When my friend Sis moved to town, she found a bachelor in a cracky bit of Toronto. The house was divided into several single-unit places and each one was filled with oddballs. One woman was interested in permaculture and lined the small patch of front garden with newspapers. Another brought her a framed pencil crayon drawing of two chickens pecking at a lettuce patch. Her landlord was an 80-something man with stringy white hair and an IV drip on wheels. He would come to visit her to have philosophical talks and also drop off gifts. One day, he offered her a box of 9 mm Luger bullets.
Six months later, after I’d broken up with my live-in boyfriend Peter, Sis and I decided to move into a nice two-bedroom in the Kensington Market. We lived there happily for three years. Eventually, she moved out. Shortly thereafter, a colony of roaches moved in, as well as a Brit named Rich. The exterminator was called in multiple times, but unable to get rid of the roaches. Frustrated and kind of terrorized, I called the landlord in a panic and screamed A BOMB THE PLACE! I DON’T CARE! JUST POISON EVERYTHING. The landlord organized the requested A-bombing, but told us we first had to clear out all the kitchen cabinets (they were mainly in the kitchen.) My boyfriend at the time (another one) was helping — cleaning out the one above the fridge. He tapped me on the shoulder with the box of Luger bullets in his hand and a question mark on his face. Then he pointed up at the cabinet to show me that we’d accidentally stashed them with a cylinder of butane and a large can of chalkboard paint.
When I moved into the place I’m now living, I brought the bullets. Now I use them as joke arts and crafts presents.
I gave this particular bullet with YOUR NAME on it to my friend Pat tonight. His eyes were so filled with emotion!