Tuesday, March 29 - The Identity

   That morning I was pulled into consciencesness by the electronic ringtone of my phone. I opened it up and answered. Purolator was on the other side, telling me I had a package to pick up down on Cambie street and 12th Avenue. I closed the phone and rolled around for a moment, then decided it was time seize the day.
  My head was a little cloudy, the night before was quite an idol of excitement. None the less, now I had an objective to meet and a growing to-do list in my mind. I showered, and I will always be grateful for the luxury a shower gives. My apartment was a little messy and I felt a slight twitch of O.C.D. beginning to resonate through me. Before too long, I was cleaning up and thinking scattered thoughts as I organized. A half hour passed and my apartment was clean enough. I got dressed and headed out the door.
  An albino sky hung over the city. Small hints of the mystery that was beguiled behind it struggled to be heard. I ran my fingers up and down the straps of my backpack as I walked towards Broadway. There weren't a lot of pedestrians down on Fourth and Macdonald, but with every step I drew closer to scurrying life. People bustling impatiently in the anxious streets of Vancouver.
  I turned down Broadway swiftly and darted in Safeway to grab a coffee. After all, the day would never begin if I hadn't had some of the dark brew. I dug deep into the dungeons of my pockets to pay the Starbucks attendant. Pocket lint and coins surfaced. I slid the due change into her hands and then added cream and sugar to my cup. The bronze tinge signified satisfaction and I left Safeway for good. I looked west down Broadway and saw the Ninety-Nine B-Line, my chariot.
  In that bus, I bobbed back and forth like a pint of booze in a drunkard's hand. It's always an interesting ride. People become sandwiched togethor with no room for comfort. Lucky for me, Cambie came quick and before I had time think, I was walking passed the Canada Line Skytrain Station. I approached the doors of Purolator after figuring out which side of the mall it was on.
  The parcel was almost in my hands but first I had to sign my name. The electronic state-of-the-art machines they used were a little mindboggling at first glance. The part I had to sign was facing me while the rest of the screen was upside down, intended for the employee to use. It was all about efficiency, no time to waste. My first attempt at signing was sloppy, so I gave it another go and left something a little more presentable. It's only a signature, but that's not the point! There is more to what you write then a lot of people care to know, but if you think about it, are you sure you want to meet someone who carelessly scribbles their own name on a piece paper? Maybe, maybe not.
  I emptied the parcel and withdrew my birth certificate. My last copy had looked half as glorious and was also half the size of this one. I was holding some kind of modern art. This paper was a legal document, and sometimes when I think of the law I think of black and white, not technicolor or high definition. Bland is at the hand of the judge who speaks the rules. You could expect every speck of the rainbow flowing out of the hand of a painter or poet but to a much surprised face, you could see adorned art on a little paper like the one I held. I suppose I forgot, that in itself, Security and Law did have their eccentricities.
  With my birth certificate in my hands, a door had opened. That door led down to Commercial Drive, where I went to get BC driver's license. Still feeling some of the effects of yesterday, all my thoughts weren't exactly in order and they came out of my mouth in that way. The lady at the ICBC was slightly perplexed, but after some poking and prodding we had found the direction we intended to take. After a vision test, a quick knowledge assessment of the rules of the road, and the surrendering my old Saskatchewan license, I was given a tempory BC driver's license at the cost of thirty dollars.
  I really liked my Saskatchewan license, not just because it had a decent picture (which I knew my BC one wasn't going to have), it was because it was one of the last symbols I owned that showed that's where I was from. What can I say, I'm proud to be from Saskatchewan. My roots are deep within that prairie soil and will always remain there, in a metaphorical sense, of course.  I've long since left the province and as much as I would like to return, it is not the time to do so.