by Jason Bryan
The match starts and I choose my favorite avatar, the engineer with C4 explosives and a shotgun. I run my soldier to a jeep and jump in as another player hops into the passenger seat. My left hand presses down on the W key and the jeep takes off.
The scenery is beautiful. Murder is on my mind while admiring rolling little grassy hills, dirt roads, mountains and the lust green forest in the distance. I can’t help but think of Cultus Lake in the summertime. A voice cries out in a chain of swear words, someone took his plane.
“fuckin faggot jew niggers i called the fucking jet you gay homo ass fucks11!1~11!!!” rings out from my speakers. Someone older tells him to shut up, voice coms in games are worse than YouTube comment streams.
I drive my digital jeep over a hill and get some air. Whee. The suspension and bouncing effects are well done, only a few hundred thousand more points on my credit card and I could get an ATV in real life. Young entitled men continue to argue over the communal aircraft. My virtual soldier crashes his jeep through a fence and back onto a dirt road. The middle base between the two opposing sides is my target, if my team can hold onto this, victory is almost certain.
Pressing E, my soldier dives out of the moving vehicle which coasts to a stop behind a construction trailer. The walls are thin and destructible if hit by rockets or tank rounds, I don’t plan to be seen though. I hide in a corner and wait, my jeep passenger runs off. The bitching about who gets to fly the jet continues and I can’t hear the in game sound effects very well. Do I hear a tank coming? I wait. No. Someone with the username Sewerfart is spamming chat typing ‘Justin Bieber is gay.’ I hear a tank coming and check the minimap. It’s not ours.
“Time to do this, hoorah!” Shit would fill my pants the first day of any real boot camp.
I release the X key and my avatar stands up from a crouch, side step with the D key and I’m peeking out of the trailer window.
The enemy T-60 tank is facing me directly, but the turret is pointed 90 degrees and shooting at someone with its machine gun. I duck and run out the side door of the trailer, and across the dirt road in front of the tank. Jump with Z and tapping SPACEBAR to go prone. Wait. No bullets came at me, go! I tap SPACEBAR and turn to look at the tank. Boom! It fires at a friendly jeep heading right for it, and it explodes. I’m almost completely behind where the turret is facing. A flash of movement to my left as an enemy solder runs from behind his cover, let’s make this a fatal mistake. I deftly aim my shotgun and put two rounds into him, a happy chime sounds off and I get points for killing him.
Boom! The tank fires, and now the turret turns in my direction. I sprint my soldier towards the tank and go prone beside it, as this makes me invisible to the driver. The tank begins to back up. Shit, he knows I’m here. My finger finds the 3 key and I switch to C4 explosives, slamming the SPACEBAR, the screen shakes while jumping up and running along the side of his tank. Crack crack crack! He’s spraying and hoping I’ll make the mistake of trying to run away, rather than stick close. Just as I am throwing a brick of C4 at the tank, an enemy truck can be seen barreling down the dirt road towards me. The C4 somehow misses and lands on the ground. Shit! The tank continues to back up as I run along the side, and it crashes into a construction trailer ass-first.
I sprint past the tank and into the side door of the same trailer the tank hit. The enemy jeep whizzes by the doorway I just ran into, with the roof mounted machine gun peppering the trailer. Intuition tells me the tank is about to blow a hole in the side of this trailer in aboBOOM! The screen shakes and daylight floods in. My soldier barely survives the tank blasting open the trailer, I’m about halfway to the other end of the trailer and an RPG missile smashes into the opposite doorway, ripping it to shreds. Getting out of the trailer of death is my only option, and a tap on the SPACEBAR jumps me through the exit wound caused by the tank round. Boom! Where I was standing a few moments ago is now no more.
Another risky sprint away from the tank and my avatar manages to find refuge behind cover of a two story building. The tank is shooting at someone but it isn’t me. Peeking out of cover and an enemy soldier is staring right at me, close range, with a rocket launcher. My soldier prepares for death with a digital prayer. The rat-ta-tat-tat of an M249 squad assault weapon becomes the chorus to a song about non-american deaths. I’m still alive and a smile beams across my face. God does exist, and he lives in Battlefield 3. The enemy soldier falls on his virtual face, having been shot in the back by some digital hero. I spot my savior. It’s Sewerfart, and he’s running across the road right in front of the tank. As the turret is turning towards him, I spring into action. Hold down SHIFT, pressing W. Hit 3, ran to the back of the tank. Left mouse CLICK, left mouse CLICK, turn, hold down SHIFT, press W. C4’s stuck to the tank and I need to get into a range safe enough to blow it as I switch to the detonator. Left mouse CLICK. A massive explosion rips through the camp. I turn around in time to see bits of tank spread around, and the sad sight of Sewerfart’s lifeless digital body in the middle of the road.
Good night, sweet prince.
Nearly 30 minutes of cat and mouse with tanks, soldiers, helicopters, and jets passes in a blur. Many acts of heroism are witnessed, and the battle is won. The score pops up on the screen, being first place on my team makes me smile, my waste tunnel dwelling flatulent friend is in a noble fourth place. With a strong sense of satisfaction filling my ego with pride, nimble fingers and excellent hand to eye owe my stomach a high carbohydrate tithe. Victorious and on a high, I exit the game and open up Google. What to eat? I feel like some MSG-laden cheap chinese.
I turn my phone on and surf on my computer to Ho’s EZ Noodle. The Apple logo lights up and I wait. The phone boots to the main menu and a twitchy finger taps the phone icon, then the keypad. Before I can dial, the phone has a seizure as several texts come in at once. Bzzt, bzzzzzt, bzzt. Bzzt! Dougie never lights up my phone like this unless there is something going down. A curious read through several enthusiastic texts regarding liquor, drugs and babes, and I see an address. Depression squeezes chests and forces sighs from my loser gland, sitting in the dark and wasting my life in a video game. As if that isn’t bad enough, soon I’ll be eating food that will take years off my life while adding years to my decomposition. If I go to this party I will have fun, but it’s the same old shit every time. I’m fucking 35, how much longer will I do this? I figure Dougie needs a wing man and on this basis I begrudgingly convince myself to go. I text him back and tell him I’m getting ready and I’ll meet him at his place.
20 Tripping In
To get in the mood to party tonight, tunes are cranked as a fresh bottle of JD gets cracked. A neck’s worth in two gulps. I tidy up my rugged beard and throw on blue jeans along with a black button up shirt. I comb my hair and floss. I look great for a fat guy, but feel ragged. My coat gets put on, closing the door behind me and off to the elevator. Soon I’m on the street and swarmed by taxis looking for their first fare of a Friday night. First stop is the liquor store, grabbing a bottle of cheap rye and some root beer. I don’t just share my Jack with any stranger. Second stop is Dougie’s place for a pre-drink, some time to shoot the shit and get a little buzz. He updates me on these girls, all of Matt’s friends but the hottest ones are his customers. He gives a solid recommendation of them, Liz and Cara being the hottest party girls Matt knows, apparently.
The party is at somewhere pretty posh, the Wall center. Dougie and I are within walking distance and we decide to stroll up. We pack the bottles in a plastic bag and head out. Friday night and Vancouver’s streets are packed, crowds of all sorts of stereotypes dot the sidewalks, Granville street looks like a zoo. Drunks stagger up the street, yells of “Woo!” signal a long night for suburbanites having a big day in the city. The din of young drunks dies as we walk up to the swanky plaza on Burrard. It’s an elegant monstrosity of chrome and glass, trees with LED strings in them sway back and forth like an urban glowing jellyfish. It’s the type of place where strangers only smile or shoot at each other.
I picture myself in handcuffs, my studio replaced with three walls and bars.
I turn and head for the elevators, trying to stay calm. Dougie follows.
“Chickenshit faggots! That’s what I thought! Bitch!”
I barely catch the word bitch as he steps out of earshot.
I feel bad for the doorman. Dougie laughs. The elevator doors open and we step inside a chamber of mirror, brass, and refined arrogance. If money could sneer. The buttons for the floors look like carved gold squares, the numbers recessed in green glass. 46 lights up and the doors close in perfect silence. The elevator accelerates rapidly and the rushing of air accompanies my ears popping. In seconds we’re already slowing down and nearly at our floor. In heaven I imagine hallways this luxurious. The door to the suite looks fortified as a castle.
“That’s a serious door,” I remark.
“Like Fort Knox, to protect the hot pussy inside!” Dougie says as he chuckles.
I laugh while knocking.
In a second the door opens and a girl in a red dress greets us, electronic music pumps into the hallway. A beautiful woman treats my eyes to refined femininity, pounding bass stirs my soul, the beat matching the tempo of my inspired heart. “Oh hey, you guys must be Dylen and Doug!” I smile and introduce myself before walking in. She’s Joellen and she has perfect teeth, chiseled features, a high 9. She’s exactly who you’d expect to open the door at a place like this. Dougie introduces himself as I turn to look at the crowd. It’s mostly women in dresses, hovering around their Blackberries and wine. Two guys sit on the couch, one with a pretty blonde on his lap. Both wear hoodies, jeans, and Yankees ball caps, probably DJs. Wait, I recognize one, that’s Matt. A dealer I used to hang out with occasionally. I’ve been to his place a couple times, always so blitzed out of my mind I couldn’t find my way back to his place if my life depended on it.
Joellen jumps gracefully in bare feet. She moves from the door with Dougie, spins gracefully, and opens the high end German sarcophagus of a fridge. “What do you guys want? We have aged whiskey, non-aged whiskey, vodka, wodka if you’re Russian; and ... umm, everything else!” the fridge is loaded with take-out food, chilled liquers, and mixer of every type. Dougie’s face lights up, and he asks for some 50 year old whiskey. He puts down the bag of cheap shit we brought on the counter, almost embarrassed by it.
Joellen laughs. “You don’t keep old whiskey in a fridge, I thought you’d know that?”
She rolls her eyes and skips over to the kitchen island, her petite piano hands find a bottle I don’t recognize and pours out a golden orange glass of whiskey. She bends over the island and reaches for a glass bowl with ice and tongs. Her thonged bottom peeks out under the short red dress, a perfect tight little pair of tanned pillows. Oh the luxuries that money can afford, my mind wanders to why I’m not at home, working.
Stainless tongs with “Zurich” in a laser-cut engraving deftly snatch a crisp, frosty berg of ice. The glacial rock drops into the glass with a loud plop, perfectly in sync with a heavy bass note that drops from the recessed speaker system. “Woo!!” a girl screams, Blackberry held high, fist pumping. The ice pops and cracks, she hands Dougie his drink. I request the same, and I get an even bigger glacier of ice. The tongs’ jagged chrome teeth look viciously elegant. “Guys, did you know this ice is actually Fiji bottled water that was flash frozen? You have to wrap it in a towel and drop it on the floor to break it! Ice cubes what?” She laughs and her wine glass rises up in a toasting gesture.
I take my first sip of the whiskey, smoked candy rolls over my tongue. The buzz hits my empty stomach fast, I feel better, relaxed. Honesty translates out from my smile, brain translating the sensations into one of wearing a familiar coat or being held by my mother as an infant. Such deep flavour, my nose tickles with all of the rich tones playing inside me.
“Joellen, this is the finest whiskey I have ever had,” Dougie says.
Each word with conviction and purpose.
A girl in a pink dress saunters over and puts her arm around Joellen, her left hand sports a geological alphabet worth of stones on several different rings. The right hand has a glass of piss-coloured liquid. I’m sure it’s vodka redbull.
“Who are you boys?” pink-and-pale coos.
Dougie introduces himself and I. Cara is her name, everything about her screams out that she’s acting. I give her a compliment on her purple and green spiral ring. “Amethyst and emerald, darling, costume crap,” she shows me a plain silver ring with a large yellow stone.
“Yellow princess cut over platinum, Tiffany’s of New York,” she keeps her hand out while sipping her drink. “My fiancé picked it up last week.”
Dougie takes her hand and looks at the ring closely. I can see he is phase transitioning already, his fingers touching hers, the tips of his finding her palm. I almost audibly pronounce “Brilliant.”
Electronic southern hip hop beats blare over the speakers. Lil’ John can be heard asking all of his niggas to put their hands in the air, and the girls wave Blackberries and booze to the track. Cara smiles and is still letting Dougie play with her hand while he gazes at the ring, she calls out “Waka Flocka next!” gruffly. One of the guys on the couch laughs.
I hear a whiny voice behind me “You guys got a light? Fucken’ lost my purse.” a girl in a blue dress and messed up hair has a smoke hanging off her bottom lip.
Cara says “Darling, my purse, dear,” this time with a British accent. I watch as the paper cylinder of tobacco drops off the blonde’s lips, sliding perfectly between her perky, tanned breasts.
I reach into her dress and pull out the cigarette, turn to get a lighter out of the purse closest to Cara, and light the smoke in my mouth.
“Really,” the blonde says. I reply only with a grin, and blow a little smoke out.
I hand her the cigarette and hold back from choking. I hate cigarettes, but I can chain smoke joints. A sip of whiskey rescues my tongue from car exhaust tastes and back to caramel, toasted oak. Bass, high heels and chatter swirl around me. The whiskey is hitting me hard and the blonde girl is smiling at me intently. She takes a long drag and whips her head back, her satin angel blonde hair returning almost magically to salon form. She is standing with most of her weight on one leg and her bottom leans to one side, her hand runs through her hair and ends up on her hip.
“So I don’t know your name and you’ve had your hand in my shirt and my smoke in your mouth, I’m Liz.”
“Dylen,” I say, offering my hand.
She takes it and I pull her into a spin. The small of her back touches my left hand and her right shoulder is just below my mouth. Our eyes make contact for a second and she spins herself back to where she was. I smile and ask her where her drink was, and she replies it’s flowing through the pipes somewhere, as she throws up every time she drinks and does blow. For a split second there I feel pangs of regret as I lose all interest in her. She’s probably just like me. I hate me. I instantly queue in that she’s probably down to fuck, and I smile again.
“More room for another drink,” I quip, a quick mouthful of whiskey gets knocked back and I tu
rn to open the fridge. Liz half slides, half steps in beside me and says “Hmmm …” Her petite left arm wraps around herself and her right arm points up, her hand playfully scratches at a non-existent beard. I grab her redbull to go with stoli, the frosted glasses sit inside the fridge on the door. I take one and pour her stoli until she says when. She doesn’t speak until I pour her a half glass of vodka. Crack the can and she has a killer cocktail of 50/50 energized booze. Passing her the drink, she is tapping out a little container on the counter top, a blank plastic card lays flat while a rolled up $50 stands on its end, a rocket ship to pleasure prepares for launch.
Liz takes her drink and swallows nearly half of it in one chug, putting it down only for a cocaine snack. Her nose finds the bill, ant eaters in a hive of marble counter-tops and stainless steel, heads down to work on making rails disappear. She throws her head back, belts out a loud squeal, and one of her eyes squints and closes.
“What the fuck Matt, this shut is CUT!” she groans.
“It’s right from a brick,” Matt hollers back, laughing while bouncing a girl on his knee.
Liz steps over to the couch. “No, no, NO! I’m not buying any more unless it is in a big chunk like your old shit.” Matt laughs and bounces the blonde girl furiously. She shrieks and raises her hand to hit him before he stops. I turn back to the counter and spot a fat, juicy line. My nose is a starving, diabetic man at a BBQ, tucking in his bib, his feast awaits.
The rolled up $50 bill is crusted around the edges, matted cocaine doubles as glue to hold the bill together from spiraling out. I hold the bill between my thumb and middle finger, pull the bill taught, and feed my ego. The line is rough, eyes both water, the left nostril catches fire. Rush.
Liz and I are in bed. She’s naked and I’m drawing little circles on her back. She purrs and smiles, dry lips smack together. Her skin looks young and so soft in blue tones of dawn.
