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Living on my own, has me resorting to just eating butter.

The hardest part of growing up is telling your parents that you are moving out. Typically, this is a problem people face at 18 years old but for me its more likely to happen 12 years later. I’ve lived at home for far too long since coming back from Vancouver. They call us the boomerang generation.  We leave for college, come back and live at home, leave for a few years then return home again to get our bearings. Mostly for financial reasons, but in my case, because I’m really lazy.

I wasn’t sure how I’d break it to my parents that I’d rented an apartment and secretly started moving small boxes out during the week. It wasn’t easy explaining the missing furniture, emptying bookcases and even my own often random disappearances.

It came down to a head one morning when the night before, I had packed up a few boxes and lined them up in the hallway while my parents peacefully slept. But I was so tired, I lied down to rest, and awoke the next morning. Crap, I thought. I didn’t move those boxes last night.

I walked out of my room and my mom and dad were sitting at the breakfast table talking quietly. Here it comes. They saw me and started asking, what is with those boxes. Surely they figured it out. My mom already knew, but my dad took a deep sigh and had to sit down. His only question was, who’s going to pay for the cable bill now?

I got ready for work, with them talking and walking around asking if I needed boxes. Surprisingly, they got over it pretty quickly. My dad called out to me as I was putting my coat on and said, “Before you leave can you move my TV into your old room?” He’s already planning out how my old room is going to look.

My parents were reasonable and very supportive. A far cry from the last time I tried to move out; not only move out, but move 3,000 kms away. There were no tears or guilt trip this time, just questions concerning logistics and how we were going to get a cable outlet into my old room. My dad had already started packing up his stuff to move into my old room. We ended up pulling about 40 feet of cable through the condo’s air duct and draping down the wall, held together by a twist-tie, to his digital cable box. Decor is not a main concern for my dad. Making sure the Fairchild channel still works, that was his paramount concern.

This, taken just before I wrapped it in Saran wrap.

It took a week of not very stealthy preparation, but I’ve finished everything relatively quickly. I started with a naked apartment, and now, thanks to the Brick, I have a queen-sized bed, a nice TV and a couch that I have seriously considered wrapping in Saran wrap. Most Asians will understand this oriental tradition of wrapping things in plastic. Certainly not for fear of dust mites, but more for preserving furniture until long after you are dead and gone.

I never thought I could love anything more than my Mac laptop, but as it turns out, I love my new couch! I hesitated for a few days on making the investment, but after dreaming about lying on it on a lazy Sunday sometime down the road, I walked into the Brick and asked them to wrap that baby up.

The sales team at the Brick have recently discovered their new paycheck in the form of this striking young Vietnamese man. Generally, Vietnamese people are dauntingly hard-nosed when negotiating sales. This, I was told by Ahim the Brick Sales Guy. “Most Vietnamese people are really tough,” he said. “But you, you are the easiest sale ever.” I couldn’t decide if it was a compliment or a slight, so I just said thanks.

Not only do Vietnamese people fight for every penny, they would rather sell out their own relatives to avoid paying more than 50% of the ticketed price. Its a cultural thing. So when I went in and bought a bed, tv and couch and was going to pay full price, instantaneous in-fighting broke out. I was pretty sure I heard someone get on the PA system and said, “Sucker in Aisle 5″.

And here, I had to make sure each sales guy got their fair share of commission on each of the sales. Like hyenas scavenging over a dead gazelle, they clamoured over the cash registers hurriedly pressing numbers and telling me about these wonderful accessories for my TV like a wall bracket or a $50 Obama bobble-head that would make a great addition to any living room. I respectfully declined the wall bracket, but did briefly consider the bobble-head.

After my warm carcass began cooling down and they realized they couldn’t get much more out of me, I walked out of there admittedly feeling a little bit ravaged. Well, at least delivery was free.

Unfortunately, I’m just not that good at bartering. In fact, not only did I pay full price, they up-sold me on a 5-year extended warranty plan for my couch (which I love). I also bought two memory-foam pillows for another two bills and a dust-mite killing mattress cover. It’s no secret that I will go to any lengths to kill dust mites.

I suppose there is a course I can take that will arm me with negotiating skills when embarking on purchasing outings. I don’t know how my parents could be proud of me without these skills. How could I ever face them, knowing I have been paying full price for big ticket items all my life? Luckily, I’m very good at hiding things from them.

While in Montréal last weekend, I was able to find a local barbershop and pay a measly $7 for a haircut. Glad of the trim, I felt refreshed against the humid summer heat even though, I continued to be curious of how it may have turned out had I left it to grow out like an afro. My musings ended quickly when I passed a dark-skinned man with an afro, silhouetted against the rising backdrop of the Montréal Biosphere. I then realized I could never duplicate a mane like that one.

More recently, while out for a few after-work drinks on Friday, I found myself losing track of time and missing the last GO bus home. As people parted ways, I remained in the company of my friend Dinesh. He kindly offered his couch and we ended up taking a cab back to Rogers and Oakwood, better known to locals as Little Jamaica.

As most inner-city neighbourhoods, the streets appeared deserted and slightly eerie after midnight. With distant sirens reaching our ears, and occasional cabs zipping by as to quickly come in and out of the area, Dinesh assured me that I’d be fine if I stuck with him. Then he proceeded to recount the times when he’d been thrown through store windows during a street fight. Suddenly, the shadows in the alleys that appeared playful at first, now seemed to loom over us with hatchets and knives.

With only a few remaining bars still open, we went to his local pub to close out the night. At the bar, we were greeted with a broad spectrum of characters. The place was empty, save a few patrons. As you walked through the door, the dark green marble-topped bar ran alongside the left-hand side. The place itself was cozy and ran long and narrow. Halfway down as you walked through the pub, a more spacious area opened up with some nondescript plastic tables and chairs. At the back, two large black speakers sang out a melody of island tracks.

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It was in the middle of an afternoon that I was sitting on the streetcar reading my book. The afternoon started out with a struggling sun, trying to break through the clouds, but it had to give way to some rain. Now it was drizzling. The wet sidewalks bustled with pedestrians scurrying about with scrunched up faces, cursing the miserable weather.

The streetcar stopped at a traffic light. I looked out the window and I saw this street urchin; it was a squeegee kid maybe just leaving his teenage years. He wore army fatigues and beneath them, was a charcoal hooded sweatshirt. The hood was drawn up about his head. With his head down, you could only make out his mouth and chin. He looked rather accustomed to the bad weather. Well, it was more like he was immune to the weather entirely.

Walking along the sidewalk with his hands in his pocket, he looked up and his profile became clear. Unshaven, lean face, sharp cheekbones, jutting up beneath his vacant eyes. Boredom and destitute eclipsed his face. I followed his line of vision further down the sidewalk.

Coming in the opposite direction was a guy who would have given Enrique a run for his money. This guy was flamboyant. He strutted down the street with his head high, swinging his arms clinging to a small, translucent shopping bag. He wore a crisp blue jean jacket with fur trim. He had perfectly styled hair. Something of a failed-supermodel sort of look.

This was the type of guy that dreams of one day being the starring mannequin in a visually stunning window display of a le Chateau store on Queen St. West. And its got to be one of those intricate visual displays, with shiny chains and zippers. Oh and it definitely has to have glitter. 

The type of guy that would drink orange soda in a clear glass, not for the taste but to have it complement against the tones of his artificially dark skin. Orange is a complementing color for dark skin. So is brown. He would know all of this. He also probably has an $80 green Puma backpack that only goes with one outfit. The bag, of course, being an accessory to this outfit.

He walked with long strides towards our hooded hobo, but shortened his steps cautiously when he found glaring eyes laid upon him. The squeegee kid stopped walking. Just as our failed supermodel pedestrian passes by, the squeegee kid, sticks out his foot, and trips him.

The guy fumbles forward, then turns around and looks at the squeegee kid, with as much anger as he can muster. I’ve seen pigeons more intimidating.  Some words are exchanged, but are inaudible from my enclosed caboose. It was a shame I didn’t have any popcorn with me.

They stand each other down, nose to nose, the squeegee kid has not removed his hands from his pocket. The pretty man, makes one final flail of his arm, and then there is no motion. 

Precisely just as the traffic light turns to green, the man spins and bolts down the street. Full out sprinting. Arms swinging like Arnold in The Running Man; his shopping bags bounced frantically along his side.

I strained to look back over my shoulder, as the streetcar slowly moved forward. My last glimpse was of the squeegee kid looking down the street, still not moving, still with his hands in his pocket, looking far down the street at the running man and smiling. He turns around and starts to continue his walk, heading to no where in particular, when he suddenly stops in mid-step. A thought crosses his head, and he turns back and starts walking after the fleeing man, with an even broader smile.

The street car kept moving and I turned my attention back to my book.