November 11–14, 2002 — Lives I’ve tried to lead

I am turning 21 on November 26, and I will no longer be entitled to the insurance coverage that I have received thanks to the gainful employment of my father. Because of this, it was very important that I make one last trip to Ottawa for dentist and orthodontist appointments before these appointments began to cost me money.

The first of my appointments was on a Wednesday, and I was leaving for Ottawa on the Tuesday before. I made plans to catch the 9:00 am bus. I’m not entirely sure what my reasoning was, but it seemed important to be at least twenty-four hours early. Anything for my teeth.

The reality of catching the 9:00 am bus was something that I had failed to prepare myself for. I had an ear infection and had become used to waking up at 10:00 am only in case of an emergency or an early (to me) shift at work. Stumbling around the city at 8:00 am with my ear leaking and my head throbbing, I was very upset with my teeth and their unreasonable demands on my time.

I was early arriving at the bus station, so I wandered downtown, my eyes refusing to open more than halfway. I passed someone I thought I recognized, but it was too early to be sure. He had blond hair and stretched ear lobes.

When I finally made it back to the bus station, I found myself in line behind the person that looked familiar, but I still couldn’t place him. On the bus, I saw that he was wearing a Trail of Dead t-shirt and decided he was alright in my books. Then he sat in my favourite seat, the one furthest to the back beside the washrooms, and he was demoted back to neutral territory. I sat two seats ahead of him.

As the bus started moving, I learned the joys of administering ear drops while compensating for the occasional bump or jolt. Then I slept, and when I woke up, I remembered who it was that was sitting behind me.

When I was in high school, I used to go to mini-courses at Queen’s University as an excuse to take a week off school. I did this three years in a row. During the second year, I took a course on recording techniques with Pat, where we recorded “The Bill Cosby Song”. The person sitting behind me was in the same class. Not only that, he had been the one nominated by his group to knock on the door to our studio when Pat was yelling, “I’ll ride a motorbike!” too loudly. He also walked around saying, “I’m so Irish,” in a thick, Irish accent at the mandatory mini-course dance, muttering things about needing potatoes to keep his family from developing scurvy. He made a deep mark on my psyche. His name was Karol.

Excited though I may sound in retrospect, it took a lot of effort to work myself up to talking to him. Another passenger had befriended him, so I waited until we were in Ottawa to tap Karol on the shoulder.

We ended up walking around Ottawa for awhile and getting caught up. We made plans to get together later in the week but never did. Still, I was happy to be home. Ottawa feels like more personal a place than what I’m used to. Small coincidences like that one don’t seem to happen nearly as often or easily in Toronto.

I took public transit to Richmond. Buses in Ottawa cost more now, and the number of the bus to Richmond has changed. I wasn’t sure which bus to take, but my dad found me on the bus platform to tell me.

Home has changed, too. Our cat died, and the dog seems lonely without him. Even I miss him, allergies and all.

There were more fish-themed decorations, too. As much as I tease my mom for her obsession, I smile every time I find a new fish-shaped toothbrush holder or soap dish, and I know I’m home.

Richmond feels very strange now. The houses are so far apart, and everyone has a huge yard. There are stars, too. Walking at night, I was forced to acknowledge how crammed together everyone seems in Toronto and how irrelevant this is in the scheme of things. I decided that cities make an effort to be bright at night so that the reflection of the city’s lights off of the atmosphere will erase the stars and any reason to acknowledge something bigger than the city itself.

Though I think I might just be sick of Toronto.

While I was home, my family went out for dinner to celebrate birthdays for my mom and me. (Mine is on November 26 and hers on December 1, so it made sense to get both out of the way while I was home since I wouldn’t see my family again until Christmas.)

We went for pizza and then I went to buy an electric toothbrush. I had been to my two dentist appointments, sat through lectures about proper flossing, and asked what sort of electric toothbrush would be best for me. I had a recommended brand and model, and I went with my dad to buy it.

He wanted me to get the cheapest version so that we could leave quickly and spend less money. I told him that the cheapest one only provided 10 000 pulsations per minute, whereas for only $17 more, I could have 20 000. The real question, though, was whether or not another $25 on top of that was worth 40 000 pulsations per minute.

“For almost 21 years, you’ve had zero pulsations per minute. Get the cheapest one.”

“But this isn’t the sort of thing you can upgrade!”

“Your mother’s paying?”

“Yes.”

He sighed and let me take the one with 20 000 pulsations per minute. He seemed happy to be leaving Walmart, and, to celebrate, he bought a VHS two-pack of Home Alone and Home Alone 2 before we left. This made perfect sense to me in a way that made me miss living at home.

The next day went quickly. My mom bought me some live-release mouse traps, and I was on my way home twelve hours later, electric toothbrush and live-release mouse traps in hand.

I miss the months and years when I lived at home and made good use of my time, when no one would laugh and say I was finding myself instead of acknowledging the time that I’m wasting.

When I first left home and moved to Toronto, it was to start an exciting and new life. Now I return to Toronto dreading it more than Ottawa, glad only that reminders of the plans I had and the life I should be living are five hours away.