City of Singles

by Jason Bryan

  My right hand leaves the wheel to find the play button on the stereo. Back to a default Gastown frown and muttering “Fuck” to myself whenever life’s gloom gets too much. I’ll take this opportunity to put some heavy metal on to drown out the narrative of self-doubt. Driving my aluminum chariot around the block, into the urinal smelling alley, swipe, click, and the gate opens its mouth to swallow me. I whip the agile car inside and watch it close, preventing any windows from being broken in the urban hunt for loose change. Parking and taking the elevator up to the studio, the lift sounds like it’s about to completely disintegrate. Old sushi welcomes me home. There’s a shit-ton of emails I have to sort, a post-it reminds me of an event, and piles of laundry equal only in height to the mountains of dirty dishes. I pour vodka with cranberry, 50/50 mix. I smile and imagine myself relaxing against the side of a building, watching busy assholes sipping overpriced coffee.

  9 Cold Trickle

  The rain battered down in waves, fall’s wind cutting it into the shape of sails, with each gust a new form. It appears as a clear blue whip chastising streets of red brick, light spilling into puddles machine-gunned by a mad sky. It’s late afternoon, my furrowed face matches the tension of fabric at the back of my neck. A huge fucking drop had already ran down my spine once, that cold trickle can ruin an eggnog latte, even one poured by Natalee. She’s always wearing a smile, but girls at work sort of have to. Her intricate leaf drawn into foam has distinctively turned more yonic. A pack of cars jostle up the nearly flooded street, and my cab pulls up with the groan and stink of budget brakes.

  Hunched over to protect my coffee, a free hand reaches out and the cab’s door opens a moment too soon. Crack, knuckles meet stamped steel. My left middle finger crunched into the door when Habib or what’s-his-fuck tried some good ol’ fashioned door courtesy. On the road to hell rolls yellow cabs with thoughtful drivers. The pleather stretches as I squeeze into the back of a Prius cab. Pointing with a non-bleeding hand, I inform the driver to take me to Commercial Drive.

  Tick tock, patter patter patter. Beep! Patter patter. Distant spinning tires shriek. The street is filled with the busy cacophony of steel, glass and rubber beasts everywhere while rain drums away on the cab’s roof. The hypnotizing rhythm of the wiper blades swiping back and forth lazily, the lonely turn signal ticks while begging for an opening to get inside of. Fond recollections of my similar desires post beer and blow. My knuckle stings in pain. The cab gets moving briefly and slams to a halt. A delivery truck screams by, the horn held down. It’s hard not to think of a herd of snorting bovines jostling and pushing towards an abattoir, the solipsist in me demands my eyes close off their world. A successful pull back into traffic and we’re on our way.

  My Starbucks cup is smeared with blood, a perfect occupy ad. Probably get at least a dozen likes on Facebook with this, maybe a few retweets. The coffee is warm still and spice of the nog nudges a small grin across my rain greased face. Reaching into my pocket and pulling out my phone, 21 minutes until 4 PM. I have 21 minutes to get across town to deposit cheques before the bank closes. This morning my landlord took my call about the rent being a week late. He wants an email transfer, tonight, so I have to bring coloured slips to the bank. I’m not even that broke, just lazy and irresponsible. A tip of the coffee cup back a final time, only foam left. Down goes the window, and with my best poker face, the cup begins its adventure in the free world. Maybe I’d care more if anyone else in this neighborhood did. The driver yabbers away on his bluetooth in whatever language, stopping behind another line of cars. Brake lights and turn signals daub together in raindrops, the wipers clear the glass canvas.

  There is a smell in a warm, wet taxi. Faint tobacco and new car cherry scent are the hallmarks of a downtown cab. Picturing massive amounts of coke that were in the pockets of all those people sitting back here makes my sinus tickle. Drunks, horny johns, little old ladies who need help getting groceries, but really need it for some company. It would suck to be old without kids or grandkids. The tragedy of outliving your friends as the world forgets you. The descent into irrelevancy while waiting to die. Watching Seinfeld followed by M.A.S.H.

  I sigh and sulk back into the seat. The cab driver continues to babble on while we remain motionless, tension from this traffic raising my blood pressure. Tilting my head to the side, a tired forehead rests on the window. The glass is cold, and makes a sandwich of rainwater, oil, glass, and skin. Residue and steam makes it hard to even see a reflection of my face in the window, eyelids half closed from boredom. In the humid heat of the cab, green irises and bloodshot whites serve up what resemble Mexican colours in half-moons. The whirring sound of a tire spinning on pavement, a driver to the left cuts off my cab and forces us to stop. Like a reed in a flooding creek, head sliding on window grease without care, resigned to moving however the current wills it. We’re stuck at the same light, but only one car back from the light. Thinking about the next dozen or so intersections I need to cross, a frown tries curling across my lips. Someone call housekeeping, my day just shit the bed.

  Grey blobs shuffle beyond the steamed up window. The umbrellas look like each person holds their own personal black cloud above them. Looking down at my bloodied finger, sanguine has my hand sticky and ugly. The way blood seeps into every fold of your skin, it looks diseased. I don’t really have anyone to show this to. Times like these I feel what the idea of love is.

  I wish I knew if she still bites her fingernails. It’s been months since we talked. She scolded me for driving fast around my neighborhood, later on I figured it was only because she cared. I think she was embarrassed that she chewed her nails. I didn’t care because I bite mine when I’m bored too. Once we timed her to see how fast she could put her hair back into a french braid. Something like four seconds. I remember it was impressive to watch her do it, with all the motion of a sweatshop factory, but completely silent.

  The cab pulls forward for a few hopeful moments before stopping. Broken glass litters the road and a BMW roundel lies shattered among the remains of some asshole’s shitty afternoon. Somewhere inside my head Russel Peters cracks off an Asian driver joke. A break in traffic and we rocket down Powell Street, sending spray towards a group of people smoking outside the Sally Ann. I laugh when I shouldn’t. I laugh at that too.

  Passing the police station in the heart of the ghetto; so Vancouver. Cruising by huddled bus stop figures and my eyes catch a glimpse of a couple holding hands. I don’t like to think about love. Every social contract, every belief system, everything I have been taught to believe growing up is a lie. From Santa to Jesus, all lies. The wars on drugs and terror seem like some macabre theatre of death with no story, no point, and no chance at victory. It is as futile as a war on sex would be. Politics, gender roles, right and wrong, good and bad, all seemed so easy to know when growing up, now living in a world as ambiguous as my beliefs.

  The last bastion of my faith is my foolish belief in quasi-meaningful love. Another empty institution built up by idealists, not realists. I’m quickly seeing the concept of love being just as flawed as a belief that prayer can help. Cupid shoots heart-shaped hollow points that do no good for anyone. I wanted to hold on to some ideals, traditions, and the idea of romance. They all seem like part of a dying system and forgotten virtues. Now I think that love is the only thing that can cure me of this cancer of apathy. I used to feel that conservatism was the wiser choice, now I realize it’s a lost cause.

  My values are nearly nonexistent, as are my allegiances to any group or community. I’m the perfect globalist individual, I know my rights in the charter. I’d be completely free if it weren’t for the shallow faith that I will find love as intense as the last time. My back grows heavy with such a pack of monkeys on it; love, liquor, money, drugs and pussy. That haunting thought that I might not have to settle is sometimes the only thing that this engine runs on anymore. I think of the world and all of its problems, the grim outlook on debt, austerity, social ills and skyrocketing costs of living.
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  A never ending blanket of soot-black cloud swirls around the earth. The planet looks like a nightmare. I grab the moon in one godlike palm. Cold burns my skin, popping and sizzling the way a doctor freezes off a wart. Squeezing it hard and pulverizing it, it pops and crumbles in my clasped hands. A fine crystalline powder slips through my fingers, white dust lazily swirls around the night side of earth. Now reaching out and cupping both hands around the sun to extinguish the flames. The sun refuses to die easily, flames shoot and spit with fury from between my fingers. Embers and jets of smoke rush into my face, only deepening my resolve to smother it. An eddy of dying fire twists and curls around my wrist, the inferno bleeding itself out. I feel the life of the sun fade, the fire and smoke sputters and only a dull orange glow leaks between my tightly held hands. I release it from my death grip, the ashen ball almost looks sad. It cracks and begins to shudder, collapsing in on itself and becoming a tiny black hole. I look back at the lonely darkened sphere of dirt and water, the only place we all call home. One single point of light on the west coast glows as my mind’s eye zooms in towards the dim beacon. Closer, closer and even closer still as the picture becomes clearer from the eternal midnight that engulfs the rest of the planet. I see the amber light of a bedside table glow from a bedroom window. I see myself in bed, smiling, kissing a woman who radiates happiness. I guess the romantic soul left in me really still believes. The world could end and I would think everything was OK, because we had each other.

  I daydreamed most of the drive again. It’s 3:55 when I make it to the bank. The cost of the cab fare ends the pregnancy of my wallet as the cash vagina births a wrinkled twenty, curling to return to straw shape. My change is a whole two dollars back, which is then given as a tip while stepping onto the street. The world greets me with an ankle deep puddle for my right foot, and a drop of rain served cold down the back of my neck.

  Eight people. Eight fucken’ people with nothing better to do, than to stand in front of me. Rain rushes to hug the floor and the back of my neck feels even colder. The bank is warm, stuffy, and full of sniffling noses. A child swings the line rope back and forth while his mom is lost on her iPhone. An old man leans over her shoulder and watches her play Angry Birds, fascinated. A fat guy in a blue parka is staring at a young girl, popping her bubble gum. Her friend looks a bit older, has a green streak in her hair, a hoodie, and she’s playing with her tongue bar on her lips. It intrigues me to imagine what she’s thinking about, or if she’s thinking at all. An Indian guy in a Grizzlies jacket stands in front of me. He smells like smoked cigarettes. A brunette politely waves and says ‘Next please’ and an old Chinese man shuffles up to the wicket.

  The bank is like a relaxed hive, worker drones slowly go about their business with smiles painted on. Polite talk is the norm and laughter is rarely heard. One fun thing about this place is making it a point to be a jackass. Bank happiness is beaming a big happy smile into one of the cameras, and taking the opportunity to stick my tongue out at the kid who shakes the rope furiously and laughs. The food channel is on the bank TV screens. Some overly medicated chef is making some overly flavoured food, the juices from the pork ribs in high def. Perfect and falling off the bone, my stomach growls. The faces she makes after tasting her own food mirror those of a girl receiving oral sex in an adult film. Eyes almost ready to roll back, brow relaxed, head lifts up and to one side. You think she just squirted all over a couple other girls while getting fucked by a strap on, rather than having a bite of ribs.

  “Next.”

  An Asian bank teller sits with a poker face.

  “Next.”

  The Asian bank teller remarks in monotone, again.

  The girls are texting on their phones. Neither have said a word to each other in the bank, I figure they’re probably texting each other about the creepy fat fuck in the blue jacket. The old man smiles and taps the girl on the shoulder. She turns around with a raised eyebrow before giggling out an ‘Oops!’ as she skips over to the teller. I turn back to the TV. They’re making my favorite, kettle corn. Basically it’s a salty and sugary mess of popcorn that pimp slaps you across the face with a handful of yum. In my mood right now, I just want to sit on my couch smoking joints, watching bullshit on Netflix while eating kettle corn and casually jerking off.

  The bank door opens and a car horn fills my ears. The spray of wet car tires mixes with the noise of a closing umbrella. The door takes its sweet time to close, but I enjoy the cold, fresh air brushing my face. There’s a bulletin board near the door I hadn’t seen before. The words ‘Day of action on bullying!’ are sprawled across the top in large blue letters. Various slogans headline other smaller groups of text too blurry to read from here. One of them is ‘Everyone is worth it’, the other ‘Never judge someone else’. As an adult, I wish I could believe in these, but it’s highly unrealistic. One other catch phrase falls prey to my condescending eye. ‘Love yourself for who you are!’

  What if you’re the bully?

  My eyes squint and I’m having a hard time reading some of the notes. A greyish haze covers the letters and they mesh together to look like Egyptian glyphs. Fuck, I think I’m starting to get a migraine. The familiar blind spots start out as a piece of vision just missing, expanding into jagged lines of scintillating lights in my vision; like rips in space and time, a TV channel on rabbit ears. My eyes close and a deep breath fills my lungs to bring some peace. Meditative thought on clear air and blue skies. I breathe out and envision the pain taking the form of black smoke pouring from my nose. In with the good and out with the bad. Stuffy oppressive heat in here, while the rain and sweat soaking my neck and back makes for a sticky, gross chill. Shit feels like me today, I suppose this just tops off my karma cup. Dizzy eyes wander and try to find something to distract me from the incoming headache. Tax free savings accounts, RRSPs, mortgage brochures, these things are useless to me. What am I going to do, give up on living downtown and moving out to a 600 square feet dive in the suburbs of Surrey so I can own a box in the sky? RSPs? Do I think civilization is still going to last long enough for anything to retire to? If I’m not dead by 60 I’ll make Leaving Las Vegas look like a toddler’s tea party. Jagged lines and ridges of oblivion cut into my vision, the line moves forward and my stomach turns sideways. Breathe in. Breathe out.

  The epitome of depression is not caring, shrugging and resigning yourself to your perceived fate. Looking at the cost of housing and everything in this city makes me want to give up, smoke joints, do my daily work, bust a nut and repeat. No wonder so many people just live the way they do, if I can see things this hopeless to build upon anything here, I’m wondering what someone unemployed and uneducated must think. Sell those drugs, pimp that ass, work those streets, hustle all you can for whatever you can get. My mind is a swirling maelstrom of pain and defeat. If I just had a joint, strong coffee and some darkness I could relax.

  “Next,” the Asian teller calls out.

  I’ve always told myself there is a point to all of this, it’s the journey, not the destination. Life was a scenic trip for a few years before the internet. Now I know how the other side lives, their money invested in outrageously priced housing, silver spoons sitting sideways up asses, just profiting off the underclasses paying their mortgages. Foreign investors use the city of my birth as a piggy bank, divorce wiping out so many people’s normally inherited legacies. I won’t ever own any land, I won’t have a backyard to show my future children earthworms and daddy long legs.

  I’ll be a slave to the dollar forever.

  A tick of pain shoots through my brain.

  “Next,” says a chubby blonde teller. The line gets shorter and my feet shuffle ahead with mummy styles. I need to stop thinking like this, writing my own future before it’s even here. It’s not too late to change, but doing what I do, I could do this forever. Laughing quietly to myself and then laughing again louder when the fat guy in the blue jacket looks at me. I have all the freedom in the world, but the men who I envy, envy me. I’m the
one getting laid from beautiful, tight bodied girls. No anchors and no responsibilities. The world is open and women are willing for my taking. I’m healthy and if migraine headaches every blue moon are my worst malady, I think I’m doing pretty good. I have to remember to tell myself that nothing is written in stone and that a man with balls can do anything. I used to think that being a man meant I had to be able to bench press the most, be able to kick anyone’s ass if I had to, to be able to fuck the hottest women and have others waiting for my attention. All bullshit sold to me, to keep men insecure little consumers, easily controlled. Craving a bigger car, flashier shirts, Jagerbombs, and easy nameless sluts with big tits isn’t the manhood that I believe in anymore. Ok, maybe I still like fast cars. If I had an idea that the RRSP ads would make me think like this, I would’ve used the machine to deposit these payments.

  “Next,” drifts in my ear, barely audible over my own thoughts. Just what the fuck am I doing in this rat race? Working for little scraps of paper to take to a bank, to deposit it for more scraps of paper, back to my lair where I arrange the next night of drugs, alcohol, and socializing so I can put my fluids in another female. What purpose does this serve other than my own self-aggrandizing, I don’t know. I guess it can be fun when you’re numb enough to not think about it. “Sir,” Here I am, languishing in bullshit self-pity when other people think I have it so good. Sometimes I-