We'd hoped - nay, we'd expected that Montèal would shine the love that its renown to onto our eager faces. Unfortunately, so far, we'd seen naught but rain, misguided belligerence, and anger. Last night's mushroom trip had entirely crippled Hades' brain, Fernweh's anger was getting out of control, and to top that all of our shit was soaked.
Apparently God had gauged me worthy this morning because I'd woken up awkward sandwiched between Squanch and the wall - the perfect position to only get half-soaked.
In a shit situation (and waking up to a cold rain with nothing to change into is pretty high up on the list) optimism can make or break the day. A cheerful "good morning!" flew right over Fernweh's head - he responded with a grumble and a sadistic glance towards Hades. The greeting flew over Hades' head, too, because he was too busy yammering fractured sentences about his need to replace the mushrooms he'd lost the night before.
The greeting also flew over Squanch because everything flew over her head, but I didn't 'realize that until later. For the moment, my libido convinced me that she was just quiet and introspective, a worthwhile companion for a fellow introvert.
I took Hades away from Fernweh so we could talk without Fernweh telling him to shut the fuck up after every sentence he spoke (though, today, I began to feel it necessary. The wisdom had plummeted from Hades' face, his glazed eyes, leaking nostrils and drool-stained stubble was not a picture of the guy I'd decided to travel with. The new scenery, the overwhelming allure, and the psychedelics had thrown a circuit off in his brain.)
"Listen to yoursellf, man. You're losing it."
"I, uhm... where... we need mushrooms..."
"Buddy - you're insane."
"Yeah, just... once we get mushrooms, we'll..."
For six hours me and Squanch listened to the senseless babbling about shrooms and the one-sided squabble between Fernweh and Hades. Six hour slater, Hades had managed to find his mushrooms. The first real words he spoke all day besides need, more and shrooms were "can I get an ounce?"
A replay of the night prior quickly begun. Hades got so dumb and Fernweh so furious that me and Squanch found ourselves in a dilemma. If we left to avoid the conflict, Fernweh might snap and lose it on Hades - but staying in this situation was surely not good for our sanity. We meandered the park, less-than-entranced by the thick, viscous visuals that these mushrooms offered - sluggishly pushing our way through a multichromatic wave of static jello. The luminescent fog that surrounded us was almost as thick as the fog that obscured our brains. So thick, in fact, that when we decided to set up camp under the park bridge, we collectively agreed that it was a good idea.
We hadn't known it was possible to get wetter than we had the night before.
Thursday, 16 January 2014
Wednesday, 15 January 2014
Reboot
Today was a critical day for the group's relations, in the sense that Fernweh could no longer pretend that he saw something worthwhile in Hades. He began to consider Hades' every word to be a freakishly miscalculated attempt at intelligence, a waste of breath that sounded stupid and left people questioning why he was talking. The look of Hades' face was enough to enrage Fern (though I must admit, as Hades fumbled with change in a hungover attempt to buy cigarettes, his mouth hung ajar and a thin stream of mucus dribbling towards his chin, I could see his point.)
I knew how Fernweh felt. I'd met people similar to what he considered Hades - our pet Hippie from the year before could agitate me without speaking a word. Hades, on the other hand, I believed maintained his wisdom beneath his hungover, stumbling person. The whole dynamic left me largely silent - I had nothing to say in response to Fernweh's berating of Hades, yet speaking to Hades resulted in garbled sentences and contemptuous looks from Fernweh.
Fireworks burst, fading into once-bright ideas
whose points have already scattered throughout galaxies;
fragments of intelligence degraded to dust,
innovation crushed and blasted off to the moon.
you can't throw cognitive trash in a compactor,
your brain's got no bin to recycle,
rewrite, rehearse, reconsider -
ten billion terabyte trains of thought
are worth allocating your RAM.
As the day progressed, I began to lose faith. Travelling had bewildered Hades. Overwhelmed by the heaps of new stimuli, adn by the incredible freedom of vagrant life, his neurons had misfired. There was too much to do, too much to see, too much to process - all of which was more important than forming a proper sentence.
Hades' first order of business was to toss a hundred bucks down on mushrooms. I was all down for this - we were in the party capital of Canada! Break in the celebration! I was a little bit worried for Hades dropping psychedelics in this mindstate (and rightly so) but the ease with which we found mushrooms convinced me that it was meant to be. Maybe a psychedelic journey would align him.
Nope. Things went awry once we ate the fungi. The shrooms (purchased from a bearded fellow who'd taken residence on a park bench) were unusually large and decidedly foul, and the effects were unlike any other. An hour later, we were struck by thick, hazy and unnatural hallucinations that came alongside a lethargic mindset. Thinking (let alone speaking) became too much effort, we were left wandering aimlessly in a city park painted grey by the sardonic hands of entheogens.
Hades' prior disposition and inability to think, coupled with this unproductive and peculiar mindset, led to him quickly lose his bag of mushrooms. His mind, exponentially degrading, told him to start flailing around, screaming to the Gods as if they would heed his calls and lead him towards his mushrooms. This sparked the incline of Fernweh's irritation; each cry that Hades wailed sent a twitch through Fern's temple. Finally, the two ended up in a screaming match which was compromised by Hades deciding he'd just by more shrooms the next day.
By now, rain had started falling with vigor and the shroomish lethargy had dragged us towards the most viable excuse for shelter around: a locked cabin. The four of us huddled under the foot-wide awning, sprawled across each other and blanketed by leaking tarps. Fernweh took the far right side, stewing in rage; Hades sat between him and Squanch, thinking unfathomable thoughts, me and Squanch lay huddled on the left side. Despite the water that was slowly sleeping through our sleeping bags and into a skin, the indolence provided by the psychedelics allowed our minds to shut down for a few sub-par hours of sleep.
The next morning cast away any last hopes we'd had for a good time in Montreal.
I knew how Fernweh felt. I'd met people similar to what he considered Hades - our pet Hippie from the year before could agitate me without speaking a word. Hades, on the other hand, I believed maintained his wisdom beneath his hungover, stumbling person. The whole dynamic left me largely silent - I had nothing to say in response to Fernweh's berating of Hades, yet speaking to Hades resulted in garbled sentences and contemptuous looks from Fernweh.
Fireworks burst, fading into once-bright ideas
whose points have already scattered throughout galaxies;
fragments of intelligence degraded to dust,
innovation crushed and blasted off to the moon.
you can't throw cognitive trash in a compactor,
your brain's got no bin to recycle,
rewrite, rehearse, reconsider -
ten billion terabyte trains of thought
are worth allocating your RAM.
As the day progressed, I began to lose faith. Travelling had bewildered Hades. Overwhelmed by the heaps of new stimuli, adn by the incredible freedom of vagrant life, his neurons had misfired. There was too much to do, too much to see, too much to process - all of which was more important than forming a proper sentence.
Reboot yourself,
24 hours until automatic shutdown
unless you choose to postpone your powerchecks,
stand-by while creations clatter to the floor
soon to be swept back into the dustpan,
through the trashcan,
out the door and into the dumptruck.
unless you choose to postpone your powerchecks,
stand-by while creations clatter to the floor
soon to be swept back into the dustpan,
through the trashcan,
out the door and into the dumptruck.
Hades' first order of business was to toss a hundred bucks down on mushrooms. I was all down for this - we were in the party capital of Canada! Break in the celebration! I was a little bit worried for Hades dropping psychedelics in this mindstate (and rightly so) but the ease with which we found mushrooms convinced me that it was meant to be. Maybe a psychedelic journey would align him.
Nope. Things went awry once we ate the fungi. The shrooms (purchased from a bearded fellow who'd taken residence on a park bench) were unusually large and decidedly foul, and the effects were unlike any other. An hour later, we were struck by thick, hazy and unnatural hallucinations that came alongside a lethargic mindset. Thinking (let alone speaking) became too much effort, we were left wandering aimlessly in a city park painted grey by the sardonic hands of entheogens.
Hades' prior disposition and inability to think, coupled with this unproductive and peculiar mindset, led to him quickly lose his bag of mushrooms. His mind, exponentially degrading, told him to start flailing around, screaming to the Gods as if they would heed his calls and lead him towards his mushrooms. This sparked the incline of Fernweh's irritation; each cry that Hades wailed sent a twitch through Fern's temple. Finally, the two ended up in a screaming match which was compromised by Hades deciding he'd just by more shrooms the next day.
By now, rain had started falling with vigor and the shroomish lethargy had dragged us towards the most viable excuse for shelter around: a locked cabin. The four of us huddled under the foot-wide awning, sprawled across each other and blanketed by leaking tarps. Fernweh took the far right side, stewing in rage; Hades sat between him and Squanch, thinking unfathomable thoughts, me and Squanch lay huddled on the left side. Despite the water that was slowly sleeping through our sleeping bags and into a skin, the indolence provided by the psychedelics allowed our minds to shut down for a few sub-par hours of sleep.
The next morning cast away any last hopes we'd had for a good time in Montreal.
Introducing: Alcoholism
Slip,
slup, slap,
drip,
drop, drap;
crip,
crop, crap.
molecules
dance against the window to my soul;
atoms
procreating; producing protons
and
negating neutrons for the sake of a Friday night party.
Drunk
on plasma; my electrons are stumbling across
the
Void in a feeble attempt to find a home within a singularity.
It's
a long walk home when your entangled partner
is
two thousand galaxies away.
Hopefully
this black hole spits you out somewhere that you want to be.
Mont-Royal. Matched only in splendor by Butt-Bead Village, Mont-Royal was my favourite region of Montrèal. One of the plateau's attractions, Avenue du Mont Royal, is a fantastic street garnished with dozens of local businesses, cute coffee shops and quirky restaurants. Here, we could finally study the anthropology of Montrèal.
The square outside the subway station was bustling, as per usual. A crew of Quebecois buskers lightened the atmosphere, pumping a beautiful melody through an accordion, a guitar and some beautiful vocals. Mustachioed men and women with their hair tied into buns stood entranced by the music; sluts rocking the new Montrèal fashion - booty-shorts riding so high that buttcheeks hung loosely and wedgies sunk so deep into the crevasse that bums seemed to become black holes - strode by with pretentious disregard. Two massive decorative chairs stood thirty feet high; kids hung off the armrests while parents chastised them.
The sound of Montrèal was different, too. Instead of being bombarded by the sound of English's simplicity, we were gifted with the sharp elegance of the French language as it floated through the air. We didn't have too much time to soak in the culture - me and Fern had to show Squanch and Hades why Montrèal was such a stark pit of depravity for hobos. There were three main reasons, and all revolved around alcohol:
- Availability: The shit was everywhere! Basically anywhere in the city, you're a block away from a dépanneur (roughly translated: corner store) which all stock beer and wine.
- Strength: Montrèal is the only place I've found 10.5% forties of beer readily available.
- Price: Five bucks and a quarter was enough for one of these forties, which is both good and bad. Five bucks can be made in ten minutes squeegeeing and a forty is enough to get one person pretty wasted, which can lead to an instantaneous alcoholic spiral.
Hades and Squanch heeded our warnings - we had told them about the foul flavour of Molson ten-point-ones (we couldn't find Black Bull forties - the 10.5% whose flavour, while still equivalent to fermented horse piss, bested Molson's) but they were unprepared. Gags and retches ensued until they'd grown used to the flavour, at which point they were already getting drunk. Hey - you can't pay 5 bucks for alcohol of this potency and expect a good taste.
Within an hour, we were shitfaced and the significance of our arrival in Montrèal didn't seem so significant anymore. We were drunk, in a forest, just as we always managed to be when we arrived anywhere. It was around this point that I realized I was tired of drinking my way across the country; there were so many things to see and do (I drank the money I was going to spend climbing the C.N. Tower in Toronto, I chugged enough money to take me to Niagara Falls and back) but I was too busy getting wasted to appreciate them. Not to say that drinking's not fun - it is - but alcohol makes it easy it is to forget that other things are fun, too. Hell, when you enjoy sitting in the bush in the pitch black, yelling at empty spaces where you think your friends are sitting, you don`t need tourism to have fun.
Yes, we were shitfaced, and I was banging Squanch on the crinkly blanket of my tarp. Fuck - it didn't take me long to regret this decision, but not before repeating it a few times due to an inability to control the flow of blood to both my brain and my schlong.
For the time being, though, I was drunk, sweaty, and satisfied. Fernweh and Wade had fallen asleep to the rhythmic song of my thrusts, so me and Squanch figured we might as well, too. The distant rumble of cars was much more melodic of a sound to sleep to than the incessant raging of the beasts as the roared by on the bridge above us in Toronto. One rarely realizes how lame Toronto is until they leave, for it's easy to forget life outside Urbania. It's only when you leave that you remember how beautiful life can be.
Tuesday, 14 January 2014
Squeegee City
The traffic was bloody outrageous by the time we reached Montreal, which worked out perfectly for us. Instead of dropping us off in some distant, obscure Francophone district, as Habeeb had planned, he was forced to drop us off downtown. Me and Fernweh had explored Montrèal in years past, though we had ever witnessed the downtown core - we preferred to spend our time in more relaxed areas such as Mont Royal or Anal Bead Village.
Squanch and Hades themselves had never even been in the province, so their eyes lit up in wonder upon stepping foot on French concrete- though I failed to understand why. Downtown Montrèal looked the exact same as any other city: monoliths dwarfed the cityfolk who wandered the streets, claustrophobia ran rampant; cracked streets had aluminum beasts coughing smoke at you.
We'd been deposited in an entirely blue-collar area, devoid of shops and stalls. We were surrounded entirely by office buildings and there wasn't even a French sign for us to compare the rest of Canada to (save for the street signs, formatted a la Rue Sanguinet instead of Sanguinet Road.) Skyscrapers tottered above us, mocking us in the same language that urbanization had always spoken. The only difference between Montrèal and Toronto so far was the dearth of pedestrians (turned out we'd been dropped in pretty desolate part of downtown) and a slight change in the accent on the people who did walk by. Hell, the first few people we saw weren't even speaking French.
We received our first bit of culture shock after me and Squanch hit the street corner so we could make money for booze. The first car we squeegeed rolled down the window, babbled some incomprehensible French pleasantries and tossed us a toonie. We reciprocated with an off-guard "merci." I guess anglophones stand out like sore thumbs when we speak, because the driver instantly flipped her french/english switch and thanked us in English before driving off.
We grinned. It's always a good sign when your first car drops you a toonie. Or a five bill. We weren't prepared for the next half an hour, an onslaught of excited drivers commuting from work to their Friday night festivities who were more than eager to hurl money out their windows. Toonies were tossed left, right and center, loonies were laughing their ways out windows, quarters were clearing air like it was nobody's business. Montrèal really was the squeegee capital of Canada - and, the soon-to-be squeegee capital of my heart.
Hades returned from the liquor store right as we'd made thirty bucks and traffic had started to die down. He was baffled - we'd just made as much money in twenty minutes as he'd make in three hours at work. Introducing someone to a hobo's source of income is always mind-boggling; a newcomer can be presented with fresh cash, can even watch the cash being made, and still fail to believe the simplicity that it comes with. Needless to say, he was glad that he'd traded his stable job for a volatile and unpredictable life on the streets. If anything, he was addled with a bit of regret for spending so many hours in the kitchen at work.
Beer and money in hand, we hopped over the ticket counter at the subway station (just 'cause we had money didn't mean we were going to pay the Man to take us from point A to point B) and took the train towards the beautiful Mont-Royal. We sped from the cavernous depths of the downtown core and readied ourselves to step into the lucid culture of Montrèal.
Squanch and Hades themselves had never even been in the province, so their eyes lit up in wonder upon stepping foot on French concrete- though I failed to understand why. Downtown Montrèal looked the exact same as any other city: monoliths dwarfed the cityfolk who wandered the streets, claustrophobia ran rampant; cracked streets had aluminum beasts coughing smoke at you.
We'd been deposited in an entirely blue-collar area, devoid of shops and stalls. We were surrounded entirely by office buildings and there wasn't even a French sign for us to compare the rest of Canada to (save for the street signs, formatted a la Rue Sanguinet instead of Sanguinet Road.) Skyscrapers tottered above us, mocking us in the same language that urbanization had always spoken. The only difference between Montrèal and Toronto so far was the dearth of pedestrians (turned out we'd been dropped in pretty desolate part of downtown) and a slight change in the accent on the people who did walk by. Hell, the first few people we saw weren't even speaking French.
We received our first bit of culture shock after me and Squanch hit the street corner so we could make money for booze. The first car we squeegeed rolled down the window, babbled some incomprehensible French pleasantries and tossed us a toonie. We reciprocated with an off-guard "merci." I guess anglophones stand out like sore thumbs when we speak, because the driver instantly flipped her french/english switch and thanked us in English before driving off.
We grinned. It's always a good sign when your first car drops you a toonie. Or a five bill. We weren't prepared for the next half an hour, an onslaught of excited drivers commuting from work to their Friday night festivities who were more than eager to hurl money out their windows. Toonies were tossed left, right and center, loonies were laughing their ways out windows, quarters were clearing air like it was nobody's business. Montrèal really was the squeegee capital of Canada - and, the soon-to-be squeegee capital of my heart.
Hades returned from the liquor store right as we'd made thirty bucks and traffic had started to die down. He was baffled - we'd just made as much money in twenty minutes as he'd make in three hours at work. Introducing someone to a hobo's source of income is always mind-boggling; a newcomer can be presented with fresh cash, can even watch the cash being made, and still fail to believe the simplicity that it comes with. Needless to say, he was glad that he'd traded his stable job for a volatile and unpredictable life on the streets. If anything, he was addled with a bit of regret for spending so many hours in the kitchen at work.
Beer and money in hand, we hopped over the ticket counter at the subway station (just 'cause we had money didn't mean we were going to pay the Man to take us from point A to point B) and took the train towards the beautiful Mont-Royal. We sped from the cavernous depths of the downtown core and readied ourselves to step into the lucid culture of Montrèal.
Monday, 13 January 2014
Habeeb (3)
Today was the day. We'd spent too long time in the intoxicated environment of Toronto, and it was time to direct our energies towards a less blue-collar, business-driven world.
We arose from our sandy beds, vacated the beach and hopped on the first streetcar to ride the rails back towards Queen West. Passing through Toronto felt like it should have been nostalgic - we were leaving our home, once again- but instead the drab cityscape only heightened my desire to leave.
We jumped off the streetcar. Hades grabbed his last paycheque from work. Fernweh bought a luxury condominium for his rat, who'd grown tired of his tiny leather case. We hit the subway and rode it twelve stations eastwards to meet our rideshare.
The man hosting the rideshare was another East Indian fellow (strange that nine out of ten rideshares are all offered by East Indians. Perhaps brown people find the industry more lucrative.)
I'd gotten a rideshare last year from this fellow; at the time I'd seated myself next to a golden-grilled African crackhead-converted-Christian. He'd expressed disgust at the state of my clothing and my apparent stench - which, unless I'd just grown used to my own stench (quite likely) was simply an attempt to degrade me. He demanded that he get a ride without me - in otherwords, that the driver kick me off. The driver, already dissatisfied with the obnoxious side of my backpack, offered the black dude a chance to pay for my ride, at which point he would have taken the money and left me to my own devices at the subway station.
I'd already been sick for battling an addiction with drugs, and was too out of it to put up an argument. I soothed the raging fire of my anger as the argument about ostracizing me from the van panned out in front of me. The driver ended up sticking a woman in the middle seat between me and my fellow negro, and the conversation ended, leaving me stewing in prejudice.
This year, he seemed much nicer. He welcomed the four of us and our backpacks, accepted our cash and let us stuff ourselves into the back seat.
All this time, Fernweh had been developing the Grumps from all the precocets he'd been popping. His face had twisted itself into a sidelong scowl and his half-open eyes glazed with a twisted fury. I'd been so glad to have him back from the hospital, and was upset to see him falling into the Grumps like me and him had so many times.
Whether it was the rage or not, it was becoming clear he didn't like Hades. Whenever Hades spoke, Fern would either roll his eyes, cast Hades a sick glance, or ask him bluntly how he could be so fucking stupid as to say something like that. It was senseless to ask him to relax - that would only perpetuate his anger.
Either way, the four of us were jam-packed in the back seat. A woman and her baby sat in front of us, and I learned something new that day: what true anger feels like. Somehow, she'd managed to sneak satan spawn into the car. I've never heard a baby cry like this in all 21 years of my life. The sound, unfit for an infant vocal chords (or any human's, for that matter,) was that of a thousand rusty nails grating down a skyscraper-sized chalboard. The agonized wailing sunk into the deepest depths of our irritation, stirring hateful feelings that we'd never known to exist.
Fern, in his state of Grumps, was livid - particularly in knowing that there was nothing he could do. I wanted nothing but to hurtle the baby out the window and laugh as it smeared itself, tumbling down the highway at terminal velocity sending snapped limbs flying about as its body disintegrated. I felt a vei npop in Fern's head.
We stoped halfway to Montreal to smoke somem weed that Hades had brought. Fern got up first, told Hades to shut the fuck up before he'd even said anything, told me to fuck off, popped another perc and slammed the door behind him on the way to the bathroom. Hades and I puffed away, our silence standin as a mutual dissatisfaction (and pondering what would happen if our chauffeur decided to leave us stranded here for smoking weed)
Freshly baked, we returned to the torturous depths of the van-transformed-into-dungeon by the sadistic wailing of the baby. Three more hours, man. Three more hours.
We arose from our sandy beds, vacated the beach and hopped on the first streetcar to ride the rails back towards Queen West. Passing through Toronto felt like it should have been nostalgic - we were leaving our home, once again- but instead the drab cityscape only heightened my desire to leave.
We jumped off the streetcar. Hades grabbed his last paycheque from work. Fernweh bought a luxury condominium for his rat, who'd grown tired of his tiny leather case. We hit the subway and rode it twelve stations eastwards to meet our rideshare.
The man hosting the rideshare was another East Indian fellow (strange that nine out of ten rideshares are all offered by East Indians. Perhaps brown people find the industry more lucrative.)
I'd gotten a rideshare last year from this fellow; at the time I'd seated myself next to a golden-grilled African crackhead-converted-Christian. He'd expressed disgust at the state of my clothing and my apparent stench - which, unless I'd just grown used to my own stench (quite likely) was simply an attempt to degrade me. He demanded that he get a ride without me - in otherwords, that the driver kick me off. The driver, already dissatisfied with the obnoxious side of my backpack, offered the black dude a chance to pay for my ride, at which point he would have taken the money and left me to my own devices at the subway station.
I'd already been sick for battling an addiction with drugs, and was too out of it to put up an argument. I soothed the raging fire of my anger as the argument about ostracizing me from the van panned out in front of me. The driver ended up sticking a woman in the middle seat between me and my fellow negro, and the conversation ended, leaving me stewing in prejudice.
This year, he seemed much nicer. He welcomed the four of us and our backpacks, accepted our cash and let us stuff ourselves into the back seat.
All this time, Fernweh had been developing the Grumps from all the precocets he'd been popping. His face had twisted itself into a sidelong scowl and his half-open eyes glazed with a twisted fury. I'd been so glad to have him back from the hospital, and was upset to see him falling into the Grumps like me and him had so many times.
Whether it was the rage or not, it was becoming clear he didn't like Hades. Whenever Hades spoke, Fern would either roll his eyes, cast Hades a sick glance, or ask him bluntly how he could be so fucking stupid as to say something like that. It was senseless to ask him to relax - that would only perpetuate his anger.
Either way, the four of us were jam-packed in the back seat. A woman and her baby sat in front of us, and I learned something new that day: what true anger feels like. Somehow, she'd managed to sneak satan spawn into the car. I've never heard a baby cry like this in all 21 years of my life. The sound, unfit for an infant vocal chords (or any human's, for that matter,) was that of a thousand rusty nails grating down a skyscraper-sized chalboard. The agonized wailing sunk into the deepest depths of our irritation, stirring hateful feelings that we'd never known to exist.
Fern, in his state of Grumps, was livid - particularly in knowing that there was nothing he could do. I wanted nothing but to hurtle the baby out the window and laugh as it smeared itself, tumbling down the highway at terminal velocity sending snapped limbs flying about as its body disintegrated. I felt a vei npop in Fern's head.
We stoped halfway to Montreal to smoke somem weed that Hades had brought. Fern got up first, told Hades to shut the fuck up before he'd even said anything, told me to fuck off, popped another perc and slammed the door behind him on the way to the bathroom. Hades and I puffed away, our silence standin as a mutual dissatisfaction (and pondering what would happen if our chauffeur decided to leave us stranded here for smoking weed)
Freshly baked, we returned to the torturous depths of the van-transformed-into-dungeon by the sadistic wailing of the baby. Three more hours, man. Three more hours.
Scribbles
You don't know what you've had until it's gone.
Things were immensely different. Most noticably, the group's volume had halfed. The dynamic of me, Scrib and Fernweh had resulted in a semi-permanent state of belligerence as we deafened innocent children, squawking profanely down city streets. Hades, while talkative, was by no means loud, and Squanch hardly spoke at all. When she did, she brought nothing interesting to the table. Why I gauged her worthy of being a travel partner, I never figured out. Fernweh's suspicions soon became well justified.
Anyway, with Fern being physically crippled, (and mentally crippled due to taking too many percocets) the group was on a fairly low vibrational level. Hades relaxed with Fern, enjoying one of the only two stable days the two ever spent together. Hades didn't want to squeegee - having just quit his job to come travel with us, he was still loaded with cash - and had another cheque coming. We'd decided we were going to leave once we'd collected his last paycheque.
To remedy our own bankruptcy, Squanch and I hit the corner. She was great to squeegee with - she could hold her own and was quick, but we decided to tag team cars and split the cash. Squeegeeing's way more fun as a duo (or a trio - or, for that matter, any number of squeegee kids. Last year, same spot, we'd had a crew of a half dozen people who'd storm the intersection, obstruct traffic and give cars the "god damn, MOTHA FUCKIN SUPREME SPECIAL," as Marcellus called it. Whether or not they liked it, every window and mirror on their vehicle was getting washed.)
We made what we needed quickly, which gave us some downtime to rest. This gave me time to think on our separation with Scrib. I missed him already - his grin, hidden behind a grizzled beard; his endless wealth of wisdom, his intricately improvised freestyle poetry, the ease of which conversation flowed with him. Particularly, I longed for his lack of prejudice and negative judgement - a positive reinforcement that had helped me lots when Fernweh had grown too aggressive. It would have come in more than useful in the following week.
Things were settled, in an unsettling way. It was going to take time to adjust to a lost family member. Even during the moments in which visions of Scrib weren't floating about in my head,his silhouette always seemed to saunter a few feet behind me; a lonely ghost trying to communicate with an entrapped mortal soul.
Oh well. This was necesary for him, for Fernweh, for me. Besides, you can't expect anyone to take the same path as you for your entire relationship. That, and we had new relationships to attend to: Hades and Squanch had passed our two day travel-buddy trial (though two days is hardly enough time to gauge someone's character well enough - especially if you're planning to hitchhike with them) and were now officially part of our group.
We were ready to hit the road. We'd planned on getting a rideshare with another Habeeb tomorrow after Hades picked up his paycheque, and in the meantime we decided to try something new. Me and Fern had grown tired of sleeping under bridges, so we followed Hades' recommendation of having a beach fire. A bus ride took us to a beautiful beach that overlooked the calm waters of Lake Whatever-the-fuck. The stillness of the water washed over us, a manifested metaphor to the silence instilled since Scrib's vacation from the group. We were quick to set up a bonfire, marinate a meal of scallops, potatoes and other delights before the sound of waves breaking on the shore cooed us to sleep.
Things were immensely different. Most noticably, the group's volume had halfed. The dynamic of me, Scrib and Fernweh had resulted in a semi-permanent state of belligerence as we deafened innocent children, squawking profanely down city streets. Hades, while talkative, was by no means loud, and Squanch hardly spoke at all. When she did, she brought nothing interesting to the table. Why I gauged her worthy of being a travel partner, I never figured out. Fernweh's suspicions soon became well justified.
Anyway, with Fern being physically crippled, (and mentally crippled due to taking too many percocets) the group was on a fairly low vibrational level. Hades relaxed with Fern, enjoying one of the only two stable days the two ever spent together. Hades didn't want to squeegee - having just quit his job to come travel with us, he was still loaded with cash - and had another cheque coming. We'd decided we were going to leave once we'd collected his last paycheque.
To remedy our own bankruptcy, Squanch and I hit the corner. She was great to squeegee with - she could hold her own and was quick, but we decided to tag team cars and split the cash. Squeegeeing's way more fun as a duo (or a trio - or, for that matter, any number of squeegee kids. Last year, same spot, we'd had a crew of a half dozen people who'd storm the intersection, obstruct traffic and give cars the "god damn, MOTHA FUCKIN SUPREME SPECIAL," as Marcellus called it. Whether or not they liked it, every window and mirror on their vehicle was getting washed.)
We made what we needed quickly, which gave us some downtime to rest. This gave me time to think on our separation with Scrib. I missed him already - his grin, hidden behind a grizzled beard; his endless wealth of wisdom, his intricately improvised freestyle poetry, the ease of which conversation flowed with him. Particularly, I longed for his lack of prejudice and negative judgement - a positive reinforcement that had helped me lots when Fernweh had grown too aggressive. It would have come in more than useful in the following week.
Things were settled, in an unsettling way. It was going to take time to adjust to a lost family member. Even during the moments in which visions of Scrib weren't floating about in my head,his silhouette always seemed to saunter a few feet behind me; a lonely ghost trying to communicate with an entrapped mortal soul.
Oh well. This was necesary for him, for Fernweh, for me. Besides, you can't expect anyone to take the same path as you for your entire relationship. That, and we had new relationships to attend to: Hades and Squanch had passed our two day travel-buddy trial (though two days is hardly enough time to gauge someone's character well enough - especially if you're planning to hitchhike with them) and were now officially part of our group.
We were ready to hit the road. We'd planned on getting a rideshare with another Habeeb tomorrow after Hades picked up his paycheque, and in the meantime we decided to try something new. Me and Fern had grown tired of sleeping under bridges, so we followed Hades' recommendation of having a beach fire. A bus ride took us to a beautiful beach that overlooked the calm waters of Lake Whatever-the-fuck. The stillness of the water washed over us, a manifested metaphor to the silence instilled since Scrib's vacation from the group. We were quick to set up a bonfire, marinate a meal of scallops, potatoes and other delights before the sound of waves breaking on the shore cooed us to sleep.
The Beginning of a Goodbye
The first thing today brought us was Fernweh! Thank God - the hospitals hadn't lost him. I jumped from the mattress of Hobo Conglomeration and bounded towards him.
He limped towards me with a mighty grimace gouged into his face, clearly pained by the recent cracking of bones that ought not to have been cracked. I approached cautiously - the hospital stay had surely aggravated him. With a wave and a smile that clearly took more effort than raising a flag (and that spoke just as beautifully) he dispelled my assumptions.
"Do you... want some percocets?"
I grinned. Obviously, I did, but for once, he legitimately needed the opiates for pain. He insisted though, and handed me one; I popped it quickly and the day began to start much more smoothly. Instead of stepping off the acid train into a jagged, rocky and otherwise desolate mindstate, the comedown rolled softly into the station and deposited me in a more functional mindset.
As me and Fern returned to the group, tension snowed down onto us; we were blanketed by the subtle chill of insolence. Scrib and Fern couldn't speak to each other. There were no apologies, there were no accusations, there was just guilt and resentment. It was then that we realized today was to be a pivotal day in our journey.
The group couldn't continue as it was. Scrib and Fern couldn't maintain themselves in this dynamic of bullying. Scrib decided that he and his rat would stay at Snooze's house until his court date , at which point he figured he'd end up in jail and wouldn't make it to Halifax. I sincerely hoped that wasn't true and that he'd make it to the East Coast - prospectively, in a better mood. Fern, me, Squanch and Hades were to hit the road and keep on trucking to the East Coast. We'd spent far too long bathing in the drug bath of Toronto, scrubbing our souls with filthy washcloths.
Fern, having been excited at first with the addition of Squanch and Hades, was beginning to become apprehensive about letting them join our crew. Were they really that cool? Were they really worth our time? I put that up to typical Fernweh cynicism - his prerequisites for travel partners are pretty high - and for a good reason. He'd been stuck on the road with shitty partners too many times to repeat the scenario, and being stuck in the middle of nowhere with nothing to look at but passing cars and the irritating face of your hitchhiking partner can grind a person's patience into dust.
I was less picky - for now. Patience proved to be a profitable virtue for a traveler - little did I know, though, Squanch would be the first hobo to break mine. Regardless, our priorities at the moment consisted of assimilating these new cats into our group and parting ways with Scrib. We walked him to the youth drop-in, ate a last (and largely silent) breakfast together, and bid him goodbye. Things became immensely different from then on.
He limped towards me with a mighty grimace gouged into his face, clearly pained by the recent cracking of bones that ought not to have been cracked. I approached cautiously - the hospital stay had surely aggravated him. With a wave and a smile that clearly took more effort than raising a flag (and that spoke just as beautifully) he dispelled my assumptions.
"Do you... want some percocets?"
I grinned. Obviously, I did, but for once, he legitimately needed the opiates for pain. He insisted though, and handed me one; I popped it quickly and the day began to start much more smoothly. Instead of stepping off the acid train into a jagged, rocky and otherwise desolate mindstate, the comedown rolled softly into the station and deposited me in a more functional mindset.
As me and Fern returned to the group, tension snowed down onto us; we were blanketed by the subtle chill of insolence. Scrib and Fern couldn't speak to each other. There were no apologies, there were no accusations, there was just guilt and resentment. It was then that we realized today was to be a pivotal day in our journey.
The group couldn't continue as it was. Scrib and Fern couldn't maintain themselves in this dynamic of bullying. Scrib decided that he and his rat would stay at Snooze's house until his court date , at which point he figured he'd end up in jail and wouldn't make it to Halifax. I sincerely hoped that wasn't true and that he'd make it to the East Coast - prospectively, in a better mood. Fern, me, Squanch and Hades were to hit the road and keep on trucking to the East Coast. We'd spent far too long bathing in the drug bath of Toronto, scrubbing our souls with filthy washcloths.
Fern, having been excited at first with the addition of Squanch and Hades, was beginning to become apprehensive about letting them join our crew. Were they really that cool? Were they really worth our time? I put that up to typical Fernweh cynicism - his prerequisites for travel partners are pretty high - and for a good reason. He'd been stuck on the road with shitty partners too many times to repeat the scenario, and being stuck in the middle of nowhere with nothing to look at but passing cars and the irritating face of your hitchhiking partner can grind a person's patience into dust.
I was less picky - for now. Patience proved to be a profitable virtue for a traveler - little did I know, though, Squanch would be the first hobo to break mine. Regardless, our priorities at the moment consisted of assimilating these new cats into our group and parting ways with Scrib. We walked him to the youth drop-in, ate a last (and largely silent) breakfast together, and bid him goodbye. Things became immensely different from then on.
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