A Summer of Hopes and Hurts

Chapter 5

One particular Sunday afternoon was sunny and very warm outdoors. I was restless and felt cooped-up staying inside the confines of my tiny basement apartment, because my very being was craving a few hours of respite and longing for change, so I walked over to Stanley Park. Vancouver had now been my newly adopted home city for nearly six months but in that time all I had seen of the famed park was what could be seen from a car. The road merely skirted the perimeter of the park along the shore but I had noticed numerous trails leading into the forested sections. Sighting the trails had been enough to hook my curiosity. Ages had passed since I last hiked through any treed area and I was longing to do so again.

Mature western red cedar trees are taller than any tree that grows in eastern Canada and the cedars in the protected areas of park were exceptionally tall. Nature's silent stately sentinels stand defiant against that encroaching concrete and steel jungle called Vancouver. I stood at the base of a cluster of those defiant cedar trees and gazed upward. The towering conifers certainly made me feel very small and insignificant compared to their stature. Away from the trails I discovered a quiet spot that was secluded enough to block out most of the sounds of civilization. Direct sunlight was completely obliterated by the dense grove and the forest floor was cool, dark and damp. I rested on a large rock and enjoyed the moments of silence and then noticed that my seat was a large jagged chunk of granite. As I stared pensively at the black and white speckles I thought about how similar the granite here was to the granite on Megantic Mountain. Remembering my hike across the peaks of Megantic Mountain made me yearn and ache for the Eastern Townships of Quebec.

After my meditation upon the rock I continued exploring the meandering footpaths eventually locating the famed Stanley Park Beaver Lake. Water lilies and pads are always a favourite subject for photographers and several people with sophisticated looking cameras were busily taking pictures. The pond's surface was motionless and perfectly reflected the blue sky and the dark greens of the towering western red cedars. Had not so many people been present the lagoon truly would have been a scene of tranquility. I coursed a route around the land-locked water and paused occasionally to enjoy nature's beauty. Repeatedly I encountered couples and longingly wished that one day someone special would accompany me on slow walks in a place like this.

The beach areas were crowded but few people were venturing into the water. Pacific waters were probably still frigid this late in spring or this early in summer depending upon how one perceived late May in Vancouver. I kept hoping to meet someone, if only by chance, but that was highly unlikely. Crowded areas made me uncomfortable so I avoided them. Chance encounters were not my style. If anyone was not likely to have a chance meeting with a complete stranger, then I was that person. My nature was reserved silent shyness and that meant conversation usually came awkwardly if ever at all.

My trek homeward was via the Burrard Street Bridge. Upon reaching the center span at the summit of the bridge, I paused briefly to look out toward English Bay, knocked the dregs out of the bottom of my pipe and watched the cinders blow away. I reloaded the little hand-stove and, in spite of the breezes actively encouraging me to quit smoking, managed to get a good fire going after a few wasted matches. At that moment I recalled the comment Curtis had made quite a few weeks ago and then mused, "Maybe I have walked over this bridge once too often." 

Tomorrow. Always tomorrow, and perhaps also a chance to meet that once-in-a-lifetime one special person I was longing for and hoping to find. But how? How was I going to find her? And who? Who was she? And When? When would I meet her? And where? Where did not matter. Anywhere was fine with me. And why? I already knew the answer to why. At least I thought I did. And what? The what seemed irrelevant because what was what I was hoping for. Here they were, the famous five W's. "

But why doesn't how start with a W?" because I was clueless about how love relationships germinate.

The how appeared to be the block that was holding up everything. 

"How do I to find her?" I silently questioned, wondering if that magical moment would ever happen for me.

English is a quirky language. In my case perhaps there should have been a sixth W. Possibly for whoa, what's the rush or woe for not enough whoa, or whatever. Regardless, tomorrow was back to work, and being busy would for a while take my mind off the subject.

Working life reality...

The Claims Department at CP Transport is where I landed when I hired on at Canadian Pacific, but prior to my first day, I'll admit that I'd never even heard of a Claims Department. Regardless, my ambition had always been to work on CP Rail's trains, but opportunities to hire on with CP Rail didn't exist, because Canada's two primary railways were shedding jobs by the hundreds. Nonetheless after arriving in Vancouver, I visited the CP's employment office two or three times a week, hoping to show-up there at the right moment if perchance a vacancy in the Transportation Department opened up. 

My plan sort-of half worked, because CP's employment officers remembered my frequents visits, and thus notified me first about the first opening that became available. This was okay though, because at least my foot was in the proverbial door of the corporation I'd always wanted to join. Too, my reasoning was that if I worked hard, stayed quiet and followed directions without question, then maybe, just maybe, an opportunity might come along to allow me to move into one of transportation departments. 

The office where I worked wasn't even in sight of CP Rail trains or CP Transport trucks, but all that aside, I felt a certain pride to see that familiar CP multi-mark logo outside the door upon arriving for work in the mornings, and knowing that I was now a tiny part of that organization. 

Mail Clerk. That was my job title, and one of my work responsibilities was to open and sort all the papers after the mail bag came in. Hard work and dedication was expected and was implicitly demanded. History too reveals that N. R. Crump started his career as an engine wiper in a prairie-town roundhouse, and he worked his way upward through the ranks to eventually become the President and Chief Executive Officer. At least my foot was in the proverbial door, and handling mail was cleaner than soot, grime and ashes. My ambitions though weren't as lofty. I would've been content only to have had the privilege of earning my living by piloting five thousand tons of freight on trains over the railway's steel highways. 

Anyway, I was astonished by how much intra-company mail could come in from all over western Canada that dealt only with freight claims against the company. Days came when the stuffed mailbag was too heavy to lift. Those days were usually Mondays. I soon learned that the Claims Department was staffed by people who were extremely knowledgeable about the business of freight transportation in Canada. Some of my colleagues had more than a quarter-century of service with the company. In time I learned where all the different documents went, but I began to question why some of them were even necessary if no one ever bothered to look at many of them. 

I keep my mouth shut, because if I was ever going to impress Management with hard work, dedication and knowledge, then I'd have to do it exceptionally well without making waves, recalling my first week at the office.

Much to my surprise, several of my colleagues in the office were pipe smokers, thus right away feeling at ease, I joined in when the others lit up their pipes during coffee break.

Seconds after I joined the smoke-gang, from the large corner office erupted, "What the hell's that awful stink!?"

Seconds later Mr. Douglas, the Claims Director, and also our group's "Big Boss" came storming out of his prestigious hideaway, and end-of-civilization cussing aloud about an offending aroma. 

Some cowardly brave soul pointed in my direction, thus Mr. Douglas stomped over to my desk, and demand, "How long've you been puffing away on that stinking coal kettle of yours?"

Unsure about what might follow, I gave a very meek, "A couple of years, I guess."

"Smells like it too." he grumped before asking, "What kind of used rope are you cremating in that?"

Now hoping to impress him and everyone else by sounding like a sophisticated tobacco connoisseur, I detailed, "A British mixture... primarily with Latakia tobacco in it."

"Really?" and now seeming to be interested, he asked, "Any good?" 

"I think so." I replied with timid conviction.

Mr, Douglas crossed his arm and gave me a studious once-over prior to pitching his offer, "I'll tell you what. The next time I pay Winnipeg a visit, I'll bring you back a box of prairie shag." 

"What's that?" now curious.

"You’ve never heard of prairie shag?" asking in a way that implied everyone else in the office knows what prairie shag is.

"No."

"Is that right? 

"Honestly, I've never heard of it."

"Has a unique flavour... kinda like that leather scrap you've been cremating.” 

“Thank you.” but wondering if he'd even remember.

“Do you know that prairie shag is made from buffalo chips?” wondering whether or not I knew what he was talking about.

"No. What are buffalo chips?" I asked innocently.

He looked at me, then looked at Curtis and said, "Curtis, you tell him." and Mr. Douglas walked back to his office chuckling.

"Buffalo chips come from the tail end of a buffalo." Curtis advised, doubling over in laughter.

Curtis was one of the claims adjusters. As long as the subject was not work, he was always willing to talk about anything, everything and anyone, and especially so at the Jack of Spades. Curtis was a wealth of information about the people working for the company.

"Is that the A end or B end?" Harvey asked, joining in and ignoring for a moment the stacks of claim files on his desk. 

Harvey was another claims adjuster and he was the most absent-minded person I had ever met. He was always losing his pens and seemed to spend half of the day shifting piles of files from one corner of his desk to the other, trying to find missing pens and muttering about gremlins. Oddly enough, Harvey could recite from memory, word for word, pages of rules and items from the freight tariffs and if he could not remember the wording, he knew exactly where to locate the particular rule or item in the binders that looked like an encyclopedia set.

"Mr. Douglas didn't say a boxcar of prairie shag. He said a box." Travis corrected, joining in also. 

Travis was the junior claims adjuster. Daily he was always at least five minutes late for work and seemed to spend most of the morning doing little except trying to stay awake. Occasions came when Travis would actually be asleep at his desk and someone in the office would ring the telephone on his desk just to wake him up. In spite of this Travis seemed to get more work done than the other two claims adjusters.

"Oh. Not very generous, but buffalo chips come from the B end." Harvey deadpanned and then returned to shuffling through the files looking for the pens he could never seem to find.

"There's no B end on a Buffalo." Travis bantered.

"There isn't? Harvey asked, looking up and sounding as if he was hearing this tidbit of information for the first time

“No.” Travis reaffirmed.

“Then what end does BS come from?" Harvey asked.

"Never mind! I've got the picture." I interrupted, feeling somewhat insulted but more like a total idiot.

"Don't mind Mr. Douglas. He quit smoking about nine months ago." Curtis said, "If he's yelling and cursing, then everything’s alright. If he quietly calls you into his office, then it’s time to worry."

"Thanks, but what about this?" I asked, holding up the offending pipe.

"Go ahead. Don't worry about it. Half the big-wigs upstairs smoke pipes, and believe me, some of their tobacco stinks even worse than yours." Curtis replied.

"Alright you clowns! Get back to work!" Mr. Douglas hollered from inside his office. 

During my first six months on the job I witnessed quite a few changes. Harvey departed at the end of March, having accepted an early retirement offer. No one knew if he remembered to take his pens with him or if he ever found them. About a month later, after a heated loud argument with Mr. Douglas, Curtis walked out, went out to the Jack of Spades and never returned. All of us had known there was underlying friction between Curtis and Mr. Douglas, but those few familiar with the details, kept them to themselves. 

On Friday afternoon that same week, several positions in the department were eliminated. A re-organization had diverted much of the workload to a central location in eastern Canada. Thanks to the pride of others I was spared from unemployment because none of the persons whose positions had been abolished wanted to step downward to the lowly position of mail clerk. I was grateful for their lack of humility.

While some work had disappeared with the restructuring, the fewer of us who remained there had more to do. One positive aspect derived from the upheaval was the effect the changes had on Mr. Douglas. The corporation's changes changed his attitude toward those of us who worked for him. He began to value our contribution to getting the job done and he began to tell us as much.

Added to the burden of wanting to find that one special person was now that ever-lurking prospect of possible and sudden unemployment. Intentionally, I walked home from work more often to alleviate stress, to think through problems but mostly to avoid arriving at the silence of my three-room closet any earlier than necessary. Many days upon arriving at my abode I would silently ask, "God, will a day ever come when I arrive here and find her here instead of this silent emptiness?"  

I thought I would've felt better hearing a voice ask me who, but I wouldn't have known who. Silence was the only answer.

A letter from home had arrived, and in this case home meaning Montreal. My brother Ted was planning to visit Vancouver. Ted was going to drive a car as far as Winnipeg but his departure date was uncertain because departure was dependent upon when the car would be ready. After delivering the car, Ted's plan was to hitch-hike from Winnipeg. The route he would take was unknown; therefore his expected arrival was equally unpredictable.

The news in Mom’s letter was probably the first good news I had received since I had moved to Vancouver. I was excited and looking forward to having someone come and visit. To be ready for Ted's unpredictable arrival, the bed was cleaned off and the huge collection of unread newspapers was thrown away. The myriad of clippings and piles of other papers that had accumulated were quickly filed in random order into a large box and I promised myself to sort it all out later.

Several days later Mom telephoned to inform me that she had heard from Ted when he had reached Calgary. I was surprised to learn he was already on the way. Ted had changed his plan and decided to go north to Edmonton. From that bit of information I was wondering if he was intent upon looking up Susan, an old flame of his. Even after the passing of several years I suspected that Ted had not let go and forgotten about her. Sometimes I thought Ted's tenacity for holding on to a lost cause and refusing to let go was as unwavering as mine. 

Distance between the West and eastern Canada allowed me to yield and release my hold on events from my past, but if not, then I truly wanted to believe I had let go. My situation now was that I did not know how to go on and take that next step. That was not true. I did know but was afraid, afraid of reaching out and more afraid of experiencing the pain of rejection. To me, Ted had always seemed tougher and more resilient, but was he? For the first time I wondered if he really was as fragile as I was.

Ted finally arrived in Vancouver a week after he left Calgary. He had visited Edmonton but did not reveal much about his stopover there, other than to confirm he did visit Susan. Ted did engage us in a few hard to believe tales about encountering man-eating bears and climbing a few mountains between Jasper and Vancouver. Knowing Ted's manner for slightly exaggerating facts, I figured this time a considerable bit more of the usual fiction was mixed in. 

One memorable warm summer Saturday evening I joined a group at a popular restaurant in Gastown. With its partly re-cobbled streets, quasi-quaint exotic shops, and unusual eateries with fancier names than their fare, Gastown was that area of refurbished older buildings in what was probably the oldest part of downtown Vancouver. Martha had spontaneously organized this outing, inviting any friend and acquaintance she could think of at the moment, and then scrambled to make the arrangements. Martha was always arranging last-minute group outings to unusual locations and establishments. Often asked to tag along, I was grateful to be included. I also wondered if she was deliberately trying to introduce me to some of her friends. 

Martha was several months younger than I was. Our mothers are sisters and that is probably where our similarities ended. Martha was as bold and outgoing as I was shy and reserved but she was someone I could talk to and she was usually willing to listen.

The restaurant's atmosphere was that of one huge party. The floor of the eatery was littered with peanut shells. Like a game, people were randomly tossing around peanut shells and an occasional peanut too. Shortly after arriving I was introduced to Laura, a friend Martha had known from school. Laura was attractive and almost as tall as I was; she turned men's heads when she walked by. She was also confident, lively, outgoing, gregarious and able to have a good time in a carefree manner. She possessed every positive trait that I lacked and wished I had except that I did not want to turn men's heads when I walked by. By chance, by luck, or by Martha, Laura and I ended up seated beside each other. We spent time talking to each other and we seemed to hit it off right. Once in a while she would pause, give a vigorous throw over her shoulder to release a generous handful of peanut shells and oblivious to whomever was seated behind us.

After dinner, the other members in our party vacated the table in pairs for the dance floor. Laura and I remained behind and continued talking to each other. I thought about asking her to dance but I did not know how to dance. Anyway I was too shy to ask and take the risk of making a fool of myself by trying to dance.

Laura did not wait very long before asking me to dance with her. Somewhat taken aback, I replied, "I really don't know how to dance but I'm willing to try if you’re willing to risk bruised toes."

Laura looked at me for a moment as if she was trying to decide whether or not I was sincere or if I was only trying to politely dismiss her overture. Then with a laugh she said, "Alright! But wait. I'll let you know when the best time to learn comes along."

Now it was my turn to wonder if she was sincere or only kindly putting me off but Laura kept her word and asked me to dance with her when the disc jockey finally selected music with a slow tempo minus the severe thumping beat of disco music. For a moment I ignored my inhibitions and held her close to me. Holding someone close to me was a wonderful feeling but as soon as I was conscious of what I was doing I accidentally stepped on her foot, stopped dancing and drew back feeling very embarrassed.

"Why did you stop?" she asked, and continued,” You’re supposed to keep time with the music.”

"Well... ah... the truth is... um... I never learned how to dance." I sputtered, trying to regain my composure. 

Keeping time with the music was not my problem. The feeling of holding someone close to me, a feeling I was unfamiliar with, had distracted me. 

"I'm really not very good at this." I added to my feeble attempt at an answer and felt my face turning redder.

"Let's go back and sit down. You can buy me a drink, and then we can talk and throw a few more peanut shells." Laura offered tactfully, rescuing me from myself.

"Thanks, but I think you've been doing most of the shelling that’s been going on." I commented as we returned to our table.

"Are all you French guys in Quebec as shy and nervous as you are?" Laura asked.

"What?" surprised by her question.

"Martha told me that you’re her cousin from Montreal and you recently moved to Vancouver.” She revealed.

“Yeah. That’s me” I interjected. 

“We've been talking for a while and I can't detect any trace of a French accent." she said and sounding puzzled. 

"Really?" I responded, wondering what was next. 

"I must admit you speak very good English for a Frenchie." Laura stated.

"Merci." and I burst out in uncontrollable laughter.

"What's so funny?" Laura asked in a tone that indicated that she had not deliberately intended to be funny.

"Yes, I'm from Montreal but I'm not any more French than you are." I answered.

"You're not?" she questioned in astonishment.

"No." I replied, strongly emphasizing the no.

"Oh!" she paused, "I'm sorry."

"No need to be."

"But I thought everyone in Quebec is French."

"I'm not surprised though. That's the impression some of those idiots in Quebec City would like people outside La Belle Province to believe" I answered.

“So you’re really not French?” Laura commented in a questioning manner, and almost sounding disappointed.

About fifteen percent of the population there is non-French and I’m from that fifteen percent. Sorry to disappoint you but I’m not French." I stated.

"I'm not disappointed. It's just that I've never met a French-Canadian before." Laura mentioned

"I guess you'll have to wait a little bit longer." I pointed out.

"You must think I’m asking you some stupid questions." Laura deferred.

"No they're not stupid but they're certainly different from the one's I've been asked so far. Anyway, no one has ever complimented me about my spoken English before and I have to thank you for that.” I replied.

“I feel so stupid.” She remarked sheepishly.

“Don’t. You should’ve heard all the giggles when Martha and the others heard my renditions of names like Nanaimo and Esquimalt.” I admitted.

“Nana-imo and Es-key-mo, I suppose?” Laura asked in a tone that indicated she had heard these renditions before.

“I guess I’ve gone on a bit too long." I concluded.

"Why did you come to Vancouver?" she questioned.

"There’ve been times I’ve wondered myself, but things are changing in Quebec and people like me will never fit in or belong there." I replied.

"But weren't you born there?" Laura probed.

"Yes, and that's the tragedy." I sighed.

"Why do you say tragedy?" she probed further.

"I never learned any more French than was necessary to get out of high school with a diploma.” I admitted.

“Too bad. You should’ve studied here. You don’t even have to take French.” Laura explained, and then asked again, “So why did you come to Vancouver?”

“I was certain Vancouver was the promised-land...that far end of the rainbow." I replied. 

"You don't think so now?" She asked, probably noticing that I was sounding less than certain. 

"When I left home I was convinced. But today I don't even know why I’m here." I admitted. 

"Most of us don't know why we're here." Laura interjected, for an instant sounding very philosophical. 

"I don't mean in that sense, but that doesn't mean I don't like Vancouver because I do." I added. 

"Well you're here now aren't you?" Laura commented, reminding me of the obvious. 

"I don't really want to live in Quebec, but sometimes I do and want to go back there, but I won't. Not after that incident in October 1970.” I tried to explain.

“What incident?” Laura interjected. The expression on her face told me that she did not know what I was talking about.

“The separatists. The kidnappings…when Trudeau called in the army.” I elaborated succinctly.

“Oh that. I never understood what that fuss was all about.”  She said dismissively.

“I don’t know if anyone really knows the truth behind those events.” I commented.

“Does it matter?” She asked?

“No. Not really.” I answered.

“Then leave it alone because people here in the West don’t want to hear about Quebec. We’re fed up with hearing about Quebec. We’re fed up with French being rammed down our throats. What does Quebec want anyway?” Laura commented, revealing the typical anti-Quebec hostility that I often encountered in Vancouver when people discovered I was from Quebec.

"I don’t know. Everything just suddenly changed. Believe me, if the changes there continue, I’ll just have been the first of many to leave. Does any of this make sense?" I ended, aware that I had been rambling on about Quebec, a Quebec that most western Canadians did not understand and did not want to hear about.

"It sort of does if you mean that you want to live in both places but don't want to." she summarized.

"No, that's not what I mean but I suppose that’s what I said. I can't even explain my feelings about Quebec to myself when I think about it so how can I explain to anyone else?" I said.

"It's okay. I wasn't really looking for anything deep and profound." Laura assured me and then asked, "Did you leave anyone behind?"

"My family still lives there. I came alone." I replied.

"I mean, did you leave your girlfriend there?" she asked.

"No. No girlfriend. No special person in my life was left behind." I answered.

"Oh, I'm sorry." she said softly.

"Don't be. Having no one special made leaving easier." I stated.

We talked long into the evening and ignored most of the antics that were going on around us. Laura was not shy or bashful about asking questions and she asked me quite a few questions that I would not have dared to ask her. Inwardly I was glad she had a long list of questions. During the course of the evening though, I learned that Laura had finished high school and was working through the summer at her first full time job, a clerical position with a mining company. At the present time she was undecided about whether or not to continue with her studies. She mentioned she thought about studying to become a nurse but was not certain enough now to go ahead and do it. Since she started work and had experienced life in the business world, she was thinking instead about business studies. No doubt in my mind, she would do well in whatever direction she would eventually choose. While she did not say so exactly I figured she revealed enough clues to indicate to me that she was not involved in a relationship with anyone special.

As with all things though, the evening had to come to an end and Laura told me she had to go. I would certainly have offered to take her home if I owned a car, but I did not. I did not even know how to drive. Laura had her own car anyway. For a moment I thought about asking her to give me a ride home so we could talk a little bit longer but Ted was with me and I had also promised Martha that I would go home with her so she would not have to travel alone. I asked Laura if I could see her again and she agreed to meet with me tomorrow afternoon. I could have asked Ted to take Martha home but Laura was gone by the time that idea had occurred to me.

We did meet the next day. Laura had a friend from out of town visiting with her so I asked Ted to join us. The four of us met at Queen Elizabeth Park, a beautiful location for strolling that should have been conducive for inspiring witty and intelligent conversation. While we spent the afternoon together looking at the various flower gardens and talking, I sensed that some of the magic of last night had been lost and I did not know how to go about finding it again. Laura also seemed distant, as if her thoughts and attention were elsewhere. She was not asking me a lot of questions as she did last night. She was not asking me any questions. I was trying to encourage conversation by asking her questions but the art of small talk was not my strong suit. I was desperately grasping. I think she could sense my awkwardness and fumbling for things to say. By the end of late afternoon we went our separate ways but not before I promised her that I would telephone her later in the week. Laura was noncommittal in her response to me.

The following evening when I arrived home after work I found the previous day’s dishes still piled high in the sink waiting for some attention. I had assumed Ted would do them if he was not doing anything but he had been asleep. He had been asleep all day and my opening the door had awakened him. A few times Ted had mentioned he was going to find a job so he could stay in Vancouver but so far I did not think he was really interested in finding work. He had not even tried. Anyway, I was attempting to find a larger place for the two of us to live but nothing even remotely affordable was available. I was annoyed about the whole situation. Ted must have realized as much and was quick to distract me from the situation at hand.

"Have you heard from Laura?" Ted asked sleepily.

"No. Did she call here?" I asked, probably sounding desperate.

"No, the phone didn't ring all day." Ted informed me.

"How would you know? You were asleep all day." I argued.

"I would have heard it ring." Ted insisted.

"Never mind. She won't call. She doesn't have the number." I answered, realizing that Laura did not have my telephone number nor had I even thought to give it to her.

"Do you have her number?" Ted asked.

"Yeah. I do. Yesterday I promised to call her later in the week. Should I wait for later in the week? I answered, probably sounding uncertain.

“Isn’t that what you said you’d do?" Ted replied in his often rhetorical manner.

“How late is later in the week?” I wondered aloud.

“Call now. It’s already later in the week.” Ted responded, reminding me of the obvious.

“What should I do now?" I asked, but not really expecting an answer. I was facing an unfamiliar situation and had no idea about how to proceed. Ted probably had no idea either but I wanted a second opinion anyway.

"I dunno." Ted replied first, and then suggested, "Why don't you send her flowers?"

"Flowers?" I questioned. That answer had not been expected.

"That's what that guy Doug did for Martha." Ted pointed out.

Ted and I had been present when the box was delivered to Martha. I vividly remembered her reaction when she opened the box and found it filled with roses. She had been so very surprised and yet at the same time she seemed to be ecstatic.

After thinking about Ted’s suggestion I then asked, "Do you think roses are the right type of flower to send?"

"I dunno. Never thought about it before." Ted replied while he fiddled with the cigarette he was rolling.

"Neither have I, but maybe I should.” I commented somewhat absentmindedly while trying to imagine how Laura might react if I sent her roses.

"Why do you want to send her flowers?" Ted questioned.

"You just suggested it!" I exclaimed.

"That doesn't mean you should." Ted answered.

"I really don't know. I just want to thank her for being there when I needed someone at that particular moment." I said.

"She may not see things the same way." Ted commented. 

"Well she gave me a reason to believe that all was not completely hopeless." I replied pensively and, after pausing, continued, "Perhaps I will find the right person. I can’t say that I have but I can’t say that I haven’t.”

"I don't think so." Ted stated.

"What makes you say that?" I challenged and silently worried that he just may have been right.

"I dunno, but I can tell you I just don't think so, especially after yesterday afternoon's walk in that park." Ted said in his manner that indicated that he was certain about what he was telling me. He then added, "That doesn't mean you shouldn't waste the bucks on the flowers. Do it and you'll know for sure."

I thought about Ted's suggestion and his comments. Some of them made sense to me. If nothing else, I rationalized, doing something would certainly let me know where I stood in Laura's world, if anywhere.

The following morning Ted left on a camping trip to Garibaldi and I was stuck in the office. I had difficulty keeping my mind on work. Distracted, I thought more about Laura, about the past weekend, and wrestled with Ted's suggestion. By noon I decided what I was going to do. The boss's office was vacant after he left for lunch, so I sneaked in unobserved, closed the door and called the first florist I found listed in the telephone book. The last thing I wanted was for my colleagues at work to overhear what I was doing. The price quoted for delivering a dozen roses was far higher than my expectations had been but then what did I know about prices for flowers from a florist? Regardless of the price I went ahead with the plan. 

That evening I was expecting the telephone to ring and to hear a happy voice on the other end of the line. As always, the telephone was deadly silent. Not even a wrong number called as I waited through the entire evening. "Maybe the roses didn't get delivered." I dejectedly hoped.

The following morning I checked with the florist about the delivery. Yes. The roses had been delivered yesterday in the afternoon just as I had requested. I was somewhat surprised because I had been desperately hoping that perhaps the florist had overlooked a delivery.

Again during the following evening the telephone remained silent. "Ring!" I half demanded and half pleaded out loud. Silence. I wanted to pick the telephone up and call but was afraid to.

I had taken this long to realize that Laura still did not know my telephone number. Then again, she could have easily obtained my telephone number from Martha. No longer could I wait and suffer through more of this self-inflicted torture of wondering and waiting. I had to find out. Nervously I picked up the receiver and dialed the number Laura had given to me. The telephone at the other end seemed to ring quite a few times. The time may have been later than I realized.

“Hi Laura.” I greeted, hoping to sound happy and confident.

“I’m not Laura.” a man’s voice on the other end of the line. 

"Can I speak to Laura?"

“Wait a minute.”

I waited nervously while she came to the phone. Inwardly I was trembling timidly. My hands and forehead were wet with perspiration from anxiety.

"Hi Laura!" I greeted again, again trying to sound positive and confident.

A pause ensued and then she said, "I'm sorry but I’m not ready for this. 

Feeling more deflated than dead balloon, I uttered a feeble, "Oh." 

"Please don’t call me again."

Stunned, I said nothing and another uncomfortable long silence ensued. Before I could collect my thoughts and respond, she hung up on me. She had offered no excuses, no explanations and no acknowledgement about the flowers. Just nothing. I was not ready for this either. 

Slowly I replaced the receiver, wondering if this was really the same person I had seen only last weekend. "Did I dial the right number?" I asked myself in disbelief. Yes, I had, and without a doubt. While the situation was a disheartening slap in the face it was one that I was familiar with and had lived through before. Nonetheless I felt like a failure condemned to that terrible fate of never finding the right person. At that moment I wanted nothing more than to escape and retreat to bandage my wounded pride. Kitsilano Beach was my usual place of refuge.

The entire waterfront area was deserted as far as I could determine. No one else would venture out to this place in the dark in the wee hours just past midnight but if so, it did not matter anyway. I was grateful that Ted had gone camping for a few days and wasn't around to witness what had occurred. Alone-ness was becoming my horrible and seemingly inseparable shadow.

"What went wrong?" I silently asked myself, and then followed with, "Did I miss something out somewhere?" 

Standing at the shore and listening to the little lapping waves incessantly rising and falling against the rocks, I faced the edge of what appeared to be a huge black void. It was really known as the Pacific Ocean. At night the ocean did not look very different from the sky except for the absence of stars. Inside of me were silent anger and a rage of helplessness. My thoughts and feelings were confused turmoil; desperately wanting some way to change my nature but not having any idea how to change it and yet at the same time not knowing if I really did want to change my nature. In frustration I picked up a stone and hurled it out as far as I could and listened to it splash into the water. Then I picked up another stone and did the same, and then another and another and continued until losing count of the number of stones that had been relocated. My anger subsided but the despair did not.

Choosing what appeared to be the most hospitable, I slumped down on top of one of the large rocks and listened to the ocean for a while. That may have been quite a while. Eventually I asked aloud, "God, are the most desperately urgent and pleading prayers from the desperately lonely heart of a desperately miserable young man at a desperately difficult time those that you truly want to hear?"

I heard no answer but no one else was there to hear my words as I continued talking. 

Having finished saying what I felt had to be said I remained perched upon the rock and continued listening to the sounds of the ocean. The water was ceaseless motion and, after a time, became somewhat soothing. I pulled my pipe and pouch out of a pocket and began the habitual ritual that always started with knocking the dottles and cinders from the previous burning out of the bowl. Satisfied the pipe was cleared out, I commenced stuffing the bowl with tobacco. Packed tightly enough to burn well but not too tightly to make drawing on it a chore. With the little stove well stoked I set it afire and soon had clouds of smoke heading skyward as well as every other direction the breezes would carry it.

As I remained there staring out across the water, I recalled a television documentary I had watched several years earlier about the space program. One scholarly professor interviewed said nothing about space but gave an outline of what he called "50-40-10". His idea was that fifty percent of energies and resources should be directed into simply defining what the goals are or should be. Having defined an objective, the next forty percent of energies and resources should be spent deciding upon how to reach that defined objective. Afterward, the final ten percent of energies and resources should be utilized implementing the how to achieve the what. To me the theory was common sense that could apply to almost any human endeavour and that was probably the reason I recalled his talk. Perhaps half of my problem was that I had not yet clarified in my own thoughts what any of my goals or objectives were or should have been.

During that post-midnight meditation I asked myself a lot of searching questions about why I was miserable. This embarrassing latest fiasco was not the reason but was enough of a jolt to be the catalyst that drove me to search deeper for answers. Slowly I realized that I really did not want to change my nature. That would have meant changing who I was, and while I may not have liked the manner in which my nature had conditioned me to respond, I detested any thought about trying to be someone I was not. 

Consumed by a desperate obsession of searching for the right person to share my life with, I never gave any consideration to who that person may eventually be or possibly should be. Rejections and disappointments had become so much of an obstacle that I lost sight of the possibility of actually finding her. And, if I was fortunate enough to find her, then what? I never thought to look beyond at what may have to follow afterward. 

What did I truly want? 

I finally knew! 

I wanted someone to share my life with, but not with any insincere, halfhearted measures. I wanted a complete and genuine commitment like a carefully calculated high stakes risking of everything for winning an even greater reward. My commitment to love would have to be all or nothing at all, and she would have to want and demand the same from me. 

But who is she? 

Where is she? 

So far, all I had was the nothing at all nowhere at all. 

I'd spent well over an hour in silent thought and earnest prayer, but the rock I was seated upon had become too uncomfortable for me to endure any more time on it as if I was attempting to hatch it. A sore butt was signal enough to head back. 

After getting to my feet, I picked up one final stone and hurled it out over the water. Instead of the expected splash, I heard an unexpected clunk, because the stone bounced off a floating log I hadn't noticed in the darkness. As large as the ocean was, I'd managed to miss it. Defiantly, I faced the ocean, raised my right arm with a clenched fist and then looked skyward. 

With a momentary new found determination and a defiant refusal to give up, I vowed out loud, "Okay God. if I have to cross the Pacific Ocean to find her, I’ll do it!"

Several days later...

When I met up with Martha at her Mom's home last weekend, she invited me to drop in for a visit and have dinner. She'd left home a few weeks earlier and moved into an apartment nearby the Vancouver Aquatic Center where she worked. 

As I saw it, Martha's situation wasn't all that much different from mine, but she didn't view her situation that way. Martha did not have anyone special in her life but she did not seem all that concerned about it either. She did not have to be. She was attractive and someone was always asking her to go out on a date.

Poking her head out around the kitchen doorway, she inquired, "How was work today?"

"Work’s fine. It's outside work that's not so great." I complained.

"In what way?" 

"I don’t think I’ll ever meet the right person." I answered rather sullenly.

"What's the rush? There’s plenty of time." she assured me as she fiddled with the pot on the stove.

"That's easy for you to say. You’re not in a rush.” I remarked.

“So now you’re in a rush to meet someone?” she asked, answering my question with a question.

“No…not rush. Maybe impatient is a better word.” I said.

“Then what’s the rush?” Martha asked again. 

“I seem to have such a difficult time understanding what people are saying when they’re not saying anything even though they’re trying to say something." I remarked while I paced around at the doorway.

"What on earth are you talking about?" Martha asked.

“Nothing really.” 

"That was a good example." 

"Touche."

“Dinner will be ready in a few more minutes. Would you like a beer? I’ve got some of those imported German beers you like." She offered. 

"Great!" pausing to grab a beer from the refrigerator. before continuing. "Why can't people say what they mean?”

“Or mean what they say?” Martha interjected.

“Exactly! But I suppose I'm one of the worst offenders now that I mention it.” I continued.

"Opener’s in the drawer beside the sink.” She said while pointing.

“Thanks.” 

“For someone who doesn't say very much you certainly had a lot of nothing to say.” She commented.

“Really?” I asked in a tone of mock-seriousness.

“Just get to the point." Martha remarked.

"Our society has declined to the point that we now live in an age when it’s necessary for people to explain why yes might mean no…except when no should be yes…but maybe not yes because it might not mean yes if it means no…and could also mean yes if it isn't certain the actual no was a yes that should’ve meant no in the first place." I spouted out in frustration 

Dumbfounded, Martha looked at me for a second and erupted into laughter.

"Am I Right?" hoping for a little empathy.

"I can't believe I heard all that."

"Neither can I... and please don't ask me to repeat it." I conceded, although I did not intend to sound so ridiculous. "Yeah, I suppose that did sound kind of mixed up. Have you received any more roses from Doug?" I asked in an attempt to change the direction of the subject.

"No. I’m not seeing him anymore." she stated flatly and then asked, pointing at the bottle I was holding, "Would you like a glass for that?"

"No?" I asked, somewhat surprised and added, "but then I haven't been over to visit your Mom for the last few weeks and I haven't heard any of the latest news items. No glass, I'll drink it out of the bottle."

"Mom doesn't know anything about Doug. I only dated him a few times so I never told Mom about him." Martha admitted.

“Is there supposed to be a meaning behind giving someone roses?" I questioned.

Martha laughed in disbelief at my question and then asked, "Are you serious?"

"I'm not sure what the real meaning is but I could make an educated guess.” I commented plainly.

"I can't believe it!" she exclaimed. "They’re a symbol of love. Roses say: I love you.”

"I can believe it.” I muttered. 

Martha's revelation surprised me and also made me aware of the wrong message I had very loudly and clearly, albeit unintentionally, conveyed to Laura.

Martha gave me a puzzled look for a moment and then asked, "Are you the one?"

"The one what?" wondering if I'd been found out.

"The one who sent Laura roses.” 

“Who said anything about Laura?” playing dumb.

“Who brought up the subject of roses?” Martha countered.

“What of it?” 

“Diana told me that some guy..."

"Who's Diana?"

"Laura's older sister... and she told me some guy Laura met a few nights ago sent her a dozen roses."

"News sure travels fast"

"And two's not hard to figure out."

"Yeah... I know."

"So?"

"So I'm the idiot..." now wishing I could hide, "but I’d rather not think about it."

"Why would you send her roses?" Martha asked, sounding incredulous.

"She made quite an impression on me and it seemed like a good idea at the time." I replied.

“Really?” She admonished.

“To tell the truth, I didn’t know what I was doing.” I admitted.

“I can see that. Laura’s a person who loves to have a good time but with her it’s never anything more than that” Martha said.

“Well she fooled me” I commented.

“You're not the first to be smitten." Martha revealed, and then continued, "Did I ever tell you about the guy she met in Europe last summer?" 

"No" I answered, wondering what was next.

"They must have made quite an impression on each other. After she came back they wrote letters to each other for nearly six months." Martha revealed. 

"I've heard of people doing that but I've also wondered if it's real." I commented.

"You mean romance by mail?" Martha asked, maybe to confirm that we were talking about the same subject.

"Yeah, but what happened after six months?" I wondered.

"That guy immigrated to Canada! He came to Vancouver hoping to marry Laura. I don't know what happened but she turned him down." Martha stated.

"Wow! I had no idea." Was all I could muster and very surprised by this revelation.

"So she got to you too, eh?" Martha commiserated.

"Nah. Not that much." I answered, realizing that she never gave me the chance.

"You need to do more dating." Martha advised me.

"It's not my style." I retorted dismissively.

"You'll never meet anyone if you don't." she cautioned.

"You're probably right, but I always feel as if I am on display or under examination. Here! Try me! No obligation! If you’re not completely satisfied, then just return... I hate it!" I declared emphatically.

"Nonsense! You haven't done it enough to know." Martha countered.

"Enough? I've had more than enough." I guffawed.

"When was the last time you went on a date?" she asked.

"Last week... if that walk in the park counts" I answered.

"No! Before that." she said.

"Last summer." I admitted.

"When was the last time you had a steady girl friend?" she probed further.

I didn't answer.

"Well?" she persisted.

"About four years ago." I conceded.

"Four years?"

"Did you have to make it sound like forever and a day?"

"You definitely need to do more dating.” 

"I don't want any more frivolous nights out on the town. I want something else."

"Like what?"

"I want something deeper and long lasting. I want someone I could give my life for, to live for and die for." I stated.

"You can't run before you walk." Martha quipped.

"I don't want to walk. I don't even want to run. I just want to fly!" and spread my arms out like wings to emphasize my point.

"And you'll probably crash land." 

"I think I just did." and feeling deflated after hearing that, I let my arms drop.

"Think about it." Martha urged, her concern obvious "Really you should for your own good." 

"I will." I promised, knowing I'd consider her advice and probably ignore it anyway.

Laura was a lesson never forgotten. Yes, the wrong message was clearly conveyed but how could Laura have known? A few times I thought about calling her to try and explain my intentions but then thought otherwise. What was done was not going to be undone by a lot of difficult to express words and there was no point trying to explain my actions. Anyway, Laura's message had been clear to me, she wasn't interested. For a while I wondered if a slower more cautious approach would have made any difference in the outcome. Is the anguish of longing and doing nothing worse than the despair of reaching out and being rebuffed and rejected? No, because the anguish is the same. But who cares? I should have sent the roses anonymously to Karen McLennan.

Ted finally returned from his camping trip and announced that he had enough of Vancouver and British Columbia. Ted had made up his mind to return home to Montreal. For a while he had talked about finding a job and staying in Vancouver. I liked the idea but soon realized that for Ted staying was nothing more than an idea. He had been enjoying a long vacation and was never really interested in finding employment and living in Vancouver. While Ted was definitely not the easiest person to share living quarters with I was very disappointed he was leaving.

When the announcement for boarding came, passengers started filing through the gate and down the stairway to the waiting train. Ted and I exchanged our good-byes and then he too disappeared down the stairway. I hung around to witness the departure of "The Canadian" as it began another 3-day eastbound journey to Montreal. I envied Ted because he was taking the train trip across Canada that I wished I could take. Ted was going home to Quebec and I was going back to work tomorrow morning. The stainless steel streamliner quickly vanished and I walked home via the Burrard Bridge. I finally realized that Quebec was not the wrong end of the rainbow but the far end of the rainbow. My real home felt so very far away.

Slouching down in the chair in front of the desk I stared at the backs of the music books. I picked up the CP Rail timetable that was still parked beside the pipe tin. Looking at the time table and checking my watch I mentally noted that Ted would be east of Mission City if the train was keeping reasonably close to the schedule. Tossing it back beside the tin, I did not feel like looking at the timetable either. Listening to a recording of Beethoven's third Rasumovsky string quartet, the mournful, almost painful strains of the second movement accurately reflected my feelings while I stared up at the ceiling. For a few weeks Ted's presence had stifled the silence, but now, as before, the silence was again stifling. I wished that Ted had stayed longer but he was gone and I was alone again. My interrupted unimportant routines would return to normal, the usual normal drudgery. The return to silence was depressing. Sleep would be a welcome relief when it came to end the day. 

The days afterward...

I've always dismissed dreams as nothing more than meaningless mind-fluff, and that's only when I've been able to remember them. After all, dreams almost always evaporate from conscious thought and memory within seconds of awakening, and maybe for good reason. Nonetheless one specific haunting dream I remembered, because it was so very different from anything I could recall having ever dreamed about before. Those vision fragments were so vivid and startling, and life-like real too, that I was unable to expel those mind-scenes from my thoughts. 

During the night I had dreamed I was married. That in itself wasn't unusual or bizarre, however the young woman in my dream whom I'd married was Chinese. And I saw her face in detail! 

She possessed an attractive curvaceous Asian-shaped face, a mesmerizing pair of dark brown Asian eyes gazing back into mine, and long Chinese black hair. No doubt was in my mind, because she was definitely Chinese, and very beautiful. While looking at me, in a soft voice she said, "I love you."

Startled, I awoke and sat up, yet wished I hadn't. That dream was strange and confusing yet at the same time was encouraging. Awake or in a dream, no woman had ever told me that she loved me, and in that fog of being half-awake, I wished I'd learned her name.

Never before in my entire life had I ever considered the possibility that the person of my heart's desires might be someone of another race and nationality.

The following morning I contemplated the possibility of what I'd envisioned, and I prayed to God about it. 

Did those times of prayer alter my perspectives?

I didn't know, but I sought to keep an open mind. Nonetheless feeling conflicted, I played-down the probability of a hypothetical interracial relationship in my future as not likely ever to happen. 

After all, if I felt incapable of understanding members of the opposite sex in my own world, then how could I possibly fare any better with a member of the opposite sex in another world? 

If I was a failure when it came to meeting and trying to establish a meaningful relationship with a woman from my own race, how could there be any possibility of meeting a woman from another race?

Crossing those formidable barriers was just too far-fetched a notion to ever occur in my life, but the few unforgettable detailed scenes from that haunting dream had seemed too real. 

"Who are you? Where are you?" my unsettled heart persisted in nagging.

Several more days had passed, but I was unable to dismiss and let go of those persisting imaginary mind scenes of what the future could possibly bring.

Seated at my makeshift desk, I stared at the unopened Bible before asking, “God, is any of this stuff that's been going on in my head really possible?”

I didn't know anyone Chinese, and I didn't know anything about Chinese people other than from buying takeout at the small Chinese restaurant on the nearby corner of Yew and Cornwall. To settle the matter and hoping to find peace, I decided to visit Chinatown. If nothing else, I felt certain a visit to Chinatown would allow me a much closer look at Chinese people. I didn't want to admit I was about to go on a fool's errand, but I was very slim-chance hoping I might encounter the beautiful woman I'd dreamed about. 

 

As I waited at the bus stop, unwanted memories of that useless English literature class I'd been sitting through last year popped to mind. Those boring books that had me sifting for those supposed gems of meaningless symbolism hidden within the penned lines of several famous authors whose published works detailed the failed lives of their fictional protagonists. I hated reading that depressing stuff, because to arrive at the same answers, all I had to do was look in a mirror first thing in the morning and acknowledge the reflection.

In my term paper final, I'd argued that one book in particular should have been titled, 'The Lonely Heart is a Desperate Hunter' because only a lonely heart can sink low enough to become a desperate hunter. I failed the course.

My first stop was at a small shop that sold Chinese foodstuffs. The first thing that hit me was the smell inside, because it was so foreign yet new to me but I couldn't say pleasant. Most of the fresh produce consisted of fruits and vegetables I'd never seen before in my life. Aside from the canned goods, and almost all with Chinese labels, little else in the shop was even vaguely familiar. The bespectacled elderly grey-haired gentleman behind the counter at the doorway was talking in Chinese to two patrons like they were old friends. They probably were. 

I felt so very visible and out of place in here, something that I'd never experienced as a unilingual Anglo in French-only small-town rural Quebec. After two or three more uncomfortable minutes of looking around, I left the store without buying anything. 

Undeterred, I decided to visit another store, one I was sure would feel less intimidating, a book store.

"This is better." I thought as I stepped through the doorway, but better only lasted until I discovered that ninety-nine percent of all the printed materials in here were in Chinese. 

I never considered the most obvious and logical... that a book store in Chinatown would only have books in Chinese. Nonetheless, I browsed around, pausing here and there to pick out a book with an attractive colourful cover, and examine it while trying not to look out of place. Who on earth was I fooling? 

Minutes later an elderly lady wearing what looked like dark blue pyjamas appeared, and asked if she could help me find something. Aware I was definitely in the wrong place, and feeling very awkward, I admitted, "I can't read Chinese."

Without a word, she gave me one of those understanding smiles that could only say, "I know."

"Do you have any music books?" I ventured.

She gestured with a hand and said, "This way."

I followed her as she led the way to the back of the shop and through a doorway into the other half of the store I hadn't noticed.

Much to my astonishment, a row of music books were neatly covers-out displayed like magazines, but all the titles were Chinese.

She lifted a magazine-sized publication off the shelf, perhaps having noticed I'd glanced at it first, pointed at each large red Chinese character on the cover, and translated, "White Haired Girl."

I nodded because I didn't know what else to say or do, so she proffered me the item to examine.

The pages were few, but the music notation inside was the same as western music. The only exception were the lyrics which were Chinese, but this was no big deal.

Pointing at the cover, I asked, "Is this music from a ballet or opera?"

The kind and helpful shop assistant smiled and nodded affirmative, but I had no idea whether or not she understood my question.

I handed the "White Haired Girl" back to her and selected an additional pair of music scores for piano, so I could give each one a cursory once-over. Aside from the artistic front covers, the layout inside looked much the same as a Schirmer or Peters publication. 

Although I had no idea what the other two Chinese titles were, I handed my selections to her and confirmed, "I'll take all three." 

I paid for my items and exited the store, and while making the short two block-walk from near the corner of West Pender and Columbia, to the Woodward's flagship store at Abbott and West Hastings, I'd returned to the world I knew. After zipping into Woodward's to pick-up a few groceries, I grabbed a bus and headed back to Kitsilano.

Without even leaving Vancouver let alone Canada, I'd just experienced my first taste of west-meets-east culture shock. That little ditty I'd sometimes heard but never gave any thought to, jumped to mind, "East is east and west is west and never the twain shall meet." 

Did someone tell this to Christopher Columbus when he put forward the theory that the earth was round? 

Perhaps the day he set sail? 

Might this expression have been translated from Chinese? 

Or did some clueless idiot arrive at this conclusion after visiting a downtown Chinatown somewhere? 

The ditty's origin didn't matter, because there was absolutely no possible way that I would ever have a Chinese wife. Dreams are definitely the stuff nonsense is made from.

The Oddblock Station Agent