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I did two good deeds today. Its inconvenient for us to think that we would only do such deeds during the holidays, but its certainly no coincidence that I’ve never felt more aware of my past guilt than during Christmas. I gave a reasonably well-dressed young man a subway token, when he at first asked for spare change (no, it wasn’t Liam, although I did give Liam a token too. I’m more or less use to him asking me for spare change and unwarranted high fives). 

Its been a few years since I’ve been a regular transit rider, and on the subway today, I grew fondly reminiscent. Mostly of the passing daydreams and secret TTC crushes, and less of the interminable waiting periods between streetcars. It is perhaps, if anything, comforting, embarking on this solitary travel by the companionship of a million strangers.

Taking transit gives us an opportunity to sit quietly and anonymously, sometimes overhearing odd conversations between passengers about their lives. I overheard one group as they discussed their friend’s recent abortion. The girl was 16 and already had two abortions, one caused by her boyfriend throwing her down a flight of stairs. I was certain that was just an urban myth, but apparently, it seems to work reasonably well.

In passing, I have seen the faces of dozens of remarkable and unremarkable people, knowing that I would only see them once, and nevermore.

In Vancouver, I rode the bus often, and just as often, slept soundly with head against the window (likely with gaping mouth and drool coming out of the corners). It was hardly a welcoming sight for people to sit next to me. I suppose when the bus is full, if anyone would sit next to the smelly, greased-up fat guy, that wears a wrinkled suit everyday on the #6 Davie bus, I would be a welcome alternative. Well, maybe that is extreme.

On one of those trips, I awoke and realized I was sitting beside a young girl about my age. She looked over at me as I roused. Feeling her eyes, I lifted my head and deftly wiped the tiny bit of spittle from the corner of my mouth. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and smiled at her. She had on a light blue tank-top with white trim and held a gym bag on her lap. The tank-top straps hung loosely on her shoulders.

She wore her strawberry blonde hair down (more blonde, than strawberry), falling lightly around her bare shoulders and framing her slightly rounded face. I can remember this clearly, and without much effort, even though this was more than two years ago.

Her figure was average, though she carried herself with a delicate grace and balance. She had bronzed skin, likely from being outdoors and her smile was spellbinding. She asked a quick question about the upcoming stop, and I gave a short reply. It hadn’t crossed my mind that she might be interested in having a conversation about more than just transit stops.

We continued to chat and have small talk. Having grown up in a relatively small town, I tend to relate better to other people from small towns, and she had grown up in Delta. While the conversation winded its way around friends, and hang-out spots in Vancouver, I noticed the bus was soon heading to its final stop. 

We got up and said our goodbyes. I walked away in the opposite direction, almost immediately regretting that decision. I knew I would never see her again. I turned around and nearly ran back, searching for any sign of her. I ran down the six-stories of escalators of Burrard Station, looking for her and uncertain what to say if I had found her. Of course, she had long gone by then. 

The regret then eventually dissipated. I began to take on a different perspective of these encounters. Are these moments regrettable? I think that these encounters are meant to be enjoyed for the time that they happen. Live that moment, remember it, and then let it go. You can’t cling to those moments anymore than you can contain it in a bottle. Otherwise, there will only be the unbearable heaviness of being.

Becoming light puts into perspective these moments and reveals their fleeting nature. Hold onto it, and you will grieve over it. Let it go, and you remain the victor, having received all its spoils. We shared that moment on the bus, and passed through each other’s lives as we were in transit from one point to another. That was the moment to remember, and that’s what it will always just be.

I have brief and uncertain memories of being about 7 years old, and running around a playground. I went to a small, private Christian school where they had converted a barn-like structure into a gymnasium. The playground was off to the side of this barn, separated by a parking lot converted to a basketball court. There were swings and monkey bars, and they all seemed so enormous at the time.

I remember running up the silver, shiny side of the slide as I was being chased by those wretched annoying girls (prepubescent years as a boy dictate that girls were annoying). As they’d catch up to me midway up the slide, I distinctly remember two small hands firmly planted on my buttocks, violently pushing me forward, causing me to slip and lose my grip, consequently slamming my face down on the metal surface and hearing the chink of my front tooth bounce off the slide and onto the grass. This was before I had braces.

I blacked out, not before seeing some stars and awoke lying on the grass with my hands in a fist. Opening my hand, I saw the piece that should’ve been attached to my front tooth. I considered using some kind of cementing glue to put it back on, but was concerned my tongue would remain permanently stuck to the roof of my mouth giving me a lisp that would undoubtedly endanger my future as a heterosexual male.

That chipped tooth has since then prominently stood out in front as the vanguard of enamel, reminding me of that day and of my childhood. Some twenty years later, that tooth has begun to show early signs of darkening and decay. It turns out, my tooth has been slowly dying, all these years. Well, just the nerve endings I suppose. All this time, I thought I just had coffee stained teeth.

Don’t be mistaken, the rest of my teeth are pretty yellow too. Its just this one is much more apparent in its discoloration. My trip to the dentist today uncovered this truth. She told me that I may need a root canal, or in the worse case scenario, a fake tooth to replace it. Worse case is a fake tooth? I would’ve assumed a root canal was the worst case scenario.

I can’t imagine a fake tooth being that bad, particularly if it was made of gold. Or even perhaps with a tattoo of a lightning bolt emblazed upon the front of the tooth. Maybe an implanted microchip and some WiFi receptors so that I’d be a walking hotspot.

Going to the dentist is becoming more and more like going to trial. Have you been flossing? Am I under oath? If so, the answer is still yes. I can’t floss, I have all kinds of wires behind my teeth. It’s like a circuit board back there. As a result, I have about six inches of tartar build up from two years of avoiding the dentist, and lately its been killing me. I can’t stand it. I’ve tried unsuccessfully to clean my own teeth just to avoid this guilt-ridden visit. I’ve tried a Swiss Army knife, a hammer and chisel, even an ice pick, all to no avail!

Luckily, my hygienist was a really cute blonde girl, probably fresh out of dental school. Tall, slender, and dark eyes; flawless olive skin and a gentle disposition. Our first encounter was spoiled, as for some odd reason, I couldn’t control my saliva while she was prodding around in my mouth. Is it inappropriate to start salivating uncontrollably when a cute girl pries open your jaws like its a bear trap?

I nearly confessed to her, about my attempts at cleaning my own teeth at home, and the makeshift dental equipment I’d fashioned out of elastic bands and paper clips. Apparently, we’re not at the stage in our relationship yet. This particular appointment today was just an assessment, and no scaling was to be done. No scaling until the next appointment which is in… four weeks! Four weeks! How am I going to last that long? I am running out of paper clips!

Why hasn’t any dentist invented a home scaling kit yet? I wanted to ask her to come over tomorrow, for perhaps a romantic night of candlelight dinner, movie and a full scaling. Or screw it, just slip me the tools, and I’ll do it myself. Some people wash their hair on Friday nights, I do my own scaling. There is nothing quite like a glass of red wine, a game of Scrabble and a good old fashioned tartar scraping to finish out a hard week at work.

She touches my teeth like no other woman does. Fondling my pink, flush gums, I am overcome with a sense of awkwardness. I think she likes me. This is not good. I have a girlfriend; what’s going to happen? I am an unbendable rod of fidelity! But I can’t get away from this cursed chair! She’s strapped me in and tied a freaking hanky around my neck! My hands, gripping the knobs on the arms of this slippery, vinyl chair, I squirm beneath each touch, trying my best to avert my eyes from her gaze. The palpitations of her heart echo through the soft latex gloves on her hands.

“Look this way, please.” Sure right into your breasts! Clever girl, this hygenist, thinking she can seduce me like this. No, you will not break me, I won’t fall under your gauzy spell.

“Slight bleeding, behind 6-4. Gums are enflamed.” Just like your heart I bet, you hussy! You can’t have me! My silent cries are stayed and I remain to endure the proximity of her face, inches above mine.

“Front maxilla canis, 2mm.” She softly breaths out the measurements being so obvious about it to make sure I would catch her sense of admiration in her trembling voice. I became flushed and tried to renew my struggle with vigor; my eyes dart to the ceiling looking for a divine hand to save me. She leans closer brushing her hands across my chin (oh, that naughty latex feeling!), and suddenly waves of uncertainty flood me over.

She was wearing me down. I felt weak, beneath the hot orange lamp; driblets of sweat running away from me, along with my will. No! I must champion this fight, I cannot lie here helplessly while she seduces me with her cajoling words of enflammed body parts! I must fight!

“I have a girlfriend!” I burst out, with my mouth filled with her tools.

She pauses, pulling out her silver tool of the trade, The Tartar Picker. Gleaming in the flourescent light, it’s doubly-curved ends, resemble a sickle. A small glint of light bounces off the pointed tip. Her assistant looks at her, then down at me. The room is completely silent. Will she strike me down with the Picker? Will she break the dam of rage from this unrequited affection for me?

No, she gently lays down her weapon, and lowers her face mask, saying something quietly while motioning some burly gentleman over. Clearly, her muscleman is here to exact her revenge on me and I will be pummeled. I brace for impact, but at the last minute, he lifts me out of my seat with one hand, and escorts me out of the building, leaving me to wonder if she will ever get over me.