23 April 2016
The Last Thing We Ever Do
I came home to rush hour traffic. You know the drill. If it is not the sheer volume of the most demented drivers this side of Bom-fucking-bay, it is a crash; if it is not a crash, it is road repairs; if it is not road repairs, it is a breakdown; if it is not a breakdown it is a fat cunt more interested in their Facebook buddies than their own life, never mind the lives of their fellow drivers.
Every one of us thinking of one thing: a double on the rocks when we get home.
The sun was sinking by the time I made it home. Sonja brought me my double; I looked at the photograph of the Hammer above the fireplace, a small candle above her on the picture frame; I thought about Manitoba and the thaw. I thought about how good it was to be home.
"So, how the fuck was it?" Sonja asked. We had barely spoke since I was gone. My phone, I found, was incapable of making or taking calls or texting that far from home. The e-mail working only in certain locations. If not for wi-fi it was as though I had taken a trip in a Silver Time Machine.
"We do not know what we are missing living crowded as fuck by other other people like we are Chinese or something," I began. "Life makes more sense in a small town. What they have we don't is inter-connectedness - the willingness to give a shit about one another."
"You going to be ok?" Sonja asked. She sensed my confusion about what is good.
"I will get used to the city again. It is amazing how quick you become accustomed to life in another place. When we have visited small towns in the past looking for a cool place to retire we have fretted over how we would adapt. There is nothing to fret about. It is all good. We gotta get out of this place if it's the last thing we ever do."