The following is a column I wrote in March 2004, entitled Urban Overexposure.
Every Montrealer has a person or two they keep seeing everywhere they go.
You get on the bus and you see him from the window.
You walk down the strip and there he is, peering into a store window. You’re rushing to the post office before it closes and pass him standing at the red light.
These people invade your environment, impose themselves on your reality, they always seem there when you’re out, by coincidence or perhaps by God’s Great Design.
And if they seem annoying to you, then yeah, do the math, chances are that you must be annoying to them, or somebody else.
You might consider introducing yourself to these ambient individuals in transit but with each passing unspoken encounter the walls get taller and the tradition of alienation grows until it becomes unthinkable to acknowledge them.
Getting to know them is exactly what you don’t want.
At McGill there used to be a languages student walking around with his exaggerated upright Germanic posture. It just irked me just to look at him walking by with his regal pomposity. Years later I was introduced to him at a party. It was awkward.
On the Plateau I couldn't leave my shabby little apartment without seeing this supertall guitarist guy who worked at a paint shop. They said he was an amazing guitarist, but it started driving me nuts just to see him lumbering by Duluth and the Main every day. His identical passage became like an old stale movie, I had to flee the Plateau forever.
These days in the relative suburbia of lower NDG the only real ambulatory human leitmotif my deeply-embedded misanthropy takes aim at is a sour old guy who used to work at the Concordia Library who ambles home by my house.
The strangers-driving-you-mad phenomenon isn’t exclusive to Westmount-raised snobs like myself as I learned when my friend Baz talked about a singer chick he sees at Jimmy’s Laundry in Mile End. The joint is a couple of doors down from the fabled Open Da Night Café and it’s run by an Elvis-lookalike/admirer.
Contrary to the rules of proper social alienation, Baz has actually spoken to the singer chick. “She asked the time. I told her but she wasn't even listening, so she says ‘what?’ and I repeat, and she just walks away without saying thanks, as if I’m a clock.”
Baz complains that the singer chick places her laundry cart in the middle of the aisle. “She leaves it there and takes off so people will have to move it. I’m sure she’d be broken-hearted if nobody had moved it. She’s so desperate that even her objects require attention.”
“Then she starts talking aloud because she’s needy and wants everybody to look at her, she announces that there’s some kind of Kleenex or something in her laundry and two seconds later she tells everybody that it’s not there anymore, as if anybody cared. The woman attendant looks at her ‘Oh that’s good for you’ – so the girl stands there for about 20 seconds. She doesn’t’ want to accept that she’s getting dissed, her silence is a buffer to the emotional trauma of not being given the emotional attention.”
It was a revelation to hear such a detailed savaging of incidental strangers taken to new unforeseen heights. It was funny as hell but also damn discouraging. Such cynical micro-analysts of human behaviour must suffer when the ravenous critic inevitably turns inward.
So what if you or I unknowingly become that guy who seems to be wandering around alone too much, who becomes part of the streetscape of shabbiness, that people look at and think, “oh there goes that guy yet again.”
Shoot, a whole other set of things to worry about.
Baz tells me that there’s no escaping the possibility that your urban overexposure irritates others but he figures that it helps to look good. “The only antidote is to not look like a slob,” he speculates.
You get on the bus and you see him from the window.
You walk down the strip and there he is, peering into a store window. You’re rushing to the post office before it closes and pass him standing at the red light.
These people invade your environment, impose themselves on your reality, they always seem there when you’re out, by coincidence or perhaps by God’s Great Design.
And if they seem annoying to you, then yeah, do the math, chances are that you must be annoying to them, or somebody else.
You might consider introducing yourself to these ambient individuals in transit but with each passing unspoken encounter the walls get taller and the tradition of alienation grows until it becomes unthinkable to acknowledge them.
Getting to know them is exactly what you don’t want.
At McGill there used to be a languages student walking around with his exaggerated upright Germanic posture. It just irked me just to look at him walking by with his regal pomposity. Years later I was introduced to him at a party. It was awkward.
On the Plateau I couldn't leave my shabby little apartment without seeing this supertall guitarist guy who worked at a paint shop. They said he was an amazing guitarist, but it started driving me nuts just to see him lumbering by Duluth and the Main every day. His identical passage became like an old stale movie, I had to flee the Plateau forever.
These days in the relative suburbia of lower NDG the only real ambulatory human leitmotif my deeply-embedded misanthropy takes aim at is a sour old guy who used to work at the Concordia Library who ambles home by my house.
The strangers-driving-you-mad phenomenon isn’t exclusive to Westmount-raised snobs like myself as I learned when my friend Baz talked about a singer chick he sees at Jimmy’s Laundry in Mile End. The joint is a couple of doors down from the fabled Open Da Night Café and it’s run by an Elvis-lookalike/admirer.
Contrary to the rules of proper social alienation, Baz has actually spoken to the singer chick. “She asked the time. I told her but she wasn't even listening, so she says ‘what?’ and I repeat, and she just walks away without saying thanks, as if I’m a clock.”
Baz complains that the singer chick places her laundry cart in the middle of the aisle. “She leaves it there and takes off so people will have to move it. I’m sure she’d be broken-hearted if nobody had moved it. She’s so desperate that even her objects require attention.”
“Then she starts talking aloud because she’s needy and wants everybody to look at her, she announces that there’s some kind of Kleenex or something in her laundry and two seconds later she tells everybody that it’s not there anymore, as if anybody cared. The woman attendant looks at her ‘Oh that’s good for you’ – so the girl stands there for about 20 seconds. She doesn’t’ want to accept that she’s getting dissed, her silence is a buffer to the emotional trauma of not being given the emotional attention.”
It was a revelation to hear such a detailed savaging of incidental strangers taken to new unforeseen heights. It was funny as hell but also damn discouraging. Such cynical micro-analysts of human behaviour must suffer when the ravenous critic inevitably turns inward.
So what if you or I unknowingly become that guy who seems to be wandering around alone too much, who becomes part of the streetscape of shabbiness, that people look at and think, “oh there goes that guy yet again.”
Shoot, a whole other set of things to worry about.
Baz tells me that there’s no escaping the possibility that your urban overexposure irritates others but he figures that it helps to look good. “The only antidote is to not look like a slob,” he speculates.
At least the individuals you describe are/were somewhat normal or at least near-normal, but what about those who are less fortunate within the ranks of the persistently ubiquitous and annoying? What is the antonym for "eye-candy"?
ReplyDeleteFor example, many years ago there was a guy who would hang out alone in a particular spot of certain park and just stand there gazing blank-faced at nothing in particular. He spoke to no one, his hair was long, filthy, and matted and he always wore the same grimy boots, jeans and overcoat no matter what season of the year it was. He clearly had not taken a bath for a very long time. Passersby would ignore him and keep their distance. Occasionally he would move to a different spot to stand, maintaining his "vigil", whatever it may have been for, if anything. Sometimes I'd spot him walking along an adjacent sidewalk, but at some point he vanished, presumably having moved elsewhere or perhaps ending up deceased due to deteriorating health.
Then there was another fellow who could routinely be found loitering cross-legged and mumbling to himself around a particular bank branch entrance with his beggar's styrofoam cup and a large bottle of beer in front of him. On occasion he would sit or lie down inside the vestibule near the ATMs, despite the fact that it is against the law to do so.
I can only assume that at some point either the bank manager or the police became so fed up with this derelict that they eventually managed to drive him away for good, although later on I did notice him once several blocks away talking loudly to himself in front of a Metro station and also in a depanneur purchasing his favourite brand of beer with the coins he had collected in his cup.
How many remember the infamous case of some years back where two homeless men had been fighting to maintain "their favourite spot" next to the indoor ATMs of a Park Avenue bank, the result being that one was eventually murdered there by the other.
Finally, there is another character who seems to have taken up "residence" in and around a particular mall. I don't believe I've ever been to that mall without running into him as he trundles around in his electric wheelchair attempting to make conversation with anyone who will listen--the majority of whom apparently do not, likely being fearful that he may decide to latch onto them as his next "best buddy". It may very well be that, sadly, he has nothing better to do with himself.
Thus far, the mall's security guards have managed to tolerate his presence, but I predict that one fine day they will convince him to "live" elsewhere, although in this particular case it is unlikely he is breaking any loitering laws, though arguably the rules of the mall itself which, I believe, are determined by management and not by the police-- depending on his future behaviour, of course.
Being a free society, the rest of us are obliged to put up with individuals such as these in spite of themselves, and I don't suppose we will ever see the day when absolutely everyone is gainfully employed, properly fed, and suitably housed.
We are therefore resigned to maintaining our apathy, our concern, if not our pity.
I know the feeling. As soon as I turn on the lite in my bathroom this guy appears in my mirror. Every time!
ReplyDeleteHe puts soap all over his face and then removes it with a sharp-looking object.
I turned the lite off, quick, and he got all bloody and dripped in the sink.
Blood all over my place, after, too!
The folks on the 51 moved away. Had lots of room, then.
Skype cancelled my account and the dog in the next yard ran off at warp speed.
Hmmmm.
Hope I never meet him in person.
Scary.
Thank You.
I haven't seen Jorn Reissner play in 30 or more years but I do remember him as an amazing guitarist and a very good singer-songwriter. Who'd a thunk the very sight of him could drive you from the Plateau.
ReplyDeleteI lived in Lower Westmount for many years and there was a guy with long stringy hair and a backpack that I'd constantly see walking along Sherbrooke Street between NDG and downtown. I used to think of him as "The Walker." Never saw him anywhere else. Just walking along Sherbrooke Street. But he wasn't the reason I moved.
I think I might remember the Walker.
ReplyDeleteNot too tall, bit of a Jesus Christ look, distinctive long stride, jean jacket?
I think that style plays a smaller role in urban life than it did up until about 2000. People used to express themselves by sartorially identifying with various subcultures more than they do today. So you'd see punks, rockers, mods, goths, and so forth (or even subtle hints at those styles) far more. So it was once a far more poseurish city than it is now. Everybody, it seemed, had what we called "an image." Nowadays people dress more discreetly and express themselves in other, perhaps more fulfilling ways.
Yes, that's the guy.
ReplyDeleteThere was someone else who walked Sherbooke Street constantly in the 1970's and 80's, a short chubby woman who chain smoked and always talked to herself. A guy I knew who had a guitar store on Sherbooke east of Prince Albert called her "Chatty Cathy."
The beggar who stood in the long hallway at the Atwater metro selling pencils left quite a mark on my memory.
ReplyDelete(Wonder if anybody has a photo of him).
He had some sort of disability that caused his face to twitch. But I could swear that in later years I saw him stop twitching while walking away at the end of one of his begging sessions.
Another potential "hazard" to us presumably "normal" citizens are the Just For Laughs "tag-teams" who will choose a public place from which to target hapless, innocent bystanders into responding to their pranks in some "humourous" way--sort of like the old Candid Camera TV show of decades past and its more-recent imitators.
ReplyDeleteWhen the warm weather returns and as you walk by a terrace during the daytime, be on the lookout for a pretty girl who will suddenly leap up from her seat and run over to you all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed with a brazen proposition of some sort, for you are covertly being videotaped by her confederate nearby. Initially, I was puzzled as to what her problem was but later it hit me that it had to be a prank.
If you are foolish enough to fall for this and doubtless similar gimmicks, you may one day be flabbergasted to see yourself on a Just For Laughs television clip, complete with added laugh-track!
No, I didn't fall for it myself, as I simply continued walking while giving the young lady a blank stare and who soon gave up in frustration and returned to her seat. I won't forget the look on her face. I'll bet she managed to succeed with somebody else, though.
Anyway, I got my revenge some time later when passing by the Just For Laughs theatre. How many remember back when moving past the front of the theatre door it would trigger a loop-tape recording of a barking dog to startle people?
Well, one day when they had some clown outside stopping and questioning passers-by, he moved his microphone toward me and I couldn't resist snarling "woof-woof!" into it.
The look on his face was priceless. :-)
The Atwater pencil seller now spends his days in the McGill Metro at the entrance to the Eaton Centre. He has a much smaller inventory, but is still there.
ReplyDelete