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.