~ 4 min read

Isolation has been a significant aspect of my life this winter. Saskatchewan is known for its extreme cold, and though I’ve not been too bothered by that in the recent past (because good clothing always wins), these days I don’t venture out with Trip if it’s beyond -10º C.

And then there are the limits created by the pandemic. Being indoors with people remains out of my comfort zone for the most part.

Cabin fever is just another ingredient in the salad of challenging emotions.

In light of that, this week I recommitted to getting out of the house more regularly. The weather turned for the better. Trip and I even got out for a walk one day. On another day I loaded him into the car and drove to the MacKenzie Art Gallery. Norval Morrisseau’s vivid works are currently on display, as is a painting of Wilf Perreault’s that I particularly like.

We arrived, checked in, dropped off our jackets and bag, got ourselves set up with the baby sling and were ready to do a tour. Up the stairs we climbed. When we reached the top my attention was immediately captured by an object.

A single fifty dollar bill rested on the carpet ahead. I looked around. Not a soul. However, in circumstances like this, I always feel like someone is watching. Even if that someone is just my conscience.

Was this a Finders Keepers moment? Should I drop it in the donation box? Or turn it in at the front desk? Should I ask everyone I encounter if they lost some money? And if someone is watching, what will they make of the action I choose to take? Is it any of their business?

It brought back a memory of something that occurred several winters ago.

I was walking to a yoga class. I was probably thinking about getting out of my winter clothes. Thinking of padding across the hardwood floors in my bare feet to collect my props. Looking forward to the good brain feels.

As I daydreamed my way down the sidewalk I was casually aware of my surroundings. The street lights flickered on. People were going home from work. In my vision’s periphery, someone got into a parked SUV just ahead of me. The door closed behind them. Then it opened, something was tossed out and the door closed again. I approached the item, realized it was a bit of garbage and picked it up.

Litterers bother me in an outsized way. From an abandoned mattress to tossed cigarette butts, I find it offensive. I have a theory that most people won’t litter if they know someone’s watching. I have a theory that most people will feel the sharp jab of shame if they are seen doing so. Littering is a petty and willful act of disrespect. It’s someone saying, “I don’t wanna deal with this. Someone else can.”

So after a moment’s consideration, I knocked on the car’s window. The woman in the driver’s seat looked out at me as her vehicle idled. I gave her a friendly smile and inclined my head forward as I said, “Excuse me.”

She opened the door of her clean, pearl coloured SUV. The black interior was in perfect order. The white parka she wore was pristine. I realized that even her garbage that I held within my mitten wasn’t dirty. It was a crisp piece of crumpled parchment. I imagined it was from some kind of yummy pastry.

“You dropped this.” I reached my arm out to her and offered the balled up paper.

She looked at it. “Oh.” With a slight shake of her head and a wrinkle of her nose she said, “I don’t want that.”

“It’s yours,” I replied smiling.

A beat passed. She took it from me. I felt pleased with myself.

Then, without thinking, I put my hand on her car door and made a move to close it. At the time, it felt like a gesture that would punctuate our exchange. A way of signaling that we’re all done here. Night, night.

In hindsight, I would choose differently.

Her hand was also on the door. From the inside. For probably one literal second we both pushed from opposite sides. The brief, low-grade struggle electrified the moment. I realized my mistake, but it was too late. I took my hand off the door. She closed it.

It was time to walk away. Towards yoga.

From behind me, I heard the door open again. Then she shouted, “You’d better walk!” and added a five letter synonym for female dogs. I didn’t get the sense that she was employing it in the cute, colloquial way that drag queens say it. I turned around at the sound of her voice and witnessed an unintentionally comical gesture of her trying to hurl the paper at me. It left her hand and gently floated downwards to land noiselessly upon the snow between us. She pulled her car door closed again.

The SUV veered onto the street. She drove with one hand on the steering wheel while the other shook her middle finger at me. I was stunned. I stood on the sidewalk laughing at her display and waved my red leather mitten in farewell.

I picked up the parchment and carried it to the bin on the next corner.

You just never know who’s watching.

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