TERMINAL LAUGHTER

Why stay at home and watch Freaks (1932), when you can go outside and watch Freaks (now)?

Montreal is awesome because everyone is on welfare and down on their luck. Because of this, they’re really angry, and will do crazy shit that doesn’t fly anywhere else. Often, because I’m a glutton for punishment I will go as far as to invite the attention of bizzarro humanity by making initial eye contact, and then having the audacity to sustain it. Here is a list to illustrate how I’m a terrible judge of character and deserve everything that’s coming to me.

The first is Guerlain. He is an old black man who looks like Lee Perry, and who accompanied me home for 10 blocks from the Mont-Royal metro, when I first moved to the Plateau. He initiated contact by commenting on what a “beautiful gorgeous sunny day” it was. I agreed, and he told me he was going my way. My way led right to my front doorstep, where he stalled, asking me if I wanted to drink Sangria on a roof with him. I said no, and he asked me about my apartment, offering advice because he was a landlord/art trader/saxophonist. Having no need for a new place to live/ art/ the sexual whine of a tenor saxophone, I politely thanked him for the walk. He somehow got my phone number out of me, because I’m spineless and can’t think on my feet. He gave me his card, which was printed on olive green cloth and featured a picture of a saxophone. A few weeks later he called, and when my roommate picked up he began to coyly flirt with her. My new roommates thought I was a hoser, and weak.

Another beautiful spring day, again at the metro, this time the Berri-Uqam. I sat waiting for my train reading a book, when a man with a clipboard and a generally tidy appearance approached me. He offered his immediate services as a hairstylist. I declined, but he sensed hesitance, and managed to cajole me behind a pillar, whereupon he undid my pony tail and began running his fingers through my hair. I was not even high. He then secured a limp ponytail with lots of bumps at the top of my crown and proceeded to frown at his clipboard, occasionally looking up at me.

“When was the last time you’ve seen a dentist?”

I was confused.

“Last month, I had a checkup”

I caught a glimpse of his clipboard and was dismayed to find that it was exclusively photographs of dental plates.

“Do you have a regular dentist?”

When I opened my mouth to respond he nimbly darted his groady hands in there. I power- walked away to the other end of the platform, and waited for the train. I took it to Peel where I got off and called my boyfriend at the time, Dean. On the verge of tears I told him that a man did my hair, and then grazed my teeth with his hands, his handy hands that did my hair and probably his hair and probably also zipped up his fly (unwashed). Dean was annoyed. “You always let shit like this happen to you”. I started sobbing and spitting, to try and get rid of his hand molecules. I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in the food court at Cours Mont-Royal spitting into a water bottle and feeling violated.

Lastly we have, some nameless bro on the orange line headed south from Jean-Talon. He was a mulatto dude in his early twenties rocking a hoodie and leather jacket. He had regular/fitted jeans tucked into wool socks and some high top cons. At first glance I thought to myself, “This is the best dressed man I have ever seen”. At second glance I realized his pants were unzipped and his dick was in his fist. Every stop set off renewed peels of his laughter as he realized he was forcing his fucking craziness upon a whole new group of people. Since it was summer, a string of small children tethered together from some day camp came on. This made him laugh more.