Even though I had done everything I could to go with Mr. Bedbug`s prior recommendations he still couldn`t seem to resist scolding me like I was a naughty child (it really does seem that when you live in a government subsidized building that a lot of people aren`t going to talk to you as though you are a responsible, working adult worthy of respect) After several minutes of this kind of treatment I pushed back, telling him that by his tone it is easy for me to feel like he`s punishing the victim. When the assistant building manager tried to intervene I mentioned that had Mr. Bedbug`s tone been gentle like hers then I likely wouldn`t be feeling defensive. That was enough to shut everyone up before I left. And once again I was feeling grateful for the gift of the snappy comeback.
On Mr. Bedbug`s recommendation (or should I say, orders) I took all my bedding and other covers downstairs to put in the dryer for an hour. He wanted me to wash everything but everything had already been washed four days ago (not five as he insisted) then went for a walk in the rain along the seawall. When I returned, I retrieved the laundry and put the two bags full in my bathroom (the rest of the apartment, reeking with sickly sweet pesticide that I could smell once the elevator door opened, was in complete disarray) then went for another walk. Two of my favourite places, Café Molli, Mexican, on Davie and Burrard, and Melriche`s café, funky old holdout on Davie between Bute and Jervis, were both full so I opted for a French bakery-café I had always walked by on Davie Street, the Baguette and Co. I was pleasantly surprised and occupied a window table with a decaf Americano a fancy schmancy pastry and a glass of water while working on a new drawing. Here is an image of the bird I am interpreting:
Nice birdie, eh? It's called a Black-Collared Jay, from Colombia and Venezuela.
A rather streetwise looking couple were admiring my drawing from the sidewalk and came in to have a look. They were so sweet.
The Davie Street sidewalk is almost always an exercise in the fascinating. There is always something going on, like it or not. There was also the other street-ish fellow who was smoking just outside the open door. Fortunately the wind wasn't blowing my way but the woman working in the hipster boutique next door came out to scold him and to ask him (or should I say, order him, to take his cigarette elsewhere) There was a bit of a yelling match. She called him a loser and he swore at her and replied that she had no right calling people names like that and said he wasn't going to move. (as much as I dislike second-hand smoke I felt by far the stronger sympathy for him instead of that horrible woman. He did go away pretty soon, only to come back and light up a joint and now the smoke was blowing into the café. Marijuana, Gentle Reader, I might remind you is somewhat more potent than it was when you and I were young and naughty. I could already feel my brain chemistry start to alter. Knowing not to confront the fellow I simply got the barista's permission to close the door till he went away again, which he did very shortly after I closed the door. An act of courtesy, perhaps?
I then took a longer walk in the West End, under the rain and under my umbrella, psyching myself up for my eventual return to my apartment where I would have a huge mess to clean up. I am truly exhausted from all of this, emotionally and physically. I already know that I will not be able to do everything that Mr. Bedbug has told me I should have to do to help keep the bugs away for the simple reason that I do not have the energy. I will do whatever I can and hopefully it will work and if it doesn`t I am not prepared to endure another one of his sanctimonious scoldings.
The mess is cleaned up. My apartment is back to normal and I am exhausted. I hope I never have to see Mr. Bedbug again, but if he did do his job right this time, I likely won't, and if not...well, let's just say that I might have a few choice words for him!
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