Life After Berth

Dearest readers,

I began today at 4:43 AM to the incessant drone of our Gerrard St East apartment's highly probable illegal air conditioning unit. Much to the tune of a pneumatic drill, I craned my head to my left to see if it had awaken Diego. "What is that sound?" he whimpered softly. “It's our lovely piece of shit tin lizzie I think, let me go check”. Begrudgingly, I rolled my stark white ass out of bed, only to trip over Diego's MacBook cord, then proceed to stub my pinkie toe on the corner of our bed. Not surprising, I cursed. I entered the living room and peered out the window as I approachedthe black market air conditioner. I had never seen Toronto this early and truth be told, I though it was kinda pretty.

"You bastardly thing!" I thought among other things in my head as I went to slap the shit box. Seeming to have sensed my dismay, and in fear of my wrath, the air conditioner dropped the act literally 15 cm before my hand struck it. Go figure. I returned to my bed.

5:15 AM came faster than a junkie on meth. Diego's iPhone sounded for our awakening. We had planned to get up at five, shave and shower, grab our bags, and hit the road for our second vacation of the season: Meaford. I brewed my coffee in the French press as Diego did his grooming. Being the impatient Irishman I am, I made an attempt to squeeze in beside him at the tiny bathroom sink to shave, but was met by early morning resistance. Fine! I thought, and took my razor to the kitchen. I filled up a container with water, splashed hot water on my face, only to realize I had forgotten shaving cream. Screw it. I rested our dollarama mirror atop an upside-down wine glass and angledit at my face. I gripped my Gillette Mach 3 and dragged the blade beneath my chin. Horrified, I stopped almost immediately at what could be compared to the sensation and sound of grating dried out pecorino. "Jumpin’ Jesus!" I growled angrily is distinct syllables.

Any man who uses Gillette Mach 3 knows these pricy little buggers are great on the first shave, good on the second, and potato peelers on the third. I was on my fourth use, and mortified.

What was I to do? Waiting a whole five minutes and possibly losing precious time at breakfast was NOT an option I'd consider. I scanned the kitchen and snagged the bottle of Dawn. I squirt a dab in my hands (about the size of a nickel in the palm of my hand), lathered it up, and smeared it on my face. This stubble, I committed,was coming off one way or another.

Let it be known that not only can Dawn dish detergent save baby seals and penguins from wretched oil spills, it also can give a man the closest, cleanest, non-razor burnt shave of his life. I was SO impressed and intend on sharing my opinion with the marketing department at P&G.

Primped and pretty, we boys were ready to go! I dumped my paper coffee cup full of coins (my coffee fund) in my pocket. We had a premium breakfast to hit up before we got to the Greyhound terminal at Bay and Dundas.

For those who have never been, Fran's our top pick when it comes to great foods on the cheap! Best of all, they are open 24/7 and make a suitable recovery zone after a hard night of studying or drinking. For $6.99 you get two eggs, two slices of toast, bacon, sausage, or ham, and the best home fries in town. Bottomless coffee for $1.99. Okay, enough promo for Fran's. So we ordered our meals and shot the shit for an hour or so. At 7:15, we paid the bill and headed for the station. Our bus was leaving at 8:00 sharp and we were told to arrive half an hour early. It wasn't until we walked into the eerily quiet and very sketchy station that I realized I had completely forgotten my ticket at the apartment. I took a deep breath and divulged the bad news to Diego.

Things like this cease to shock Diego anymore. I am always looking for my belongings and often reach such a high state of panic that it metamorphoses into utter frenzy. Another deep breath. Since Diego bought our tickets online, I figured they'd be able to just pull them up on their little computer. We went to the customer service desk, which was nothing more than a plywood box with "Greyhound" painted on it in what appeared to be finger paint. We had already experienced this shady booth the previous night when we picked up our tickets. A petite Asian woman with extraordinarily long pigtails had served us. As if things weren’t sketchy enough, in the middle of our conversation she pulled out her cell phone and began to dial someone. My eyes bugged. I couldn’t believe she had the audacity and above all, the balls to make a personal phone call as Diego was speaking to her. I speculated she was calling her stockbroker, but it turned out Greyhound employees call each other via mobile phones. The real kicker in the experience (or what I refer to as the “hot sauce”) was when Pigtails asked Diego for his credit card, then, with the clear distinction, volume, and pace of Mr. Rogers, proceeded to read his credit card details to everyone in the station. Account number. Expiry date. His name. And not only once, but twice.

I was greeted by who was obviously Greyhound's employee of the month. He had crooked eyebrows and highly resembled a praying mantis. I smiled and inform this man (let's call him Otis) of my sudden misfortune. I began to tell him we brought our tickets online but before I could finish my pitch, he chimed in saying unless I bought my ticket online, there was nothing he could do. I was annoyed. No, livid. I WAS LIVID. With incredible restraint, I calmly reiterated my case. Again Otis the mantid interjected me, "Okay, what you'll have to do is go to that line up over there and buy a new one and..." I cut him off: "Nope. Not happening. I'm going home". I walked away from him. This had shocked Diego. Anyone who knows me knows I am all about manners and gratitude. I hold doors, push in my chair, smile, and always say please and thank you. I become furious toward those who do not respect these cardinal rules. Even when shit service is delivered with attitude, I will stick to my guns and salt my words with a pinch of condescendence. However, there is a caveat to my rules: fuck with my money and the gloves are off!

It was now 7:25 AM and I was screwed. I had no choice but to sprint back to the apartment and hunt down my ticket. I dashed through the humid streets of Toronto sucking back tears. Of course I hit every stoplight along the way, but this is not a complaint. It's actually my expression of gratefulness to traffic engineers. Had it not been for a stoplight every two minutes, I may have keeled over and died due to the substandard state of my fitness level. I looked like a real champ too. I was wearing white shorts, a frumpy hoody, a white bandana, and my reebok omni pumps. As I simultaneously tested my cardiovascular fitness level, I also drew attention to myself consequent of the twelve pounds of coins from my coffee fund bucking to and fro in my pocket. My iPhone was in my hand, which I periodically glanced at to pretend Iwas timing a leisure jog. Aside from missing the bus, my other motivation to get there and back as fast as possible was the thought of be gunned down by the Bloods or Crips for wearing a white bandana. I ran for my life... sporadically.

When I got to the apartment I viscously searched for my ticket. I looked in the Victorian mirror hanging on our wall and saw my pathetic state of being. I had sticky sweat streaks mixed with hair product running down my forehead. I wasn't even red, I was a pasty white flesh tone. To boot, my shoe laces came untied and my fly was down the whole time, revealing my lime green cotton briefs. I had also somehow managed to delete three apps on my iPhone in the process.

Ten minutes and two rabid phone calls to Diego later, I was leaving the apartment. I charged down Gerrard, arriving at the station with only minutes to spare. Once inside, I was so disoriented I could have sworn the station was spinning. Momma Fran's did not like my athleticism and was about to make a reappearance on the station floor. Where the hell was my boyfriend?! I dialed. "Behind you", he answered my call with, which I had him repeat thrice due to my delirium. I turned around and there he was. I could barely speak and could only be described as one seriously hot mess. We headed for the line up.

Our loading zone had three types of people: boys like me and Diego, old people, and mennonites. I wavered uneasily on the spot, waiting, just waiting for the icing on the fucking cake: vomiting in public.

My stomach heaved in the middle of me staring at the Mennonites (not because they're Mennonites, it just happened so). From that point on until we loaded I could not look at them or I'd experience a pavlovian response. Diego tried talking to me, but I chewed his head off in anticipation of vomiting.

We boarded the bus, which smelled like honey garlic sausages and did not help my stomach situation. On top of that, my chest had dried out and I was coughing incessantly and had a runny nose. I am so out of shape, I realize now. When the bus started up, the motion seemed to have cured me. My stomach relaxed and the queasiness subsided. I apologized to Diego and we talked for a while before he faded out and his head began swinging around ridiculously. (See figure A).

Figure A

My experiences on Greyhound have never been superb. On the way to Whistler, we were frisked for weapons and expected to show ID. In Nanaimo, we had to book it into the shack, excuse me, station to buy our tickets. Then, all the way from Nanaimo to Victoria we were seated next to two unkempt and evidently ruthless hunters who reeked of cheap tobacco. They gave off such a horrifying aura that i literally went blind, deaf, and numb on my entire right side. I was waiting for them to stab me. And I knew they'd go for the jugular.

At one rest point, they got off the bus to rekindle their nicotine, and upon reboarding, gave me a death stare and proceeded to sit apart: one a across the aisle beside, and the other directly behind me.

I didn't know I'd die this way but I accepted my fate. I began to imagine my funeral and who would come. I pictured the newspaper article and rehearsed how I thought the Hamilton news station would cover the loss of a fellow Hamiltonian. I had so many things I wanted to do before I died, including, but not limited to, entering a corn on the cob eating contest, robbing a museum, and seeing a grizzly bear in a river catching a salmon with his left paw and shoving it in his mouth. My untimely death by the machete or Swiss army knife or whatever they had in their ruck sack would shake the world. Suddenly, like a bat out of hell, the younger hunter behind me sprang from his seat and charged the bus bathroom as some old man vacated it. Moments later, he passed it off to the main hunter. "What a relief!" I thought, realizing they weren't going to stick me and it had all been a complete misinterpretation. We reached Victoria safe and intact.

It's now 10:24 AM and we are in Wasaga Beach, Ontario. This ride has been interesting. With no potential psychopaths or serial killers, one might assume it's been a great ride, aside from the sausage odour. Well my friends, let me be the first to tell you it certainly has not! Some inconsiderate passenger continues to drop steamed cabbage farts. With olfactory being my strongest sense, I am tempted to reach into Diego's backpack and distribute every last Gas-X strip he has until I find the bastard who is seeping sauerkraut from his or her ass crack. I understand the delightful combination of sauerkraut on honey garlic sausages, but people, there’s a time and place!

In anticipation, I sit patiently awaiting to arrive at Blue Mountain. Until then, I intend on sleeping to take my mind off this chaotic day thus far.

Parched, with love,

Ty