wayne gretzky

Our elementary school teacher had followed us from our very first day of school. She was, in my eyes, an old lady. Short gray hair, and a round face that looked kinder than what she was. She was quite stern and serious, and though I think she liked me she was never impressed with my lack of academic interest. I was bored, and she told me to try harder. But she was a good teacher.

When we started our fifth year, we were told that our teacher had undergone knee surgery that summer. And so, an array of substitute teachers were introduced. One of them went on to host Jeopardy in Norway. I remember him as a really fun guy. Another would spend all our classes drawing stories from his childhood on the blackboard. He was definitely one of my favourites.

But then one day, a young woman showed up to class. She had long dark hair, wavy and wild. Her voice was husky, and she didn’t dress like a teacher. It was the first “young” teacher I had met. She didn’t behave like other women I knew. She was loud and funny, she made jokes and chased us around when we refused to sit at our desks. She spent lunch in the middle of the classroom with us, talking about sports and video games. She was the coolest person I had ever met.

I was one of the only kids in school who had moved across the river to the city, and that meant a long bus ride to and from school. If I missed that bus, I’d have to wait an hour for the next one to show up. So one day, when I had missed my bus and started walking up the hill to the official bus stop, my new teacher drove by in her tiny rusty car. She rolled down the window and asked me if I wanted a ride home. I was stoked.

Instead of listening to the radio like my mom always did, she listened to rock music on cassettes. Her car was really messy. She sang along to the music and asked me what music I liked and if I collected anything cool. I told her about my Boney M cassettes (uncool) and my pog collection (supercool). And then at some point, I must have told her that my sister would take me to hockey games. She asked me if I knew who Wayne Gretzky was, and I told her I had collectors cards with him on them. She told me she used to date him. I thought she couldn’t possibly be any cooler, but she proved me wrong.

After that, I tried missing my bus home more often than not. And she would drive me home whenever I did. She was probably only there for a few months, but I still remember those drives as some of my favourite moments from elementary school. It took a few years for me to realise why.

cap ou pas cap

After a night in, watching a movie I loved, we were both inspired by the recklessness of it all. Cap ou pas cap? Why wouldn’t we play games, no?

We decided this was our new thing, and to seal the deal I dug out an old ring I had with runes decorating its surface, mystery seemingly suitable for the setting. We hadn’t specified the rules yet, but we both agreed to be game should the occasion arise. “Who’s going first?” you asked, with playful fire in your eyes. “Cap ou pas cap?” I said with a smirk.

You lingered by the door, peeking out at the busy street around the corner. I laughed by the absurdity of my dare, and this seemed to encourage you for some reason. So I picked up my camera and pressed play as you opened the door and walked out. I had to laugh again at the sight of you as you turned around and gave me a deadly stare. The walk down to 7/11 was short, but seemed so very long as people started to notice you. I followed close behind, making sure to document this idiocy.

When we both walked into the store, high as kites, I felt a weird sense of pride. There you were, in nothing but a thong, asking the clerk if she had chocolate milk She looked at you in disbelief. “I think that maybe you should go put some clothes on.” she said and you played the part of shocked citizen perfectly, disregarding her advise entirely as you marched to the fridge to retrieve the carton of milk.

I don’t know whatever happened to that clip, but it was the beginning of a short series of dumb ideas that I’ll always appreciate.

dick move

Do you remember the time we went to McDonalds in that large square of the beginning of the street we called home? It was one of the only luxuries we could afford, except that posh burrito-place that accepted offline payments, placing our young credit cards in the strange contraption that would copy its details and finish it off with a wobbly signature.

Anyway, there we were, our Big Mac menus carefully presented before us as we decided this was a great venue for our game of dares. On our left was a table of three, one of the guests speaking loudly in a shrill voice and to our right a father with his young boy filled with joy as he opened his Happy Meal and discovered the crappy plastic surprise within. As ever, you were annoyed by the loudness of the table to our left and pulled the ring from your finger. “You have to go over there and tell her that your cancer is scraping your brain.” you said. I looked at you in disbelief. It was such a dick move, and it didn’t even make any sense. But this was the nature of our game. I took the ring and placed it on my finger. “Well shit.” I said and womanned up.

I got up a few minutes later and walked over to the table next to us. “Excuse me, but would you please try to keep it down? You see, my cancer is scraping and it’s hurting my brain.” I say apologetically. The woman with the shrill voice looks up at me with such concern I immediately feel horrendous. “Oh my gosh, I am so sorry!” she says, with her hands against her cheeks. Only now do I notice that she’s clearly disabled. She takes my statement incredibly serious and looks horrified by what she has done to me. “Uhm, it’s alright, I’ll be fine, I just need some quiet.” I say and trot back to my table. As I sit down, I can see the woman, now whispering to her friends, still horrified. They shoot me a look of absolute disgust. I look over to my right, and the father and son are equally shook by my actions. Jesus.

As wrong as it is, you still look at me like you’ve never been this amused in your life, and as wrong as it is I can’t help but laugh. I’ve never been more embarrassed by my own self.

the bus

The lights in the back of the bus are dimmed as the night creeps over us and I’ve just gotten myself comfortable in the very back, my blanket tightly wrapped around me and my legs curled up in the seat. I pull my hoodie over my wild hair and lean my head against the window, feeling the engine roar below me as we drive toward to the border. I’m driving home for Christmas.

I’ve just dozed off when the express bus suddenly slows down and comes to a halt. The driver announces something I can’t quite make out as I’m pulled back out from dreamland, and the bright lights from the ceiling sting my eyes as they try to adjust. A man and woman walk onto the bus through the front door and briefly exchange a few words with the driver, then part ways, dividing the bus front to back speaking to everyone on board. I lean back into my seat and sigh, annoyed by this inconvenient interruption of slumber.

Eventually, the woman arrives in front of my seat and asks what I’m doing on the bus. I thought my intentions would be fairly evident, but I humour her by answering her questions in my raspy morning voice. “I’m going home for Christmas. What I packed? Yeah, I did pack my own bags. Just clothes, and some presents I guess. Cash? Not much, let me see…” I dive into my tote, my hands feeling around for my wallet. As I reach into it, and grab the few bills I have in there to show her, my heart skips a beat very quietly as I realise I’ve forgotten something. I can feel the beats escalating now that it’s caught up and my breathing suddenly changing pace while I try to keep my voice steady answering her follow ups. “Yeah, just two weeks. I …have …a return ticket. It’s on my laptop.”

Suddenly she seems very suspicious, and I’m finding it hard to look her in the eyes but I do my best. She locks eyes with me and we silently stare at each other while she decides. “Alright, have a good night.” she says and hands me my cash. I grab the bills and tuck them back into my wallet quickly, not taking my eyes off her back as she walks back to the front of the bus. I sigh, this time with relief. They exchange words with the driver again, and walk off the bus, doors closing behind them. I realise I’ve shifted to the edge of my seat, my leg slightly trembling. Okay good. The engine murmurs as the driver starts the bus once again. We’re driving and…taking a u-turn?

A small garage-looking building in front of us, the door slowly rolling up to reveal the bright lit space behind it. I try to make out what’s happening from the backseat of the bus, silently cursing myself for choosing to be a cool kid just now. I see silhouettes appearing inside the room, all in black uniforms and hats. Then I see dogs on leashes, eagerly anticipating the events to follow. Fudge, goshdarnitalltohell, sorry. Fuck.

My back is pushing against my seat, I’m trying to find some way to disappear and never be seen again, but as the bus pulls into the warehouse I can both see and hear the rattling door closing behind us. I’m trying to think. What am I going to do? Is there some way to get out of this? It feels like hours have passed while I try to make sense of my scrambling thoughts when the driver announces that all passengers are to leave the bus with all their belongs in hand. I frantically start collecting my things from the floor, and as I grab my tote bag I quickly open my hemp wallet (what irony) again, fishing out the small lump wrapped in cellophane and squeezing it tightly in my hand. I get up, and start making my way to the front. Midway I’m stuck behind a portly little man, still trying to gather his things, and my eyes drift down to the small trash bins on the side of each seat section. I dip down every so slightly and make the drop. I immediately regret it, but the crowd has started moving again so I move with them in silent panic.

As I step off the bus, my knees close to giving out, I read the giant sign ahead. TULL / TOLL. “Yeah, this is tull (bullshit)!” I hear from somewhere in the sleepy crowd, and I can’t help but smile a very tiny smile as we’re shuffled along to a separate room inside the warehouse. Eager dogs pulling their handlers pass me, and I stuff my hand into my pockets nervously. We’re told to sit on the floor to await our turns having people search through our belongings, and I trot over to the wall and slide down with my back against it. Shit, I mutter under my breath. “I know, right?” says a woman in her 40’s with a giant pink suitcase.

I try to think of things to say. But I can’t think of anything that would be plausible despite it being true. “I simply forgot it was there!” “I’m pretty sure you can tell it’s really old.” “Aaaactually, I brought this over the border once before, I just didn’t know. That should count for something, right?” “Isn’t it like… below the limit or whatever?”

Then we wait. We wait for what seems like hours, though I’m sure it wasn’t. I’m finally called, and I bring my flimsy bag and tote over to a uniform who has no questions for me, he only wants to look through my undies. That’s fine with me. Eventually it seems we’ve all been searched and they tell us to gather up and get in line. We start moving back into the bus and I try to look at any person I can to figure out when they’ll stop messing around and pull me back out from the crowd. But they don’t. I’m back on the bus, and this time I sit in a double seat closer to the middle, right about where I made my drop. Another daring choice, I guess.

As the final few are boarded, the keys turn once again and the engine rumbles below us. The door slowly creeps back up to reveal early dawn as we back out of the warehouse and turn back onto route. I hear a couple of friends a few seats over talk about how we’re missing a passenger now, apparently someone had reported him to the border patrol before we were pulled over.

Well, aren’t I in luck, I thought, before drifting back off to sleep.

pancakes

I just remembered one of my absolute favorite things when I was younger. 
We'd have pancakes quite often in our house. Pancakes aren't exactly the fanciest of dinners, nor most expensive one.
It catered well to our family, I think. We'd also have pea soup as a starter, which I always loved. 
I quite enjoyed pancakes. I remember having pancakes at my friends houses and they would be stacked on a plate all ready, hidden underneath a piece of tin foil or a kitchen towel so they would stay warm. 
But not in our house, no. 
One of my favorite things about dad is that he'd always make one pancake for each of us at a time, so they would be completely fresh off the pan. 
He would run back and forth during the entire meal making sure our pancakes were as warm as they could get.
And we would always eat a truck load of them.