My last Expedition
Well, my final expedition. I am down at the Harbor Front. I was supposed to meet with friends and skate.
However, I am typing away and am not paying much attention to my friends as much as I should. Oh, well. I am outside the cafeteria facing the lakeshore. I am wearing a heavy white wool pullover, one of many that my mom made for me years ago. My coat is resting beside me on this picnic table that has seen too many seasons. I sun feels warn against the cool breeze which stings my whole being. The sky is bright and light with various shades of white and light blue. I can see Toronto Island across from me, defined by bare trees surrounding the South side of Lake Ontario. Tiny dark blue and white waves move quickly in an easterly direction, anxiously demanding spring. A helicopter flies over me, but I cannot see what type it is because of the blinding sun. People keep talking to me, some are my friends encouraging me to forget work (they call this work) and skate. Now a man demands my attention, "Are you going to skate?" he asks smiling. "No." I reply realizing that I do not know him. "Hard to skate with a lap top." he continues with a bright smile". "Especially the way I skate." I reply. He is not my type I realize as I quickly and habitually give him a quick look over. I notice a red cap over a shaven head. He is wearing a beige jacket and blue jeans and I realize that other people I know are now talking to him. Perhaps they know him, perhaps not. I look over at his left side and see another man more my type seated on a bench. He has hair and carries himself well. Dressed in blue from his baseball cap to his jeans. He has seriousness about him. He opens a copy of The Toronto Sun and I realize that I am not the only one here not skating.
The skating rink looks smooth, though some parts are flooded. People of all ages glide naturally on the ice. One of my friends, Bruno is complaining that the ice is rough and full of slush. It makes me feel that I am lucky to be typing. Bruno suggests I give up the laptop and go skating. He threatens to throw the laptop onto the rink if I do not skate. I let him know how much it would cost him. Errol, another dear guy informs me not to write badly about people. I tell him I do not do that and then remember what I said about the guy who is not my type. I focus on the people skating. Some people are wrapped warmly in lively colors; others dressed in layers have very little on. The sun has returned to Toronto. I do not normally skate here preferring City Hall. But, perhaps I have judged too hastily. I listen to the rocking beat of Macraema in the background of a nearby shelter. I am truly an observer and not a participant. My eyes wander to a male seated at a picnic table to my right. He is watching me from behind yellow and black sunglasses. My eyes move toward the blond woman seated beside him and I immediately lose interest. One of the women screams out. She has spotted a hockey player.
"Who is he?" I ask.
"Doug Gilmour."
"Leave the poor guy alone." I plead.
"Why?" she asks.
"Because it must be difficult to be a celebrity."
She mingles with the group for a bit and then runs off to find the hockey player. Simone is a vibrant soul, full of laughter. I hope she does not find the poor man.
I marvel at the oversized quart of milk by the side of the rink. Skimmed milk it boasts with a lovely picture of a man and boy casually spending time on a deck. Their short sleeves suggests a warm day full of pomise ….drink milk and you will feel this nice summer day in the woods, surrounded by nature…..milk…..mmmmm……Actually, I mever liked milk since I discovered it came from a cow. In my small mind everything came from a factory…..coke, milk, meat…….
Another man has come to our vicinity. He is wearing a hockey outfit and is introduced to me. I do not thinik it is Doug Gilmour and I look out at the rink. Sea gulls are souring above us in search of food. I am feeling cooler and decide to put my coat on.
There is an announcement "Attention all skaters" the rest is incoherent but people leave the rink. I smell something nice but I cannot quite identify it. Is it a pipe or cigar? It smells nice. "What is that smell?" I ask. "Food." is the reply. I look around and only see people eating ice cream in prepackaged cones.
Simone has returned without the hockey player. I point out the man in the hockey suit and suggest he might do just as well just focus on the uniform, I suggest. " S I l v a" they pronounce as if scolding a child.
Another pal complains that it is getting cooler, while Simone repeats several times that it is a lovely day. A lovely day it is. It is interesting trying to type and socialize at the same time. People from adjoining tables stare at us. How would I describe us? We are presently a group of about. 15 and we are a mix of different backgournds. I think we are interesting. Of course, I am biased. People are staring at us because we are happy and perhaps a bit loud. I am quiet because I am typing.
"Are you a sportscaster?" someone asks me. It is amazing what comes to the minds of people when they see a person typing away.
"Have you got your skates on yet? I look up and see Bruno. Bruno is a real nice guy. He is big and bold and kind. I would love to have a brother like him. "Will you get me a coffee?" I ask. He gets me one. Another guy I know comes along and puts his face in my lap screen. His name is Tony. "What are you doing? " he asks casually. " My creative writing course." I respond. "Stick around and I will write about you." He disappears. Tony lives computers. He freelances lately after giving up a hectic job with a bank. Overall, a generally nice guy. His hair is peppered and he is medium shaped and sized. Errol is now sitting beside me. He places his french fries on the table and leaves. I steal a fry. He returns and offers me a fry. Another member of our group begins to discuss…
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