Whole Broken World

The old man stands at the bus stop in what may be his best suit—years of pressing have created a sheen to the finely woven navy blue wool. In sharp contrast, he wears bright white Adidas runners on his feet. A light early autumn breeze flutters the fine grey strands that still cling to life on an otherwise bald head. Annelise Bilodeau looks at the old-fashioned alarm clock sitting on her dining room table and back out the large picture window. She named the man Mr. H a few months back. He stands at the bus stop at exactly ten past seven every weekday morning. In the relative quiet of her little Sunnyside condo, Annelise listens to the meditative sound of the clock hands tick, and at seven thirteen, the familiar sound of the diesel-engine city bus charges around the corner. It pulls up to the curb adjacent to her building. The man she has studied every weekday morning, before setting her alarm clock to ring in four hours, turns and walks back the way he came. He never gets on the bus, but simply waits for its arrival and then walks back home in slow, methodical strides. If no one else is at the stop or disembarking, the bus no longer stops—the driver obviously as familiar with Mr. H’s routine as Annelise has become. She has considered getting up earlier to wait at the stop with the mysterious old man, perhaps strike up a conversation, but instead chooses to imagine his story. For the past few months, he has unknowingly become her muse. Often, Annelise is inspired to create a whole new story about her well-pressed stranger; she has collected a dozen different short stories in a narrative that can exist only so long as she remains an observer. Though Annelise is not a romance novelist, a romantic element exists in all of Mr. H’s stories—if only a whisper but meant to be heard. On this occasion, Annelise does not set her alarm clock to the predetermined four hours. Two orange floral print suitcases, fashioned after the popular 1970’s carpet bags, sit packed and ready in the kitchen, still like new from almost no use. Three boarding passes to Italy sit on the kitchen island nearby. “Well, Mr. H,” Annelise says out loud to her muse, standing from the hard, tall-backed, and cushion-less cedar chair—a reminder of her father, the ghost of whom tells her that comfort is not akin to productivity. “I will be away for a while. I hope you’re still around when I come back. I can feel the tingle of a new idea budding.” Annelise walks into the kitchen, and her navy silk housecoat slips open to reveal blue-checkered cotton pyjama pants and a white tank. Comfortable, breathable and practical. Like most of the clothing that fills her closet. The housecoat was a gift from her sister, and though she won’t admit it out loud, her favourite article of clothing. As she has taught herself to do as a young student, and as an adult with her strict writing schedule, Annelise calculates the time needed to shower, dress and drive to her mother’s complex by nine thirty. If she allows herself to lose track of time, he will crash around her like a monsoon; the first victim would be obligation and with it, the reality she has carefully shaped around her thirty-five years of life. With just enough time for a second coffee, Annelise refills her large purple mug, adding the last of the cream—as planned—and one sugar. Laying a long finger on one of the boarding passes, she ruminates over the day ahead. She is, as usual, the designated chauffeur for both her mother and sister. Annelise’s sister, Melanie, prefers to own a bicycle instead of a gas-powered vehicle. The sisters in a rare moment of accord, and to coin her mother’s word choice, colluded to travel with her to Italy for her 70th birthday. Annelise leans against the narrow island hugging her coffee, her unfocussed gaze out the back window, and recalls the conversation she and her sister had the week before.