Posts Tagged ‘weird’

A couple of days ago, magic came alive, right there in my apartment.

After my daily shower and shave ritual, I made a trip to the main bedroom (it’s a one-bedroom apartment), there to peruse my wardrobe choices.  As is my wont, the decision came down to the usual: a pair of jeans that were hanging right where I left them, puddled on the floor.

Only this time “puddle” was a little too literal:  the jeans were soaking wet.  And it was time for me to leave for work.


I held them up and stared at them in disbelief.  They weren’t dripping, but they were heavy with moisture.

I looked down at the floor, which appeared to be bone-dry.  Then back at the jeans.  Then, the floor.

I blinked, as a dozen possibilities flitted across my early morning brain, wayward moths struggling to find the nearest candle of logic.

Years ago, I learned that my brother-in-law, in a stupid state of drunkenness got out of bed and used his TV set as a urinal.

I sniffed the pants.  No untoward smells.  And besides:  I hadn’t had anything to drink the night before.   The visual I had, of getting out of bed and taking a whizz on just those pants, stayed with me.

I sniffed them again, just in case.  Then I hung them on the shower rod and sniffed them again (about three times I think).  And then I washed my hands, because ew.

Back to the bedroom.  I moved a few things around to see if I could see what else was wet.

Nothing.  Everything was dry.

Could this be one of those things, like spontaneous combustion, where someone is burnt to a crisp, while everything around him is unharmed?   Only the opposite, with water?  Could my jeans have become spontaneously drowned?

I remember repeating “holy shit” and “that’s so weird!” to myself, several times over and over, as I picked out another pair of jeans (along with shirt, etc.) and headed out the door to work.

Maybe it was a spiritual thing, and an evil ghost came into my apartment and just did that one thing, just to mess me up.  If so, it worked.

Occam’s razor said “what are you?  An idiot?”

My brain puzzled it out for the entire day.  I decided some more sleuthing was needed.

After getting home, I started pulling everything apart:  I dragged the dresser out and checked behind it:  no water at all.  Curiouser and curiouser.

It wasn’t until I checked a cardboard box and saw that its underside was damp that I finally realized, with relief, that my pants weren’t magic at all.   Why my brain didn’t immediately go to that explanation in the first place (Occam’s razor again) eludes me.

I mean, I still didn’t have an explanation for it:  I didn’t spill any water in the room – since I don’t generally bring water of any kind in there anyway.   When I told the superintendent about it, he suggested that maybe there was a leak from the central air conditioning ducts – but that’s at the other side of the room.

It was he who suggested I pull stuff out from my closet.  And oh man – was that ever a mess.  I’ve been meaning to declutter my apartment for a while now – pulling all of that stuff from the floor of my closet out was the kick in the head I needed to get started on that right away.  There were bags of documents in there, wayward shirts that hadn’t seen the light of day in some time (which wouldn’t be worn anytime soon – until they’d paid a visit to the dry cleaners at least), and all kinds of sundry odds and ends.  Sure enough:  some of the bottom stuff had gotten wet as well.

The super decided that someone’s bathtub was leaking.  After some investigation he found that my upstairs neighbour’s tub had a loose soap fixture, and so with every shower, some water made its way down to my closet.

Mystery solved.

I’m a little worried about my sanity however.

People here are fascinating.  And not in a “gee, what wonderfully intellectual stimulation” sense.   I mean behaviours are just so far outside of what I consider “the norm” that time chases its own tail trying to keep up.

Toronto is defined from the mix of its people who make their way here from all parts of the world.  Hindus, Moslems and Jews from various continents, Chinese, Japanese, Malaysian, lots of Filipinos, Ukrainians, Russians and Italians all set up little communities here.  So when unusual behaviour is observed, there’s a strong possibility it can be attributed to the norms of another country.  Maybe.

Back in the small town in which I was raised, when people waited for buses, we were always careful to line up – just like they do at elementary school.  That behaviour was bred into us, and by God anyone who misbehaved received the harshest Canadian punishment possible.  They got the glare of their life.

Here in Toronto,  some of us line up at the bus stops.  And usually people – anxious to follow the crowd – will continue to line up, right up until the bus arrives.  But as soon as the bus doors open, the line breaks out into a mass of chaotic elbows and feet, all desperately dancing around each other in pursuit of a spot on the bus where they can sit down.  Some of the shorter people will barge right in front of you, with your two arms of groceries, and pretend not to see you.  Canadian glares are useless.  Their shortness is the Canadian kryptonite.

Lots of people in Toronto hold conversations with themselves.  Out loud.  I saw one large woman yelling at herself.  It was at a bus stop, late at night.

“Get over here!”

“No you get over here!”

I looked around to see who she was talking to, but there was no one there.  No one I could see anyway.

This wasn’t a cogent argument about politics.  It was one of those types of arguments that we all enjoy, I’m sure.  She was nitpicking.  At herself.

The other day I sat in a richly dark Starbucks, held in place by the arms of a big leather chair.  Total bliss.  I had my iPad and my large bottle of water, and the music was just right.

And then he came in.  He was tall, thin and had blond hair.  The guy was in his late 20’s I think.

Anyway, he plunked himself in the seat next to me, right next to the beautiful young blond girl, who was also reading.  He sat and stared at her.  Her back got rigid and it became apparent that she was re-reading the same passage over and over.   I started watching him, over the top of my iPad.

Five minutes passed.  He stared.  She didn’t turn the next page.   Then I heard him talking, a sing-song string of syllables.  They made no sense.  She didn’t look at him.  He continued talking for a while, conversationally.    The minutes passed, slowly.

Finally he got up and moved past me to get to the door.  The stench hit me, and I felt my eyes starting to water.

The girl looked over at me and smiled, shaking her head.  I nodded and turned back to my iPad.

Sort of.  I could still hear him talking, as he paced back and forth outside the café door.

Dear old dad wouldn’t have known what to make of all this.  He probably would have called the guy’s sexuality into question.

The love of money wasn’t the root of all evil, as far as he was concerned.  It was homosexuality.  And he was there to set everyone straight on that.

So to speak.

Life in Toronto is often like this.  Different scenes, different odd behaviours, every day.

Kind of like an old commercial for “Bits and Bites”:  a different handful in every bite.