twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine

Twenty-six...

I haven't left my apartment for over three days now. In fact, I haven't even opened the curtains in at least two days. I have even, for the time being, given up shaving and the growth on my face is starting to take form. Not any sort of form that is anyway good but it does add something to me that I can't really describe. My plants could probably use a little light. I turned a couple of them the other day because they were starting to tilt far too far to the right and I'm hoping that they'll bend the other way now. It seems though that this bending is taking its time as they've hardly, if at all, moved since I turned them over a week ago. They look healthy but could be, for all I know, dying inside. The leaves are green and full but they somehow seem sick.
And, in a move that could only be regarded as fateful, I went out a few day back and purchased a carton of cigarettes. Thus giving up the illusion, an illusion that only applied to me and not to those around me, that I wasn't really smoking that much and that I had it under some sort of control. And in the days since purchasing them have smoked more than my usual pack and a bit a day. In fact in the past three or four days have gone through seven packs from the carton of ten. It's as if I'm daring god to strike me down with cancer and really get this show on the road. Bring it on Big Daddy, bring it on. My hands, or at least my fingers, are showing the signs of my increased habit. Yellow patches of skin now grace my index and middle finger of my right hand, the true sign of a man with a knack for the taste of smoke and a love of nicotine.
The World Series has started and now seems as good a time as any to stay home and watch television. Jamie and I often call each other during the games when something happens, a home run or great play in the field. The cable's been paid for well in advance so I may as well use it. My friend, Dave, in Toronto, sometimes calls as well, on his dime, and we always end up talking sports and all that it entails. He has more knowledge than I do in regards to stats and numbers but we both know our stuff in regards to the game itself. I have, for the past few years, made predications as to who will be where in regards to the standings at the end of the year, with him doubting me almost always. I have been very close in the past few years so I feel I have placed myself in good standing with him. Dave is one of the few people I know who has, in the past made a living writing for magazines, newspapers and has had stories published in short story anthologies. He's interested in what I'm doing but somehow I feel he thinks I'm a bit off. The way things have been going he could be right.
I wonder, sometimes how I'm going to put this all together. The chapters I have written, the order in which they will appear. The chapters or bits are more a reflection of how I see things now more than they are representation of the things I have actually been doing. They all seem, the chapters, interchangeable, like the story is more a series of vignettes more than it is a accurate time line of someone's life and times. A film maker friend of mine, Mina, told me she often writes as if all the different scenes could be put anywhere and still make the film a cohesive piece and I feel as if I'm somehow assembling several moments and scenes that will somehow be in order later on. The different scenes reflecting the way I view things now, the casual sex with women I have just met, drugs I have taken against my better judgment, the lure of excitement and how I regard those around me now. How I now have a better understanding of those who do the things I have been doing in hopes of gaining life experience except that they live that life everyday. How I see the world around me with a lot more clarity, albeit I'm out of my head often times when I'm experiencing it. The nights of excess are talking there toll on me without a doubt. My chest often hurts in the morning from nights spent in smoky after hours bars, another a smoke hangover. My eyes bloodshot and watery. I have gained the look of a man hell bent for something. Dark rings lie under my eyes from a lack of sleep, my skin has taken on a ruddy complexion, while not harsh, it's a few steps off my usually clean straight up look, the facial hair doesn't help much either. A good shower and shave are definitely in order, maybe I'll even open the curtains and see what's up in the alley.
As I open the curtains I see that the action in the alley is in full swing with the junkies seemingly holding court next to a dumpster. The arms of their shirts rolled up tightly with loaded needles at the ready somehow it all seems so organized today. Some days there seems to be a haphazard approach to what their doing but today it's as if they all given a easy to follow instructional booklet on how to get the most out of their equipment and the proper procedure to get the maximum benefits out of their junk. As if I can feel their grime on me, I head for the shower and decide to wash off the dirt of the last three days, shave the hair from my face. Then, after the hosedown, head up to Sunrise Market to get a load of groceries, including a large portion of veggies to get myself back on track and ready for more adventures in the world I have recently become a large part of. Lord knows you can't fly without fuel.


Twenty-seven...

Storybook romance (end of innocence.. Add to others.)

Her place smells like an old apartment I had years ago when I lived in the West End. The walls there were falling apart with the insulation poking through in spots. The floor creaked every time you stepped anywhere on it, the windows cracked and the sinks all green from years of water making its way through corroded copper pipes. A hooker and her kid lived net door and my sister was down the hall popping pills to wake up each morning.
Her place has none of this but the feel is the same. A feeling of neglect seems to sit about the place. Damp and full of the smell of mildew. I've been here for a few days now after meeting her in a seedy bar far on the east side of town. She had been out trying to forget life and I was out and in the right place at the right time for her. Her husband's been away for a week or so and she says she has no idea when he's coming home. I have made to leave several times but have failed because, quite frankly, the sex sells itself. She's older than me, much older, and the things she has taught me about sex and fucking make me want for more each time I go to leave. Each time, as I get set to leave she presents herself to me each time taking complete control over me. Her hands touching me with the softness of a woman much younger than herself but with the wisdom of a woman who has been there, done that.
I've lied to her. Or rather I have neglected to tell her anything about myself. She's asked very little of me or about me but when she does I have lied, completely. In bed her hands run over me as she asks about who I am, where I came from, where I went to school, where my parents live and where I work. My name is the only thing she knows for sure or at least thinks she knows. I lied about that as well when she asked. I feel no need to give up more than she needs to know. I won't be around when her husband finally comes back so why pretend that I will?
Tonight though, I will take her to the places she wants to see. The places I have told her about. The booze cans she missed the first time around. While she is at least twice my age he could and can easily pass for many years less than that so she shouldn't feel too out of place. I want to show her my world. The places I go where no one really knows me but they know that I fit in and know what's what. The places where junkies mix with jacked up stock brokers and lost artists. The places deep in the back alleys of Chinatown, places down three flights of stairs that are nothing more than shooting galleries and places to hide out from the rest of society. Tonight I will fuck her in the back room of a booze can because she has always wanted to do it where someone may see, where she could get caught.
She's in the kitchen and I can she her catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the sink as she washes the dishes from our dinner. I have been away from this type of domestic structure for so long that it feels as if I'm living at home again with my parents except this time I'm sleeping with someone old enough to be my mother. And all the time, as of late, I have spent lately coursing through the streets of Vancouver seeking out the things that drive us all seems to be coming to some sort of a head. Watching others go through all the motions, the dance as it were. All the while wanting someone to take along for the ride, someone to experience the sickness. The nights spent in bed with those I had only met hours before, the charge in my heart as I held a syringe full of heroin seconds before plunging it into my arm, the feeling of hopelessness after waking up in an alley after a night of drinking and unknown quantities of drugs. She wants to experience all of these things, and she wants to do it all with me. I'm the one she's been looking for and when it's over she'll throw me away. I know this. Maybe I'll want to do the same.
I'm eager to leave and I tell her so. Her car is parked out in front of her building and we decide to take it as mine is down a few blocks. Also, because my car is far more recognizable to all of my friends it works out better for me that we go in hers. I haven't been in touch with anyone since I've been staying at her place and if I can keep a low profile until this is all over it's all for the better. I have been questioned lately about my motives, my actions as of late. It's in me is all I can say, we all have something inside us. I, while not always trying to do so, find the worst society has to offer, I always have. I know right now that I'm being used, much like I have used others before. So what's the big deal? It's not as if I don't know. I do. She wants something and I'm here to provide it. I have been around the block, many times. She hasn't, she wants to go around at least once.
I have told her about my drug use, my driving to bars and taking home whoever it was I could convince that night, my driving the streets late at night and watching those at clubs as they went through the motions of picking of others. She, while not knowing much else about me, about my weakness', what I fear, where I'm afraid to go. And maybe even why. And I, on the other hand, know what she wants, what she's afraid of and even how she's weak. We're using each other and we both know it, even though neither one of us has said it. We don't need to.
We drive downtown and though it heading for Chinatown and a place I know where we can see the city from the inside out. As we drive down Hastings I get her to take a left onto Abbott Street and then tell her to pull over next to the hotel at the corner of Cordova Street. As soon as I roll down the window a dealer has made his way up to the window and I tell him I need a couple of rocks, maybe a few if he's got some. He holds out his hand and shows me five good size pieces of feebase and tells me the price. Without asking I reach into her purse and find a fifty and fold it up and give it to him. Before I know it we're off down Cordova and then into an alley behind, of all places the police station on Main Street.
I had, earlier in the day, gotten a glass pipe from store on Hastings and was, for the first time about to freebase. She, however, didn't know this was the case and I figured why let the cat out of the bag now? She had this idea about me, one based on things I had told her, things she took as the truth. Why ruin it now?
The smoke filled the car and I sensed, for the first time, that maybe she thought she had taken this thing a little too far. Her hand held the pipe as I lit the end and the crack took on its amber glow. Her eyes told the story of a woman lost in her own time. A woman who up until a week ago was, seemingly happy at home with her husband and her regular, if a little boring, day job. A woman who had raised three kids, put them through school, watched them grow up, had watched them fail, watched them win and was now in a car with a man she hardly knew and smoking crack.
Her hands trembled as she took the pipe away from her mouth and fell back into her seat. And for the first time, for the first time in a long time, I felt badly. Like I had taken someone too far. Not like the women I had taken home many times before, not like the young woman I knew who asked me for a ride and then tried to seduce me. Not like the leading on of people to get whatever it was that I wanted. This time I had maybe ruined someone. And maybe there was no turning back now. Caught up in it all she places another rock into the pipe and asks me to light it. I know as soon as she takes the first pull that this will be the last time I see her like this and that I will be heading home tonight to sleep in my own bed.
As the smoke clears in the car I can see she has her hand between her legs and is rubbing herself. Her eyes are closed and her mouth is moving and forming words but there is no sound. I move towards her to try and hear and as if she knows I will do this she reaches up as I move towards her and grabs the back of my head and pulls me down to her chest and then tells me she wants me to fuck her.
The act is the thing she's been looking for. The end to a weekend of sex with a man she hardly knows, in fact, doesn't know. The thrill of getting caught, the infidelity, the high from the, up until then, unknown drug, the strange hands on her body. I know now that, as I did seemingly seconds before but now more clearly, that after it's all over I'll be gone, at least from her life.
Pulling her over to my side of the car and on top of me I can see in her eyes the look of a little girl who has lost her way. Her hair covers my face as we kiss and in one shift motion she reaches down and undoes my pants. The beginning of the end had just begun.


Twenty-eight...

The e-mail's regarding the group sex have stopped coming and I can't help thinking I was simply being taken for a ride and that, maybe, that was for better. The net is full of people posting things they have no intention of following through with and this seems to be the case here. What was I thinking anyway? Would I have gone through with it? I guess in many respects now that I have set in motion so many things that I would never have done that I probably would have. My friend Aaron had read all the mail and was game to come along as well and see what happened and has been asking me what the latest with it was and I had to tell him that, indeed, nothing was happening. Alan, the organizer, had seemingly, disappeared from the face of the earth and when I decided to e-mail him and ask him what the latest was he responded saying that it was on hold and that the women had gotten cold feet. And while he added that he still intended to go through with it, and that the women were simply still deciding I knew it was all over and that if I wanted to find something else like this I would have to look elsewhere. I think I'll let it go for now I've got other things to figure out right now.
Kevin calls and is on about the church idea and to tell him that I've had put it on the back burner simply because I've had been holed up in my apartment because I needed a break from the weirdness. I do say, however that I do plan to go through with it at some point, even though I know that I'm lying. That all my plans got put aside due to my greater interest in the night life I have been experiencing, and that I still want him to be with me when I do it. Religion, and all that I thought of it, had taken a back seat of late as I explored other options, I tell him. Explored? Shit. I was damn near charting a completely new course for others to follow.
"I think I've found other stuff to do."
"Like what, I mean I've heard things but..." Kevin stopped seemingly not knowing what to say next.
"What have you heard?"
"Just that no one has really seen that much of you and that when they do you often have this glazed look in your eyes"
"Just a lack of sleep, I'm not eating right..." I say as if defending myself as if I need to.
"What's this about the Legion with Vern?"
"I can't really tell you much, I don't remember any of it."
"Vern said..."
"Well, what Vern says and what really happened could be two very separate things..." I stop realizing I don't really know what I'm talking about, "But then again, who knows?"
"Are you going to snap out of this?"
"I suppose, but sometimes I wonder. I mean, how can I go back to living a rather sedate lifestyle after all this?"
"What do you mean?"
"In the last few months I have drank more than I ever have, slept with people I only met hours before, some old enough to be my mom. Done drugs I had only seen people use from my balcony. Smoked like a man on fire. And now I find myself out looking all the time for more."
"But you have a reason, right? It's all suppose to lead somewhere."
"Sure. I hope so. I. Mean, I have been writing some. But it all seems so disjointed. Little slices of life that I have to somehow put into place so that it all makes sense. So it justifies what I've been doing."
"I wouldn't worry. You're too smart to let this become a lifestyle you'll stick with."
"Sure." I say trying to believe what Kevin's saying
I know what he's saying makes sense but it's as if I've adopted this new found freedom as a new lifestyle. For now at least. All the free time I have has become a curse. The not having to get up every day and go to work. No clock to punch, no boss to report to. The unemployment cards keep coming and I keep signing them waiting each week for the cheques to come in so I'll have a little cash to spend how I see fit.
"I've got to go, Kevin. Maybe we can meet up later at Subbeez for some lunch I need something in me besides bad dollar pizza."
"I'll be downtown later near there so why don't I just meet you there?"
"Call me when you're there and I can just walk over."
Several options, in terms of employment have come up lately and I wonder if I should exploit them. A couple of days a week at a cafe near my house has been offered to me, the food there would do me good. I've also been told of a few things I could do at a radio station I used to work at, some freelance stuff that could net me a few hundred bucks here and there. A gas station I used to put in time at called and said they needed someone to pump gas and do the odd oil change. Shit, when I worked there before I practically destroyed the cars that came in there putting all the additives in the wrong places. All of this could help me get out off this rut I'm getting myself into and maybe keep me out of trouble for a while. Getting up with some purpose would probably be a good thing.
At two-thirty Kevin calls and say he's at the restaurant and I tell him I'll meet him there as soon as I can. He tells me he's a little short and could I front him a few bucks until next week, like I'm in any position to give him what little cash I have. I tell him I'll take care of it today but that I would like to see my paintings finished by the end of the century if at all possible. He seems insulted and I quickly tell him not to be so sensitive and that it's no problem. Gathering up my stuff I head downstairs and decide that instead of walking I'll take my car just in case Kevin needs a ride somewhere after. It's also raining and I've decided that I've had enough of the wetness here on the wet coast and feel no guilt driving the few blocks to Subbeez. God made the gas and lord knows I'm going to use it.


Twenty-nine...

Leeanne calls just as I'm leaving and tells me she's quitting her job and going back to school. I wonder what drives her sometimes and wish I could maybe get a little of what it is she's got. She seems to have an endless supply of energy and always has a plan, something I don't. She's decided to go to college and get a degree, or something-a piece of paper, in multimedia, web page design, cd rom authoring and whatever else comes along. Lord knows she can do it and she probably will. I let her know that I'm behind her but tell her I have to get going to meet Kevin and figure out what I'm doing with my life. She asks if she can come along because she needs to get out of the house and would like to see me. I tell her if she can be ready quickly I'll pick her up on the way. She passes on the ride but says she'll meet us there in about a half hour as she's over at her boyfriend's house, or rather a guy she's 'just fucking' at the present time. Her description not mine.
Leeanne and I used to date, in fact we went out for several months on two separate occasions but due to my lack of concentration, among others things, broke up for good a few years back. She has become one of my best friends and seems to understand me better than anyone. The fact that she's 'just fucking' someone right now makes me feel as if I'm not the only one out there having meaningless sex. Maybe it's just my way of justifying my current course, maybe I just like to think of her having sex because I can picture it, maybe I just like the pain of picturing it. Whatever the case, I like it.
As I exit my underground parking I see an ambulance in front of my building, a rather common sight, with the attendants down on the knees attending to a junkie who has overdosed or fallen. His shirt is off and they're in the middle of trying to revive him. Blood is on the pavement by his head which indicates he has fallen down and as I look closer I recognize him as a guy who is often in front of my building wandering around looking lost at the best of times. His jeans are wet in the crotch as if he's wet himself and I wonder for a moment if maybe he's actually died this time. Others on the street continue to walk by as if nothing is happening except for a few who stop for a second to get a good look at the one less fortunate than themselves. I check the traffic coming down Cordova and when it clears head past the ambulance and down the street making my way towards Homer Street and Subbeez restaurant.
Subbeez can only be described as the place the young and fashionable go to eat. A large space off the beaten track that sports wait staff very in tune with what's what and all that's hip. Cement, steel and enough candles, that they let drip onto the ground, make it far too cool for the likes of me. Kevin, however, because of his arty nature, fits in even if he's an old guy like myself.
Kevin's seated in the back far from the center of the action and I notice him only because I see his hat, which seems to never leave his head. As I walk towards the table I pass a couple of the waitress'' that I know, say hi and think things I shouldn't be thinking and know if any of them ever came true I could die a happy man. Sometimes I'm in love with my mind's eye because in this case it's all I've got, and all I'll ever get.
"You look tired." Kevin says as I sit down at the table
"I am. I'm not getting alot of sleep, too much in my head it seems."
"I don't think I've ever seen you with bags under you're eyes."
"It's a new development to be sure. Leeanne's meeting us here."
I say trying to change the subject.
"I'd like to.."
"Careful, Kevin. "
"What do you mean?"
"I used to date her. Maybe you've forgotten."
"You used to date everyone. Maybe you've forgotten."
"I get the point."
Kevin is exaggerating, I have dated my fair share of women but, up until recently never regarded it as all that casual. One seven year relationship and a load of six month to year relationships that still mean alot to me. Love it seems is something I have always fallen easily into. Lately though it seems as if I have come to separate the two, the sex and the love. Love now seems like a distant memory while sex has taken center court and has, of late been, on display for all to see. Or at least for all to hear about.
"I've been thinking about these job ideas alot."
"What jobs?"
"Lisa wants me to work at Mondo Lisa on Cordova street, the radio station called and said they have a few things they'd like me work on. But I don't know if I'm ready for real employment, not yet."
"What do you mean? This would be the perfect thing for you. Some structure."
"I know but I wonder if I've seen enough of the stuff I need to write my book. Gained enough dirt to write about. To make my life look like it's worth writing about."
"Shit, man. You've been burning it so hard I'm surprised, knowing how you really are, that you've gone this far."
"Sure, but all the ideas I have haven't added up to much so far. I mean, I write them down as I see them or how I feel about them and I wonder about putting it all together."
"I haven't seen them but I know you've done enough low lifeing to last a lifetime."
"I have chapters stored away in my head that are just dying to get out. But I wonder if anyone will want to read about a guy, even if I present it as fiction, who leads a truly disgusting lifestyle. A life that has become mine."
"But it's not really your life, you can step back from it, can't you."
"I suppose."
"I write songs that are about all sorts of things but as I play them now those experiences are at a distance."
"But I've been living this shit every day now for the past six months or more, ever since I decided to write this thing."
"But you can't continue to live this way."
"I know."
As if on cue, Leeanne walks in and heads towards our table. Her hair is wet as if she couldn't find a parking spot close enough and has had to walk in the rain to the restaurant. It's odd, even though we've become great friends on a purely platonic level, I always feel a sense of regret, for the first couple of seconds wherever I see her. I have even made jokes to her saying that no matter what happens we're going to end up married someday. Sometimes I think it's really going to happen.
"Why are you guys sitting in the back?"
"It's easier on our hearts." I say in reference to the waitress'
"We're too old to have that kind of stress put on us. If we get too close it'll kill us." Kevin adds saying what I'm thinking.
"You guys kill me." Leeanne says settling into the booth and pulling out fresh pack of camels. "Why don't you pick on someone your own age? "
"We do. We just like to put ourselves through this hell because somehow it makes us feel better in the long run."
"I don't feel better in the long run." Kevin says looking at me across the table. "I usually feel like shit."
"Well, you've gotta work on that. It's all about perspective." I say lighting Leeanne's smoke.
When we went out Leeanne had just quit smoking and I now feel a sense of responsibility towards her smoking now. She had made the decision to quit and then I came along to wreck it for her. We'd be out and I'd light up a Winston and test her willpower. Before long she was bumming drags off of my smokes and taking the odd whole smoke from my pack. Before I knew it she was back in the fold smoking as if she had never quit. As I watch her now pulling on her Camel, I feel as if I was the reason she began again and, in an offhand way feel badly. But then again, maybe I was able to bring back to her something she really loved but thought she could be without. For that I feel, as perverse as it may sound, happy I could provide.
I tell Leeanne about the job offers and how I don't know if I'm ready to go back to working just yet. Practically a regurgitation of what I said to Kevin before she arrived. All my doubts and worries. She looks as if she's about to laugh at one point but holds off when she sees I'm completely serious.
"But you've always worked. Why wouldn't you want to now?" Leeanne says butting out her half finished smoke
"Maybe because it's been a while since I've had to. "
"But you're going to have to soon, right? When the cash runs out." Kevin says stealing one of liana's smokes. "You can't ride the gravy train forever."
"I've still got a few weeks of unemployment cheques coming in.'
"That's pathetic." Leeanne says now clearly disgusted with me. "You've got to get over this idea that you can ride this thing out for all it's worth."
"I know. I'll get it together." I say waving to the waitress hoping to break this train of thought up by having her come over to take our order.
We order a few drinks and tell her to just order us anything to eat because none of us can decide what we want. She seems unhappy with the idea of having to order for us but then as if it all comes to her says ok and is off to the kitchen to place our orders.
The rest of the time is spent talking shop with Kevin, who has recently begun making new old furniture, talking about how to make new things look old and decayed and Leeanne telling us how she was thinking about quitting her job and going back to school. I listened to them thinking all the while that I had probably said enough and that I had better get it together soon lest I lose sight of the real world and keep living in the one I had formed for myself. We end up getting an omelet, a lamb burger and a bowl of leek soup, Leeanne and Kevin decide to just keep on drinking using the smokes as their main course. I eat the omelet. I've always been good for breakfast anytime.

twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five

twenty-one...

Three days, maybe more, have passed since I last saw Kevin and I feel as if I have really been turning on. I've spent the last few nights drunk and have ended up in the worst places I could ever think of. I think tuesday night I somehow ended up at a harsh leather bar down on Davie Street after I had mentioned to someone how it had been years since I had been or went to a gay bar. Foggy at best on that one, I 'll have to give it a little more thought although I'm sure I'll hear about it. Monday night is still a bit of a blur but I do remember ending up with a guy about seventy years old at the Legion over on main and something. I had started of the night as any other but somehow, and here's where the fog drifts in, had linked up with my friend Vern who convinced me that going to the Legion was a good idea. He had heard of my book and that I was looking for ideas and that I was trying to expand my personal experiences and told me the Legion was the place to go. All I knew of the place was that they had daily meat draws, a lot of the patrons used to handle heavy firearms-and in fact may have killed a few people, and that being a vegetarian this was hardly any reason to go there. Vern saw it as chance to meet some really interesting pals. Pals was his description.
For the greater part of the evening we sat by ourselves drinking jug after jug of cheap beer with me wondering all the while what the hell Vern had in mind. Then as if by divine intervention an older, as if there were any other kinds there, guy approached our table and asked if he could sit down and talk with us. He spoke of the old times, something Vern and I had no idea of really, except what our grand parents had told us, and how it would never be the same again. I was pretty sure he was right. As sure as I could be of anything at that point. The last thing I remember, truly, is Vern getting up to dance with a woman who had to be in her seventies and the guy saying something about her once taking on the whole bar. As I watched Vern dancing with her I wondered out loud if Vern would be her next victim. Then the lights went out. Literally.
I woke up on Vern's bedroom floor early tuesday morning with a head as big as the great outdoors but without Vern anywhere in sight. Gathering my clothes, that were now scattered around his place-how this happened I still do not know, I made my way out of Vern's place and out onto Railway Street. The sun hit me like a ton of bricks and I knew right then that the best thing was to head home and wait for Vern to call wondering what happened to me. I knew the call was coming and it was better that I was at home to receive it than to have to listen to Vern's usual ten minute tape eating messages on my machine later. My coffee maker had hardly begun to do it's magic when the phone rang and I knew it was Vern.
"Hello."
"You're the man."
It was Vern alright.
"What? What do you mean?"
"The way you handled yourself, dude. It was a thing of beauty."
"I don't know what you're talking about Vern. "
"The guy at the table, man. The woman I was dancing with. Lorraine. You don't remember?" Vern was practically in tears laughing. "You're the man!"
"Vern. You gotta help me out here. In have no idea what you're on about."
"Lorraine. The woman I was dancing with..."
"Yes Vern..."
"I had no idea you had it in you."
"Do I want to know this, Vern?"
"Oh, man! You killed last night. I..."
"Vern!"
"Tim. I know you've been stepping out of yourself lately and kicking some ass but when Johnny hears this one you'll be the king."
"What happened, Vern?"
"That was the old guys wife. Lorraine. She was, shit, is, the old guys wife. The guy at the table."
"So?"
"I never knew you liked the older ones Tim. I had no idea."
"Shit."
"I'll show you the pictures later. No, really, no pictures but fuck, man, you held up your end."
"My end? Vern. I don't think I need any more details. Really..."
"Alright. Alright. It's between us... For now. Talk about the meat draw!"
"Enough Vern. Really. I gotta sleep this one off."
"Sure, sure. When can we go out again, Tim? "
"Maybe never, Vern. Maybe never."
"You make me laugh big fella. Make me laugh."
"See ya Vern."
"Okay man. I'll catch up with ya later."
Shit. It was like I was living a life for someone else that night. Vern has since told, at least, a large handful of people that I slept with some seventy year old woman that was set-up by her husband and I have no way of knowing whether or not it really happened. I made a private vow to myself yesterday to stay away from Vern for a while until I get a firmer grip on that night and to stay away from the Main Street Legion for life.
Tuesday night found me at home avoiding all phone calls and playing the screening game. By wednesday morning my machine was almost out of tape with the majority of the messages making little, if no, sense.
"Tim... Kevin here. You're there I know you are... Pick-up... Fuck. I need a place to sleep. I need food. I need love. I'm in love with your sister... "
"Tim...Vern. Hubba da hubba da... Control top panty hose... Can you say girdle?"
"Hello. This is the geriatric ward at Vancouver General Hospital. Could you please submit a blood sample? We think you may be the father of a bouncing baby boy... " (caller unknown)
"I'd like to get my teeth back if I could. It's hard to chew with just my gums... Please call Lorraine at 555.Gums." (caller disguised his/her voice as a that of an older woman.)
"Tim. It's Dad. We've got to talk. I heard you got fired and was wondering what you were going to do. I might be able to line something up for ya, I have a friend in shipping at a warehouse in Surrey. Let me know, it's a good set-up. Your sister tells me you're writing some sort of a book too.. That's good but... Well, call me. "
Shit. Now he knows I'm out of work. That's great. And coming to my rescue. Thank god for my little nest egg, as small as it is now. Surrey warehouse. Right. I'm going back to school before that happens, I'd rather be a baker.
Wednesday, okay. Stay sober. That's the plan for today. Things could hardly get any worse than the last two days. I've got to meet Fawn at noon for lunch and then catch up with Jamie a little later on but that's it for today. I've got to get my head on straight before I go any further with this book thing. Although, I suppose, I could just let the chips fall where they may and keep on hitting it hard. As long as I stay away from Vern and keep to my plan. It's no good just getting drunk and forgetting the whole experience. It's a good thing I don't have a job right now, that I was relieved of my duties, however unceremoniously, because I'd have been fired from any job right now the way I've been handling things. Maybe I should look for work today and get some income coming in. Maybe I should forget the whole damn thing. Looking for a job that is.

twenty-two...

Tuesday night has also come back to haunt me. The details are still coming in but by all accounts so far, and I have had to rely on some rather shady sources, I, apparently, was indeed at a leather bar on Davie Street wearing a very large, very black, fake mustache. Leeanne's friend Steven called and gave me most of the gory details including a rather vivid description of me in leather chaps that I had borrowed off of a guy and strapped on over top of my jeans. He had seen me there with a friend, who I do not remember but suspect it to be Johnny but lost all track off as the night progressed, and had come up and asked me what I was doing there. I had replied, according to Steven, that I was just checking out how the other half lived, what that meant I have no idea now, and that this place seemed as good a place as any. No pain, no gain. Lord knows I was a long way from feeling any pain.
What I do remember is that Johnny and I had gone out with Lori for dinner to some place over on Broadway and then had decided, in our infinite wisdom, to saddle up with some Japanese tourists downtown and try some karaoke. We headed downtown and had opted for some hotel on Pender Street that was famous for karaoke and known to have alot of Japanese business men.
Somewhere around the time I heard another friend of ours, Derik, who had met us there after we had phoned him, start to get into an argument with one of the other drunken patrons and my sixth or seventh grasshopper things apparently went awry.
Lori in the middle of singing 'Hey Good Looking' decided it was time everyone checked out her new bra and pulled down the front of her dress exposing, of what I remember, a rather nice looking lace bra. Johnny amused by this took off his own shirt and ordered a round of drinks for the band, something that didn't exist.
Derik now, for some reason without pants, stormed out of the bar after a woman saying 'I was only joking'. All I remember from that point on is standing outside the hotel with the bartender asking me who was paying for the drinks and me telling him it was the partially naked couple singing on-stage. I think I then got into a cab and said something about wanting to go to Davie Street pronto. Why or how I have no idea but somehow I ended up at a gay bar on Davie Street in the company of Steven and a bunch of guys in cowboy hats, plaid shirts and leather.
Of what I remember and what Steven has helped me piece together, I think I almost went home with a biker named Alan who's chaps it was I was wearing. We had met in the bathroom as we stood along side each other at the urinals. He was very tall with a three or four day growth of beard that could easily become a full on beard in less than a week. As I remember it, his feet were unusually large and were housed inside high cut Dayton biker boots. We spoke as we peed and it turned out that we were both really into late model BMW motorcycles, although he told others he was into Harley's because it was considered much more macho. Sure, I thought, why not? He actually didn’t own a BMW or a Harley but said one day that he would. I decided not to tell him that I had a ’68 BMW Slash 2 for fear he’d want to go for a spin on it sometime. Besides, I think he had other ideas that really didn’t involve my motorcycle at all but, indeed, did involve spinning around.
I had also acquired a sassy cowboy hat off one of Steven's friends who had taken some sort of shine to me as we all danced, even though Steven had told him that I was straight and that I was just out having fun. The cowboy hat had obviously made some sort of impression on my new bathroom pal and he told me had been watching me all night. I told him that was impossible, because I had been watching him all night and that I hadn't seen him look at me once, I was bluffing. He wasn't. Before I knew it I was asking him if I could try on his chaps and complete my cowboy outfit. He asked me my name and I think I told him it was Donny but I'm still a little sketchy on that, although I wouldn't mind that name so much, if I got to choose a new one-that or Chaz. He asked me how well I knew Steven and I told him that we went way back and I had in fact dated one of his friends. I didn't mention that her name was Leeanne not Leon. Before I knew it I was out dancing in the chaps and wondering how I was going to get myself out of this one as Alan danced just a few steps away from me. I also caught myself in the mirror a few times and found myself trying to get a good look at myself in the chaps. When I did I remember thinking that I looked hot and that I could really use a big mustache to complete my look and maybe a nice red plaid shirt. Apparently I wasn't the only one who thought I looked fabulous.
Alan told Steven he wanted to get my number and maybe go out sometime. Perhaps too shy to ask me himself, it's nice to know that shyness transcends sexual orientation, especially when it helps me. Steven, saving my ass, so to speak, told Alan that I was leaving for Australia in a few weeks and that I was going to be there for a year and that I was having one last night out before it was time to the land down under. I always knew that Steven was a good liar even though I had no real reason or evidence to support that thought. I drank right up until last call and reluctantly gave the chaps back to Alan, who really was a sweetie, and thanked him for the use of them. He pulled me aside and told me that he wished he had met me sooner and that he would love to get together before I left for Australia. Drunk as I was I knew that I couldn't take the step he wanted me to and as if I was giving him a consolation prize leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek. That's when I apparently passed out falling into him missing his cheek by a good margin. Somehow I ended up in the back seat of Steven's car with three of his pals headed towards the Denny's on Burrard Street.
They let me sleep in the car for an hour or so while they ate late night Grand Slam Breakfasts. I may have been dreaming but I ‘m sure that during my slumber I heard someone knocking on the window of the car and calling out the name Donny, but I couldn’t even open my eyes to check my watch. When they woke me up we were outside my apartment building with the security guard, John, looking in and asking them where they had found me. At that point I do remember raising my hand to my face as if to let them know it wasn't in my best interest to let that cat out of the bag, not just yet.
A few of my neighbors were heading in as I got out of the car.I decided to let them go ahead before I made my move towards the door and the last few moments before I made it up the elevator to my place and the comfort of my bed. Thank god for Steven. Even if he did call me Donny as he drove off.

twenty-three...

Storybook romance... Somehow added to rest of text.

The night has tuned into day and I'm still awake. Jacked up on something I should never have taken. For some reason my muscles ache as if I've been working out with weights for days without stopping. My arms so weak, from what I don't know, that I can hardly raise them up to my face. Noon, shit, it's noon and I haven't even closed my eyes for more than a few minutes. The worst part of it all is that I have, at best, vague recollections of the last few days, even the last few hours. All the others have gone and left me here to sort things out for myself. Except for her, lying there in the bed across the room, I think it's her place after all, she deserves the right to sleep if only because it's her place.
My t-shirt is stained with the sweat of the last few days and smells as if I've been wearing it for weeks on end. Somehow, I have managed to live the last few days in nothing more than my boxers, a pair of wool socks and this shitty old t-shirt. A t-shirt that apparently used to belong to her ex-boyfriend, Roger, who was now living in Montreal. He had gotten her pregnant and then jumped ship once she started on the junk again and left her with nothing but a burning desire to see him dead and maybe in the process kill herself with the drugs.
A mark, not unlike that of a hickey, now graces my arm just slightly above my elbow. A mark made by a length of surgical tubing that had been used to cut off my vein's blood supply and give me enough room to stick the needle in successfully. And even though it was my first time it had a familiar ring to it. A familiar feel as the rubber pressed into my skin and made it burn. A familiar rush as the band was unleashed and the heroin ran towards my brain and then off to my heart. So familiar but at the same time so new. This was nothing like smoking it, as I had done before in the park near my place. The park where junkies are found cold mornings stiff as boards, dead from both the cold as well as the junk. I'm the lucky one, I get to go home after I fix. The lucky one who chips away but never gets caught it the lifestyle, never lets it go to far.
We had met at a party over in East Van and had left together to go to her place. She knew me from around town and we discovered, after a long night of talking that we had a lot of things in common. She liked the shit and decay of the streets , as I did and even seemed to relish in it, walking the streets of Gastown and the MainStreet end of Hastings Street late at night looking for all there was to see. The junkies, the barefoot prostitutes and dealers. She had taken to smoking a lot of pot and had tried smoking heroin a few times but hadn't in a while. We spent time together, late at night. She'd come over to my place late after she had been out roaming through the neighborhood sometimes bringing drugs other times just stories.
One night, a month or so ago, she came over at three in the morning and produced a small fold of paper that she said she had just gotten from the park near my house. I had only ever seen heroin once or twice before that but had never tried shooting it, never been drawn to it. She asked me if I wanted to try it and, before I could say anything, had taken out a needle and placed it on the table in front of me. My heart seemed to jump out of my chest, beating so fast I could hardly contain myself. At first I thought it was fear but soon realized I was up for it and that I was more excited by the idea than scared of it. I said yes, I made up my mind at that point to change everything, to go for broke.
The marks on my arm have come to signify that night. The night I left the world of soft drugs and went to being one with the junkies that lived all over my neighborhood. All except that I had a place to sleep each night and clean clothes to slip into each morning before I went back to the park to get more.
I ended up here days ago, at her apartment after we had landed enough junk to last us a few days or more. I had left my place and gone over to her place just in time to meet her at her front door and go in with her. I had given her some cash the day before and told her to stock up just in case, in case of what I'm not really sure of now. Her room mate and a few of her friends were there s well, most of which I had never seen before but knew by the looks on their faces had ideas of staying as well and taking part in the shit that would follow. I knew then that this would be my last kick at the can and that I would have to get out before I got in to deep but was up for the days ahead. As if I was giving up smoking and had decided that this would be my last pack of smokes, like I had made a promise to myself.
Now days later I sit here in the corner of her apartment long after the others have made their ways home or otherwise and feel a sickness coming over me. I can't remember eating anything yet feel full as if I have. She gave me something before, hours ago that was supposed to help me sleep but instead has wired me up leaving me to watch the world as it changes from night to day. My mind knows the message is clear as does my body. If I can get out of this chair and out onto the street I should be okay. The buck and a half in my pocket will get me a ride home on the bus, a bus now full with those riding to and from work. Shit, I've got to go.
After dressing I grab a handful of smokes and head for the door deciding to leave her sleeping. As I hit the door I think I hear her say something to me but when I look back I se that she's still sleeping with her back to me. Out on the street I realize, maybe for the first time that I used to live across the street from her apartment years ago and wonder what the fuck I've been doing for the last ten years that landed me here. Fuck my body aches, I think it hates me. I think I may hate me.

twenty-four...


Why is it that all my friends, the ones still involved in the halls of higher learning, those working on their phd's, all look like hippies? I don't get it. Are these guys the future of our nation? I see them around town, driving their old Valients and rusty Volkswagen vans looking as if they haven't got a care in the world. What gives? Out at bars at night I run into them and they are almost always hammered out of their collective skulls and looking as if they haven't bathed in weeks. Sure, right now I'm not looking much better but at least I'm not lying about what I'm doing. I tell people I have no idea what's up right now and that I'm going to get back on course soon, when the money runs out. It's a plan of sorts. A weak one but a plan none the less.
Some of them tell me they have grants to work on their thesis' and that soon they'll have to buckle down and get it together but right now they've got to keep the course. For now. Maybe I've got this whole thing all wrong, what I should be doing with my life. Maybe following around the Grateful Dead isn't such a bad idea after all. Even though, now that Jerry's dead, I can't really follow the Dead, but there has to be some sort of replacement band the freaks are following now. Maybe it's Blues Traveler or Widespread Panic, someone like that. I could do it, I know I could. Grow my hair out and start on some dreadlocks, start wearing petiole and some leather sandals. Christ! I really am losing it.
The hot water's out in my building so I have to have a cold shower if I want one at all. The water hits me and I worry for a second that I'm having a heart attack. As I try and wash the shampoo out of my hair it feels as if someone is hitting me in the head with a sledge hammer. As I get out of the shower I see that I have no towel and have to walk upstairs soaking wet and in doing so have to walk directly in front of my sliding glass doors that face out towards the crack/shooting gallery behind my place. Several other rooming houses are also behind my place and even though they are home to old age pensioners, I don't relish the idea of them seeing me naked and walk as fast as I can past the window and up the stairs to my loft. Truth be known, I don’t like seeing myself naked.
Last night, in an effort to stay home and save a little cash,I surfed the net for the worst the world has to offer and came across a posting in some swingers bulletin board, something I would never describe myself as, that was entitled 'gangbang/604'. Turns out some guy is trying to get this thing set up and is looking for participants to help him get it going. According to his post he already had a few folks interested and was looking for more. I e-mailed him and asked for more particulars as to the event and was he really serious. The net never ceases to amaze me in this regard. But what was I thinking? Was it so late that I would respond to anything even mildly interesting? Would I go through with it if indeed I was picked as a 'lucky' participant? As I dry off and put on my clothes all I can think of is whether or not he has responded to my e-mail and what I will say if he wants to meet me. What if's run through my head and could I's rattle inside my brain. I could I guess. No I couldn't. All that pressure to perform like a circus seal. What if it was some sort of a set-up? Looking at my computer I think what the hell and turn it on and wait for it to warm up so I can check my mail.
I click the modem and it starts to dial and I wait for it to connect to my server while I pull my t-shirt over my head. The tone as it connects almost scares me as I think of what may be waiting for me. Hitting 'check mail' I wait as it goes through all the motions and riggers of finding my mail box and before I know it the ring that signifies whether or not I have mail rings and shows that I do, indeed, have mail. Hitting the okay button I see that I have mail from six different people, including Alan, the ringleader for the event.

"Hi and thanks for your interest.
Here are some details about it. We are very serious about it.
We have so far 7 guys and you would be 8th. There are 2 ladies.
One of them is 26 y.o. extremely sexy and beautiful. She has black hair and slim body. She will only meet with us if I can get 10 guys or more. That is not easy, however. Since you mentioned that you are a homeowner I just wanna ask you if we could meet at your place. You are welcome to take some pictures or video tape the whole meeting. We hope that everything would be ok so we could keep meeting bi-weekly with the same group of guys. That way it would be safer. The other lady is 31 y.o. Very horny, slim and always ready. She is always partying with her husband.
Please let me know if it is possible to meet at your place. If you want to meet before we could of course. Basically they are ready as soon as I get enough guys. Please e-mail me back. As soon as we have enough guys I would let you know.
Hope to see you soon.
Alan"
I had, in my e-mail, let him know a little about myself and had, for some reason, mentioned that I was the owner of my own home. He obviously like this idea and now wanted to do it all at my place. I had also told him that I would also be more inclined to just view the proceedings and even videotape it for them if they wanted. This, in my estimation, would eliminate my having to participate and suffer the results of bad nerves and other anxieties. I decide to e-mail him back and see what's what and maybe even see if this was something I could use for my book.
"Alan...
I'm not sure I want to meet at my house. I will meet you downtown and we can talk this thing out. As I said I'm more into the viewing and videotaping thing more than participating. I live downtown so let me know what good for you.
TGS..."
I hit send and wish for the best although I have no idea what that could be. I leave my computer on and go about finishing getting dressed. I throw on my glasses and remember that I have some other messages to check besides the one from Alan, the sex ringleader, so I sit down and go at them one by one.
I must have gotten onto some sort of weird mailing list because three of the next messages are from sex on-line services that have somehow targeted me as a prospective client. Free sex this and free sex that. Apparently hot girls are waiting for me to call them right now, to chat with them directly from my computer, from the privacy of my own home. While I'm sure they're hoping I'm some sort of sex starved twenty year old college student or some house bound sex freak I'm still, somehow, flattered that they still picked me and file away their numbers and web address because, you never know, there may come a day.
The other two messages are from my friend bill who says he has something for me at his office and that I should come by and pick it up. The next, however, says that he has forgotten it at home at that I should come by tomorrow. He doesn't, however, tell what 'it' is so I'm left in the dark, as usual.
I'm about to turn the computer off when all of a sudden another piece of mail comes in and it's from Alan. It's like he's been waiting at his place for my reply and has e-mailed me right back.
"Sure we could meet somewhere in the city first. Actually only 4 or 5 guys will be from Vancouver and the rest from Alberta and Seattle. Mostly they are married or attached. When could we meet? I am kind of busy right now working and studying( having a few midterms next week).That couple would be interested to be gang banged for the whole weekend if possible but most of the guys would show up just for one evening. Darla is a very horny lady and whoever stays overnight will be asked to fuck her a lot or at least have his cock sucked by her for hours and hours. Anyway it seems like it will happens sooner rather then later.
E-mail me please if you have more questions.
Take care
Alan"
Jesus Christ. What now? I don’t like to do anything for hours and hours. Or at least there are things I just can’t do for hours and hours. To hell with it, I've gotta keep this thing going if not for any reason but to get some more insight into the world and some of the freaks who inhabit it. And this is something I really know very little about. What's the worst that could happen? Really? I asked for this didn't I? Sure I'll meet him, in a restaurant or somewhere where I feel safe that nothing’s going to happen. It’s not like someone’s going to just shit kick me in public, are they? Shit.
"A-
Let me know what's good for you. I can meet just about anytime.
TGS..."
Well, that's that. It's sent now and there's no turning back now. Well, there is but as of now I'm in, so to speak. I turn off my computer and head back downstairs and start to make some coffee to get me going. It's noon and I need to get out and see people. People who have a greater sense of reality than I do right now. But then again, maybe I'm living right in the heart of it. Maybe.

twenty-five...


It has come to my attention, and I shouldn't be too surprised by this really, that one of the women at the Starbucks near my house has been slipping me decaf. Sure, I drink alot of coffee. Sure, I've been known to fire back fifteen to twenty shots of espresso a day, any given day, but who decides who gets what and how much? Shit. I've been shelling in the neighborhood of twenty dollars a day and not getting what I so rightly paid for. Who gave Heidi the right? Who the fuck does she think she's fucking with? I knew something was off, the way they looked at me sometimes as I ordered my three shot short latte at midnight, the way they looked at each other as I left the bar area. Fuck. I should have seen it coming as well. The day they asked me to test two cups of coffee and tell them after which was the decaf cup. I did it. I passed the test, so to speak. The chemical smell of the decaf, the lack of power in it, the lack of smack. I'm at odds now as what to do about this. My head feels as if it's about to explode if from nothing else but from a general lack of caffeine in my diet. I've got to get hold of myself somehow. Maybe an e-mail to Starbucks headquarters in Seattle, maybe a trip to the big man in charge would do the trick. So many options so little really make use of. Fuck it. It's enough that I found out, found out the truth about this little game they've been playing with me, enough that I can now get a few free coffee's out of all of this.
The day has not started off well. In fact, last night at about ten o'clock things started to go seriously awry. It seems some people have found out about my novel project, not like it's any sort of a secret but they have begun to call me with questions about it. By the end of last night there were ten saved messages, regarding the book, and how they may be reflected or represented in it.
"Tim"
"Hi Dave"
"I hear you're writing some sort of a book and..." Dave sounds as if he's out of breath and can't get the words out properly, "Well, maybe there's some stuff about me in it.."
"Dave.."
"I mean, if it's like that then I want you to use a different name for me"
"A different name?"
"I mean I don't know how you're going about it but just in case you write about things you and I have done."
"I haven't written anything about anything you and I have done Dave, at least not yet."
"Well, that's it, the not yet part."
"I think Fawn and Jamie should be more concerned that you"
"Sure but..." Dave's voice trails off as if he hasn't really thought this whole thing out before phoning me.
"Ok, Dave. So what about a name? What name would you like?"
"How about Taylor?"
"I can't call you Taylor?"
"Why not?"
"Because I have a friend named Taylor and I don't think he'd be very happy if I used his name to represent things that you and I did together."
"How about Hunter?"
"As in Hunter S. Thompson?"
"Sure."
"How about Ray or Raymond?" I suggest knowing I will probably never use Dave for anything anyway.
"Ray? What about Reed?"
"How about Ray?"
"Ok. Alright."
"Ok. I've got to go Dave. "
"Cool. I'll talk to you later. Don't forget I'm Ray. "
"You're Ray, Dave."
And so it went with all the messages, people worried that they were somehow being placed in some sort of weird light, like I was telling lies about them. Shit, the lies I would and could make up would maybe put some of them into a slightly greater light. And so it is this morning as I try and make sense, somehow of all the messages that I feel I need to take a fresh look at all of this. What started out as a means of reflecting on whatever it was that I got myself into, which turned into more of a prolonged drunken stupor than anything, was now including those around me. How could it not? I had set out to see the world from a completely different viewpoint but hardly got past the drugs and booze. Guess I liked that part of it too much. Although I’ve got to say the extra sex action was bit of a bonus I never expected at all, especially the older women I met. It seems the worse off I get, stinky, dirty, whatever, the more action I’ve gotten. There’s got to be a lesson there. Yikes.
Maybe a break would be good now, a little time off from the writing and the hunt for experience. Maybe a job would take my mind off of things a little and I could step back and get a clear perspective on things. Cash is definitely becoming a concern. I actually phoned my mom the other day and asked if I could borrow a little scratch just until I got going again. I'm not totally out of money yet but a buffer would be good.
I've thought about going to Seattle for a few days anyway for a break from everything, maybe now's a good time. Or I could just stay the course and see what happens, that may be a better idea, for now. I still have a that small sum of money left in my bank account, from when I was working, plus what my mom lent me , so I'm not desperate as of yet. It can wait for now, the job that is, and Seattle's not going anywhere.

seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.

seventeen...

The church at Burrard and Nelson seemed a good bet off the bat but as I entered it I knew that I was barking up the wrong tree entirely. This was more of a cathedral than a place of community worship. Shit. I want a down-home Sunday bake sale congregation complete with young girls in short plaid skirts with their moms in tow and crew cut young men flogging bibles, celibacy and car washes by donation. A place where they take people out on sundays and dump their heads in the river to be cleansed. I had been to a community church that fit once in Seattle a few years ago and in the middle of the service there was this twisted question and answer period followed by a series of announcements made by members of the congregation that made me feel entirely uneasy. Announcements for people, friends, relatives made by their loved ones on their behalf. Mentions of those in need, those needing a little tender loving care, announcements made to garner support for local kids baseball teams, car washes, bake sales, blood donor clinics and clothing drives. Prayers needed for those in the hospital. One by one they rose to give the details of their own little announcement. I almost, at one point wanted to get up and make an announcement of my own, one steeped in lies, one designed to make all those in attendance fear for their collective lives if they didn't come to aid of my cause. Maybe one with details so horrific it would send women and children running for the aisles. But as I looked over at my girlfriend, Rachel, I knew it would be the last thing I ever did in her presence and that the ride back home to Vancouver would be a very long and lonely one.
I just continued to sit with my hands securely under my jacket fingering a note Rachel's mother had given to us earlier on how to get to the after baptism party, another part of the equation I longed to duplicate but on my terms. But alas, this place of worship I now found myself in was not one for such congregational participation. Too bad, I had worked all day on a few choice announcements that would, if I believed in such a place, sent me to hell without a good pair of shoes or a pot to piss in.
Leaving the church I decide that I had better think this one out a little better, maybe I would have to head out to the burbs, to Langley or Cloverdale, the bible belt, to get what I need for this little mission. Maybe I needed a pawn to go with me. Not a pawn exactly, a friend still naive enough to believe I'm doing this because I have recently found the lord to be a supreme being I need to know more about. Can’t be Fawn because she’ll know I’m up to something. In fact, because she already knows a little about the gig would be up for sure. Someone nice, but just simple enough to go with me and not stop me when I get up and start making announcements about impending tragedy and surplus pain I'm trying to dish off on others. Either that or someone so into the whole idea they have a few ideas of their own and we go in as a team. Then again, maybe I should give this whole religion thing a little more credit, but that's not the point. I just need to see it in action again, be a part of it, be a cog in the big religion wheel, just for a day, a moment. Somebody save me.
In my car I decide to abandon the religion front for the day and get some breakfast before noon gets any closer. Striking a match to light my cigarette I head for the Grove Restaurant on Denman Street in the West End and their scary, but delicious, Eggs Florentine. The streets are still relatively empty, being early sunday morning, so the going's easy down Davie and onto Denman Street. I notice, as I round the corner at Denman and Davie, that the light still hasn't fully hit English Bay and it almost looks as if one could swim there if they so wanted. But as a local I know that unless I want to catch something ugly, the idea of swimming out there is still under the heading of bad idea.
Denman Street almost seems deserted as I pull in and park across the street from The Grove. I come here from time to time when I feel I need a dose of high cholesterol artery clogging food and I'm never disappointed. I come here every Christmas morning for breakfast to see who's here and to gauge their sadness by the looks on their faces. Maybe they're looking at me the same way and wondering why I'm there on the so-called holiest of days.
Setting my parking brake, I head across the street. As I enter the restaurant I catch the waitress' eye and wave as if to let her know I won't be needing a menu. She understands and brings me a cup of what can only be described as pure unadulterated truck stop coffee, which I truly need this morning after a fitful four hour sleep the night before. It couldn't be more perfect. I order and settle in to bastardize the crossword puzzle.
The newspaper already has stains on it from the last lucky patron and as I skim by the crossword I notice the entire thing has been filled in except that it's all filled by nothing but obscenities. New swear words created where the word needed was too long for any other regularly muttered cursings. 'Motherskullfucker', 'dickholeeyelet' and 'spooge' were my favorites although the simple 'fuck' that graced three down was good as well where the clue was where a four letter word was needed to complete, 'henry --------' car maker. Maybe because I drive one of his car's in made perfect sense, maybe I just liked the thought, whatever the reason I liked it.
The day was just beginning but I felt as though if I didn't get going, although I really had no agenda planned, the day would soon be over. Quickly eating my eggs I make a mental note to go and find my friend Kevin who has been working on some paintings for me and see if he's any closer to actually finishing them. Paying up I, for some reason, motion to the waitress that I want to give her a hug but she gives me a look that makes me think she thinks I've been up all night and probably smell like bourbon, and laughs at me and heads back into the kitchen. Damn it, doesn't she know who I am? She's alright, and probably made the right decision but who knows, I could've given her a really good hug.


eighteen...

Things change so quickly in this city that it's really is hard to keep up with what's happening and the changes that transform neighborhood's, seemingly overnight. Buildings sprout up here as if they're manufactured somewhere else and put up in the dead of night. Without any real character. In fact, there are very few neighbourhoods that I really want to hang out in. Friends are moving into new buildings that weren't there less than a few months ago. I just doesn't seem right somehow. The West End seems to be the only real constant and as I make my way through it towards Kevin's studio down on Pacific, I pass by buildings of ex-girlfriends and ex-one-night lovers. A part of my stomach turns as I pass by some of them, while others make me slightly nostalgic and reminiscent of times gone by. Times when I was young and, perhaps, good or at least better looking. Sometimes I wish sometimes I could bring back and do all over again. But then I think that I’m just being an idiot and that if I could do it all over again I’d probably do everything exactly the same. Complete with all the fuck-ups and bits that go with them. I don’t always feel this way maybe it's just the eggs and truck stop coffee.
Kevin's been working on a couple of pieces for me that I will one day actually hang on my wall but not, seemingly, in the very near future. It seems as if he's got his own agenda and work schedule. I suppose, I can respect that to a certain degree, but it has been a couple of months now. To make matters worse, in some sort of perverse act of good faith I paid him up front for the entire thing, money I now wish I had in my shrinking bank account. Now I just like to drop by every once in a while and see how things are going, if they're going at all-which I suspect they are not and I'm actually doing nothing more than supporting his bohemian lifestyle. It's still very early sunday morning but I know he's down there because he's been living in his studio ever since he and his girlfriend broke up, kicked him out or whatever it is that they're doing right now. He lived at my place once when she booted him out and maybe know why she wouldn’t want him around-he’s just a bit of a pain in the ass and it bothered me to have him around even though I could never exactly pin-down exactly why.
Kevin's studio is near the water, under the Granville Street Bridge, just across from Granville Island and sits in-between several high-rise condo towers, one of which my ex-boss, Bob, lives in with his wife Lea. Although I think they're marriage is more a smoke screen, than anything else, if any of what I've heard about his late night parties is true, which it probably is, but who am I to say?
Kevin's studio is probably regarded by many in the neighborhood as an eyesore, including my ex-boss, but due to strange zoning laws isn't going anywhere in the near future. Neither is Kevin. From Pacific Boulevard I head in behind the Kettle Of Fish Restaurant and down the alley to Kevin's studio/temporary home. Pulling up next to the doors I notice that all of the locks are still very much applied and see that Kevin as taken to leaving one word notes for anyone who should drop by. A yellowed piece of paper, that has obviously been used many times before, has been stuck to the front of the door and simply says: coffee. I have an idea where he has gone but decide before I go and try and find him, that I should leave my mark on his door just in case he comes back and we miss each other, again.
Getting out of my car I walk over to the door and after pulling a small felt pen out of my pocket simply write my name next to the word coffee and the number seven. The number means nothing but I know that it will confuse Kevin when he comes back, if I don't run into him first, or anyone else who may come by looking for him. Back in my car I head for Davie Street and the spot where I figure Kevin is getting his morning coffee and trying to bum free food.
The pavement is wet from the water flying out from the street washer in front of me and I wonder if I'm a little close to it as I catch myself unconsciously pumping by brakes to make sure they work in case I need them. I have, before had to apply my brakes a little too quickly and, as my car is over thirty years old, I wonder what I will fly into one day. Along the highway, be it on the way to Whistler or Seattle, I have at times been very nervous as I have approached corners in the rain at speeds far too fast for my car to handle should I have to stop all of a sudden. My windshield wipers offer little, if any, confidence as they move back and forth across my car's abnormally large front window wiping away perhaps, at best, fifty percent of the water that falls there. And, while the windshield is the least of my worries, and I do worry, or maybe it's more of a perverse fantasy, I wonder what would happen should I have to stop right now behind this street washer. Perhaps, worst case scenario, slide underneath it and perhaps never see Kevin or his work done for me again. Years ago, while out looking for a job, I practically flew into the car in front of me along very wet pavement on Main Street. While I should have been concerned for myself and the large cut which now adorning my face and the blood streaming from it, my first thought was that I wouldn't be finding a job that day. Also how upset my father was going to be once he found out that I had maybe totaled my mother’s car. Strange how it all comes together sometimes and what you think of at times of great stress. The things that happen after, many times, eclipse the actual event tenfold and there's no stopping it once it all starts to take place.
The coffee shop on Davie, Spuntino, that Kevin should be at, is at the corner of Thurlow Street and as I come up to it all I can think of is a night I spent there with my friend Stacey. We had, actually just met and I had liked her right off. She had told me of stories she had written and those already written in her head that would soon be put to paper. She had been, for the last while doing technical writing but really wanted to be a writer. She had turned down the support of her family, who were apparently loaded, so she could feel better about what she was doing and live the true writer’s life.
She had also given up smoking, at least for then, and every time I would go to light a smoke she'd ask to light it for me. The cigarettes looked right in her hands. The way she handled the lighter and the way she took the first pull, and no more, off of the smoke. The night became early morning and we ended up back at her place, a dingy basement suite off of Davie on Jervis Street. Her parents had been there once, she told me, and freaked out at the way she was living. It seemed odd to be there even though I was totally comfortable with her and the fact that she wanted nothing from me. When I left at five-thirty or six, after calling a cab, I couldn't help but think I had met someone unique but that I would never have that experience again with her. And, things being what they are, it's been true to a certain extent. I see her, at bars or on the street but it's as if nothing ever happened. She, I think, is in love again after a long, self-imposed time off, and I'm the last one to try and disrupt that.
I park in the lot next to the coffee shop and, as I lock the car, watch the street washer head down the hill towards Denman Street. I've seemingly lost my train of thought and for whatever reason, now feel reminiscent about everything. Almost unhappy for no reason at all, like something has happened to set me off. My pockets feel full and my wallet heavy in my back pocket so things can't be that bad. Before I know it I have taken a smoke out and placed it between my lips and as it sits there I search my pockets for my Zippo. Ignition. The first drag catches me almost off guard with it's heaviness but the second quick pull brings me back to the love that is smoking.
Standing at the door to the cafe is Kevin but he hasn't seen me yet. He's holding a cup of coffee in his right hand and gesturing with his left as if he's telling a story to someone I can't yet see. Halfway through a sentence he stops and looks in my direction as if he's sensed me there and then smiles and laughs waving to the person inside the shop.
"Hey" Kevin says coming towards me
"What's up?" I say sitting down at one of the outdoor tables
"Nothing. I was down at my studio and freaked out with all the work there so I had to come up here"
"How are my paintings coming?"
"Almost done. A figure a couple of more days and you can take 'em home."
I don't really believe him but for once, instead of giving him a hard time, give him the benefit of the doubt. He works hard and has a lot of stuff on his plate, even though he doesn’t have a so-called day job, so cutting him some slack comes easy to me.
"Are you going back to the studio?" I ask grabbing his coffee and taking a healthy drink.
"Later. I just need a little time out of there." He says grabbing the coffee back.
"Want to go for a ride?" I ask looking him directly in the eyes.
"Shit. So serious. Are you firing me?"
"No. How can I fire you when I’ve already paid you for everything?"
"What's up? I've heard you've been out doing some very un- Tim type stuff."
"A little. Nothing that'll get me into trouble or anything."
"Not yet."
"Right. Not yet."


nineteen...

Storybook romance part three...

Resting back against my seat I pull out a fresh Winston and light it trying to decide whether or not to go in. The smoke fills my car as the radio plays another song I've never heard before. My head runs with thoughts I've thought so many times before. And now as I sit smoking what seems like my hundredth smoke of the day inside a car I have practically lived in for the past two months, driving around aimlessly from place to place, I decide to just go home. And somehow it's like someone else has made the decision for me.
As I start my car I see a woman I know crossing the street and heading towards my car. Turning the headlights on I notice that she's waving to me and wants to talk to me. Rolling down my window I flick my cigarette out and say hello as she bends down to look in at me.
"Hi, " she says blowing the smoke from her cigarette into my car, "I saw you sitting out here by yourself. Not going in?"
"I don't think so, " I say hedging, "no. I'm not. Not tonight."
"You alright?"
"Sure. Just tired."
"You look like you could use a little sleep." She says pulling a Kleenex out of her purse and wiping her lips.
"Maybe. I've been working alot lately." I’m lying
"So are you going home now?"
"I should. Or at least away from here."
"Can I get a lift with you?"
It was coming to me. The decision had been made but now it was coming to me. Like I was being tested. A test I could fail so easily yet still feel like I had passed later on. Her hands resting against the frame of my car were killing me now, her eyes cutting into me making me weaker than I've ever been. She could have been the one so many times before but I had somehow thought better of it, somehow left her alone, she was too good for me, too good to spoil, but now I was having second thoughts. Did I want to add her to the long list of women I'd never ever speak to again? Did I want to take her home and make her do things, talk her into doing things she'd never do otherwise? I'd been with friends of hers and now she was presenting herself to me. Young, ten years less than myself. A body to die for, the face of an angel, lips that were made for sex.
"Yeah, I'll give you a lift. Get in."
"Thanks."
Inside the car she lights another smoke and tells me the easiest way to her place, down Burrard to Davie and down to Denman. Her hands fumble with her purse and then as if she knows I'm going to look over she lifts her ass and adjusts her skirt which has bunched up on the seat under her. I watch as she pulls it down and then as if she knows she's testing me runs her hands along her nylons and down to her shoes. As she smokes her chest heaves and it's all I can do to keep my eyes on the road. At Denman Street I turn right and pass my friend Ben's house hoping he doesn't happen to look out and see me drive by.
"Can I borrow your mirror?" She says pulling out a tube of lipstick from her purse
"Sure." I say turning the mirror towards her
As we sit at the light at Nelson Street I watch as she carefully applies stoke after stroke of lipstick stopping once to look over at me and tell me the light is now green and that I can go. My mind races with thoughts of her naked lying on her bed, with or without me. With others. Her body perfect, young, tight and ready. Turning onto her street I can hardly think straight anymore.
"Which is your building?"
"The one on the left," she says indicating with her right hand, "You can park anywhere you want."
Pulling up in front of her building I throw on my flashers and wait to see what happens next. Will she ask me in? Will I have to say no? Can I say no? Do I want to burn this bridge? Will I get another chance at this? Does she even want to invite me in? Looking at her I know I want her but on what terms? Hers or mine?
Opening her purse she finds her keys and turns towards me and smiles. Her lips thick and freshly fixed say more than I can take in. Her eyes are almost completely hidden by the darkness in the car. And I wonder if she can see mine, if she can hear my heart beating.
"Thanks for the ride."
"No problem, it was on my way home."
I felt sixteen. Waiting for what would happen next. Like I had borrowed my dad's car and had to get it home before he knew how late I was out. Who would make the first move? I knew what I should do, but couldn't.
"I should go. I have to up early tomorrow, well I guess it's actually today, isn't it?" I say hoping to make a clean getaway
"So you don't want to come in and have a drink?"
"I really shouldn't"
"Shouldn't?"
"Yeah."
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"Do I not do it for you?"
"No. You do."
"Then why is it that every time you've had a chance to have me you've gone the other way?"
"I'm not sure." I say wishing now that I was lying but I really didn’t know.
"Don't you want me now?"
"Yes."
"So?"
"I can't. I just can't."
"It's just between us."
"I know. But it's just not a good idea. Not right now."
"Maybe some other time?"
"Maybe." I said hoping I was lying now and that there would maybe a chance some other time. Soon.
"I'll see you later."
"OK."
With that she opens the door and is gone across the street and into her building. Turning off the flashers I put the car into gear and head for the Burrard Street Bridge and home once again. A girl at a bus stop on Davie makes me pause for a second as I think she looks familiar but then as I get closer realize I don't know her and keep going. Down Burrard, across the bridge, up Fourth and home again.


twenty...

In the car I tell Kevin about going to church that morning and not finding what I had hoped to find. About my idea of becoming part of a congregation, getting up and telling stories to all assembled. About my experience with Rachel and the church in Seattle and how I wanted to experience the feeling of having people believe every word I said. I tell Kevin about the book and how I was going about gaining worldly knowledge. The after hours parties, the offers of sex from complete strangers, the older women phoning me because they got my number from someone else, the drugs, the ideas I had yet to act on. How it was all part of something bigger and that he shouldn't listen to the others who have seemingly decided that I'd finally gone off my rocker and lost it completely. Kevin, as if transfixed, listens intently, every once in a while laughing then looking away out the window as if looking for something to say but can’t find anything so he just laughs.
"So what do you think?" I finally ask
"About what? The ideas?"
"All of it"
"Well..."
"Well, what?"
"While it's not really you, I'd have to say it really is you. Kinda."
"I'm not out of my head. I'm not."
"I know that."
Maybe he did know but I wasn't sure. We head across town to Commercial Drive and while it is still before noon the streets are finally coming alive with other traffic and pedestrians. Some looking as if they are just heading home from the night before while others look as if they're on their way to work, church or otherwise. A car full of young girls pulls up beside us at a light and I tell Kevin to talk to them and see where they're going but he declines pulling the shy guy routine as only he can. They pull off as the light turns green and leave us behind waving out their back window as they disappear up the road.
"You should have said something." I say looking over at him as if disappointed with him.
"Like what?"
"That I'm not sure of just yet. But something would have been good."
"I can't just talk to strangers like that. Like you. I wouldn't know what to say."
"You'd think of something. I'm sure of that." I say as trying if instilling confidence in him
" I'm sure."
"You would."
"Was that like material?" Kevin asks fishing a piece of gum from out of his pocket.
"What do you mean, material? Like for my book?"
"Sure. A little nugget. Something to work from."
"Maybe. I wasn't really thinking about that right then but I guess anything could help."
"I'll do better next time."
"I'm sure you will. "
I need gas so I pull into a gas station at Commercial and Hastings and as I get out of the car I tell Kevin to pump in ten bucks and I'll go in and pay. From inside I can see Kevin attending to the gas chore I've given him and wonder when the last time it was that he filled up a car. He looks completely lost in the whole process having to go back to the pump several times to make sure he's flicked the right lever and then back to the gun end which is now fixed inside the car. Kevin once set a friend of ours cabin on fire because he wasn't exactly familiar with the lighting procedure of a gas stove and remembering this think about going out and helping him. He looks confused as nothing is happening and then I realize that the attendant hasn't turned on the pump yet because he's waiting for me to pay him so he can set the amount in the computer. Kevin, finally having given up throws his hands up and looks towards the kiosk and finally me. I wave the money over the heads of the others in front of me and the attendant taking it as a sign punches in the correct amount and I motion to Kevin to start pumping. The gas, as if being right on the verge of coming out rushes so quickly into the tank that it backs up out of the tank and onto Kevin's pants and shoes. I know now that I'm buying breakfast.
The line-up at Havana, a spot rich in poor service and newly made old decor, is short enough that we decide to wait until a table comes up. The woman who runs the place is a constant source of entertainment and desire for my friend Jamie so whenever it's his turn to pick the breakfast place we always end up here. It's walls were made with plaster just ripe for scratching your name into and a few weeks back Fawn decided it was time that she add her name to the fray and using my keys imbedded her initials along with her boyfriend's into the wall above our booth. Initials that are still firmly imbedded in the walls now even though fawn gave him the pink slip months ago.
"I find myself here alot lately because Jamie has a thing for her." I say to Kevin who's not really paying any attention. "He thinks she's the shit."
"The what?" Kevin says as if he hasn't heard me correctly
"The shit. The works. "
"You mean good looking. A dish?"
"Sure, Kevin. Good looking. "
Kevin, while not unfamiliar with current terms of endearment or hip local lingo sometimes, seemingly, gets lost in the weight of it all. Sometimes I think he's working on an entirely different level than me which is fine but it does make it tough sometimes to hold a relevant conversation. Other times he makes comments that seem so foreign to his usual nature, jokes about sex and references to women, that I want to check his driver's license to make sure it's him that I'm talking to.
Today, like every weekend at Havana, the specials are Eggs Benny and Eggs Florentine and, usually I go for the Florentine but having just eaten at the grove decided to just have juice and a coffee and treat Kevin to something instead. Hoping this time we can get them before the day ends or before either of us needs another shave whichever come first. While the service is hardly that bad I have noticed that the service staff seem to have their own agenda and a 'you'll get it when you get it' attitude prevails here. The coffee's good though and usually holds me over until the eggs finally arrive along with my three dollar 'freshly squeezed' juice concoction. Maybe I have a thing for the woman who runs this place as well now, I keep coming back despite my great efforts to not do so. Could be the booths too though.
"What do you think of her, Kevin?"
"Who?"
"The woman I pointed out. The one who runs this place."
"She's fine. I mean, I don't know. I suppose I'd go there."
"Go there?"
"Fuck her. Go there. Have a roll around."
"Do you have any i.d. On you Kevin?"
"Why?"
"No reason."