1985
Whiter than freshly fallen snow the
two blank pages of Stephen’s journal stared up at him from the table. It was a quiet afternoon with
surprisingly few patrons coming in for refuge from the unseasonably cold
November day. He was already on his
first refill. He had carefully counted
out his pocket change. He could afford
just three cups today. He always went out for coffee. He had a coffee maker, but they never troubled to make it at home. Instead, they
faithfully went to the local cafes to fulfill their
devotions to the caffeine goddess. He hadn’t seen
either Pierre, who was at work, or Glen who wasn’t
always in the neighbourhood. He fished a
pen from his pants pocket. The old woman, last year, gave him the black Papermate, and the journal. He still hadn’t
written anything. Stephen had never kept
a diary before in his life. He never wrote, and seldom read. Like most people of his generation- he had
recently turned twenty-three- he got most of his information from watching
TV. Who needed books? He had never entered a library in his life,
and only occasionally read the newspaper for the comics, the horoscope and the
help wanted, all in that order.
He met the
old woman at a dinner party in Glen’s
apartment, almost exactly a year ago.
Stephen was fragile from his botched suicide. His wrists were still bandaged, and the old woman,
whom he had never met before, sat serenely beside him on the same couch on
which he had once tried to seduce Glen.
He told her about his near-death experience, of seeing and being sent back by a being
of light who seemed to know him completely. Glen had had a similar experience, years before. They never discussed it. Glen was willing
but Stephen was weak. He always backed
down at the critical moment in which he wanted to tell him everything that
happened to him, no matter what it was. This old woman, Doris Goldberg, was the only one who knew everything about his near-death experience, which they discussed in depth later that night in her apartment, where she had invited him to spend the night in her guestroom. He
never saw her again.
He tried to sweep away the
four empty cream containers he had left strewn in front of him. Even if he had
no intention of writing, he still wanted to gaze on the pure
white of the blank pages. One of the
Chinese sisters stopped by with a full
coffee-pot. “Mo’ coffee fo’ you?” she
said rapidly.
Without answering he shoved his cup towards her, which she dutifully
filled. He had absolutely no rapport
with staff or management. It wasn’t much of a diner. The booths were upholstered in dull orange
vinyl, the tables were dingy-white. It was too completely void of character or atmosphere to really qualify as a greasy spoon. For
Stephen and many of the locals it was a perfect blank canvas for them to paint
their sad and sordid lives on. He’d heard Glen name it
“Chez White Trash”. On the top of the
left page he wrote, Nov. 25, ’85. It had been a scandalously cold November,
with average temperatures that were more typical of Ottawa in January. No one had seen the like. It seemed almost like the beginning of the
last days, the final judgment. It was
warmer again but still a bit below seasonal values.
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