Tire Change

The simple act of changing a tire—how can such a small task make the average onlooker feel so useless? I’ve driven for more than 10 years and have never once changed a single tire on anything. This man, with confidence oozing out of his headphones, makes it seem like such an easy feat. A couple of screws, a few pumps on the drill trigger, and bob’s your uncle.

Winter is approaching, and my dad starts reminding me to change my tires, usually in September. Every time I see him, he looks at me with a concerned gaze and says, “Don’t forget to change your tires, book an appointment.” I usually dismiss it and ask him what he had for lunch.

All of this to say, I really want to start learning how to change a tire. What do I need? A drill and a lift? If that’s all it takes, I can have this up and running by the end of the week.

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Alarm Clock

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This is my new alarm clock. It’s small, roughly 3 inches wide, and packs a mean punch.

It’s quite simple. That white button on the top right is the snooze button, which I’ve been trying very hard not to press. I’ve thought about pretending that pressing that button would make something terrible happen—like if I pressed it, the next time my mom sneezed, no one would say “bless you.”

At first, I didn’t trust the machine and thought it wouldn’t go off the first few times I set it. I had to put a backup alarm for my alarm, which is a crazy way to start your day. The sound of two alarms fighting for your attention while you’re resisting the urge to throw them both off the balcony.

It’s been a week now, and my trust has grown stronger each day.I will now describe the sound it makes while only using text: bee, bee, beep beep beep, BEEP BEEP BEEP. This is how it operates: it starts soft, gets a little more needy, and then loses its mind.

The relationship between a human and their alarm clock is special, and in the middle of writing this, I decided that I want to give this fellow a name. Beepo.

See you tomorrow, Beepo.

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Sidewalk Table

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I was walking in the Mile End with my friend Lila, and I was telling her one of my most embarrassing stories—one that will never see the light of day. Just as I was getting to the juicy bits, we saw this table planted on the edge of the sidewalk. If the table had eyes, they would be watery, droopy, and begging for attention.

We locked eyes and communicated, of course, non-verbally. I told the table, with my eyes, “I’m gonna bring you home, okay? But promise me you won’t fall apart during the trip.” It looked down, looked back up, and said, “I will remain one, I promise.”

I studied the table, put my hands on the top, and gave it a gentle shake. Its legs were as weak as a marathon runner on their last mile. Nails were loose, and the wood had been slightly chipped in certain areas. “A promise is a promise,” I whispered under my breath.

I picked it up with both hands, walked to the bus stop, and said my goodbyes to Lila. Getting on the bus was no problem. I took a seat in the front, and the table was placed by my side as if I were dining at a restaurant. Someone had the nerve to lean on the table as if it was part of the STM’s interior design.

With all the potholes and extreme braking (I’m under the impression STM bus drivers brake hard on purpose to give themselves a little chuckle, but that’s for another story), we made it back to my house. After tightning the screws and giving it a little wash, it’s existence has been restored.

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Walkman

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I noticed I walk differently when I’m at a public pool. If you stop and think about it, it’s really your own personal runway, and that’s exactly how I treat it. Glasses on, shoulders back, and my nose parallel with the horizon.

On this particular day, as I was catwalking out of the bathroom, I looked down and locked eyes with this pretty little number. A Sony Walkman. It was sitting there alone, taking in the sun like the rest of us, waiting for the right someone to pick it up off the ground and hit that play button.

I stood there for two whole minutes thinking about what I should do with it. I picked it up; it felt nice, heavy with little scratches and personal indentation. I wanted it. I wanted it so bad I would have left $20 on the ground and walked off.

I catwalked back to the reception and handed it off to the pool staff, which was a handful of teenagers. They didn’t even know what I was handing them.

Owner, if you’re somehow reading this, you have great taste in music.

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Stapler

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Have I reached an age where I find staplers fascinating? What really sold me was the ‘Made in Sweden’ engraving. I don’t have anything made there, and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. As of now, I’ve owned this stapler for three weeks, and I have stapled zero papers. I’ve come to learn that I like these little machines, and I’m going to use this journal entry to dissect why that is.

1. I like items that can be found in a work environment. A nice trestle desk, a banker’s lamp, maybe an X-Acto knife made in Japan, and, of course, a stapler.

2. I appreciate organization, and if for any reason I have an abundance of paper lying around, I’d like a stapler close by.

3. It reminds me of a simpler time: typewriters, analog cameras, the smell of cigarettes from the smoking section at your parents’ favorite restaurant.

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