Saturday Montage
In the electronics section of London Drugs:
"Is this the titanium Apple notebook?"
"No, it's aluminum."
"I thought they were made of titanium."
"They used to be, until the US invaded Iraq."
"I don't get it."
"Airplanes, helicopters. They use a lot of titanium."
"So aluminum's a lot cheaper right now."
"Yeah."
"Fucking Iraqis."
"Fucking Iraqis."
[pause]
"Everybody knows better than to be someone America hates. . . ."
[all laugh]
* * *
At Caffe Artigiano:
A 30-ish Japanese woman, in stylish clothes, asks, "What are you thinking about?"
The Philip Seymour Hoffman-looking guy across the table from her reaches his arm out and begins drawing circles with his finger on her arm through her sweater. "It's just," he begins, speaking awkwardly loudly, perhaps making up for a perceived language barrier with unnecessary volume, "I don't see why you don't leave your boyfriend."
"But I can't leave my boyfriend. Not now," she answers softly.
"I . . . I just think. I think if you don't have the guts to leave your boyfriend, then you don't . . . you don't have anything." He continues stroking her arm nervously. "I mean . . . you've got to. Because. I don't know what I'm trying to say."
She looks up at him. "You can say what you want."
He laughs self-consciously. "What I'm saying is, like, we've gone out on three dates now. And I think this is good. I mean, when we're together it feels right to me. And I want that chance. To date you. And your boyfriend, I don't know, but you need to stand up, you know? Make a decision. Because I want us to date. I like you."
She looks at him again. "I like you, too. But."
"Why but? Just do this. Be with me. Let's make this happen. You can leave him right? It's not that hard, right? Come on, right?"
A long pause.
She begins rifling through her purse and pulls out a box of Canadian-style cigarettes. "I think I'm going outside to smoke."
"Okay," he says. "You just going onto the patio? Okay, have a good smoke. I'll be here thinking I guess. Have a good smoke, okay? You want your jacket? Oh, you've already got it. Okay. Enjoy your smoke. I'll just be here. I'll see you in a minute. I'll be here."
She gives him a quick solemn look, and then runs out the door a little too quickly.
* * *
On the sidewalk, outside Granville Optical, a stream of restaurant- and movie-goers stream by as one middle aged man with a gray beard strums a guitar, and another, who looks like he could be his brother, taps a red plastic tambourine against his leg, with no perceptible synchrony of rhythm between them.
Without warning, the man with a tambourine begins a monologue.
"Jesus! Who you say? Jesus. That's what I'm talkin' about. But maybe you're right. Who is this guy? Who is this Jesus? Lemme tell you a little bit. . . ." As I continue walking down the sidewalk, the man's voice begins to lose itself in the chatter of the surrounding pedestrians. "Cross. . . love . . . saviour . . . that's why YOU have to . . . Jesus!"
"Is this the titanium Apple notebook?"
"No, it's aluminum."
"I thought they were made of titanium."
"They used to be, until the US invaded Iraq."
"I don't get it."
"Airplanes, helicopters. They use a lot of titanium."
"So aluminum's a lot cheaper right now."
"Yeah."
"Fucking Iraqis."
"Fucking Iraqis."
[pause]
"Everybody knows better than to be someone America hates. . . ."
[all laugh]
* * *
At Caffe Artigiano:
A 30-ish Japanese woman, in stylish clothes, asks, "What are you thinking about?"
The Philip Seymour Hoffman-looking guy across the table from her reaches his arm out and begins drawing circles with his finger on her arm through her sweater. "It's just," he begins, speaking awkwardly loudly, perhaps making up for a perceived language barrier with unnecessary volume, "I don't see why you don't leave your boyfriend."
"But I can't leave my boyfriend. Not now," she answers softly.
"I . . . I just think. I think if you don't have the guts to leave your boyfriend, then you don't . . . you don't have anything." He continues stroking her arm nervously. "I mean . . . you've got to. Because. I don't know what I'm trying to say."
She looks up at him. "You can say what you want."
He laughs self-consciously. "What I'm saying is, like, we've gone out on three dates now. And I think this is good. I mean, when we're together it feels right to me. And I want that chance. To date you. And your boyfriend, I don't know, but you need to stand up, you know? Make a decision. Because I want us to date. I like you."
She looks at him again. "I like you, too. But."
"Why but? Just do this. Be with me. Let's make this happen. You can leave him right? It's not that hard, right? Come on, right?"
A long pause.
She begins rifling through her purse and pulls out a box of Canadian-style cigarettes. "I think I'm going outside to smoke."
"Okay," he says. "You just going onto the patio? Okay, have a good smoke. I'll be here thinking I guess. Have a good smoke, okay? You want your jacket? Oh, you've already got it. Okay. Enjoy your smoke. I'll just be here. I'll see you in a minute. I'll be here."
She gives him a quick solemn look, and then runs out the door a little too quickly.
* * *
On the sidewalk, outside Granville Optical, a stream of restaurant- and movie-goers stream by as one middle aged man with a gray beard strums a guitar, and another, who looks like he could be his brother, taps a red plastic tambourine against his leg, with no perceptible synchrony of rhythm between them.
Without warning, the man with a tambourine begins a monologue.
"Jesus! Who you say? Jesus. That's what I'm talkin' about. But maybe you're right. Who is this guy? Who is this Jesus? Lemme tell you a little bit. . . ." As I continue walking down the sidewalk, the man's voice begins to lose itself in the chatter of the surrounding pedestrians. "Cross. . . love . . . saviour . . . that's why YOU have to . . . Jesus!"