Friday, September 18, 2009

Under the bridge

I didn’t want to tell you this because it probably is a low point of my life but here it goes…

The week after I came back fom Canada, I went out with some people and we went to 2 or 3 bars in Sendai. We were quite the group and I’m usually never the last one to leave because I have to take the stupid last train. But that night, everyone left before me, a good 90 minutes before the last train. So I stayed at the standing bar. There was a good crowd, some ghetto ass folk I never met before so I said ‘Fuck It’ I’m staying’. Ernie, the owner of a bar in Sendai (Aptly named Ernie’s bar) was doing a good job of convincing me to miss the last train and continue partying. But, as I do 90% of the time, I came to my senses and decided to run and catch the last train.

I got a seat on that train, which is quite the feat, because it’s usually full. 5 stations to my station, 18 minutes. I tried reading my book, but I was quite drunk and I always hated reading on moving things (Ok, I was drunk). So I closed my eyes and fell asleep. I woke up a minute later and decided to put an alarm on my phone in case I fell asleep again. Closed my eyes only to we woken up by a train driver in an empty train at the end of the line. This being the last train, I quickly realized that I was in trouble. I was in a town called Shiroishi, often called Shiroshitty. It would cost me a good 150$ and up to go home by taxi. So I did the only thing a person like me can do when they get stuck in a situation like this: I stole a bike. It took me a long time but I finally found a bike that was unlocked. I rode around and discovered the darkest corners of Shiroishi, testing this new bike to see if it could survive the long ride home (about 2 hours, on a good bike). When I realized that this bike wasn’t locked for a good reason (It was as shitty as Shiroshitty), I decided I would shift my priorities. I had to spend the night somewhere horizontal. I looked for a love hotel: None. Not even a bench. Not even a park. So when I crossed the bridge I came to the conclusion that for a GHETTO event, I might as well sleep like a ghetto boy: Under the bridge.

I slept on the sidewalk, under the bridge. For an hour. Then I laughed for an hour, thinking my mom would be proud. Then I rode the shitty bike for an hour. Then I spent 40 minutes in a convenience store because it was cold outside. And then it was time for the first train. The moral of this story?
A moral? What do I look like? Hans-Christian Andersen? Just don’t fall asleep on the train like an idiot.

Yours truly, the village idiot

ps: I returned the bike… but in a different place. Beware. You never know where Montreal-North ghetto boys might be walking.


Eric said...



Maxime said...

L'idiot du village! Cette histoire est quand même exclusive, t'aurais du filmer avec ton kodak!

Thunderstorm said...

Ouwawe! Quelle histoire. Cette histoire devrait plutôt s'appeler l'idiot du millage ou l'idiot du somnolage!

Angela said...

It takes a village to raise a child. By the looks of things, it takes one to raise an idiot, too. You can take the boy out of the ghetto but you can't take the ghetto...


PS. You could have been gang-raped!!

Anonymous said...

Dans les buissons... sous les ponts... mais quel con !!!

Julie said...

J'adore lire ton blog, PY! T'es aussi divertissant en personne qu'en textes! :) xxx

Anonymous said...

Tu ne changera pas.
Et tu sais quoi, c'est parfais comme ça.