When we were kids, we would cycle up Saint Michel to get to the park on the edge of the city and spend the whole day there. We would explore the islands that were connected by bridges, and if it was warm out we would jump through the waterfalls. It was the best park in town, but only those of us from the north end knew about it. When I moved downtown and I mentioned the park a few times, nobody had heard of it.

The city was changing. There was a time when the neighbourhood where I rented a dirt-cheap music studio had rats in the street. You only had to go to the corner store and stand outside for a bit and sure enough you would be able to buy some weed. But now you go down to the same neighbourhood and there are brand new condos everywhere you look. New bars and cafes have popped up to cater to a well-off clientele. I stopped at one pub – it was going for a British look – and the average price of a beer was eight dollars.

Most of the people I talk to all day don’t realize how much has changed. They come from Ontario or upstate New York or China or Japan or France. Lots of them live in the area and they go to the university and at the weekend they go to the bars and clubs on Crescent or St. Laurent and that is all they know. It’s fine with me; they come in for a cut or a colouring and they generally tip well. Sixty bucks, eighty bucks, hundred bucks – it’s all the same to them.

Some people complain we will get priced out of our own neighbourhood but look, do you want to go back to how it was? In the nineties there were flophouses and store fronts boarded up. It was depressing as all hell. The only time you could enjoy yourself was at the weekend when you’d just fill up your bag with booze and drugs and invade some warehouse and get high and dance away your worries. Nobody had a good job. I consider myself lucky to have earned a living from hairdressing. Not a month has gone by that I didn’t have a pay cheque. It was alright for me. Now that the rent is getting crazy, everyone will still find a way to make it work. I moved in with my girlfriend. We live in a shoebox but it’s alright. It’s cozy. I don’t need a whole room for musical equipment. A laptop computer is pretty much all I need.

One thing that would change everything is having a kid. I couldn’t afford to live here if I had a kid. We would need a bigger apartment by far; a four-and-a-half, maybe even a five-and-a-half. Misaki says this is the year we should become parents. We’re not getting any younger. She will be thirty-one and I will be forty. There is grey in my sideburns. Over Christmas I noticed a couple of hairs springing from my ears. They were small hairs, but they were an omen for what is to come.

So I can agree, sure, this seems about the time when we should have a kid. Then I think of saying goodbye to the neighbourhood. I think how, in the future, I will visit it like a tourist would. I’ll stop in at Vieille Europe to buy some espresso, stand in the line-up for a smoked meat at Schwartz’s, and sit on the rabbit-hutch patio of the Miami for a pint. I’ll try to fit into a busy afternoon all the things that at the moment I can do whenever I feel like it.

At the same time, the north is calling me. I remember when I walked down the residential streets as a kid, the parents would sit on their balconies and talk to each other from building to building or from across the way. They would call out to their kids if they got out of line. Lazy cats were always wandering around. They’d flop at your feet to get their bellies rubbed.

It’s only since Misaki talked about having a kid that I’ve thought again about the park with islands and waterfalls. I can imagine it vividly now: the bright green grass that stops at the banks of the river. The water is faster than traffic. I picture myself dunking my kid under the pressure of a waterfall and hearing him screaming and laughing. (Don’t ask me why I always picture my kid being a boy.) He would just love those bridges between the islands. I’d chase after him from one to the other. He would pitter-patter on his little legs, upwards on the wooden boards, having to work extra hard against the incline. And I’d pretend to be panting and gasping to even get close to him. He would dash downwards, arrive at the island, and let out a cry of joy, yelling the way I used to: I’m the king of the island.

And I would let him be king.

***

Short story by me. Nothing in it is true; everything is made up.