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Driving home on Highway 400, in the southbound lane, traffic slowly grinds down to a limping dog's pace. We soon see why: across the meridian, on the opposite side, emergency vehicles are haphazardly sprawled across the road. A now-or-eventually corpse lies on a stretcher; SUVs are bent into impossible angles. And we are going slowly because everyone wants to see.

The northbound traffic behind the accident has realized the gravity of the situation. They aren't moving anytime soon. People have spilled out of cars to eat picnic lunches. Others move forward to take photos of the carnage - I am appalled, but hypocritically so. If I had a camera I would take pictures too, out the window as we quietly roll on by. Club music blares from a sedan and the whole scene looks a bit like a neighbourhood block party, an impromptu gathering of steel and glass and flesh snaking kilometres long. As always, it takes a tragedy to pull people out of their Toyota shells and into awkward small-talk about cottages and forthcoming turkey dinners.

I've been in Barrie. With a faraway family, I am always reliant on the generosity and goodwill of others for delicious Thanksgiving feasts. This year I went to "Big France" Kyle's house and argued with his sister over custody of Mr. Hoppy, a murderous orange space hopper. Unfortunately for me and Kyle, Mr. Hoppy is an essential childhood memory.

We drink rum and go to Queens, which is a bar. The Barrie downtown scene is exactly like I've always pictured it: a whitewashed assembly of kids who return for the holidays to nostalgically pursue the past, and those who never made it out at all. Hags, Kyle and Kyle's Little Sister have a joyous high-school reunion while me and Alicia - who is really into her journalism these days - conduct interviews on each other about man-sluts and the politics of grinding.

Alicia also critiques my dancing and offers the following helpful guidelines: move shoulders, not arms, and avoid the natural urge to jerk spasmodically into walls and hot girls' drinks. The less motion, the better. Do like black guys do. This is difficult, considering Kyle's Little Sister has insisted on tying my jacket around my neck and I look like an asshole Harvard preppie. Eventually Alicia wraps the jacket around her massive purse, declaring herself the Jacket Queen or somesuch, and I am thankfully free once again to engage in battling my Caucasian handicap.

Good times are had by all. Time rushes by, and we scrape through the traffic jam - metal and blood, recall - to find ourselves on our North York apartment deck looking out on good ol' Jane & Finch. The leaves are turning beautifully, all orange and plum. Several stories below, a hip hop version of "We Wish You A Merry Christmas" blares to raucous ethnic approval. I wonder if they are dancing, this Thanksgiving weekend. I wonder if they are moving their arms.

[Barrie, Ontario] [Thanksgiving]

Posted by Chris at 02:00 PM >> Commentations (0)