Free Meaner Things by David Anderson

them when I tripped over the edge of a hospital doormat one day on my way in to see the physiotherapist. That set me back a bit. Say, about six weeks. I was twenty-one years old and felt like fifty-five.
    I was also broke and thousands of dollars in debt from student loans. For a time, maybe all of ten seconds, I considered getting back on the saddle and planning another heist. Then I realised that that’s the part I really liked – the planning – it was the doing that wasn’t so much fun.
    Sure, I’d nearly pulled it off before my precious loved one, or ‘the bitch’ as I now thought of her, had betrayed me. But as I replayed that night over and over again in my head, the realization of all the other things that could have gone wrong sent shivers up and down my spine. It was completely unlike me to take those kinds of serious risks, the sort with consequences that could be adversely life changing. Yet I’d been the one taking the lead, right? Well, maybe.
    As the days and weeks went by I began to feel better about it. I was proud of the immaculate planning I’d done and the sheer ingenuity I’d displayed in figuring out a way into the building, not to mention my quick thinking in getting out of it again. The adrenaline had been pumping through me and I’d felt truly alive for the first time in my life. I’d finally discovered something I excelled at, which is not to say that I had the slightest intention of attempting any similar venture ever again.
    After the first few days when she failed to show, Emma’s continuing absence from my life wasn’t as big a shock as might have been expected. I called her many times, of course, then called all the numbers of her friends that I could remember or look up. Everyone said she had vanished. Her stuff was gone from her room and someone else was living there now. That’s what they told me. I had no reason to doubt them and didn’t bother to go over there and confirm it for myself. Deep down I knew it was true.
    Looking back at our relationship, I could now see signs that I’d ignored before. A lot of university couples shacked up together, but Emma didn’t want that and I was okay with it. In reality we’d just been good friends who hung out together a lot. Now I severely doubted that we’d even been that.
    I spent a lot of time lounging around in my apartment, with my gammy leg propped up. That’s what you tend to do when every upright movement necessitates grabbing two long pieces of wood and stuffing them under your armpits. Most of my remaining few dollars went to a pizza delivery man with a heavy Indian accent.
    Even when the physiotherapist moved me on to a stick I still didn’t get around much. One day, after pizza, while doing my best Hitchcock movie impersonation – staring mindlessly out my rear window at the even dingier apartments across the street, hoping I’d spot a Raymond Burr lookalike wielding a spade – an idea came to me.
    I knew exactly what I wanted to do when I was mobile again.
    *
    To cut a long story short, I took a ferry over to Vancouver Island to track her down. My hunch was she’d gone back there and was staying with her parents.
    All I knew was that they lived in Victoria, which is a small city but not so small that you can just go knocking on doors. By now my money was almost all gone and, even by staying in the cheapest hostel I could find, I could only afford a few days there. So I had to think and act fast.
    I tried to recollect every mention she’d ever made to me about her home and her family, but failed to come up with much. I did seem to recall that she’d once spoken favourably of Oak Bay, a suburban neighbourhood east of metro Victoria. In the Yellow Pages I found the address of Oak Bay High School and paid it a visit. I made up a story about writing a local history article and they led me to the school library.
    There I found two wonderful things: a helpful librarian named Sidney and several shelves full of their