I’m eavesdropping on two elderly men, and one is telling the story of how he came into possession of his vest, which is certainly one of the ugliest vests I’ve seen. The old man is handsome, even handsome when wearing the thing, I think. His friend had arrived before him and was saving the table next to mine for their morning cup – he waited without ordering for himself, patient in his anticipation, glancing over at my empty document to pass the time; but old men are punctual, and he didn’t have to wait for long.
This morning the dishes were so piled in the sink; I could sense the presence of my Aeropress somewhere at the bottom – an integral piece of the stack’s foundation. I decided to come to a cafe instead. The Pentatonix Christmas music is like a cold needle in my ear, and I am thinking to myself that it is far too early for this and I should have just stayed home and gone back to sleep – knowing full well the impossibility of that. I’ve been sick. I think I smoked myself a throat infection. My voice comes out of its hole like a shy fox, screams out a frightening omen or two, then goes back in. My face feels as if it’s been tightly wrapped in clingfilm. I’m about thirty percent less ready than I ought to be to start my day.
But the old men are chatting, and I listen to the names of people I’ll never know. I’m sure I could laugh along, given the context of Mary’s relationship to Bill; “that’s so Mary”, I would say from behind a cheeky sip “to say a thing like that to Bill,” and I’d be so right, and the old men would laugh and wink. I love old men very much. The triumph I feel making one laugh is divine. I would like to speak with these men, if they’d have me for a story.
But I am much more apt to eavesdrop on strangers than I am to speak with them.
This is something I admitted to myself only two weeks ago, when I was on my way downtown from my home in East Vancouver. I was reading Lennard Cohen’s A Ballad of Leapers – holding the novella in one hand and my word-sick stomach with the other – as the 20 bus sailed through the rapids down Commercial Drive. If I had been looking out the window, beyond a curtain of rain there would be the vintage stores, and there would be the smoke-shop owned by pigeons, and there would be the park where I once kissed a tree, and there would be the woman with the excellent hat, there would be the sandwich shop that never quits, and the A&W where a man once tried to pee on me, and the bench where I used to day-drink; but I knew these stories far too well already, so I read Lennard Cohen’s.
At the end of The Drive the 20 swung its big hip onto Hastings Street and picked up a man at the stop. He was older than middle aged, probably. He had the appearance of a man who’d been well used. His voice fell out in pieces as he hollered across to me “hey, where the fuck have you been?” and offered me the warmest smile while he side-stepped down the aisle in my direction. I didn’t know him, but I smiled back with reciprocal warmth as the woman next to me called “Hey! Oh wow, crazy seeing you man,” – then I looked down at the word “shame” written in my book.
“Where are you crashing these days?”
Something something “- Mainstreet”.
“You and Ray still making it work?”
Something something “- and he got that fucking dog without even asking me first.”
They were brilliant conversationalists, laughing and taking big strides from one subject to the next. He took the seat across from her, which was also the seat across from me. Both parties leaned with their elbows on their knees, taking up the whole aisle, occasionally reaching out to shove each other back or affectionately yank on the scruff of each other’s rain-soaked coats. The impact of their banter was intense. She hit me only once, then turned to apologize; I told her it was no problem at all, hoping beyond hope that they would not stop on my account.
“Why are you headed downtown?”
“Meh, im getting my licence,” the woman said, wiping her nose with the back of her sleeve.
“Wait, you dont have a licence?” he asked. She frowned – offended.
“No.”
“Can you drive?”
“I can drive, man,” she insisted, “I just dont have – I need to get the paperwork and everything.”
“L or N?”
“L – that’s learners – but I can drive, I just need the paperwork and everything.”
“What are you gonna do with a licence?”
“Im going to be a driver,” she said confidently. A perfect response, I thought, and I let a quiet laugh escape me. The man was certainly impressed, leaning back and nodding broadly.
“Okay, okay,” he was smiling, crossing and uncrossing his arms, “like people?”
“Deliveries.”
“Deliveries – okay, okay! A delivery driver – okay!”
I couldn’t read a word beyond “shame”. It was deeply distracting, and undeniably charming listening to their chatter, and I thought a thought: that if I were a more courageous person I would ask them each to tell me more, simply to hear them carry on. Beyond their smalltalk I sensed a well-watered story or two, and I wanted to know what they know. What have their eyes seen that mine never will? Where have those feet stood that I will never stand?
When I finally exited the bus I felt inspired to write, but could think only of the two characters I had left behind. Later that day, I would find myself being hit-on at Emery Barns park by a tall young man in neon colored running shoes;
“What do you do for work?” he’d ask me, and I would say something something, “- ghost writing, it’s a side gig,” and something something “- memoirs and biographies, mostly. Life stories. I love life stories,” and he would say something something “- a ghost writer! Well, you should write my story, I’ve got a great story.” My inner monologue would chime in with something something along the lines of “that’s what they all say,” – and it is. Most of the time when I tell people I’m a ghost writer, they express a desire to one day publish their own book; to share their experience and well-earned wisdom. I have been so lucky as to hear many such stories, and like a young nun standing before a handsome and holy priest, I hang on every word they say; some folks tell me how they almost died of rare diseases, and some say they served time in prison; some have kids in Arizona, and some fled war; some give me wonderful and terrible advice; others simply tell me about that bar fight last weekend. I am a second-hand witness. I am a nameless record-keeper. I am an incredibly good listener.
This I think about a lot: that every person has these stories and they carry them all over. Back and forth along the Vancouver city transit lines, in and out of alleyways and coffeeshops and taxicabs. I wonder how many bartenders, bankers, bikers, big-ego businessmen, bad hairdressers, singers, sadists, anarchists, and wandering souls would share a tidbit of their lives, if one convincing young writer asked them very nicely.
Then I had an idea, and I began to smoke myself a throat infection over it.
I couldn’t sit with it for more than a day before calling on a dear friend, who – in exchange for a joint – allowed me to expel my concept unto him.
“It would be like a book of short stories,” I said, “except every chapter is a different person’s story, really whatever they wanted to tell me; and I could ask questions, and carry the conversation along to be sure they give me something I can work with. Then I’d write it for them – but this time they wouldn’t be paying me to do it, I’d just do it. Or I’d pay them to do it? Or something. Probably nobody gets paid.”
He took a long drag.
“A book?”
“Or a website! Because if it’s a website then people can read it for free, and I can add – OH – like a blog!”
– another long drag.
“A blog?”
I was speeding off as if he wasn’t there. I would not be easily stopped.
“Yeah, and you know what? I bet people will let me write about them. I think a lot of people want credit for the things they experience in life – a written record. People feel as though a written record makes a thing real. And everybody has got at least one great story worth writing about.”
Something in my words made me think of the valedictorian speech I gave in high school, and I winced at myself. In that overly-wordy monologue I had cried out “write what should not be forgotten!” to the flat-hatted masses – a quote by Isabel Allende, whose work I have truthfully never read and who I only happened upon by google searching QUOTES ABOUT WRITING. Oh Isabel Allende; have I really come this far only to be taking your advice now? Tell me, Isabel Allende; have I written something worth writing yet?
I asked more friends if they thought the blog was a good idea; the answer was a yes, and also a hard no. It became clear to me that not many people are interested in websites, in this age of short-form content.
“Honestly,” an old friend of mine said in response, “probably someone will read it, but I couldn’t see myself – personally – getting into a blog. I don’t really use websites from my phone. But I love those streetside interview videos on Tiktoks – stuff like that is super popular right now.”
She was right. If I ever wanted to hit a mass audience of readers I would need to promote myself online. I called another friend of mine; a creative with a book-worthy story of his own.
“Dont do the social media thing, you hate that shit,” he advised me.
This is true – I do hate that shit.
He went on, “It would be ingenuine, which is the opposite of what you’re trying to do.”
“But nobody reads blogs,” I argued, a little deflated.
“You do,” he said “and I would – if it was something worth reading – and if we would then others will. You’re not the only one boycotting mass-media platforms right now. Websites are kinda making a comeback.”
I’m not so certain websites are making a comeback.
But I am certain that I am going to remain a non-participant. I want this website to be tucked far away from it – like a secret garden – where folks can find a bit of peace, sit, maybe sip on something, and read people’s real stories of heroism, and humor, and heartbreak, and whatever. If you’ve found this page by some miracle, then congratulations! You’re just like me: a non-participant, trying to find her place among strangers. These are simply conversations with your neighbors and peers; they’re the stories of people just like you.
So gather around, my sweet children, because it’s storytime.
The prospect of starting A Bit About It has been intimidating, but the purpose is clear: to create a series of short stories, each belonging to different storytellers around Vancouver and beyond. I will interview them as I find them, in the cracks of the road and hiding out at shows and bars and skytrain stations. I’ll buy my storytellers a coffee. The coffee will be shitty. We’ll share shitty coffee – maybe a cigarette, if I can spare it – and we’ll gab like old friends, and I’ll listen to their stories and write about them, as best as I can.
This is my leap of faith.
You are all witnesses now.
I’m very glad you’re here.
