City of Singles

by Jason Bryan

  Kiki scowls at me. “Some fucken friend you are Dyl. You say you care so much and you come here and blame her for this, real classy.” I roll my eyes and give palms up dismissive shrugs to both of them. Misha continues to sob on Kiki’s shoulder. My work here is done, my hand pulls cash from my jacket and slips it under the beer I just slammed. Walking to Misha’s side of the booth, I kiss her on the top of her head and squeeze her elbow.

  “Take care Mish.”

  I hope she heard me say that, I know I care. It’s just that it’s hard to show in a way she can understand.

  Hostesses wave at me and tell me to have a good night. Those girls are so friendly when paid to be that way. Out in the street, I’m happy to find that it’s not raining anymore. My place is a good long walk from here and I need the exercise. Before long I’m walking over the Burrard Street bridge and looking out over the water, the vibrant city glowing at night, the marina below scattered with hundreds of boats worth more than I can imagine. Down the other side of the bridge and along Pacific, the city goes from wealthy, to wealthier, and finally into rock bottom shit when I turn the corner from Rogers Arena. Down Carrall and I’m soon back in the land of sidewalk pudding and hands looking for change. Almost home. A bus blows the red light as I prepare to cross onto the street my studio is on. If I had been wasted that could have been really bad. Across the street a girl steps off the curb, it’s Natalee from the coffee shop.

  “Hey Dylen,” she says, almost passing me now.

  “Hey Nat,” replying as I walk passed her. One foot on the opposite curb and a hunch turns me around. She’s quickly disappearing into the night. “Hey Nat!” yelled from my curb perch. She turns around on the other curb “Yeah?”

  “A snack, you and I, right now,” my face bursts into grin.

  Nat’s lips turn into a slow smile, “Mmm, ok!” she yells back.

  A woman walks by me with incredible body stench, a menthol cigarette hanging off her lip and holding a styrofoam cup. A couple dressed sharp, walking an energetic French bulldog, the woman is beautiful and has the face of a model. The man is much older and looks wealthy. A man walks up next to Natalee across the street and spits a few feet from her. The light changes and I walk back across the street.

  “I’ve wanted to check out this new place for weeks, right here,” she points to a little hole in the wall that I hadn’t noticed before, almost next door to the coffee shop. I turn and walk with her towards the door, about 50 feet from us.

  “Yeah? You don’t have anyone to go with?”

  “Na, I’m still a student and most of my friends aren’t into trying new places. They have their favorites and they stick to them.” I nod. “I’m still trying to get used to living somewhere with so many choices, so many places to go, people to meet. So many things to do! I’m from a pretty small town.” We step up to the door and I hold it open for her, she smiles as she enters, waits for me, and I choose a table by the window.

  “What took you so long to ask me to do anything? You’ve been coming into the shop for like a year now,” she smiles and takes off her coat, revealing a blue buttonup blouse.

  “I have a thing about meeting women at work, I can never tell if they’re being themselves or have their work-personality on. I don’t want to hit on someone when they’re under pressure to be nice and friendly to customers.”

  I can’t even remember why I started thinking this way.

  A waitress comes over to greet us with a couple of glasses of water, and a couple menus. “Thank you,” Nat says to her, so polite. I like a woman with courtesy.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Yeah I know what you’re talking about. You know the blonde I work with? She is such a rude person but you’d never know from her work face. Her personality is completely different. I try to be me all the time, why be anyone else?” I smile and nod, thinking back to everything I know about pickup artists and how they work. It’s like personality steroids to try and trick a woman into sleeping with you, rather than using merit and a genuine approach. It works better than anything else, especially honesty. I can’t fault guys who do that though, as being yourself just doesn’t have the allure of a peacocking, negging male.

  “I guess people act different than themselves because they want to conceal their motives? Imagine if you knew from the moment you met a man what his motives were, exactly what was going through his head. That would take the challenge out of dating, right?” She cocks her head a bit to one side “Hmm, I think it would make things easier, yeah-buuut, uhm,” her face grows puzzled and she looks up at the ceiling.

  I remain quiet as her eyes drop back down to meet mine. “What would you think if I told you what I want, Dylen? Wouldn’t that scare you?” Our eyes are locked on each other, her little gems look so beautiful in this soft light, a yellowish sheen from the streetlights giving her skin a bronze tone. I want to tell her it wouldn’t scare me, but that would make me seem desperate. Fuck it, I’m done hiding my intents. “No, no I don’t think it would. I’m looking for a real partner that wants to love me as much as I love her, for the long haul. I want to have that adoration and not just another relationship of convenience. Does that scare you?” I grin and feel my palms sweat, blunt honesty is a workout for my soul. “Well, I’ve heard a lot of bullshit from guys trying to fuck me!” she laughs nervously and then covers her mouth. “Oops, hehe,” she blushes. Taking her menu she looks at it and says “Oh wow, it all sounds so good! Tomato saffron mussles, or the arctic char graxlax?”

  “Hmm, something that goes well with white wine.”

  “Okay!” she puts the menus on top of each other and takes a sip from her water. I figure she thinks I’m desperate to get laid.

  A few moments pass and the waitress comes over, “Yeah, can we get the Ogopogo’s Lair pinot grigio, and the hummus please?” I hand her the menus and she replies “For sure, that all?” A silent smile and she walks away.

  “I haven’t had the best of luck in relationships Dylen, my experiences in Vancouver have been anything but romantic,” she says without a smile, her eyes looking out into the evening street.

  “When I had first come to Vancouver I thought, wow, the big city, so many new friends and precious moments to be had, and instead of finding romance or even a few good flings, I’ve just felt like, isolated from men.”

  Her eyes peer deeper into my own.

  “I guess it hit me last Valentine’s day, I was seeing this guy and, looking back, I should have seen this coming. I wanted to make him feel like we were really going somewhere. As soon as I got off work I rushed home and started prepping dinner. He comes home and he’s dirty from work, so I tell him to take a shower as I leave to pick up a couple of filet mignons and a bottle of wine for us. I go out in the pouring rain and pick up everything for us to celebrate the night together, the thickest, juiciest steak for him to enjoy! I mean, these steaks were beautiful!” She beams a smile. “But what happens when I get back? He’s on his Xbox playing some stupid video game. I understand people want to relax after work, so I just cleaned up his pile of clothes in the bathroom and threw the steaks on the grill. I then go into our bedroom and get my lingerie ready so I can serve him dinner in my newest little lacey number, just for him,” She sighs.

  “Then what do I notice? There is a towel on the floor beside the bed and his laptop is open, he just jerked off to some porn on Valentine’s then went to play video games!” I laugh. She smiles and laughs too. “So yeah, picture me, this 24 year old girl who spent her entire last week planning and budgeting out this night to make him feel wanted, made his favorite scalloped potatos the night before so I could throw it in the oven, the best steaks I could find, the hottest little crotchless pair of panties-uhm, I don’t know why I’m saying so much-”

  “Honesty is in short supply these days, keep going, this is me getting to know the real you,” I blurt out.

  “Ok, I just wanted to feel like I wasn’t the only one celebrating our time together, and then there I wa
s, standing in the bedroom thinking that I was just some bitch. Someone who didn’t need romance, but I do.” The waitress walks up and puts down a couple of wine glasses, “Good pairing with the hummus,” she remarks, pouring two glasses of pale yellow social lube. “Your hummus is coming right up,” she politely informs us as she walks away.

  “Cheers, Nat, to being wanted.”

  My hand takes my glass and raises it, our eyes meeting and her lips part.

  “To wanting and being wanted,” she replies.

  The glasses chime together and she takes a small sip, never taking her eyes off of me.

  “I’ve never just offered that much so fast to someone, about me, about my fears,” she gets comfortable in her chair and pulls her long, brown hair back over her shoulders.

  “I bet you’ve never had a conversation like that with a man, about the end goals, the purpose of even being together. I know I’ve never really been able to articulate how I feel about modern love. Why two people would choose be together when the options are unlimited and we don’t really need each other. Is there anything you can’t do on your own Nat?”

  She pauses and looks down briefly. Without looking up at me, she whispers, “You’re right, there is nothing I need a man for. I make my own money, I will have a career soon, my light bulbs are all changed and I have a deadly spiderkilling aim with throwing heels. Hiya!” she makes a couple of karate chop motions with her hands and laughs. I pretend to duck as the waitress walks up and I nearly put my face into the hummus and pita bread.

  The hummus is placed on the table and the pita bread steams. Soft bread dipped into mashed chickpeas, garlic, and lemon juice delights the tongue and compliments the wine. This not-so strange woman’s company, the food, wine, this table by the window, it feels like a new beginning.

  “Mmm!” Natalie smiles, unfolds her napkin, and dabs the corner of her mouth.

  “Delicious,” Nat says, taking her second piece of warm pita bread. I manage a grunt to acknowledge my satisfaction. Our faces become a commute for wine and hummus, occupied with food and grins until nary a drop remains on the plate or in the bottle. She folds her napkin on the table, crosses her arms and bends forward. “I’m supposed to be studying right now, and I really shouldn’t have come with you, but I’m so glad I did.”

  Finishing my wine gets difficult through such a big smile.

  “I have to get home and get some stuff taken care of myself, let’s get the bill,” I say, our eyes locked for more than a moment. I turn my head and attract the waitress, who instinctively brings the bill over.

  We could be mistaken for eager lovers.

  “I got it,” Nat says, putting a couple of twenties to cover the meal. She turns her body and puts on her coat, I look outside and it’s showering rain, she has no umbrella. We both stand up and walk out the front door, the awning of the restaurant barely sheltering us from the downpour. Her phone comes out of her pocket for the first time and she says “Shoot, my bus isn’t for another 15 minutes,” her shoulders ride up her neck and she puts her hands in her pocket with a little shiver.

  “Hold on,” I step out from the awning, into the street with my hand in the air. A yellow cab squeals to a stop, my hand finds the back door’s handle to open.

  “Where you going?” I call out to her.

  She steps over to me holding the door. “Commercial near 12th, you don’t have to.”

  I kiss her, and she pulls back.

  It’s raining hard and we’re quickly getting soaked, she looks a bit shocked that I would kiss her in the middle of the street against a taxi. She grabs me and pulls me close, our lips meeting again for a moment, and my eyes close as my heart opens. A car horn interrupts this blissful moment and she gets into the cab. I pass the driver a twenty through his cracked window and the cab pulls off. Her eyes meet mine from the back window of the taxi, then she’s gone.

  31 Pill Ow

  I forgot to dry my hair off after I got home, my head soaked as I watched her get in the cab, her face turning to smear and reflected light as it drove off. I even watched it turn the corner. A honk from behind startled me, I guess I was standing in the street still. A waved and I hopped over a puddle and onto the curb. Crushed shit and discarded gum flow into a constantly changing mural, a boot print and a couple of little logs form a demented smiley face. I swipe my way in and pass by a few unhappy faces exiting the building. One guy remarks on how I must be cold, but I can only smile and try and catch my breath still. My elevator comes and I’m soon back on the 5th, skipping down the hallway and doing airplane wings.

  Peaks of happiness stand on either side of a valley of reality. I’ll never be able to support a family, afford a house, live and love normally, but kissing her is close enough for now. I unlock my door and dance inside, it will probably close itself. Dancing half Fred Astaire and half Snoop Dogg, I kick off wet shoes while grabbing dirty dishes off my coffee table. I can do this because I’m happy and excited. Loading the dishwasher goes smoothly, the buzz in my head keeping my hands deft and my mind focused. The last time I felt like this I was ready to fall in love. The kind of love your friends make fun of you for. Being giddy, being unable to hide your happiness. Making stupid faces in photographs, your face flush with colour and lit up with a grin from ear to ear. I laugh at the irony of how most men would think I have the ideal situation, meanwhile I’m happy at the thought of getting to know a woman a little now before I put my penis inside her.

  I turn the dishwasher on and it whirrs away. I lay down on the black leather couch that I earlier moved into the middle of the room, kick some brushes and a paper pile off seat, put a pillow behind my head. Sighing, searching for peace with heavy eyelids. Even with this huge rush of endorphins I’m experiencing right now, this incredible sensation of happiness, I know it will crash back onto a thundering depression. How many other times had my lips touched a woman, how many nights had I held one close, been inside of, kissing and cumming inside of, just to have the relationship burn out. Where does actually believing in love begin again?

  John Candy. If anyone knew about love it must have been John Candy. Netflix is my favorite source for campy shit, as the selections of TV shows are so out of date. I spend the rest of the night watching Uncle Buck. Flashes of my childhood rush through my head. I had a neighbor growing up, Gordon, that I remember. He was big like John Candy, and rode a Harley. I end up pouring a drink, Jack over ice, and sip it slowly. The pillow has an wafting smell of wet hair and is a bit damp on my neck. The way people love each other in the movies isn’t real, but I so wish it were. A few drinks later and my pillow is dry. I find a long blonde hair on my shirt and lay it in a wide coil on my coffee table.

  I hope Misha is ok.

  32 Sting

  Your bed is universally the most comfortable at noon. It is typically found to be the least comfortable past 2 AM, but only if you need to be up by seven. Chinese-eyed and drowsy, I fling out an arm for my phone. A couple blind sweeps of the bedside and I have a handful of halfhearted communication. Dougie sent me at least a dozen texts. The first couple read:

  holy Shut bro shut just went down

  your Fuken bitch Misha and Kiki vouched for these dudes they brought with them to my party last night

  they invited more sausages and filled my apartment with fags in cashmere and old hipsters holding onto the glory of living in e van basement suites

  so ya these tools stole all of the coke and a few left then we noticed the flaps r gone and we ask them what’s up and then they get all defencive and accuse me of being crazy

  I have to shit so badly. I know I’ve been trying to lose weight, but last night I saw a video on Liveleak of a live wolf pup being run over on purpose by an asshole on a snow mobile, I ate a whole pizza out of depression. Maybe I had a double Jack and coke, or five, to wash it down. This is going to be a disgusting, greasy mess. I go to the toilet and shit faster than what could possibly be recommended. I take my smartphone with me and read on:

 
yeah then I chill out and my girl is in the bedroom with me saying shell boot everyone out and I’m cool

  then I get a text from your buddy Matt who was just coming back from a booze run and he sees mish and k walking out with those guys and one of them throws empties against the side of your building and they all laughed

  so wtf dude that’s like an 8ball GONE and those notches fucking laughs while their friends trash my building!

  I’ve been staying at home even more lately, feels shitty man. In this case I’m glad I missed out on what was sure to not only have been a sausage party, but a loser sausage party. Misha and Kiki probably hooked up with one of those d-bags last night after stealing Dougie’s blow. Maybe they took turns. Not whatever this time, fuck it, fuck that whole scene.

  I finish my business and flush. The process of life stinks and disgusts me. I brush my teeth, comb my hair and flex a bit. Not bad, a bit chunky still, maybe I’ve been drinking less. I notice Dougie also left a voicemail:

  “Dyl, it’s Doug. Give me a call man, those crazy bitches of yours started major shit here last night. I’m done with’em bro. Call me for the details, you won’t fucking believe it.”

  I don’t want to have to deal with this. Can’t people act with some standards? I laugh at asking myself that, a man who laughs in the face of standards to begin with. I don’t have any booze left to numb my hypocrisy, so frowning will have to do. Wait, fuck that. I open my phone’s contact list and hesitate over deleting Misha’s number. I should wait for her side of the story. After that little drinking and driving before the fashion show, and now this embarrassment, what’s going on with those two? Every moment I spend with them is some sort of fucked up shit, drinking, drugs, and the mindless fucking of Misha. I briefly think of Misha, panties around her knees, face down and ass up on my couch. I clear my mind and no longer want to think of sex as just something to do. Easy enough now, I’m not horny; just pissed off.