All of them bumps and bones, beautiful boulders, all of them stones. The sleet and slab, the crunch & munch, all of these crackheads near our homes. Scars and scabs, shit and spit, I’ve seen the dance plenty of times before: the swaying, the pulling, the grasping, the scratching—the glare of those red-capped eyes. To me it’s mid-afternoon…to him it’s still the dead of night. I aimed to avoid any type of confrontation with this nontoucher staggering up the centre of the back-alley’s path—his mind, no doubt, choking on the white clouds in the sky. The beamers are all over this city. We’re no strangers to that. Perhaps he’d just been back to back with his bag bride in the underground garage…who knew? The twitching of his tweak he can keep to himself.
White ball white ghost white sugar white tornado, the groaning the moaning the retching the screaming, eyes closed head tilted mouth open, home at long last from his interplanetary mission.
Prior to this I had been irritated to tears by all the crazed aliens in the local grocery store. Never cross Broadway, I keep telling myself, but there are mornings one tends to get lazy. There is a hefty price for that free parking spot.
He dipped suddenly to the concrete, distracted by a pebble, or filter of a cigarette. Henpicking for whatever they might have dropped the night before. I was able to pass unnoticed, relieved no johns had occupied the spot in my absence. I parked and began my struggle with all seven bags to the back door. Mere caution added haste to my steps. There was a diver in my dumpster and I did not want to share. But like a raccoon scrounging in the bushes he grunted his acknowledgment, and with one swooping motion out of the bin he started directly at me.
With bags of food and drink hanging off my wrists, panic crept upwards as the handle to the door would not turn. The lock was stuck and the diver staggered his dance my way. His eyes were fixated on me, his teeth were showing, his hands stretched out front. This was, indeed, the same dope fiend I thought I had left behind. And he was on a mission.
The door gave just in time and I stumbled through with my entire stash. Wanting to be nowhere near the next crack attack, I kicked the door shut to no avail—there is no house fee here. It bounced off his shoulders. The chase was on. He was hefty, strong, a lot bigger than me, purging a lifetime of unforgivable memories, introducing me to his nightmare. I climbed up the three flights, as fast as I could, careful not to drop anything—him right behind me, zombified, tripping on the steps, slamming against the walls.
He followed me to my front door. My heart pounding against my chest, sweat on my chin. I dropped the bags, fumbled with my keys, him just a couple feet away. He then fell straight to the floor and lay there. Motionless. I threw the groceries into my suite and watched for a moment before he finally stirred, lifted himself and began to crawl.
Carpet patrol right at my front door.
He picked himself up with one big heave, leveled himself against the wall. Drool oozed from his mouth. I straightened myself, no longer afraid, prepared to take him on. The binger teetered right past me.
“The devil made me blind.”
Beam me up Scottie.
All of those crumbs on the welcome mat, all of those apple jacks and French fries, the biscuits, the rocks of hell, all the beautiful boulders in the halls. The latest addition to our building had just made his entrance. Meet your new neighbor. Crackhead Bob. Now living directly next door.
Ldm
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Just the Luck of the Draw
Just the other night, Jo, a once-was shy girl in her late 20s, decided to bleach her hair platinum so it would resemble the fur of her beloved poodle, Carl. The next morning, she added a bright pink faux-hawk to the mix, and with the leftover dye she gave the unsuspecting pup a similar bright pink pooch-hawk. Together they meandered up the drive and ‘never-minded’ all the people around them. The people were nothing but distraction. Her and Carl were the only two that mattered. Just a girl and her boy walking side by side, water and biscuits in tow, sun in their eyes.
Frustrated from a horrible date and eager to get home one evening, Jo found an abandoned Carl as she took a shortcut over the railroad tracks. She stuck him in her basket and peddled him to suite 712, his secret new home in the Wylland Estates. Upon giving him a bath, Jo had made the important distinction that not one man in this city deserves her. “All any girl wants from a male is appreciation,” she told the lathered dog before spraying him with warm water. His ears pricked up in response and later that night he took guard at the foot of her bed and instantly won over her adoration.
Jo had tried everything. She’d frequented countless singles-nights at countless bars with countless girlfriends. She had placed several profiles on several websites with several pictures. She had gone out with the brother of so-and-so’s brothers’ stepbrother’s brother-in-law’s wife’s brother on a few occasions too many. She had picked apart each man she met. Some were already engaged. Some men spat obsessively; others matched her one beer with five of their own. She had met men who had just been released from prison, were just about to enter prison, or had just escaped from, most likely, the same prison. One man brought his mother with him. Another arrived at the restaurant wearing diapers. It was just the luck of the draw. Dating had become an exhausting chore.
Men were now no longer a priority and Jo took immediate action to reconnect. She designed two more tattoos, one for her shoulder the other for her forearm. She stopped starving herself and rediscovered food. She took piano lessons and wrote songs about freedom. And she took Carl on long Sunday afternoon walks during which he would lead her to a park of his choice where she would read out-loud to the pup as he napped. Today was no different, and it was upon finishing a chapter in her book about Richard Dawkins that she finally noticed Carl was not laying at her side as usual. Instead he was sitting in the lap of the man who sat cross-legged before her. Where he had come from did not matter, what intrigued her was his dyed-blue hair and orange-flamed faux-hawk.
He introduced himself as Merv and asked if Carl was Darwin’s Rottweiler. She offered mercy with a slight chuckle, but the poodle, with a strange whimper, rolled over and exposed his tummy. Merv responded with his fingers and palm and it dawned on Jo that the dog was possibly trying to communicate and so she politely, although reluctantly, accepted the offer for a glass of wine. Nothing more. Just one glass.
So they sat in the sun at a patio with a glass of red each and watched as the crowds passed by. Somebody somewhere was strumming for coin at a storefront and his song traveled over all the conversations it longed to silence. A glass of Spanish, as per her request, and when he asked why it was because when she was a little girl her dad flew her to a winery outside of Seville to meet her grandparents. A memory she’ll always hold dear.
It was at this point that he brought up his favourite hobby. He was even bold enough to stroke her hand as he joyfully explained his enjoyment of parking nearby the airport for hours on end, sometimes in the evenings directly after work. Just him, some Patsy Cline, a large sandwich and his trusty little video camera, bonding night after night in anticipation of something wonderful to happen.
He wasn’t chasing UFOs. He didn’t believe in such nonsense. He was looking to be a hero! It is bound to happen, he explained. Eventually a plane will have a faulty landing. It’ll veer off the runway, straight into the sea, or it will crash into another object, catch on fire. Or maybe even blow up before it reaches the tarmac! Eventually a disaster will capture the nation’s attention and he will be there, just him and Patsy—the only two attentive to the tragedy, and he will have caught it all on tape. On digital! And all the newspapers and all the news stations, as well as the authorities and investigators and government officials—they will all know his name! He will be awarded for his dedication. He will march in the city’s parade. People on the street will recognize and follow him with television cameras. He will be a celebrity. They will invite him on talk shows and he’ll portray his image as an enigma. An artist. And there will be books written about him. Movies made about him. In schools students will study him. Was he a prophet? Did he see it in a dream? Or was he part of a well-entwined conspiracy? Oh yes, he’d been planning this for years now! How much longer does he have to wait? How will he spend his money? What islands will he buy? And most importantly, is Jo willing to come along for the ride?
The guitarist on the sidewalk must have torn his string as the only sound that anyone on the patio heard came from underneath the table. Carl, who had been hiding in the shade, obviously ate too much grass and gagged all over Merv’s shoes.
Jo excused herself and picked up the pace a bit on the way home. She stopped to get a movie and a donair and didn’t share a single piece with her dog. Instead, she curled her lip at him with each sideways glance. Carl lagged a bit behind, head held low to the concrete, ashamed by his awful judgment at his first attempt to reconnect his mom with the men of their city.
Ldm
Frustrated from a horrible date and eager to get home one evening, Jo found an abandoned Carl as she took a shortcut over the railroad tracks. She stuck him in her basket and peddled him to suite 712, his secret new home in the Wylland Estates. Upon giving him a bath, Jo had made the important distinction that not one man in this city deserves her. “All any girl wants from a male is appreciation,” she told the lathered dog before spraying him with warm water. His ears pricked up in response and later that night he took guard at the foot of her bed and instantly won over her adoration.
Jo had tried everything. She’d frequented countless singles-nights at countless bars with countless girlfriends. She had placed several profiles on several websites with several pictures. She had gone out with the brother of so-and-so’s brothers’ stepbrother’s brother-in-law’s wife’s brother on a few occasions too many. She had picked apart each man she met. Some were already engaged. Some men spat obsessively; others matched her one beer with five of their own. She had met men who had just been released from prison, were just about to enter prison, or had just escaped from, most likely, the same prison. One man brought his mother with him. Another arrived at the restaurant wearing diapers. It was just the luck of the draw. Dating had become an exhausting chore.
Men were now no longer a priority and Jo took immediate action to reconnect. She designed two more tattoos, one for her shoulder the other for her forearm. She stopped starving herself and rediscovered food. She took piano lessons and wrote songs about freedom. And she took Carl on long Sunday afternoon walks during which he would lead her to a park of his choice where she would read out-loud to the pup as he napped. Today was no different, and it was upon finishing a chapter in her book about Richard Dawkins that she finally noticed Carl was not laying at her side as usual. Instead he was sitting in the lap of the man who sat cross-legged before her. Where he had come from did not matter, what intrigued her was his dyed-blue hair and orange-flamed faux-hawk.
He introduced himself as Merv and asked if Carl was Darwin’s Rottweiler. She offered mercy with a slight chuckle, but the poodle, with a strange whimper, rolled over and exposed his tummy. Merv responded with his fingers and palm and it dawned on Jo that the dog was possibly trying to communicate and so she politely, although reluctantly, accepted the offer for a glass of wine. Nothing more. Just one glass.
So they sat in the sun at a patio with a glass of red each and watched as the crowds passed by. Somebody somewhere was strumming for coin at a storefront and his song traveled over all the conversations it longed to silence. A glass of Spanish, as per her request, and when he asked why it was because when she was a little girl her dad flew her to a winery outside of Seville to meet her grandparents. A memory she’ll always hold dear.
It was at this point that he brought up his favourite hobby. He was even bold enough to stroke her hand as he joyfully explained his enjoyment of parking nearby the airport for hours on end, sometimes in the evenings directly after work. Just him, some Patsy Cline, a large sandwich and his trusty little video camera, bonding night after night in anticipation of something wonderful to happen.
He wasn’t chasing UFOs. He didn’t believe in such nonsense. He was looking to be a hero! It is bound to happen, he explained. Eventually a plane will have a faulty landing. It’ll veer off the runway, straight into the sea, or it will crash into another object, catch on fire. Or maybe even blow up before it reaches the tarmac! Eventually a disaster will capture the nation’s attention and he will be there, just him and Patsy—the only two attentive to the tragedy, and he will have caught it all on tape. On digital! And all the newspapers and all the news stations, as well as the authorities and investigators and government officials—they will all know his name! He will be awarded for his dedication. He will march in the city’s parade. People on the street will recognize and follow him with television cameras. He will be a celebrity. They will invite him on talk shows and he’ll portray his image as an enigma. An artist. And there will be books written about him. Movies made about him. In schools students will study him. Was he a prophet? Did he see it in a dream? Or was he part of a well-entwined conspiracy? Oh yes, he’d been planning this for years now! How much longer does he have to wait? How will he spend his money? What islands will he buy? And most importantly, is Jo willing to come along for the ride?
The guitarist on the sidewalk must have torn his string as the only sound that anyone on the patio heard came from underneath the table. Carl, who had been hiding in the shade, obviously ate too much grass and gagged all over Merv’s shoes.
Jo excused herself and picked up the pace a bit on the way home. She stopped to get a movie and a donair and didn’t share a single piece with her dog. Instead, she curled her lip at him with each sideways glance. Carl lagged a bit behind, head held low to the concrete, ashamed by his awful judgment at his first attempt to reconnect his mom with the men of their city.
Ldm
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