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I’ve been recently looking for an apartment downtown but its taken me quite a long time. It took me nearly two years to move out of my parent’s place from Mississauga after I came back from Vancouver. In fact, my parents still think I live at home. Last week, my mom said she saw me on the subway getting off at High Park station. I told her that’s where I lived. She promptly called my sister and told her that I was living in a park somewhere and that someone should intervene before I was eaten alive by rabid dogs.

Now, I’m ready to upgrade my apartment and move out of the tree fort I’ve built in High Park. At least, for my own mother’s peace of mind. Maybe I’ll even invite them over for tea and ask them to bring me my mail.

I don’t have many requirements for life: dark hardwood or laminate floors, 6 appliances including ensuite washer and dryer, free parking, proximity to Pho restaurants, and enough space to work; also enough space for my microphone stand and Rockband drums (possibly to be upgraded to real drums in the near future).

Henry gave me the microphone stand last week. Mostly out of pity, I think. I suppose when he came over and saw me rocking out on my drums with the microphone duct-taped to my chest, he felt bad for me. His eyes revealed everything. I’ve never seen that look of total and absolute admiration!

The rumours you have heard are true. I have in fact considered busking for a living with my Rockband set. I love Rockband, but they don’t make it easy for the lonely and solitary rockers. I seldom have friends over, but when they do visit, this rock band of one becomes a rock band of two. Sometimes two friends come over and then I think, Is it true? Could it be? A rock band of three?

I only need a guitarist and bassist as I haven’t quite figured out how to play guitar, drum and sing at the same time yet. My entire goal is to learn to play In the Air Tonight in a gorilla suit with a glass of milk. Before this, I couldn’t ever imagine getting there without all the neck injuries I’d have trying to balance a microphone and play drums at the same time. But now that I have a microphone stand, just think of all the duct tape I’ll save!

There aren’t that many places in Toronto that could house me and my traveling band for the amount I can afford. I’ve slowly lowered my expectations of finding the perfect place. I have also given up on purchasing a home — well, at least until I can do it online. If I can buy a wife online, why not a house? I likely wouldn’t be able to get a mortgage on a single income anyway. No one is going to give a self-employed web developer a mortgage. Not even PC Financial!

As much as I’d love to have a two-level loft with exposed brick and 12′ ceilings in Liberty Village, I will just need to bide my time and continue renting. I often wonder if I only want that loft to feel accomplished or successful. But then again, what is victory without the spoils?

I suppose this is all fairly new to me as I’ve never actually had to find an apartment in Toronto before. I’ve always lived off the remains of friends who became former tenants; like a red fox taking over the abandoned den of another burrowing animal.

My current place is Jeff’s old place and it has served me well. Aside from the mice and leaking ceilings and occasional hammering from the pipes when I flush, it’s pretty much ideal. It even has a “feature wall”. I do like living in this area, and I really love claiming that I run around High Park every day. Most people just assume I live here because I run marathons, but they don’t realize, I also eat a lot of pork belly.

Eventually, I’ll just settle for a home somewhere around King West near all the skinny-jean hipsters and scowl at them when I walk to Starbucks. It’s unforgiveable that these people pose as struggling artists, but somehow can afford living in a loft in King West. Go on, just revel in your disdain of the free-market system and drink your over-priced organic vegan fair trade soy latte. Those skinny jeans you’re wearing were made in China!

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.

Music to listen to while you read:The General Specific by Band of Horses

I’ve never really liked taking public transit. In particular, the TTC. There isn’t much to like about grumpy bus drivers, pushy passengers and black tar-like substances smeared all over the velvet subway seats. In my past life, I would take public transit and people would think I was such an environmentalist. I’d smile and agree with them. Secretly, I just couldn’t afford the gas for my rice rocket.

I recently bought my dad a Metropass for Christmas. He instantly turned stone-faced and didn’t say a word. I thought it was the Tim Horton’s coffee acting up again. He shoved it into his vest pocket and that was that. Oh well, I thought. I guess he’d rather I got him a car. But later, he told my mom that I was his favourite son. He was so excited, he asked her to go with him to Islington station and buy one for herself so that they could go downtown together.

My dad’s generally a very outgoing guy. He’s always got a smile on his face. He spends 15 minutes each day combing back the silver strands of hair atop his head. He wears a neat charcoal vest outside his white dress shirt that he tucks into his slacks. This outfit has outlasted the Bee Gees, and it’ll continue to be his outfit until well past the rest of this decade.

Often, my mom has confided in me that she thinks he’s having an affair. Suspicions, but nothing concrete. On the days that I take my mom to the doctor’s she tells me everything. Not that she cares too much, but I think the drama is necessary for a pair of retired and restless old folks.

Nearly 90 and he’s galavanting downtown to meet up with those harlots, she calls them. Old Cantonese women who share an intimate bowl of Wonton noodles over a boiling pot of tea. Likely they convene at New Ho King, she reports. She suggests we hire a private investigator, but instead an idea comes to her. She’ll surreptitiously follow him on the GO bus. He won’t suspect a thing!

The problem with traveling with my father is that he panics a lot. It is a natural recourse to panic when you are in a foreign country and everyone thinks you are insane. Not speaking the language is also a setback.

When you travel with my father, either on horseback or otherwise, there are a few things to remember.

1) Never let him out of your sight. For an old man, he is readily sprinty.

2) Do not be the chump left outside the subway doors as the chimes go off. He won’t wait for you, so best that you hurry.

2) Wear running shoes (see #1)

This is not a stroll in the park, with my dad. There is a goal, and a mission. We are here, we need to get there. The subway waits for no man, and neither will he. If those subway doors close and we are not on the inside, you are a chump and will likely be disowned shortly.

I’ve thought about this strange unrest with him. It’s more common with immigrants and older people, but they always tend to push and shove their way onto streetcars, subways and restaurants. If you arrive at Spadina station, and line up for the streetcar, my dad will wave at you from the front of the line and say that you’re a moron for waiting that far away. After all, the doors are right here!

Amid the embarrassment of having to cut the line and apologize to other people patiently waiting in line, I join my father at the front. He whispers quietly to me that all these other people are suckers and they will likely die suckers. So get with the program, junior! Yessir!

Of course, we’re joined at the front with all the same sorts of characters. They chatter away in Chinese and I stand by my father, blocking the way to prevent anyone to get in front of me, as instructed.

I guess they’ve all grown up in a place where if you weren’t at the front of the line, you were either going to starve and die or be ridiculed for the rest of your life. Living in shame, is just not worth the wait.

For us Westerners, its perfectly sane to take things easy and if we miss that subway, yes it totally sucks, but there’ll be another one shortly. For my father, if you miss that subway, he’s going to take his slipper off and beat you over the head with it. Fair enough, I suppose.

So my mom tried to go with him on the various GO buses, streetcars and subways that it takes to get downtown from Mississauga. She told me that she couldn’t keep up with him, and last saw him at Union Station waving her to stay back 15 feet in case one of his friends saw him. In my youth, I can remember my older sister adopting this same policy.

They would tell me, “Stay back about 5 feet. If my friends come, I’ll say the code word and you scram.” That was about when I was 10 and my sister was 16. So her teenaged friends were not interested in a tag-along little brother. My only restitution was a bag of chips and a dog-eared Cosmopolitan magazine which I read cover to cover, relentlessly searching for the crossword puzzle. I never did find any, but I did learn a lot more about how to tie scarves.

My mother eventually gave up on her investigation and considered the case closed. He is definitely having an affair, she concluded. I continued to smile and let her rant. They’ve been married for close to 50 years. I have no doubt nothing remains in that relationship but a quirky companionship and a common reverence for what they’ve accomplished. Maybe someday, I will dust off my own runners and go with my father on his two and a half hour journey from the mundane suburban to the bustling Chinatown. At any rate, I suppose I could be his wing man.