The Canadian Social Contract

Winter in Canada. The season of forced social contracts. The person in front just paid

for my coffee. Now I have to pay for the guy in the truck behind

me. He ordered four boxes of donuts. I am now twenty dollars poorer.

A Presto card has fallen. The ritual begins. Four of us are now touching

hands on a wet floor. We are basically family now. A stranger's car

is dead. I don't know what a spark plug is. But my DNA

says I must push this metal object until I lose my toes. We are freezing

and confused. It is beautiful, really.