How a Small House Travels

Not well. After the bus fiasco I tried calling for a cab.

I didn’t have 50 cents and they wouldn’t take a collect call. It’s probably best. I didn’t have the money for a cab either.

So we stopped at Restaurant Stromboli. The photographer said his wife and he had went there many times when they were “courtin.” (OK, he didn’t say “courtin” but with his accent he should have.)

Starting on Avenue du Mont-Royal

My first afternoon away from home — hmm, is a house always “home?” — anyway, as I traveled I discovered a few things.

I sat on a bench to get my bearings. To decide where to start.

The first thing I found out is that Montreal buses discriminate against houses. They didn’t even stop.

After the Disaster

Life as I know it started after The Disaster. We were a small neighborhood. A few of us on a small island on Rue de Brébeuf near Ave. Mont-Royal.

Then The Disaster. At first I didn’t blame him. There was a couple in the bike path. But he tried to go the wrong way around. He knocked over my neighbor. I was safe though.

But after he fell he was angry. He marched to us and gave a swift kick. We scattered in the street. He limped away. We were tougher than he thought.

We lay in the street. Afraid of our new position. Afraid others would kick us, or the cars would run over us.

A kind man came over to us. Set us back on our island. But we were in a new position. Life seem out-of-kilter.

Then the photographer came over. He had watched the whole thing as he ate pizza. Oddly, he had also just read about us.

He took a picture and then had a sudden urge to pick me up and carry me off.

That’s how this whole thing started.