The First Half of the Walk—D.M.K.Ruby
I had originally planned to write a blog about the links between exercise like running or walking and creativity but then I Googled the topic and realized that so many people have written on this topic already, like Haruki Murakami in his popular book What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. So, I decided instead to take you along on my walk to work and talk about its role in generating ideas and sparking my curiosity. Like a daily diary of story ideas. Shall we begin?
As I walk out on to my back deck and lock the door, I always glance at the mysterious house across the alley which has changed hands three times since I’ve lived in this house. The most recent buyer doesn’t live there but has been doing renovations for months after at least two years of it sitting empty, not even rented out which is unusual in this province where you must pay a Speculation Tax if you have a second home that’s sitting empty.
I have endless questions about the owner, who, when he bought the house introduced himself to the neighbours including myself and said he was moving here from the mainland with his teenaged kids. That he was a newly separated or divorced parent was assumed by the neighbours. They were all here for a couple of weeks and then I’ve never seen them again. I have so many questions. What happened? Did the other parent refuse to let the kids move to the Island? Did the kids refuse to move? There’s a whole domestic drama just waiting to be written, which I imagine being turned into a movie directed by Noah Baumbach.
I make my way along the little high street, up the left side on my way to work in the morning and down the right side on my way home at the end of the day. On the left side I walk past a gym that has silvered windows so you can’t see in unless the lights are on inside and even then, there seems to be some kind of privacy screen. There is rarely anyone in there but maybe a couple of times a month I can see a couple of middle-aged men inside, working out.
WHY is it empty most of the time? What is the point of having a large gym that looks like it’s fully stocked with all the equipment if no one ever uses it? Does it belong to someone who doesn’t want to work out at home so built his home gym on a commercial street so he would be forced to go out to exercise? And sometimes brings a buddy? It feels super fucking weird. I can’t help it, I’m always thinking about settings for stories and a body could go undiscovered in there for weeks because no one ever seems to use the space. Did I mention that there’s no signage, nothing to indicate what might be behind the mirrored glass screening the inside from prying eyes like mine?
A bit further along is a coffee shop where people sit outside in all kinds of weather, gripping their hot beverages in one hand and often a dog leash in the other. This morning, I noticed the woman who looked to be in her 40’s with a fierce expression on her face as she stared at something in her phone while her dog was pulling away, trying to smell something that was just beyond the end of his leash. Was someone breaking up with her by text? Was she looking at a work email where someone was taking credit for her work? Was it her mother asking her if she was going to bring a plus one to her brother’s wedding? There were others inside and some people milling around the door, but she was the one I noticed and want to write a story about, and I want to give her and her dog straining at the leash a happy ending.
I mentally divide my walk into thirds and there is a giant oak tree that marks the first third, and I am fascinated by the group of 9–10-year-old boys that are often under the tree with their bikes. They wait there for each other and sometimes if I’m a bit later, I see them all ride off to school together. It’s a scene out of a boyhood adventure story like Stand by Me or ET and I am always imaging adventures for them, secret clubhouses and rescuing animals and finding hidden treasure.
The next third is marked by an intersection across a major road so I always try and make eye contact with the drivers before I step off the sidewalk, and my mind often spins into story mode about the drivers. Wondering what their life is like and where they’re headed and what kind of work they must do and what did they have to do to get out of the house that morning and what kind of day they’re having and why they chose a truck in that shade of virulent green. I always give a wave because when I’m the driver and the pedestrian gives me a wave, it always gives me a little lift, so I try and reciprocate. Or maybe, just as likely, the driver is thinking, get moving, I’m getting late. But I choose to believe they appreciate a wave the same way I appreciate them stopping and not running me over.
The last third is always the busiest as there are a couple of schools nearby and there are often junior high school aged children headed to their first class. There is a lanky teenager I noticed a few months ago wearing a red sweatshirt that proclaims across his chest in large letters, “You are enough.”
The first time I saw him I nearly transgressed all social barriers and hugged him. I felt myself well up with tears, like it was some kind of sign from the universe. He seemed to be wearing it unironically, and it was a surprise to see a kind message instead of a sports team logo. Now I see him often and it’s obviously a favourite as I see him wearing it on the regular. I have so many questions for him. Is his mother a therapist? What motivated him to wear that kind of message so publicly? What has happened to him in his young life that he needs to remind himself that he is enough? Or is he sharing that message for someone else? A girlfriend or boyfriend or another friend?
I have concocted a teenaged drama in my head where childhood friends have entered the awkward junior high school years, and he knows they live in a home where everything they do is criticized and never complimented. He gets their attention with his sweatshirt and even though they’re dating the school’s top athlete, they start to fall for the unassuming empath in the red sweatshirt. There is angst and drama, but it all works out in the end. I mean, it’s writing itself!
Before I know it, I’m walking through the back door at work, and I feel the made-up shit in my brain quieten down as I switch gears back into the real world. In the next blog, I’ll bring you along for the walk home!