Garage rumble

The disparate congregation this morning on the dry concrete floor of the subterranean garage was as you might expect not unlike the collection of old fogeys who live here in the apartment building. Over the course of an hour, as I mechanically pedalled on my tricycle from one end of the garage to the other, people drifted in and out. Some were of course removing or parking their automobile; some were attending to conspicuously noisy matters in their caged locker; all of them said hello and some paused to chat.

On a soggy day such as today I am neither ashamed nor reluctant to engage in bafflegab and codswallop with a willing partner in the garage, sheltered from the relentless drizzle and diminishing fog. Today’s outstanding victim was Bunny. Once again today she was fashionably attired, rendering to herself in particular and to the community in general an air of sophistication and alertness.  She has recently returned from Toronto where she saw a play performed. The play – which I understand to be terribly modern and a trifle libidinous – was written and directed by her son Justin Hay. I understand too that the play may be performed in New York City which is no small compliment.

Saskatchewan: An Aspirational Polyamorous Adventure

What however distinguishes this account from my vantage is that Bunny has the appearance of being exceedingly proper and reserved. To the uninitiated she is a storm of mental acuity and social involvement.  By my estimate Bunny’s son inherits his artistic thread honestly from his mother who is I believe an accomplished cellist. She also has a history of community activity with her interests extending to the welfare of those who suffer disadvantage and prejudice. Frankly though my ambition with Bunny is confined to astonishingly blunt and often humorous intercessions.

Meanwhile another visitor to the garage informed me that she is about to collect tickets to an upcoming fashion and dance performance at the local Museum on Coleman’s Island.  All this artistic and dramatic collaboration was beginning to disparage me. My arrogance is however sufficiently formed that I am enabled to preserve my otherwise feeble status. It is the unqualified devotion to my perceptions – not my performances – which animates and colours my regard.