Archive for November, 2009

I complied with the police officer’s instructions and knelt on the ground with my hands behind my head.  I remained there for what seemed like an eternity as one of the cops cautiously walked around me, a pair of handcuffs in his hands.  I tried to ask him what this was all about, which he ignored, and instead told me to lay down on the ground.  I remarked that it would be difficult for me to do so with both my hands behind my head, a witty remark that obviously wasn’t appreciated.

Within a matter of seconds I was pushed to the ground, my skull cracking while it struggled to survive the impact.  As the taste of blood slowly filled my mouth, sharp pains flooded my nose, and I wondered if it had just been ripped off by the force of the hit.  The officer was soon on top of me, grabbing my hands, putting on the handcuffs and pulling me up to my feet.

I was greeted by a small crowd of onlookers, some taking pictures and videos with their cellphones: I’d probably end up a YouTube sensation by the time the night was up.  I decided to lay it on thick and spat out a tooth as blood dribbled down my chin. The crowd had obviously surprised the cop, who’se name tag read “Officer Murray”, as he smiled and politely told me to watch my head as I entered the back seat of a cop car that was parked on the side of the street.  Obviously nervous, he then quickly closed the door and ran around to the driver’s seat, got in, started the sirens and drove away, honking at some onlookers that were standing in the street.  I turned to look at the crowd and noticed the backseat door wasn’t properly closed, but with my tooth lying back there on the road somewhere, I decided it best to keep my mouth shut.

The car sped through a couple of red lights and eventually made it onto the highway.  We headed east, towards downtown, all the while Officer Murray taunting me, calling me things like child molester, kidnapper and baby killer.  I hadn’t done anything wrong, and didn’t dignify Murray’s insults with a response, which in turn just made him talk more.  He began talking about prison, reminding me of how many years I would be stuck behind bars, and how a big guy named Bubba would undoubtedly make me his bitch.

“Hope you packed some Vaseline!” he said with a loud, exaggerated laugh.

I ignored him and kept an eye on the car door.  It was holding, but obviously wasn’t very sturdy.  As the car sped down l’Autoroute Ville-Marie, I saw the door pop in and out, prompting me to scuttle over to the middle of the backseat.  From there I could see the car’s dashboard, and sure enough the open door sign was on.  Apparently Murray was too busy musing about unavoidable sodomy, and didn’t pay attention to the flashing light.

After about three minutes, during which I came close to telling the Murray to shut up twice, a call came up on the police radio.  Something was going down at the National Bank near Beri-UQAM Metro Station, and all available cop cars were ordered to assist.  Being in the vicinity, our car was also asked to show up, something Murray obviously didn’t care for.  He pompously called in, stated he was carrying a dangerous offender, and said he was continuing to the station.  The voice on the other line quickly scoffed at his remarks and ordered him to head to the National Bank.  I guess I wasn’t the only one who found he took his job too seriously.

Suddenly the car lunged forward, and I instinctively kept an eye on the half open door.  Murray hadn’t tied up my seatbelt when he’d so politely sat me in the car, and with my hands in cuffs, I wasn’t able to do anything about it.  As the car moved from lane to lane, I slid from side to side, cringing each time I slid towards the passenger door for fear that it would open and I would fly out into traffic.  We moved left to right for what seemed like an eternity, and it wasn’t long before a wave of nausea came over me.  I gagged as the contents of my stomach flew out and covered most of the driver’s side of the backseat, Murray swearing at the mess I’d just made.  I smiled, realizing that even with a good clean, the smell would easily stay in the car for a couple of weeks.

We soon arrived at the National Bank, parking behind the other cop cars that had arrived on the scene.  Frustrated and unable to cope with the smell of my lunch any longer, Murray opened the door and walked out, joining his fellow officers who were all standing around a broken window.  From what I could see, it looked like someone had broken into the bank and stolen some cash.  The cops had come to the same conclusion and were getting ready to close down the surrounding streets and begin searching for a suspect.

With the car empty, and the smell of vomit filling my senses, I turned sideways and began to push the passenger door with my feet.  It buckled but remained closed, so I gave it a light kick and it swung open.  I quietly rolled out of the car and walked away trying to look as casual as I could with a pair of handcuffs tied behind my back.  I had almost made it down to the next block when I heard a shout from behind.  I turned to find Murray staring at me from beside the barf-filled cruiser.  I turned and quickly ran as he pulled out his gun and fired a shot.

“Crazy asshole!” I murmured to myself, running as fast as I could while bystanders ran fearing for their lives.

I ran down another street and quickly found a Beri-UQAM Metro Station entrance.  I figured if anything it would be difficult to find me in the Metropole’s busiest station so I plowed through the doors and ran down into Montreal’s  underbelly.  I heard shouts as I ungraciously jumped over the ticket booths, falling to the other side.  A chubby Metro worker came out and tried to grab me, but I got up, slipped through his fingers and easily outran him.

I hid in the immense sea of commuters and slowly made my way down to the yellow line, the lowest platform in the three line station.  I hid in a corner, as far away from all the commuters as I could, and let out a sigh of relief.  I had made it: all I needed now was to hop on the next metro train and I would be free.  I wrestled with my handcuffs, trying to pull them off, but it was no use, they were on to stay.  It was no problem though, I would find someone to help me latter, once I got off the train.

“You need help with that?” A heavy voice asked from behind.

I turned, expecting a security guard to grab me and bring me back up to the police.  Instead, I saw the last person I expected to see.

“Steve?!” I said, surprised.

Notre-Dame-de-Grâce par, lit only by dimmed orange lights, reminded me of a handful of horror movies.  I half-expected a knife wielding maniac to jump out from behind a tree and gut me, or for a barrage of zombies to run me down, rip me to shreds and eat my innards.  But there were no maniacs or zombies, only Max and me standing alone in the park.

The evening was surprisingly warm for a Halloween night, and from where we stood we could see a handful of disguised children running from house to house, hoping to get as much candy as they could.  We also saw a house with dozens of parked cars on the lawn,  loud thumping music coming from inside.  I’d almost ended up at such a party that night, but my friend Steve, the only person I knew in Montreal, ended up calling me last minute and telling me he wouldn’t show up.

“Its the flu thing,” he’d said over the phone.

I wasn’t convinced, but had myself been stricken by weird abdominal pains during the past couple of days.  It seemed as though my body wasn’t yet used to Montreal’s water, so I figured I could use the rest.  Now, standing outside such a party, I couldn’t help but sigh as I thought about how I would probably end the evening like many others: passing out on the couch, a cable network movie playing in the background.

I had no idea how wrong I was.

Suddenly, Max startled me with a bark and I turned to find he was looking down the hill at Dracula and an Alien.  So things didn’t get out of control, I got Max to sit before the kids got too close.  Not that he’s bad around children, though he does like to jump up on them to see if they have any food and I didn’t want some crazy mother thinking my dog attacked her kids.

Dracula and the Alien pulled their masks up, transforming into two young boys.  They asked if they could say hello to Max, to which I replied that they first had to let him sniff their hands.  They were confused, asked why, and I quickly went through how dogs great each other.  To this day I’m still amazed at how many people, including a surprising number of dog owners, are completely clueless when it comes to dog behaviour.  The boys giggled as Max’s thick wet tongue licked their hands.

“What do you think you are doing?!” A female voice shouted from the side of the road, making all four of us jump.

“Ah shit,” the boy who had been Dracula muttered.

Max and I looked up to find a stout, short-haired woman wobbling up the hill towards us.  She held a bag in one hand, and the other was flapping in the air pointing at both the boys and then the sky.  Each step she took looked difficult, with her legs barely capable of supporting her own weight, and her body swaying, almost hypnotic-like, from side to side.  As she got closer she began cursing at the kids, quoting what I assumed where bible verses, and then accusing the boys of satanism. In other words, she was a real nut case.

“For fuck’s sake relax will you?” I shouted back.  ”They’re just kids.”

The fat woman obviously did not expect me to open my mouth and paused, trying to figure out where I fit into the picture.  She soon deduced that I was a card carrying member of a satanist cult, and spent the last excruciating minute of her heroic climb up the gentle slope calling me things I’d never even heard before.  Before she got too close, I grabbed Max and walked away, uttering a quick “Fuck You!” as I left.  It was a good thing too, because Max would have probably gone for the jugular.  Again, people don’t understand dogs.

I walked Max back to the apartment then came back down to get myself some take out and a movie.  I figured, since it was Halloween, that I would treat myself and pass out in front of a rented movie instead of one playing on cable.  As I exited the lobby, two cop cars raced down the street, lights flashing and sirens wailing.  I guess Halloween really does bring out the crazies.

I headed past the park, aiming for a sub and movie place down the street.  I tried to scan the park to see if the crazy lady was still there, but there were no sings of her, Dracula or the Alien.  Poor kids, its tough enough growing up in this fucked up world, it doesn’t help to have a self-proclaimed evangelical nut as a mother.

I got to the end of the park and stood, waiting for the crosswalk signal to change.  I began thinking about what movie I would pick up and instinctively reached down, looking for my wallet.  I sighed as I grasped at empty pockets:  I’d forgotten my wallet at home.

I turned around and began jogging back the way I came.  I had made it halfway accross the park when the sirens and lights appeared.  At first I though the police were chasing after someone else so I kept jogging.  I finally realized something wasn’t right when a cop car spun around and stopped right in front of me, shining a large spot light in my eyes.

“Stop right there!” A voice said over a bull horn.

I stopped in my tracks, confused at what was happening.  The officer came out of his car, gun in hand.  I saw him duck in and out of the car, talking to the person in the passenger seat.  The bright spot light blinded me, but when I moved my hand in front of it, I could see a large round figure sitting in the car and waving its hands at me.

I then knew exactly what was going on: the crazy bitch had called the cops on me.