An uncomfortable experience...

Eating alone has always been a fear of mine. I’m not sure if actually eating alone is the fear, or whether the mere thought of having to sit in a restaurant, alone, with no one to talk to is the true fear. Either way, I’ve never attempted it before this morning. I thought baby steps would be the best option for me, so I chose to eat at a fast food restaurant hoping it would be easier on my nerves.

So at 8:30 a.m., I decided to head to the nearest McDonalds for breakfast. I figured at this time, most people would be on their way to work and would only make a quick stop through the drive-thru to get their free coffee being offered through this month’s promotion. Unfortunately I was wrong. There were over 15 people inside.

While ordering, my hands moistened as I was counting out my change, and I awkwardly dropped a quarter onto the floor. I contemplated picking it up but dismissed the idea out of fear that if I bent over, my pants may split. I was already fearing to hear the expected “for here or to go” question and couldn’t stand listening to the random beeping coming from the chaotic kitchen. After I reluctantly replied, “for here,” I picked up my tray and could feel my whole body getting hot, my face turning red, my heart racing, expecting the cashier and everyone else in the restaurant to instantly be judging me. My arms began to stiffen, and my legs wobbled, making me worried I wouldn’t make it to the table before dropping my tray.

Immediately, my eyes started scanning for an open booth. Thankfully I spotted one, and quickly made my way over to it. I sat down and began to look around. I felt as though everyone was staring at me.

The most memorable of the bunch was the old married couple who were sitting quite comfortably in the middle booth, loudly chatting about the weather and their travel agenda, the middle-aged white haired business man who was frantically drinking his free coffee and shoving loose papers into his briefcase, and the Asian man who sat alone, beside me, quietly reading a newspaper. Why were the loners acting so normal? They were in a restaurant alone and yet were at ease carrying on with their day-to-day activities.

I grabbed the nearest Metro, even though I already read it earlier this morning and didn’t care to read about Christina Aguilera’s arrest for the second time. So there I was, sitting hunched over like a convict protecting his dinner plate to avoid being seen, pretending to read the newspaper, and taking quick glances around the restaurant to ensure no one was watching me eat my bacon and egg Mcmuffin.

The other customers were still continuing with their conversations, checking their Blackberries, and reading the newspaper. Why did I think I was so different from them? Why did I feel everyone would stop what they were doing and stare at me? It was presumptuous of me to think they had nothing better to do with their time then to gawk at me while I ate my breakfast.

Glancing around, I realized these loners were likely too busy to enjoy their breakfast with others, and I had never once thought that, just maybe, they wanted time alone. Time alone, something I dreaded, until this morning’s experience. I began to notice my back returning to its normal upright position, my hands were no longer moist, and my heartbeat felt normal.

At 9 a.m., after having inhaled enough of the fast food smells, I went back to the now even busier line-up to order a latte to go. As I opened the door to leave the fast-food joint, the strong wind that greeted me was a shock, but left me feeling truly refreshed. Glancing back at the golden arches on the side door of the building, I contemplated when I would return next for some alone time. 

Lester Bowser.

Meet Lester Bowser, the 67-year-old man that lives beside you on Berlin Street. Most people say he looks great for his age and you've got to agree he really does. You'd never know he was in his sixties, other than by his hair. His black crew-cut with white patches does show his age. With the exception of his slight hunch due to arthritis and stress, he seems to be in great shape. Every day he wears that same Valentino mud colored suit that he bought 20 years ago in Italy. On Mondays and Wednesdays he wears a white button-up dress shirt underneath, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays, his black button-up. You always wondered why you never saw him leave on Friday mornings, until you were told he stays home on Fridays due to being semi-retired. You'd think he would do something about that old Victorian house he lives in on his days off, it could use some renovations. You used to always see him outside with his wife, working in the yard, on the vegetable garden and the flower bed. It seems odd now that he has let it all go, when he seems so together.

Truthfully, you'd never know he lived beside you, other than when you catch him leaving for work in the mornings or on Wednesdays, when you see him at exactly 7:07a.m. That's when Lester takes out his black garbage bin and exactly three bags of recyclables. One bag is always filled with San Pellegrino glass bottles and the others with random items including plain yogurt containers and cans of tuna.  From time to time, you see Lester take his cat outside, but only in the backyard, never the front.  

Do you remember what you thought when you moved next door to Mr. Bowser?  You immediately thought of Bowser, the main villain and last enemy to defeat in Super Mario World. It seemed funny at the time, until you got to know Lester and his story. Looking back now, there are many similarities in the Bowsers. Growing up, Lester Bowser was always that guy who was better than everyone else, in everything he did. He was the smartest student, the jock at his high school, a reputation that followed him to college. He was always trying a little harder than everyone else; he wanted to be somebody important. Up until last year he’d had everything he ever wanted, until he was defeated.

Last year, Lester’s wife, Joyce Bowser, passed away. After her fifteen year battle with lung cancer, the cancer won. Lester blamed himself. He did try his best to get her the most prestigious oncologists in Halifax, and then in Toronto, when she had to get higher quality care. Lester tried everything he could to prevent this. He threw out her thirty seven boxes of Marlboro cigarettes, and even found her thirty-eighth box, which was tucked neatly away in her delicates drawer. She had wrapped the box in her favorite purple polka dot Chanel scarf, hiding it where she figured Lester would never look.  After 35 years of marriage, he knew her too well. Lester never did tell Joyce that he found that last box, and he still has that damn scarf.

Lester never blames others. He only blames himself. He's not the type to wish bad luck onto others either. He doesn't have enemies. But back when Joyce had cancer, he did question why all of this was happening to his wife and his family. He remembered thinking ‘why couldn't it just happen to someone else?’ He remembered the day, the exact moment, when they were told the cancer had returned for the third time. It was a cold Thursday on December 23rd, 2009. Two days before Christmas, and one day before the annual Bowser Christmas party, which he and Joyce held every year. They were one of those power couples. The best hosts in town. Unfortunately, Joyce never got to make her famous plum pudding that Christmas, and it was the first year that the annual party was cancelled. Lester still catches himself looking at the clock at 7:07, the time of her passing. He always tries to keep busy so he doesn't notice the time. He will never forget that moment. The moment he lost his best friend. 

Fast forward six months. Lester has returned to work at PricewaterhouseCoopers on Lower Water Street, where he works as an accountant. He's held that same position for 40 years. Everyone knows him there, but no one ever stops by to visit. He always wonders why they walk by on their way to Perks for their morning coffees and why they don't offer to get him anything, or ask if he wants to join. Lester thinks it may be the smell of his tuna sandwiches that keeps people away. Or maybe they're all just too busy. Either way, he understands. 

Each morning is the same for Lester. He wakes up at 6 a.m., reads The Globe and Mail in bed with his coffee, and then picks up The Chronicle Herald from the front step, and spreads it out in his cat’s litter box. Mr. Winkle was Joyce’s cat, who eventually became the son they never had. The gray cat is larger than the average neighborhood cat, with his straggly whiskers that are becoming weathered because of his old age. He also has an awful limp on his right paw from the time Joyce accidentally tramped on him while rushing to the washroom during a bad stint of chemo that morning. Lester doesn’t mind taking care of Mr. Winkle, he’s the only living memory he has left of Joyce. But he does cringe each time Mr. Winkle jumps up on his lap in the evenings and licks his sore paw while Lester watches CNN. It’s such a painful reminder.

 Another painful reminder is the bottles of San Pellegrino that continue to fill Lester’s fridge. They were her favorite.  Lester attempted to drink them, but couldn't stand the taste. He can still hear Joyce telling him to put some lemon slices in to add some flavor, but he never did enjoy the taste. He always leaves the bottles out on his reading table until he eventually forgets about them and they go flat. He ends up pouring the rest of the water down the sink and neatly placing the bottles with the other empties in the blue recycling bag.

Meet G.

A thin, mousey, stereotypical yoga instructor. She’d rather be called a Yogini, out of respect and all. It’s no coincidence that Yoginis are also known to be female demons. I remember my parents telling me how great G was after they had met her. They should have warned me that G is one of those people who is only nice to adults. I decided to give her a chance until I received that first email. Her email went on about how excited she was to meet me.  Nice gesture I guess. I didn’t judge her until I got to the bottom of her email where she left her personal blog link and a link to the yoga studio where she teaches. She also couldn’t think of a title for the email, and left it at “No Subject.” Enough said. No one should ever leave a subject line blank. Could she not have come up with something to put into the subject?

Our first meeting wasn’t like most initial meetings. G rang the buzzer and seemed sweet. She seemed apologetic as she had been vacuuming all day and moving furniture. She embarrassingly asked if we could hear her upstairs. We didn’t want to hurt her feelings so we said that we understood it was an old house and not to worry. She replied “Good. I came down to tell you that you guys are really noisy and I could hear you unpacking all day. I just want us to have a good relationship, so try to keep it down.”

“Try to keep it down” was something we would get used to hearing, on an almost daily basis. It’s funny because for someone so dainty and who likely weighs about 110lbs, G stomps around upstairs like an elephant. Sometimes I wake up thinking there’s an earthquake or that she’s going to break the floorboards. 

G owns concrete slippers, or at least that’s what it sounds like. She must forget that humans live below her. Frankly, she just doesn’t care. She has no idea that when she drops the smallest item upstairs, like a penny,  downstairs it sounds like she just emptied an entire bag of marbles onto the floor, on purpose. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was dropping items just to bother us. 

Not only does she teach yoga at the local studio, she also enjoys personal meditation and yoga practice in her home. Sometimes I hear G’s practice music, and it’s not the regular peaceful and relaxing yoga music I’ve heard before. G enjoys this weird African/voodoo sounding music. She’s the type of person you wouldn’t be surprised to see carrying around voodoo dolls.  

Let me make this clear, G doesn’t own the house that we live in. She’s just subletting the flat above us. But for some strange reason G is on a power trip. Not only is G a confrontational face-to-face person, she’s also a confrontational emailer.  She likes to send large emails explaining what we need to fix about our living styles and she signs “sorry to sound like a nag” at the bottom. It’s not the fact that we’re students, although that helps her power trip, but she’s not the type to be confrontational with adults. She also doesn’t like other confrontational people. So when she meets one, she gets flustered easily. 

G can’t stand noise, it bothers her. Daily conversations and dish washing make her volatile. She doesn’t understand why we can’t simply live together and not make noise; all the while she has yet to remove her concrete slippers. What bothers G the most has to do with respect, or her definition of respect.  

G doesn’t believe young people respect her. She did try to give them a chance before. G allowed two international students to live with her and she enjoyed explaining to her friends that they thought she was a goddess and they would never do anything to upset her. G wasn’t kidding. Apparently she expected that this would magically happen if she told enough people. G ended up kicking these respectful students out after a few months. 

G now believes that all young people are the same. G thinks we slam the heavy 85 year old door on purpose, just to make her cringe. G likes to call the property manager and landlord to put in an official complaint. She finds the need to call both the manager and landlord just to show how serious the situation is to her. She will especially put in a complaint if her feelings get hurt and when she feels like you weren’t being nice enough to her. 

G is a 40 year old woman who looks like she just celebrated her 30^th birthday. It must be the yoga. Actually, it is the yoga, just ask her. When people tell G how great she looks for her age, she doesn’t reply with a “thanks” or “don’t make me blush,” response. She simply smiles and replies with a matter of fact “it’s the yoga.”

G has a tough time trusting people. She especially finds it difficult to trust young people. After living above us for the past year, she still questions us every garbage day when we take the communal compost bin to the curb. “Are you sure it’s compost day?” Our response? “I think so….” while we look at the twelve other compost bins that our neighbors have placed at the curb.

G blatantly informs us of the parties we’ve apparently been having. Maybe next time I’ll be invited to my own party. G always jumps to conclusions, and expects the worst. She blames us for being too noisy and tells us that she “heard about our party.” I’m not sure how many parties G has been to, but a party of 3 girls seems rather boring, don’t you think?

Don’t get G angry though, if you do then be prepared to take a fall. When G believes that people aren’t respecting her, she won’t fulfill her winter duties which include salting the front step.

G is very nervous of leaving her car in her own driveway. So to solve this problem, she believes parking on an angle will help keep neighbors and others from parking too close to her.G admits that she doesn’t feel obliged to apologize. She never apologizes. Even when G knows she’s wrong, she will place the blame onto others.

G is that woman you see and question why she’s unmarried and living alone. But soon after meeting her you start to answer your own question.