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.
