The Hunt for Chocolate Boy

Do I feel guilty about taking 10 months to write part two of my epic story to find Rahul the chocolate boy?
Somewhat…

Enter Mumbai, February 22nd, 2013 – more than a month after posting Finding Chocolate Boy, and still not having found him.

It was time to pull up my proverbial bootstraps and step outside my air-conditioned apartment and into a breezy Bombay taxi heading for Colaba. By breezy, I really mean a low-pressure cyclone contained in a tin can taxicab known as an Ambassador – the classic mode of transportation in the city. To ride with the windows down meant combing the dreadlocks out of my hair for the duration of the ride but to ride with the windows up meant suffocating both the taxi Walla and myself.

I opted for the windows down and tied my hair for the 45-minute, traffic nightmare, 10-kilometer ride South from my nice new apartment in Worli to my old neighborhood in Colaba. Taking this trip in the middle of the day traffic was a big mental hurdle to jump over, but I squeezed myself into the floral upholstered backseat and headed out for the second hunt for Chocolate Boy.

Since my last hunt, I had kept a plastic bag with chocolates, a Canadian flag, and that silly joke breath spray in my cupboard. Now it was with me and I thought of the chocolates melting in the mid-afternoon sun as I walked down a side-street in Colaba. I was on a mission and was ready to document the whole experience for a follow-up blog post as well.

As I was wandering around with my eyes peeled for my Chocolate Boy Rahul, I turned a corner and a short man in a blue and purple striped shirt started following me.

“Yes ma’am?”

Shit, don’t make eye contact. He’ll try and sell me something!” I stopped looking around and focused on my energy on ignoring him.

“Ma’am, yes. Come this way!” he pressed on, unrelenting.

I determinedly looked straight ahead and picked up my pace.

“Do you want hotel? Taxi? Map?”

Not-Res-pon-ding! He kept tailing me and started smiling.

“Can I help you find something?”

I stop.  Perhaps he can…

“Actually, yes. I’m looking for someone,” I said.

He stopped, presumably surprised that I didn’t turn out to be deaf and dumb. I fought back a laugh at his confused expression.

“Someone?” he asked.

“Yes, a little boy. I have his picture here,” I pull out my iphone and show him Rahul’s photo.

After explaining my story and confirming that I wasn’t a pedophile, he took a proper look at the photo. He studied it closely.

“Do you know him?” I asked hopefully.

No, he said he didn’t know him but he knew someone who could help.

Eager to find out who this mysterious Someone was, I followed my guide through a series of streets. While fantasizing about discovering some underground Don of Colaba street-kids, I suddenly thought of what my poor mother would think if she could see me following a strange Indian man I met on the street to an unknown location. I’ll admit I got a bit nervous.

However, my nerve monkeys calmed down when my guide entered into a traditional Indian cloth shop with Kurtas and Salwar Kameez hanging in the windows. Inside were five men lounging around on a mattress that was strangely placed in the middle of the store. Nerve monkeys came back. They hustled to bring out a chair for me on which I awkwardly sat and clenched my butt cheeks tight until someone made a move.

My guide spoke in Hindi to a very large man with two mobile phones. The man nodded and asked me if I wanted chai to which I politely said no.

The guide gestured for me to give him my phone, so I pulled up the picture of Rahul and gave it over. My precious iphone was then passed around the room in silence and I watched the men’s faces to see if there was any recognition. After some minutes of quiet discussion, the large man passed my phone back to me.

“He doesn’t know him,” my guide said.

Looking around, I searched for some cue for what to do next. Perhaps now I was supposed to pay some sum of money which would suddenly jog their memories. Perhaps the meeting was over. However, the men just sat and watched me. The large man answered one of his phones while I secretly snapped a photo and made ready to excuse myself.

I smiled painfully and enunciated carefully, “Well, thank you very much for checking. I should really go and keep looking now.”

“Would you like to buy a saree? Kurta? Do you like Indian clothes? Very nice. Silk, cotton, linen,” my guide almost pleaded.

Of course the end game was to sell me something.

“No, no thank you,” I laughed.

“You don’t like Indian clothes?”

“No, they don’t look good on me,” I lied, eager to extricate myself from the situation.

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I left the shop and the men inside it, and started trying to find my way back to a recognizable street. My guide suddenly came out running.

“Wait, wait ma’am. You’re looking for this boy? What do you want from him?” he asked.

“Nothing, I just want to give him this gift!” I repeated again as I open my plastic bag and pull out the Canadian flag and breath-spray.

“Let me see the photo,” he insisted.

I exasperatedly pulled up the photo again and he looked at it very hard, furrowing his eyebrows.

“I know one person who might know,” he said finally.

“Are they going to try to sell me something?” I ask.

“No, no ma’am. This is my other boss. He has a travel agency nearby.”

“Alright,” I said.

Still not ready to give up the hunt for the day, I was ready to follow my guide to one more store just in case I find someone who might have seen Rahul walking around the streets.

I followed him back to the road where we had met, and then into an alley where I had earlier I had run into some boys playing cricket who claimed that Rahul was ‘gone’. The boys were gone now too, but I was more hopeful that we were in an area where I had once met my chocolate boy.

We entered a tiny travel agency with enough room for a desk and a bench. Inside were four men, younger and thinner than the last bunch. I squeezed in with my guide and the young men got up from the bench and let me sit down. They stood outside with the door open to watch the transaction.

The boss behind the desk smiled and spoke in clear English. “Hello, do you want to book a trip? Elephanta island tour? Alibaug beach vacation?” he asked.

I felt my butt un-clench a little now that I could communicate directly without my guide giving a dubious interpretation of my story.

“Actually, I’m looking for this boy. I met him here about six months ago and he was around all the time. I can’t find him anywhere. But then it’s only my second time looking for him,” I explained.

After checking the photo and confirming that I didn’t have any untoward intentions with Rahul, he showed it to the other men standing outside.

They checked the photo and started discussing animatedly. I smiled as a look of recognition appeared on their faces.

One man carrying rolled up maps under his arm spoke to me in accented English, “From one of the schools in the area. But it’s Saturday so he probably at home today.”

“Where does he live? Can you take me to him?” I ask in excitement.

“No, he doesn’t know him but I can tell that he doesn’t live on the street. A lot of kids from the suburbs come to school here and hang around the streets after class and beg from tourists for fun,” explained the boss behind the counter.

“Where is the school? I just want to find it so I can come back on a weekday and ask there,” I press.

The man in the pink shirt and maps volunteers to show me the way, and I say goodbye to my trusty guide with 50 rupees in exchange for his business card which had three business names on it.

It was with this that we took off up the street and away from the places where I had seen Rahul hanging around before. The man in the pink shirt’s name was Siddarth, and he asked me for more details on the story of Chocolate Boy and about Canada. We finally arrived at Woodside Inn where I used to go drinking on the weekends. Instead of going in, we took a left and went through a small alley that, to my surprise, opened on to a large dirt field with children playing soccer and cricket. I would never have expected to see such a wide-open space in the thick of old-town Bombay, where real-estate was more expensive than downtown Vancouver!

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We went around and started asking schoolboys with backpacks, kids in soccer uniforms, and a group of girls waiting for their turn to practice if they knew Rahul. They all studied his photo and eventually the girls confirmed that Rahul practiced soccer here in the afternoons after school. I asked when he would be there next and they told me probably the next day.

Super excited, I passed them all some chocolate as a thank you. I walked out with Siddarth and he gave me his phone number in case I needed his help next time I came down to find Rahul. I thanked him and tried to give him 50 rupees, but he refused to take it. I asked why, and he proudly proclaimed that he would rather earn his money from work.

“But you were a big help to me,” I insisted.

“I sell maps. Why don’t you buy a map?” he asked.

I smiled and bought a map of Mumbai which now hangs at home.

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The next day I returned at 4 o’clock with the hopes of finding Rahul joyously playing soccer on the dirt field with his friends. To my dismay, I couldn’t see him anywhere.

I found the girls again waiting for their practice to start and they happily waved me over and told me that Rahul hadn’t come that day. In fact, they hadn’t seen him for a couple of weeks.

I sighed and the girls could see that I was disappointed. One of the girls offered to give me a call when they meet him next. So, with a little hope left I gave her my number.

She then took me to the soccer coach and I showed him Rahul’s photo. He again confirmed that he practiced with them but hadn’t been around for the last few weeks. I told the coach to please let Rahul know if he sees him that I am his Canadian friend looking for him from 6 months ago.

Sure that I wasn’t going to find Rahul anytime soon, I proceeded to give out the rest of the chocolates to the school children on the field and walked myself over to Woodside Inn where I had scheduled a meeting with a friend soon after my anticipated grand-reunion. During the meeting, I couldn’t help but think that all this month I had been sitting in Worli, Rahul had been practicing soccer right around the corner. If only I hadn’t waited so long to come back and hunt for him then maybe I would have caught him at his soccer practice.

But if there’s one thing that makes me feel better, it’s philosophizing my life.

“I can’t live our lives with if-only’s and what-if’s. There was something to be learned from all of this I’m sure,” I told myself.

It took me so long to go out and find Rahul because I had been caught up with my own life and was distracted by my work and other, ahem, interests… What was hanging so dearly in the balance that I felt inclined to brave the 45 minute taxi sauna two days in a row on a hearsay that Rahul might practice soccer in the field nearby?

Perhaps I wanted to find an anchor in Mumbai. Maybe I was just looking for a little adventure. In fact, I could have just wanted to write another blog based on the success of Finding Chocolate Boy part 1. There is something terribly addictive about seeing those WordPress site statistics jump up suddenly with every new post.

Regardless, 10 months later I finally got my act together to write the darned thing and now I’m feeling an urge to go to Colaba and look for Rahul just one more time… The only problem is that I forgot the breath-spray and Canadian flag at Woodside Inn that last day after a few too many Jameson’s.

Finding Chocolate Boy – Part 1

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Canadian Frame(lines)

If you have ever wondered what it means to be a Canadian, you aren’t the first. Whenever I have travelled around the world, I am often asked why Canadians think they’re different from Americans when we look and sound almost the same. The best answer I can produce is usually that being Canadian means I’m basically American but without all the bad characteristics foreigners assign to people from the USA. One might also say that to be Canadian is to be multi-cultural, but really that makes no sense at all. Just because I’m Canadian doesn’t mean there is any Chinese, Indian, Spanish, or African in me at all.

Many people from the above mentioned categories also define themselves as Indo-Canadian, Chinese-Canadian, or Afro-Canadian. As a caucasian and first-generation Canadian, I often have to refer to my own ‘roots’ as well but am usually only asked by other caucasian-Canadians.

Apart from our aboriginal population, Canadians have all come from somewhere else in relatively recent history. At least this is the feeling you get when you live in an urban metropolis.

However, two filmmakers from Vancouver are trying to search deeper for what being Canadian means to people living in rural areas. The project is called Canadian Frame(lines). Alexandra Caulfield and Ryder T. White spent a year refurbishing a school bus they have aptly named their “Pet”, and then took off on January 1st 2013 to start a one-year journey across the small town of Canada in search of answers.

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Their method is artistic. They are taking the old format of super 8 mm film and teaching communities across Canada how to shoot and process 8mm film while they take their cameras home and shoot what they think defines life in their community. At the end of the year, they will take their footage back to Vancouver and create a walk-through gallery installation, allowing the audience to take a walking tour across the smaller communities of Canada.

ImageThey have been thoroughly documenting their process with weekly update videos on youtube, as well as their own mini web-series of documentaries featuring interesting people they have met along the way. You can check them out on their youtube channel, and also see their blogs and videos through their website. This will culminate in the gallery installation, but they are also working on other projects.

ImageAlong this journey, they have also been finding odd jobs like shooting a music video in New York for Marcus Aurelius, an electronic music artist based out of San Diego, and creating a documentary called Coming Home, featuring people who have left Newfoundland and returned home to their community for various reasons. On top of all this, they are also writing fictional feature film scripts and experimental shorts to be executed when they return to Vancouver in 2014.

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Soon they will be starting a fundraising campaign to help them finish the last leg of their journey across Canada. I highly recommend that you follow them on facebook and twitter as well as Alex and Ryder are both social media gurus who are constantly providing a wealth of information about what is happening in the Canadian arts.

Perhaps you might even get an idea of what it means to be a Canadian.

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Canadianframelines.com      Youtube.com/canadianframelines

Facebook.com/canadianframelines         Facebook.com/caulfieldwhite

Twitter.com/cdnframelines      Twitter.com/arcaulfield      Twitter.com/ryderwhite

Safety Nets and Self-Sabotage: Contenders Magazine

Contenders Magazine has a blog called Little Losers Blog: A Journal of the Perpetually Up-and-Coming. I wrote the kickoff article of their new series called Between Then and Now.
Safety Nets and Self-Sabotage

‘Between Then and Now’ is a series of personal essays that examine the strange distance that separates our past ambitions and our present pursuits. If you’d like to contribute to the series, send your story to submissions@contendersmagazine.com.

It is similar to my first blog I ever wrote last year, What do You Want to Be When You Grow Up? but focuses more on the process of stripping away your comfort zones to find out where you want to be. Check it out!

Safety Nets and Self-Sabotage

Contenders strives to be a premier jumping off point for post-graduate, 20-something writers looking to extend their intellectual investigations into the ‘real world.’ It is a showcase of their talents, their interests, and their aspirations. In our wildest dreams, we are creating a generational idiom–at our most sensible, we’re just writing about topics we think the internet needs to consider a little more deeply. Either way, we hope you’ll come with us.

Contenders Magazine

The F-word and Female Responsibility

There was an ‘incident’ that happened to me recently which made me furious.

Have you ever heard about those stories about groping on Japanese subways? I became aware of this when I was 18 and travelling to Japan by myself for the first time. I had heard that men would often grope Japanese women on trains because the women did not make a scene out of embarrassment. The travel logs never said that western women were groped because they had a tendency to yell at the groper, causing mortal shame for the groping men.

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That was when I made up my mind to be that vocal woman. Fortunately, I never had a chance to practice my scream on the Japanese train and I soon forgot all about the risk of being groped. That is, I forgot until a ten year old Indian boy grabbed my boob four years later.

The mere shock made me stop in my tracks, speechless. I was walking with a friend in Colaba, Mumbai, and it wasn’t a crowded street. The Jr. groper had been walking next to us and asking if we would marry him. Then, he briefly cupped my breast, and we both stopped. There was a strange moment where time slowed down. He looked at me expectantly, to see the shock on my face. It was there alright. He had a big grin on his face when I snapped out of it and cuffed him on the side of the head. He took off running as I yelled after him.

I didn’t think it was a big deal. I still don’t. At least he hung around to receive the punishment he expected. It wasn’t very serious, but I’ll tell you what has prompted me to write this blog.

Just last week, while waiting for the bus in Vancouver, I felt something touch my bum. I took my earbuds out, and turned to see a man of about sixty walking past me wearing a sweatsuit and baseball cap. He had shoulder length and scraggly blond hair.
He smiled at me.
This time I didn’t hesitate.
I yelled at him, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? You can’t just touch my butt and walk away like it’s okay!”
I caught up to him.
He picked up his pace, and didn’t meet my eyes but turned and said, “Don’t worry about it baby, I’m an international rock star”.
“It doesn’t matter who the fuck you are. You violated me.” I yelled, so that people across the street could hear.
He started to run away, and I chased after him. I caught up and tried to kick him in the butt, but missed because I was wearing high heels.

I will take this opportunity to mention to the assholes who might be reading this, that I was not wearing slutty clothes (and if I was, it wouldn’t mean that I had less right to be angry).

I continued to yell after him as he ran away. A man who saw the whole thing told me that I should file a police report.
I couldn’t be bothered with that. What was that going to do anyway? I didn’t know who he was and he looked like a generic man who hung around the Gastown pub district at night.

I was fuming and felt violated, but was happy that I had had the presence of mind to yell and chase after the guy. I was glad he got scared and ran away from me…
I wished I hadn’t missed the kick to the ass.

My bus didn’t come either.

So, pissed off and riled up I went back to the pub to wait with my friends for the next bus that would come in an hour. After my unexpected re-entrance and grand proclamation that I had just chased a groper down the street and that my bus didn’t come, my friends and I got into a discussion about female blame and responsibility.

Basically, even though we are taught that rape, groping, and verbal sexual abuse is wrong and we should fight out against it, many women I know have been raised to believe that they have some kind of responsibility for the male attention they receive. Whether this attention is wanted or unwanted, there is something ingrained into society that says that men only react to female sexuality.

For a less-extreme example than rape, take a situation where a girl finds out that a boy she has been friendly with has a crush on her. If this attention is unwanted, I know that the first question that will come up for her and her friends will be “what did I do that made him get a crush on me?”

The problem here is the belief that a woman possesses a dangerous power to seduce, and if she doesn’t control it carefully then men will end up falling for her. It’s something we call “leading him on”.

I know that whenever this has happened to me, I feel as if I can change the way I behave around men to avoid any sort of awkwardness. I immediately start to evaluate and mediate all my male relationships to ensure they stay friendly.

For the more extreme example of rape, let’s think of all the times when a woman has been accused of “deserving it” because of her past sexual history, the way she dressed, what neighbourhood and what time, or how much she had to drink. Thankfully a new dialogue has risen out of some unfortunately extreme cases that got a lot of publicity. The new idea discounts all aspects of female responsibility when a woman falls victim to sexual abuse.

For the people who are aware that women are not responsible for the abuses visited on them by men, there is a new kind of responsibility we must adopt. This is not only the responsibility to educate other women, but the need to educate men. It might be hard to tell the creepy man who is gesturing at you on the bus that it is inappropriate and makes you feel violated, but now you know that it’s not your fault you should think of the next girl or woman he will do this to.

Every time you let something slide (because maybe he’s not actually said anything, or hasn’t touched you, or you’re getting off at the next stop anyway), you’re actually sending a message that it’s okay.
My advice? Use your voice. If you’re in public, tell it to them. If you’re not in public, yell it to the world in some other way.

Also, don’t listen to people who call you a feminist like it’s a bad thing. It means you believe in your rights and will defend them.

My question for you:

Why has Feminism become a dirty word?

Edit: I  just discovered this website, iHollaback! which campaigns against street harassment. There is a space to read and share other stories about this issue.

BC-India Film and Media: New Blog!

I am now running a new blog for all things BC-India film and media related, so that those who are only interested in that don’t have to wade through my personal blog posts.

Check it out right here and subscribe!

BC-India Film and Media: Articles, reports, and events

Bollywood Unmasked: The Director’s Chair

Today I have a guest article published in The Director’s Chair online magazine, an online E-Zine with Film Directing Tips, Film Making Articles and Online Resources for the Independent Filmmaker.

Bollywood Unmasked: The Real Potential of BC Film and Media Collaborations with India

In the five months I have spent researching the Indian film industry, I learned that there is huge potential for more film and media related business between British Columbia and India. With a grant from Western Economic Diversification (WED), I went to India twice with the SFU India Initiative to look for ways to increase ties with BC and the Indian film industry.

With no previous knowledge of India and coming from a Scottish-Canadian background… Click here to continue reading

 

A big thank you to Peter D. Marshall for the opportunity.

The Biannual Existential Crisis

So I went back in time last week. I drank Jack Daniels and watched the remake of Evil Dead.

I got home from the theatre before midnight. My mother and her boyfriend were out at a friend’s house for dinner and weren’t home yet.

I still live in the same house I was born in. Twenty-three years last week.

I was tipsy and not ready to crawl into bed all alone. My horoscope said that today (Saturday) was supposed to put my life onto a new trajectory and so far it hadn’t been fulfilled. Perhaps that was what propelled me to change into hiking pants and my raincoat and venture out into my suburban neighbourhood in the middle of the night. I had not completed my destiny for the day and I like to check things off my to-do list.

Actually, that’s how Starbucks hooked me into their points scheme. One more purchase and I’ll have a Gold Card. I like to achieve goals.

I’m an over-achiever.

So I find myself walking into the night with my iPhone, keys to the house, and a Fudgesicle (yes, a chocolaty popsicle). It’s raining and dark, and I’m hoping to have some kind of epiphany before the album I’m listening to finishes.

Private music should be illegal. Wasn’t there a time when you could only listen to music in a crowd? When I put on my headphones, all of a sudden the world revolves around only me and I get cocky as fuck, self-absorbed, and emotional.

I am walking around my elementary school and I remember how I had my heart broken by my Internet lover at fifteen. I had put on my running shoes on a dark and rainy night like this and after running for ten minutes I sat down on the swings and cried my heart out. I knew I had to break up with this boy because he treated me like garbage and made me so insecure I still feel the repercussions now, twelve years later.

I finish my Fudgesicle and toss the stick into the grass. It’s biodegradable I’m sure. Only problem is that it’s not a diet Fudgesicle… I’m used to eating these 40 calorie things and my mom accidentally bought the full-180 calorie version.

Well, we can’t waste food or else children in Africa will die. So I eat the extra calories and tell myself I’m burning it off by being outside.

I’m at the gravel field where the majority of my memories of being bullied as a child occur. Being human is a ridiculous thing, isn’t it? On the far end of the school I see a guy who looks like someone I used to go to school with. He stands by himself in front of a classroom; the ground is littered with beer cans.

At ten years old I was given a large (one-meter) blow-up ball for my birthday. I took it to school to show off and try to make friends. The girls who had been bullying me offered to play with me and kicked the ball out-of-bounds on purpose. They told me to go get it, but when I got back onto the school grounds I found the girls with a duty-aid (an adult supervisor) waiting for me. I was sent to the principal’s office for breaking the rules and my ball popped soon after.

However, the day I arrived at school with homemade stilts nobody bothered me.

At the far end of the field, I remember that we had this thing called the Kilometer Club. Student’s were encouraged to get fit by running around the field, and every four laps we would get a popsicle stick which said we had run a kilometer.

I pull out my iPhone and open my Jog Log app. I start the app and begin walking around the field. I didn’t quite believe that four laps around this mini-field was actually a kilometer.

Three-quarters through the first lap I find a small air-filled ball. I reach down and push on it… it’s flat. Still, I kick it and it goes rolling to the other end of the field. I chase after it and kick it around another two laps.

I lose the ball somewhere in the dark corner by the goal posts. I complete my 4th lap and my iPhone tells me I walked 0.92 Kilometers.

Not quite a Kilometer then.

Am I having an existential crisis again? I thought I went through this 6 months ago… It seems I have to go through this on a biannual basis.

I smile as I remember my last epiphany.

I was in South Africa and reminded myself how I was just a mass of atoms, floating around aimlessly and not actually separated from the rest of the world. I had finished a depressing book about The Emergency in India and couldn’t shake the blues. I went for a run and found myself staring at a pod of Southern Wright Whales frolicking at Muizenberg beach. I thought, “why do I have to be a human being? Why can’t I just go play with those whales and not worry about anything but food and predators?”

Then I remembered high school science class. The whales are a bunch of atoms, the water is another bunch of atoms, and the air and my body are other bunches of atoms. There is nothing disconnecting me from nature and the universe except my own stupidity.

“Being human is a ridiculous thing, isn’t it? “

I tweet this, and then I post it on Facebook too because I want to make sure everyone knows I’m having deep thoughts.

I walk through the trails connecting cul-de-sacs with forest and more cul-de-sacs. I go through a path I had never tried before because I never had time to explore it. Turns out that it connects to a road I was familiar with, and is actually a short cut that I had missed for twenty-three years.

The trail is a loop and I end up back at the playground where I cried when I was fifteen… and many times before that I’m sure.

There is a hill where all the students used to toboggan when we were lucky enough to have snow. I lie down on the wet grass and find that I only have three songs left on the album.

The water soaks through my pants and I lie and squint at the purple sky, my vision ringed with the tops of pine trees. I open my mouth and try to catch the rain on my tongue.

It seems to fall everywhere on my face except for my tongue. I stick my tongue out further.

The music fades, and I imagine what it might be like if some kids came up onto the hill and found me lying there, splayed out like a dead person with their tongue sticking out.

I’m too good-looking to be doing weird shit like this.

I stand up and start to walk home. I’m feeling alone and dejected, but I’ve had some sort of catharsis. I look at the other end of the park and the guy with the beer cans is gone. A group of teens walk up the path and are overtaken by some late-night jogger in neon shorts.

Just as I reach the gates to my housing community, I see my mother’s boyfriend’s car pull up. What are the chances of that? Here I am, moping around in the rain like some loner and I can’t even get the peace and quiet of an empty house?

The car window rolls down and I hear my mom asking if I have a key. I open the gate and they drive in.

So it doesn’t even matter how much I want to be alone in this world. No matter what I do, I’m connected. A mass of atoms connected with another mass of atoms.

The only thing keeping me from the rest of the world is my own stupidity.

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