The Annual

Each year at this time, I’m searching for a free spirit. I’ve sometimes wondered if, like Neil Young, it’s a heart of gold, but I’m no fan of his music. In fact, should his dulcet tones drift anywhere within my hearing, my sprint to escape them could rival Andre de Grasse. 

But searching for a heart of gold would imply kindness, and that’s not what I’m looking for. It’s more, someone on my drift.

Here’s why. Each year at this time I get a call from the neighbouring municipality, Toronto, which is joined at the hip with the city I live in, Mississauga. A nice voice on the answering machine reminds me that my library card is expiring and I need to pay them a hundred and twenty dollars to get the privileges renewed for another year.

Mississauga has libraries. Compared to the holdings at The Toronto Reference Library alone, though, not to mention the other hundred branches and the thirty-two million items circulated each year, Mississauga is the farm team at best.

So, I make my way to the closest Toronto Public Library, Eatonville, admire the garden, step inside to explain why I’m there, and every year they do their best to be hearts of gold, trying to find a way for me to avoid this fee.

“Do you work in Toronto?” The card would be free in that case. So, where does a writer write?

“No.”  

“Do you own property in Toronto?”

“Yes,” I say.

She pauses and looks up.

“At 375 Mount Pleasant Road.”

“Do you pay taxes on your property?”

“No.” She tilts her head. “It’s a burial plot,” I clarify.

Now, she knows as well as I do, when I take up residence in my Toronto property, I won’t be accruing late fees or spilling lentil soup over any of her books. Still, she’s no free spirit, nor is she on any drift of mine.

I fork over the dough.