Climatic irony

I should have had more water. Eghck. My tongue is so dry. It feels like sandpaper in my mouth. My cotton t-shirt has a higher water content than I do. I’m burning up. Locals pass on the sidewalk wearing blue jeans, looking comfortable, while I fry in a pair of shorts.

“ Hace un tiempo muy bueno we!”

If she was talking to me, I didn’t respond. From what Spanish I know, she said what nice weather. Oh God, how I disagree. The sun beats down so hard that even shaded areas are blistering hot. The only solution is sitting perfectly still. My mouth is open. I can hear my deep, slow breathing. . .I . . . need . . . water.

“Juan, can I have some of your water?”

“Sorry man, you can’t drink this water, you gonna get sick”

Oh yeah. I'm so thirsty I've forgotten. Only drink bottled water, they say. Make sure you drink a lot of water, they say. These are the two most vital proverbs of a tourist in Mexico, and I am not taking part in either right now. Eghck.

“Don’t worry about it, you gonna be on the plane soon, man”

“Yeah, I guess”

At the airport, the heat makes my brain feel absent and thus my farewell is less thoughtful than I would have hoped. I get on the plane. The overhead fan blows hot air at my face. The large man across the aisle undoes his top button and loosens his tie, easing the tension from his white-collar shackles. He sweats exponentially. I can smell his ripe odour. I am a tetris block inside of my two-by-two space, up to my elbows in exclusively carry-on luggage. The stewardess fans herself with a pamphlet before half-heartedly telling us to fasten our seat belts. The plane takes off.

Serve us. Come on, offer a beverage. Are you paid to stand around and look pretty? Well, partially, yes, I know, but come on. Are you hoarding all the precious water for yourself? Is that kind of thing premium on Mexican planes too? Should I ask for water? Should I ask for "agua"? Is your head as high above the clouds as the rest of your body?

She presses her back against the wall of her cubicle, shaken from turbulence and probably dehydration. She is in the same boat as the rest of us. She is the only one who has to stand for the duration of the flight.

Sweet mercy, here she comes, pushing her little cooler cart before I even got a chance to ask. I ask for a can of sprite, and just like that, she hands me one. The carbonated citrusy flavour is so refreshing, so chuggable. I love sprite. Rather than rationalizing, I drink it all. Feeling glorious and satisfied, I sit back in my coach class seat and sleep.

“Wake up, sir, we’ve arrived safely”

“Wh-Wha? We’re there? Already?”

I look out the window to see sunny skies and grass, no snow. I’ve stopped sweating but remain damp as I peel from my back rest and rise to my feet. I juggle my carry-on luggage wishing I had more hands as I stumble onto the runway.

The frigid air engulfs my brain as I breathe in through my nose. Brrr! The breeze gives my exposed skin goosebumps. Two girls are talking next to me wearing leather coats and dainty gloves.

"Quite a nice day," one says.

In a Minnesotan accent, the other replies "Oh ya, home sweet home."

Nice day? I can see my breath! No one standing outside the airport wears shorts but myself. Brrr! What I need right now is a pair of pants and some hot chocolate...

Nice day. For those dressed for the weather, maybe, but not for me. Not anymore, anyway.

The Trap

After scraping up that one last meager bite, I chew and swallow, and know that it's time to hit the road. I excuse myself and diligently run through the list of things to do in my head, thanking Mom for the pork roast cooked just the way I like it. As my grumbling gut starts to digest, I can't help but think there is still a lot on my plate for tonight.

The girl with me sits cross-legged on the edge of my sofa. Looking into her wide impatient eyes, I read her mind and utter, "let's get going". She springs up.

"You got ready fast for a change," she adds.

"Yeah I guess so," I reply under my breath in a less joyful tone than hers.

"Do you have the tickets?"

"Ya. We gotta go."

I'm late, but not in any cool or casual way. Somehow I'm late for an informal, casually-made affair with no specific time frame. I hope my friends don't mind, I only want to see them for a bit because I know that they have big plans tonight too. The girl and I get in the tiny car outside, I flop on to the passenger seat. My phone rings and tells me it's an unknown number. It's probably my good friend calling. I don't answer, but I'm sure it was him, he has an unknown number. I press my temple to the cold window as we drive ahead.

We stop at the bank, a gas pump, and finally the store. I buy a bottle of liquor. I commit myself to a more expensive bottle of rum following the notion that I only live once. In that respect, I plan to be very, very alive tonight.Having conquered the liquor store, I re-enter the vehicle where she has been sitting with the engine off and seat belt on. A muffled version of Beethoven's Fur Elise emits from her purse. She answers "hello?" so inquisitively it's as if she doesn't even know who's calling. Maybe it's an unknown number.

"What?... Why?... Where's yours?... I'm busy... Fine, wait fifteen minutes. I'm coming," is all I hear from the exchange. The denouement of that conversation told me another unanticipated stop was about to happen. I cringe.

"Where do we have to go now?" I whine.

"My brother locked himself out."

"Where are your parents?"

"Out."

"I don't wanna go all the way to your house. At this rate I'm not even going to see my friends."

"You'll see them eventually. Don't be pissed."

I roll my eyes animatedly as we embark down the highway and travel mile after mile further away from the only place I want to be. Things just aren't going as planned. I only want one thing and something just keeps getting in the way. Don't be pissed, she tells me. Too late. I can't believe today, of all days.

We pull into her driveway and sure enough, a boy is leaning back against the front door. I lope towards him unenthusiastically.

"Happy birthday," is all he says as I unlatch the door for him.

In my ungrateful state I force a "thanks".

The girl gets out of the car behind me and says "I have a little present for you" and urges me inside.

This better be good and it better be fast, I thought.

I enter the house, take off my shoes, and don't find any room to put them. The two dogs bark ferociously until they realize it's who it is. I step into the living room.

Everyone in the room orchestrates a deafening: "SURPRISE!" as they stretch out arms offering hugs, handshakes, and beer. I stand aloof and eventually smile once everything calms down a bit. This changes everything.

all blown out

Lines varying from twenty-five to sixty people file out from every store. Eager people poke their heads any which way to get a glimpse of the action and see what they are missing out on. Fluorescent signs and banners scream indications that prices have been brutally and repeatedly slashed-- may full prices rest in peace. Melting dirt-snow drips from my Sorel boots and contributes to the filthy flood; a mess suited for two dozen highly-trained janitors. The scent summons upon my face a wince, trying to pinpoint the stronger force of what smells like a combination of cinnamon buns and body odour. The latter prevails and I lose my appetite. The sound of screaming babies overpowers the hum of Christmas music, which, for some reason, still loops constantly in every store. A security guard passes by and utters "code beige" on his walkie. I don't know what constitutes a code beige, but this place is a circus.

Varieties of wide, tall, tiny, young, and old people all patiently wait to drop dollars on whatever Santa Clause didn't bring. Some, like myself, wish to follow through on monetary gifts brought by a different kind of Santa Clause. Subcounsciously, my hand finds its way into my cargo pocket to ensure that the cash and gift certificates haven't gone anywhere. For security purposes, I nervously do so every five minutes. This lust for retail causes my hand to sweat, dampening the wad. I feel like royalty as I bask in more money than I'd ever had. I should be exempt from standing in line because I have so much. The people lope sluggishly forward as the big red Zellers sign slowly grows larger, until finally there are but two ahead of me. I will barge through that door with the force of twenty men and spend, spend, spend. I begin to plot how the process is going to unravel. I feel like I should be stretching my hamstrings or taking deep breaths, but I'll just check on the money again.

What I shouldn't do is buy the first thing I see. Buying something I need completely escapes me, and, like any rampant money spender, all I want to do is get rid of this urging pile of money as if it's going to disintegrate. I desire what I do not require, and vice-versa. I should be rational and not buy anything unless I need it... I then revert to the theory that I would never limit myself to, say, only getting one plate at an all-you-can-eat buffet. This money is not the result of any kind of labour; it is simply the annual reward for being a good child. It is not hard-earned, but handed-over, and it's there to be spent. As merry as Christmas day was, I insist on bustling through clean-picked stores to hopefully find that one cherry to place on top.

Apparently, bargain-hunting requires a lot more than a kid with no budget. The notion of buying something I need, let alone want, goes out the window. Really, the selection is laughable. I sigh knowing that there is less and less around every corner. Eveything that remains on the shelves is either useless, still expensive, or a Christmas decoration. Any gift I've ever received beats this junk! In fact, my time would be better spent at home with my new gear and the people who bought it for me. Finally, I half-heartedly decide on some album. The clerk tells me I'm too young, and makes note of the "parental advisory, listener discretion" tag. Explicit language is nothing I haven't heard, but there's no point of making a scene, because he's right. Mom and Dad probably wouldn't approve of me spending my money that way. It seems every force is working against me and I am compelled to leave empty-handed with the same amount of cash, nothing lost, nothing gained. I bank the money for another day when it's needed, but no Boxing day bargain can match a Christmas present.

...But now I see...

Lakehead University's campus is a huge mind-boggling maze for students in their first year of study, but each following year proves exactly the opposite. The whole area is compressed once the student deciphers efficient walking routes, building names, and alphanumeric classroom codes. I am glad to be in my third of five fruitful years at this academy in my hometown, so I'd like to think I`ve been around the block a few times. Now the campus seems so small and does not necessarily fit the picture I had prior to enrolment. As humans with brains that process thought using the five senses, constantly stewing about the campus allows one to predict, perceive, question, and mock aspects of the university atmosphere that have even the slightest real significance. Then again, there's "significant" and then there's "blog-worthy". This year has offered just as many blog-worthy observations as any year before, but I'll admit that if I had presented these ideas in past years, I would have been a hypocrite.

The first week of school shows the same tendencies each year: very few people raising hands in class for fear of (a) giving a wrong answer or (b) asking a "stupid question"; encounters with acquaintances that result in fifteen to thirty seconds of banter; and the resumption of complaint. Everyone always has something to be pissed off about at university despite the fact that they pay to attend classes. The workload is difficult and heavy, tuition, among the abundance of other fees, is expensive, and as much as anyone might wish otherwise, high school days are history. Having a beer at the Outpost with friends is cool, but that's no longer what I look forward to while on campus. It is not wrong to walk through the halls of campus looking at the ground with headphones on, just as it is not wrong to avoid conversation with passers-by. I once perceived that kind of behavior to be pompous yet I now condone it. It is a mockery to be paying thousands of dollars for a social life... a degree is a more practical use of money.