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"I Think, Therefore I Ant."
August 10
The
Ontario
Government Doesn’t Want You To See Avery Ant…
…Well,
not on their hours. And not on their computers. Which means definitely not if
you work there.
This was faxed to me by a friend, who tells me the original message comes on a
bright warning red piece
of paper. Apparently however there
are no colour copy settings on any of the fax machines at the Ontario
Government, as I received but a mere Black & White copy.
What irks me (okay, truth be told, I’m more amused than
irked) is that the Government would even consider doing this to me. Me!
The ant who tried to get kids to vote – and yes, even the ones under
the age of 18!
Lest we forget, I’m the pismire who ran for Prime Minister. I'm the ant that
pushed politics to the masses.
I said a resounding “yes” to the Government and they in return have “deemed" http://www.averyant.com/rants.html
as “unacceptable for use for government business purposes.”
I’m sure this is because there is a rant on the site called “Hard Core
Right Wing Sex” which had very little to do about sex (and certainly
didn’t depict any) and more to do with the sexual peccadilloes of Bill
O’Reilly, specifically, that whole sexual harassment incident he got into
after he annoyed that poor producer on his God awful Fox TV show/atrocity.
I’m willing to admit that there was a bias in my rant (unlike Fox),
but I don’t think there was anything too objectionable.
Certainly there was no foul language used, so why the censorship?
Surely the Ontario Government doesn’t expect its drones to work a
full eight hour day? If so,
they’re dreaming. A recent poll shows that the average worker fritters away
two hours a day at work and the majority of that is on the Internet.
Are we going to deny our government workers this same luxury? Nay,
the same right?
Now I know in my heart
of hearts it would be a colossal waste of time to write the wise censors at Corporate.Security@mbs.gov.on.ca
about all
of this… But you know what? It’s August.
Things are quiet and I’m feeling antsy.
I think I’ll start putting a missive together real soon and get it
out to those stodgy government suits. Hopefully,
I can get a response.
More later…
August 8
I
Want To Be The F#@$ing Poet
Laureate
It’s a decision that I’ll
probably regret
But I wanna be a Poet Laureate
I’d be officially appointed by the government
To bust rhymes at every stupid state event
Why? Because even though you
don’t know it
Every country needs their laureate poet
To serve as your word slinging ambassador
And, who contrary to every popular rumour
Isn’t paid in heroin and beer
But gets an honorarium of around 10 grand a year
It ain’t much, but it’s more than most poets make
And it’ll put a flop house roof over my head for God’s sake
It’ll be a truly sweet gig
Well, it will be for me
For the rest of the country
It’s just a waste of money
Which is sad and wrong, or so the worldly poet would refute
But in the world of words, the poet’s a lowly prostitute
And yet we pen verse about war, we tell truths about strife
Sure we’re convoluted, but we’re writing about life!
The sad fact is there are many meanings to cant
And I can use them all, if you’ll just give me this grant
Cause you don’t know the pain
Of working in the book chain
For minimum wage
And maximum rage
You’ve never looked to heaven and only seen Hell
Watched your dreams drown in the sad wishing well
Hey that’s pretty good, I should write that down
And if I could afford a pencil I’d do just that
Of course if I could afford to eat food
I’d also be fat
But I’ll scribble for you people
I’ll be the voice of most of you
An unpopular hero weirdo
Who tries to be true
But in the end can only give up and can only say fuck it
Cause there’s no competing with poems about a man from
Nantucket
July 31
Car Pool
For
9 months it had been this way.
Driver:
Ian McCullam. Front, passenger
side seat: Ryan Clamp. Rear,
passenger side seat: Brian Elbock.
Rear, driver side seat: David Wigle.
The
car pool had been started, naturally enough, by Ian McCullam. He put up a
notice in the Whitby IGA, advertising for “Conversationally minded commuters
working 9 to 5 who are willing to share costs for daily drive to the downtown
core.” According to Ian, he had
received over 75 inquiries and spent somewhere in the vicinity of 6 hours on
the phone, interviewing candidates, checking references, and routing out the
undesirables.
A
successful architect, Ian approached the design and construction of his car
pool in the same way he approached his work.
He sought balance in structure, personality and social standing.
He weighed politics against proximity, intellect against income, career
against character and generally drove his wife insane during the three weeks
in which he made his final cuts and ultimate selections.
To
his credit, Ian did an exceptionally good job.
Ian, Ryan, Brian and Dave were all non-smokers who lived within a six
block radius of each other; worked similar hours, and had political and moral
ideologies just divergent enough to keep the two 50 minute a day drives
interesting. He was determined
that the group would be a relaxed, collegial outfit but always maintained an
aura of authority over the others. Although
it was never discussed, the fact that Ian had started the group placed him in
a position of absolute authority that was not to be questioned.
He enjoyed the unspoken status that came with the driver’s seat and
often congratulated himself for having had the foresight and presence of mind
to realize this sizeable undertaking.
Much
like the buildings he designed, Ian was large, imposing and bright.
In many ways he felt himself superior to his passengers.
He believed that architecture was a profession, and that his car pool
companions were simply men with ‘careers’.
While he enjoyed their company, to Ian, the others could never rise
beyond the status of material -- they would always be the beams and
foundation, the bricks and mortar that he used to design and create his car
pool.
The
rules were reiterated orally by Ian during their first drive into the city. In
a well-modulated voice, Ian explained that the costs for gas, parking and
mileage would be shared equally. There
would be a weekly bill that would be handed out Friday and paid promptly
Monday morning. Members paid
despite vacations or absenteeism -- there could be no subletting of the seats.
Coffee could be consumed, food could not.
Of course, there would be no smoking and lateness would result in the
passenger being left behind. Any
breach of the rules could result in expulsion.
It wasn’t exactly the Ten Commandments but -- despite his vanity --
Ian wasn’t exactly Moses. Still,
they all took the rules to heart and accepted them as a matter of course.
And
so it was.
The
reason that Ryan Clamp won the front seat was due solely to the fact that he
was picked up first. Nonetheless,
Ryan secretly felt that the seat afforded him a ‘second in command’
stature and took it upon himself to act as a liaison between the front and
rear seat passengers. Ryan, a
49-year-old advertising executive was the senior member of the group and,
despite his insistence to the contrary, very sensitive about his age.
He exuded confidence and was prone to lengthy diatribes about the
“young pups” in his office who were routinely attempting to usurp his
authority as creative director. In
his stories, Ryan inevitably came out on top, firmly demonstrating his
considerable vigour, and sending the pups “whingeing back to their offices
with tails between their legs.” In
reality, however, Ryan was afraid. Afraid
of turning 50, afraid of the young women he had been trying to seduce since
his messy divorce was finalized, afraid of his prostrate, his thinning hair
and weakening eyes and, most of all, afraid of the pups.
The
story of Ryan’s pups, always brought an unusual smile to Brian Elbock’s
face. Brian was only 27 but
already had two children, a wife, an unusual smile, a well-established career
in the financial sector and a firm grip on the rear, passenger side window
seat. Brian was a tolerably
handsome and seriously minded young man, a combination that he felt was
infinitely more desirable than the seriously handsome and tolerably minded
young men he had attended university with.
Brian was a man with an eye on the future, already looking beyond the
three-bedroom house and 52 thousand dollar a year job he had obtained directly
after graduating from university. To
him, everything was process. There
was a hierarchy that you could ascribe to every aspect of life.
He was keenly, if quietly, aware of the significance of his seating
position. Ever patient, Brian
viewed Ryan Clamp’s front passenger seat as his legacy, as the logical next
step in his rise to the top. The
way he saw it, within two years he would have Ryan’s seat.
After another year, he would start his own car pool, and within 5
years, would be driving to work alone. It
was only logical. It was only
right. For this reason, he had no
feelings of jealousy or resentment. He
liked having goals. It gave
everything a purpose.
And
then there was David. David was a
relative newcomer to the suburbs. He
and his wife had moved to Whitby 15 months ago, and since their arrival, David
had compiled a “things to be done” itinerary that included, first and
foremost: starting a family, making the right friends, joining a decent golf
course and learning to golf. David
was still experiencing a mild form of culture shock.
Some would say that it would more realistically be described as a
“lack of culture shock” but David did not share those sentiments.
To David, a home in the suburbs and the start of a new family were
important signposts on his journey to become the man he had always wanted to
be. A stable, middle-class family
man. David still felt like a bit
of an imposter. His lower income
urban upbringing and meandering youthcapades seemed so different from this
world of manicured lawns -- a world safely removed from the big city looming
on the horizon. His first months had been difficult, especially the daily
rigour of the GO train. When he
saw Ian’s ad, he jumped at it.
For
David, the car pool was a godsend. The
pressure of suburban living, combined with his new responsibilities at work,
kept him hopping both physically and mentally.
The grim era of the GO train was a distant and horrid memory now —
the mornings spent standing in the snow or rain, shivering and clinging to the
remote hope of getting a seat. The
crowds of bleak faced people pushing to get on and off, the assortment of
smells and the endless, endless delays. The
inane chatter and constant munching, slurping and belching of commuter’s
gobbling down their coffee and sticky pastries.
The authoritarian ticket collectors, the nagging cough three rows back,
the crying child and the umbrella jammed into his back.
That was torture...a slow, governmentally sanctioned and partially
funded form of torture and he was glad to be off the rack.
More than glad really. The
car pool offered him gifts other than escape from the daily trains.
He felt like he was part of an elite sub-commuter community.
This was a step up. Ian,
Brian and Ryan were established businessmen and he watched and learned from
them. He took in their way of
dressing, the way they folded their newspapers.
He absorbed their take on professional self-management.
He sometimes thought that his connection with them had been, in some
small way, responsible for his recent promotion.
He imagined that through osmosis, he had picked up on some of their
confidence and self-esteem. David
sometimes worried however, that he wasn’t contributing as much to the group
as he was getting back. The others
seemed to converse so easily. They
seemed to know something about everything.
David often felt out of his depth.
Sometimes, when the conversation became too heady, he would be forced
to let his participation lapse and simply stare out the window at the traffic,
the landscape and the slow moving trains in the distance. He tried to keep up.
He read interesting books and rented foreign movies but he still felt somewhat
unworthy, like he should be back on the trains.
And
then there was the mumps.
David
awoke in a tangle of damp bed sheets, his skin felt slick and slimy, like it
had been covered in mayonnaise. While he showered he noticed that his
testicles had swollen to the size of small tennis balls; either that or large
ping-pong balls, he couldn’t be sure. The
sight was so unnerving that he ran nude and dripping into the kitchen and
thrust his painful sack toward his wife, who sourly informed him that she
wasn’t in the mood and that he was standing by an open window.
After a brief, comic burlesque scene between the two of them, David’s
wife calmed down, inspected her husband’s testicles closely, looked suddenly
unwell herself and told him to go back to bed.
David missed worked that day, visited the doctor and was told that he
had contracted infectious parotitis. David
insisted this was impossible, as he hadn’t had any contact with a parrot in
years. The doctor chuckled, -- rather inappropriately, David thought --
said something about a career in stand-up comedy and then explained
that he had the mumps and would have to take 2 weeks off work to convalesce.
David
called Ian at his office and told him the dire news.
Ian tried to sound sympathetic but wasn’t particularly interested in
the state of David’s testicles and suggested he call back when he was ready
to rejoin the group.
For
two days David stayed in bed trying to read a political biography that he felt
would impress the group. Despite
his slight fever and a pronounced soreness of his lower jaw, David felt a tug
to return to his regular routine. He
was worried about how his co-workers and car pool companions would view his
contracting a childhood illness. Getting
mumps was somewhat suspect he thought, and could be viewed by others as
sloppiness or immaturity.
As
the August sun rose on his fifth day of illness, so did his fever and desire
to get out of the house. He was
desperate for fresh air; he needed to feel the sun on his face, to pour over
the business section of the local paper; to make some effort to return to
normality. When his wife left for
work, he giggled and pulled himself out of bed, put on a robe and made his way
outdoors.
As
David took the brief stroll to the corner newspaper box, he saw Ian’s blue
Impala round the corner at the end of the street.
David was surprised. He was
the last pick-up and the car was not heading in the direction of the highway.
David tightened the drawstring on his pajamas, turned and dashed
through one of his neighbour’s backyard.
He leaped over a garden gnome, climbed a small fence and, after
disentangling himself from a garden hose and an unusually large dachshund,
emerged on Clara Court. David
looked down the street. He saw the
blue car pulling out of a driveway. He
strained his eyes. Was that Ian?
It must be. But what was he
doing here? And how many heads did
he count in the car? Four!
There were four people in Ian’s car.
David watched it disappear from sight and sat down on the curb.
Things looked truly grim indeed.
By
the time David returned home he had put aside all thoughts of sunlight and
newspapers and was going over a cause of much greater concern; someone had
been sitting in his seat! He sat
quietly on the couch, an ice pack between his legs, and thought about what he
had just witnessed. He went
through all possible scenarios. Perhaps
Ian knew he was short of money and had found a temporary replacement to
relieve him of the financial burden. Maybe
it wasn’t Ian’s car at all — the mumps were affecting his mind and
vision. That had to be it, his
brain was swelling due to his illness — no cause for alarm.
He
was comforted by this idea for about a minute and a half before he decided to
call Brian Elbock at work.
Brian
was surprised to hear from him. David
read this surprise as a sign of guilt but knew enough to play coy.
He couldn’t come out and directly ask what was going on. He had to
hope that out of the blue Brian would offer up some sort of reassurance or
explanation. He didn’t, so David
garbled on about his mumps and how he desperately missed his seat.
Was it okay? Was Brian
keeping an eye on it for him? After
all, they were backseat buddies and backseat buddies stuck together, isn’t
that right? When he hung up the
phone he reflected on their conversation.
David chided himself for making so many ridiculous statements.
What had he been hoping for? Brian
had acted uncomfortably, and rushed to get off the phone.
Was this suspicious? Was he
overreacting? Of course he was.
David started to calm down. This
was madness. He was behaving like
a lunatic. The only rational
course of action was to have a nap and then wait behind the bushes on Clara
Court for the blue Impala to return.
David’s
dreams that afternoon were fuelled by his increasing fever and anxiety.
In one particularly harrowing sequence he was riding a skateboard to
work on the highway. The blue
Impala pulled along side him. He
looked over to the vehicle and saw that it was filled with clowns.
There must have been 20 inside the car. They
laughed violently at him, brandishing brief cases shaped like seltzer bottles
then sped away. A wheel fell off
his skateboard and he woke up in a panic.
It was 5:45 pm.
David
leapt from the couch and ran toward the door.
He caught a brief glimpse of himself in the hall mirror.
His hair was a jutting straight up from his head, his jaw was still
swollen and the couch’s checkered pattern was firmly imprinted on his
forehead. David was still dressed
in his housecoat but he knew that he did not have time to concern himself with
details. Besides, he was not going
to be seen. He was going to be
extremely discreet. He passed a
busload of schoolchildren who stared and pointed at him, ducked down Shamrock
Laneway just as the rain started to pour and came out at the end of Clara
Court. He saw the Impala
immediately but realized he was too late.
The car was coming toward him, it must have already dropped off its
passenger. He looked to his left,
his right, but there was nowhere to hide.
The car approached, it’s window wipers swinging back and forth and
small sprays of water flying off the tires. He could see Ian’s face behind
the wheel, looking directly at him. David
felt his stomach twist, pulled his robe over his face, cried out and collapsed
into a ball. Unfortunately, David
was not as discreet as he had hoped to be.
In fact, the entire scene was reminiscent of The Phantom of the Opera.
The Impala slowed and then passed.
A bolt of lightning flashed, lighting up the black fist of the sky and
adding to the theatricality of the whole bizarre event. David peeked out from
behind his robe, swore at himself and got to his feet.
He was an idiot caught in the rain. Of that he was certain.
That
night, David locked himself in what was now his study and would someday soon
be the baby’s room and planned his next move.
Should he call Ian and explain? Had
Ian identified him? Would it be
wiser to never mention it? He
tried to ignore his wife, pounding on the door, and demanding an explanation
as to just the hell he was doing that afternoon running about the
neighbourhood in his housecoat, and in the pouring rain.
David was depressed. He was
convinced that he had done irreparable damage to his reputation, and his place
in the car pool. He was desperate
to find out what was going on but could not risk embarrassing himself further.
By
Saturday, David’s temperature hit a hundred and four.
The rain had complicated his condition so his wife took him back to the
doctor who gave strict instructions that he was to return to bed immediately
and stay there. The doctor
outlined the gravity of the situation to David, explaining the complications
that could arise if he were to exert himself further. Inflammation of the
brain, meningitis, deafness, sterility, arthritis and inflammation of the
kidney, pancreas and thyroid glands. The
words meant nothing to David. They
sounded trivial in comparison to the intrigue and betrayal that was going on
around him.
Once
safely home, David took to his bed and began work on a plan.
It was really quite simple. As
soon as his wife left to go shopping he digested a handful of Tylenols,
changed into some loose fitting shorts and took an innocent stroll over to
Clara Court in order to see who lived in the house that Ian’s blue Impala
had visited. He stumbled up and
down the street for twenty minutes, watching the house and waiting for someone
to venture out. At 12:43 David
noted that a man in his mid to late thirties opened the front door and
retrieved a newspaper. This was
helpful, he now knew something about this mysterious interloper he had seen in
his seat. He hoped he might be
able to use it against him somehow. At 1:26 the man exited the house with a
bag of golf clubs in hand and swung an iron, probably a 4 iron, on the front
lawn. The man looked at David
curiously but continued swinging the club.
David with his note pad and feverish grin was about to leave, armed
with this new information, when a red Toyota appeared at the top of Clara
Court. David stopped and watched
as Brian Elbock; his back seat buddy, pulled up to the house. The mystery man
put his golf clubs in the trunk and got into the car.
David stood motionless as they pulled out of the driveway laughing at
some joke he would never be privy to. As
they passed him, Brian gave David a confused glance. David pretended not to
see him and focused his attention on two neighbourhood cats in the middle of
an extremely aggressive sexual act. He needed an alibi, and this was going to
have to do.
After
this humiliation David could not face the prospect of returning home to bed.
Dehydrated and sweating through his clothes, David decided to take the
short walk to the mall and treat himself to some air conditioning and a large
lemonade.
The
mall was teeming with ill-mannered teenagers, young married couples and babies
in strollers. David purchased his
lemonade and walked unsteadily among them; their outlines blurring as they
frantically whizzed from one store to the next.
He was just getting ready to leave, when he stopped in front of a toy
store and looked into the display window.
A miniature train rolled along a set of tracks, passing through hills
and valleys and stopping at stations complete with tiny plastic passengers
waiting to board. David recognized
himself in the little plastic men. They
had been cast solely for this purpose. They
were immobile and ineffectual.
David
was deep in thought about locomotion and inflammation of the pancreas when
there was a tap on his shoulder. When
he turned, he saw Ryan, of the front passenger seat.
David noted the legal offices in the background, but decided to say
nothing of it remembering how touchy Ryan was on the subject of his divorce.
Ryan asked him how he was feeling and when he thought he would be able
to return to work. Not ‘return
to the car pool’ but ‘return to work’.
David smiled as confidently as he could, and; while wiping the
perspiration off his brow, told him that he had never felt better.
Ryan seemed concerned; looked at the train set and swallowed
uncomfortably. He told David that
the group had been worried after seeing him on Clara Court.
They hadn’t stopped because they thought that perhaps he was a
homeless man, but after passing, had realized it was David.
Ryan put his hand on David’s shoulder, asked him if he knew where he
was and offered to drive him home.
David
tried to laugh this off. He
assured Ryan that he was alright, that on the day they saw him, he had been
fighting a fever and had gone for a walk.
He said he had fallen. He said he felt better.
In David’s opinion, he said a lot of things that seemed contradictory
and indicative of a weak mind.
Ryan
was about to excuse himself when David grabbed his arm and asked him about the
man on Clara Court. He could see
Ryan processing his response and spinning into his executive mindset.
He looked David straight in the eyes and told him that the man’s name
was Simon Stepford, and that he was filling in while David was ill.
Then, like all good managers, he put the responsibility firmly on the
shoulders of others — Ian and Brian. He
explained that Simon’s car was being repaired and that he had asked Brian to
hook him up with Ian in order to let him ride along for a week.
David was outraged, he quoted Ian’s rules, “There would be no
subletting of the seats.” Ryan
looked trapped. David realized
that he had exposed a weakness. It
made them both uncomfortable and after a brief ‘so long’ Ryan disappeared
back into the throng of shoppers.
David
shook his fist at the train in the window until a couple of ill-mannered, baby
faced security guards asked him to move along.
By
Sunday David was desperately in need of both some clarity and a shower.
He was convinced now that his passivity was the cause of his troubles.
If he was going to keep his seat he needed to change his entire
outlook. He was convinced that
Brian was an evil bastard of biblical proportions.
He was trying to oust David, to have him replaced with one of his
banking cronies. He had to be
assertive, confident, aggressive. Men
like Ian, Ryan, Brian —and probably Simon — despised weakness.
He had given entirely too much away.
He would act. He would take
charge. David ran a comb through
his hair and went to his closet. His
suits were gone — all of them.
David’s
wife felt his forehead and ordered him back to bed.
The alarm that registered on her face was lost on David.
He demanded to know where his clothes were and made vague accusations
about her involvement in a conspiracy of transit.
She explained that she had taken the occasion of his illness as an
opportunity to have everything laundered.
He cursed her and went to the basement.
In a large box he found the tuxedo he had worn at his wedding.
He dressed himself in the downstairs washroom and squeezed himself out
of the basement window.
When
Simon opened his door he didn’t recognize David.
This mentally ill man looked better, if more inappropriately dressed,
than the mentally ill man who had been standing outside of his house writing
in a notebook the day before. Simon
noticed that David’s tuxedo jacket, complete with dead boutonniere pinned to
the lapel was rather tight and set off his running shoes and exposed and hairy
chest. Simon stepped out onto the
porch and looked down the street for assistance, should it be required. He
was reaching into his pants for his wallet, when David introduced himself.
David
explained that he was the ‘fourth’ in the car pool.
He told Simon that he had infectious parotitis, and smiled broadly when
Simon recoiled. He casually
mentioned that he was feeling better and would be returning to work soon. He
asked Simon what was wrong with his car and where it was being repaired.
David offered the name of a trusted mechanic.
Simon relaxed a little. The
man was harmless, just odd and sad.
Simon asked David if he knew where he was and if he needed a drive
home. David twitched
apoplectically and raised his voice. He
poked Simon in the chest and told him not to get any ideas about stealing his
spot. Simon reassessed David.
Clearly he was still correct about him being odd but he was beginning
to wonder about the harmless part. David
paused, told Simon he was glad that they had cleared things up, offered up his
hand and then left.
David
felt buoyed as he walked home. He
had been forthright. He had taken
the bull by the horns and had set life right.
Simon would think twice before he usurped anyone again.
Of that he was sure.
At
nine o’clock that night the phone rang.
It was Brian. He asked
David if it was true that he had been stalking Simon and had threatened him.
He warned David about possible police involvement and advised him to
get medical assistance at his earliest convenience.
David wasn’t about to back down. Not now. Not ever again.
He railed, wailed and yelled at Brian, accusing him of duplicity and
betrayal. He told him that if
anyone was going to lose their seat it would be him.
David slammed down the phone. Brian
was on the list now. Brian and
Simon. He wrote their names down
on a napkin, it felt comforting and official.
David
woke up at three a.m. on Monday morning. He
showered and dressed, and went to his closet.
Without a suit, he was forced to wear Levi’s and an undershirt.
He decided to wear a tie anyway. It
was mandatory at the office. With
the help of an anal thermometer and a certain amount of flexibility he checked
his temperature. A hundred and
five in the shade! He was at the
top of his game. He was
businessman! Yes, businessman!
He went to the linen closet and pulled out a white sheet.
He wrote ‘businessman!’ on it with a felt marker and then tied it
around his shoulders.
He
decided that he had better call Ian and let him know that he was back in the
gang. After 6 rings, Ian answered
the phone. He was groggy.
David was glad. He had
caught him unawares — a tactical advantage.
He told Ian that he was reporting for duty and would be waiting on the
curb for him. Ian was silent.
David could hear Ian’s wife in the background asking what was going
on. Ian told David to go back to
bed, that they would talk in a few days. David
was having none of it. He demanded
to be picked up, demanded the front seat. Demanded to drive.
Ian hung up the phone.
At
four a.m. David was sitting in front of his house waiting for Ian to arrive.
It was cold and he was tired so he wrapped his businessman cape around
his shoulders and lay down on the grass. Sweet
grass, sweet dewy grass. He
nibbled a few blades and slept.
David
woke up just as the Impala passed his house.
All four occupants were staring at him in horror.
David leapt to his feet and gave chase.
He almost had them at the stop sign but Ian gunned the engine and in a
flash, they were gone.
II
Summer
would soon be over, David felt the first early morning chill of autumn, pulled
his overcoat tightly over his body and waited at the platform. As he stood, he
watched the cars driving on the distant highway and crushed his train ticket
in his palm. Once, that had been him, speeding down the highway in the back
seat of a blue Impala, with a cup of coffee and a feeling that all was right
with the world. But that was long ago and since his expulsion things had never
been the same. The mumps had left him sterile, there would be no children in
his life, no progeny to teach how to throw a baseball and drive a car.
David felt that before he had even got a chance to get started his
dreams had all come crashing down. He’d
given up on golf and the prospect of making the right friends.
As far as he was concerned, he was just another faceless member of the
suburbanites, weighed down with a mortgage, a shaky marriage and dreams
unfulfilled. He would never be
like Brian Elbock — with his young family and realized ambitions — he
would never own two cars like Ian McCullam, or have the unwavering confidence
of a man like Ryan Clamp.
The
train crawled into the station. A
young women in a business suit and tennis shoes elbowed David in ribs and
pushed by him. He slowly and
painfully wedged himself into the stuffed train, he inhaled the familiar odour
of mingling perfume, coffee cakes and wet overcoats, and watched as the doors
slammed closed behind him.
This Week's 10 Fun
Search Terms for Avery Ant
The following are this
week’s favorite 10 search queries people used to get to www.averyant.com
(really!)
globe
in flames
picture pismire ants
famous heroin junkies
how to draw jesus
how long does it take to cook shish kabobs
hilarious jpg
air conditioning makes my throat hurt
princess diana's ghost
nudist frat
what is the cultural significance of the rocky horror picture show
Last Christmas is so 2005...
Only 137 Shopping Days Left Until Xmas!
(to
the top)
To read all the other mildly exciting editions of
"Avery's Daily Journal" visit
"Avery's Journal Archives"
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