Under an awning across the street from
the restaurant where I, minutes ago, was hearing a
Canada Council-sponsored reading of
one of my most recent creative writing teachers, and my head is already swaying to the left in the preliminary arc of a
"No, I don't want any / can't spare any change / am not about to let The Lord into my heart" when the lanky man of the mountains and
(more likely) back alleys surprises me by pointing at my book
(still One Hundred Years of Solitude, I'm almost embarrassed to admit), uttering a toothless but intentful
grunt and giving a thumbs-up.
My wagging chin stops in its tracks - I smile and, unclear if my hairy and glowering-eyed accoster is verbal at all, engage the universal Groucho Marx eyebrow-waggle to indicate reception of his mimed message.
A toque-clad yuppie-in-training comes up to the bus stop, wary of the bum and button-clad Bohemian already there. My Muppety, animalistic companion turns to him and grunts again, points to my book, points to his forehead, mimes the flexing of bulging biceps. Mr. Toque looks at me for elaboration. I smile and look away - our bus is coming.
in our last episode... | p_i-logs | and then, all of a sudden...