This Is A Message...

Johnny Depp as Mort Rainy, probably wondering who's calling.

Booth 6. The tiny sticker on the wall beside me annotates my location. I am at the Royal City Cafe for breakfast and a last look at the paintings that hang here. Its Sunday, and with another weekend passing my days in New Westminster are numbered. These fine examples of civic painting are one of the few things I will miss.

I don't know what the deal is with this city, but New Westminster has to be the screaming trash capital of Canada. Two different apartments, on opposite ends of the city, and not one of them exempt from the insanity you hear coming from the streets at any given moment. This weekend was no exception. Late Friday night the voices were from a drinking party coming from this vacant space beside the sky train station. It went on for hours. I was half asleep and thought I was in a David Lynch movie, the hick tinged cackles bouncing off the other hi-rises and into my subconscious. This morning though, about 6-am, it was just one guy going ballistic and screaming "You Fuckin Nigger" at the top of his lungs for a half an hour. These are my fellow citizens.

Despite the intermittent screaming from the streets, the weekend was quiet and comforting. I started early of course and went to the CAG
Thursday night for Supernatural, new work by Neil Campbell and Beau Dick. Friday I went to another opening at the Grunt Gallery, never did figure out who was showing there. Saturday was spent walking Granville St. during the St. Patricks day parade. God the sound of bagpipes makes me well in tears. It was hilarious, each time the band would kick up so would the mist. What a wreck. After lunch I ducked into the shade of the Granville 7 for the 130 showing of Secret Window, written by Stephen King and starring Johnny Depp.

Like most Stephen King films the lead character, played by Depp, is a writer. He has recently suffered the break up of his marriage, due to his wife's infidelity, Now it is six months later and Mort Rainy still has not recovered. He is hiding away at his cottage on the lake supposedly writing a book, but he has written only one paragraph in 6 months. His hair is a mess, he sleeps on the couch all day, smokes, and eats doritos while he stairs at the phone. I know the feeling all too well.

My relationship with the phone has become quite complex as of late. Although it seldom rings, I still carry it around with me everywhere. It is my connection with the world outside my bedroom and that connection is minimal at best. I want to get away from my phone but its hard, I am a slave to the phone, good thing its cordless. Johnny Depp's character in Secret Window would often unplug his, I tried this too, in an act of defiance, but defiance doesn't work when it goes unnoticed. I wait for a call, and when it happens I am apprehensive to answer it. The phone keeps a record of all calls, incoming, outgoing, whatever. I wouldn't say its a healthy relationship, but at least I can trust the phone.

At least for now, in booth 6, I am away from the phone. It won't last though, I will find my phone again and it will give it to me straight. For now though, the Royal City Cafe and its framed paintings of various government achievements provide me with a necessary diversion, civic painting. New Westminster, I will not miss this place.