My phone number is not 416-564-5462

Whoa. I just had to give out a fake phone number. Like a girl.

I was just riding home on a streetcar on College St., getting ready to transfer to the Spadina subway, and immersed in a sudoku puzzle as I stood. Someone behind me tapped me on the shoulder just before the streetcar stopped. I let him by. The streetcar stopped. I got off, got on the subway, and transferred to the Bloor line, all the while concentrating on my puzzle.

Someone slipped into the seat beside me and tapped me. I took off my headphones.

"Sorry about earlier," said a young guy with a close-cropped head under his ball cap, a chinful of stubble, and a bit of toothpaste caked next to his mouth.

"What happened then?"

"I tapped you."

"Oh, that's okay."

"I just wanted off."

"Yeah, me too. We just hadn't stopped yet, I thought."

"I'm Patrick," he said, extending his hand.

I shook it. "Hi, Patrick," I said.

"My last name is like the french fries."

"The french fries?"

"McCain."

"Oh. Heh. Yeah."

"What's your name?"

"Uh. Peter."

"Hi, Peter," he said, shaking my hand again. "Are we friends?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"Yeah?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Can I buy you a coffee sometime."

"Uh. Okay."

"Good. Do you write essays?"

"No, not for a long time."

"What do you do?"

"I'm an editor. So I correct spelling and things like that."

"I work for McCain sometimes."

"Oh, really? Doing what?"

"Coming up with new food products."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"I can't say. Or someone might steal my ideas."

"Got it. That's smart of you."

"Have you ever been to Germany?"

"No."

"I want to go."

"Whereabouts?"

"To the Wall."

"Oh, is that still up?"

"No."

"Oh."

"Would you go?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Really?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"I have a German friend."

"Oh, good."

"He's depressed."

"Oh, that's too bad. What about?"

"I don't know."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"A long time ago."

"You should go see him."

"Yeah, that's a good idea." He paused. "I'm on privileges."

"What kind?" I asked, although I suspected I knew where this was going.

"From the hospital."

"Which one?"

"The psychiatric hospital."

"Oh. that's good."

"Would you like to go to Vancouver?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"I'll go with you."

"Hey, great."

"Do you have a phone number?"

"I do."

"May I have it?"

"Sure." I tore off the top of my sudoku and wrote down a fake number. "Here."

"Can you write 'Peter' on it, or should I?"

"No, I'll do it." I took it back, wrote "Peter" down, and handed it back. "Well, this is my stop," I said, getting up. It actually was. Thank God.

"Okay," he said. "Nice meeting you."

"You too."

"Sorry about earlier."

"No problem."

"Sorry about tapping you."

"No problem."

"Have a good night."

"I will," I said. "You too." I got off the train, put my headphones back on, and walked up the stairs, all the while resisting the urge to shudder.