Visiting Montreal (With Slim ―did I catch your attention?)

No Writing News Here. Because I said so. :þ

I knew from the outset that today would be a long, tedious day. Not because of the unpleasant tasks (go downtown, see the World Press Exhibition, take notes, take pictures of hobos, return), which were interesting and well-worth the time spent on them, or because of the unpleasant company (originally a party made up of me, Slim, Liz and Max, but ended up being only Slim and I), but rather because it required mental awareness that neither Slim or I have been able to provide in the past few days, mostly because of our film-making class.

At any rate, I was still looking forward to today. One has to see things positively: if one has work to do, they might as well do it in good circumstances.

And I got the best circumstances I could hope for.

As soon as our 8:00-12:00 class was over (or rather, around 11:15), Slim and I hurried downstairs to get to the train station. We bumped into Max on the stairs. He looked full of despair, which is an unusual and alarming fact for Max. He is usually upbeat and cheerfully sarcastic.

Me: "Hey, Max! Come on with us, we want to catch the 12:10 train to the Central Station!"

Max, depressed, just shakes his head and says, pausing in the stairs, "Sorry, guys, you'll have to do without me. My group isn't ready for the deadline tomorrow, and... yeah, anyway. We're so screwed. Sorry."

Slim and I exchanged looks. Eventually he just shrugged with wide eyes. I said, to Max, "Well, that sucks. I hope you figure it out." Our team already gave in the pre-productiong documents, so we can pretty much wipe our hands clean of that.

We reach the cafeteria to say goodbye to all the others, and then walk out. Originally, I'd planned for us to take the bus towards the train station, but Slim said, "Hey, I got my sister to let me have the car today. We can drive to the station instead."

Who would I have been if I'd said no?

The drive to the station was fun. Slim was playing great songs by H.I.M. (Buried Alive By Love!!!), and revealing by his singing along that he can, despite his claims to the contrary, carry a tune. Besides, his enthusiasm is contagious, so he had me screaming along with him.

Of course, by the time we got to the train station, we realised that there would be absolutely no parking left in the official parking lot, and rather than park in a 90 minute zone, I suggested that he grab one of the visitor spots in the residential buildings area. When finally he turned off his engine, he shot me an uncertain glance.

I looked at him earnestly. "What? I thought we were here to visit."

He rolled his eyes, then broke into a grin. "Right. Unca' Gertrude's going to tell us about his visit to Florida."

I couldn't help but laugh. He laughed too. Suddenly, there was a pause. Before I could voice my doubt, he said, "Wait. Uncle Gertrude?"

"Maybe he's German."

He wasn't sure. I reached over him, pushed his car door open, and shoved him out of the car. "Whatever, it doesn't bloody matter, because he doesn't exist."

He stumbled out of his car, then leaned back down to shoot me a wide smirk. "Shhh... how are they to know?"

We jogged over to the train station. The ticket machine was satanical. It robbed him of two dollars and five cents before we could finally scrounge up enough of exact petty change to buy two tickets. Because I was only armed with twenty dollar bills, he helped pay half my ticket. I promised to make it up to him somehow, because he saved me as the train pulled up.

We could have taken the metro (subway). We could have taken his car to the nearest station then gone by underway.

But we HAD to take the train, because Slim and I share a somewhat disturbing passion for survival post-apocalyptic settings (Children of Men, Half-Life 2, The Day After Tomorrow, and most Resident Evil games) and the underground city of Montreal can so easily be given the post-apocalyptic industrial art-déco look which we delight in, and, as Slim claimed, the Central train station is one of the finest examples of a city that is half underground (Adobe PDF file).

You ought to know that our greatest fantasy is to one day invent the Montreal Survival Week, in which the city closes down and the people have an open paintball war in the streets and undercity.

Or at least make a movie about it, but this time without paintballs. More like real bullets. You know, the works.

Until then we have decided to content ourselves with visiting the city for our school assignments.

The train station was, indeed, awesome. As we entered the main area, Slim pulled me to a stop and threw an arm out to vaguely indicate the large open space of the main court. "Admit it," he proudly said, "you can see this turned into City 17. God, I love Montreal."

I looked, and yes, I could see. I pointed to the high windows. "We need broken panes here and here." And at the tiles below our feet. "Cracked tiles. Maybe some metal fences and―"

"Barbed wires."

"Definitely. Giant screens for propaganda."

Slim nodded enthusiastically, then tugged me forward so we could reach the subway station down another set of underground corridors. As we walked, we continued to look around, covering up the cleanliness with grime and deterioration, trying to picture Montreal as a surviving city.

When we emerged from the subway station into the light, after passing by the godly smells of a thousand underground (literally) cafés, we paused to take a picture of me shaking the hand of the statue of a missionary. When he took his camera down, Slim announced, "I feel like a freaking tourist."

I shot him a broad grin. "Slim, we are tourists. Our job is to take pictures and visit a museum. How much more touristy can it get?"

It was 12:45 by then. We had hardly walked a minute on the street that Slim suddenly stopped me again and said, staring longingly at the store on the other side. Archambault Music Store. I shot him a knowing look, and he shook his head, trying to clear it.

"No, nevermind."

"Don't be such a wuss. You wanna go, let's go."

So we went. That store is a musician's paradise. Rather than linger on the main floor, Slim pulled me over to the rickety stairs in the back, the ones with the crooked steps and the flimsy wooden rail. I could feel his excitement radiating, so I just followed.

The third floor of Archambault's is dedicated almost exclusively to drums and other drum-related articles. A drummer's dream. Slim went through the rows, entrusting his bag to me and knocking knucles against cymbals and snares, excitedly giving me stats about them, and comments on the best companies and best qualities. Eventually, he came across the stand for drumsticks, and I saw his face brighten up.

"Drumsticks! I need a new set. Which ones are the best?"

The tattooed and pierced guy behind the counter didn't say a word, just watching us from afar amusedly.

Slim located the perfect drumstick pair. Don't ask me how he knew they were perfect. They all look very similar to me. But he was beaming.

"Two pairs, because you just never know."

I nodded sagely. "Right. You just never know."

He glanced at me and sheepishly said, "I'm making a fool of myself, aren't I?"

I shook my head. "No, it's alright. I don't mind." And it was true. I really didn't mind. He was funny when he got all focused and passionate about drums.

He handed the sticks to the guy at the counter. "I shouldn't be spending," he confided to me. "I haven't gotten a job after my summer camp counsellor thing, and I want to invest in my future by buying a semi-professional video camera, but..." He looked on helplessly as Tattoo Guy put the sticks in a bag. "... I can't stop playing drums either."

I held back a smile.

We walked out of the store. Slim was telling me of the many great things about Montreal (turns out he knows as much history of Mtl as I do, which is saying something because most of the facts I know are taken from specific history books). A man handing out pamphlets for a local strip-club tried to hook Slim, but he just stepped around the guy and continued his sentence on how much he loved Montreal (again) without interrupting himself. It was kind of funny.

It wasn't as funny when a guy asking for change ―obviously a student, considering his relatively well-groomed appearance, school bag and glazed expression (hobos can't afford weed; he must have had money)― starting following after me while calling relentlessly, "Hey, people, can I have some change? I'm just missing a tiny little bit. Come on, lady, gimme som' change, I just want a little. Come on, man. Come on."

Slim and I interrupted our long conversation long enough to wonder if he was really talking to us. And indeed, he was, following closely, invasively. I shot a helpless glance at Slim when the beggar started calling me, specifically. "Come on, lady with the green shirt. Can I have some change? Don't be cheap, babe..."

Babe. He called me babe. I shot Slim a glance, and Slim returned my disgusted and stunned look. He took my bakcpack strap and steered me to the side of the sidewalk, loudly asking, "Hey, weren't we supposed to go over to that side?" And he pointed the other side of the avenue.

We were in such a hurry to get away from Money Beggar Guy that we jaywalked, something I think is illegal in the area of Montreal, for safety reasons. Either way, Beggar Guy didn't follow, opting instead not to risk life and limb in what was obviously a pointless pursuit.

I shuddered and said, "Twenty bucks says that if I stray from your company later in the day, I get sollicited for sex." Hey, it had happened before. Except I wasn't feeling as up to the joke as I should have.

Slim just laughed dryly and said, "Well, stick to me then. I'm a guy―" Implying by this that guys don't get bothered, which is unfortunately true "―and I'd like to meet the guy who will be dumb enough to pick on one of my friends."

I said thanks, though I don't think he heard me. My shock had taken over and I was so bothered that I almost got knocked over by a hobo, had Slim not nudged me aside.

Slim, by then, had taken control of the map. We were, it seemed, somewhat lost. It was a confusing map and we had emerged from below ground with little idea as to our orientation. I had given up trying to make sense of it, but Slim chose to take over. His love for Montreal, he said, would guide the way. Whatever.

When, after three minutes of intense consultation, we came to the conclusion that the way to find the Just for Laughs museum would be to ask for directions (Slim's suggestion! I told him, "Congratulations, you're the first guy of my acquaintance to suggest asking for directions without my incentive," to which he jokingly replied "What? Really? Damn."), Slim chose a safe-looking old lady and politely inquired, "I'm sorry, ma'am, but could you point us in the direction of St-Laurent boulevard?"

The lady pointed a far point downroad. Slim and I exchanged glances. We had been heading in the right direction, but the lady promised us we'd be walking for quite some time to get from where we were to where we were headed.

She was right, though our trip wasn't long because of anything close to short leg-span (Slim is 6'2", and I'm 5'9", so our legs are naturally able to make wide steps), but rather because we couldn't stop entering the suspicious-looking shops we'd encounter along the way, including, but not limited to, an Indian shop with a thousand T-shirts that said "I might be wrong, but I doubt it", or "Sex is not the answer. Sex is the question. Yes is the answer" (which Slim already owned, to his glee). The ones Slim and I wanted for ourselves were, for him "Fuck You, Fucking Fuck!" and me, "I'm Always Right". But we chose not to buy them, seeing as the guy was selling them for, like, 30 bucks each, which is absurd considering I could have one done for less.

"God," Slim said as we walked out, "I need to come here more often. Look at all the shifty shops begging for me and Drew to raid them."

We also visited the Army Leftover Shops. Do you know how awesome those shops are? They sell military surpluses, which means we can find all kinds of things for Halloween costumes. And Slim, of course, wanted to find a gas mask.

So I entered it with him. The store was, obviously, deserted, save for the two old paranoid owners, looking greasy and suspicious. We asked about gas masks, and found four different models, one of which caught our eye.

Slim, with visible emotion, picked one up and said, "My dreams have come true."

I stared at it and said, "You could dress up as a Half-Life 2 Combine."

He shot me a pained look. "I know but it's thirty-five bucks and I shouldn't be spending it on something dumb again."

I shot him a dry look. "Slim. You're always drawing guys with gas masks. You love the Combines. You are holding that thing like it's a holy relic."

He hastily put the mask back on the wall hanger, but he was looking at it with undeniable longing. "I want it."

"Buy it, then."

"It's a waste of money."

I couldn't find an argument against that. Finally, I said, "Okay, look. The museum is two blocks away. We'll go see the exhibition, and you'll think on it, and on our way back you'll decide if you want it or not."

Appeased, he exaggeratedly sighed with relief. "Yeah. Okay."

"I can't believe you need me to sort out your finances," I said as we walked out under the suspicious gaze of the two shopowners.

He shot me an accusing look and pointed a finger at me in the middle of the street, "You tried to tempt me!!"

How could I not laugh?

We didn't feel like laughing quite so much when we finally reached the museum. The World Press exhibition's purpose is to award prizes to the best journalistic photographs taken in 2007.

And let me tell you, there's a lot of material there to upset the weak stomachs or bother the mind. I had to physically drag Slim away from this (DO NOT CLICK THE LINKS IF YOU ARE EASILY UPSET), Slim had to physically drag me away from this (SEE PREVIOUS), and we both recoiled at this (SEE PREVIOUS) and this (SEE PREVIOUS). As our teacher had warned us not to see the exhibition alone, I was glad for Slim's company. Rather than straightaway get to work, we found a quiet table to sit down and talk about the photographs first. It's not everyday you're confronted to your own fortune and luck, as well as the misery of 70% of the world.

"To think," I said when we had lapsed into silence for a good five minutes, "our biggest concern is entering university."

He nodded, looking tired and sober. "Did you see the faces?" He asked me. "Could you imagine living in that kind of horror your whole life through?"

"I'd rather not."

"Precisely. And God, that wedding portrait scared me shitless."

I tried to lighten the atmosphere. "Say nay to war?"

He snorted.

We hurried to find everything we needed for our project (resolving, now that we knew we'd be working just the two of us, that we should team up rather than do it alone), then Slim claimed his feet hurt him and we went in the lounge on the fifth floor to sit, warm up and talk. His girlfriend called, but he couldn't answer because his cellphone minutes had run out. I handed him my family's cell because we hardly ever use it.

He said, "Thanks, but I'll call her later, from home." He glances at the text message she had sent him. "It's our six month anniversary."

I stare at him. "Um. What in the world are you doing here?" With me, I wanted to add, but I didn't think that'd be appropriate. Besides, I could tell he was kind of bummed to be missing out on his girlfriend.

He shrugged. "It couldn't work anyway. She had singing lessons and I had to come here, to World Press. We decided to be mature and accept that just because we celebrate another day doesn't mean we don't acknowledge it."

I smiled. "Well, then." He handed me my phone back. "I guess you're both wiser than most."

He shot me a tired grin. "Isn't that obvious?"

I rolled my eyes.

Slim knocked his head back against the couch we were sitting in and groaned, "And now we have to take pictures of random people on the street. Dammit."

I knew what he meant. That implied taking subtle but realistic pictures, then running after the people we photographed for their authorization to use the pictures. Do you know how much work and guts that represents??

But before we went on to photographing, Slim and I stopped back in the Army stuff shop.

And we split the price of the gas mask, on the terms that he would give me his old mecanic overalls for our movie, and I could borrow the gas mask should I ever need it.

It was fair, since Slim had provided me with batteries for my camera, and money for my train ticket (as well as a car ride), so I paid fifteen dollars for his costume. I don't know how many service exchanges we did today; frankly I lost track.

Anyway, we wandered for two hours. Eventually, we wound up in this completely desolate part of underground Montreal, wondering where everybody was. It was so empty, echoing, completely eerie and strangely beautiful. Slim took pictures of me walking ahead in the empty corridors, then he had me sit on an art-déco chair that was placed as decoration in the empty hall, under spots. He took a couple more pictures of the empty space.

By the time we emerged, I started taking pictures of him. We sat in a park and watched as day started to wane; he was sitting on a park bench with our backpacks and his coat, and he looked off to one side. I captured the best picture of him, ever, as well as a few other snapshots of people who were facing away from the camera (if we don't see their faces, we don't need their permission!).

Finally, I slumped next to him and said, "Let's go home now."

He nodded. "Yeah, I'm wiped out. It's a mess."

"Lovely."

We walked back to the subway station, then got off at the train station, ran to catch the 6:10, and got on just in time. He slumped in the seat across me, allowing us both a window seat, and we talked for another fifteen minutes as the train left the station from its underground stop. Somewhere along the way, our legs became entangled in our bags (long legs, small space, remember?) and it was too much of a hassle to figure it out, so I just told him, "Look, my feet are slipping. Do you mind if I put them between yours (feet and legs; no dirty thinking please)?"

Slim just nodded, and that's how we settled in comfortably for half an hour of train travel. We spoke considerably less than when we came in, but that was okay. Slim closed his eyes and started dozing off, his chin against his chest and his temple against the train wall, his shoulders hunched like he was curling up. It was totally cute and if my camera had had any batteries left, I'd have taken a picture. But then I was too tired to find refills and I was comfortable with my legs hugging one of his. Besides, the movement would have woken him up.

When Slim sleeps, his leg twitches a little from time to time. It's funny.

Perhaps instinctively, he woke up just on time for us to get off the train. I took out my cell phone to tell my mom I'd soon be home by bus, and he asked, "What are you doing? It's already getting dark out. I'll give you a lift."

My gratitude was obvious. It is not safe for girls to be out alone taking buses after dark. After a few tales of my misfortunes with Harassment Freaks, Slim seems to have developped a keen sense of gentlemanliness in regard to every young woman of his acquaintance.

"But first," Slim said, "I need to try on the gas mask."

I shot him a suspicious look. "You don't intend to wear it while driving, do you? Because that's crazy and you'll be half blind."

He laughed. "Not to mention I'm pretty sure it's illegal. But no, I just want to try it on. No driving involved."

We found the car again, untouched. Slim shot me a knowing look.

"I think we have Uncle Gertrude to thank for this."

I laughed as he took out his purchase. He shot me a warning look.

"Don't peep until I'm done slipping it on."

I sighed and rolled my eyes. "Fine. It's just a gas mask."

He grinned broadly. "I know. I just want to see if it looks cool."

I turned away and started cooing after a stray cat that was watching us bemusedly. Finally, Slim uttered an inarticulate and completely synthetic sound. I turned.

And let out a small scream.

WHEN HE SPEAKS, THE MASK DEFORMS HIS VOICE. LIKE IN HALF-LIFE 2. I AM NOT KIDDING.

It was so freaky, yet so awesome. He looked like a Combine!!! Of course, I couldn't understand half of his excited gibberish, but I could tell he was psyched.

Finally, he peeled the mask off and said, "Now all I need is the rest of the costume."

"Well," I said, "good luck with that."

He looked thoughtful, then commanded, opening the driver's door, "Get in the car."

I got in the car. The drive back was as funny and lively as it was on the way over. He remembered where I live (again), and when he stopped in my driveway, he sat back at said, with a deep breath, "Well. Long but good day, wouldn't you say?"

It was quarter to 8:00 by then. I nodded. "Yep." I hesitated. "So, about all the exchanges of money and services today, frankly I lost track."

He nods. "Me too. What do we do?"

"Well," I say, "I know you hate debts. I do too. So I say that we call it even, and no debts remain from today."

He nods in agreement. "Yes. That seems about fair."

"Exactly. And don't forget to send me the pictures you took. I'll send you mine."

"No problem."

"And thanks. For coming with me today."

He smiles. "Hey, no problem. It was nice."

I smile as well. "And thanks for the ride home, too."

He shrugs. "Don't mention it."

"Okay. Well, see you tomorrow. In Philosophy."

"Oh, did we have work to do for that?"

"Read the document."

"Damn. She did say we'd have an exam on that, didn't she?"

I laugh. "Slim, with her, 'exam' means 'I'll review the reading material at length with you, then give you a few practice exercises on it, and decide that it's not worth grading after all'. Don't worry about it."

He smirked. "Yeah, and we probably get to do it in teams, too."

"Exactly." I took a breath. "Well, thanks for everything. I had a good time. I should get inside now. Mom must be getting worried sick about me."

He laughed. "I hear you. See you, then."

"See you."

He waited for me to have closed the door behind me before driving off.

... I am so tired now. What a long day. Pleasant. But LONG.

Love,
CM