I see my future in front of Shoppers Drug Mart

So Dana and I pop into Shoppers at Bathurst and St. Clair late the other evening. I need to pick up some bug repellent and other stuff for my journey to Centauri later this week.

Earlier in the afternoon, I had a wonderful visit with Sam Andreyev, who is visiting from Paris. (See fhole.blogspot.com for details about Sam's excellent return to the chapbook world! See Torporvigil.com for info on Sam's wonderfully demented song CDs.) On the topic of children, I lamented that my lack of any will mean a horrible, destitute, lonely life in my later years. Well, I didn't say exactly those words, but that's how I often feel. Another thing we talked about was David McFadden, who is a close friend of Sam's family -- had been a very close friend of Sam's late uncle, Greg Curnoe. We discussed how McFadden is way neglected in this country, and we compared our favourite books of his.

Anyway, outside of Shoppers Drug Mart there are traditionally two milk crates inhabited by rough-looking characters with their palms out, asking for money. As I stepped onto the sidewalk, I saw a familiar face in front of me. It took a long time to register as I stared into those dark brown eyes: it couldn't be. Not sitting there in front of Shoppers, unshaven, a little haggard, with his palm out. He was nearly expressionless as we stared at each other.

It was David McFadden.

He stood as I approached him and he said, "Spare some change?" Then he grinned, and I nervously introduced him to Dana, told him I'd RSVP'd about his Wednesday book launch for An Innocent In Cuba (or is it An Innocent in Havana?). We exchanged a few other remarks, small talk. I asked him if the sexy brown body on the cover of his book was him in drag. And then we went our separate ways. As he walked off, the guy on the other milk crate asked him for change. David said, "I think I can do that," and reached into his pocket.

In my car, I told Dana I was a little freaked out. She told me that when we were at the cash at Shoppers, she'd seen this guy walk along the sidewalk, see me through the window, and break into a big grin. Then he sat himself on the crate and waited for me to come out.

Damn, that McFadden! Mr. Mischief! I guess that's what makes him my favourite poet in this country, but I swear, for a few moments that night, I thought I was seeing my own future.

Over and out.