$1.68

Today, while I was cutting back up through the very same park as yesterday, extending the scope of the treasure hunt I’ve been participating in for the last couple of weeks, just as I passed by the statue of Etienne Cartier, looking down from the high ground, I spotted two drug dealers just as they spotted me.  At the very instant I was espied they both began to scramble up the hill toward me, one running a block on the other like I was the end zone at the Grey Cup.  The other one pushed the first one back, trying to pitch him sideways into the bushes.

I waved my hands outward as they approached, utilizing the international gesture for “I don’t want to buy your narcotics, thank you”.  They both let up, laughing, and went back to sit on the statue and look miserable in the mellow fruitfulness of the afternoon.

Do I look like I wanna buy drugs that fucking bad?  Because I’m really not interested.

I went to the post office and tried to mail a letter.  I asked for one stamp and then, as the guy was pasting it on my envelope, I realised that I didn’t have enough change.

Will you take interac?  I asked, flashing my big time bank card.

It’s 61 cents, he said, and gave me a dirty look.  I looked around his store for more things I could buy in order to make my consumer transaction more worthy.  I couldn't find anything than I didn’t already have or that I thought I wanted.  Finally I settled on a chocolate bar.  $1.68.  Take that interac.

A Terrible Business Plan.

I was walking up into Mont Royal Park today, actually following a clue for a treasure hunt that a new friend set me on, and just as I crossed over Avenue du Parc a guy approached me and asked me if I wanted any weed. No thank you, I don't want any, I said. About twenty steps later another guy started approaching me and at the same time another guy, spotting me, came literally running over the hill toward me. They both arrived at the same time, declaring forcefully that they had weed to sell me. One even pulled out a baggie and waggled it in my face.

Oh, I said, a double dose.

A double dose, said one of the dealers; the one who hadn't been running, I like that.

Anyhow, I said, I'm not looking, thanks.

I headed up past the statue and into the area where people dress up on Sundays like medieval characters and hit each other with big foam swords. Another dealer approached me from out of the woods. No thanks, I said, as he was walking up, looking hopeful. After that, as I was crossing over to the place where the clue ended up being buried I encountered yet another dealer. No, no thank you, no.

After, when I had the clue; wrapped up in three layers of plastic baggie to protect it from the elements, while I was walking back down to the road, I saw that the park was full of suspicious looking characters milling about in the damp fall atmosphere. Their hoodies pulled up over their heads or their baseball caps pulled low over their eyes, they were kicking up the scattered fallen leaves and generally looking sullen about things. Can it possibly be that all these people were drug dealers and that the only person in the park who was not a drug dealer was I? After all, it was three o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon; how can that many people possibly expect to garner any sort of clientèle when they are all following such a ridiculous business plan? I suppose they think that the next middle-aged housewife who jogs by with her dog is going to interrupt her run to buy an 1/8 from some sketchy guy she's never met who's just accosted her from out of the forest.

I came down the hill like Maria in the Sound of Music and passed through the rusty old gates of McGill. I had chocolate on my tongue. I felt good.