City of Singles

by Jason Bryan

  I stand up and get my bearings, the euphoria is back in full force and I check myself out in the mirror. Looking as handsomely fucked up as ever, a few moments are spent fixing my hair and face. Pounding back another mouthful of vodka, I open the bathroom door to several people I don’t recognize from earlier. Leaving the ruined shitter behind me with big striding steps and a smile on my face, haters gonna hate. The first poor guest after me will get intimately close with the odour of my bowels. Down the hallway and into the snow nest, Matt is opening another flap. Three large rocks fall out and he chuckles. “Shit he was right! These are fucken beautiful!” Cara squeals in delight, Dougie looks at me with shifty eyes and looks away immediately. I think for a moment if he feels as sketchy and shitty as I do, but that goes away when Matt hands me a rolled up bank note.

  Matt puts a coke rock on a glossy black plate, ceremoniously holding it up to one of his kitchen track lights at eye level. “Come, look! This is pure, totally pure. They call this el puro in Latin America. See that sweet off white and the crystalline sheen? This is the best shit. It’s not like that fucken bullshit Cara’s ex gets.”

  Party members nod, some laugh, a few conversations float on around us as Matt rants on about cocaine. He takes time to crush the rock up fine before cutting me two huge rails. I briefly worry about my heart until it’s all in my sinuses. Matt is sweaty and dancing about, he grabs the plate from the kitchen counter and does a monster half gram line. Another pile of blow is being tended to on the couch. I begin to peak again, looking to sit on the couch and chill out with my drink.

  I feel like I’m swimming, my whole body sinks into the couch, I tumble into the soft mouth of practical European design, and I’m eaten by leather. My jaw clenches in time with the beat. Coloured lighting flashes through the room and cuts ribbons of smoke in its rays. Laughter and fast talking voices spill out into the music and creates an anthem in my head. A few tight bodied girls dance and writhe in front of me, one is sliding down the knee of the other, ass stuck out and splaying apart her hips. The womanly figure of the upside-down heart shape created by a woman squatting or bending over, strikes my instinct ablaze. The familiar snap of a match, the pop and hiss of an angry fire elemental summoned. I feel it in me. My body feels furious and I sit up, unable to sit still. I pat my leg down, still have my phone. Wallet? I reach back, wallet. Keys? Do I need to leave, can’t remember the plan.

  Liz walks in from the office, she’s bitching about something. A blonde girl is behind her, her eyes wide and apologetic. The two seem to make up, pounding bass and voices in a roar to drown each other. My face is completely numb, gritting teeth the only option other than grinding them. My pulse is racing and I can’t sit still. I get to my feet, feeling my heart hammering against ribs and feeling as though the room is on top of a colossal-sized tuning fork. Every conversation and each note of the music seems to reverberate through reality, my shoulders and back nod, music washes over me, my arm raised and I’m a fucken cowboy now. The world in front of me throbs with a zeal for life, Liz’s smiling at me, Matt just cut up a huge couple of lines and I’m about to put on some Pitbull.

  Shit’s cool. The Music is bumping. Chicks are dancing. I dance while a few girls grind, Liz bumps one out of the way to dance with me. Liz spills her drink on some guy. Faces are familiar whether I recognize them or not when wandering around drunk and high, I don’t know who Liz just soaked with her drink, but I’m glad he’s not freaking out. Smiling faces, hugs, shots, bro fists, Matt gets out a hockey stick signed by Kirk McLean. The party grows rowdier with guys showing off new choke holds they learned from a buddy, several rounds of high fives, drinking, drugs and laughter at a frenetic pace now.

  “Fuck where were you guys during ‘94 that night? Check this shit out.” Matt turns his hand so his palm is under the coke plate’s light, showing off a noticeable burn scar.

  “Dude we stayed down there for hours just throwing the tear gas cans back at the pigs. I learned fast they are fucking hot right after they’re launched!”

  “Haha! Fuck yeah!” parrots some random.

  That must have been fun, running under streetlights, throwing shit. For one day being able to smash what little order there is left, rejoicing at the smells of tear gas and ash, a fucking symphony to my ears when glass breaks. Batons, shields, Guy Fawkes masks, little green tear gas mist men dance to the songs of crackling buildings. Anarchists cheer as it all falls down.

  Dougie hands me a shot. Bam, done.

  My mind evaporates.

  “Matt, you got any ice left?” Dylen asks. A melted bag of ice sits in the sink, Dougie taps Dylen and shows him the awful news. Groans are heard and warm vodka breathes a sigh of relief. Shoes snuggle with feet, tagalongs are gathered, and the first expeditionary cocaine commando party recon team descends in the elevator.

  Dylen cracks a joke loudly and old people on the 3rd floor just made some angry faces. Dylen somehow realized this and wishes they were high too. This elevator has been in service for decades, but it hasn’t seen such juvenile jubilee in years. Dougie somersaults out of the elevator and Cara jumps on his back. Liz and Dylen embrace in a kiss and push several buttons on the elevator. Quantum entanglement or coincidental timing, Cara and Dougie turn to witness elevator doors closing just as Liz’s skirt lifts up. Cara and Dougie sit in the lobby, hands and arms interlocked. Dougie wants to kiss her, but knows his coke breath is disgusting. He hopes Cara can’t smell it. Cara’s wondering she should have worn her bronzer, Dougie obviously thinks she’s not good enough. Fuck him then, she thinks.

  Two humans in the elevator wiggle and thrash their tongues, clothing disarrayed and Liz has two fingers inside her. Her hand slides across the front of Dylen’s pants. Two more floors open and close, bottom lips are bitten tender and Liz’s panties cup wet girl parts. Dylen’s brain a maelstrom of highs and higher jagged peaks as her musky scent lingers inside his nose, heaven on earth. The mission to get ice crosses his mind again and he hits the G button with a free hand while internally hunting for her G spot with the other. Drinking warm vodka is simply not partying responsibly. Liz assembles her shirt and helps Dylen with a few button snaps. The elevator thuds to a stop on the ground floor and the doors rattle open, Cara and Dougie in an awkward drug fueled embrace.

  Out on the street, streetlamps and shadow give everything an orange and black tiger stripe pattern. ATM signs wave at jonesing stragglers, a club across the street uses curvy neon and pulsing bass to entice drunks to cups, bottles, and bitches. A number of people are smoking outside, rowdy and boastful to the night. The darkness smiles and will hear about their hangovers from a girl he’s been chasing forever, Morning. Dylen and Liz dance up the sidewalk in imaginary Hammer pants, moving and clapping wildly to a beat only they cam hear. Cara can’t get her lighter to work while Dougie looks around nervously for a corner store.

  “Sev’s down this way Dyl,” Dougie calls out while pointing.

  “Yeah bro we’re grabbing cash and meeting you there,” Dyl yells back, already a quarter the way down the block.

  The two couples split up and Cara and Dougie walk up the street together, Cara’s lithe figure hunched over her phone, slender fingers tap on her Blackberry and inspire names for firecrackers. Lady fingers thread words with the careful and elegant motions of a spider weaving a web. No way is she going to fuck this Dougie guy, he’s handsome and all, but he doesn’t even own his condo. He’s a renter and she needs security. Her girlfriends have found guys who will let them live in condos and not have to work, while the men work jobs that require travel. Her friends live the life, shopping, partying, gossip, and seeing who has the dirtiest stories to tell. Here she is 27 and still working on her degree while 60k in debt. Fuck that, she isn’t even going to look twice at Dougie. She clicks send as she finishes explaining to her friend about how hot this guy she just met is, and sends a photo of her and Dougie kissing to her girlfriend.

  Dougie takes a flap out of his pocket and stuffs one of his house keys i
nside. He said he wouldn’t buy any more of that shit on Thursday, but Friday had a different idea in mind. Forty in party powder usually leads to a good time, eighty guarantees it. The paper pouch is in his palm and concealed, he glances around, just Cara, a few Chinese people, some taxies, a girl walking her dog a half block up. Dougie stops and looks down into his palm. Taking a key, he digs in, slowly pulling the key out while balancing the coke on its side. Up to his nose and he feeds himself some brain candy. Dougie puts the key back in, back out, and lights up the other nostril. Damn smooth, going to get more of this guy’s stuff.

  Cara didn’t notice that Dougie wasn’t there, causing a startle when he jogs up beside her. “Oh Doug, it’s just you,” Cara’s hand half sarcastically falls on her chest, tips first. Her nails are a deep azure. Dougie thinks inside of his mind what a beautiful, but stuck up bitch Cara is. She’s smart, ladylike, graceful, and not normally easy at all. She thinks she needs money over love, and that’s why he’s going to fuck her brains out and never talk to her again. Dougie says nothing and offers her a key hit. She stops and glances around quickly before loading both of her nostrils. She giggles after both. Her smile is from ear to ear and she holds on to Dougie’s arm the rest of the way to 7-11.

  Women’s heels and acceleration from engines, crowd murmur and a siren blocks away, Dylen and Liz share the moments. Liz mentions to Dylen what to buy at 7-11, no ice is an unforgivable party foul to her. She digs through her mini black purse and finds her bank card. Dylen plugs away at the touch screen and soon a fat wad of cash is in his hand. Liz slides her plastic inside, types a couple of buttons wrong, Liz giggles because Dylen had his finger inside her, having reached up her skirt and finding her silky pink thong easy to slide under. Dylen is so high he forgets that those fingers were just used on a public ATM machine. Liz turns around, kisses Dylen deeply, and gives him her cash for the next round of booze and drugs.

  A group of wealthy Asians walk by, dressed very conservatively. Liz feels almost slutty for wearing such a short dress. Almost. Dylen pulls down on his jacket with his hands in its side pockets, which hides that he has a half chub going on. Liz and Dylen head toward the 7-11, both smiling and closing their eyes occasionally, a bit longer than a normal blink, to hold onto that cocaine-fueled bliss. A Nissan GTR flies up the street, mechanical noise and race exhaust echoing down through the buildings and alleys. Liz hates the sound and her face grimaces. Dylen smiles and dreams of wheel spinning 2nd gear shifts, sore necks going into 3rd, and chirping the tires into 4th. Fast cars and beautiful women, feeling rich. Chemicals rush positive thoughts into their brains, the short walk to 7-11 is quiet, but deafening inside their heads.

  Cara and Dougie stalk the isles of convenience, each of them oblivious to why they even came here. Eyes fidget in sockets as the group tries to recall why they walked here in the cold. Dougie buys a slurpee, Cara buys some chips and grabs a coconut water. Dylen and Liz walk in just as they finish paying after waiting in line. Dylen bee lines for the ice, and has to walk by late night food. Greasy tubes of meat, zombie poultry wings, oxidized corndogs. Sugar hints sweetly in the air, pitted apples under the Fresh Food awning, a row of sandwich clone soldiers rest on their backs. Subs with grey meat have labels like ‘Roast Beef Supremo’ and ‘Ole! Tex Mex chicken fiesta wrap.’ Taco bell used to advertise to make a run for the border, most who eat ten day old 7-11 fiesta wraps will be running for the bathroom.

  Six bags of ice. Dylen’s hands are freezing after holding them while in the line. He’s pissed Dougie forgot to get the ice. Ice in bags, Liz, Cara, Dougie and Dylen are back on the street. Liz leads the group down the end of the block and turns the opposite way back. Cara calls out to Liz and she doesn’t reply. Dylen is so high he doesn’t notice and stays quiet. Dougie stops and snorts another key line. A quarter the way up the block, Liz turns and darts into a McDonald’s. Cara says out loud “What the fuck,” and is obviously pissed off. Dylen puts the bags of ice down. Dougie walks over to Dylen and puts down the loot he’s carrying.

  “I’ll see what’s poppin’,” Dougie says, Dylen nods. Cara lights up a smoke and stares into Dylen’s glazed over, high as fuck eyes. Inside the McDonald’s, Liz just wants chicken nuggets. She couldn’t resist and hates to ask. She was on meds for anxiety related to her weight, and has struggled with eating as long as she can remember. Her doctor recommended that she quit her vegan diet as it had been making her have dizzy spells sometimes, and she stood up a little too quickly months back, passed out ,and hit her head. She would die if someone made fun of her eating, especially at McDonald’s, but she couldn’t ignore two day old hunger pains any longer.

  Dougie walks up to her in line and asks “What’s up?” Liz has her arms folded and stares ahead “Chicken nuggets! Want anything? I’m buying!” Liz replies in her sing songy tone, secretly hoping Dougie wants to eat so she doesn’t look like the only fatty. The line is pretty long and a couple people seem restless. “Yeah, uh... fries?; Gonna ask Cara and Dyl if they want anything.” Dougie notices a fat guy in the lineup talking loud on his cel, a spike of tension and his voice is loud and arrogant. A shitty little goatee and the way he sips from the straw in his large drink is pissing Dougie off, fast.

  Dougie steps out of the McD’s and Dylen looks agitated, Cara is getting a light from a stranger. “You guys want anything? Liz needs food.”

  “Aww it’s so sweet when she eats too!” Cara purrs, “She takes little nibbles! Yeah I want a shake.”

  Dylen turns to Cara “Watch my shit, I need to see a menu!” and leaves through the door into McDonald’s.

  Dougie shrugs, Cara points back towards the McD’s and tells Dougie she wants a chocolate, no, no, strawberry shake! Dougie nods and ducks back in, and down the long, corridor shaped urban McDonald’s. Dougie can’t understand how these people want to eat, the drugs in his system working to ignore all needs to dine or sleep.

  Liz and Dylen are lost in conversation. The fat man on the phone is talking about eating pussy. “Hey, hey man, your girl on the rag and you never had your red wings? Haha bro! Bro it’s fucken’ choice bro!” The whole restaurant can hear him.

  Dougie looks around nervously, he knows Dylen can be the hot head sometimes, that bipolar maniac has some serious attitude problems some days. Now it’s Dougie acting the fool and getting all bothered by some fat d-bag guy yelling into his phone. Dougie can’t believe Dylen hasn’t said something. Dylen is laughing. He can totally hear the fat idiot describe how the side to side motion of eating a girl out on her period would leave red blood in a wing pattern on your cheeks. Funny though, on drugs he knows he has a much higher tolerance for getting pissed off. Dylen is thinking of how sexy Liz looks.

  Liz is horrified. Dylen mentioned how he wants to steal a couple nuggets, somewhere inside Liz’s mind it translates into her being fat. He wants to eat her nuggets because if she eats them all, she’ll gain weight. Liz takes all of her focus to not run out of the lineup while laughing nervously at the chicken nugget theft comment. Dougie is staring at some fat, annoying greasy East Indian guy. Liz hates East Indians, but she’s not racist. She had her car hit and ran twice by brown guys, and when she worked at the keg in Surrey, East Indians would give shitty tips. They would rev the engines of their Mustangs in the parking lot before leaving, assholes. Maybe this guy had a Mustang, she thinks anyone who drives one is an automatic cheesedick. Liz would tell anyone that she hates racists if they asked. Liz thinks to herself how she was so fucking thin back then and sighs.

  Dougie is pissed. The fat guy is now yelling at the McDonald’s people to hurry the fuck up with his meal. His attention diverted for a moment, he screams “Yeah I fucken know, 15 minutes for a fucken’ burger!” The scurrying little immigrant Asians working behind the counter dash and spin aimlessly while beeps go off on the deep fryer. One of the older ones is the only one actually doing anything, firing fries and burgers into bags, a shadow passes behind the food chute and another couple burgers slide down to fill waiting orders
. Dylen shifts his weight onto his right leg and sighs.

  Liz grows impatient and pulls out her phone to text, Cara is on her 3rd smoke, high as balls, and freezing cold. Liz texts Cara that she’s getting a nice strawberry shake and to chill out. Then writes back and apologizes for the choice of words. The line shuffles forward and fat phone guy is two orders back in line. A tray sitting with fries and a pop gets a burger on it, finally. Liz swears it was on the counter when they first walked in. Fat phone guy starts waving at someone in the back, “Hello China? Where’s my burger? This is fast food, stop cooking like you’re driving!” A few people laugh.

  “Sir, please stop,” the littlest looking Asian grandma working the counter looks tired. She’s not working the 3 AM shift for fun, and the pleading look on her face says everything. Dougie and Dylen both glance at each other and think the same thing. Liz is looking a little panicked, her fingers text away to calm her. Fat phone guy walks over to the woman at the counter and barks a few f-bombs about his fucken burger and fucken fries. “You what? Fuck this!” fat phone guy says as he throws his cup on the floor, the lid flies off, and ice scatters everywhere. Shoulders fall down and sag on the older woman working here, she looked a little down when Dylen walked in, looks like clinical depression now.

  Dougie feels a surge of empathy and growls, “Dude you’re a real piece of shit.”

  Dylen’s face lights up in a maniacal smile.

  Fat Phone looks at Dougie, “Hey buddy you could end up cut up for that, Sicilian neck tie mother fucker!” and draws a line across his throat.