In Which I'm Peeved Because Nobody Said Hi

6:32 AM

No balm have I, no pill or ointment,
To palliate my disappointment!

I've just come in from a wander round the block. Chilly morning, this--dark, to boot. In summer, the sun's up by this time, and the city's coming alive. Birds squawk. Dogs bark. Old ladies run old-lady errands. I greet the last, hide from the second, and check the first off my bird-list. I like city summers. The sun makes folks gregarious. Everyone says hi when it's sunny.

No hi-saying went on today--I'll tell you that for nothing. I got most of the way from Burrard to Granville without seeing a soul. Had I felt so inclined, I think I could've made it to Wreck Beach in like fashion. Usually, it's me drifting through the city like a ghost. Today, the city was a ghost around me: empty and void of substance. There weren't even any cars. Outside the pet shop, a packet of papers had burst open, spilling its contents into the road. Every so often, the wind flicked through the pages. The sound carried a good block and a half.

You'd never get quiet like this in my old neighbourhood. Even in the wee hours, there was always the odd bar-straggler, or junkies would come up from Hastings to soak the 7-11 crowd. Once, having forgotten my specs, I gave such a junkie fifty dollars. Another time, I lost a giant rat in the alley between Pender and Georgia. Not long after that, I threw a paper dart out a nineteenth-floor window, to see how far it would fly. Turned out, not far at all. It barely made it across the street. Two passers-by laughed at it.

Don't get me wrong: I prefer this neighbourhood. The old one was entirely too noisy. The dusttrucks--the dusttrucks--well, fuck the dusttrucks. Here's the thing: I hate walks where nobody says hello. I mean, I go to all the bother of getting my shoes on and finding my keys--you'd think the city might cough up a bum, at least.

Ah, well. Tough luck, old bean, as my father would say. Try again later, what.