Things cost less here, but there are hidden riches…

Some mornings I am a writer. I don’t mean, by this, that I churn out prodigious content. (What a disrespectful clinical term anyway. Exactly like ‘matter’ in reference to all the wonderful variety of substances one is invited to enounter during life.) What I mean is my senses and observational mood slows and deepens. I linger within noticed things, and think upon meanings. I study people met by chance. You have to be careful with this. Not too analytical or objective. People pedestal ‘objectivity’ as though it were a modernist sacrament. You have to be open, let the human seep in. The goal is not writing, for sure. In truth there really is no kind of goal anyway. You might never write about it, or more likely may someday but the impressions will be so transformed that you’d not recognize them. No, it feels more about slipping into a cherished mode of being where one’s receptivity is heightened. And if we’ve sufficient grace in the moment then we infuse the whole affair with tiny empathies. There might walk I, had but such and such a circumstance been altered. It makes us more. It is a nutrition for the soul life. Some mornings I am a writer. Not output-wise. Input-wise. This morning is such a one.

There’s a little village I like. Some mornings I stop there. After dropping him off to school. That nice breakfast nook, with the upstairs room. Large windows looking out to the main road with shops, and the hills and mountains of the Laurentians beyond. With the nice waitress, tall, unusual, intelligent. Poached eggs, some bacon, rye toast, tea. Sounds perfect. But first, crap, car has run out of tissues. Need some. I flatten the box on the passenger seat. That dollar store a few streets over. Can grab some there, a new box. A plan. The dog walkers are out in some force enroute, I notice. It’s a mixed town. Some money up in the hills gazing down tranquilly at the riotous peasant’s commerce. Retired homes, second homes. Go-getter Monrealers love their weekend chalets. They outdo one another in terms of exotic breeds. I see completely unrecognizable once in a lifetime dogs here. Of course always a golden retriever or two. And who can complain about them. Of winters, plenty of their humans on the other end of their hi-tech leashes are decked out in dazzling casual skiwear. I get the repeated impression maybe 25% of them actually ski. Used to, maybe. Maybe just the husband. Holding on to those athletic ideals. But it’s fall now. Occasional tasteful scarves. Maybe a sweater under a sleeveless vest. French Canadians know how to style it up in an absolutely carefree casual way. Specially the ladies. It’s the proper thing to do. Now — there’s the dollar place.

I pull into the parking lot. A lady, fifties, blonde, is pulling out nearby. Eco-conscious red microcar. EV with a moonroof. She’s one of the well-off hill dwellers. I know this because I recognize her. She was once my neighbor. Yes, I was halfway one also. Got lucky with a gorgeous affordable rental on a curved land plot next to the river. Stayed a decade. But she lived even higher up the hill. She’d descend in mornings, like an angel smelling the ruckus. A purposeful only-the-facts errand somewhere. The leafy estate needed some of this or that. She was pleasant though, and of some bearing. Once I met her walking along the hill and she deigned to pause and chat. Asked about my adopted son; he must have been four or five at the time. He began attending the local Montessori pre-school a couple of towns away, I explained. “Oh. That’s a good choice”, she commended. But she had no recognition of me. Was completely oblivious. I had passed out of minor relevancy in her lifestream.

What I like about this town is that there is also a gritty element. Plenty of folk inhabiting the surroundings who are scraping by in a world of serialized chaotic economic calamities. Covid. Trump’s tariff myopia. Somebody’s got to man the A&Ws, Tim Horton’s, cook and hostess in the upscale, midscale, and low-brow restos, effectuate the meticulous landscaping, hold up the Caution signs by the numerous roadside maintenance projects engendered by the mafioso control of the Quebec construction industries. At the partly sheltered lobby entrance for this particular dollar store a homeless guy preiodically sat. He looked all the world like a beaver fur trapper from a bygone century, bushy hair, extravagant beard and moustache, an uncountable quantity of variously plaided layers constituting his garb. He had a large cardboard sign in French which I never had enough time to finish deciphering. So — not sure about his story. But I used to give him change when I had it on the way out. And he’d smile cause it was real. I wasn’t in a rush. I flashed my human. Problem is nowadays everything is e-card scans. Weeks can go by without my seeing any sort of currency or coin on my person. He wasn’t there this morning.

The place is lightly attended just now. Maybe six or eight customers wandering the aisles. Only a single cashier. Work my way to the domestic stuff aisle. Trivets, cheese graters, dish soaps, spatulas, ziplocs, ah — tissues. Royal brand, $4.25 a box. Dollar store? There are some intermediate offerings. Swans floating to evoke smooth as a baby’s hiney. And high end nature photography gracing one option. Finally, I locate the $1.50 choice, a no-name brand or thereabouts. I walk around a bit, thinking can I really buy only this measley item? The Halloween aisle is looking like it’s seen better days, most of the decent stuff picked through by now. Some fake green wigs, menacing face lamps, spider web kits. A woman passes near, sleeveless, except she has a prominent sleeve tattoo. Something vaguely sinister post-modern. Got invited last minute to a party? What is she possibly looking for here. I imagine her in the long green wig. Hmmm. She’s got that purposeful thing going. Don’t fuck with me with any off-agenda shit. An elderly couple are evaluating the extensible floor mops and dust removal devices. The guy grabs some light bulbs. Around a corner I remember that time a busty woman paused here — we caught each other’s eye — and she pretended to examine some bamboo trellising and conical metal tomato plant guides. I smiled enough to invite a question and she asked whether I thought they’d work for cherry tomatoes. Yes, but you need tall stakes too… to tie the main stems to once the plant gets taller. She had a slight flirt in her eye, but I could see she wanted a no maintenance solution, if anything. Her proposition, though incipient, was strictly sex only, I could tell. Had to be somebody else in a few hours, meet someone somewhere. I myself am a romance guy. Next aisle. Ahh — here is where my kid used to love hanging out. The curious little toys, Hot Wheels lamborghinis, colorful slime kits, kazoos, recorders, balls of every description and cap guns. And water pistols. Pistols? Freakin’ water machine guns. Bazookas. I remember fond hours here meditating on the educational value of different items.

At last, the checkout counter. I bypass all the snack temptations and choose the non-automated cashier, as always. Young girl, quite short, 20 maybe, and while searching for my wallet I notice her tee-shirt. Dark gray. It’s a Schrodinger’s tee-shirt! How unusual. Two cats form the central image, one living, one kaputt, prostrate, tongue out. The caption reads: WANTED: DEAD AND ALIVE! Off to the top there is a mad scientist looking face and the word Schrodinger. I tell her cool tee shirt and she gives the Gen Z stare. “You know, Schrodinger’s equations and the quantum state cat?”, I amplify. She’s never heard of him. It’s like those Chinese sweatshirts from fifteen years ago that were all the rage cause they had actual English writing on them but no one knew what they said or how badly they were misspelt. ‘Enjoy Fuk-You Juice With Frends’.

At the breakfast place I am the only one. At first. This has happened before. The waitress explained that once. Because I tend to arrive at a quiet break in between early commuters and later brunch-minded folk. Because it’s empty, she is chatty. Frequent visits to check the water, tea, anything else you’d like. She has a project in mind when I ask her what’s new. The downstairs entrance parlor to this place is virtually unused. All the customers trundle upstairs to the great room with the views. “No one ever sits down there?”, I ask. “Never, but I am going to renovate it in my spare time.” The owner walks by nodding his assent. She wanted extra work to fill her time and sold him the idea. Get newspapers in here every day and use the downstairs — make it more inviting. She is busily passing by going up going down, carrying things. Asks whether I agree that the huge round table for 6 or more in the corner downstairs is a waste of space and disinvites guests to an otherwise cozy nook. I think yup, she is absolutely right. But it is just for making conversations, she has already decided. Manager/owner dude goes with the flow. I ask about weekend business. She beams. “Plenty of customers then, crazy busy, needed part-time help for that. But the weekdays kill us.” I’ve never been on a weekend. Just a couple of times a month after dropping my son at school in the morning. Or once in a blue moon Alex will give a call and want to meet there. In which case it is a guaranteed three hour winding conversation. There is a spectacular large open space in the middle with a banister all around, and you can see down to the ground floor. For some reason the smoothie machine is kept down there. Mango-Grapefruit, Avocado-Lime-Kale, Lemon-Raspberry, Passion Fruit-Blueberry, Mocha-Chocolate. Twenty flavors. I suggest maybe a pulley system elevator tray, but she likes the exercise. What about an enormous ficus tree, then? She smiles. By the time I pay up, she tells me I have brought in the crowds. Four tables with people now.

Driving back home, it makes little sense why I like this village. But I do.

_______RS

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