River City Writer

I’ve never really thought of Edmonton as a hipster enclave. Sure, we’ve got kids who wear thrift store cardigans and Buddy Holly glasses when they head out to the indie rock show, but what city doesn’t?

When I think of really hardcore hipsters (if such a thing is possible), I tend to think of places like New York or L.A., Toronto or Vancouver. Those are the cities were you find these fucking hipsters.

Yesterday, though, I encountered the ultimate hipster (female variety). Perhaps she isn’t the world’s ultimate hipster. She is, however, one of the ultimate hipsters in Edmonton.

I was driving at the time, so I wasn’t able to snap a picture. But, let me describe the scene for you.

She was riding down 104 Avenue on her fixed gear bicycle, wearing a miniskirt and ironic cowboy boots. Of course, that’s not enough to make her the ultimate hipster. She also wore a sock monkey toque, a tweed blazer, and (of course) thick-rimmed glasses. She was probably listening to music on her iPod Touch, too.

I wish I had a picture. She was the ultimate hipster.

This place is abandoned and cold. A broken down truck lays in a heap on the curb. It’s as invisible in the daylight as the rest of the street is now. I am seeing it for the first time.

The light plays tricks in this witching hour. Icy fog and sodium vapour throw spears of light skyward, an artificial aurora borealis.

Even with the radio on, I can hear the sound of my tires against the road. I can feel only calm when that noise vibrates my ear drums. The late-night road brings peace.

CBC plays midnight hymns to keep my coffee warm as I enter and then leave the industrial park. It’s a different place in the darkness.

Like a temple that’s abandoned after the worshippers realize it houses false gods, there are only the faintest shadows of life here. I am alone. I stand silent in the parking lot and inhale. The air is fresh.

The scent of car breath and truck sputum is absent from the air for the first time ever. There are no courier vans idling in the lot. There are no lunch time smokers polluting the wind.

I enter the car as silently as possible and let the sound of rubber on asphalt wash over me.

April, that sultry bitch, has decided to play the cocktease. Just as she was beginning to show a little leg, to flash a little cleavage, she’s pulled it all back and thrown on the over-sized nightgown. She’s blanketed us with a blinding white dressing gown, and we are none to pleased. But, that is her wish, and we can do nothing to change her mind. All we can do is wait, tell her we love her, and hope that she will bare all in the coming days.

“I’m in town from High Level, looking for work.”

I’ve heard this one before.

“I’m broke, and I’ve got my wife and kid in the truck.”

I’ve heard this more than once.

“I just need some money for gas, so I can run the truck a while—warm up the kid’s cold feet.”

It’s been a few years, but I’ve heard these exact words before. I’ve heard this same story more than once. Back then, it was one guy—twice—in two different Tim Hortons locations.

This time, it’s in the trendy espresso joint near the university. It’s been a few years, so I’m not sure if it’s the same guy.

Sorry, pal, can’t help you.

He heads over to the next table. Same sob story. Money exchanges hands.

He does this several more times, until he’s hit all of the tables in the place. Given the benefit of the doubt, he should be heading for the door about now.

He doesn’t.

10 minutes later, he’s sitting at the back of the cafe, a tall cup of coffee in one hand and a bagel sandwich in the other. Same shit, different time and place. And just like the time 6 years ago, I don’t ask about the wife and kid.