tantastik dot org

High Park, Toronto

In the first part of this series, I was on an interminable search for reversible suits. It appears, since then, I’ve found one but now it just sits in my closet with the tags still on, wrinkled due to the humidity. It was a very nice suit, designed by some Italian guy with tiny hands probably. I spent half my signing bonus from my previous job on this suit and its been over a year ago already. Unfortunately, I quit that job faster than you could say, corporate whore. And so, the suit remains.

These days, I am officially self-employed. Self-employed or unemployed, both generally mean the same thing for me. I work out of my second story apartment in the Junction: an undiscovered neighbourhood spilling over with struggling artists and people who can’t afford to live in the more affluent Bloor West Village. There are also those like me, just too stubborn or lazy to find a real job. I became quickly aware of the fact that I am also the only Asian in the village.

This last fact I found out recently as I was sitting at the Axis reading a book and having a pint. I’m not completely unaccustomed to being approached by leggy blonde girls (although I still have anxiety attacks when it happens and on good days, I am able to avoid throwing up on their shoes) but truthfully, girls that are too aggressive often scare the crap out of me. She sized me up and down, pointed out that there are no other Asian boys in this neighbourhood, and that this meeting was destiny. I could’ve used a bit of warning.

As much as I am for destiny, I fled the scene. I still couldn’t come to terms with being tied up, forced to wear army fatigues and being called General Tso. I don’t even like chicken balls! Do all girls have this same fantasy? Perhaps more research is needed.

Despite my occasional encounters with life or death, I try to maintain a positive outlook. I’ve recently found ways to curb my spending and limit myself to eating out less frequently. While living off my savings, I’ve had to find other ways to supplement my income without selling organs. Using every ounce of my creativity, nothing came to mind.

Then it occurred to me. During my baseball games, I always see these shabby looking people walking around, with their eyes trained on the ground, scanning, scanning, scanning. They carried large garbage bags and most of them could pass for an older version of me: old Chinese men or women stalking the parks of Toronto, waiting for people to finish their beers and then deftly swiping the empties off the benches. If a 70 year old lady can do this, then so can I! With competition like this, there was a certain amount of success guaranteed. I am not beneath wrestling feeble seniors for an empty magnum. That’s $0.20!

I decided to go for a test run with all the empties I could find in or near my apartment. Scurrying the quiet back alleys of the Junction, collecting beer cans, wine bottles and anything that I can exchange for at least a nickel I managed to fill up the trunk of my car and headed off.

I went to the LCBO first to drop off the wine bottles, but when I arrived, and unloaded my car, a homeless man came over to me. He looked at me, then looked at my pile of recyclables and I worried that I might need to defend my loot.

He had a deeply wrinkled face that was tanned from being outdoors every day. His clothes were grimy, held together by threads. His eyes didn’t look menacing beneath his grayed brow. I couldn’t help but notice that he rode a really sweet bike with fruit colour noisemakers on the spokes. I wondered if there was a kid somewhere missing his bike.

Our stand-off lasted only a few seconds before he raised his hand and pointed at the Beer Store next door. As a beginner, I clearly didn’t realize that the Liquor Store does not take empties, only the Beer Store does. How embarrassing. Here, was on-the-job training!

Relieved, I said thanks and reached down to offer him an empty bottle for his troubles, but when I looked up he had already rode off. I watched him ride away, listening to that distinctive plastic snapping sound of his bicycle wheels trail off into the distance. I’ll see you tomorrow at 5AM with your shopping cart, good sir! He didn’t look back.

It was a good first go at this, and after collecting my $11.20 I tried to bargain with the storekeeper for a 9-pack of Cameron’s. Of course, in this capitalist society, there will be no bartering at the Beer Store. So I put the $11 in a jar, and now I’ll see how much I can make from it over the summer. Its true, the rate of return is not high, but at least I’ll have co-workers again. Maybe we can all have lunch in the park.

I slept in misery yesterday. Coming back from a Lil’ Wayne concert, I found my apartment amidst a neighbourhood of darkened streets. The scene was ominous; cold and stripped bare of life. I went and sat in my car with the engine running and heater turned on to stay warm. Luckily, I had some juice left in my Blackberry. It would make a great flashlight for getting up the stairs to my room.

I took stock of my quiet and still apartment. I am usually accustomed to coming home and being met by the whirr of computers running, fridge humming and baseboard heaters crackling. This time, there was only the whistle of wind seeping through my single-paned windows. I had three candles to heat my bedroom. Unfortunately, they were scented. Three different scents, to light up my room and provide what little heat they could. A mix of vanilla, berries and cinnamon apple. What a pleasant way to die.

My entire city block spanning from St. Clair to Queen was without power as a hydro station flooded. And it all had to happen on the coldest night of the year. I considered driving to my parent’s place but better sense prevailed. My parents would be a formidable challenge. I’ll take on the cold and prospect of death. I looked out the window of my apartment to see nothing but darkness. I could see some light coming closer but it was only an occasional car drifting by.

Often, in the middle of the night my bladder complained and pinched at my colon. No lights and frozen tundra prevented me from getting to the bathroom. My Blackberry slowly lost the remaining power, and I was left in the pitch dark beneath a sleeping bag, duvet and 8lbs of random clothing scattered on top. I peered out from beneath my swathe of clothing and saw a silohette of steamed breath. The scent of candles would overcome my senses and I blew them out. It was more agreeable to die by cold than by Febreze.

————-
*Title courtesy of Scott B. Atkins.

I spent the better part of February traveling. Starting off in London, I attempted to find Hogwarts, but unfortunately the Victoria line was 1) out of my way and 2) under construction. I spent the majority of my time there commuting to and from two offices at opposite ends of the city. So if you were to ask me, Have you been to London? I can confidently say, I’ve been under London.

The accent was difficult to understand at times, but I found my generic response of saying Harry Potter! in a high-pitched voice and lilting accent, worked out quite well. I ended up spending my birthday on the plane while I returned home. Nothing like a catered meal by Cara; some beef stew TV dinner and a glass of soda (not a full can, mind you) to ring in the 29th year of your existence. Luckily, it happened twice thanks to the time zone difference. Once in London, and then again when I was somewhere above the Atlantic Ocean.

Right away, I flew out to Vancouver for a week of work, and then a few days of vacation. The vacation involved a three day stay up at Whistler, where we snowboarded and snowmobiled up and down Blackcombe and Whistler mountains. The vacation time, though short, afforded me some space and time to evaluate where I am and where I’m going.

For certain, I will be looking more aggressively for my own place in Toronto; I won’t be moving back to Vancouver yet. I briefly flirted with the idea of living in a loft, but then realizing how completely unaffordable they are for me. I’ve taken a more realistic look at what I can afford and where. If only I had a spouse to share the burden of the mortgage.