April
30th 2020
I
have never laughed as hard as I did tonight. The kind of laugh where tears are
coming out and your jaw is aching. I pulled up my jogging pants and they went
damn near up to my tits. I hunched over and walked with a limp. I pretended to
be an angry old man yelling about kids pooping on the lawn and things like
that. The thought that really pushed me over the edge was: “Oh my god, I’m
acting like a retarded zombie.” I couldn’t stop laughing. Both my parents
thought it was quite funny, too. “We sure are proud of our son,” Mom said as I
stumbled about like a goofball. Time lost
in a laughing fit.
May
3rd, 2020
I
woke up today in a rotten mood. Just a grumpy ol’ bastard. Maybe it’s the
quarantine blues. I’ve been breaking rules left and right, going to provincial
parks on an almost daily basis. Today was no different; it was just a matter of
which one, like a junkie with a sack full of different drugs.
My original plan was to drive south
for ten minutes and check out the Eastern Bluebird boxes near Klondike Road.
For whatever reason, I was at a red light and decided to hit the Beach One area
park instead. I continued straight after the light turned green. There was a
better variety of birds near Beach One because of the shoreline and the
Nottawasaga River. Better chance of warblers. It’s May Madness after all. May
is probably the most exciting month for birding in Central Ontario. Tons of
migrants passing through and others coming to stay for the summer. Cape May
Warblers, Red Starts, Chestnut-sided, Cerulean, Canada Warblers, Blue-headed
Vireos. Come one, come all! It’s like being in the studio while Mother Nature writes
another hit record. Wood Thrushes and Wood Ducks. Holy hell, I saw five male
Wood Ducks milling about yesterday and nearly came in my pants. Whoa there! I’m
not into male ducks like that.
I
park my car in the main lot. Get out my binoculars, smokes, sunglasses, and
hat. It was ten degrees Celsius and a clear blazing sky; the wind whipped off
the bay and made it seem cooler. It’s always about five degrees cooler on the
bay. Almost needed a toque instead of a hat, but no big deal—it was nice to
feel the sunshine on my face after another relentless Canadian winter.
Two teenaged boys on bikes rode
ahead of me. They dismounted and ducked under the closed gate, carefully
balancing the bikes along with their bodies. There was a black helicopter
sawing through the air in the distance. It sent a chill down my spine. Are they
watching me or others go into the park? Though I knew the park was closed as it
was provincial, I had been through numerous times in the last six weeks with no
issues. And today, with the weather being somewhat nice, and it also being
Sunday, there were plenty of other people outside walking about. So I bypassed
the orange steel gate up a sand embankment like I always do and didn’t think
much of it.
I got about two hundred yards into
the park. A Belted Kingfisher’s call machine-gunned through the air as it
landed on a gnarled old Maple branch that hung over the river. I put the binos
to my face and adjusted the knob with my index finger until the bird came into
crystal clear focus. Alrighty then, always nice to see a Kingfisher. Now I’ll
be moving along. At that moment a voice from behind hollered at me: “Hey! The
park’s closed!”
My first, immediate response as I
turned around was that it was someone I knew joking around, or just some
vigilant citizen yelling the Coronavirus equivalent of “Get off my lawn!”
I sighed a little inside and my
pulse started racing. Of course, it was a cop leaning on the driver’s side door
of his SUV. Adrenaline started surging because I thought, hell, I can outrun
this fella, but my car is in the parking lot and it’s a dead end if I run away
from the officer. This part of the park ends in ‘The Point’ where the
Nottawasaga River and Georgian Bay meet and become one. Think of it as a long,
thin stretch of land that tapers off into the lake. So, yeah, running probably
wouldn’t be a good idea.
I was caught between the devil and the
deep blue sea.
I closed the distance between us until I
was within speaking range. He was roughly my age. Five nine and a medium build.
Dark hair and features. An Italian name on his uniform.
I walked up the sandy embankment to
get around the locked orange gate, the exact same way I walked in.
“What the hell do you think you’re
doing?” he barked at me. Now, I consider myself a reasonable citizen, but I’ll
freely admit I have a slight problem with authority. Especially when right off
the bat, the authority figure is being aggro with me. It’s like a switch is
flipped in my brain—oh, okay, he’s going to get the passive-aggressive
sarcastic asshole treatment; that’s just the way it is, I can’t help it.
Leaning on the SUV door with his sporty
watch and neatly shaved sideburns. Being a police officer is a difficult,
stressful job but I didn’t care, I wasn’t going to make this guy’s life any
easier.
“Uhh . . . I was bird-watching,” I said, with just the
right amount of derision, holding up the binoculars. The black neck strap
stitched with ‘Bausch & Lomb’ in gold block letters hanging loose and free.
I don’t know what ‘Bausch & Lomb’ conveys to you, but to me it says, “I
mean business when it comes to binoculars.”
He gave me an exasperated look and
said, “The park’s closed.” I didn’t feel the need to point out all the others
walking in or around the perimeters of the park. It was plainly obvious. I
didn’t need to rat them all out, but I did it all the same, I’m ashamed to say.
“I know, but I’ve seen people in here for weeks and even right now, look, there
are people in the park.” I suppose, upon reflection, that this line of argument
is akin to getting a speeding ticket and complaining that other drivers were
going faster than me, but that is what came out of my mouth. In this new world
of lockdowns and quarantines though, I figured the reasoning held some newfound
weight.
Misery will always welcome company,
pandemic or not. I’m getting a ticket? Faahhuck you, buddy! Everyone’s getting a ticket.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get to them,” he
said. I got the impression that I was the first person he was giving a ticket
to, and that he was sick of all the lackadaisical behaviour of the citizens of
Simcoe County when it came to respecting the closure of our provincial parks.
He asked my name, and where I lived.
“You got any I.D.?”
“Nope,” I said, my wallet safely nestled
against my left buttock. I simply figured he’d be less likely to go through the
hassle of writing a ticket if he didn’t have my I.D. A dismissive wave of the
hand and a friendly warning, then I’d be on my way. I’m an ordinary,
non-threatening white man after all.
“We have to stay apart,” he said,
stepping back, realizing that we were naturally moving closer to have a normal
conversation. These are strange times and sometimes you simply forget about it
for a moment or
two
. . .
When he got to asking for my date of
birth, a small armada of motorcycles with someone riding pillion on each bike slowly
took the corner. All the heads were looking at us. The officer and myself were
situated on the shoulder of Beach Drive, at the apex of a curve in the road,
and car after car was slowly winding its way by us, gawking at the cop and the
man with binoculars in his hand. Maybe they think I’m a peeping Tom. Maybe I am a peeping tom. Oh shit! Did I just
type that out loud?
At first I attempted to yell, “JULY 3rd!
NINETEEN EIG— ” but abruptly thought better of it. It was useless to yell. A
streamlined chromatic hog will out-yell a sweet little bird-watching boy like
me any day. I thought about lighting up a smoke, but I remained calm and
determined not to be an asshole. I could feel that $800 ticket looming over me
like the Sword of Damocles. Be nice, I told myself, and maybe he’ll just give
you a warning. Better to remain quiet and thought a fool than to speak and
receive an $800 ticket.
I also thought of yelling down towards
the boardwalk where pairs of folks kept filtering by: “Hey everybody! I’m
getting a ticket for walking through the park!” That’d really start to get
things cooking. Get a riot going! But of course I didn’t, and you probably
wouldn’t either. Some are fools; most are wimps. Better to be a wimp than a
fool in this case.
I was in a mood before this encounter,
and was now teetering on the brink of destroying my life as much as possible in
a glorious hail of violence and disobedience on the one side, and laughing it
off on the other. I always choose the latter, but still. I could picture my
anger going from debating the cop to morphing into biting at his neck.
We stewed in our imposed silence, each
biker and their rider eyeing us up as they went by. Most of them had bandannas
tied around their faces and sunglasses on; wouldn’t be able to pick any of ‘em
out of a lineup. I thought, “Should I have ran? Naw, but man that would have
been interesting to tell the other inmates.
“What’re you in for?” they’d all ask.
“Who me? Oh, nothing; a little
bird-watching.” And they’d think that was some kind of mafia code for importing
exotic animals or human trafficking.
I
gave the officer my particulars and he retreated to the truck. As each minute
passed by, I figured my chances of getting a ticket went up. After standing
around like a dummy for about seven long minutes, I considered going up to the
passenger side window and asking what the deal was. Just hit me with the damage
already; I was twisting in the wind over here.
He finally exited the SUV and I could
see he had a couple slips of paper in his hand, one blue and one white. Oh fuck
this guy, I thought, another adrenaline surge coming on. Fuck him in his
tailpipe with a tire iron. I feel it in my legs; they get all tingly, all
shocked up and want to explode. I toggle the focus on my binoculars
compulsively back and forth.
Give me a warning you jerk-off. The sign
on the orange gate is fucking tiny. You
think this is useful? Ticketing bird-watchers? You moron. Go help an old lady
cross the street.
Fingertips twitching, twirling,
toggling.
I want to rip his scrotum open with my
bare teeth and spit his bloodied, pulped testicles back into his face.
Sometimes you just gotta grin and
bear it; take your medicine. Shows what kind of a man you are to humbly accept
defeat.
“Now,
I’m not going to hit you with an $800 ticket; that’d be one helluva expensive
bird-watching trip. I’m just giving you a municipal trespassing ticket for $65.
Stay outta here until the park’s open again.” I relaxed; my shoulders drooped.
I knew it was relatively fair. I could laugh it off. I’m one of the lucky ones.
I don’t get a knee on my neck for eight minutes and forty six seconds.
Then, in another breach in social
distancing proto, he crept within handshake range and gave me the pieces of
paper. Our fingertips touched. Great, now I have the Coronavirus that was on
your hands and it didn’t make a lick of difference that we stood six feet apart
during this whole charade of justice. I carelessly shoved the tickets into my front
pocket, crumpling them in the process; one last act of useless defiance as I
climbed into to my KIA Rondo.
In
light of the situation, it was a fair enough deal. I can argue with the
absurdity of keeping some parks closed and others open, but I could empathize
with the cop. He’s got to enforce the law to some degree, considering lots of
people aren’t taking the park closings seriously. I’d still argue a warning
would have sufficed. And more importantly: Better signage! Large and explicit!
Big capital letters saying: YOU WILL BE FINED IMMEDIATELY! There has been an
atrocious communication problem since this pandemic started.
Over at Tiny Marsh, everyone seems to be
confused as well. The parking lot is closed and some of the trails are closed
because you can’t be six feet apart if you cross paths with another hiker.
There are notes posted by ‘MGT’ explaining that you can walk through but don’t
‘socialize’ or ‘sit on the benches.’ It’s so godawful stupid. The parking lot
is closed and blocked off, so all the cars park on the side of the road.
Problem solved! I periodically stop and ask others: “So, is this park closed or
what?” I’ve heard ‘no’, ‘yes, but who cares?’ and some lady with three pugs and
a retriever tell me the ‘CDC said it’s okay’. I didn’t have the heart to tell
her that the CDC is American. She had on a reddish brown toque, frayed and
faded, at least twenty years old, that said “Pugly Christmas”. I thought that
was kind of funny.
And the quarantine continues!
May
11th 2020
I
was somewhere around Matchedash Bay. Forty minutes Northeast of Wasaga Beach. A
little speck on planet Earth called Coldwater. The wind was howling across the
marsh. I couldn’t believe I found the place. These are little hotspots tucked
away. Often, there is no big sign saying, “Here It Is!” It’s always down a dirt
road and then then down another one. Old rusted signs that barely mean a thing
anymore. It’s not like going to Algonquin Park.
Saw a bunch of American Widgeons and
Northern Shovellers.
I walked back to my car and looked
up something in my guide. I ventured back out down the road on foot. I was all
jacked up after driving for the last hour or so; craning my neck, looking at
this and that. I wanted to get the hell out of my car and walk around with my
binos. It was the excitement of a new spot that was teeming with waterfowl that
I hadn’t seen in some time, or possibly never before. My obsession is
identification. I need to identify every bird and when I can only narrow
something down to two or three possibilities it tortures me. I NEED to know! And the satisfaction
when you accrue a solid base of knowledge is delicious. When the scattered puzzle pieces
suddenly start falling into place—Flycatchers, Thrushes, Raptors, Waterfowl, it
is purely orgasmic. To walk through the woods and be able to assign every
tweet, trill, and squawk to its rightful owner is a special high indeed. A type
of audio/visual mastery of mother nature, because you can never fully tame it.
One can identify all the characters in the play and never understand the plot.
I wonder if retired aliens go
human-watching. Safely ensconced inside their inter-galactic ships with
high-powered scopes: “Oh, honey, look: an obese human riding a scooter. Wow,
look at how big and plump he is; how his buttocks hang over on each side of the
seat. Oh! And trailing right behind is the female. Slightly smaller, but still
an absolute unit. Fairly rare sight, no?”
“Well, that particular species,
especially in North America, though still uncommon, is steadily growing mostly
due to a surplus of cheap food sources and advances in personal scooter technology.”
Bird-watching
is like a drug. I was salivating being in this hot spot for the first time. I
could tell this marshy tract of land would yield results. I used to do a lot of
cocaine, and now, when I drive by a gas station or a plaza where I used to meet
my dealer, I feel the pangs of memory. It’s the same with bird-watching. I’ll
drive down a patch of road and always remember that I saw a Bald Eagle previously
in the same spot. Or a farmer’s field where I saw dozens of Sandhill Cranes.
It’s an obsession, the scratching of an itch, whether you snort it or merely burn
the colours into your retinas through magnified glass. Both pursuits hit the
same pleasure centres in the brain. That’s my experience at least. And the
connection between the two was so immediately recognizable that it made me
laugh: I substituted cocaine for cockatoos.
It was at this juncture that I made
a critical mistake. I, like a goddamn fool, locked my keys in the car. I could
even see the keys sitting there on the passenger side seat along with my
cigarettes and phone. Well, fuck a duck. All of a sudden this sojourn has
turned into Survivor Man, Pandemic Edition.
Mercifully, there was another car, one
of those ugly boxy Souls with an elderly couple behind the wheel. It is well
into May, but the wind was whipping across the marsh at a good clip and your
hands turned to stone if you kept them out too long. The old couple were more
than accommodating. The gentleman opened up the trunk and got a ballpeen
hammer.
It was colder than all hell and I
resolved to simply smash the portion of the rear passenger side window that
didn’t go up or down; it is a triangular slab of glass. I figured I’d smash it
and then unlock the back door and presto. Freedom! Warmth! I could see my keys
and phone nestled quaintly on the seat . . . teasing me, taunting me. The wind was
unrelenting. My right hand was on my head, holding the hood on.
The
man pulled the hammer out of the bag and said, “Well, the honour is all yours.”
I took hold of the instrument, twirled
it around a few times; got a feel for its heft. “I guess I’ll use the rounded
end, not the flat end.”
“Yep, I’d go with that one,” the man
agreeably said.
That settled that. Okay, here we go. I
was ready. I gave the window a solid tap, afraid that glass might blow back
into my face. I was timid, a little hesitant. But after a few of these JV
attempts I said fuck it and gave it good ol’ walloping. Nothing! The glass was
strong and my attempts at breaking it were rebuffed. The glass had a little
give, and I left a scratch with each swing. But no cracking or breaking. It
isn’t like the movies, kids.
I noticed some American Wigeons and
Northern Shovelers. Perhaps either a Sora or a Virginia Rail, but I was
distracted and predisposed at this point. What the hell am I gonna do? In the
middle of butt-fuck Ontario with my keys and phone locked inside the car.
Goddamnit I’m a fool. Locking the keys in the car? What are you? A sixteen year
old stoner retard?
The old man proved to be a useful ally.
He went back to his green Soul and used the GPS to locate a garage in town.
I stood outside, one hand on my head to
keep the hood from blowing off and my eyes watering. The man rolled the window
down and told me to get in. There was a garage only a couple kilometre’s away.
I was effusively thankful and then sat
back and we enjoyed a pleasant silence. They weren’t the most talkative people.
Not in a spiteful way, just easy-going types. I didn’t mind. We all talk way
too much, anyways. Plus, if you shut-up then your face-hole can’t blast out
murderous droplets into someone else’s danger zone. The three of us were all
inspired a little by Nick Andros.
They dropped me off at the Shell
station; one of the two possible gas stations in town. It was the
quintessential small downtown ‘Main St’ that you see in hundreds of towns
across Ontario. A friendly young Indian man with large brown almond-shaped
eyes, the only employee operating the place, placed a call to 311 and handed
the phone to me. I explained my unfortunate situation and was put through to a
local Coldwater garage. I again explained my unfortunate situation. “Oh well,
that’s not too good!” he exclaimed, in his small town Canadian way.
“My guy is close by. Where are you? At
the Shell station?”
I checked the logo on the Indian guy’s
t-shirt. It was a garish yellow sea-shell.
“Yeah, the Shell Station.”
“Okay then, sit tight; be about ten
minutes. He’ll be in a flatbed.”
My nearly full pack of cigarettes and
lighter were locked in my car. I bought another pack and a book of matches. I
stood outside, a safe distance from the pumps and had a smoke. I hadn’t smelled
the sweetly acrid sulphur of a matchhead in quite a long time. When’s the last
time you saw someone light a smoke with a match? They’re slowly going the way
of the penny.
Sure enough, ten minutes after I spoke
with the guy at the garage, a big ol’ flatbed pulled into the gas station. I
walked up to the passenger side window and gave a little wave. I went to step
up and grab the door handle but the driver stuck his hand out and shook his
head. He got out of the truck and said, “I can’t let you in the truck. Been in
effect since March 30th.”
“Oh,” I said, then let out a defeated
laugh. This fucking Coronavirus, I tell ya. My car is stranded on a gravel
sideroad and I managed to sweet talk an old couple into helping me, and now the
locksmith can’t even help me.
“Whadya want me to do?” I asked, perplexed.
“I mean, I’ll walk there, I’ll take a cab, run, whatever.”
“Hold on,” he said, and went back inside
the cab of the truck.
He came out again and handed me a black
mask in a cellophane wrapper; then a balled up pair of latex gloves.
“It’s so stupid. The government won’t
let anyone into the truck. I’m supposed to get you to call a friend or family
member, but I don’t have all day. Put that shit on and get in the truck.”
Once inside, the man went on, sweetly,
about how his wife would never forgive him if he killed their ninety-two year
old Stepmother who lived with them. “This shit is serious! And people around
here are starting to get infected more and more. They’re not listening; they’re
going out and having parties and bonfires around here.”
I actually had never worn a mask until
this point. I keep my distance and wash my hands. When I’m at the beer store or
buying smokes I just grin and bear it. Maybe I’m a horrible citizen. I live in
a small beach town and haven’t visited anyone in months. If I lived in New York
City or worked in a hospital or was immunocompromised, that’d be a different
story. Hey, how many characters wore masks in The Stand? Exactly.
I had my sunglasses on and found out
pretty damn quick that if you speak with a mask on it tends to fog up your
glasses. Oh well, the new normal. Suck it up, soldier. Though I haven’t begun
to regularly wear a mask, I have been plenty annoyed by close-walkers. There
have been a couple incidents where some yahoo walked past me in a Shoppers Drug
Mart and I could nearly smell what he had for lunch. I wanted to scream, “What
the hell do you think you’re doing, you goddamn fool! Get the hell away from
me!” The thing is, the type of person who will disregard social distance
guidelines is going to be the type of person who will be a problem when you
point out that they disregarded the social distance guidelines in the first
place. You can’t win for losing.
He had three days’ worth of scruff and
long stringy salt and pepper hair. A grizzled salt-of-the-earth type of guy. Teeth
askew like the coastline of Newfoundland. But a good man!
I stood outside in the whipping wind
while the guy unlocked a side trunk and got out the necessary tools. I saw a
hand pump connected to a coat hanger like rod. I showed him the batch of
scratches from the hammer blows. “Yeah, that’s not the best idea.” I laughed.
“No, I guess not.” He squeezed the hand pump and got the long, slim piece of
hooked wiring into the interior of the car. He craned his neck and finally with
a flick of the wrist he unlocked the door. The door was tried and it was a
success. He left it open for me like a gentleman. The tools were put back into
the side trunk.
We agreed to meet at the downtown TD
bank. Eighty bucks. That’s fine by me. Go visit Coldwater, ON sometime. It’s a
great small town, even if you lock your keys in the car.
