by Jason Bryan
Normality isn’t normally around here, and while normally I wouldn’t just smoke first thing in the morning, it is neither morning, nor normal. I sit by one of the only two windows of the studio. Flick. Bubble and breathe. A deep inhale, a seagull cries out. Do seagulls prefer one type of French fry to another? I certainly do prefer McDonald’s fries to most others. Golden grease sticks with the power to magically cure nearly every ailment. Try having a chocolate shake and French fries and being mad. You can’t. Clown food is gaudy edible comfort, the ghost of meals changes your style, dresses you in those unfashionable lipids. This bong sticks my worries onto the wings of a gull and carries them away from Cordova Street. Maybe later that gull will shit my worries out on some unsuspecting tool biking the seawall. Sharp echoes of an angry voice mixes with hard wheels of a shopping cart pushed down the alley. Wish I could give that poor cart a toke, I can’t imagine how it’s been treated.
A flush and a door opening signals the return of my visitor, girl skin creamy under bathroom spotlights delivering a reason for pied eyes to remain open.
“Shit! Why didn’t you fucking say it was nearly 4!” Katelynn bellows, putting her hair up. “I told you I had to be at my parent’s for this afternoon, I fucking told you!”
Tiny girl feet make more noise than they should across concrete loft. She bends over to pick up her skirt, bra and t-shirt. Right now loving the way her breasts hang there, a solid C cup. A dirty mind drift is recalling her riding me, grabbing her breasts and licking both of those nipples together. My back arched as much as it can, hips tensed forward to poke her guts. Her sweet, soft moans when I hit the top of her cervix.
“My earrings, where are my earrings?” Katelynn says with a growl, her little feet dragging her in circles around the studio.
“I can’t find the other fucking hoop!”
“Dylen ... Hello?”
I could have told her honestly that I didn’t hear her. I hate to lie, but I did anyways.
When my bathroom mirror isn’t full of myself, it would probably gossip that it’s seen this before. A crisis of dressing to put on a face fit for the public. She never did find the other hoop. Her exit is a dull door thud. Sober brain can’t remember swapping numbers with her, and my phone has no records of her name. What I do possess is twenty unchecked voicemails dating back two months, six Facebook updates, and eight texts from other people. Sorry. Details get lost in the cadence of my life. What would we do now anyways, date?
The rest of Saturday is spent surfing the internet and playing video games. Reading that gold just hit $2,000 US an ounce makes uneasy future visions eclipse any relaxation found. Don’t really know what affect that will have on my life, but it sucks anyways. The wealth gap between rich and poor is higher than during the great depression, putting me now into depression. Cat pictures, fucking cat pictures. Reddit made me hate cat pictures. I download some mods for a game that allow me to replace the face textures of some characters. Skyrim was designed by aliens as a human hamster wheel. It takes me two hours just to get it to load properly after thinking my video card’s memory was full, but it was just a version conflict. Finally the game starts and I’m eager to forget this morning.
An extra hard finger, rigid with purpose to push on plastic squares, moving myself through the virtual world. The anticipation has me focused like a Zen Master trying to catch a fly with chopsticks. I move around the wall of a castle represented by pixels on a glowing rectangle. This is my life, sighing to myself in my head. Excitement drops once the characters with facial textures replaced are found. Ugly noses too big to look real, the ears don’t line up right.
The tits are too big on this orc bandit.
I don’t even hit escape, an alt-tab and right click ends my digital escape.
Bed.
2 No Sunset
Ash grey clouds roll and flatten out over a bruise purple sky. Old fashioned Gastown streetlights above lengths of black chain, dividing street from sidewalk. These voyeuristic white orb sentinels peer out into the night while damp links reflect a pale luminance through gloom. A flapping of fabric is barely audible over the din of wind, smothering what could be soft tapping of small raindrops.
She stands in the street with her black hair pressed against her face, rising up and obscuring her eyes with each gust. The half block stare-down ends when she turns away, stepping deep into the misty veil ahead. Pursuit. Willpower. Taking the hardest step of my life. That single footfall turns into many, legs burning and shaking with each step. Further into the thick of the fog, time gets lost too. Her figure shimmers in the distance, raven hair curling, tossed by currents. The world glides under me slower than test results on a late train, her languid pace matching my own.
Old brick stones shine rain slick, reflecting an increasing glow of flickering neon. The left storefronts hold torn awnings, shadows cradle untouchable strewn garbage.
Discarded underwear.
Wadded up napkins.
Old newspapers.
Peeling paint greys and boarded up doorways. These dirty abandoned places used to hold people together seeking some commonality. Low throbbing bass rumbles in the distance. The street keeps pulling me along. New stores full of gyrating, naked women cloaked in neon pinks and reds. Gentrification for the gentleman’s soul.
Slogans promise release. They blow kisses at me, dancing seductively they press their asses against the glass and spread their cheeks wide. Turning my head like trying to twist steel with muscles of warm butter. She’s walking away from me, followed by a gossamer shroud of vapors, a dark and mystic wedding train.
Malevolent bass begins to drown out my thoughts. It’s impossible to tell if my legs are moving me forward, or if my world is in undertow. Out of the grey soup ahead, she steps around a dark figure. Drawn closer to it, I’ve lost sight of her, slamming bass jarring every ounce of flesh and bone.
A motionless obelisk.
Not until I’m almost walking into it can I recognize what it is, a three meter high stack of beer bottles in coffin shape. Brown and glossy, thousands of little glimpses of my life fill each bottle.
A new girl in my life.
Going to a party.
Being sick after.
Fucking some pretty girl.
Cashing a paycheque.
Getting high.
Discovering.
Learning.
Laughing.
Having fun.
Being carefree.
Being miserable.
Being broke.
Being alone.
I can’t stop myself from crashing head first into the stack.
A single crack is heard, followed by silence, a roar of shattered glass crashing to the street. Stunned eyes shut while staggering a few steps, anticipating the blackout. Sounds of countless social memories blare from everywhere around me, the echos reverberating down endless city blocks and becoming part of the dream DJ’s mix.
Eyes open.
I’m standing in the middle of a four-way intersection, brown shards of bottle form a crater of smashed glass around me. Dancing nude girls move seductively while backlit in pink, they fill every window of oppressive grey skyscrapers which rise forever into an inky heaven. Heavy bass notes of generic electro-trash thumps away sync’ed with gyrations of the beauties everywhere around me. I’m holding a drink. She’s gone. I die.
3 Sailing Through Sunday
Having a smooth face and neatly combed hair once fostered a great sense of pride. The point was to look friendly, wanting to appear trustworthy and stable. Today’s feature look is halfway between whatever and dumpster. It doesn’t seem to matter how you present yourself when the goal has nothing to do with presentability. Darkly lit house parties or bars don’t judge over a few days growth, pants sagging as per usual, beltless and worn with dirty shoes. Twenty dollar graphic shirt splashed with sparkling metallic fabric. Add a hoodie and it makes a Vancouver tuxedo. In fact, one can argue that the less you give a fuck, the more you’ll be rewarded.<
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I don’t have any tattoos. It’s hard to find enough faith to believe in anything, let alone something to inspire putting ink under my skin. Hard to not find a coincidence that almost any self-aggrandizing musician or pseudo artist will be covered in sleeves of modern empty icons. Praying hands and religious symbols for those of little to no faith, dice with playing cards for those who need to show they game the system. Men inked with messages of love towards family while not paying support, raising children without the guidance they publicly profess. Screams to the world through symbolism and external expression, meanwhile the inner voice of these same people remains silent; often only listening to echoes of what the popular narrative is. Imagine the Pope, the Dhali Lama, and the Sihk gurus covered in tattoos, wearing slogans to convince themselves of messages they don’t even believe in.
Ink can become a very real god to those seeking salvation through art, only this canvas dies.
Stale loft air wringing out every last drop of dopamine from my brain.
Leaving bed or dying are the only options left. A wet back against satin sheets works better than any alarm. Here we go again, shuffling through my routine on autopilot. Taking a shower, brushing teeth and shaving my neck to not look like such a loser. I’m bored. The sky outside a brilliant electric blue. Mornings don’t really exist in my world, just light or dark.
I get dressed in some cheap jeans that hug my crotch, a pretty nice bulge for the women to check out. Ex-lover female friends have told me that they leer at men as much as they get leered at. I’m too caught up with the thought of having some plaything to hang out with tonight to remember to put on underwear. Couch leather groans and stretches, the weight from six feet and two hundred pounds pressing into it. This little bit of spare tire should be a gut given what I eat, drug-filled nights and mornings spent emptying organs serve to keep calorie counts down.
A silent vibration muffled by the couch, reminding me of a fart crushed into an office chair. Sometimes I forget to turn my cell phone ringer back on and people wait outside my building in the rain. It’s not funny, but sometimes I giggle when soaked bodies walk in. The little switch on the side clicks on as my eyes catch the latest pop-up, it’s a notification of an invite to a beach party through Facebook. The list of people going is looking grungier than a Pabst Blue Ribbon clearance sale at Commercial and Venables. Envisioning the scene I frown at the thought of doing this again, listening to self-absorbed people talk about meaningless shit, a social jousting of bragging and men trying too hard to get laid.
Electronic music spun by backwards-hatted 40 year-olds, shitty bass with warm beer, listening to blackberry owners talk about LV, BBM, and YOLO.
Now rewind ten years ago, the pussy was a little harder to get, the crowds were smaller, and I didn’t mind making new friends. Deja vu happens all too often, I can predict the conversations and how I’ll get my dick sucked if I speak to a girl’s insecurities. It’s not that I don’t enjoy it; it’s less effort and cash to get a girl to come over and fuck me without leaving home.
My thumbs are little robots putting together a car on an assembly line. Texting involves no hunting and pecking, only cold precision. They know where to hunt and find each letter of ‘drink’ and ‘patio’ with my eyes closed. Custom programmed auto-correct heaps silver tongued sour speech into little mounds of filthy prose; text seduction is my A-game. Phone penetrates pocket while sauntering to the kitchen, looking to raid Yummyland to tide me over until someone wants to go out. The cupboard is stocked with utility foods and not much else today. Greasy kettle BBQ chips and protein powder form a snack odd couple. Devouring a handful of almonds, Apple’s bells on my phone signal the next meal.
Misha is first to reply. A girl with some pedigree, she loves to climb down onto anything different. A lawyer by trade, you would never guess it by the way she lounges around in a hoodie or yoga pants. When ready to party, the dresses and personality comes out with aplomb, her attitude is half consumer, and half get-me-high-now-and-fuck-me. Polite and outgoing, she’ll also slide your hand up her skirt at sushi before you’re through your miso. She’s a turbo BMW with seats made out of a piss-soaked potato sack. The prettiest apple, but too many worms have eaten all that’s good inside; nothing clicks with her outside of the realms of sex, liquor, or drugs.
She wants to meet up for a drink, and she’s bringing her best friend. I don’t mind since they’re both interesting to talk to, albeit a bit vapid. Her friend’s name is Kayla, otherwise known as Kiki to her friends. Her body and femininity have always allured me with her natural charms, too bad she’s so apt for pursuing plastic vanity. Last time we hung out, she was talking about getting a tit job and reading ‘How to meet your millionaire match’. Her idea of romance is to date men who usually procure their income from less than legal means. She was shocked that her ex would threaten her once they broke up, snakes do bite.
This is sure to get interesting.
I tell her to text me once she has a table, the phone carefully laid down to tidy up my place a bit. After nearly half an hour, there’s enough of a significant dent in the debris of my life to call it acceptable. Found a pair of panties and tied my curtains up with it. Add a little light to this place. Dozens of wet baby sheet-ghosts fill the kitchen sink. That’s what happens when you can’t cook egg whites very well, and clean them up even worse. You wash the frying pan off afterwards and it looks like Halloween had abortions in your drain. The teapot is pitted, the silver mixing with rust and decay. Patches of brown and beige craters are autumn on metal. My phone sings a text dingle.
Having thrown on a light olive coloured coat, I exit the studio. The hallway has a geometrical pattern of cubes on the carpet, could be a Lego ad when high. The elevator takes its sweet ass time to serve me, its minutes before I’m at ground level. Leaving the sanctuary of the filtered air building, I’m immediately standing in a cauldron of rancid ether, the blend of so many different smells lights up my brain and furrows my brow in repulsion. Piss, scat and exhaust are the strongest to orbit my senses. A burst of loud, thick coughing to my left. A shoeless, crooked body shuffles by on the other side of the gated fence. Fingers dip inside and explore pockets for protection from public people pronto. A fumble or three, a clawed hand reaches in to pull out headphones and sunglasses; this makes walking around here a breeze. I put on some mindless electro-trash, slide dark lenses in front of my eyes, and forget the world around me.
The patio of the local chic restaurant is a caricature of a caricature of Gastown. Even the flowering potted plants have cigarette butts in them, proving that everyone and everything on street level runs on some sort of chemical stimulation. Geeky tourists mingle with homeless crazies in rags. Wayfarer-wearing hipsters pose for the scene in fedoras while gorgeous women sprinkled about through the crowd are doing what good looking women do best; looking good. Exotic bird coloured dresses remind me of a bowl of Froot Loops. Did I smoke weed today? I can’t really remember. Misha and Kiki’s laughs can be heard over everyone else sitting, they certainly know how to be seen.
I’m starving. My stomach sends a stab of nausea to remind me of its needs. I don’t bother to take my sunglasses off. Pointing at Misha and Kiki at their table, the hipster host responds with some flippant acknowledgement. Misha is in a bright yellow dress, a change from her usual faire of flower prints. Kiki is wearing a leopard print halter top that looks painted on her perfectly round breasts, two monolithically large Caesars sit in front of both women. The human brain amazes me sometimes. Corked away inside of this lump of flesh is a massive network of connected synapses, more complex than anything else in the universe, yet it seeks big tits and a source of inebriation.
My ass crashes into a chair with loose fitting red padding on the seat and arm rests. The black iron frame hot from sitting in the sun, I can’t help but see myself as a human waffle.
“Dylen!” Misha greets me with enthusiasm, “You look so skinny!”
Misha remembers me from when I still drank sugar
and fat loaded mochas. I would sit at my desk and laugh myself to tears at the gas a mocha and sausage breakfast sandwich would create. A toxic cloud that you could smell in the hallway sometimes, it would chase me from my desk.
“Dill?” Kiki had been trying to get my attention. I must have daydreamed off in public again.
“Yeah, it’s all that broccoli!” Blurt out from the idiot hole on my face. Not sure if that fit the conversation, but I’ll know soon if it did.
Kiki’s face lit up as she leans forward. Her breasts squish together to touch in the middle.
“We are on the soup-only diet. It totally works.” Kiki says with a beaming smile.
“Strange thing is, Caesars are considered a soup on this diet. No really!”
She takes a long suck from her straw. Her pillow lips fit around the tube and leave a burgundy hued ring.
Her nude, on top of me, my hands grip her hips to be able to thrust deeper.
A gaunt and pale arm moves in front of my face. The waiter is pointing at a drink on the menu in front of me. His lips move but nothing registers, I’m just picturing Kiki getting fucked.
“Yes one large, please!” I always speak out of turn.
Drink is ordered. Misha and Kiki both order more Caesars. My inner self grins as it recalls the last time Misha and I drank together.
We ended up alone in the kitchen of a late night party, slid my hand up the front of her blue vintage dress. I brought her to a shrieking orgasm against the granite counters in the kitchen, surprised we weren’t caught.
Noise of seagulls and crows mix in with the sounds of passing cars, laughter, and conversations on the patio. A green bean hitting me in the face snaps me back to reality.
