Westmount Louise- St. Marie or whatever you cal dem der ridings.

In 1995 I was living two doors away from where I do now on Tupper street. I lived on the bad, poor end with my buddy Olaf in a 2 bedroom student sized dive. It soon turned out to be cockroach infested and we moved in the middle of the night one December evening- owing a good 2 months rent and pretty sick of the landlord's abusive yelling at his young tenants. (And his thinnly vieled attempts to sleep with our female neighbours in exchange for a break on the rent...)

When it was time that year for the referendum on Quebec soverignty I had to go on down to the old age home across from the children's hospital. Which was nice- the seniors living there had never seen so many people at once and were chatting up the voters as we invaded their communal hall. I hope we hadn't disrupted their bingo game or some such.

So I voted no, or yes- I forget how the question was phrased at the time- put my ballot in the box and am now convinced that it was one of the 20,000 ballots from the island of Montreal that were "spoiled" and not counted. Fun times. I still don't think anyone has gone to jail yet for that and I don't think anyone in Quebec is making a fuss about it anymore. It's gone quiet. I'd shoot the fucker who organized that rip off of democracy if they ever found them...

Anyway- this time- the seniors are very helpful- all of them trying to give instructions in French and English on how to get to the basement of the place to vote. And their help was needed- very needed. Not only was it in the back of the building, below the parking garage- but was down a wet and trecherous looking set of metal stairs that I'm sure many an octogenarian has slipped on and broken a hip or wrist.

Poor old sods.

Once in the basement storage room that has been converted into a poling station- I am greated by all manner of freshly scrubbed election workers- all between the ages of 20 and 25. The first girl there is brilliantly attractive- East Indian and wide eyed and tiny- she is helping someone in front of me and keeps glancing at me and lowering her eyes and talking softly to the other voter.

Is this flirtiing? I've forgotten.

But her partner comes and tells me which cardboard sign I should go to and motions me away from her before she is done. I go and vote for the Green Party of all things- I'm in the Westmount riding and the chances of anyone but a Liberal getting voted in seems negligible in my mind. I could be horribly wrong. But the Greens need to start somewhere and I've sat in a returnning office and been on the receiving end of getting less than 2% of the vote. It is not a good feeling, and I thought this Green candidate might be a bit happier knowing someone is thinking of him.

On my way out the girl takes a half step towards me and says thank you. I smile and say thanks. My stomach is rolling around wondering what the fuck I am going to do- what my competing urges are telling me to do. I half pause at the doorway.

My brain says, "No touching the twenty year olds. Stop it."

My bruised and battered ego wants to, though, and is sending a warm smile to my lips and to my eyes everytime someone very pretty acknowledges that I am, yes, a rather handsome looking man with good teeth and good posture. And great hair.

My emotional state is also SCREAMING to me that you are in no shape to do anything but harm to yourself and others by getting involved in anything but a platonic tumble in the sack with any female- and even that isn't is so safe. You don't have a therapist to talk this through with, but TRUST ME- go home, make another pot of coffee and read Something Happened again.

I turn my half pause into looking for the way out. I ask her if it is possible to leave "via the parking garage"- she is blushing (she was flirting- she is attracted) and says she thinks so and takes a step towards me and the door. Points a direction while leaning past me, half through the doorway- she can smell my cologne she is standing so close- I smell blossoms in her hair. Slight musky scent of her skin. And ginger? Her eyes are flashing secret messages to my soul.

"Morin?"- her partner asking for her- (first or last name?) there are more people to herd into the room. She steps back- I wave a small thanks and head out through the parking garage into the morning rain, falling in sheets.

I survive another day.