I spent the night watching Bell, Book & Candle on TV and then dreamt I found my own bewitching beauty. It was weird. This had to be a midlife crisis.
I was in a fog, feeling half-in and half-out—reviewing every aspect of my dream and exasperating myself.
It went on like that all week. I even purchased a copy of the film and watched it again in a vain attempt to recreate the mood—no luck.
On Friday afternoon, I was locking the bookstore, when a streetcar rumbled by—it triggered a familiar feeling inside.
I abandoned my car and ran to the corner stop—fortunately, the light was red and I was able to climb aboard.
So far, so good—but what now?
The streetcar rumbles west, heading out of downtown, and I sit and stare out the window at shop windows sliding past and wonder where the world is hiding her—my nameless, faceless soul mate with the cold, cold kisses.
The streetcar rumbles along for a half hour until it approaches the end of the line. There’s a loop in the park where it stops and something prompts me to get off.
Okay, I’m standing on the edge of a park, not knowing why. Yup—that about sums up my life—well, not quite—it begins to rain.
I watch the lighted windows of the streetcar fade in the distance as a cold wind picks up. I turn up the collar of my Harris Tweed sports coat, do up the two buttons, and begin walking up Parkside Drive in the direction of the subway.
“Paul Laine! Is that you?”
I turn to see Ernie, my old friend from university—I haven’t seen him in years.
“I don’t believe this,” he crows, “what are you doing out in this neck of the woods—did you get tired of Rosedale?”
I shake my head. “Naw, nothing like that Ernie—I just had this urge to take a ride on the old Red Rocket—a bit of nostalgia, I guess—you know me.”
He throws an arm around me and I smell alcohol off his breath. “I do know you, Pal—and I miss you—that’s why you’re coming home with me. It’s my birthday today and Irene threw me a party.”
“Ah no, I can’t do that, Ernie, “ I protest, “I have to get home—it’s getting late.”
Ernie’s bug eyes pop—he always struck me as a walking case of goiter, or something.
“Wadda ya mean, late?” he growls. “Hell, it’s just seven-thirty. C’mon along—you’ll know most of the people—they’re our old crowd from college. You like nostalgia—live a little.”
“Well, I guess I can stay for a bit,” I concede.
He slaps me hard on the back, and exhales a boozy whoop, “That’ s the old Lainey I used to know.”
We walk back though side streets, until Ernie turns up the walk of an old Victorian manse—a beautiful stately home with two wrap-around porches—one on ground level, and the other on the second floor.
Irene greets us at the door—she looks prettier than I remember and seems genuinely happy to see me.
“Look who Ernie brought,” she calls out merrily to the guests. I’m instantly surrounded by aged, familiar faces.
This is Dante’s Purgatory—Ernie’s my guide, and I’m expiating past sins.
Eventually, someone hands me a glass of cab sav, and I retreat into the bowels of the great house, ostensibly wanting to check out the architecture—but actually, just wanting to check out.
I find my way to the second floor and wander through a few rooms until I spot some French doors that lead to the upper verandah. I go outside, take a deep breath and inhale the scent of Maples and rain. I like this house and the street.
I could live here, I tell myself.
I hear a noise behind me—someone enters the room. I shrink back into the shadows to escape detection, until I hear a familiar sound. A girl is crying.
I peek through the glass of the French doors and see a girl, sitting on the edge of the bed, head down, shoulders heaving.
Instinctively, I go to her, sit down and begin comforting her.
She pulls back the tresses of her long blonde hair and looks up at me. She is lovely, and oh, so vulnerable.
I lean in to console her and find my lips drawn to hers. Her mouth is cold and I become lost in a dream of cold, cold kisses.
Turns out her name is Sarah—Sarah Bashert, and ironically lives only a few blocks away from me. She’s a flutist with the Toronto Symphony, and like me, is seeking a reason to get up each day and continue walking around.
I suggest we do just that—share her umbrella and walk in the rain.
Also turns out, she loves stormy weather, and fires at night and streetcar rides.
So far, so good—everything seems remarkably familiar. We spend the night listening to blues in an all-night coffee house.
At 3 am, I take her home and kiss her outside her door. It’s all so natural.
It seems we stood and talked like this before and looked at each other in the same way then…but now I know where and when.
I finally found my soul.
