I Was Pierre Trudeau's and Justin Trudeau's Girlfriend: PART II: JUSTIN

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to people dead or alive is purely intentional.

I was Justin Trudeau's girlfriend, from October 4, 2015, to October 4, 2015. Some call it a whirlwind, some call it fate, others call it the delusions of a lonely old woman. All I can say, without being too indiscreet, is that it was the best 24 seconds of my life.

Fourteen months sober, anxious and depressed, still detoxing from decades of drug, alcohol, food, gambling, sex, and gardening addiction, I found myself impecunious on the streets of Brampton, Ontario. My skin looked good though. At age 68 I could still pass for a pasty-faced and stooped Jennifer Aniston, or at least that's what one of the strangers tossing coins in my Tim Horton's cup told me as he stepped over my sleeping bag on the sidewalk.

A few loonies the better, I gathered my shopping bags and shuffled toward the Timmies down the street. The drop-in centre wasn't opened for my program yet, so I thought I'd treat myself to a coffee and watch some Timmies TV. I never tire of weather updates or celebrity news because they distract me from the pit of despair I feel in my gut, and  I get to check-in with the pressing concerns shared by my fellow citizens. Is Blake Shelton really dating Gwen Stenfani? If I knew who these people were maybe I'd care more about them, about myself, and about society at large.

As I neared Tim's, I noticed a big bus pull up into its parking lot.  Three men in suits disembarked, all talking on their phones. I thought this unusual. Nobody talks on their phones anymore. Two women then got off the bus, looked around the parking lot, and then started texting on the phones grasped in their hands. 'That's more like it,' I thought. It was then, when I was almost at the Tim's door, that I saw him get off the bus. Monsieur Justin Trudeau -- blue suited, donning a red tie, black hair shiny and full. My knees went weak and buckled. I stumbled into a garbage receptacle and steadied myself. How embarrassing!  One of his handlers spotted me, smiled and waved. He signalled to Mr. Trudeau and then indicated me.

"M'am, let me help you," the handler said as he held me upright. "Are you faint?"

"I'm all right. It's ... it's .."

"It's him, isn't it?  Would you like a picture with him?"

In my six decades plus of living on this planet, I have always felt invisible, unloved, shunted, defective. Fobbed off on foster parents, surviving through the shelter system, toiling as a line cook, slogging briefly as a senior financial analyst for Bear Stearns, I have known what it is to be reviled. To be graced with this kind offer brought tears to my newly sober eyes. I knew Trudeau junior's father; voted for him, adored him, carried his picture in my wallet to show to people. This is my Prime Minister. Now his son Justin sought the top political position in Canada.  After years of living under a dictatorship, the country now had a chance of returning to its natural order, a peaceable kingdom where the wolf dwells with the lamb.

As I stood astonished, Monsieur Trudeau turned to his handler and whispered something to the effect of "I don't want to use this woman as a photo op."  

He approached me, put his hand on my shoulder and looked into my eyes, the cosmos and all its stars in heaven in his gaze. That gaze penetrated my soul and electrified my body. It sent us tumbling into bed, grappling with each others clothes, mouths hungry for each other. His eyes assured me that I was loved.

Trembling, I uttered the word "Justin."  His handler asked me if I had a cell phone to take a selfie. I hung my head and muttered something about it being in the shop. Monsieur Trudeau produced a phone that glistened in the sunny October air and outstretched his arm. I clung to him, hugging his torso as he snapped a shot. I closed my eyes and let the moment lift me, weightless and pure, skyward.

I opened my eyes and looked around. Justin and his team disappeared. Whether they ever got their coffees, I do not know. Sitting in the Tim's after the encounter, coffee and donut laid out like a feast before me, I vibrated with renewed hope and tantric energy. My friends at the drop-in centre still don't believe me when I tell them I was Justin Trudeau's girlfriend, but I know better. Somewhere now, Prime Minister Justin Trudeau, le dauphin de Canada  is attending to the business of ruling our land, and on his phone is a picture of himself and me, a stark reminder of his goodness.

I was Pierre Trudeau's and Justin Trudeau's Girlfriend

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons alive or dead is purely intentional.

EXCLUSIVE TO 

CAROLYN BENNETT WRITER/COMIC BLOGSPOT.CA

I was Pierre Trudeau's  and Justin Trudeau’s girlfriend. Not at the same time. Wait, let me think. …. …. … … ……. ……. … .. no, not at the same time.

I met Pierre in 1996 at the corner of Sherbrooke Street and Rue Guy. I was about to get on the 165 Bus opting for the scenic route up The Boulevard to get to Côte-des-Neiges and eventually Van Horne to board the 161 to Côte-Saint-Luc, when I tripped on my untied shoelaces and into the arms of an older man wearing a cape. “Superman?” I exclaimed. “Non, mademoiselle, -- Pierre Elliot Trudeau.” He righted me against a wall and held me by the shoulders while I caught my breath, which took 15 minutes.  My knees kept buckling and he kept holding me up, until a passerby told us to “get a room”. We did.

The room was around the corner at the Ritz Carlton Hotel, the "Grande Dame" of Sherbrooke Street. Ironic that I should be walking in with a former Prime Minister when in fact, I had been banned from the establishment since 1994 -- some trifle about dousing a balustrade with gasoline and lighting it on fire. Pierre lowered himself on the king bed, shrugged, and then loosened his pants. I could tell by his pinched expression and general ennui that making love to me would be just another public service for a man who had given so much to his country.  I grazed his flaked and bony fingers with mine and whispered “it’s okay. Let’s just drink instead.” He ordered several bottles of Dom Pérignon (which I adored when someone else was buying). I drained the bubbly while he stroked my dirty blond hair and watched La Petite Vie on Radio-Canada.  I must confess my memory fails me a bit after this. At some point in the evening I recall Justin Trudeau knocking on the door and imploring his father to leave. “Je t’aime papa”, he cried. Pierre did not leave me. Au contraire [from the French for “on the contrary”] dear reader, he listened as I recited poetry I had scrawled on hotel stationery, and caressed my back as I knelt before the toilet vomiting.  Afterwards, I have a vague impression of his thin lips on mine, blowing into my mouth while applying steady compression on my chest with the heels of his hands.  

The next morning I woke up on the floor, fully clothed, pallid and parched, with delirium tremens and a mark on my neck resembling a hickie. The DTs are gone, but the “hickie” remains, In fact, every year on the anniversary date of my rendezvous with Monsieur Trudeau, I allow the faithful to touch the stigmata, which is formed in the image of a middle finger. Suffice to say, I have not washed my neck in almost 20 years.

I will always t’aime Trudeau senior. But you won’t believe what happened almost 20 years later with me and his son Justin!

NEXT MONTH PART II: The Justin Year(s)day.