Before we get into the meat of the story today, I have a confession: it was mostly written by a ghost writer. Well, a dozen or so ghost writers. Sort of. You’ll understand soon. Patience.
I’m in Lit Espresso Bar’s front window, watching the holiday rush and practising my physiognomy on those scanning the shop windows for any relief possible from their holiday gift guilt. Two days ago, our dear editor had hit me with another “Gentle Reminder” of our deadline. But, as I say to myself, and anyone willing to listen to my whining, these stories don’t just fall out of my pant leg, like a pair of underwear did that day in a busy college hallway all those years ago. But I wasn’t panicked. This time.
Because a week before, I was walking past Leaside Pets on Bayview when I happened upon my first ghost writers: a mother, father and their two toddlers with their noses pressed to the Leaside Pets window. Mom and Dad were trying in vain to disguise the fact that they were having an argument, by whisper-shouting.
“This is the end of the conversation,” says Mom. Her husband shrugs and starts to walk away.
“Where are you going?!”
“You just said.…”
“I’m not finished.”
“Mom, can we get a dog?”
That’s when my story idea struck. And so, I went on a little sonic stroll. I was rewarded almost immediately by two women looking in the window of La Muse: “Once I push this kid out, I’m getting THAT.”
Then in the line at COBS “…Almost as bad as getting raw steak in Italy, that time. I didn’t know what it was….”
“Why’d you eat it?” their friend asks.
“I was hoping it was steak.” And outside Mayrik restaurant: “Did they fall off?”
“No, I’ve NEVER had nails on my baby toes.” I envisaged two pieces of vestigial pink bubble gum stuck on the front corners of both her feet.
I came upon another couple in the Super Mart, as the husband says, resignedly, “It was the beans, what else could it be?” I can relate. I’ve muttered similar statements about asparagus.
Having depleted my monaural mine that day, I decided to keep both hearing holes attuned for the rest of the week. Longo’s, the next day, had a nugget or two. One stood out: “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t breathe, my back is shot, my hip is out. But my legs are actually the worst….Hey look at this – Black Forest Yule Log Cake!”
Later that evening, the underground parking lot at GoodLife Fitness on Millwood proved productive. Although I admit, it was a challenge to force myself to believe the cellphone voice I heard thumping though the door speaker of a parked car was referring to a future workout, “And I’m going to make YOU sweat.”
Which brings me back to Lit, where I sit at the big table, cortado and oatmeal cookie in front of me. Listening. After all, there is never a dearth of dialogue in a coffee shop. To wit: “Shhh. I don’t want people knowing I have a tattoo there.” Too late, I think.
“That’s where you gotta rake, not blow,” says one guy to his buddy as they stand at the counter.
“Yeah, it’s always a debate: rake, sweep or blow.”
“And if you got new mulch, never blow. Forget it, it’s like blowing money down the street.” With a hearty leaf-blower-loud laugh and slap on the back, the bros exit with their decaf, non-fat, no-foam lattes.
The woman at the window seat – MY seat – starts to pack up her computer, prompting me to jump up and enquire whether she is leaving. And with that, she unwittingly ghostwrites the perfect ending: “I bequeath it to you.”
