I’m sitting in a Tim Horton’s in Montreal with literally one more paragraph to add in to a paper and then it’s done, the Wifi keeps cutting out, it’s about 11:15 and a 60-year-old Black man comes up to me and asks if he can have the table I’m at, because he always sits at that table. I can have the table he is currently at which he will clean and it’s better because there’s an outlet next to it in addition. So I agree to move and then he starts to tell me about his college football scholarship at Boise State, his 5 years as a wide receiver for the Montreal Alouettes, his best friend of 43 years Andre Dawson and the pranks he’s played on him (sending him flowers every Christmas), how corrupt baseball is, like the Jewish owner of the Miami Marlins, how baseball will never return to Montreal (this involves a long exposition de texte of the local newspaper’s coverage of plans to build a new stadium downtown. an analysis of how there will be too few seats to turn a profit, and surveys about whether local people want baseball to return – they do but they won’t buy tickets), how the French are liars, how there are too many immigrants in the neighborhood around that particular Tim Horton’s, and how the Pakistanis who frequent the place are too loud [they were speaking Bengali, just saying], the Big Sky conference, state capitals in the U.S., what really is the capital of Kentucky, the Iranian hostage crisis, the brain cancer of one of former Expos who actually was French but he named his son Dawson after Andre, how players make extra bonus money from their former teams by charging them to have their team insignia on their Hall of Fame plaque, and did I mention he had alcohol on his breath? And he just.would.not.stop.talking. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough (45 minutes and one bro hug later). Now it’s 1 a.m. and I JUST WANT TO GET THIS DAMN ARTICLE DONE AND SENT before I go to bed thank you.
2019 Summer Writing Challenge 