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On a daily basis, little things remind me of when I was homeless and living on the streets of Montreal. I’ll catch myself going out of my way to pick up something that “seems valuable” on the ground, and then realize that I don’t need to. Or I have a strong urge to pick up that half-eaten plate in the food court and keep it for later, and then a realize that my fridge is full and there is no need to indulge in strangers’ left-over chowmein.
Being a small town girl from an upper-middle class family, the odds of me ending up on the streets of Montreal are pretty slim. “How does it happen, Syl?” most of you ask. Here’s how it happens. Here is the day I left as I remember it, taken from passages I have written for a future book maybe(?).
“My dad pulls over. We’re stopping at one of those tourist areas with nothing but a pathetic canteen, washrooms and a million picnic tables. This beautiful (and when I say beautiful, I mean kill me now)scenery is mostly filled with families on their summer vacations stopping to let the kids run or old folks stopping to let their poodles run. I sit back comfortably, turn up the volume of my “Discman” and wish I was already in the big city. My dad and Uncle Gene are grabbing a couple of vomit inspiring hot-dogs. I have absolutely no idea why Uncle Gene came along on this trip. Probably t avoid dad from having me next to him for an eight hour drive. His brain would fry from the effort of coming up with something to tell me. Of course something along the lines of “Be careful out there, sweetie”, “I love you” or “You’re too young to move to Montreal” would’ve never crossed his mind. I couldn’t wait to be free in Montreal. Or at least to get back on the road.
The GM Safari tilts to the left as my dad gets in. He ties his seat belt and does this throat clearing thing before turning the ignition. He always does that. It drives me crazy. I can’t help but wonder how my step mom deals with that tick. Dad always drives over the speed limit. Maybe that’s why I live on the fast lane now. The roads are lined with corn fields. Nothing like what I had imagined. The road to the big city resembles way too much the country where I grew up for my taste. I press my head against the windshield and watch the yellow lines painted on the asphalt disappear. One by one.
At fifteen, I think I’m indestructible. The sky is the limit. Or at least as far as Montreal. I decided to move away from home about a month ago. Simply because I am looking for people who will be interested in me. I have found two: my mother, and Joseph. I found my mother with the help of a couple long distance phone calls along with annual wish cards. Joseph came along with the new millennium: the internet.
We’ve passed quebec city. Montreal is my destination, my dream and my future.”
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