"I'm just lonely because I'm from New Brunswick."

I find that I write best on paper first. Ideally, I'm outside, it's sunny and I share a romance with my pen as the breeze rolls by. I'm sitting on a bench on Stephen Avenue outside the Glenbow Museum yesterday writing my blog  on Hamlet (Solo) when a middle-aged man sporting the glamorous socks-over-the-trousers fashion statement briefly looks over my shoulder before sitting down on the bench beside me. 

He starts the conversation.

“Oh.”
“What?”
“Well I thought you were drawing a picture of me.”
“Nope.”
“Yer not eh?”
“Not even a little.”
“Oh. That’s too bad. Whatcha writin’? Poetry?”
“Nope.”
“A Novel?”
“No.”
“A Journal?”
“Not exactly.”

I notice that I'm being more curt than I should be. Really, truly, I think that more strangers should talk to one another. Take a ride on the c-train and you'll see that everyone is plugged in. They are all playing with their smartphones or listening to their ipods, reading their book, or maybe they're just staring into space. Someone sits beside someone else and you can visibly see their entire body tense. And if you so happened to start a conversation, I think 4/5 people would implode with the uncertainty of what to say or do. In Toronto, or Europe...or places that are really distinctly not Calgary, people are more social and friendly. Strangers talk all the time. And I admire this. So I decided I was going to give this a genuine go. Until...

“You have really beautiful legs.”
“...Thank you.”
“I’m Mike. What’s your name?”
“Courtney”

We shake hands.

“Nice to meet you Courtney. I’m Mike.”
“Yes.”
“Are you from Calgary born and raised?”
“Lucky. I’m just visiting from New Brunswick.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I’m a janitor."

“Cool.”
“For real high-class places. I got cash to burn.”

He pulls out his ID to show me.

“Alright.”
“No really. I'm a millionaire."

He empties out his pockets, first left and then right. Left had a wad a twenties. The right had a wad of hundreds.

“That’s what I party with in one night! But don’t judge me, I don’t spend it on hookers and blow.” (Yes. This was actually said.)
“...Good.”
“My best buddy Hank, my man he asks me, he says, ‘MIKE! You got all this money, let’s just get coked up and buy some girls a couple five drinks and we’ll take them home eh. Couple five drinks is all it takes.’ And I say ‘NO HANK. I ain’t like that. You could get an STD!”
“Yes, you could. Well, if you don’t mind, I’d just like to get back to my writing?”

This bench was mine first buddy. 

“Oh. Sorry for interrupting you! Well that’s cool. Hey. Do you want to come visit me in my room at the Marriott?”
“Not really.”
“No I’m really not one of those guys--I’m not looking for a sexual advancement. I’m just lonely because I’m from New Brunswick. What’s your name?”
“Courtney.”
“Right Courtney. I’m Mike. Well I’m going to take a cab to the Marriott and go to my room. Maybe I’ll see you later.”

And he swaggers off. I should mention that I was this particular bench is less than a block from the Marriott hotel. "Goodbye Mike." Even if I wasn't entirely perturbed by this conversation, I don't even know your room number.