I have a pleasant half hour walk to work through a peaceful neighborhood called Leaside. Five days a week I put on my shoes, get my iPod going and pop in my ear buds before stepping outside to begin my journey. Each day has its own soundtrack, depending on my mood, and this walk has become a consistent and soothing part of my routine. On a bad day, Jack Johnson clears my mind of the doldrums and on a good one, Hall and Oats allow me the opportunity to strut confidently toward whatever adventure awaits.
Monday started out like any other, except it was hotter than usual for an afternoon in May. It wasn’t just hot, it was blistering; the kind of hot the Devil would celebrate by holding a pizza party. And humid, too. Just looking out the window made my shirt stick to the small of my back. But living in Toronto, I’ve become accustomed to such days and have chosen my path accordingly. I have absurdly fair skin so it’s important I stay out of the direct sunlight, especially in the afternoon when it relentlessly bears down from all directions. There are numerous routes I could take, but there’s one in particular I prefer because it provides maximum shade and minimum heat.
I turned the corner down Manor Road, a particularly beautiful street with so much overhanging foliage that even people with the last names Svensen or Lundegaard can laze about with nary a drop of Coppertone. As I moved down the sidewalk, I noticed a woman up ahead, showering her shrubs with a garden hose. I could not see her face, but her paisley overalls and matching sea foam hat told me she must qualify for a pension check, or at the very least, half price pancakes at Denny’s. She had a power nozzle at the end of her hose and each time she pulled the trigger its force knocked her back a step. When I approached her yard, she stood as upright as her little body would allow and turned in my direction. I smiled, as I tend to do when I temporarily feel part of a Norman Rockwell painting. I whole heartedly expected her to smile back, and perhaps even invite me in for a cup of weak Sanka.
This is when the day took a turn for the worse. Instead of indulging my Ward Cleaver moment, she cocked her hose, took aim and pulled the trigger. She hosed me straight in the crotch. And it wasn’t just a little squirt, either. She sprayed with a vengeance, as if my crotch was a target on one of those games kids play at a carnival. Had this been a game, her accuracy and determination would have surely put her horse across the finish line first. She didn’t even lose her footing. So now I’m standing in front of her yard, soaking wet from the waist down, while she stands proudly like Wyatt Earp at the O.K. Corral. This was certainly not what I was expecting when I turned down shady Manor Road and first saw the little old lady.
Truth be told, the shade is not the only reason I choose Manor Road each day. Not only does it have the oldest trees, but also the oldest residents. I enjoy looking at artifacts of the elderly; concrete toadstools adorned with miniature trolls, spinning plastic wings on dollar store hummingbirds, rusty wind chimes dangling from old oaks, and occasionally an elderly person themselves stooped over a pot of hunchbacked petunias. These things brighten my day beyond measure. I don’t have nearly as much in common with the hipsters on Hillsdale Avenue, with their gravel stone lawns and solar powered tulips. And don’t get me started with the hubbub on Belsize Drive. If you’re not sidestepping strollers, you’re getting nailed by wagons stuffed with over-privileged children. Belsize is like stepping onto a Nascar race track for toddlers and best be avoided at all costs. I prefer the peace and tranquility of Manor. At least I thought I did.
Most people would have jumped out of the way, but I stood there in a stupor, utterly dumbfounded at this woman’s audacity. After I was adequately drenched and appeared to have spent the last week peeing my pants, she finally holstered her power nozzle. But it did not stop there. She looked me right in the eye and glared as if I had just stepped on her beloved cat or something. I checked underfoot and did not see any dead felines, so I took out my ear buds and said the first thing one does when hosed in the crotch, "Excuse me?"
Whatever her beef, it was clear I was not going to get it out of her. Despite her squint, I could tell she had participated in staring matches before and had never lost. I kept my gaze on her as long as possible, but unlike this woman, I am the type who always loses staring matches. Had she spoken, I don’t know what I expected her to say. Perhaps a friendly laugh, as if to say, "Hot day, huh?" or "Gotcha!"
I probably would have laughed as well and accepted the whole thing as a goofy prank by a sneaky senior citizen. Based on her scowl, which was now burning a bigger hole in my forehead than the sun, I could see this was no prank. I had clearly done something to tick her off. But what?
Had I stepped on her lawn? No. Did I snag my bag on one of her shrubs? No. It surely wasn’t my clothing, as my polo and Dockers are practically the uniform at all the country clubs this woman is surely a member. I was just minding my own business and enjoying some tunes on my iPod. I considered for a moment that maybe it was the iPod that offended her. Perhaps she wanted me to take in my surroundings rather than block them out. If that were the case, all she had to do was ask and I would have told her that I do take in my surroundings. I just prefer them to be accompanied by music. Maybe it was what I was listening to that offended her so. Did she have super-sonic hearing and a dislike for Dusty Springfield? Then there was the off chance that she had never seen an iPod before and was confused by the white wires coming out of my ears. If that were the case, I must have looked like a robot approaching. Then it only makes sense that she would think quickly on her feet (two actions not generally associated with the elderly) and electrocute this robot with her garden hose.
There are a million valid reasons I can conjure up as to why she sprayed me, but I cannot come up a single excuse for what transpired after wards. There I was, a stranger on his way to work with a drenched crotch and puzzled face, and all she could muster was a bitter, empty stare. At this point, I had no idea what to say. In fact, I just felt sorry for her. Under better, drier, circumstances we probably could have become fast friends. She would have been pleasantly surprised to find out that I have a lot in common with the over seventy set. We could have sat on her front step and discussed our disgust for the hipsters on Hillsdale and the tots on Belsize. However, it was clear there was nothing I could say to appease her. She was just a lonely old lady with a garden hose and, if this was any indication of her character, a lifetime of regret. I soldiered on, hoping my pants would dry out by the time I had to clock in. They didn’t.
I have since taken on a new route to work. While not as picturesque as Manor Road, Soudan Avenue is not without its charms. The folks at 624 have a tire swing out front. Across the way at 631, a classic Harley Davidson sits in the driveway. There are not as many squirrels to contend with, thanks to the Calico who resides at 652. Still, there’s something missing. It’s not just the mature trees I long for, although I have noticed my skin pinker than usual, but rather the sense of security that comes from knowing where you’re going and how you’re going to get there.
I’m sure I’ll return to Manor Road in the future and come face to face with the old lady on the corner. Only this time I won’t stand speechless at the end of her walkway. I will thank her for soaking my crotch, which had in turn encouraged me to take the road less traveled. Then I will extend my hand and invite her to join me, but only if she puts down the hose and smiles.
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