by Jason Bryan
“Hey buddy!” rings in my ear as a poke dents my shoulder.
There’s nobody in front of me and it’s my turn. I thank the guy behind me for letting me know, philosophizing in lineups is the broth to a bad mood soup. Willpower drags me slowly up to the wicket followed by putting my meal tickets down on the counter. Stacks of over three thousand bucks in dirty porn dollars and only three hundred in art sales. Shows what priorities we have these days.
The teller’s fingers zip over the keypad and he asks how my day is.
“I’m chipper!” I say, giving him a coffee breath smile.
I request $500 in cash back, after a few minutes of leaning on the counter he returns with my cash all in fifties. I’m soon clutching some fresh salmon pink bills that flow downstream and into my pocket, signing off on my transaction; I’m done. My head is pounding and I walk out of the bank looking like a refugee from life, shoulders down, eyes in a squint, ungainly faced in depreciation of my own existence. How’s my day? Fucked.
10 Men on Strike
My fridge is empty again. Dirty white walls provide such contrast to the solitary deep red and dried stiff slice of turkey bacon. Rancid tzatziki is sitting above veggie drawers that contain some sort of failed experiment. There’s an old, foggy tumbler of booze left uncovered. Smells like white rum, and I hate white rum. A pre-drink would be great before my pre-drinking tonight, so here goes I guess. Lifting it up and shooting the several-day old rum back, it tastes like old turkey, rum, and flat cola. If desperation had a taste, it’s thickly coating my tongue and is about to start stabbing my guts. My dumb ass somehow happened to totally forget that I had a bottle of Jack on the kitchen counter, sitting in the bag still. Old Man Rum angrily stomps around inside me as I open the bottle to swig back a big cleansing mouthful. Refreshing. I send another mouthful of Jack down to deal with his shitty neighbor.
Venturing out into the open world simulator that lies beyond my front door requires preparation. I slip my feet into some shoes, a warm coat, sunglasses, and take my wallet. With the basics out of the way, now comes the most important part: to get stoned enough to handle other people’s bullshit. I have to choose my weapon wisely. There’s a little nimble glass pipe, cleaned regularly and great for quick, small hits. The metal pipe bong gets backed up more often than truck stop shitters next to chinese take-outs. In my poor bong’s defense, if you take the time to put some cleaning, love, and ice into it; believe me, it’s smooth as silk. Perhaps I’ll bust out the big glass cannon, the barrel happens to be a detachable cylinder that you can put in your freezer. It tokes so smooth I’d fall on my couch and daydream the next two hours away. I’m feeling like I want to remain on earth, so choosing the small glass pipe seems appropriate. Packing a small bowl and soon toking away, I enjoy a cough free smoke. A wave of relaxation washes over me, and for a few minutes I won’t think so much.
With my head aloft in the clouds, I’m finally out of it enough to go into the world. I pause for a moment to double check that I didn’t forget anything before leaving the house, looks like I’m ready. The door locks with a groan. The frame is a little crooked so I have to lift up on the handle to align the deadbolt with the hole. What a pain, I could ask the landlord to fix it, but I don’t care that much. Down the hallway to a shoddy elevator ride, moments later I strut out of the lobby. The cool air jolts me awake and my hands find my pockets fast. I don’t really keep track of days, it’s the middle of winter and this coat can’t fight off the cold. Another few dozen steps and I’m at the portal to the side show neighborhood I live in.
I smell fresh shit right outside the gate. Swinging the steel barred door open and immediately it’s necessary to dodge several piles of stinking brown decay. I should be in the Russian Circus the way I step to the right, hop from the right leg onto my left leg, missing a smear to my 2 o’clock and a couple of errant log bogeys to my left. A lunge onto my right foot now avoids a fresh puddle of urine trickling off the streetlight to my left. Another hop and a diagonal dodge to my right and I check my shoe for Gastown pie. Nada. I tilt my head back a bit and smile, fuck yeah.
My brief moment of solitary success is rudely interrupted by the sound of a man retching across the street. I turn my head and watch him throw up on the middle of the opposite sidewalk. Now I frown with the realization that there’s no witty name for puddles of vomit. Public lunch? Meals on heels? Cold demands my hands to bury themselves deeper, closing the jacket in the front.
Finally at the end of the first block, those first fifty steps are a real doozy. I have a red light and the cars anxiously stop-and-go through their green. Little THC gremlins sketch all of the cars transparent for me, high strung tap-dancing feet on gas and brake pedals with sewing machine rhythm. A ghostly white skinned androgynous person crosses the street against the signal. Angry faces of drivers honking, their displays of frustration only slow down the addict’s pace. A few people screech their tires and go around the pale zombie. It passes me while staring at the ground, chin on chest. They say these people spend hours and hours searching the ground for anything someone dropped, money, drugs and half-burnt cigarettes to throw into the hole they call a life. A couple of scummy looking guys are crossing with the signal, the sounds of a sick chest gurgling as one of them spits a giant gob of phlegm on the sidewalk. Sickly green lung gel lets off a loud slap as it finds a home on concrete littered with old gum, cigarette butts, and trash. I overhear the words fuck, shitty, and Luongo several times in between both of them laughing. The light turns and I have the walk sign.
Across the street and a quarter ways down the block, a few normals are spotted. Guys with normal haircuts, regular belts, fitted pants. They pass me and no one makes eye contact. Faces in this section of town are drab and only a little bit more welcoming; IT workers, accountants and pretentious fucking bloggers. A Chinese family climbs out of a minivan. Halfway down the block and I’m catching up on a short, waddling granny. She unexpectedly jumps to her right and puts her back to a storefront’s window as a BMX rider is barreling down the middle of the sidewalk. He’s coming right for me and doesn’t look like he’s moving, I start feeling pissed off. He’s some shitty runt of a man, small features and a blue bandana over his face, a black hoodie reveals mad slits for eyes which I proceed to stare down.
I instantly know I can’t let him win by moving. He’s 50 feet from me. I’m already close to the right hand side of the sidewalk. If he hits me he is going to do it on purpose. He’s at 40 feet, now 30 feet. I keep up the same pace. 20 feet and he’s still heading right for me. Just put more weight in the front of my feet. Ten feet and he hasn’t swerved. A fraction of a second before impact, the BMX tool turns to go around me a bit too late. My hands are in my pockets while arms are tense, my bodyweight braced for the impact. My elbow catches him in the shoulder and, by the sounds of it, he crashed hard. I smile. A few more steps and that old lady grins at me. In a thick European accent she stammers “He crazy, fucking bike. He asshole!” I smile, nod, and keep on walking.
Tattoo parlors, a media facility, and smoke shops are the main businesses on this stretch of Cordova Street. Looks like an urban hippy’s dream. The old lady was probably on her way bong shopping, maybe getting a butterfly on her lower back.
At the next light, a woman in a wheelchair is begging for change. If she wanted my advice, she should learn to sell porn. A scrawny white kid in pants ten sizes too big turns the corner, spits, and rips loose a barrage of swearing into his phone. While waiting at the light, my eyes wander to a blonde girl driving a Mazda. She notices me looking at her, and looks back at the traffic of people crossing the road. Her light turns yellow and she begins to turn. Her eyes find mine again, she smiles, and my cheeks peel up into a genuine smile back. Just like that she drives down the road and disappears. The kid with the baggy pants uses fuck four times in the next sentence. The next thing is “Ok mom, love you too!”
I couldn’t have left that curb quicker.
Feeling pretty agitated now and I
realize why; I forgot to put my sunglasses on. Overcast skies, not really a sunglasses day. Could be the weed, but this adventurous feeling might keep me from going into my own world of sunglasses and headphones for a little bit longer. The only person I’ve seen smile was the blonde in her car. She smiled as she was leaving. A half block down and I must have looked at 40 people, no smiles. I imagine all the people as Welsh corgis, frolicking and running around playfully. I once went to a corgi meet, as a corgi groupie. My friend had one of those ridiculous midgets, part goofy, part furry, the rest love and biscuit toots. All of the dogs and the owners got along save for one particularly skinny corgi, which dug a hole on the beach, growled and didn’t want any dogs coming near it. Maybe that’s the corgi version of sunglasses and headphones.
At the end of the next block, my route turns left to head to Yaletown. I’m across the street and soon far beyond shady characters outside of The Cambie. Passing a couple of hipster food joints, Apple laptops almost outnumber people. At Hastings and Cambie the crowd gets really fucked up. You’ll see anything here. Wandering tourists, Asian packs, loud Brazilian students, hipsters in berets, the occasional gorgeous woman. I notice a few more grins, but still only a few people smiling. A native guy eating a burrito, he’s so happy I wonder if he’s on something, or if those burritos are just that damn good.
The light turns and my pace picks back up, eyes look ahead to spot a man holding the hand of a child. The woman he’s walking with is holding the kid’s other hand and they stand out on Hastings. The child is a little blonde girl with a few missing baby teeth and a huge smile, she swings and takes big moon-gravity steps as the couple radiate happiness in such a bleak part of town. Laugh lines are always a dead giveaway of a genuine smile. The child giggles as they walk passed me, the man says ‘whee!’ as he holds her tiny hand. Something inside my head envies that. Quick feet fly up and over the next curb while the fresh memories of that happy family sear themselves into skull meat.
The next couple blocks are a wasteland of working professionals. Drones shuffle by with cubicle faces on, Dockers pants pressed to keener levels of corporate dress code. It is not for another couple blocks before I start spotting a few dolls walking around, fingers or ears on Blackberries. Glad RIM encodes BBM, least Shela or Kim get spied on about what d-lister they hooked up with last night or who has the best M in town right now. Come to think about it, I would definitely like to know who has the best M in town.
Walking into Yaletown feels like another planet. The women all carry length of legs, high cheeks, and good botox jobs. Tanning salons and shops line the streets among the boutique restaurants; no bodily fluids around to appreciate. The air is surprisingly fresh and I almost miss the toilet-hood that surrounds my loft. A brunette in front of me has a perfume that tickles my nose, smells like an ex. Her bottom looks like a couple of melons, the yoga pants stretched out wide to cover her ample ass. My penis stirs in my pants, so I stare at a bus stop ad long enough to settle down.
I step into an upscale bar known as Section 3. It’s hard to tell sometimes who works here and who doesn’t as almost everyone is dressed in black. Maybe they’re here for the funeral of my liver. I’m here to meet a friend. Glancing around quick, Doug’s spotted drinking a beer at a back booth.
Sliding onto the bench across from him, “Doug-ie” grumbles off my lips, with emphasis on the syllables.
He laughs and asks how I’m doing. I’m doing pretty good I tell him, a bit confused sometimes. He asks if I’m still going with a girl, three girls ago. While filling him in with the gritty deets, his response is a series of laughs and sighs broken up with drinking breaks. When it’s his turn to talk, it’s discovered that he has fucked almost as many girls as I have this year! Last year he was clearly in the lead, as I had a girlfriend most of the time.
We laugh and share stories of raw dogging sluts. He had a girl throw up in his bed last week. While laughing, my next story is a reminder of how my ex threw up in his room during a party. The laughter stops for a moment as he tries to be serious, then maniacal laughter follows. The waitress comes, I’ll have an order of a double JD and coke; he orders a pitcher of beer. Upping the ante and ordering tequila shots seems like a good idea. The waitress is all cutesy, and sweet as peach. She has a smile from ear to ear. The moment she turns away from us her face loses all emotion. In my head I imagine her as a total bitch in her personal life, what a reflection of self.
Doug sighs and says “Ah shit man.”
He takes a big drink of his beer. Quickly glancing at my phone reveals two new messages.
Dougie puts his glass down, leans back in the booth and asks “Do you ever feel like this is all for nothing?”
I stare.
“You ever think we are playing a losing game?”
Alcohol was meant for conversations like this.
“Which game are we talking about? There’s not just one,” I say with a crooked smile.
“Life man, life” Dougie sneers. “Like I just had to replace the transmission on my truck, why do I need a truck? It’s to get away from this fucken city.”
Dougie points down at the table.
“This city is just a rat race within a rat race within a rat race. We’re just all competing for our own little chunk of cheese. Every man for himself and to the victor goes the spoils.”
My head nods before I can even nod it consciously.
“Remember that shithead, Todd? We got him into clubs and we hang out with him a bunch of times and what happens? He tries to fuck my girlfriend.” Frustration twists Dougie’s voice into a nasal snarl. “Our buddy Shane breaks up with his girlfriend, loses everything he has and goes into debt. The only reason that hasn’t happened to either of us is because we keep women at dick length.”
A chorus of furious nodding happens on my side of the table. The waitress walked up in time to hear about women and dick length. “Charming conversation fellas!” the waitress lets slip cheerfully, “it’s not the size that counts, it’s the-”
“-The motion of the ocean!” escapes my lips to interrupt her before slamming a tequila shot right off of her tray.
She chuckles as she puts the pitcher down, then the shot for Dougie. My next cold drink doesn’t even have time to hit the table before she puts it in my hands for a long pull.
“Go on,” I say.
The first warm wave of liquor hitting my system hugs me on the inside.
He continues, “Like what do we have to look forward to, or do? I can’t keep myself entertained forever on pussy, booze, drugs, and partying. Then again, look at the family guys we know who are always bitching about their lives. My married friends talk about their wives like they’re annoying bitches. Steve has to work, cook, AND clean!”
We both laugh. That guy is such a chump. Spineless Steve is the perfect beta male. He’s a friend of Doug’s I’ve met a few times. It’s the classic beta white guy dating a stern Chinese girl. Is he happy? Being on such a short leash and still feeling good as a man would be tough.
“Dylen, remember that blonde chick you were tagging last year, the one with the beautiful brunette friend?” Dougie says, “Those chicks are a great example of what we have to deal with. They are Monica Lewinskis.”
My eyebrow raises here, maybe. I’m not sure as I take a big pull of my drink, the jack was all on top and the fumes cause my eye to flutter.
“Chicks these days want the permanent alpha. They want a man who just fucks them and doesn’t care. Want to know why?”
Mentally I can see where this is going, I live it.
“Why?” I casually toss out.
“Because caring about something other than yourself means you will have to change your behavior.” Doug chugs back the last half of his beer.
In the dance of drinking, I take the lead here. Shooting back my entire whiskey and coke in one gulp followed by pouring another round of beers. I like the alternating sweet tones of hard bar and beer, but it doesn’t do anything good for the breath. I fuck
the pouring up and give him head in the least gay way possible. My beer somehow ends up poured perfectly. Doug takes a sip of foam with a look of disdain on his face. He clears his throat and gives his speech.
“Think about it Dylen. Remember all the times you did not give a single fuck about anything other than getting a nut? How much did you succeed?”
I smile. I want to interrupt him and remind him of the parade of young plenty of fish poon tang he had a few years back when I met him. The guy was an amateur gynecologist.
“Yeah, you see that the alpha behavior is all that matters. There is no worrying about your values or what you believe in, or who you are. It comes down to what you do and your social weight.” Doug and I both take a drink. Before I can get a word in, he continues:
“My last real girlfriend practically tricked me into loving her. We were casually fucking and having fun. She knew I was seeing other people and she said it bothered her and she wanted to be with me. Up until that point everything between us was great. She would show up late at my place and just crawl into bed with me, give me back rubs, and all that sort of cuddling. We started to have sex over just fucking, ya know? I would just lay there in bed with her, playing with her hair, watching movies. It was just where I wanted to be and it felt like it was starting to go somewhere.”
Nods toss him some acknowledgment, and another long drink of my beer rebuilds my smiling state.
“As soon as she knew I wasn’t seeing anyone else, she dropped a bomb on me. She was seeing someone else. I was fucking crushed, dude.”
“She’s an alpha too, man.” I say what I believe.
Doug looks puzzled.
“Look, we can’t pretend things are the same as we want them to be anymore. The genders are fucked. Men are heartless Lotharios, beta males, Warcraft nerds, feminine limp wrist non-sexuals, or homos. Ok, the lines aren’t that clear, but you get the point. Maybe she was just holding out for better? Women are taking on masculine traits and they see submission to them as weakness.”