Saturday, July 31, 2010
Notes on friendly looking people
I always tell myself I don't know how to manage interaction of secondary characters with Charles, my protagonist for Solace, in order to heighten the feeling of alienation around it. This afternoon, there was an incident that reminded me this kind of thing happens to me now and then. Guess where it was? At the dog park. The ultimate summit of my social interactions.
I don't do well with the friendly looking type. You know, those people who escape the city into suburbs because the price of estate is smaller and people "friendlier"? These guys. I find them bland and scary. I met one this afternoon. I was sitting at a picnic table with Scarlett, minding my own business while she was buzzing around. Arriving from the bicycle lane, with a 1000$ bicycle and an all out Tour-de-France costume was "Beloeil Guy". How do I know he's not living in Montreal? His bike. He would have lasted two weeks on the Island before getting robbed.
Dude take a rest on the chainlink fence. At that moment, I'm sure he just wants to check out the dogs, Scarlett was already sniffing his feet. He looked at me with the smile of a man satisfied with his life, for whom waking up every morning is a blessing and an adventure. You can sense already why I hate him right? This guy has a bungalow, a couple of kids and he works 40 hours a week, mows his lawn on the week-end and travels to France once every two years. I turn my back to him, but I keep a side glance on his side because it's he's one type of dog thief. The one that steals it in a Montreal park to give him a "better life" in his oh-so-satisfying suburbia.
"Heya" he says.
I turn around, frown and point at myself.
"Yeah, ya" he insists.
There was no one around, so I was doomed to have conversation with this idiot. In my ever peaking judgmental bullshit, I expected him to talk to me about boxers, lecturing me about them, only to answer me he had a Shitzu when I ask the question. Well no, this dunce found a way to surprise me.
"Ya got anything to sell?" he says again.
On the moment, I didn't exactly caught on to what he was saying. The notion of having someone looking like him talking to me was baffling enough already, I couldn't wrap my mind about what in the blue fuck he was talking about.
"Ya know, to smoke?" he precises.
"What?" I answer, furious. "Do I look like a fucking pusher to you?" I say.
I don't smoke. I might have a bit of a drinking habit, but weed or hashisch aren't my thing.
"Well, YA!" he says, before taking his bike and turning over in the other direction.
What was with this guy? One can't wear a Slayer t-shirt without being a pusher? One needs to have a small dog in order to look respectable? Fuck these friendly types and their bullshit. Xenophobia...what is different is dangerous! That's a first time that happens to me in Montreal. I have fun thinking he came all the way from the South Shore to ask me that, only to get turned around.