I FIGURED IT might be time to get away from uptown Waterloo, so I’m downtown in Kitchener, at this fancy little place called Balzac’s. It’s in an old tannery building that’s been converted into high-tech business spaces. Coffee’s pretty good here, and they’ve got this peanut butter bar which is amazing. I already feel a little sick from its richness. Luckily, the coffee is offsetting that feeling.
This is going to sound weird, but that old guy is back. Still looks like a homeless person, but with a big satchel full of books. I’m beginning to think he is following me, as some commenters have suggested. At one point, he caught me looking at him. He nodded, then went back to his scribblings. I think he caught me looking a second time, and he’s shifted his body away from me slightly.
I may head home after this, but there’s nothing there but an unfinished painting and a gaming console. Guess which one I’m more likely to hang out with.
My therapist is still feeling positive about this format of writing, but I’m having a hard time keeping everything generic. I’m worried I’m going to slip a little and write something that will give everything away. This could get me into big trouble with the authorities and the bad guys. Spoiler alert: there are bad guys in this story.
It’s about a half-hour drive down the Trans-Canada from Rolphton to Chalk River. This is one of the other names on the itinerary I picked up from Jim’s office. After Chalk River, there were two other names: Pickering and Clarington. Pickering isn’t a small town … you’ve probably heard of it. It’s between Scarborough and Ajax. Or Toronto and Oshawa, if that helps any. It’s about the size of Waterloo. And Clarington’s around the same size. Perfect size if you’re a customer for industrial plumbing supplies.
Which made Chalk River seem like a weird place. There wasn’t much here. There was a pithy-named restaurant called Fryway 17.
And guess where Jim stopped. Yup. The restaurant. Luckily, he grabbed a table on the patio. I parked in the lot, facing away from him, and watched the restaurant through my rear-view mirror. It was only about thirty minutes before Wendy showed up. However, this time she showed up with a friend.
No, nothing kinky. It was a stern-looking guy in a grey flannel Manitoba dinner jacket and faded jeans. I mean, it might have been something kinky. I’m not judging. But unless Jim got off on being intimidated by a burly guy from up-country, there was nothing romantic here. After a heated conversation, the new guy grabbed Jim’s shirt and practically dragged him across the picnic table. There was definitely something going on here, and it had nothing to do with infidelity.
I turned around in my seat and tried zooming in with my DSLR camera. I had this 300mm telephoto lens on it, nothing fancy. But it got me in relatively close. Close enough to get clean pictures of everyone at the table.
They calmed down after the tiny waitress came out and everyone got a beer and some snacks. But no one touched anything.
After another half-hour conversation, everyone left.
Of course, I’d stupidly parked next to Jim’s car, and he looked over at me as he was about to back out. I gave him a bored look and pretended to be napping on a lunch break. His gaze lasted a little too long, and I thought I might be made. So there was another thing to worry about.
Except … after that afternoon, I never saw Jim again.