Janine Armin - Toronto Noir

I’m not a perv, but let’s face it, I’ve nothing better to do than to watch neon roller girl over there. I’ve already visited the magazine store, bought a cinnamon bun. I have a coffee in my hand that’s so Ibiza-hot I could spill it on my crotch and sue for damages. It was sunny on the walk from the office, but the smell of autumn left my nose lightly frosted. I’d bought the coffee to keep my hands warm. I hadn’t decided whether to drink it or not, but now, out of boredom, I flip the sip-lid, snap it into place.

The talk went well today — better than expected. “We like what you’re up to, Chris,” Darrin had said. “Want the whole team to follow your lead. Show them how you’re doing it. Get them to reinvent the fucking wheel.”

The wheel was ad copy. I’d come up with a new approach I liked to call ad absurdum . Only, I didn’t come up with it; loads of writers were doing it already:

“Say a product is new and improved,” I’d explained today, clicking through slides. “So, you write New and improved on the packaging, right? Trouble is, there is nothing more dusty and hum-drummy than writing New on a new product. What to do?... What you need is to make up a new word. Trick is, you’ve got to make it sound like other words, using known prefixes and suffixes, so that your audience understands it right off the bat. No sense speaking a language they don’t understand, see? It can be as easy as adding — tastic to the end of word, as in Tastetastic! Or as tricky as launching a frying pan around Halloween with the words, Terrifry your food!

“Think about it,” I’d concluded, leaning over them. “ Edutainment might be a word in the dictionary now, but it didn’t used to be. We need to harness the power of hybrid words. If we trademark them, we could actually own our own language — and just think of how advert-ageous that would be!”

That was the kicker: the big finale. Then it was handshakes and nervous laughter all around, and a lot of, “Ad absurdum, eh? I like it, I like it.”

Roller girl leans forward, her breasts perform a tandem sunrise over her low-cut dress. They suggest a shape not unlike two small champagne glasses — the kind designed after the bosoms of Marie Antoinette. Aristocra-tits .

I don’t mind small breasts. My rack is small too, and they’ve served me well with the ladies, although I usually wind up with larger-breasted girls.

Roller girl looks over. Probably felt me staring.

No. Her eyes are glassed over, seeing through me. She curls her tiny nose up and wrinkles her chin, as if suppressing a sneeze. Her nostrils grow wider, as though she’s stopped breathing. Then she gives a tiny snort and pulls her lips back, revealing a pair of sharp incisors. She doesn’t want to cry, but two droplets spill over. Oh, she sees me now. Her black pupils swell into focus. She sees me and glares, spinning around to face the bay of phones.

Must be a telephone breakup. Crap boyfriend. He’s probably cheating on her too, or at least she suspects it. Although maybe not. Girls being cheated on usually go for the jugular, play the hysterical card. They don’t even try not to cry.

She hangs up the phone and half turns her head. Funny, I don’t remember hearing her say boo into the phone. It’s like she just took it, whatever it was.

The lady and the businessman stand up. Two trains boarding, mine included. Roller girl’s sitting down, legs tucked underneath her, crying a little more obviously now. Platform 3B, ten minutes to departure. Oh what the hell, I guess I have time.

“You okay?” I say to the top of her head.

“Please,” she says, pushing her hair back, looking up. Her makeup is smudged from here to last night. “What?” Her words are heavily accented.

“Do you need help?”

She shakes her head.

“Should I leave you alone?”

She squints her face up. Her eyes are light brown, babypoo brown.

“Do you have a problem?” I say slowly, idiotically. “Do... you... need... help?” I make a futile gesture with my hands.

She looks down, wipes her nose childishly, and then starts, as though she has an idea. Craning her neck to see behind me, she leans out, taking in the concourse from left to right. I check the time. Seven minutes to go. The train on track 3B is westbound to Oakville...

“If you’re okay, I have to go catch the train now, it’s just, you seemed upset...”

“I go train,” she says quickly. “You go?”

“Mississauga,” I say. “Clarkson. You?”

She nods her head. “Yes!” she says, smiling with a mouthful of tiny white teeth, all crooked, but sweetly arranged. “Take me?”

“Train is going now,” I say. “You live in Mississauga, going there?”

“Yes, train. Sauga.”

“I go now,” I say, adopting her caveman speak. “You want come?”

She swings her knees around, tight skirt clinging to her thighs, and stands up awkwardly. Flash of black panties, porcelain skin. The rollerblades come off the floor with a clatter.

We hurry across the room to the escalator. I step aside to let roller girl go up first. She keeps glancing back, as though she’s trying to catch me at something. Maybe she’s realized I’m gay. Some women are like that, as though you’ll automatically find them irresistible. She must think I’m watching her ass the whole way up. As it happens, she wouldn’t be half wrong.

We get to the platform, the hulking green double-decker in view. She hesitates.

“You’re sure you want the GO train?” I ask. “Not subway? Underground? Metro?”

She shakes her head emphatically.

“Clarkson,” she replies, smiling a little.

“This is the one,” I say, stepping past her into the train. The doors have started beeping. She scoots in behind me. I lead the way upstairs and locate two window seats on the half-level. We interrupt the pair sitting on the aisle. I don’t get train-sick, so I let roller girl have the forward-facing side. She pulls her skirt down as far as it will go and sits, offloading her purse and rollerblades between our feet.

The train starts up, slow and clunking. I lean my head on the window frame and close my eyes. I’m about to settle into my commuter-nap, when I hear roller girl gasp. She pushes her body back into her seat, away from the glass. I look out onto the platform, but there’s just some guy there, overweight and wearing a too-small suit buttoned over his paunch. He’s out of breath, brown comb-over flapping in the breeze like a question mark above his head. He gives the train a hard stare, heads back downstairs. I look over at roller girl, but her eyes are closed now, lips thin, as though she’s holding her breath.

How old is she? I wonder. With a body like that, could she be a day over eighteen?

We roll out of Union Station, past the CN Tower, heading west along the highway. I never would have moved to the burbs, but when my parents gave me their condo by the tracks, it seemed stupid to look that gift horse in the mouth. My folks had planned on retiring there, so it’s fully loaded: two bedrooms, two bathrooms, huge closets, and walking distance to everything. It’s so convenient that when they decided to retire to B.C., to be closer to the grandkids (knowing full well they weren’t getting any munchkins out of me), I couldn’t think of how I could say no.

Roller girl’s head lolls forward, her legs slightly splayed. I take off my jacket and lay it across her lap. I don’t know why I’m protecting the modesty of a girl who chooses to wear a dress like that, but I feel a whole lot better after she’s covered up. She doesn’t stir, and I don’t think she’s faking. Her hands are half-open, limp. Hands don’t lie.