"
And so on.
I wait near the back until Stude finishes, then follow at a discreet distance as
he makes his way back to his place. It's not something I ever would have
considered doing last Hallowe'en -- the Stude I knew would've spotted a tail in
hot second. But now the world has gone to jargon-slinging harmony and I'm brazen
as I ride along behind on my bike, down Yonge to Front, and up to a new building
made of foam.
I feel like a ghost as I watch him look straight through me, and I mark the
address.
#
I spend a day kicking at everything foam.
The foam is hard, and light, and durable, and I imagine the houses of my
parent's suburb, the little Process enclave, surviving long past any of us,
surviving as museum pieces for arsenic-breathing bugouts, who crawl over the
mummified furniture and chests of clothes, snapping picts and chattering in
their thrilling contraltos. I want to scream
Here and there, pieces of the old, pre-Process, pre-foam Toronto stick out, and
I rub them as I pass them by, touchstones for luck.
#
Spring lasted about ten days. Now we're into a muggy, 32 degrees Toronto summer,
and my collar itches and sweat trickles down my neck.
I'd be wearing something lighter and cooler, except that today I'm meeting my
Dad, at Aristide. They've got a little wire-flown twin-prop number fuelled up
and waiting for me at the miniature airstrip on Toronto Island. Dad was *so*
glad when I got in touch with him.
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