Limp Beauty
Even though English was my first language, and really my only language, I still went to the corner store every morning and bought the French version of the paper. Joseph, the owner and operator of the store, recommended it to me one morning. I told him the main reason I came to Montreal wasn’t just because the university was internationally respected, as I could’ve taken the same program at an equally respected university in Toronto, but I also was minoring in French language and Montreal seemed practical. He scratched at his dark, curly beard and explained to me that I would have no trouble learning French because he was one of the only people in my neighbourhood who spoke English, and then he sold me on La Gazette.
Since I took his advice, I was amazed at how much I could pick up by reading La Gazette on the subway every morning on my way to school. What amazed me even more was how I could go all day long believing a policeman shot three men, only to find out that night at 11 o’clock on Global that the Montreal traffic officer’s funeral arrangements had been made and the three male suspects were still at large. Because of the frequent misunderstandings, I stopped reading and started skimming during my half-hour commutes. I hated the idea of lying to myself all day. Besides, observing other people on the subway was much more interesting to me than foreign words on a page.
One evening, on my way home from a night class, something strange happened to me on the subway. I sat down and minded my own business, and pretended to read the sports section when an odd young woman sat down across from me and stared into my eyes. Now, I was used to girls looking at me. It happened all the time. But she was different. Unlike most others, when my eyes found hers, she refused to look away. Something was wrong with her. Since I was polite and knew enough not to stare, she left me sitting there wondering if she was still staring. Obviously, she didn’t know the rules.
We were supposed to be a society. When someone caught you staring at them, you looked away. You had every right to take another peek; after all, we lived in Canada and people had rights, but to sit and stare? Inexcusable. The only time I allowed someone to get away with it was if they were young. Children could stare all they wanted. Children and I had that understanding. With children, there were no rules.
She wasn’t a child. She had no reason to stare, even if we were on the subway and there was nothing better to look at. I wanted to look back again. I wanted to see if she was still staring at me. She wasn’t overly attractive, so I didn’t have a real reason to look again, but she made me curious and my curiosity always got me into trouble.
Maybe we shared something. Her hair was bleached blonde and stuck in fifty directions off her head; limp spikes. My sideburns curled down my face and followed my jaw as a guide. Two horns of hair spiked down off my chin in perfect cones. Maybe she appreciated the work I put into creating my look. Maybe she understood me for who I was. Maybe she was great in bed; wild.
Usually women with short hair didn’t do anything for me. With her it was different. I wasn’t looking, but I knew she was. Her eyes were on me, and that alone made her more attractive. I decided I would talk to her, say something witty.
Girls like witty. Girls like me.
My eyes bounced up and down along with the train, but I tried hard to look first at her hair. This gave her a chance to see my eyes coming, yet sure enough when I made my way down her pale forehead and into her cutting blue eyes, they were fixed on me. I opened my mouth to say something and changed my mind at the last moment, opting instead for a yawn. Then, I averted my gaze.
What if something was wrong with me? Was that why she was staring? I thought I had gotten all the egg yoke out of my left horn, but now how could I be sure? The panic overcame me so I remained silent. When we reached the next stop she was gone and out of my life. Part of me wondered if she would’ve slept with me. Of course, we would’ve started with coffee and seen where things went from there.
The next few mornings Joseph looked at me as if he knew something was bothering me. Like any good friend, he knew enough not to ask and instead told me how I could win big if I got involved with the football lottery. If I learned anything by moving to Montreal, it was there was big bucks in football. Somebody was winning every week.
Paper in hand, I made sure I took the same car on the subway those next few mornings. I wanted to run into that strange girl again. I wanted to be the one who wouldn’t stop staring. I had it all planned out. I would stare until she had to say something to me. All the possible scenarios played over and over in my head.
“What are you looking at?”
“I was admiring your hair. I think it’s great.”
Or maybe, “How long does it take you to shave in the morning?”
“Half hour. How long does it take you to do your hair?” I was prepared for the obvious first questions.
She didn’t take the same care as I thought she might, so for the next week I traveled in the cars on either side of our original one. She didn’t take those either.
Since I couldn’t find her, I decided I needed a fresh start. I needed a new crush. I needed someone else to look for. I wanted someone to stare at me for me. After a week of finding nobodies, I went home and shaved.
People were tired in the morning, and grumpy about being crammed into a place that took them somewhere they didn’t really want to go. At night, these same people were tired again, this time because it was too late. They only wanted to get home. Nobody wanted to talk to each other. Everyone just wanted to get home, make spaghetti and relax. Maybe rent Back to the Future if they felt spontaneous. Why would these people talk to each other? They were strangers. Besides, a lot of creeps took the subway. So I conformed and went back to pretending to read La Gazette.
School kept me busy, along with scheduled social events: open mics, poker nights, Seinfeld marathons. It got to the point were I didn’t look for anyone on the subway anymore. I was done kidding myself. Who would I meet on a subway?
At least I had Joseph. He always gave me advice on what cigar to buy, or what Italian red wine went well with smoked meat. I enjoyed our conversations, probably because he spoke English, and often convinced myself I needed large size eggs, or one pound of unsalted butter wasn’t enough. Shouldn’t I have two loaves of whole wheat bread in the freezer at all times?
One Sunday evening I found myself craving something from the corner store. I knew Joseph would’ve watched the football game on the tiny television he bolted above the heads of his customers at the front counter. I figured I’d see what he thought about Washington losing again, and if he knew of any cheese I might like to try. We talked about Washington’s poor performance throughout the entire season, let alone that one particular game. Each of us took turns remembering each game the team played, and pointed out exactly why they lost and what they had to do if they were to turn things around. And how someone that wasn’t me won the weekly football lottery.
The bell chimed above the door and Joseph’s attention was taken from me. I decided this was the time to go grab the mild Québécois cheese he had been raving about. I came back to the counter with the cheese and a box of circular crackers. Joe, no doubt, would tell me if they would go well with the cheese. Too busy examining the cracker box, I didn’t notice who stood in front of Joe. When I heard her speak English, I looked up.
“I’m sorry, Tracy, I’m all out of king size. I’ll have more on Friday.” Everything Joe was out of came in on Friday. Never before and rarely after.
“Just give me two packs of regular, then.”
Her accent reminded me of Toronto, the CN Tower, Bluejays games with the dome opened. My eyes went immediately to hers. Her eyes watched her fingers fumble over some coins in her palm. I was drawn to the limp, blonde spikes that jutted out from her pale scalp. It was as if her hair hadn’t grown or been cut in the three months since I last saw her. She was just there, in front of me, perfect.
“Maybe if they run the ball more. They pay all that money for a star running back and they don’t even use him.” My eyes politely moved to Joseph, my head nodded, and then I was back to her, staring.
“Yeah.” I managed. She took her cigarettes and glanced at me. Then she walked out the door and lit a cigarette. My eyes followed her through the front windows of the store until she was no longer in view, and I found myself staring at 1% milk.
“She’s pretty, isn’t she.” Joseph informed me. He wasn’t going to sell me this time. She wasn’t pretty. But to a man who had more hair on his face than his head, maybe she was.
“She just reminds me of someone I knew once. It was a long time ago.”
“Who else do you know who has hair like that? She’s the only one that I know who had her hair done that way and kept it. Everyone else is always changing things. Like you when you had your crazy beard. Not her, she sticks with things. She knows what she likes. I was almost afraid to tell her I’m out of king size.”
“Does she come here often? I mean, I haven’t seen her in here.”
“That’s strange because she lives right around the corner. Probably only a block from you. I’m surprised you haven’t seen her before. It would be hard to forget that hair.”
“No, I’ve never seen her.”
“That’s funny because you live so close. And she’s English too, like you.”
“Come on, you know I don’t need any more English friends. I’m trying to learn French. Why do you think I buy that paper everyday?”
It was better off I didn’t talk to her that day on the subway. The last thing I needed was an English friend who lived close by. I couldn’t stand when friends just popped in without calling first. I decided she would be one of those people. I didn’t need to get mixed up with someone like that. I already had too many distractions. I came to Montreal to go to school and learn French, not to make friends. She wasn’t the person I thought she was. She didn’t even stare anymore.
“Those are excellent crackers with that cheese. You should try a bottle of this Spanish red with them.”
“Sure thing Joseph, but if I don’t like it I’m never going to let you hear the end of it.”
“When have I ever let you down?” And he was right. He hadn’t.
–
Dan Symons is a Montreal writer.
