I Should Move to Moncton

What time to check out of dorms, this is the dilemma. Is it like a hotel? Bathroom facilities are a bit scary . . . a sticker in one stall asks me to call 911, another stall says I can have sex if I'm here at 9:10 pm. It's unclear what kind of sex I'll receive. But I've missed it. Too late. Too early. Nevertheless, the shower feels good, hot, lots of water.

I unpack and repack my suitcase. We drink the last half of the wine, munching on the remaining cherries for breakfast. A taxi to the bus station. Get tickets though we can't leave until much later. Dump luggage into lockers for safe keeping. And go for breakfast. Doc's all day happy hour, steak and eggs. It fills the hole.

We walk out to the river again, tide is going in different direction today. We walk along a grassy path past ducks and dog walkers and kiddies on bicycles. The air is thick. Humidity is high. Rain threatens. I don't like the look of the sky. Bluish/green hues in the clouds smack of major storm. I don't mind getting soaked in my Mighty t-shirt, I won't melt, love walking in the rain . . . but don't want to chance lightning on this day. I've been too sparky lately. I feel like I would draw it in. At the first few drops, I bolt. We cut through a construction site and cross streets I've never been on, make our way back to Doc's. Sit on the edge of the patio hoping not to be spotted by poets gathered next door. Blame it on me if caught out.

The rain comes and the air cools a little. A breeze picks up. How can I get a job sitting at sidewalk cafes all day everyday drinking coffee and wine and writing? Can I do that? Will somebody support me to do that? I suppose if I wrote amazingly successful books . . . I could do whatever the hell I wanted. I'm pretty sure the J.K. Rowling's and Stephen King's of the world do whatever the hell they want. "I should move to Moncton." We pass the afternoon with drinks and conversation and punch buggy and people-watching. It's not unpleasant. Then off to the bus for the first departure and I'm left alone in Moncton with a couple of hours to kill. I want coffee. Want reading materials. And though I really shouldn't go there, Reid's offers what I want. Many journals and a mega java later, I arrive at the station, get my luggage out of the locker and find my bus.

My bus is not my bus. I'm on overflow. So many people traveling today. The station is packed. Twenty-something boys repeatedly ask me arrival/departure/ destination questions. Why me? I have no answers. Seldom travel the bus. I must carry an air of authority or I look like their mothers or something, for some reason they seek me out and inquire. On the bus I get a window seat but turn to see Emily from the writing workshop I took this spring walking toward me. We are surprised to see one another. She joins me. She's been visiting friends, busy getting ready for school to start again, course loads and all that. And for a moment I get that back-to-school excitement . . . remember I have not officially withdrawn from course yet . . . wonder again what I should do, if I can swing it. We talk all the way to Sackville and then wave as we head in different directions. Humid on the marsh. Hmmm. Unusual.