Blackout Odyssey

by Victoria Feistner

  It reminded me a bit of being a kid back in a small town. We didn’t have air-conditioning in our old, rambling farmhouse; we had a back porch and huge maple trees with shade, and a pool. I had fond memories of that pool. (My best friend and I had once practised handstands underwater for an entire afternoon. We got quite good at them. But when it was time to get out and dry off for dinner, we discovered that while we’d carefully applied sunscreen to our faces, arms, and shoulders, we hadn’t thought about the cumulative effect of that much sun on the soles of our feet. It hurt to walk for several days afterwards.)

  That memory reminded my toes that they were blistered and required attention, so I paused to lean against a tree, taking off my pumps and giving my toes and the ball of each foot a rub. Miles to go yet. The idea of waiting until power came back on in Christie Pits—with or without access to the pool—became all that more attractive. Except I wouldn’t want to spend the night in Christie Pits. The mosquitoes alone would finish me off, never mind any lurking perverts. (I assume there are lurking perverts in Christie Pits; I mean, that’s where I would chose to lurk, if I was so inclined. In fact, that’s where I was intending to lurk, pervert or not.)

  I got a tickle on the back of my neck and glanced over my shoulder, back towards the kids. One of the adults on the porch was watching me. I squinted, wondering if I knew him, but he didn’t look familiar; I smiled and gave a little wave hello, just to say, hi, I see you too; but he didn’t return the wave and the smile he gave was quite forced. It was a ‘time to move along now’ smile.

  Confused by his hostility, I realized I was hanging out by a tree near a bunch of frolicking kids in bathing outfits while thinking about perverts (not that he could have known that. I assume). But I was on my own and bedraggled in ripped and weirdly-soaking clothing.

  Giving the Concerned Parent In A Nice Neighbourhood an ‘I’m going, I’m going’ hands-up wave, I replaced my shoes and continued walking. The old houses and big trees looked less inviting now; more suspicious.

  And that made me a little sad.

  8.

  Island Getaway

  I don’t know how long I walked. The side streets all resembled each other, all Victorian semidetacheds and the odd ugly infill and a little parkette and a convenience store as though each block had a minimum requirement to meet. The heat hadn’t diminished; humidity hung in the air like heavy velour curtains from the 70s, the kind that gathered dust unless they were cleaned regularly, which they never are. Back guest room curtains. The ones in hideous shades of mustard and burgundy.

  It was very warm and I was very tired.

  The humidity kept my hair from drying even as the heat of the day remained, until my head felt like it was wrapped in a wet, warm towel. My feet ached and my thirst-aching throat returned, bringing with it stomach cramps of hunger.

  All I wanted was to be at home, feet up, watching my delicious boyfriend making a delicious meal with extra flair and pan-flipping. Dylan was probably worried sick; I still hadn’t encountered a working pay phone. There never seemed to be one around when you needed one.

  My cell phone hung heavy in my pocket, like a hand-sized rock for all the good it did me. But I did have that one bar of battery left. If I needed it, I could call. But then what if I needed that bar to call a cab? Or an ambulance? Better to wait and find a pay phone. Better to wait and see if the power came back on. It had already been a few hours. How many hours? I wasn’t sure. That taxi driver had my watch, wherever he was now, the bastard.

  It was very hot.

  Dylan had likely already eaten. With the refrigerator out of power, it’s not like he could store the dinner for when I got in. Or reheat it after. Come to think of it, the stove is electric. Isn’t it? I mean, his is gas. But it has electric components? The pilot light? I have no idea how gas stoves work. I’d never thought about them before.

  I hadn’t eaten since before the presentation. There had been sandwiches out on the long tables but Aggie and I didn’t touch them. There was an unspoken rule that they were for clients, although I am fairly sure I saw John sneak one. But then he would. He was probably at his cottage already, sitting on a dock somewhere, watching, I dunno, loons fishing or something. Beavers? I had no idea where his cottage was, or whether it was on a lake or a river or in the middle of woods somewhere. Did people have cottages not near water? But then how would you go swimming?

  (Wasn’t swimming the point of having a cottage? Swimming, barbequing, and then a real bed? A proper bathroom so it wasn’t camping. Somewhere with a couch and board games that were missing pieces and a macrame owl. Cottages always have a macrame owl hanging on a wall; it’s the law. That’s how you know the cottage is ripe and ready for harvest: it has grown a macrame owl.)

  The patterns of leaves overhead made a soothing blend of light and dark, rippling along the cloudless sky. Leaves on a pond. No, that’s not right. If they were leaves on a pond and I was looking up at them, wouldn’t that mean I was at the bottom of the pond?

  It would be so cool, and dark.

  John was probably right now at the barbeque, beer in one hand, funny apron donned. Fucking John and his fucking cottage.

  My stomach growled.

  I emerged from the shady side streets onto a bigger road, delighting in a bit of a breeze. Not much. But the movement lifted some of the heat out of my still-sopping hair and carried it away until I grew lighter, and dizzier.

  Where was I?

  More to the point, where was everyone else? There were no cars on the road. I didn’t recognize any of the stores and I couldn’t find a street sign. Must be Ossington, I decided, based on no evidence at all except how tired I was from walking. Across the tops of two- and three-storey shops the sky darkened, banding in purples and reds, marking west; making Bloor south, to my left.

  It was eerie without any people walking around. Everywhere else there had been people out and about, living their ordinary lives or walking home like I was. And now there was no one, not even at windows or at doors. The storefronts were cutouts of black. Perhaps it was the cooler air, or the sudden sight of the sunset, but goosebumps rose on my neck and arms, even inside my jacket.

  I’m not a praying person. My feeling is that if I leave well enough alone, I will be left well enough alone. Not a scientific mode of thinking, I admit, but the idea of ‘don’t start none, won’t be none’ lay at the core of whatever scraps formed my philosophy. Of course, I didn’t always follow that, but then everyone is a hypocrite, from time to time.

  My point, dizzy rambling aside, is that even an apathetic non-believer like myself can recognize when certain boundaries have been crossed. And lacking another explanation… after all, only a few blocks behind me, streets rang noisily full of kids playing, and now the city was deserted. Lifeless asphalt and empty trees. There weren’t even any pigeons. Why weren’t there any pigeons?

  I wasn’t on Ossington, I was on Bathurst. I discovered this at the next intersection, Barton, which had a sign-post half-ripped from its pole and bent in the middle. Were those tooth marks? Oddly mangled sign aside, at least I knew where I was, feeling foolish for forgetting that Bathurst came before Ossington when heading westbound. I wasn’t sure how far Barton was from Bloor, not being overly familiar with the Annex, but it couldn’t be that far.

  And then my nose caught a scent.

  Hot dogs. Someone had a food cart! Those were propane-powered, not electric!

  Once of the first things I’d eaten during my inaugural childhood visit to Toronto was ‘streetmeat’, as it was affectionately named to me. The hot dogs are of proper and generous size, not tiny like ones you’d buy at a supermarket. Not like the tasteless disappointments I had during a school trip to New York (mind you, New York redeemed itself with delis later the same day). And instead of bland, insipid condiments, Toronto streetmeat could be dressed like a queen: honey mustard, spicy ketchup, corn relish. Olives! Pickles! Bacon bits! All proper vendors had a buffet of condiment tubs attached to their car
t. And toasted buns. It was the best thing to eat after getting out of a bar or a club in the wee hours. (Very often the only thing, but that does not detract from its glories.)

  The scent was thin, a whisper of a vapour against a large and uncaring city, but it could have been trace elements three atoms wide and I would have followed it. I became a bloodhound. My blisters stopped throbbing, my head stopped spinning—everything in my being, each coiled strand of DNA within each cell, now had a singular intention: to find food. I would track that hot dog vendor to the ends of the Earth and load that streetmeat up with every single available option until it was more condiment than bun, and then I was going to—

  —shit. I’d have to pay him. I had no money. And that fucking taxi-driving backstabber had my watch. Necklace? It was cheap and not sentimental; it would do for bargaining. I didn’t wear any rings, and the ones I had at home were heirlooms. Also: they were at home. Not a point that could be ignored. Necklace it would have to be.

  My cell phone weighed me down like a boulder, but no. First, it wasn’t mine, it was eSaleEase’s; and secondly no. I’d lost my purse and presentation case, my watch and my wallet: I wasn’t going to lose my cell phone.

  Assuming the vendor would be in front of Bathurst Station—that’s certainly where I would set up shop, given the option—I quickened my pace south, but as the subway station appeared in front of me, it sat as deserted as the street. More so, for there were streetcars half in the rail loop, frozen, dark, and empty. Left where where they had stopped working when the overhead power-lines shut off.

  The doors were unlocked, so I walked in, but no one was in the station, not even to turn people away. So early? It was still late afternoon. Evening? The sun sat where I had left it, hidden behind buildings but still lighting the bottom half of the sky. Even the colours hadn’t changed, like a painted backdrop to a movie set.

  There may not have been transit service but there was something nearly as good: pay phones. A whole bank of pay phones! I grabbed the first one eagerly. I could reverse the charges or something. Call collect.

  Except there was no dial tone. “Hello?” I jiggled the little tongue that the receiver rested on. “Hello? Can anyone hear me?”

  “Hello?” replied a small whisper back out of the machine.

  “Hello? Are you with the phone company?” I asked, holding the handset with two hands, as though afraid it would fly away.

  “Phone company? No. Who is this?”

  “My name’s Mallory. I need to call my boyfriend but I don’t have any money.”

  “The phone won’t work without money,” said the tiny voice, in a soft sigh, almost like a flutter of wings. Soft, feathery wings. Why was I thinking of wings?

  “Can’t I collect call?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. Collect calls? You’d have to catch them first.” Tiny, cooing laughter, then the same whispery sigh. “Can I help you with anything else?”

  My throat caught. “I’m really hungry,” I whispered. “And thirsty, and tired.”

  “Oh, I can’t help with that either,” the voice replied, sadly. Then: “What’s your boyfriend’s name?”

  “Dylan. Dylan Mareca.” I clutched at the receiver and thought about the comfort of the apartment over the health food store, of the tiny patio at the back, the cluttered bookcases and photograph frames covering the mantle of the unusable fireplace. “He lives in Islington Village. I was supposed to get home. He was making me a special dinner. But it’s probably too late now.”

  “Oh, dinner,” cooed the voice. “That sounds lovely. What was he going to make?”

  “A surprise.” I lamented.

  “How wonderful. Surprise dinner. And then would he dance for you?”

  “…what?” I pulled the handset away to regard it as though I would see something besides ordinary black plastic. I gave it a shake and placed it back to my ear.

  “You should only pay attention if he dances for you,” continued the voice. “Otherwise, how will you know he’s healthy?” A pause, and the same dry rustling. “I have to go. She says that she’s ready to see you now.”

  Then came silence, a deeper absence of dial tone than just a broken phone, and I knew the voice was gone. I replaced the handset, and out of curiosity sought out the coin return. I pulled out something too small to be a quarter—a dime perhaps?

  No. Better: a TTC token.

  I tucked the little aluminum token in my pocket beside my cell phone. I could trade the token for a hot dog; they were about the same price. Maybe the token and the necklace if the vendor decided to be an asshole.

  As if my thoughts summoned it, the smell of hot dogs drifted towards me with the breeze, stronger now, and lingering, like a finger lovingly traced along my face. I left the odd pay phones behind and wandered out into the street.

  Kitty-corner to the station lay a streetcar, sad and abandoned. And beyond that stood the intersection of Bloor West and Bathurst, the south-west corner being the bulk of Honest Ed’s department store, dominated by its oversized marquee sign in red and yellow. What should have been three storeys of light bulbs and sale signs with bad puns (‘Is Honest Ed a squirrel? Because these prices are nuts!’) in wide, 60s-style marker calligraphy instead stood dark and empty, the mannequins and displays of housewares in deep shadow, the signs barely legible.

  The doors of this streetcar were open where the others had been closed. I patted its red flank like a trusty horse and peered around the intersection. With night falling—eventually, once the sun moved again—I wouldn’t want to be in Christie Pits, but it could be cool enough to walk the rest of the way. A long walk, an exhausting, miserable walk, but doable. Faster if there were no cars and traffic lights to slow my progress.

  And then Honest Ed’s lit up.

  First came an audible grinding of switches being thrown, and then the banks of yellow incandescent bulbs began to glow, quickly brightening into dazzling glare, before moving through their routine of flashing and flickering like the world’s most garish movie marquee.

  Excitement surged through me. The power was back on! The power—but all the other buildings remained dark, and there was still no one around. I looked either way along Bloor, but nothing indicated anyone but Honest Ed’s had electricity.

  I wandered into the middle of the intersection. No cars in either direction, still no sign of life. And the store windows of Honest Ed’s remained dark, as if it was closed, reflections and glare dancing across the panes. The sun remained fixed against the sky, I could see a corner of it between two buildings. It seemed less distinct, less real, than the immense sign before me.

  What else could I do? I followed my nose.

  Honest Ed’s Department Store—an institution in Toronto—was an entire square block of kitsch. Open since the 70s?—50s? The Big Bang?—it sold all manner of household items, from cheap clothing to cheap groceries and cheap electronics. I hadn’t shopped there in years, once I outgrew the ‘fake ironic plaster Elvis bust’ decoration stage of my university days (Honest Ed’s was held together by dust, memories, and off-brand items), and while the goods stacked in the windows had updated slightly since the early 90s, nothing else had. Even the cheesy Elvis busts looked the same, staring out at me with blank and wall-eyed expressions.

  The enormous sign sparkled and danced. Someone had refurnished the sign: normally many of the lightbulbs were burnt out. Not tonight. Tonight it was a glorious beacon to bargains.

  One of the entrances was open. Sitting on the deserted sidewalk was a sandwich board with an arrow pointed toward the door. I hesitated—until the smell of grilling meat hit me once again. I stepped through and up the first few steps to the main floor.

  Miniature lights were strung across the ceiling, criss-crossing in lazy sagging cords, the bulbs dangling and drifting and competing with the mirrors and faded signage advertising bargains. I walked through the deserted first floor, winding through the white-painted wood and Formica displays and counters of my youth.

&
nbsp; Upstairs was usually ladies’ wear, but not tonight. Tonight it became a party space, overflowing with people: all ages, shapes, heights, ethnicities, fashion sense. For a moment I wondered if here was where everyone had been hiding, but the room wasn’t enough to hold an entire neighbourhood and anyway, nothing yet had explained the weird voice on the phone or the sun not moving. Laughter bubbled up and flowed around me like a spring. After the strained silence of the deserted stretch of city, hearing people was being fed a meal after not eating all day.

  But you know what’s even better than that? Actually being fed a meal after not eating all day.

  Lining the walls, instead of displays and mannequins, were food stands: streetmeat, yes, but also Thai noodles and steamy dim sum… and cheesecake? Pizza? Every time a knot of people blocked my view, the vendors seemed to change. Korean BBQ. Tacos. Tiny doughnuts. Burritos. Roti. My mouth watered, but the crowd was too thick to move. Everyone seemed to have a red or clear plastic cup, but I didn’t see where the drinks were stationed.

  The dizziness that had followed me since Barton intensified. The room seemed to tilt, although that could have been the floors of Honest Ed’s; it was never particularly level. Taking a deep breath, I held my head, and tried to think. All I had to pay for anything was a token and a cheap necklace from the mall. I had to be smart about what I tried to bargain for, and what had brought me here was hot dogs. My original vision was streetmeat swimming in every variety of gooeyness that the vendor cared to provide, and through all the chatting and laughing heads, the hot dog vendor stayed clear. I strode up to him; no one else was in line. “Hi.”

  The man behind the stall regarded me with curiosity and also a bristling gray handlebar moustache, which seemed overly large and perhaps fake. He sniffed at the air and then slammed his tongs down against the metal counter with a loud clang.