Monday, March 28, 2005


Downfall was intense. Never had I been part of an audience so completely taken aback by a film that the only sound heard escaping was that of my own breathing over the ending credits. I felt ashamed for making the slightest rustle as I shifted my ass and lowered my glasses into my bag. I froze mid-reach when I noticed I was the lone person moving in the entire theatre and gathered enough courage to put on my jacket only when somebody else made a stir. The stillness was palpable and reminded me of a woman's restroom during lunch hour: nervously sitting on the toilet, urethra relaxing only when a deafening flush (or faucet on full blast) is capable of disguising the natural exertion of waste.

One by one, people made their way out in relative darkness. Arms at their sides, heavy and disabled, they resembled morose pallbearers at a funeral march. Yes, even the girls wearing puffy pink sateen parkas.


Walking along Bleury, VanRed, Rubbermaid and their two McGill friends saw me and invited me for a drink somewhere off St. Laurent. I passed the booze but had a lot of fun chatting with them. Nice people, the lot.


I sat in the school cafeteria, translating French for a good three hours Sunday. Decided to walk around Montreal and chillax for the rest of the day, taking in the gorgeous spring weather. Why not pamper myself? I thought. Entertainment venues are within walking distance of each other and I can spare a sizable amount of change for emergency purposes.

Except I made a pointless pit stop at M. Biologique's building, persuading myself that I was strictly there to borrow a DVD from JuanaMachine next door. I was just going to pick out a movie and leave - M. Biologique (and his girlfriend) wouldn't even sense my presence, I said. Uh huh. Well, that was the plan until this 23-year-old Nigerian business student (handshake: limp; prognosis: dire) followed me to the sixth floor and tried to get my phone number. I pulled out the age card. Didn't work. I told him I was psychotic and mistook him for my drug dealer. Nuh uh. I told him if fate wanted us together, he'd need a restraining order to pry me off his back. Hahaha ... no. He was determined:

Him: You look so innocent, like a princess or something.

me: I'm Asian, that's part of our charm.

Him: But now that I talk to you, I see you are not very innocent. A bad girl.

me: You think I'm a bad girl?

Him: Aw, no no. Okay, it is more like ... pompous?

me: Haha. A bit of arrogance keeps things interesting.

Him: I like that. I like that a lot.

Now, I'm not 100% certain, but I think the classical music leaking into the hallway was coming from M. Biologique's apartment. 15 minutes later, the Nigerian man pointed to M. Biologique's door and indicated that the inhabitants had probably turned up the volume to bury our voices (hinting that maybe he and I could go back to his place to sort this thing out. Right). I was mortified that my visit was discovered. The jig was up. When he finally left, I went and stood outside JuanaMachine's and knocked three times with no answer. Not wanting to bump into the man again on my way down to the lobby, I took the stairs, thinking it would lead me out the side entrance. I ended up getting locked in the parking lot, making my way around a labyrinth of concrete and metal for a few claustrophobic minutes until, by pure chance, I discovered a door mistakenly left ajar by someone, a la Watergate. Relieved, I turned the handle and walked into ... the lobby.

No comments: