The sky is dark when I wake. The damp walls of my Walter Gage quad close in on me, making my shoulders feel heavy. Slumped. Weighed down by a great burden.
Today is February 14. A day of love, connection, fun — for all, except one.
I lurk in the shadows, always smelling sickly sweet, slinking from lecture hall to Nest booth, blending in like a cursed chameleon of the streets. I run my fingertip across the sleeve of my coat, making a trail through the thin powder perpetually resting on my saggy sleeves. Powdered sugar. It gets everywhere.
I gather my supplies, and off I go.
8 a.m. lectures. A horrible place to be made horrible-er by my job — not student, not professor. Wanderer. Nomad. I walk a lonely road and the road is Main Mall.
I feel the weight of a thousand tired eyes as I walk down the steps of the lecture hall. The professor’s glare burns with the heat of a thousand suns — I 1,000 per cent don’t want to be here, but here I am nonetheless.
I spy my first victim, and it’s time to act. Like a sleuth, a bandit in the night if bandits had red styrofoam hearts taped to their bodies, I deliver a symbol of someone’s undying adoration to her tiny fold out desk. It says “I<3U” but it speaks volumes — this girl in the second row of HEBB 101 is not alone. Someone is waiting for her later with roses and a warm dinner and compassion. I place the bundle on her desk, and I come alive with the feeling of being so close to a fellow human.
Alas, the moment has passed. She will go on to great things. I will go on to another fleeting few seconds of importance in this existential hell void that we call living.
I am the world’s most single candy gram deliverer.
Next on my agenda, it seems, is a grand delivery in the Life building — what a ridiculous name for a place which reeks of stale gym sweat and broken dreams. Of course, it’s a place where I feel right at home. The fluorescent lightning and ever-present ambient machinery buzz imbues this spot with the essence of the uncanny, the bizarre, the strange. A perfect place for a Valentine’s confession.
I approach him, an unsuspecting lad in a plaid scarf, which is his only line of defence between him and I and the public spectacle about to ensue. The acapella club begins, at my gesture, and I orchestrate a symphony of love — a real “let’s get it on” vibe but, like, also a “let’s wait until later when we’re not in a public place” type energy.
As beautiful and glistening as a diamond ring, I place the cellophane-wrapped bundle in his hands. His eyes sparkle.
What a joy it must be. To be loved. I wonder if the Easter Bunny ever gets to hunt for an egg. I wonder if anyone remembers that Santa wanted Logitech Zone True Wireless Earbuds with ANC & USB/Bluetooth for Christmas.
I do not know the answer to these grating questions, but I do know one thing — that I, the Candy Gram Deliverer of UBC, has never once been given a delightfully pink baggie of chocolate goodies. Never have I ever received a conversation heart. The only conversation I have is with the rats in my walls, each night, as I beg them to stay away from my toes. Please, I only have eight left.
Alas, the day almost through, I’ve delivered my final gram, I’ve seen tens — no, hundreds — no, thousands — of smiling faces and rose bouquets and teddy bears. I’ve heard sonnets and limericks aplenty, confessions of love in the halls. But who cares, no big deal…
I’ve seen it all. But what happens next is… new.
I’m stopped in my tracks. I look up from my mud-soaked Sketchers and meet the eye of another person. A real person is in front of me, and they’re reaching out.
A single hand, extended.
A closed fist, unfurled.
In his palm, a bag of cinnamon hearts, chocolate hearts, anatomically-accurate candy hearts (he’s from the biology department of candy gram deliverers).
My hands tremble, knees weak, arms heavy. I think about my mom. Spaghetti. I think about everything that has ever led me to this moment, this peak, no — the happiness I’m getting from this feeling is forever. This is the plateau.
I accept the candy gram and open the tiny card tied to its neck in dainty, scissor-curled ribbon.
“To Nick…”
My eyes water. That’s me. I know what should follow. I look for my last name scrawled in that swooping cursive. Lick Orice, Lick Orice, Lick Orice. My thoughts thrum in time with my fast-beating heart, when a voice breaks my trance.
“Oh! Hey!”
I make eye contact with the figure now standing beside me.
“Sorry man,” he says, “I think that’s mine.”
My eyes read the last name, taunting me from the card. Lick Otime.
The candy gram deliverer snatches the parcel from my hand.
My heart leaves my chest.
My eyes leave my head.
My soul leaves my body.
I’ve candied my last gram.
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