We eat at the bar; my nephew is serving.
A man sits on the stool to my left.
He says he’s at the convention for the North American Widget Manufacturers Association or something like that. As soon as he opens his mouth, we know he’s an American, which means we can’t openly share the latest Twitter rant from their moron-in-chief because you never can tell, just by looking, if the American sitting next to you comes from the far side of the Mason-Dixon line, the side that leaked into our world through a portal from the 7th dimension.
Instead, we communicate covertly. My nephew and I smile at one another and roll our eyes in unison.
My wife and I just finished an argument about whether or not the clear plastic lids on take-out food containers are recyclable. The issue is unresolved.
I forget what drink I ordered.
Big flatscreen TVs line the wall behind the bar, interrupted only by shelves of rum and bourbon. On one screen, the Leafs are doing shoot-outs in overtime. On another screen, it’s soccer. Or maybe football. I’m not sure what term to use. As a Canadian, I could go either way. For now, the issue is unresolved.
Between the two screens, on a third screen, a raven-haired woman with big lips and wide hips is sashaying down a staircase. She may be a Kardashian, but I wouldn’t know.
A team won the game—it doesn’t matter which—and now the pundits perform their post-game analysis. They have to keep talking until the clock hits a nice round number. It’s too loud to hear what they’re saying. For all I know, they could be authoritative news anchors issuing a dire warning of imminent threat. Even if they were, would that make a difference? I’d still feel obliged to pay my tab.
More men come in from the convention centre, big men in business suits that almost fit. They like the importance that suits impart, but not the stiffness. The ties come off. The smart phones come out. Everywhere, faces are aglow, cast in the pasty light from fist-sized screens. With all the noise, it’s easier to text the people you’re eating with than carry on a conversation.
We settle up and fumble with our gloves and hats and scarves. It’s cold outside. This time of year it takes longer to make our escape. Outside on the sidewalk, younger men—like the men from the convention centre—shame us. No gloves, no hats, no scarves, they strut down the sidewalk like it’s a summer’s day. They don’t feel the cold. They’re impervious.