The Punchline
an excerpt

Distracted by the noise, Cam looks up and momentarily watches a panhandler with dreadlocks and no shirt glisten across the street. He's playing overturned buckets like drums, and grins toothlessly at panting passersby. A sign beside him on the ground states, "WILL ROCK OUT FOR SPARE CHANGE" in lopsided capital letters and red sharpie, bouncing against his vibrating snare substitute.

It's loud. It's irritating. It's a poor, poor imitation of a traditional rock beat. It could probably be avoided were Cam to get the hell up and go somewhere else for a change. But he doesn't. Instead he squints against the sun that's filtered through his Ray Ban's, and turns his attention back to the paper in his hands.

For the thousandth time in the last five minutes he regurgitates a thought he's fairly sure is slowly sending him around the twist:

Things were different before he met Ruth.

Just look at him now. Some greasy smuck at a tin table drinking Nestea and reading the nonsense sentiments of Marmaduke in the Toronto Star's funnines (wondering vaguely as he did so why Brad Anderson was still getting paid for such a bullshit excuse for something comedic). Once upon a time he'd had ambition and some semblance of wit and/or the ability to hold a decent conversation. Now it was large coffee, double double, thank you, have a nice day. Now it was excuse me, pardon me, sorry I don't have any change, do you happen to have the time.

Now it was go fuck yourself buddy, I'll jaywalk Yonge Street if I damn well please to.