THE SUSHI PROPHECIES

AUGUST HILL

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Designed by Plump Press

ISBN cataloguing information

Name: Hill, August, author.

Title: The Sushi Prophecies / August Hill

Description: Vancouver : Plump Press, 2020

Classification: FICTION / Literary. | FICTION / Humor | FICTION / Fantasy

ISBN 978-1-7771143-1-2 (Electronic Book KDP)

ISBN 978-1-7771143-2-9 (Paperback KDP)

Version_1.0

First Edition: June 2020

Table of Contents

Part I: Six Days Prior to Swallowing a Fairly

Verdigris: Urban Haute House

Skinny and Bitter

Part II: Five Days Before Soiling Myself

Kimono Americano

The Record Man

Bent and Broken Pins

The Sushi Temple

A Baby Giraffe Amongst Thwappy Leaves

The Girl Who Smelled Like Christmas

Part III: Four Days Previous to Observing a Proper Switchblade Encounter

The Besting of Carlos Twelve-Toes

The First Last Altercation

The Sea Tales of a Frances

Unnaturally Bendy Strangers on Rubber

Part IV: Three Days Foregoing the Electrocution of a Husky Girl

Truth and Justice, and Tea

All the Hockey

Part V: Two Days Preceding a(nother) Severe Genital Mashing

The Tinglies Tell Otherwise

Filthy Sombrero II

The Electronic Fowl

The End of the Line

A Stone in the Robe

Part VI: The Day before an Eighty-year Old Woman Farted on Me

Talkin’, Squealin’, Lyin’

All the Bruce’s

Some Really Nefarious and Profile Shit

Namaste, Slut

Awake on Planet Quesh

Onomatophobia

Warm Metal Numbers

Theft of the Bean

Third Eye Frank

Sick Puppies

Mighty False Creek

Bigger Fish

A Boy Named Trauma

Like a Gentleman

Part VII: A Few Hours in Advance of Violent Retinal Gorging

Tapping In

Pull My Thousand Fingers

The Rue of Four

No Please, Thank You Yes

Harmony

Respect

Purity

Freedom

A Dog Named Captain Crunch

Tranquility

Golden Angel’s Trumpet

Kokoro and I

Chashaku & Chasen

Sakizuke

About the Author

Enjoy The Sushi Prophecies?

“Expose yourself to your deepest fear;

after that, fear has no power,

and the fear of freedom shrinks and vanishes.

You are free.”

― Jim Morrison

Part I: Six Days Prior to Swallowing a Fairly

Important Molar

Verdigris: Urban Haute House

S o many faces turned to look at me, and me alone. All inquisitive, all penetrating.

Then came the nausea.

I looped around the curvy, cobbled pathway, back in through the rear doors of Verdigris, brushing by Elle as if she were just another one of them.

“Hey Seb, where’s the fire?”

“In your yoga pants, a little cream will clear it up no problem.”

“The place is packed, what’s your problem?”

“Just making a call,” I said quickly.

She presented a look, one of many that I had not yet come to understand fully but could file as menacing.

“Adina can wait. I’ve got a line up at the bar, Cam is high as a kite talking to rich white ladies about Star Wars, one of your interns stabbed another with a cactus, and I’m pretty sure Solomon is pleasuring himself in the greenhouse.”

“It’s important, I’ll be back,” I said and kept moving towards the front doors, picking up speed as I went.

Where to go, where to go, where to?

There’s a great one two blocks down, haven’t been there for a while. It’s a good one for sure.

I pushed into a jog across the street away from my favorite block with the coffee shop, the record shop, and the decrepit abandoned house. I put my head down as my flip-flops flapped past a group of people heading to the bars on Granville, tucked down an alley and after three deep breaths of stale vomit stench, I was ejected out the other end.

When it came into sight, I made a dash for it.

It was empty, thank god my phone booth was empty.

I ripped open the folds and slammed my body against one of the walls, pressing hard to slow the shuddering of the Plexiglas.

I breathed in slowly, deeply, closing my eyes to focus on my lungs and control the burning. When the tinglies resided, I was able to pick up the dull black receiver, wiping the whole thing down with my shirt before placing it gently to my ear. Cold plastic kissed my face and I shuddered like one might when peeing on a February tree.

“Please insert coins or credit card now…”

I knew her well. Her voice was stern but safe like a new mother’s. I was a fan of her work and had hoped she would get some action up past Broadway or 10th Avenue, but that was another girl’s gig, and another service provider. Nobody goes up there anyways unless you need a mattress and a root canal.

I like them all for different reasons, the recorded voices, but hers was special. She sounded like a pleasant woman with some secrets. There for you, but perhaps more for herself.

I slumped back in the booth with my hand over my face and the phone pressed against my cheek, warming the plastic quickly. I stayed like that for a minute too long before hanging the phone back on its hook. I slid my hands over the metal buttons beneath the phone’s receiver, smooth, buffed by the oil of strangers’ fingertips. The coin slot swung unbound by gum and dirt, all volume controls were in working order as well.

Beautiful creation.

Some people do yoga, some heroin. I find my touch of nirvana in the embrace of a telephone booth. Do with that what you may.

With a guilty look around, I emerged from the booth like Superman after a false alarm, but still, like a new man. Energized, refreshed…normal. More normal.

Walking back towards the nursery I could feel the sky cooling by the minute as the remainder of the sunset finally snuck over the islands to the southwest. It was almost ten o’clock and the city was just waking up for Friday night and I started to feel the ghouls all around; broken souls sifting through the walkways towards drink specials and whatever other vice picks up when the neon flows free.

Granted, I myself might be perceived more of a degenerate having just crawled out of a city telephone booth. Why is that? Why should I feel like a sociopath because my personal sanctuary is within the flexy-plexi walls of a friendly old hustler scraping by on nickels and dimes? Why can’t a guy find solace in a vertical crate?

I’ve done all the analysis, dug up all the metaphors for my affliction: the phone line as an umbilical cord attached to the womb; the booth as a freeze frame within this blazing technological revolution; the recorded operator’s voice as a sterilization for humanity’s epic and progressing malevolence. I could go on and on. In the end I’ve embraced the fact that mankind is no longer born quirk-less, it’s a by-product of generations before me shoveling processed meat upon bleached molars, microwaving plastic and fornicating in air-conditioned sanctuaries. I’ve accepted, and I’ve moved along.

I moved along some more, back through the streets toward my greener, and likely less-semen-saturated haven. I passed the hedged fence that barricaded half the block, hiding the nursery - my secret garden - within. Tiptoeing over cobblestone cracks and listening to the pumps behind the green wall as they drove gushing water through filters, I finally loosened up and smiled to myself. At the top of the street, I gazed up at the oversized bespoke sign dangling over the corner and couldn’t help but feel a little proud. Just a tiny little bit for once.

The sign reads Verdigris: Urban Haute House. I designed a new font for the purpose called Ramona’s Smile, named in honor of the last time I saw my mother.

This is what manifests from sketchpads and coffee by the sea.

After months of watching how things were stagnating at the nursery, I pushed for a full redesign of the space and the brand, much to the discomfort of one of the Franceses. Yes, two owners, both named Frances, both very much in love with each other and both quite male by nature. When the business tripled its seasonal revenue and the other Frances was financially able to leave his wife, well that’s when I was given free rein on the whole thing. Now, it’s a bit of a hotspot, and the Franceses have been on a honeymoon ever since. Seldom heard from, rarely seen.

Inside people were everywhere in the front courtyard. The very same demonic faces from just fifteen minutes earlier were now dancing to what sounded like a mix of blue grass and Chihuahuas group-raping each other in the streets of Tijuana. I only assumed Cam was in our makeshift DJ booth now, mashing up some records.

I’ve thought about a full liquor license once or twice, but logic always gets the better of me. The last thing I want is all of my plants bathed in urine nightly and my bathrooms soiled with sexual aftereffects and…soil. Besides, if you’re dancing in the front of a nursery at ten on a Friday night you probably don’t need any more stimulants or depressants.

The music rumbled on, tiny fairy lights dimming slightly with each pound of the bass. Through the floodlights near the back of the place I caught a hand flicking for my attention, I could pick those gangly, dangling fingers out of a police line-up any day of the week. All ten digits, with their glowing white knuckles protruding like chunky pebbles, they all belonged to my newest hire. I say newest because I hadn’t hired anybody for eighteen months, outside of the hordes of sweaty coop students milling about. But they didn’t count.

This particular rogue went by the name of Solomon, a sage for the perverse and jaded. I’d better heed his call before a monsoon of angst and poetry is unleashed.

“Good King Solomon, how are you on this evening?” I strolled closer, getting back into my skin.

“I never can tell for sure, but it appears I live and breathe before you.”

“So it seems.”

“There is a large truck outside, and a driver stoned off bureau-cracy awaiting your divine intervention to set him free.”

“Get some gloves, give me a hand, would ya?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” he was rightfully surprised by the invite, I avoided working directly with him for fear of prolonged interaction.

“I thought that also, but there I go shocking us both. Let’s go.”

Like mowing a lawn, scraping a barbecue, or eating a box of Smarties in the order of a physicist’s rainbow, I find unloading a truck deeply fulfilling, however. I looked up into the back of the beast to find my favourite driver shifting around pots. Long black arms and legs bending around smoothly.

“Mr. Abbotsford, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Hey, what’s happening, Seb?” he smiled brightly through the shadows, and I noticed his afro again for the first time, fully unleashed like a sheep in a hurricane.

“What are you doing here? Where’s the rookie sub that changes every Friday night?”

“Nothing doing this week, another one gone.”

“What happened this time?” I asked.

“Dude hit a parked truck last weekend, doing about thirty, messed up a week’s worth of inventory.”

“How’d he ruin everything going so slow?” Solomon piped up from behind me.

The driver tapped the latch on the back of the truck, “Left the back open.”

“Ya, but I’m sure you guys hit parked cars all the time,” I laughed.

Abbotsford deadpanned me. “Dude hit a fire truck…at the site of a fire.”

“Oh…ohhhh.”

“Ya, all the product fell ever-so-slowly out the back, got thoroughly soaked and damn-near created a mudslide on forty-ninth and Oak with all the soil and hoses. Shit got messy.”

“Well then, no rookie tonight.”

“Pisses me right off,” he said, “I called my finest pony out the stable, just waiting for me. She’s probably cursing on me right now.”

“Well, let’s get you out of here then, Abbotsford.”

“Seb, you always know a player’s gotta play, let’s do this thing,” the wiry driver grinned and threw a long arm out with a closed fist on the end, I hit it with mine like an awkward white man would, and we moved along.

Silence is the key. Taking a mental stock of all the specimens making their way off the truck and systematically moving through the load. My mind goes wild with all the merchandising possibilities, the stories we can sell when a freshly strange plant is surrounded by customers. I take in the silence and the train of motion as Abbotsford passes a plant down to Solomon, Solomon dishes it off to me, and I cradle it to the ground where I welcome it to its new home…one I promise will be temporary. In that silence I feel like a teacher at an orphanage, making my mark as best I can while gently maintaining a barrier. I’m not so much worried that the plants will get attached, more that I will. It’s been a problem in the past, one that usually ends with Adina choking our apartment’s garbage chute with ornate adoptees.

Twenty minutes passed before the silence broke.

“What about this?” Abbotsford shouted from deep within the truck.

“What about it? That thing looks like it’s sick, take it back,” Solomon shouted into the shadows of the giant white box.

I poked my head into the back of the truck and squinted.

“What in the hell is that?”

“I don’t know, let me grab my invoice.” Abbotsford plopped down on the edge of the truck and started fingering his fresh gloves through the sheet that he had been checking as he evicted my pots of green gold one by one from his truck.

“Got it, got it, got it…forgot it...got it, got it. Hmmm, brought too many of that one, do you want me take back some of the aloe?”

“No, no, in fact let Benny know that I’ll be ordering a shitload more aloe next week. Apparently, there’s a new tenant on the block that just cleared me out.”

“New? Burton’s Vinyl didn’t go under, did it?” he was genuinely concerned.

“No chance, they’d have to drag him out by his ponytail, and you don’t want to do that to a man powered by mushrooms and DMT. I guess it’s that old Victorian house where Sanford sleeps.”

“Shame,” Abbotsford tisked, returning to his slip. “Okay. Got it, got it, got it. Ahh, there she be…weird.”

“Weird what?”

“Weird, I don’t know what it is.”

“Well, yell it out, maybe it’ll sound familiar.”

“It just says…D.Solutus.”

I looked at Solomon, whose face was usually a touch less blank than it was at that point.

“What the fuck is that?” Solomon said.

“D.Solutus. There’s no genus, just D?” Benny usually had very detailed price sheets and order forms, as did most of the suppliers that made the cut. “That could be anything, there’s like a thousand genus’s starting with ‘D’.”

I lifted myself up into the back of the truck and crept through the darkness towards the thing. “What the fuck is that?” I whispered, inching back with caution, “It looks like a lobster vomiting cotton candy all over itself.” I stared at it, my head slowly turning sideways. “A bunch of lobsters vomiting a bunch of cotton candy.”

“Did you order something that looks like a bunch of lobsters vomiting cotton candy?” asked Abbotsford.

“I ordered no such thing.”

Abbotsford looked at me with eyebrows up. “Do you want it?”

Solomon shot the driver a look, then moved to face him the same way that I was standing. “No, we don’t want all of your extra shit that just happens to make it onto our invoice week after week. We’re sick of getting charged for random carnival-shellfish plants that probably cost hundreds of dollars.”

Abbotsford looked shocked, “Right, sorry, I just thought you might take this thing off my hands. Boss don’t like it when we show up with shit left in the truck. Look, it ain’t hundreds, I’ll credit your account when I get back, no big deal.”

Solomon huffed and stared at me like I would unleash some sort of hell, as if I was capable.

“No problem,” I said, “but don’t worry about the credit, I kind of like it.”

“It smells funky,” Solomon grunted, shifting quickly out of confrontation mode. He turned his attention to a pair of gloves he had tucked away.

“Okay, I’ll pass it down to you so you can get out of here and go catch your pony.”

“Right on Seb, you’re a solid brother,” he said, cracking his muffled fingers.

“I don’t know what that means but thank you.”

“Solid,” he repeated.

“Right, thank you.”

Back inside, the place was really starting to move. The sake and veggie juices were flowing, Elle was moving around at top speed to the frantic beats of trip hop blended with Burton’s soul record. I walked in with the nauseous lobster plant under my arm, struggling to work my way towards the stairs. The bloody thing felt like a full-grown child, perhaps dead shellfish weight. Just like my folks used to refer to me.

I brought it upstairs and put it down beside the couch, pushing the pot back by the railing with my foot so nobody would see it and catch a mighty scare. I almost felt bad looking down at it. Some creatures just never get a chance, having been made by Mother Nature in her drunken haze. Fish with savage under bites, bald and naked cats, monkeys with blazing purple buttholes, birds with foreskin hanging from beneath their beaks. Mother Nature is indeed an inebriated pervert.

I turned and collapsed on the couch with my head to the ceiling. The fans were crawling around, slowly chasing each other like horny iguanas through the heat. I was by no means tired but I felt absolutely drained. Drained by the stale energy of people. There wasn’t one person in particular, it was just…everybody. This city is crawling with people just hanging on to life by silk strings blow-ing in the wind. Everybody can put on a face, hell I’ve done it all day. The difference with me is that I actually love life, I just can’t stand the other people that take up space in it. Depression, anger, self-doubt. These things I can taste in the air and it is exhausting.

Truth be told, that’s the reason I love a good phone booth.

When do you use a payphone? When you’re in a pinch most likely. You find a phone booth if you have no other means to communicate, but absolutely must. Your car breaks down, you’re fighting with your girlfriend, you’re lost, you need something, you want something. All emotionally charged situations, drastic and gritty and true. People’s most honest and exposed moments occur within the walls of a phone booth.

Truth and harmony. That’s why I love a good phone booth…I think.

I closed up the shop just after one in the morning. People were starting to linger a little too long. I hate to boot out a lover of foliage, but some of these people are on more drugs than necessary to enjoy a nursery at midnight. One young fellow with pupils bigger and blacker than his painted thumbnails was starting to stroke my cilantro in a precarious way. I won’t stand for herb molestation, not on my watch.

Out in the night it was warmer than expected. Verdigris can get like a jungle, so I never anticipate it to be even toastier outside. It smelled of vacation in the street and I could see a figure way up the hill sweeping the sidewalk like it was Disneyland. Sanford, my favourite homeless guy, always sweeping. The cement was still warm enough to squeeze out the last fragrance of the day’s gum ejections, raspberry, mint, and cinnamon.

I turned the lock on the gate, and suddenly felt Elle’s chubby presence. Indeed, she was staring at the back of my head.

“What?” I said.

“What do you mean ‘what’? You’re a goddamned flake today,” she said too quickly to not be preloaded.

“What the hell?”

“I know,” she said back at me as if I was agreeing with her.

“No, what do you mean?”

“You know exactly. You’re an open book for pretending to be such a mystery man.”

“Then what can you read off me, because I’m curious. I’d like to know.”

“You’re miserable.”

“Miserable?” I laughed nonchalantly.

“You’re miserable because you’re not happy. You’re not happy because it’s too easy. It’s too easy because you’re a pussy.”

I stared at her with my hands thrown up.

She lifted an eyebrow.

“You’re an abusive friend…this is not a good relationship,” I said.

“That’s another thing…”

“No, no, no,” I said, predicting where she was headed. “You can bitch at me all day everyday but leave my vagina out of this.”

“I don’t care how spectacular her vagina is, she’s a waste of good clitoris nerves.”

“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I’m starting to think you don’t care for my lady friend. What exactly is your problem with Adina?”

“How much time do you have?”

“Is this the part where you tell me I’m too good for her, all she does is smoke weed, serve steak and martinis with her ass out, is emotionally draining, and quite possibly is the fakest human shell of a being north of Seattle?”

Elle smiled, “I wasn’t going to say any of those things, I was just going to say she smells like cream soda Slurpee’s all the time…and quite frankly it stifles the nostrils.”

I shook my head around, jamming the keys into my pocket and shrugging defeat. “Okay, well what about your boyfriends? I’ll do my pride a favor and take a little dip into the shallow end.”

“Don’t even-”

“Mike.”

“Michael.”

“Michael, sure. Michael had a massive forehead that shined up like a coffee mug, and all he talked about was crime scene invest-igations.”

“He was in a band.”

“He played the bass! You dated the bassist, Elle. I mean…come on.”

“Ya, I was in a bad place.”

“Jason.”

“Hey now, Jason played Lacrosse. It’s our national game.”

“No, it’s not. He wore a leather jacket…”

“So? Not everyone is as conscious as you, oh high-and-mighty Sebastian.”

“He wore it with shorts…every day.”

“That was an issue, yes, but we worked through it.”

“He rollerbladed with his friends down on the seawall. Leather-jacket-and-shorts-wearing lacrosstitute, rollerblading around.”

“That was the relationship-ender, to be certain,” she put her head down, “I don’t tolerate rollerblading.”

“…He wore a leather jacket rollerblading,” I confirmed.

“I’m aware, let it go…”

“Who else, who else? Oh, do you recall Keith?”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she turned and started walking.

I followed. “Keith was a sweet kid.”

“This conversation is all wrapped up,” she said.

“He treated you well, he was good looking, well-spoken.”

“Get over it, we’re all done here.”

“Then one day you walked into his apartment to find him all alone on his couch with his pants around his ankles -”

“This has nothing to do with anything.”

“But good ol’ Keith wasn’t touching himself, no sir. Keith was gripped onto two skinned whole ducks with their heads still on… pumping and stroking their necks feverishly!”

“He was…preparing dinner for us…romantic,” she mumbled.

“I just have so many questions about Keith, what was he trying to accomplish with those poor floppy Chinatown ducks? Was he quacking off?”

Elle spun around and pushed a finger in my face. “There was nothing sexual about that situation…he wasn’t even…erect.”

“Was he just winging it?”

“There was - shut up.”

“Do you see my point here, Elle? There’s nothing wrong with a little exploration once in a while. It’s important to see what’s out there for you, whether it be a wasteful soul like Adina, or a necro-philiac duck-stroker like Keith. It’s all about experiencing things.”

Elle put her finger down and slumped a bit, “But you’re living with your experiment, Seb,” she said sadly.

I looked into her eyes searching for something to say, something about a duck.

“I’ll see ya,” she said and walked backwards with a wave.

“See ya.” I mouthed slowly as she turned and started up the street.

Well that got more serious than it needed to be.

I threw my hands in my pockets and went the other way, lifting my nose in the air in a search for some salty breeze but finding no such thing. I poked an eye through the vine-choked chain link fence that hid the back garden of Verdigris. As usual, there wasn’t a pot out of place, little flickering red dots stood like nano-sentinels protecting every corner of the property. If you didn’t look for them you would never guess they were there, but the dozens of lasers would surely find you if you decided to climb that barricade and have a swim in the ponds. Yes, it has happened before, and nothing is better than being woken up at four in the morning to come press charges against some drunk and naked frat boy with a koi up his ass.

I walked up the steps to Burton’s Vinyl and gave the front door a jiggle for good measure. It was a promise I made Burton last time he was robbed. I told him I’d check to make sure he was all locked up every night as long as he cut down a portion or two of mushroom tea weekly. It worked out, less robberies to deal with in the morning and fewer calls to come help Burton out from under the desk in the afternoon. The last time he had called for help after a few too many mugs, it seemed there was an unsavoury armadillo harassing him about some cassette tapes. I showed up and sorted it out with his patron, but he’s still taken to chasing out anybody in a wheelchair regardless.

I continued down towards the old Victorian house, Sanford’s abode. I peeked in through the boarded windows once again, shift-ing my weight around to see whatever parts of the room I could see. There was no sign of candlelight within, not a whisper of a shoe being polished, no faint cigar notes, nothing.

Just then there was a click and the top floor illuminated. It was no candlelight that poked through the cracks in the wood and I knew that clicking sound well. It was a hanging light, the type your dad hooked under the hood of the car in a cold garage, an orange exten-sion cord looping around all over his feet as he worked. There were faint shuffling noises and I could have sworn I heard singing.

Best to keep it moving. That is definitely not Sanford, and the last thing I want is an introduction to some creepy new tenant in the dead of night.

The apartment was dark when I got home but it smelled of warm bodies, like I had just missed the party. I flipped on a floor lamp and saw that I had. The kitchen was invaded by red plastic cups, about thirty in all. The counter was sticky with a rainbow of liqueurs, the place smelled like a candy store, the kind that perverts hang out in. Clearly Adina and the girls were pouring their favorite type of drink tonight, pink-blue-and-greens.

I had even bought her a set of shot glasses just so she wouldn’t keep wasting those plastic red cups, but I’ll be damned if the latest rehab celeb isn’t always on the front page of US! Weekly promoting the disposable life.

The coffee table was plastered with tiny tubes of makeup and tools that subdue a girl’s lips and eyes into shiny or matte structures like an elastic prison. In the middle of it all was Adina’s massive bong. She called it ’Guacamoles’, incorrectly plural, and it was a triumphant green sonofabitch. Tonight, Guacamoles held a message for me. I ripped the yellow sticky note off of its long-charred shaft and read the words written so handsomely in eyeliner.

At Tapa Bar, we’re rocking out tonight, comeout bitch! Kisses xoxo69xo

I squeezed the note into a tiny ball and crammed it into Guac-amoles’ ashy bowl.

I lay back in the couch and rubbed my eyes, breathing out deeply as if that might rid my soul of this feeling.

This city and all of its people are rotting, I thought out of no-where.

Might as well join ‘em.

Skinny and Bitter

I discovered a pair of jeans and a semi-fresh white shirt amongst lumps and loads of Adina’s lady-things and was out of the apartment before you could say ’use and iron, scumbag’.

With the corner apartment and a stairwell between mine and the unit next door, I can get away with murder in this place, but every time I come or go, I can still hear the tiny footsteps of our closest neighbor creeping to the peephole. Sickly, constricted breath pulsates, and I swear I can hear stifled grunts once in a while. I don’t know his name, or if it is a him, but I felt the creep more often lately, so I moved to exit swiftly.

The coffee shop was closed and only the steady beat rumbling through the lead pane windows of The Tapa Bar ricocheted around my cobblestone courtyard by the sea. All of the tables and chairs had been stowed from outside to hide the sins within, but each large window told another story.

Inside, the little lamps everywhere glowed as if fueled by garlic and women’s hot laughter. A jazz and hip-hop compilation helped guide the beat of the cocktail shakers that rattled consistently behind various bars situated up and down split levels. Every tiny table for four was taken and the beautiful people stood teetering too close to one another, touching arms and trading sips of candied martinis. I looked down at my white shirt, gleaming in the sea of dark ones and smiled again for the little things as I slid towards the main bar.

“Sebby!” yelled Malcolm.

It was better to see this particular friend at night for some reason. I grinned widely and threw a finger to the latticed roof as if I was somebody.

“Sebby, sit down right here, it’s about time.” Malcolm brushed away a homely looking girl who was minding her own business. I shrugged at her as she inched away with her giant green bag. She scowled and I smiled back with my eyes to keep the balance.

“Well, what can I say, I like you dammit. Besides, that Jon Lovitz-looking chick has been sipping the same Cosmo for over an hour.”

Jon Lovitz was definitely still in earshot and I could feel her twisted sneer burning the hair on my neck.

“What is it with these people that think they’ll magically trans-port to some faggy hotspot in Manhattan the moment the cranberry juice hits their lips?”

Jon Lovitz scuttled off into the noise, leaving a trail of Cosmo vapors behind her clickity-clocking Monolo Blahnik knockoffs.

“You’ve got to stop using that word, bud,” I shook my head.

“Sorry, New York.” Malcolm deadpanned me.

“Set up two shots of Appleton’s and a Red Stripe, you degen-erate.”

“Rum?”

“A good sailor drinks rum, Malcolm, always rum.”

“Are you sailing?”

“I am tonight, my friend.”

“Well, let me fill your sheets then,” he said, pulling two shot glasses out of nowhere. “Adina’s somewhere around here.”

“That’s too bad,” I said.

“Huh?” Malcolm lost his smile for a moment.

“Just kidding, calm down.”

His smile returned as he motioned to the makeshift dance floor where a few brave, or vain, tanned girls giggled and swirled about majestically.

I sipped down the rum and fought the shiver when the glass hit the wood again, just slightly after Malcolm’s did.

“Now,” he began, shaking his face like a wet dog, “let me tell you a little something about the vicious specimen that followed me home last night.”

“Do I need to get any sort of inoculation before we begin?” I asked.

“Not that I know of,” he said, thinking for just long enough before going on. “So, she’s sitting at the bar all night sipping on mojitos, waiting for a friend.”

“Right.”

“Exactly. So, come ‘round about two o’clock I make her one last drink-”

“Stiff enough to slaughter an emu?”

“Clearly. So, she comes back to my place and we get to talking.”

“Talking?”

“So, we get to fucking. We’re doing the regular deal; me on top, she on top, doggy. Me on top, she on top, doggy.”

I tried not to picture it.

“Strange thing is, when we get to the doggy part each time, she’s writhing about all crazy-like and her feet keep on grazing my balls.”

I sipped from my beer and worked out the logistics in the ol’ mind’s eye.

“So, the third time around of position-swapping we get to doggy again. This time I’m all set, my mind is already wandering to a sloppy calzone and some highlights, you know?”

“Sure.”

“So, I go in with the quickness and some power-thrusting just to let her know I’m on my horse and moving on out. Suddenly, here come the feet again, exploring around...and then wham! She fires her big toe up my ass.”

Someone down the bar choked.

“Toenail in the rectum?” I ventured.

“Yes. At first, I’m shocked, and a little hurt, but mostly shocked. I think it’s just a coincidence because I’m working it so hard and she’s out of control on the sugar cane and mint. Maybe the legs and feet go rogue, you know?”

“Sure.”

“But no, she digs deeper! I swear the girl must’ve been in Cirque de Soleil or something. She went knuckle deep with the big toe… the big toe knuckle, man.”

“Jesus.”

“Excuse me, do you have any Hypnotiq?” A guy with more gel than hair had sidled up on me just as Malcolm had his foot in the air, wiggling it for visual stimulate.

“Her toe’s in my poopshoot, Seb, what do you make of it?” He ignored the guy and stared at me with fire in his eyes.

”Well, if I know you, which I do, it sounds like a round two to me. She could have some tricks up her sleeve…or sock, or what-ever.” I nodded Malcolm’s attention over to the bald-gel guy who was watching and waiting.

“Hypnotiq’s for chicks dude, what else can I get you?”

The guy’s face started its transition to deep red, “I’ll get a Bud.”

“Don’t serve Bud, terrible beer. How about a Godfather?”

“What’s that?”

“Twelve bucks.”

Grasping a scrap of dignity, and hair, the guy explored his wallet.

“Oh, and no American bills, dude.”

“How’d you-”

Malcolm slapped down a scotch glass. “Oh, and stop trying to find the good taco places here, you Yanks piss me off when you blow up a spot. Stick to Granville.”

The guy left his colourful money and took flight.

“Fucking Seattle, hey?” Malcolm went back about his business harassing slow drinkers at the end of his bar.

“Burton said there’s some hotshit band coming up from there this weekend. Must be why these guys are milling about.”

“At least they tip well, or don’t know the exchange rate.” Malcolm pocketed the bills.

I smiled and pulled the stubby bottle to my lips. Then there was that weird sensation, the one where you feel eyes on you. With some sort of stealth, I looked to my right and locked eyes with one of the girls on the dance floor. It’s that feeling you hate and love all at once. Embarrassment, excitement, self-consciousness, perhaps a semi-boner, it differs case to case. I was dealing with a borderline semi-boner situation in this particular instance.

She looked away then back again in a flash and smiled that kind of smile that converts a borderline semi-boner situation into all-out denim warfare. Her friends looked as if they crawled out of a ten-pound Italian fashion magazine, bragging boots that aren’t to be worn more than once and dresses that have travelled for leisure, not necessity. But her, the girl staring back at me stood out perfectly, she wore a simple white tank top that was likely an undershirt found in the little boy’s section at Gap, some sort of black skirt that looked like she made it herself out of a few really nice steakhouse napkins, and a pair of lime green flip flops. Her hair actually looked real with its twilight sheen, and I couldn’t spot a lick of makeup smeared across her dark face. She was like a fresh apple strudel amongst marshmallow’d, caramel-mocha-cheesecake tarts.

I tipped my beer to her, she nodded back.

I raised my eyes to the tangled lattice roof with the exposed brick loft-ceiling and thanked the lesser-known God of Tapas for His generosity.

Then came a waft of hot vanilla perfume and stiff weed smoke straight up my nose, and as quickly as it had risen, my manhood regenerated into a sort of flopping mackerel gasping its last breath on the deck of some unpleasant tugboat.

“What’s up bitch?” Adina screamed, throwing her bag over her head and whipping her hair around so it covered her eyes, possibly helping her walk straighter towards the bar. “Malcolm…shots,  Malcolmmmmmm!”

Two cronies followed behind letting out insecure party noises and giggling, like white-towel hype-guys on stage at a live rap show, the ones with the swap-meet chains and the microphones that don’t work.

The entire place watched her walk the mile to the bar, twist my head back and pry her giant tongue into the depths of my mouth, giving my molars a fair polish.

I came up for air and immediately tossed back some beer to get rid of the taste, relief escaped again when I realized I had swallowed her gum. It was cinnamon.

“Seb, we just did a half cap of Molly each. Cindy did a full cap so she’s definitely getting fed tonight!”

Just then Malcolm appeared.

“Ladies, I’ve been waiting for you all night. What can I get you?” He was already pouring the tequila. “Hi, Cindy,” he said, sticking his tongue out and continuing to pour without watching. She wiggled her fingers in a twelve-year-old-girl wave back and bit her lip.

Dirty tricks all around, cheap and dirty.

“Let’s do a tequila shot! Wooooooh!” Adina hollered, and the cronies joined the chorus, like a barbershop quartet. But instead of synced, tapping gentlemen with stiff hats and white pants, they were like train cars mashing into each other in some sort of perpetually looped violent wreckage video.

Shot glasses hit the bar hard, followed by a dusting of salt and three abused lime wedges.

“So, what’s up, boyfriend, did you get rich today?”

Adina’s face was still screwed up from the shot, and the other girls looked like they had been sodomized. Tough to say if that look was permanent or not though, certainly regular.

“Ya, you know, wealthy douchebags need greenery just as much as the next guy.”

“You didn’t bring back any weird shit to our place, did you?”

“No weird shit.”

“Did you look into those hydroponic lights?”

“Must’ve slipped my mind, babe.” Right, I was totally looking forward to setting up a full-blown grow-show in my bathroom, you bet.

“Anybody get any ass over there yet?” she laughed through squinty eyes.

Adina had visited Verdigris exactly one time. She had since come to believe that every person I employ is a hopeless dork and suitably sentenced to a lifetime of self-misuse.

“Nope, they were all masturbating full-tears today, just another day, babe.”

“What about that Elle, she still a bitch?” Adina looked back to Cindy for some hype.

“Easy now, she’s one of my best friends, take it easy.”

“Whatever, it’s cool to have that one pity friend, I get it. Throw one ugly into the mix just to be humane, for sure.”

I sipped on my beer and looked to Malcolm for solace, but he was busy interrogating Cindy’s clavicle.

The music changed abruptly, and Adina bounced up on her high heels. ”Oh my God! Dance, hookers!”

Adina and the cronies screeched as the most recent R&B remix to have slaughtered a Nina Simone song came over the speakers. They squeezed through the crowd with their arms up in the air, a wake of bronzing dust followed behind.

“I don’t know…I don’t know” I said to myself, shaking my head to the ground.

“No doubt, that…is…great,” Malcolm stuck his tongue out and pointed it towards Cindy’s hindquarters.

“Good luck with all of that, enjoy the fulfilling conversation, you two together might be able to crack that whole quantum physics thing.”

“In about an hour that one is going to be enjoying her night thoroughly…and that is the meaning of life my friend. Cynthia is the  meaning of life.”

“Cindy.”

“Damn straight.”

“Let’s hope she keeps those toes to herself.”

“She can put her toe anywhere she damn-well pleases if she plays her cards right.”

“Cards? There’s no need for playing her cards right. She could look at you cross-eyed with a chunk of vomit stuck between her teeth and you’d close this entire bar down.”

Malcolm’s tongue finally retreated in full. ”Your tone’s all wrong, and I feel slighted.”

“I should hope so.”

“Beer?” he offered.

“Thank you, sir.”

I wondered if my girlfriend was making out with someone of the same sex on the dance floor yet, but when I swivelled the stool around my left knee found its way right between the thighs of another human being.

“Wow, can I get a drink first?” she smiled and looked down at her cowboy stance, my knee pushing her skirt tight against her crotch.

“Dear lord, that is awkward. I’m so sorry.” I twisted back the other way, allowing the tanned girl in green flip flops some room to navigate.

“No problem, happens all the time. I actually carry a shoehorn everywhere I go now.”

“Must make for interesting conversation.”

“Well, let’s find out.”

She laughed, then I laughed, which all folded into that wind-down of chuckling…the two-second warning before awkward time.

“So, is that yours?” she pointed over her shoulder just as Adina howled to the pulsing red lights above her head.

“What, that old thing?” I looked over and waved hi honey as she slapped a Cindy’s ass to the rhythm of the high-hat. “Yeah, that’s my little angel.”

“She’s gorgeous.”

“Well, she keeps the lower-end Cover Girl collections in busi-ness.”

“So, a natural beauty…”

“Naturally.”

“How long have you been together?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe just long enough to know better.”

“Sounds amazing.”

“What we have is special, it’s a special kind of thing.”

“Play some fuckin’ Snoop Dogg, bitch!” Adina yelled above the music and somewhere in the distance a man on a first date coughed up a tiny calamari ring.

“So, how’s your life?” I asked her as if I had that much confid-ence, swiveling around to get Malcolm’s attention from down the bar.

“Oh, not bad, more interesting since I got here,” she smiled.

“Well, the food is piss poor, but it’s expensive.”

“No, I mean Vancouver, never been.”

Just then Malcolm spread his long arms across the bar, as if to wipe all drinks in front of him out of the way to make space for new ones. A blackjack dealer of over-priced despair. He stared at the girl in the flip flops, he did not speak. A silent pervert with precision.

“Did you want something to –” I started.

“Two dark rum, and a spiced-rum on ice.”

Malcolm continued to stare at her as he emptied one bottle of Captain Morgan and unscrewed the next. She stared back, unfazed.

“Grandpa was a seaman,” she explained.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” I said, when all was filled, and Malcolm had been summoned by a gold-drenched ginger down bar.

“The meek shall inherit the earth. The brave will get the oceans,” she answered, putting one glass in my hand and raising her own.

“Right.”

The dark rum crept down my throat, retracing the steps of the last one, but this time crawling and latching onto each cell as it went, burning like a bastard.

When my vision returned, she was shaking her fingers, droplets of rum burning off into the air.

“Did you swallow any?” I asked grabbing her hand.

“I never miss a spot, must’ve stuck my finger in your glass, sorry about that,” she smiled nervously.

I pulled her hand up to my lips and caught the slippery liquor from the tips of her fingers.

Then I dropped her hand immediately.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what the hell that was.”

What the hell was that?

“No worries, happens all the time…like knee sex,” her smile ex-panded, little white teeth rolling out one after another.

What the hell was that? I yelled again at my brain.

“Ya,” she picked up the other glass of rum on ice, a sweetheart for diverting, “first time here.”

“I don’t believe you,” I said flatly.

She blinked, but the smile remained.

“Ya, no I don’t believe that you’ve never been here before.”

“Well, that’s something you’ll just have to work out,” she stared for a second reading my face like a wine label. “What’s the first thing you noticed about me?”

“Your skin,” I blurted out.

Why am I talking?

“Well, you can call me Skinny then, that shall be my name.”

“Ok. Why are you here…Skinny?”

“Well, my grandmother’s a rich old hag on a mission to fight her own senility, so she’s hired me to be her play pal for the summer.”

“Like an internship for the lush and crazy?”

“Exactly.”

“Strange and wonderful.”

“Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked without notice.

“Not really,” I answered immediately.

She withdrew a little bit.

“I’d say you’ve got more of a spectacular kind of thing going on. But you don’t strike me as the type to need that sort of feedback.”

What was that? It’s like there’s a gremlin in my brain screaming out words - words in the order of what might be said if I had ab-solutely no filter.

“Well aren’t you something,” she said.

“What did you notice first about me?” I spat out.

Curses.

“That look you have in your eye…like you’ve seen it all, and lost interest and faith. Like you’re a wise and bitter old sage, bored with humanity, and now just squeezing small joys out of mocking the stupidity of commoners.”

“Well, I suppose you can call me Bitter.” I smiled.

“Nice to make your acquaintance, sir.”

“The pleasure is all in my pants.”

This is ridiculous. I made a mental note to cut out my tongue with a corkscrew when I got home.

“Well, Bitter, I will see you around. I enjoyed the shot.”

“My life will never be the same.”

“You ain’t kidding,” she smiled like a cat who had gotten what she wanted before being pushed off the dining room table.

I blinked hard and shook my face. I couldn’t help watching her slide away like an eel through water, an eel with an amazing ass.

I spun slowly back around and stared at the wall of bottles behind the bar. Slivers of mirror and colored glass poked through-out, and I captured the look on my own face slicing through like I was the VHS cover shot of a bad horror movie.

“Looks like you saw a ghost, friend.” Malcolm came sliding over, another button undone on his shirt. With only four left, he was on track to lose one every half hour until closing, as per usual.

“That girl…” I said.

“No good, man.” He polished a martini shaker with his filthy bar rag.

“What?”

“Yeah, that chick stinks.”

“Why?”

“She’s been in here before.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, she tried to play me out, man.”

“I don’t know what that means, Malcolm. She tried to—”

“She is…impenetrable. Like a vaginal Berlin Wall.”

“Ah, she’s no good because she wouldn’t hook up with you.”

“My dong is East Germany, just trying to do its thing, you know?”

“Your analogy concerns me,” I said.

“Whatever…she’s a robot, into chicks probably too,” he scoffed.

“For sure, she probably has a huge dildo that comes out of her leg, like Robocop.”

“Exactly,” he agreed.

“Is it self-cleaning?” I watched her disappear in the crowd in the bar mirrors.

“Not hers.”

“Could get rusty.”

“Oh, it’s definitely going to corrode from that acidic—”

“Whoa, okay, okay,” I put my hand up. “So, next time I see her, maybe I’ll tell her off for you.”

Malcolm was thinking hard but trying to not let on that he was thinking hard.

“No, that’s cool. She’s probably just using you to get to me, you know?”

“Without a doubt.” I said, swigging from my beer.

“She is pretty hot for a carpet-pounder.”

“A damn shame,” I said.

He disappeared again down the bar upon hearing the faint sound of knockoff Gucci purses snapping open.

I sat thinking about Skinny’s skin, that smooth chestnut skin. She looked like a girl raised in the bush by savages with a penchant for moisturizing. Suddenly injected back into society and only just now realizing that she is ridiculously hot. And, apparently, fitted with a hydraulic thigh compartment that holds a futuristic dildo. Though, unfortunately not of the self-cleaning sort.

I finished my beer, and paid some sort of recompense for the liquor, against Malcolm’s insistence that ‘booze costs nothing to the smart man’. Then I rose from my chair and left as he was taking nineteen dollars for a green martini a few chairs down.

Adina was dancing wobbly on a speaker when I tapped her leg.

“I’m out of here, Adina!” I yelled upwards.

“What?” She cupped a glass up to her ear, droplets of anon-ymous pink liquid shooting through her hair.

“I said you’re a treacherous hyena!”

“Okay, cool!”

“Try not to get banged-out by too many strangers!”

“Yeah, I’ll see you at home in a bit, just going to finish this set!”

I smiled and drew an invisible heart in the air with my two forefingers and pointed up to her.

Adina made a ‘V’ with hers and rammed her tongue right down the middle, the universal, yet subtle, symbol for cunnilingus.

The Tapa Bar spat me out feeling a little light on my toes, but as I started moving my head was hit by a wave of what I always thought electricity would feel like. Strangest thing.

The sizzling behind my eyes followed along down the staggered steps to the sea wall. In that stumble, I concluded the stretch of False Creek between the Cambie and Burrard bridges is more of a stagnant pool of decomposition in these early summer months. There is no real sea in that stretch, it may crawl in on occasion, but quickly escapes when it realizes it is but a distant relative to this standing pool. However, I still like to wander down and look at all the riches man can accumulate and spill from land to water. Obsessed with the other side, just like my mother was.

I hugged the railing and searched for a reflection on the surface of the great green deep. Elaborate boats nodded all around for attention. I noted that a ship is always a ‘she’, and so I couldn’t stop thinking about women. They started popping up all over, shouting through the crackle of my mind.

Elle popped into my mind and yelled for me to listen to her.

Adina popped a cap of ecstasy and yelled for me to be more like her.

Skinny popped the buttons of her skirt and yelled for me to… well, there was happy yelling involved.

Mom popped the clutch of our Lincoln and yelled at the money in her purse as she backed out of the driveway for the last time.

I sat like that until my elbows got hard and wrinkled the wrong way on the seawall railing. There was a rippling of the water below. The olive sea bubbled up in clumps of foam and gurgling noises, and with one final burp a sea otter came up from below to bob on its back like a large, hairy turd.

It looked up at me. I looked down at it. It rubbed its face and the corner of what appeared to be a condom wrapper flipped up and fluttered off the beast.

Is that what it is then? Does it all come down to this metaphor in motion? A beautifully crafted creature of the sea, made to live in the wet womb of our planet, but is also subject to the rigorous filth of humanity. A mêlée of nature and man, coexistence, good and evil.

Truth is pure confusion.

I smiled at the creature. I believe he gave me the finger.

Back at the apartment, I could smell the cream soda before I even opened the door. I must’ve been longer than I thought, stumbling along the seawall thinking strange things.

“Adina?” I ventured, then I saw her in all of her glory. Her pants were pulled down around her thighs and she lay ass-up across the couch as if she’d attempted a Cirque de Soleil de-pantsing ma-neuver but failed and pass out giggling.

“Hey, disaster?” I said louder, she groaned and shifted her butt cheeks around like there was phantom toilet paper stowed away some place sacred and itchy.

I kicked off my flip flops and grabbed a stubby from the fridge. The door to the balcony was open and the curtains waved over Adina’s carcass creating some sort of Bride of Frankenstein scenario. I stepped over the sill and slid the door closed behind me. The only noise from below was the occasional slap of the Salish Sea against a sketchy ferry dock. Once every few minutes a car would glide over the Burrard Bridge away from the city, cruising just below the speed limit, the driver likely scouting the distance for hidden police cars.

The night replayed in my mind and I couldn’t stop thinking about Skinny, about the ridiculous things that came out of my mouth. It was as if she was coaxing it out of me, persuading bizarre revelations.

The thought of it just made my head hurt. Actually, in that mo-ment my head was really starting to catch fire. The streetlights grew little warm haloes, and my last sip couldn’t go down. My swallow was broken. Then it hit me, another wave of electricity, my entire body seized up and I could see white spots as something tried violently to escape me.

This was the same feeling I had earlier that night with Skinny, but much nastier. And it was gone just as quickly as it had crept up.

“Sebby!” came Adina’s hoarse whisper from behind. “Jesus, you okay? You’re just sitting there like a retard staring at the sky.”

I swiveled in my camping chair, crisp and new. “Oh, look who’s visiting the land of the living, little miss gong show!”

“What?” She blew a pile of foul hair from her eyes and pulled her pants up.

“How you feeling? About as good as you look right now, I imagine.”

Then she bit her bottom lip and dove from the doorway onto my lap, licking my face like a baggy of cocaine had exploded and the only remnants were dusted all over me.

“Take your pants off immediately.”

“You’re high on ecstasy and you smell like puke.”

“It’s the tequila.”

“It’s terrible,” I said, pausing momentarily before bursting into motion, “let me get this belt off.”

“Oh my god, I love you,” she whined, climbing on top of me, gyrating off-beat like a bored stripper in the Tuesday afternoon show.

“Whoa, whoa,” I grabbed her hips and pressed hard with my thumbs hoping that’s where the brakes were, “just a second.”

“What, why?”

“I want to get a condom.”

“Yeah, right,” she continued twisting her hips like she was eras-ing a chalkboard.

“The last thing I want is to get you pregnant.” I said out loud.

She stopped, looking genuinely hurt.

“As if I would keep it for Christ sakes.”

I lifted her up like a potted banana tree and moved her to the railing. She squeaked with the touch of cold metal to her bare ass.

“You’re so hot to me right now…what’s your problem?” she put a finger to her lips and squeezed one leg over the other in a pee stance.

Inside I searched around my bag frantically for one of the theoretical condoms Elle had been stuffing in there behind my back. A serrated foil edge pricked my finger and I gripped the bastard quickly. I looked closer and saw it had a frowning stickman with a limp penis drawn crudely on it. It was surely by the hand of Elle, I knew her stickmen well, but had yet to see one that sad before, with his manhood shamed so.

I tore the wrapper open, rolled it back cringing with the sliming sounds and was soon led outside by a glowing blue erection. Glow in the dark, very good.

Adina was quick to find the source of light. She was slurring and giggling about something to do with her ‘glow-belly’ and was soon thrashing around like a slow-motion shark-attack. Her breath smelled like milk from a black rubber bladder lying out in the sun. Street milk. Despite the tastes and smells, I carried on with the work. Sixteen minutes later or so, her clammy chest fell on mine and her legs came to a shaking halt. She laughed and caught her breath as I sat picturing the light saber inside of her, glowing away. A soldier in a strange land, the walls coming in on him with nothing to do but shy away and hide for survival.

“Did you come or was that all me?” she wheezed.

I had not, but I had faked it before, I could fake it again.

“Nope,” I said before I could help it.

Dammit.

“Awww, baaaaaby! Let me help you,” she said as if it were my fault she was the consistent premature ejaculator here.

“Nah, I’m good.”

“What?”

“I’m good, I had a good time, you had a good time…no need to blow a load to prove it. I’m going to go get some nachos and watch sailing on satellite, good job tonight, you did good things.”

I rose up nude on my balcony and pressed slowly down against the railing, contemplating the street below before pushing back up and smacking her hindquarters with a cold railing hand. “See you in there,” I winced and gazed off into the distance like a weary athlete about to trot off the field for the very last time.

Part II: Five Days Before Soiling Myself

Kimono Americano

I woke up the next morning to nothing but some nacho remnants in the sheets and a set of seriously swollen testicles. I stared down at the sizeable tent I was pitching beneath the covers. Well, maybe not massive, but I could still picture a trapeze act with tiny people defying death around the shaft of my wang. Big top madness.

Then the phone rang.

“Wringling Brothers Travelling Acts and Amazing Feats, Gustaf Von Slepcht speaking.”

“…What?”

“Sebastian here, who’s this?”

“Hey sweetie, just wanted to say hi.”

“What?”

“Hiiiiiii.”

“Who the fuck is this?”

Long pause.

“It’s your fucking girlfriend.”

“Adina?”

“Yes, fucking Adina. What’s your fucking problem you piece of shit?”

“Oh, hey. That didn’t sound like you until just now. What’s up?”

“I’m calling to say hiiiiii,” she whined.

“Really?”

“I had a great time with you last night.”

I was confused at that point, being as we never talked on the phone. She never calls just to say hi, and I hadn’t even seen her last night, well, aside from our sixteen minutes of pleasure.

“Well…nice. What’s going on?”

“Not much, just heading to The Barrel. Get the fuck off the road you vagina-curd!” there were horns in the background, possibly the bark of tires locking on pavement. All sweet sounds of Adina driving a jeep through Yaletown. “That bitch had a walker in her back seat!” she yelled into the phone.

“That can’t be good,” I replied, flicking at my manhood as it dodged appropriately.

“So, I made you breakfast,” she said in a baby voice that made me want to punch a baby.

“What?” I said, getting out of bed and tapping at a raging erection, trying to get the selfish bastard to share some blood with the rest of my body. Sure enough, out in the kitchen was a pot of slightly warmed coffee and a package of thawed and drooping Eggo waffles on top of the stove.

“Thanks princess, looks incredible.”

“I know, right?” she beamed.

“Right. Well, sling those steaks, and try to avoid Weissenstrat’s wandering hands. They’re always greasy, I’ve seen it.”

“Ahhh sick. Okay, well, have a good day baby, work hard and be…creative, or whatever. Kisses!” Her cellphone clicked dead, leaving me to wonder what just happened. Adina didn’t show affection to anything unless she could smoke it or complain about it.

The apartment door clicked behind me with some sort of challenge. Shitty old hardware within an otherwise unkempt building code. The hallway smelled unseasonably bad this morning as I walked past the neighbor with a waffle in my hand. Shadows shifting from beneath the door caught my eye and I sped up with a shiver.

Unfortunately, as I was waiting for a new pot of coffee to drip through, I had found a fake French-tipped fingernail stuck in the middle of the filter. So, a stroll to the coffee shop was now in the works. A little exercise would hurt less than the chemical nail polish juice filtered down through the pipes of my four-hundred-dollar coffee machine.

The shop door jangled on my way in, bells and chimes and what may have been a tambourine exploded into action as if Santa Claus had busted a reindeer and the sleigh was going down fast. A fairly new girl behind the counter jumped up and rammed a dozen bagels into the oven door and bent the shit out of the tray causing a decorative Columbian machete to rattle on the wall. Peruvian, maybe.

I caught a blueberry one on its second rolling bounce and gave it a dusting.

“Thanks, can I get a coffee as well?”

“What is it with me today, I’m just so on-edge,” she turned and snorted to the other usual barista, who simply lifted her pierced eyebrows in mock shock and gave me a wink.

I leaned in and said, “You should be careful, it might be the coffee.”

“Oh, hee hee, ya, maybe!” Giggle. Snort.

Snort-laugh, giggle-snort, choke-giggle.

Cough.

“I thought that also,” she caught her breath, “but I love the taste, so I’ve just been drinking decaf all day.”

I looked at the pierced one who was tamping an overflowing double-shot porta filter with what looked like the richest espresso grind known to man. She lifted her shoulders and grinned at me like a criminal.

“Oh, well, keep at it, decaf should take the edge off.” I gave the thumbs up approval to the meddler in the back while smiling sympathetically to the wired specimen in front of me.

“Triple-shot Americano burnt?” she twitched, flailing around for the other bagels.

“Please.”

“Triple shot Americano, burnt!”

A couple of feet behind the register, the veteran barista winced through her piercings.

“Can I get that in a mug to go, I’ll bring the mug back in a bit?”

The new one looked at me with a smile etched into her face, but clearly her head was about to explode as she bent back the bagel tray.

“To go?” she asked.

“You bet. I just don’t want to waste the paper cup.”

“In a for-here mug?”

“Sure, ‘for-here’, but ‘to-go’. I’ll bring it back, honest. I work up the street so it’s no worries.”

“I’ve gotta tell you, I just don’t know how to ring that in,” she continued to smile, but her left eyelid slipped into a rapid triple-twitch, barely visible, like a hummingbird’s wings.

“How about I leave you three dollars, and you can just put it in the register. I’ll have the mug back to you in an hour. I’m just a few doors up the hill.”

“I…I…”

The pierced one slid a giant, rounded yellow-clay mug down the counter towards me, and collected the change out of my hand while tapping some buttons on the register with her other hand. The change flew into the appropriate slots, and she was back to her instrumentation.

“Oh,” I said, “how much for the bagel?”

“Free for life if you don’t tell anybody they all usually fall on the ground at some point during the day,” said the pierced one, motioning for the wired one to save the rest of them.

“Can’t beat that, see you later ladies.”

“Byeeeeee,” sang the wired one from the ground, her coffee-stained teeth glistening like Nicorette squares under halogen lights.

It could’ve been any other ordinary day. I would have happily wandered in my own head all the way up to Verdigris. It could have been, but then there wouldn’t be a tall man in a kimono, about to swing a sledgehammer through the front door of the abandoned house, Sanford’s place. I burnt my lip as I moved quickly up the sidewalk towards the blue-collar samurai, speed walking with that damned yellow mug.

“Excuse me!”

He swung through with mighty force until the hammer met the floor, taking the door completely off its hinges.

“Whoa, whoa!” I stepped back and shielded my mug from decades of blowback debris. “What the hell are you doing?”

He turned with some grace, a sort of Spanish-Japanese hybrid moustache twitching with the dust. “Resurrection,” he bowed slightly and waved an arm over the dilapidated place.

I looked around for some form of construction order. Machinery perhaps, a posted permit, any sort of officiality.

“It’s been in the family for centuries, this land,” he said, sensing my community policing efforts starting to percolate.

“It’s been abandoned for years, for as long as I can remember.”

“Well,” he placed the sledgehammer on its head and rested both hands on it gently, tapping his long fingers. “That must be a very, very long time.”

“Sorry, I’m being rude. My name’s Sebastian.” I bowed slightly for some reason.

He bowed in unison.

“Aira…like Eye-ra.”

“Eye-ra,” I repeated like a dummy. “So, what are you doing with this beautiful place, Aira?”

Please don’t say condos, I thought.

“Creating some harmony in this temple. Offering fish with respect, truthful rice, purity of dashi, tea and tranquility.”

“Sushi? It’s not a chain is it?” I said before I could stop myself.

“Chain?”

“California rolls, mayonnaise, bottled hibiscus tea, nuclear-green wasabi from a tube. Flat screens.”

He looked perplexed, “No chain rolls, no flat screen maki.”

“Oh Great, well welcome to the neighborhood, I work at the nursery on the corner.”

“Yes, you need more aloe. I bought all of your aloe; you will need more.”

I looked at him and blinked. “Why’d you buy all of my aloe? Not that I mind, but that was a month worth of aloe.”

“For you maybe. Or for me, that’s all we can say right about now.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“That’s okay, you will soon. Follow.” He tapped his fingers on the handle.

We stared at one another for too long. Maybe a second.

“Okay. I’m interested. When are you opening?”

“Tomorrow or the next day. You know how these things evolve.”

I looked up at the house, it was leaning slightly as if listening in on the conversation. It was beautiful, but could have come from Stephen King’s early pages, with its looming omniscience.

“Well, good luck, let me know if you need a hand with anything.” I waved and stepped backward off the stoop. “Oh,” I said, pinching my eyebrows, “there’s another thing. There was a man living here, kind of watching over the house if you will. A gentle man, very tidy, very pleasant…but without his own means.”

Just then, my favorite homeless fellow, Sanford, came out of the front door, or where it was moments ago, carrying his broom.

“Oh, so…” I pointed to Sanford who nodded back.

“Sanford-san is a fine kenin. He pushes the broom with pride.”

“Very good,” I said, “very good.” Sanford looked at my feet and gave a slight nod that may not have been noticed if I hadn’t seen it before. I nodded back and he continued down and around the side of the house collecting a wide broom for sweeping big things, a skinny broom for poking at things in cracks, and a broom made of twigs, the type that far-off villagers might use. I’m not sure what that one was for, but it looked important.

“He sweeps the things I hadn’t seen before, and he makes dirt frightened of his strike.”

“Yes, he is that good,” I agreed.

“A man with much potential.”

“Okay, well, have a good day, and please stop by the nursery if you need anything.”

“Aloe.”

“Of course, aloe. Okay, well, take it easy on that old house, she looks like she’s been through a lot.”

“This one is young at heart, much more strength than those new glass swords poking at the clouds.”

I followed his eyes to the condos up the hill peeking over the treetops.

“I think you may be right,” I said.

“A lot of the time, but not always.”

I bowed lower this time, and he ducked deeper yet. With a cheer and a sip of my mug, I turned and headed up the hill.

The Record Man

I ‘ve logged more hours in Burton’s Vinyl than anyone else in town. Burton may not be all there, but the vinyl certainly is…best collection in town for rarities. Ask any DJ worth his weight, and he’ll swear he’s never heard of the place, preserving the hush-hush, meanwhile sneaking around the back of the nearest restaurant to find just one more old yellow milk crate to fill.

One look around the place and you know you’ve found some-thing special, something intoxicatingly blissful, both embarrassing and gratifying in its clutter. Like your grandparents’ basement, or the shed of that disturbed single uncle, the treasures were flung far and with little regard for safe passage or classification.

Burton’s reaches all the way back to the alley giving it a rare full city block of depth. The elevated cashier bar, like many other bars in town, is horseshoe-shaped, providing a view of the entire space and a fortress of defense against lubricious teenagers and divorced men writhing in their glory days. The really good stuff was hidden behind this barricade, with who-knows how much more down the hatch back there, deep in the cellar where I know he keeps magical perishables and hypnotic foodstuffs.

There are levels to the place, figuratively and actually. In the far-left corner, an orange spiral staircase - wrapping around itself too tightly for proper skull clearance - leads up to a graveyard of jewel cases holding laser-based technology long passed. In the other far corner, a roped off ladder offers a dusty storage space and secret window-access to a rotting rooftop deck and rain-ravaged patio furniture. The view is unbelievable. The city shines for the few who have climbed that ladder.

On the right side of the store, in the electric folk section, navigat-ing a few soggy steps of frayed green rug, stained a million stains, you might have come on a lucky day when the extraordinary delightful Death Race arcade game is seen humming away. Burton took great pride in that machine for its rarity and banishment in the eighties due to excessive violence. If asked, he will act aloof before slyly producing a shoulder tattoo of the cabinet’s marquee artwork – a purple-hooded Grim Reaper tearing through a vulture-ridden graveyard in a cartoonishly aggressive green Dodge Charger. The car’s frontend popped up as it rips apart crusty limbs of zombie-gremlins beneath big fat smoking rear tires. It’s subtle, but classy.

Posters stain the walls, featuring local bands that had come through to perform, but only if they brought their own beer. These were often hand drawn with felt marker after the fact, sometimes weeks. Burton doesn’t believe in promotion, if you knew, you knew, and you would bring your idiot buddies.

The many, many record stacks and shelves were lacquered and tattered wood, hand-built to fit the place and maximize storage. Dangling precariously overhead in all the right spots hung large circular industrial lamps, like some army base mess tent. Plants, namely of the cacti variety, were everywhere of course, having magically survived my gifting through the years. Burton believed that twenty-four hours of musical diversity inspired their verve, and I agree.

The furniture and record players strewn about all other spare nooks were in high demand, despite their barely clinging on to any semblance of hygienic decency. Boxes upon boxes, once filled with Washington apples or Oregon whiskey were stacked where they needed to be, awaiting the day they might be transferred to the big leagues, those scuffed and oily wooden stacks in the stadium of browsing height.

Everything was just slightly askew, everything but a single beige and brown rectangle of framed knitwork hanging from a central post, stating simply, God Bless This Record Shop.

And blessed it was.

He was sitting cross-legged on the counter when I came in, his hands in a flurry of explanation. Three hipster chicks stood in awe, all wearing colored leggings and what can only be described as wrestling shoes from the meeker years of the eighties.

“…And so, when Belushi died, Billy Idol just lost it,” Burton stopped to gulp from a clay mug before continuing. “Idol fell into the tequila all night and that’s when he got the ink done…seventy-five bucks in a west LA parlor. What people don’t know is that it was that same night that Idol wrote Cyberpunk…he wrote it in his head before puking it all out in streams of golden tequila all over his hotel room carpet. Then he carved ‘William Alucard’ into the side of a TV. That’s what he used to check into hotels under… ‘Dracula’ backwards, you know?”

“Cyberpunk came out over a decade later,” sneered the hipster chick in green leggings, using her deepest reach of Rolling Stone blog knowledge.

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything, dummy?” Burton said quickly, tapping his head, “Music’s a state of mind, it’s in there for years before it comes out.”

“John Belushi is Cyberpunk!” said the hipster chick in orange leggings, she was the one hugging three different copies of the same Billy Idol record, clearly the center of conflict.

“That’s like saying Chris Farley is New Order…” Burton wag-ged a finger, “it’s only partly true.” I was already lost in this mush-theorem but tried to catch up as best I could. “It’s more like Belushi, a liter of tequila, and cheap, questionable tattoo needles wrote Cyberpunk. You know…it didn’t even come out in the States?”

“I know!” she squeezed the vinyl like her parents never did for her.

“Now be gone, strange little circus animals, I have business to attend to with my horticulturist friend here.”

I was just watching from the door as the girls all turned to me with hopeful eyes.

“I’m not that kind of horticulturalist,” I said, waving off any kind of thoughts they may be having of following me back to my cool, dangerous lair and shimmying out of their respective leggings for free drugs and a new story.

“Shoo,” Burton said again to the girls and they scurried off.

“Gimme that tea,” I pointed at Burton.

“Now, Seb, let’s not get drastic, this is a caffeine-free tea if you know what I mean.”

“I have no idea what that means, but I have the feeling you’ll be calling me off the hook later today to help you grapple the space orangutans.”

“No man, there’s barely anything in this tea, like a stem and two caps…just enough to open the ear canals a tiny bit more, you know?”

I shook my head with a smile. “Where do you even get this stuff?”

“Well, turns out that place I happened upon up on the North Shore last month was somebody’s pet project, and not a fortunate accident of nature as I had previously assumed. I took the bus up to Seymour Mountain and hiked to the coordinates again but there were dozens of little white gangster midgets harvesting the magical spore stuffs like a proper operation. One of them suggested I find my way back to the road and disappear lest I earn his fancy knife in my soft places.”

“He pulled a knife on you?”

“It was one of those ones that appear out of nowhere, with a flip of the wrist. Thus ended my exploration in local mountains for that same mystical crop of freedom fungi.”

“So, where did you get these little guys,” I asked, peering over the rim of his mug at the expanded bits floating about.

“Oh, well, I just went down to Wreck Beach for a quick swim with my free brothers and sisters, and it just so happens that Cousin Porpoise had a little bag of harvest glory earlier than expected. I get the feeling he purchased it from the very same midget gangster villains that I happened upon…the taste-difference is negligible.”

“What…they both taste like shit?”

“Indeed, but this particular brand emanates turtle feces, a potent varietal to be sure.”

“Turtle shit? That makes for a premium mushroom experience?”

“Well, my friend, though I am unusually cool and maintained to the layperson’s eye, inside of my head I am currently the savage king of a rainforest…and I can see your energy expulsing at an alarming rate. You have had magnificently disturbing sex in the past twelve hours, haven’t you?”

“That I have; unfortunately, despite how high you appear to be, you cannot see through my pants to bear witness to the gargantuan ball sack that I am carrying around with me.”

Burton winced, “Trouble unloading the by-product?”

“The dump site shut down early for the night.”

“Sorry, man.” Burton sipped from his cup and stared at my crotch as he did so. “Listen, there’s nobody in the bathroom in the back…that I know about. Feel free to lighten your load.”

“Ah, I think I’m good, you know, thanks though.”

“No really, there’s a copy of Guitar magazine back there from ‘ninety-two. Great photo interview with the bassist from Smashing Pumpkins. She’s lent an unknowing hand more than a few times to my own pleasant toil.”

“Really, Burton, I’m good.”

“You know the very first time I was gifted a woman’s anal-pride was to the soothing sounds of the Pumpkins’ debut album, titled Gish. The bass work on that one is simple and profound.”

I stared at him as he sipped again. This is what the city needs more of, truth - straightforward tactlessness.

“So, every time I saw my mistress anew, I would ask where she desired it that night, in the fish, or in the Gish.”

I tried not to laugh but failed, and just put my head down.

“Here comes my guy back to me! Lighten up, you stiff,” Burton smiled and showed off several chunks of mushroom that were stuck between those surprisingly straight and white teeth. “Oh, hey, I’ve got something for you that you’re not going to believe. Hang tight.”

I looked around behind the counter and noticed a shiny box, long and thin like it held a new-age harmonica for sad people from the future.

“Check this out,” Burton came from behind and thrust a record into my face.

“Engelbert Humperdinck: Live from Alaska?” I read out loud. “Where did you get this?”

“I don’t know, some kid came in with it, so I traded him for an extended Nirvana unplugged DVD…one of the best acoustic shows to date, sad to see it go.”

“Seems like a fair trade to me, you have a whole crate of those Nirvana discs in the back, don’t you?”

“Yeah, fucking flooded, man. Courtney Love didn’t have the cash to settle our bet back then. But isn’t this great?”

I looked at the back of the cover, there sat Engelbart on a dog sled smiling like the official pervert of winter. The dogs looked frightened, but unable to escape the soothing drip of his lounge voice, lulled into a paralyzed state. “This is amazing,” I said.

“Take it, and play it while you close up shop, you’ll find that your plants will sleep much happier, like they too had just enjoyed some bassy sodomy.”

“Some Gish, you mean?”

“Yeah, man! Now you’re talking. You should trademark that shit for me…do some logos, let’s go global with this thing.”

I nodded, wondering how many Smashing Pumpkins lawyers it takes to dismantle a nursery and a record shop in one fell swoop.

“Perfection. Say, Burton, what’s that shiny box back there?” I pointed to the case.

“Oh, yeah, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Sanford’s place is being re-taken by some wiry Oriental guy.”

“Japanese?”

“Right,” he nodded. “So, this guy comes in this morning and introduces himself and he gives me this. Check it out.”

Burton handed me the futuristic harmonica case and I turned it all around before figuring out how to slide it open. Burton ahhhhed, confirming that he had yet to figure the contraption out for himself and wanted me to open it for him.

It glided as if in parts but appeared to be all one piece. Inside, tucked in a bed of blue velvet was a set of ivory chopsticks, laced with gold leaf and sparkling blue jewel. A fantastic explosion of elephant bits and some pirate’s treasure.

“Wow, man, what are those things?”

“Chopsticks. Really, really nice chopsticks.”

“Wow…why’d he give me those?”

“I don’t know, but these are really, really nice,” I said, mesmer-ized.

“What should I do? Should I give him a gold record or some-thing?”

“You have a gold record?” I said looking around to the packed walls of the place.

“Yeah, I’ve got a couple dozen, I produced some Duran Duran tracks, and a few of the Stones’ later singles…there was that Janet Jackson run too, but I keep those in my private collection”

I watched Burton as he sipped his tea again and picked at his teeth with a puffy tongue.

“Maybe we’ll go in there when he’s open in a few weeks and just spend some money, you know, welcome him to the neighbor-hood. He seems like a nice guy.”

“Look at those sticks Seb, they’re so shiny,” answered Burton slowly.

I eventually left Burton with the promise that he would not have any more magic tea until after lunch, to which he laughed and thanked me kindly for teaching him about the oysters of Jupiter. Then he started yelling obscenities at a poster of Jack White.

I have to admit I was somewhat jealous of the chopsticks, Burton must’ve been more welcoming than I had. I felt kind of bad about the way I had sidled up on Aira, like he was trespassing or some-thing. He appeared to be a pretty sweet guy, giving Sanford a break, not too many shopkeepers in the city would do that.

There we go again. Despite my bitterness, I still cared so damn much about what people thought of me…as if it’s so important that I be liked when I’m the one who is first to judge and dismiss the majority of this town. It’s all very confusing, like trading jeans with a stranger.

I recall when I was nine years old, I accepted a rare invite to a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese. I had just barely made that part-icular invitation list, barely edging out Booger Steve, the kid who ate boogers…other people’s boogers.

There I was at this kid’s birthday, just barely hanging on by a string after a slew of failed knock-knock jokes and a disastrous orange soda chugging contest. I took a breather alone in the plastic ball room, when I found the guest of honor hiding under an unusual-ly large pile of balls in the corner.

“Hey Chris,” I approached, “great birthday thanks for inviting me. Wanna hear a knock-knock joke?”

“Get out of here Sebastian, beat it!” He threw a green ball at me, I recall ducking with lightening quickness.

“What’s the deal, you’ve been mean to me all night. I’m outta here.”

“That’s right beat it! You stink like poo!”

As I waded off, I suddenly get a whiff of just that. Ripe poop.

“Jeez…” I turned around and looked at Birthday Chris who had sunk a tad lower and was starting to tear up. “Oh no,” I said.

I came out of that ball room with his pants on, full of his fresh poop. He came out of that ballroom with my pants on, they were fresh as a daisy, save some minor orange crush evidence.

Seemed like a good idea at the time. Turns out Chris didn’t hold true to his promise of telling the other kids we had wrestled down a viciously rabid, and simultaneously pooping, wolf-dog that had attacked a group of terrified cheerleaders. Instead, Birthday Chris turned on me, pointing and laughing as soon as we got back to the other kids at the pizza table. He got off Scott-free, and I ended up with an unfortunate nickname and a severe rash, go figure. My mother scolded me as my dad scrubbed me in the tub. She repeated the perils of trusting others, of not being independent, not being proud.

Truth is bullshit.

Bent and Broken Pins

T  he front doors of Verdigris rushed open just as I leaned in to pull at the wrought-iron handle and a frantic Elle scooped me up.

“I need you upstairs asap.”

“Elle, we simply must stop beating around the bush like this.” I said, reaching out for her face with both hands. She slapped them and pulled on my shirt.

“There’s some fucking plant up there that looks like a crayfish humping a flamingo…with an afro…and it reeks like rotten maca-roni and cheese,” she grabbed my hands back out of the air and pulled me behind her through the store like I was a child who had licked too many toys.

The loft had a particularly stringent type of odor, much like Cheez Whiz on rye bread lying on a sidewalk in San Diego.

“What is that?” she asked.

“Oh, don’t worry about that, it’s a new type I’m trying out.”

“What do you mean ‘trying out’? I’m pretty sure they have over-the-counter stuff for Adina’s Chlamydia nowadays.”

She was good that Elle, she was damned good at striking hard and fast.

“Alright bitches,” I pointed to both Elle and Cam, the latter of which looked up as if he had caught a bullet in the crossfire for no apparent reason. He had been just sitting there alone, innocently playing on the music production software he’d illegally down-loaded and installed on my desktop. His face twisted as if it was just a grazing wound to the butt cheek. More annoying than anything, but painful enough.

“You’re being a fuck-o right about now,” I shoved a finger into Elle’s face and circled it around in case it was too close to focus on.

“Simmer down,” she retreated, “I’m just messing with you, what’s your problem?”

“My problem is that I can’t eat goddamned soggy Eggo’s and nail polish coffee. My problem is that I hate otters, with their cocky floating and middle fingers. My problem is that I don’t want a glow-in-the-dark dick!” I backed away, circle-pointing at the two of them as they stared back at me. Moving like a hold up man forced into a corner, I reached down to pick up the potted marine-circus orgy plant but must have pinched a stem as an entire piece of it snapped off under my arm.

“Shit, now look what you made me do,” I put the pot down again, still holding the broken appendage under my arm so as to not let it fall to the ground. As the two pieces separated from each other and the thick, stringing juices within oxidized, the horrific cheese odor intensified and misted up to the ceiling. Both Cam and Elle made unnatural heaving noises before she pushed him down in a dash for the spiral staircase.

“The fans! Get the fans!” Elle was screaming.

“Oh my god, my asshole just went up inside my stomach,” Cam followed, flying down and around at top speed, missing steps often, possibly drooling.

I looked down at the thing with its fresh fracture oozing pale green gel to the ground, the first contact of which was made with my bare toes. I watched it crawl into the space between my big toe and the next one, leaking into the thong of the sandal. As soon as the cool goo reached that sacred separation of toes I was forced into the defensive arms-out, bum-out position like a stretched feline, or a pirate avoiding a slashing sword in a rapier tussle. It was too late; I could sense the stuff making its way under my foot, warming instantly with the touch of my skin. I kicked off the sandal immed-iately and it flew over the railing and down into a bush below on the main floor.

“Fucking siiiiiiick!” I notified the entire store.

And then I felt that warming sensation, like joint-and-muscle-pain gel, or personal lubricant, whichever feels more percolating. It was as if my pores were just soaking the stuff up and dancing with satisfaction, Ecstasy at a cellular level. My toes went fuzzy for a moment and then spasmed back to life. I lifted my leg for some reason and sort of danced around the room like you might after stepping on a push pin, only to discover that it’s your favorite color on the end of the thing sticking out of you.

Bittersweet stabbed-foot dance.

With my foot up in the air, breathing in deeply, I immediately noticed that the loft no longer smelled of rotting processed cheese. I looked around at the fans across the ceiling that were still taking their sweet time to complete a full rotation. The piece of the plant in my grips looked back at me, and I shuddered as I spun it around, slowly inspecting it, careful not to drip any more of the smelly ooze onto myself. But the wound had completely dried up and sealed itself off. It was as if somebody had burned the nub and closed it up for good.

“What—”

I looked to the rest of the strange plant at my feet. It was shaking slightly of its own accord. The piece that had been ripped off not a minute ago had regenerated itself. It looked fresher, thinner, in a newer, lighter shade of green.

I shook my head and placed my foot back to the floor. Stepping down, there was no terrible juicy feeling between my toes, and lifting to investigate, I could see no trace of moisture from the stream of innards.

“…the fuck?”

Collecting myself, I stuffed the broken piece of mutation into my pocket and carefully nudged the pot behind the couch to where somebody would have to really stretch to see it. This was my secret, my discovery. I could hardly contain the thought of researching the shit out this thing to understand what I had just seen. What was it…and how could we capitalize? My mind was all spun up.

Okay, I had to tell somebody, immediately, I couldn’t help it.

Leaping down the stairs to explain to Elle, I nearly knocked over an older woman holding two tiny irises.

“Dear,” she said in that wavering help me way.

“Yes, what?” I said abruptly, looking past her, scanning the floor.

“Which of these do you recommend?”

I looked into her eyes, “You need to stop relying on people for the right decision. The answer depends on you, so don’t depend on others.”

She stared at me with her jowls quivering, I twitched in waiting for the next question.

“You know, you’re right. Very honest, thank you.”

What am I a rogue asshole poet now?

I blinked hard and turned on my heels quickly.

Elle was going in circles behind the juice bar trying to find the master control for the fans.

“Elle,” I said calmly.

“Fucking vomit…smells like vomit coming out of a bum-hole…”

“Elle, the smell is gone.”

“No, you’ve got to be…oh,” she said breathing in suspiciously. “Well that’s not bad at all. What happened up there, did you break out the Mr. Clean, or what?”

“Did you ever wonder about Mr. Clean?” I answered all racy, “I mean the guy looks like a proper Cleaner, you know, like from the mob or something.” Elle twitched her nose back and forth, half-listening to me and half-smelling. “He’s got like a closet full of sailor slacks with bleached-out blood stains from the time he used electric hedge clippers to break down the carcass of that boxer who wouldn’t take a dive, or from when he was on his hands and knees trying to find all of that snitch’s teeth amongst a recently exploded Cadillac. I mean, the guy’s built like a cage wrestler and he’s got that massive earring…probably made from Nazi gold.”

Elle stared at me.

“Well,” she said, “I guess he shaves his head bald for a reason, hey?”

“Nobody’s DNA getting in there.”

“Nice one.” She smiled like she used to.

“So, you’ve been kind of fucked up towards me, hey?” I said out of nowhere, having decided that I didn’t need to tell her about the whole plant regeneration thing. I didn’t want to look like a crazy guy, again.

Elle gave me that look, like she had just gotten hit in the face with a frying pan.

“Ya, I mean…Adina? What the hell is that all about?”

Elle rolled her eyes and picked at her nails the way you might if you had nothing to say. But she did.

“You know…fuck you, you know?” is what she settled on.

“True,” I answered, “by the same token, fuck you. All you do is attack, I defend, you attack my defense, and so forth. It gets to a point where I really question my place in this friendship as anything other than a pincushion that you push full of all of your bent and broken pins.”

“What does that mean?”

Too far? I thought, as she stepped back. But I kept at it.

“You get dumped, or you gain three pounds, or your mother pays for another semester of your brother’s sports medicine degree…all bent and broken pins that you turn around and jab right into me.”

Silence, but the rustling of leaves beneath the fans and trickling of water through elaborate ponds.

“I…” she stammered before I pounced again.

“You see pain in yourself and you’ve found an easier way to get it out. Take on Sebastian as a project and turn him around to be the way that people are supposed to be…how you think you’re sup-posed to be but don’t have the guts to face.”

Silence but the beating of my heart, quicker than usual or so it felt. I looked to the bottom right corner of my skull’s view like my words had just caught up with me, and they had.

With nothing left to say as her eyes started to glisten, and feeling repercussions around the way, I floated off.

My mind may have been floating, but my feet were on fire. I ran the other direction, away from Elle, Verdigris, away from the sea. I heard the voices behind me, but I carried on. Deeper and deeper into the city I ran, past hot dog stands and tourists, weaving in and out of idling traffic and bicycle delivery boys with their thin bikes and little hats. I touched shoulders with an old Chinese man who turned on his heels with inertia and cursed me in the many ways of the Mandarin tongue. I threw an arm up in apology and accidentally tapped the hindquarters of a window washer jittering on a ladder. He wobbled before throwing a wet rag at me, it thwapped my bare calf but I carried on. On and on through the crowds of suits and cell phones, through and through the masses of shopping bags and oversized sunglasses.

It may have been ten minutes later that I reached the bottom of Davie Street where the intersections all intersect, and an unnerved patch of triangular grass is orphaned as an island oasis amongst cement waters. I crossed through the nexus to the sounds of several tiny hybrid honks, and with the jewel in my eye I triple jumped onto the sidewalk separating English Bay’s beached logs and Denman Street’s donair stench.

My heart let me know when I saw it. It was empty and luxurious. It had a better view than my apartment and may even have been a little bit bigger. This phone booth was amazing.

I snuck inside and slid the doors closed behind me gently. A heaving sigh left my body and with both hands to the glass as if to brace myself after long shower sex, I caught my breath.

What had I been thinking? My mouth moving about however it damn-well pleased…I could’ve killed somebody with the words that were coming out so haphazardly. To filter one’s thoughts, to engage in just a touch of emotional intelligence and practice the art of tact is even the simplest man’s born instinct for Christ’s sake. Had I completely lost all sense of self-preservation?

Things were bleak, things were bleak indeed.

Before I could lift the receiver to my ear and heed the words of that sweet operator scorning the lack of payment, there was a brushing on the glass doors behind me. I turned to see Sanford’s broom sliding up and down on the glass, sweeping like a cat at an inattentive leg.

“Sanford?” I said, still standing in my place like a moron.

He continued to brush on the door with no semblance of emotion, the closed glass obviously a hindrance to any successful exchange.

“What’s up buddy?” I asked, climbing out of the booth like a vampire with cataracts. When I saw him in full, I felt the need to acknowledge that Sanford was wearing a Japanese kimono, flowing blue silk tied up around his waist just so. I must say he wore it well. He also had on wooden clogs that showed off a set of very well-spoken for ankles.

“See Aira wants…to you,” he spoke slowly, clearly, and the words sort of dripped out of his mouth, albeit mixed up.

Sanford had some sort of spoken dyslexia that threw me off when I first met him years ago. The conversation was like an Abbot and Costello routine; I offered him a couple of bucks to sweep Verdigris’ back patio, he kept asking ‘I’m pay you when sweeping can finish me’. After some negotiating, we straightened things out and have been nodding at each other ever since. They say the human brain processes at thirty-two frames per second and your mouth can only move to the equivalent of about two frames per second, so it’s easy to imagine at full speed excitement, one might trip over their own thoughts and sound like Dennis Rodman on speed.

Now, here was Sanford at the front door of my sanctuary – one of them – trying to sweep me back to the old house and my new Japanese neighbor. This Aira guy must really be something. Or maybe he’s got some chopsticks for me.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“Talk, he you needing to with fast. Thanks…fine.”

“Good enough for me,” I said, thinking it was probably a little more normal to walk away with a homeless guy in a Kimono, carrying a giant broom, than to submit to my breakdown and kneel to the telephone booth gods in broad daylight. So, I bought Sanford a hotdog and we strolled back to our small street by the harbor.

The Sushi Temple

I  questioned my eyes when we walked through the front doors of the old abandoned house. The place that was just days ago completely gutted and cobwebbed had transformed to some lush and fruitful oasis, much like I imagined Skinny’s bedroom to be. Inside was some sort of Zen escape, a mix between Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory and the Secret of Nimh…but with beautiful fish tanks and a fresh ocean breeze.

A gentle waterfall came from the ceiling somehow, rushing down a rock wall and flowing through narrow stone creeks all around. White koi nibbled at the surface, showing their fat faces as they kissed at the air. Fish twice as big as any I had in the back of the nursery, and somehow less severe looking. A man doesn’t like it when his fish is inferior to another man’s.

The floor was finished with some sort of large, dark bamboo-hardwood surface, rolling slightly like wide and low speed bumps over and over again. Not like those yellow speed bumps in the inner city that bust your car up, more like the gradual, oversized, smooth type that gated communities are privy to.

There were alcoves and grottos where decadent seating arrange-ments flowed naturally, no two situations alike. Soft lighting ebbed and flowed with no real source to be seen. The ceiling appeared alive in itself, ethereal shapes shifting but stable. It appeared the space was some sort of mandala with opposing forces in each quad-rant. The seasons, perhaps. It was very jarring and settling in the same breath.

“My new friend, I have a favor to ask of you,” Aira came out from behind a white silk panel leading to somewhere a wall may have once been. I no longer understood this house as I thought I did, so it’s possible I was just staring with my mouth open.

“It’s coming along sure enough.” Aira answered my gaping ex-pression.

“Sure enough? This place is…unreal. How is this possible?”

“Things are possible as you deem fit, young master. You just need a little truth.”

My mouth snapped shut.

“Truth. For instance…you have plants and I need plants. This is a truth, correct?”

“Plants I have, but it looks like you have miracles.”

“Miracles are a waste of time my friend, they take too long.”

The place smelled of sweet lilac and lavender, like spring water and thick air warmed by a setting sun. If I had closed my eyes, which I could not, I would have kept them shut and disappeared into some cherry-blossomed summer land hugged by fragrance and birdsong.

There were sounds that came about in their own time as well. The kinds you notice when you’re ready, but not until then. A wavering comb of some salted breeze through feathers of a flock, or perhaps a tall field of seaside grass swaying against itself. The stream tickled and licked at smooth stones of course, and from somewhere less obvious I couldn’t have been crazy to have heard long lean muscles pushing hooves across some sort of red-earthen plateau. Just sounds, of course. Just strange noises playing inside of my head, driven by some strange atmosphere I didn’t understand.

“Where’d you get this playlist? Did Burton sell you one of those mall samplers on CD?”

Aira thought for a moment as I pointed to the rafters like a tourist. “Yes, surrounding your being are the sounds of your North American shopping complexes. If it makes you comfortable, then I am happy.”

“I think I sense some sarcasm, Aira, my new friend, good for you.” I walked in further, “Well, I don’t know what to say, this place is incredible. I guess I just need to know what you would like to add in here in terms of greenery. Though it looks like you’re covered.”

I tried pricing out the inventory in my head but got caught on some species I couldn’t name in that moment and quickly realized these were not all mine. “Where did you get this stuff anyway? Is that golden angel’s trumpet beside all that aloe? Is that even legal?”

The tall wiry Japanese man started to pace around the bamboo floor, his bare feet sliding without sound. With his arms behind his back, he wandered off, and just as he started to speak, I felt it again.

Electric pain from my tail bone, up around and around my spine to the back curvature of my skull. Hundreds of miniature Christmas lights heating up and exploding, unraveling the endings of the nerves in their spinal cord as they sizzled to an end. My eyes squeezed tight and I bit my lip hard enough to feel its blood creeping out. The next thing I felt was my kneecaps crunching against the tough bamboo floor. And then all else was quiet.

“That would be great if you could. Be sure to rinse them well, very potent.”

A voice somewhere.

When the blood, light and oxygen rushed in seconds later, I could feel it moving through the lids of my eyes, warming my sight and flooding my mind like millions of floating rose petals.

The ceiling glistened down at me, and when I did realize I was sprawled out on the floor I instantly thought it appropriate to spring to my feet. I suppose to avoid the usual embarrassment of passing out midday in a stranger’s abode, but I also felt a strange shot of adrenaline as if I had just won the big game…whatever that means.

“Be easy with it, Sebastian, this is likely a new feeling for you.”

I shook my head around like a boxer and gave a twist left and right, because that’s what they do on TV when they get back up from being knocked the fuck down.

“Not really sure what’s going on, but I think my spine just exploded,” I said, looking around at my surroundings again because I forgot where I was again while I was talking.

Sushi temple-slash-Victorian manor. Got it.

“Yes, what did it feel like?” asked Aira.

“What do you mean…what was it?” I asked, apparently kind of pissed off.

The bare-footed Japanese man hesitated, “Well, you just fell over. How did the floor feel, is it too hard?”

“Well if you mean does it hurt like a son of bitch…yes it does. That’s the nature of ground I suppose.”

I was beginning to think Adina’s entire body was toxic with some sort of super drug that had transmitted sexually and lay dormant all morning until suddenly attacking my nervous system. Maybe equal parts cocaine, ecstasy, tequila and pudenda.

“Do you want some tea, it might help,” said Aira.

“It’s okay, I’m just sort of confused. But yes, I would love some tea.”

Sanford had appeared from behind the wall of white silkiness with a pot and three modest clay cups before I had actually answer-ed…I think.

“Am I okay, I mean, did I hit my head or something?”

“Not that I know of. I mean, not in this place, so don’t sue. You people like to sue one another. If there was an Art of War for the modern man, it would describe two groups of individuals training to sue one another. This I know.”

Sanford poured three short cups of foggy brown tea and pushed one towards me.

“It was like my spine exploded,” I repeated, “all the way up my backbone, one piece at a time.”

Aira stared at me, sipping his tea quickly. “What else?” he asked like he was scribing a medical paper in his mind.

“Well, I’m not really sure, except that this floor is sturdy, but kind of bouncy also.”

“Yes, it’s from within the bamboo where we hold much of our bounciness.”

“The Japanese?” I asked, testing the tea with my tongue, which was fuzzy and numb at the moment.

“Mmmmh,” he sipped again.

“Was I out for a while?”

“No, you echoed quickly.”

The tea was hot on the back of my throat but stung with a sweetness on the very root of my tongue. Then I realized I was tasting blood.

“Ouch, shit, did I bite my tongue?” I felt around at a giant gouge where the bitter taste buds might have once been. I watched Sanford who was looking at me sideways, concerned.

“That’ll clear right up, just relax.”

So, relax I did, and I sipped on the hot tea like a little boy. Plumes of warmth erupted like an underwater volcano deep within my chest. I found myself wondering about Skinny in that moment, and so she appeared in front of me with her flip flops on, smiling out of one side of her mouth. Her damned hair blowing in some kind of wind. White haze floated around with no particular bearing as her dark skin absorbed the endless ethereal enveloping us.

What a sight.

“Are you alright?” She asked, reaching out her arm like a swan’s neck.

“No,” I said inside of my head, ”I bit my tongue off, I think.”

“Why don’t you pay more attention?” she asked sweetly.

“To what?” I said.

She smiled in sympathy, “Sebastian, you should open your eyes now.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Open your eyes and pay attention.”

“I am paying attention. I’m paying attention to you.” I reached towards her.

“Open your eyes.” She smiled.

Volcanic plumes folded back on themselves like some kind of a sped-up reverse montage in a trendy British action film, and the strange world of Aira’s sushi temple returned all around.

He was staring at me.

“What was it?” he said.

I blinked at him. Then down to the uneven cup in my grips. “What?” I asked.

“What were you thinking about? You paused like a monkey defecating from a tree.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I reacted, feeling oddly like I might resemble a bonobo pooping from a tree in that exact moment.

Aira took my cup - I must have been finished – and peering down into it he looked disappointed on his way back through the silk sheets. Maybe I drank his tea the wrong way; maybe I was rude in my sipping maneuvers or something. I was definitely confused, and that was the only thing that was clear.

Sanford came sweeping by, whistling some sort of Dizzy Gillepian riff that didn’t quite make sense the first time, but when he repeated it a few bars later it did, and I felt more aware like I had just solved a two-minute mystery.

Should I be worried? I said to myself. To which I answered, worried or perhaps intrigued, and smiled to a third and fourth me who were milling about.

“Anyways,” I said loud enough to be audible from the back room, wherever the back room may be, “just let me know what type of plants you want, and we’ll set you up.”

I took a shiver to clear the particulate.

“The things I need are not of ordinary repute, Sebastian.”

“Ya, I figured you might say that, not to worry, my friends in Abbotsford have all sorts of oddities just sitting around. You name it and they’ve either grown it themselves in a tropical lab or can have it to you in no more than a week.”

“At a steep cost to many, I imagine,” he snickered to himself.

“Well, quite possibly, but that’s not my game. I don’t see a lot of legwork in getting plants from my loading area down to your restaurant here, so I’m not the guy to turn a profit on you. Besides, we’re neighbors now. And you have good tea.” I felt vaguely aware that I may have been trying to weasel him out of a set of those chopsticks. Jealous of the chopsticks, clearly jealous.

“Fundamentals of business, unheeded?” he raised an eyebrow.

“Well, I am not that guy. Profit comes from people who deserve to part with their money. It’s the natural order of business.”

“I see. Well, we shall be in touch then.” By which of course he meant he would have Sanford hunt me at a later time.

I bid Sanford adieu and bowed slightly to Aira who looked at me strangely in return before lowering his own head.

A Baby Giraffe Amongst Thwappy Leaves

E lle was nowhere to be found. The fruit and veggie bar ran dry, there were plants and ferns and flowers and knick-knacks lying about with no colored dots. The place had gone to shit in the matter of an hour or so. Whatever time it was.

“Dude, she’s pissed,” said Cam, strolling up with one headphone over his right ear and a spray bottle in his grips. He squeezed it towards his face, emitting fat misty rainbows and lapping them out of the air with his tongue.

I watched in awe. “There’s plant food in there,” I said.

He looked at me for minute counting up the number of times he’d squirted that bottle directly into his mouth in the past few hours.

“Where’d she go?” I asked when it appeared he had lost count.

“I don’t know, she sort of just stormed out with her apron on. Tears, man.”

“I was offside, huh?”

“About as far offside as you can get without completely leaving the stadium.”

“Thanks for the honesty, Cam, you’re good like that.”

Cam smiled a little bit. He loved gratitude, fueled by it, in fact. I learned very quickly when I hired the little guy so many years ago that he had been pretty viciously bullied through high school. Yes, he had ticks and weird little idiosyncrasies, but that’s what made Cam…Cam.

What it spawned though, the relentless bullying – and it was re-lentless – was an obsession with obscure, albeit heroic and grand-iose, Star Wars’ universe fiction.

“Shit, I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately, Cam. I’ve just been blurting shit out all of a sudden. Good, bad, whatever, it’s like I have absolutely no filter whatsoever.”

“Ya, maybe you just need to lay off the honesty for a bit, you’re starting to get a little…strange,” Cam stared with giant pupils, greenish plant food dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

“Take a fiver, Cam.”

I left the lad to ponder the chemicals and walked deeper through the shop, picking up as I went. A fairy castle cactus here, a windmill palm there. Placements surely made in haste by a righteously angry female.

“Nice to see you in,” interrupted that creepy voice, high and dry.

“What’s up, Solomon?” I turned to face his shining white fore-head.

“I’m going to take off, just wanted to know if you needed any extra help because you yelled at Elle, and she left, then you left. Are there extra things needing to be done because of that?”

“No, Solomon, get out of here. Thanks.”

“Great, because I’ve got other stuff going on. Lots of things to do, you know?”

I stared back at him, waiting for him to continue waiting for some response from me.

“Okay, bye,” he clicked and spun like a drama student serving onion rings.

“Solomon,” I stopped him on his tiny heel, “We’re going to have a busy week leading up to the festival, so I’m going to rely on you to step it up with these interns. Then, I think we’ll have a talk about the future.”

“Sure, the future.” he snickered, maybe because he thought in his pointy little skull that this was good news. “Sea Festival is going to be amazing this year, breath-taking perhaps,” he smiled, then scuttled off to some dewy dark place.

“Goddamned nutter,” I muttered after him.

Bending down to brush up a spot of soil, I couldn’t ignore a flash of shining hair disappear behind a fig tree in the back of the shop. There were a few people ambling about the place, the usual un-remarkable types, but something quickened me to my feet to search out that particular spark of ponytail. Something pulled at me.

Rounding the corner by the fig, I was swept up in the aroma, the sweetness coming from something other than Verdigris’ usual cacophony of bulbs and spores.

I knew that smell, it was fresh in my nose memory. Something like the mix of late summer dusk, cedar kindling embers, warm seawater, and maybe hint of…marshmallow. I needed to follow that bouquet, so follow I did.

Up on my toes like a kid stealing glimpses of the loaded Christmas tree, I found my way to the source of the nasal bliss and what I saw was indeed a gift.

From her ankles to that perfectly long ponytail, there she was, Skinny, the enchanting specimen from The Tapa Bar. The girl who made me speak gibberish and flop around like a fish on the deck of some treacherous boat, awaiting a fate most blunt. There she was in all of her lean glory.

She wandered slowly, fingers outstretched and feeling the leaves and branches of all the green things that passed beneath her floating hands. The pathways closed in on those who ventured this deeply into Verdigris. It was a space for the adventurous, or lost, or perhaps both. People who were not looking for anything in particular, but wished to be found by something, some wonderful plant or tree. Or maybe those who wanted to be found by someone. Some other singular soul wandering with eyes closed and fingers spread wide.

I crossed by the narrow passage she was navigating and on to the next, spying through the foliage where no holes to the other side existed, but slivers of light like a strobe teased quick flashes of her skin tone. The next aisle was thicker with greenstuffs than the last, so I injected myself with minor rustling, slipping through some butterfly bushes and was promptly jabbed in the anus by an aggressive bamboo shoot. I may have squeaked, but carried on through the brush, until I was completely engulfed by a rogue Rhododendron attacking from above, or perhaps all around. The inside of this particular beast was quite belligerently apricot, like being swallowed by a sunset or a small child’s tea party.

Whichever way was out was no longer available to me, and as I spun, I succeeded quickly in losing my point of entry as well. Look for the base of the thing, I thought, followed by, have I never pruned this monster? Is it even for sale or is it actually a load-bearing partition of the building? I made a note to take inventory personally next week, because if I wasn’t aware of this mess, what else was I overlooking deep in this place?

On my hands and knees now, I searched around for where the base might be, feeling equal patches of brushed concrete floor and thick spongy dark soil in tandem. An extra-long reach, now nearing frustration, I felt a root, a strong, stiff thing.

“Hey!” it grunted.

“Hey!” I shouted back.

I looked upwards through the peachy-orange-yellowish-pink of the place and met the eye of Skinny, her ponytail in tow.

“Ah shit. Hi there.” I submitted.

“Um, ya.” she smiled nervously, kicking her leg back slightly out of reach of my seized fingers.

“I work here, I’m here on purpose,” I blurted out and got up to my feet with no less than eight poked eyes. Just the one eye, poked eight times. Poor little lefty.

“Bitter, what do you know,” she smiled, maybe.

“Not much,” I said.

“No, I mean, what a coincidence.” She smiled more so, still nervous I’m sure. Even the most confident individual would be wary of a mild harassment when trapped in a Rhododendron with some vaguely familiar stranger.

“Oh, that’s good, I think. But I promise, I actually do work here, I wasn’t trying to...grab you, or something.”

“Well, you failed on that one, you did grab me. But maybe you thought I was the trunk of this bush we seem to be enveloped in at the moment?”

“That’s exactly what I thought, and yes, I am stuck in this bush. I’m not sure why I’m here, I’ve barely noticed this thing before today. And now I’m lost in it. With you.”

I love this damn bush, every eyeball-ravishing branch. I’m going to move into this bush with all of my belongings and live here forever.

“Well, while I’m here, can you help me?” she seemed to drop her guard.

“Absolutely, what are you looking for?”

“Sorry, I can’t take you seriously, you’ve got a flower petal stuck to your lip...and another one wedged in your ear. I’m not even sure how that’s possible. Here...” she reached through the branches and pulled a soft petal from my right ear. Then with the other hand she had behind her back, she leaned in and gently wiped a smooth, fragrant thumb across my lower lip from left to right. The two petals fluttered away, with the air in my chest.

“There we go,” she summoned me back. ”Sooooo, I’m looking for something called Brugmansia Aurea.”

“Wow, thatsth very spth-cific,” I licked my lips, starting to notice some numbing in my mouth, must’ve poked that along with the rest of my face on the way into this enchanted labyrinth.

“Ya, well, remember my crazy Grandmother I told you about? She’s got me running elaborate errands today. Well, every day, I suppose.”

“Those bad boyth are fairly exspenthif,” lisping heavily now, quite heavily.

“Are you okay?” she squinted through the leaves.

“Oh yeah, you bet, I juthd poked my eye and mouth, I’m okay. I’ll be okay.”

I could see this going sideways quickly, so I scurried closer towards where she was standing and tried my best to usher her back out of the bush, protecting our goods from any vengeful branch-work as we went.

I couldn’t focus as clearly as I would hope with her at my side, that summer perfume deep within her skin permeating every move-ment. I unsuccessfully searched for that Brugmansia Aurea in my head, which was bizarre, I knew where everything was in Verdigris. Everything but this most specific plant at this exact time...and maybe a five hundred square foot Rhododendron hanging loose in the back.

Then it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe I knew where it might be. Solomon, that shifty little bugger had his own favourite stash section somewhere in the greenhouse.

“To the greenhousth!” I proclaimed.

“To the greenhousth!” she repeated triumphantly, pushing a fin-ger to the sky.

Deep in the furthest reaches of the space out back, past the koi ponds and benches with their twisted goth lovers. past the patchouli people petting postures of Persephone. Indeed, through a wall of tall palms where one might think the property complete, there is but one last jagged pathway of rejected bark mulch leading to a rain-battered greenhouse. This is where my Verdigris children smoke their various indigenous remedies and tell stories they fear even I might find repugnant. This is also where I was sure Solomon hid his treasures.

When I inspect the store orders thoroughly, as I always do, I often find various rag-tag specimen and off-the-wall creations that are not on regular offering from Abbotsford, or any other grower for that matter. I mean really specialized stuff with an extra digit in front where other per-unit pricing ends. Solomon is always quick to take his discount and pay out of pocket on arrival, so I don’t mind so much. This is why the little creeper is here, I tell myself. This is why he’s on this planet; to squirm about awkwardly in human skin, putting up with the rest of us just long enough to collect an arsenal of elaborate perennials and rare shoots.

The corrugated door of the greenhouse rattled shut and we fell forward into the moisture. Dew crawled around on every surface until the smaller bits evaporated under the diffused heat of the sun outside. I didn’t come in here so much, though the solitude would be a welcome thing, if this were in fact the place to find it. No, I was forced to my phone booth for exactly the lack thereof. This place was rife with activity which made it less of a haven for solace and more of a sweaty temple for the sexually disrupted.

“There, in the back,” I squinted through the haze. The Columbian creation waved like a flamenco dress in a shop window, its trumpets turning ever so slightly.

We twisted our way in and around thwappy leaves and thrusty vines, meanwhile my tongue appeared to bulge with the humidity, filling my mouth with hot, mushy sandpaper.

“Oh wow,” she announced when she saw the shelves and shelves of tropical girth. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

“That’s the Brugmansia, how did you know?” I struggled with my words now, feeling like a baby giraffe might as he gets used to a giant wobbly neck.

“She was pretty clear about what she wanted, she showed me in her textbook just before I left as well. Very persistent old bat,” she turned to me, ”How do you know that’s it?”

I thought back to the number of times that Solomon had ordered that particular creature in the past. I recall looking up the species to try to look like I knew as much as he did about these more exotic types. I couldn’t keep up.

“I justhst...” I started but choked and went dizzy. My tongue was starting to close off my esophagus now, and the hot air was instantly apparent.

“You okay?” she watched intently as sweat rolled down my forehead and into my eyes. “Jesus, you can’t talk, can you?”

I nodded, because I couldn’t fucking breathe, let alone talk.

Holy shit, I can’t breathe!

“Hang on - you’re just hot, it’s the heat.” She rustled around on the bench and ripped a trumpet off its woody branch and wiped it on my forehead then waved it quickly and directly in my face like a tiny rapid fan. The puffs of air pushed into my brow and the area she had wiped exploded into action. It was like licking a frozen pole, or what one might assume the resulting sensation might be. Burning cold, excruciating tightening of the pores, and the ensuing frost that rips through the skin.

I hit the deck like a truckload of rotten pumpkins, sloppy dead weight. When my eyes opened Skinny was staring down at me with her hand held up, looking at her watch.

“Holy shit,” she said looking at her watch again then kneeling down to me.

“What the hell was that?” I was embarrassed, tried to get up, noticed I hadn’t moved but only grunted, then I rested again.

“It’s too hot in here for your poor body, let’s get out of here.”

“Ok, and also, what the hell was that?” I whisper-yelled as she pulled me up and ignited my intentions as a man who could certainly retain his own weight. I took notice of her terrifically soft skin as I rested on her arm and shoulder for a moment too long.

Outside the air was a welcome change, like hugging a very squishy, robust aunt having just left the clutches of some sharp, bony uncle.

“No more sweat?” she asked.

“Dry as a bone,” I noted.

“Dizzy?”

“No.”

“Pukey?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Blacky-outy?”

“Nope.”

“Can you speak okay, no more lisping?”

“Yes, most certainly, doctor,” I said.

She smiled deeply, teeth appeared, and I smiled back like a little boy who just stole a hug from his kindergarten teacher.

“You’re super weird,” she said.

“Ya, it’s been awkward. I’d say that I’m not normally like this, but you have no evidence to the contrary, so...”

“You’re right,” she smiled, “Thank you though, you have fulfill-ed one of my many orders for today. What do I owe you?”

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” I waved it off. “I haven’t exactly been the best company.”

“Listen, I think I know what might help your...condition,” she smiled.

I wasn’t aware I had a condition, but I was ready to do anything to prolong the conversation.

“What’s that?”

“Yoga.”

I must have made a face, because that’s exactly what I would make a face at.

“Hear me out,” she said, “I’m not really a yoga chick, but when I’m feeling off there’s nothing better than stripping down and getting into my own little world.”

Sold! I thought, and must’ve made another face, this one possib-ly more telling.

“There’s a class I took the other day, the teacher is insane, you of all people will get such a kick out of it. You’re coming tomorrow with me.”

Is this happening? Are there secret forces lying dormant in my handicapped genius? Am I Rain Man?

“Well, I have nothing to lose at this point, do I? I couldn’t possibly make more of an idiot of myself than I have in the last twenty-four hours, could I?”

She just smiled wider and started to turn with her arm full of South American trumpets.

“I could, couldn’t I?”

She laughed on her way, “Yes, you probably could. See you later.”

The Girl Who Smelled Like Christmas

T  he streets were warm with that Disneyland smell again when I locked the front gate of Verdigris. The sun was finishing its work above the city, caramelizing the sidewalk’s sugar like a torch on unsuspecting crème brule. I looked up to the office loft windows that faced the hilly intersection. and that grand façade of Verdigris.

I squinted at the reflections on her windows that revealed the buildings behind me, condos mostly. I have a feeling that Vancou-ver looks like a scraped knee from space. The ocean would be the skin of a leg, fresh, porous, full of verve. Further inland would be the scab, the heart of the wound, telling a story of irresponsible fun and trauma from the past. Then you get around the edges of the city that touch water, that’s where the condos lie, spreading and growing like bacteria heating up the transition from scab to skin, city to sea. I just wish the city wouldn’t ‘heal’ so fast.

I had been up to more than one of those condo rooftop patios, house visits to the rich snowbirds come back from South America with new art, new boyfriends, and the need for new summer entertainment spaces.

Eyes were watching.

Through an alley and down to the seawall, I evaded. There I could take in the activity between the bridges. To the west sits Burrard Bridge, pudgy, happy, with its carved lions watching closely to ensure the Molson brewery continues to roast, soak, filter and run its soulless beer at mega volume. To the east creeps Granville Bridge, wider, longer and industrial-grim, like clandestine robot snot. Betwixt the two bridges, vessels of all types frantically whip about, frothing up the water of the day, sometimes crisp and clear, more-likely coppery silt-speckled.

Where the streets running north-south meet ochre cobblestone and undulating cul-de-sacs, and sidewalks descend to staircases in an MC Escher dance towards the sea, I walked, pondering this bizarre day. I came upon a sneaking curl of bluish smoke as it drift-ed up and dissipated. Moments later my horizon unfolded and a small figure, a girl even, sat on a wide staircase overlooking the sagging sails of sad ships returning to harbor. She wallowed with her arms folded close to a sinking frame. An erect cigarette clung to her boney fingers, weeping plumes up into cinnamon hair.

“Hello?” I said, approaching cautiously.

She shook with what sounded like a hiccup but didn’t turn around.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you there,” I said, circling around her on my way down the first few stairs. She looked at me and smiled weakly as I came around. Her eyes were sad, but alive with what I imagined secrets might look like if they could leak from the iris.

“I’m not a weirdo, I actually just need to pass by…but you look kind of—”

“Freaked out? Yeah, I’m freaked out, right-freaked,” she pulled a speck of tobacco off her tongue and combed it into her hair with nails polished cloudy white.

“Can I have a cigarette?” I asked.

“Can I have a lighter?” she answered, “I’ve been chain-smoking all day to avoid talking to the people.”

“I’m a person,” I searched for a lighter I knew I wouldn’t have. “Why wouldn’t you just go buy a pack of matches?”

“Are you kidding? Those Lebanese, Chinese, Pakistanese stores are full of bad shit I don’t want to remember all day.”

I thought about that for a second, not really understanding, but the brain was busy telling my hands to continue searching.

Then I found a lighter. ”What?” I whispered, pulling it out and turning it every which way.

“Never mind, it’s hard to explain in English, and I’ll probably have to tell you again tomorrow. Just give me that fire.”

She grabbed the thing from me just as I caught a glimpse of dark markings on one side of it. She lit up two more creased and wrinkly smokes and passed one to me with the cherry end out, I negotiated around, but she swirled it like hornet.

“Dude,” I complained.

“Ah shut up, you won’t hurt yourself, yet. What do you want?”

“You just look upset, I’m just a concerned citizen.”

“How about you sit down and smoke.”

So, I did, I sat and I smoked, and I shut up until I was spoken to. To that point in my life I hadn’t been bossed around by a little girl before, but I had always wanted a sister. It was kind of nice.

“Speak for shit’s sake, you’re making me nervous,” she said.

“Well…I don’t know you, but I feel like you know something I don’t,” I said, looking over the horizon with a squint, “and it’s starting to creep me out.”

She smirked and snickered a little bit, laughed at me in fact.

“You’re not so bright, but I like you,” she said, and so I nodded with acceptance. “Listen, there’s something to this city, something great.”

“I know, it’s livable, walkable, and the rain keeps Granville street relatively urine-free.” I nodded, repeating what every cit-iot might to a visitor.

“It’s smaller than others, manageable, but I’m not so sure that can last.”

She was definitely talking, but I’m not so sure if it was directed at me or not. And I got the feeling she wasn’t referring to Vancouver being walkable or livable. So, I continued smoking, feeling soothed, stupid and creeped-out by this little girl all at once.

I looked at her through the smoke again and the world did in fact appear to be on her shoulders. All of its secrets seeping out beneath those squinty eyes.

“So why are you here, you didn’t grow here, did you?” I option-ed.

“No, but I think if I was to grow anywhere this place might not be too bad.” She smoked. I smoked. “It’s like, when I walk around the seawall to the other side,” she blew smoke across her view of False Creek, “all I have to worry about is the dead bodies in the water, the boats that sunk for a couple centuries, and a couple fucked up otters.”

I choked on my throat a little bit. Damned dirty otters.

“You go to fucking Boston or Jakarta, or Dubai or Long Beach and it doesn’t matter how much fucking water’s around, there’s too many fucking people, too much fucking scandal.”

She smokes, she swears, Not my sister, not my problem.

“A city’s a city, why are you stressing about it? Move to the suburbs,” I chuckled awkwardly then shut up.

“Don’t you think I’ve thought of that?” she snapped. “Don’t you think I want to live with cows and sheep and things that have only been traumatized by birth and sometimes eating their friends’ feces? No war, no ego, no guilt or greed.”

The girl looked up at the sky, her eyes starting to glisten just enough to notice.

I didn’t really know what she was talking about and was becoming more and more itchy with this situation.

“I know you don’t,” she said. “I know.” She got up slowly, her fingernails like fireflies as she brushed away the ash.

“My name’s Sebastian,” I mouthed my cigarette and shot a hand out towards her. “I’m sorry you’re having a shit day.”

She looked at me and my hand, shook her head slightly and wiped her eyes.

“Thanks,” she smiled quickly with her head down. “Thanks for the lighter.”

She tossed it up into the air softly and turned down the steps while I tried to track its glinting, spinning flips through the sky.

“See you around,” she said, disappearing through trees and shadows as the last bit of the sun was carving through the islands to the sea. As if I needed the dramatic exit for anti-closure to the weird anti-conversation.

I sat and finished the cigarette like I actually smoked. As if I needed it.

Part III: Four Days Previous to Observing a Proper Switchblade Encounter

The Besting of Carlos Twelve-Toes

T  here was a time when the denial of circumstances was cut and dried. I can remember somewhat vaguely the day I first caught my mother in a lie, then was forced to abandon perception. Until of course it happened again and again, until she left.

She had taken me out and around the town on her daily routine, me being an only child and unaware of the dangers of being left alone in my house after kindergarten. We went to the places where a wife like her might gather vegetables, collect meat and fish, and pick up dry-cleaning. She did have a job, but only in the evenings and weekends when my dad was done at the insurance place. I liked to think of it as efficient parenting versus dispassionate coupling, that worked for me. So, during the week, away we would go on assignments about town, purchasing the best possible goods at the most feasible thrift.

We speed-walked down Commercial Drive one particular Tuesday after I had a particularly poor performance at school. Something to do with paper mache and the class fish, and possibly gluing my own eyelashes together. Mom made a point of paying me no mind beyond pulling harder on my hand when I lagged behind. Eventually we cut into a dingy side street, weaved in and out and around dumpsters and people who I thought were very sleepy. Into a doorway we went, down a hallway and past rooms where Asian women sewed and smoked, and doors through which Polish men cut keys and fixed boots.

We arrived at a place that would only be a place if you had seen it yourself, otherwise it didn’t exist. It had a yellow post-it note below the peephole that said knock three times…so Mom knocked five times and a moment later the door opened. We hurried in and the door was shut behind us by a man who, I would later learn, had six toes on each foot. That is, before losing four of them in a poorly chosen cockfight wager. I was taught that Cubans don’t mess around when it comes to poultry.

“What d’ya say, Ramona?”

“Hooves, Carlos, always hooves.”

“You know the drill, purse, pockets, all that yazz. What’s with the goober?”

“He killed a fish and pasted his eyelids shut today,” she said as she opened her purse and showed its innards.

“Sounds about right.” Carlos Twelve-Toes licked his gums at the purse and shook his head at me.

“I’m thinking my luck can’t get any worse than usual with him around.”

“I hear the nine horse in the seventh had some sex this week.”

“You don’t say?”

“See you after.”

“Después,” smiled Mom as she closed up her purse.

We walked down a hall with several closed doors, each with its own hefty aroma leaking from the cracks at the floor. I came to know that gamblers of different sports each have their own unique stench. College sports gamblers smell like shaving cream and divorce, boxing gamblers evoke rusted steel and old leather, and blackjack gamblers reek of whiskey and student loans. The speculators of the track, like dear-old mom, those ones usually smelled like tobacco and pills - heart medicine had a specific sterility to it.

The door she chose to open was near the back. When she did so, it was like being sucked out of a dark, gutted plane to an even darker night sky. I felt a rush as the noise hit my face and cringed when the smoke crawled through my scalp and eyeballs. There were TVs everywhere, hanging from the ceiling, on the floor and in corners, on chairs and beneath a dingy pool table. It was like a permanent garage sale with no takers.

Mom searched the room and finding her target, made her way to a fold-out table where a man shorter than her was licking a flaming run on a cigar older than me. She made some noise about ‘not owing him shit’, and he made some noise about kicking her teeth in. She threw some money at him and he flipped a ticket back at her. It was all very methodical as if it were routine, so I stared around the room at everybody else staring back at me. I recall thinking that these men must be here because the tooth fairy had made them rich enough to gamble, they must’ve been rich with all those gaps in their mouths.

“Come on Sebby, mommy’s got one more stop after this so let’s rest our feet and watch the ponies.”

We watched the horses that day for two hours. I didn’t know then if they ran the same ones each time or not, but they all seemed to look the same. Then the seventh time the horses ran around the track, Mom stood and screamed at one or more of the TVs, kissed me on the cheek and jumped in the air, taking some of my glued eyelashes with her. If my eyelids weren’t burning so badly, I would’ve really enjoyed that moment. She was happy, and when the short man ripped her ticket from her hand and threw a bunch of money back at her, we left that place skipping as we walked.

When we got home, Mom showered as she usually did. Then when dad got home, she kissed him on the cheek on her way back out the door for work. He looked happy then too, so he and I watched Dallas and ate some extra cheesy noodles together. I never got to stay up with dad before. But that night he said we could draw until Mom came home.

That was the first time I ever wondered about lies and lying, but it didn’t feel bad. After all, where was time better spent, questioning morality, or using papier mache to its utmost potential and watching the ponies go round with mom?

A few days later we returned to those smelly doorways of Commercial Drive. Mom knocked five times on the main door, showed the innards of her purse to Carlos Twelve-Toes, yelled at the short man in the room with all the TVs, and got her ticket. We watched the screens, Mom jumped up and clapped, the short man threw money at her, she kissed dad on the cheek, and I got to draw until midnight.

Soon, Mom was taking me every other day to that place and holding my hand and jumping around. Of what I can remember, she rarely walked out with less than forty dollars - she even taught me how to count without the use of candy. I started to yearn for Commercial Drive on the days that she didn’t go; on those days she didn’t jump around and she didn’t kiss dad’s cheek, and I didn’t get to stay up late with my pencils.

One night she and dad were very loud when she got home from work, but not with doors closed, this time they were shouting in the kitchen. I started sketching because I couldn’t sleep, but when I couldn’t concentrate on the shades anymore, I recognized some words about Commercial Drive, and about money, and about things that didn’t sound happy at all. The next day she picked me up from school and I knew immediately that we were going to watch the horses. She had that same anxious look on her face but was wearing a nice dress, so I didn’t say much about it.

Inside the TV room she sat me on a chair to watch the men with money and missing teeth while she went over to yell at the short one behind the fold-up table. Only this time she didn’t yell at all, instead she spoke very softly to him, gestured with her hands and smiled warmly. He looked back at her and chewed his cigar, I didn’t know that look, hadn’t seen it before, but it reminded me of my teacher when the bell was about to ring at the end of the day. The man wrote on the ticket and slowly passed it over to Mom, who in turn went into her purse and retrieved something for him even more slowly.

When she won that day, she didn’t jump up and down and she didn’t kiss me on the cheek. She walked to the short man behind the table and spoke with him again. His face was red, and his cigar was moist with the sweat off his lip. He shook as he piled up more money than I would be able to count, and then he pointed a finger in her face and said something so low I couldn’t hear properly. She nodded, and we left quickly with all of the eyes on us.

We drove home the long way, her focusing hard on the road. I didn’t say anything the whole way, or even when I got out of the car in the driveway. She didn’t say anything either but just gave a last wink as she pulled back out into the street. And so, I just waved and watched for the very last time as the Lincoln, with my Mom and her big purse, dissolved around the corner.

From then on, dad let me stay up late every night to draw. We watched Dallas and ate a lot of noodles with cheese.

So, I learned about truth and lies, and I learned how to draw really, really well.

The First Last Altercation

I had left for the nursery a little earlier than usual when I rose from a confused slumber, creeping out around seven in the morning. No pervy shadows under the neighbor’s door, but goddamn if the chemical smell didn’t punch right through my dawn-nostrils. I had an amazing hangover, despite the fact that I didn’t have a touch of liquor the day before, and frankly I didn’t feel like putting up with Adina’s morning boner, so fleeing was appropriate.

The front doors of Verdigris weren’t locked and when I walked in the entire place was spotless. Elle’s chubby arms were rumbling at the blender behind the bar.

I ventured in, not knowing what to do or say. I’d never spoken to her like I had the day before, and I still didn’t really know why I had.

“Fuck sakes!” she jerked when she saw me, and her jiggly arms came to a rest on the countertop.

“Sorry.”

“You just squeezed some pee out of me.”

“I mean sorry for yesterday, I was out of line, kiddo.”

“You sure were, you douche, and don’t look at me like that. I’ll pull that fucking lip up over your stupid haircut.”

I went to reach for my hair but pulled back.

“I deserve that.”

“Yes, you do,” she said pouring out something of a bluish ooze from the blender, “but you didn’t deserve for me to make you feel the way I did yesterday, so I’m sorry too.”

She handed me a glass like a peace offering. I hadn’t stopped by the warring baristas yet, so whatever it was looked minorly appealing in that moment, despite the membrane webbing on the top.

“I don’t know why I said that stuff…” I began.

“Ya, you were mean, and most of it was true,” she said, “but that’s why I love…us. We can be straight with each other, ugly truth and all.”

“And I wouldn’t change it for the world,” I gulped the thick blue tissue and gagged back into the cup.

“Wow, ugly truth, hey?” she frowned.

I wiped my mouth and sniffed at the cup, gagging again.

“It’s a little concoction I’m trying out, no good?”

“Maybe stick to the carrots and spinach and blueberries.” I tried to recover graciously, but some blue drip hit the back of my throat like extra-spicy cocaine remnants and I choked up again.

“That’s enough,” she waved me off and started cleaning up.

I noticed the latex gloves she was wearing, stretched over her tiny pudgy hands like a dental hygienist. In that moment, I thought back to when my dad found us a new dentist after Mom left. Somehow, he settled on one whose hygienist’s boobs were bigger than my head. I learned all about erections around the same time I found out that too many five cent candies would lead to cold drills in my face.

“What’s with the gloves, officer?” I asked, pushing the cup across the bar at her and wiping the blue spittle from the sides of my lips.

She looked down at her hands. “Oh, just got a mani, no big deal,” she said, waving her fingers before carefully scooping up the blender and scrubbing it in the sink until there was no trace of blue left. “Sure you’re done?” she said.

“I’m good, maybe we’ll try it a little later when I’ve got more of an appetite.”

“No rush,” she smiled.

I smiled back.

It was good to get that over with, I can’t do confrontation. The last time I had a real altercation was with my dad. I was seventeen, he had gotten drunk and rifled through all of my sketchpads. He was given the day off work and spent his time ripping apart the house. He had gotten his hands on almost every piece of art I had done since I was in grade school. Hundreds of pages and canvases, books and pads. Being a teen full of angst and creativity and having had the occasional beer and/or blowjob, I thought I had it all figured out. So, I saw the state of things and we had a discussion.

The entire works were spread out in the kitchen, but the dining room table was the real exhibition with dozens of sketches of Mom over the past decade. Some I was very proud of, others offended by, some scribbled under the influence, and many just flat out weird. Her voice, her hair, the horses and money. The Lincoln, Commercial Drive and men with few teeth. Gardening, Grandpa and Grandma and boats. It was how I knew her, how I remembered her. And it set him off.

As he yelled, he tore up every last one into sooty snowflakes, kicking them into a blizzard as they fell. For weeks I found pores of her ivory skin, flecks of speckled iris, follicles of her moon-glow hair. I collected her ashes and filled a box that sits somewhere in another box in a storage locker somewhere below sea level.

I left the house and the suburbs not long after, confrontation wasn’t for me.

I returned to Elle, feeling a little fuzzy. Actually, I felt pretty damn good. My stomach was sort of tingling, that good kind of tingle like I might pee but didn’t actually have to.

“By the way, you look really great these days, I find I’ve been looking at your bum quite frequently of late.”

Say what?

Elle looked at me strangely,

“I already said it’s alright,” her lips turned a smirk, “forgotten.”

“I’m not alright, and I don’t think I could lie right now if I tried,” I said without saying it first. I said it without saying it first…I al-ways said it to myself first. That’s what years of self-doubt teaches a guy. Edit before you speak.

“I don’t think so either,” she snapped the gloves off and flung them carefully in the bin.

“Alright,” I said, turning to go then turning back again. “Um,” the spiral staircase seemed like a long walk in that moment.

“More aloe came in last night,” she saved me.

“Good, great, yes. Aira will be pumped. It’s good that he’s good, he’ll be good to go…with aloe, lots and lots of aloe to be good with.” My ears popped all of a sudden and I began gnawing on my cheeks like the plane was going down.

Elle turned to look, “You okay, bud?”

“Those stairs, they go upwards, I’ll go get up there on them,” I saluted and moved away from the bar very swiftly. If I were able to rise above my body and look down, I believe I’d take the extra time to fasten a grown-up diaper to my body below, because from that view, any view, it certainly appeared that I might be without cognitive or bowel control.

Though my anus did not in fact implode upon itself, my stomach formed a crescendo of tingly goodness as I galloped up the stairs in escape. It rose up and up in ecstasy until my eyes started to roll back into my skull and my mouth formed a joker-esque grin. It may have lasted only a few steps on the way up to the office, but I felt it, I felt an uncontrollable orgasm in my facial tissue before my ears popped again and there was nothing but quiet in my head.

I opened my eyes and the fuzz in my pupils spread out to find the ceiling fans spinning nauseously above. I sat up quickly, regretted that, then felt around to confirm I was on the office couch and not sinking into a cloud of hallucination. I settled on the fact that it was likely both. My watch looked at me, its arms had moved just ten minutes’ worth since I’d been in Verdigris and I’d already blacked out.

I didn’t have time to celebrate not dying before Cam came trotting up the stairs. He was singing and beat-boxing all at once, broadcasting like a ghetto-blaster stuck between AM stations.

“…then she gave me the clap…boom boom boom boom…so I shot back…brrrat blat blat brrrat…but the bitch was high on crack.”

I gave him a nod and a smile when he finally noticed me, turning spotty shades of rose as he put his bag down near the computer with casual awkwardness. He peeled off a pair of earphones so I could hear a bit of his pigeon chainsaw-massacre. Cam’s musical palate, much like that of an advanced sommelier, was so refined that commoners like me just wouldn’t ‘get it’.

“So, I guess all is well with you and Elle,” his skin started to return to its former pasty white majesty.

“Ya, she seems pretty cool actually,” I said.

“I’ve never seen you like that, dude. You just sort of lost your mind a little, kind of freaked out like Chewbacca whenever Luke gets shot at.”

“Wasn’t Chewbacca always kind of freaked out though?” I said, shaking the warmth back into my hands.

“Well,” said Cam, “I’ve got this theory that Chewy was mis-understood. Like, everybody thinks Han and ‘em knew exactly what he was saying, but they were actually just pretending to under-stand. See, I think he was actually yelling and shooting like a crazy asshole because he was horny. Very, very horny.”

I thought back to that tall, hairy warrior.

“Know what I mean? He was hollering at bitches left and right and just generally freaking out because he wanted some Chewy-puss. The crew just kept assuming he was this war-machine on a mission for their cause, in actuality, his true cause was simply the sweet, viscous zest of a young...”

“Alright, that’s good.” I looked at Cam for a second, “You said ‘Chewy-puss’ just now, didn’t you?”

He nodded, “Very, very horny. But, now here’s the other big thing, he always got his own poop stuck in his fur, so that was a massive problem also.”

“Well, maybe he couldn’t mate because he always had shitty fur,” I said.

“Layers,” Cam said in awe.

“Star Wars philosophy…it’s a never-ending story.”

“Wanna know what’s up with R2D2?”

“I’m good, Cam.”

“Centuries and Galaxies away…and ago…he worked for Pepsi, like VP of Outbound Marketing or something morose, then one day—”

“Hey, did you happen to put in the order yesterday?” I cut him off.

“Aloe, aloe, aloe just like you asked, plus all the extra for the Japanese dude down the street. It came out pretty pricey though, you sure he’s good for it?”

“I don’t know, I mean I’m sure he is. Why, what does that matter?”

“Matters because the Franceses need to do the books for year-end and if we’re short a few grand, or up in that much inventory, I’m sure they’d spend some time away from all the vacationing to figure it out, know what I mean?”

With all the brain damage of late, I had blanked that the new year-end date I set was fast approaching. The last thing I wanted was for the Franceses to start hanging around, auditing everything late into the night, every night. That would mean my time in particular.

“You are a good man, Cam.”

The lad grew a touch aww-shucksy and looked at his shoes.

“But check this out,” he rebounded, “so R2D2 loses his cola fortune on some bad hedging tips and has to run tricks for a while in the alleys of the outer ridge of Trembudor Nine…”

I pushed by Cam and flipped open my laptop.

“Well fine, I’ll tell you later.”

“Fair enough.” I waved Cam off.

My laptop came to with an onslaught of calendar reminders.

Email Malcolm’s dad for Filthy Sombrero II. Sounds like some cryptic reminder to procure digi-porn, but it wasn’t. Malcolm had invited us out on his father’s sailboat for the fireworks on Saturday, but every time we went out, he never actually let his dad know. So being as I was usually the only one capable of bringing her back in at the end of the night, I got in the habit of letting the old man know. I thought it easier to just skip the coast guard, the police, the jail, and whatnot.

I made a mental note to inquire about what had happened to the Filthy Sombrero I, must’ve been messy.

Sea Festival. All interns on deck. “Cam, can you grab the time sheets?”

“On it.”

Adina. ten months. Shit, forgot about that one too. I’m not sure I agree with ten months as an anniversary to be celebrated. But maybe that’s just with Adina.

“Ten months already?” Cam was leering over my shoulder.

“Cam, come on.”

“You come on. What are you going to buy her, the Jessica Simpson Total Life Experience Collection?”

I turned around and Cam’s reddish hue returned four-fold. Then he saw the next note and started squirming about, checking his pockets like he lost something.

Fire Solomon, the reminder read. Ah yes, a classic. I’ve had that repeating in my calendar since the week I hired the guy a year and a half ago. He’s on obscenely strong thin ice, always has been, creepy little fucker.

“I didn’t mean anything…” Cam sweated as if I was going to put another note in the system counting down his days.

“It’s all good, she’s a pain in the ass, but she’s here for now so deal with it while I do. Show some brotherly respect, would ya?”

“Sorry, sorry, not my place. I like her, I do,” he looked around the furniture legs on the floor, “she always has really, really hot and slow friends. Even though they won’t look me in the eye. And she gives me roaches that smell like cream soda. Speaking of which…”

Eyeing through the next few tasks, I patted around my body assuming the lighter that was following me was there somewhere. I pulled it out and tossed it over my shoulder so he would be gone with his cream soda roaches.

Meeting with Ms. Bowry was the next note and I had to think for a second before it clicked. Ms. Bowry lives kitty-corner to the nursery in one of those towers, a development I like to call Bruce Wayne manor. It is a grotesquely elaborate condo, clearly inhabited by Batman and thus occupied by all ensuing awesomeness such as grappling hooks and fine art, Italian marble and nunchaku, French ass-shower bidets and throwing stars. Bowry often had me deliver rare specimens firsthand or visit to advise on others that were not taking to their new environment.

I’ve seen some things in that apartment that would make Liberace cry.

I have to admit that I loved the experience though, the building was right on the corner of Richards and Drake where, after having your retina scanned at the gate, you enter into a courtyard with wrought-iron spiral staircases and Spanish-style balconies staggered in ways that don’t make sense. Grottos and fountains mute the traffic curving around Pacific Street, so you can focus on the smell the money dripping from what appears to be a half dozen units in a space that could easily hold three times as many.

Elle must have taken the message and put this appointment into our shared calendar. I imagined Bowry wanted to purchase her usual run of summer additions to the roof-top patio. It was around this time of year that she returned from South America for a few months of barely tolerable Canadian Botox and jewelers. I didn’t mind putting some extra time into her consultations; it’s always enjoyable to get a sizable donation to the Me Fund. Somebody has to bring home the frozen waffles.

I accepted the invite for the following day and got down to business with the spreadsheets, hoping to keep the Franceses at bay so I could maintain my freedom to operate.

I couldn’t fathom having to deal with their meddling right now, not with all the other peculiar goings-on. The thought of spicy Gucci Pour Homme infiltrating my nostrils as they shared stories of the others’ travel faux pas, dripping sweet white wine overtop of me while I dragged out file box after file box of receipts from storage.

“Weed break?”

“I just got here, Cam. It’s not even breakfast yet.”

“Coffee and weed?”

The Sea Tales of a Frances

I remember when I first met one of the Frances - the better of the two. I was sitting on some steps outside of the False Creek Yacht Club sketching in the early afternoon light. I recall charcoaling some sort of a racehorse pre-race. His mane looked like it was made from long strands of my mother’s hair, and I can recollect feeling some sort of guilt in creating the animal. I gazed off towards the boats below and considered where she might be at that same moment, where she had run off to in her own final race.

“That’s some pony, mate,” slurred that low, lustrous Gewürz-traminer-wet voice that I would grow to love so much. “Do you ride?”

Now, there’s always that feeling of discomfort that a hetero-sexual man gets when the unmistakable tinges of an older, proud homosexual’s voice draws down on him. It’s not homophobic in nature, it’s held more in knowing that a transaction must be made to define one’s own position. Valid or not, this is usually how an insecure heterosexual feels. In that moment, I too felt the need to define my position.

“Thanks, it’s my girlfriend’s.”

However weak the claim, it was what I believed would be most effective at the time. That is until Frances laughed at me.

“There’s nothing gayer than drawing horses and blaming it on your…girlfriend.”

He paused on the steps and looked down at my laptop bag crammed full of sketchpads. Each expanded with various inks and charcoals, the pages wavy with oils and sweat from my fingertips and time.

“You a student?” he asked.

“I was.”

“Graduated, obviously rich and working?”

“Not so much, and so, no, not really.” I flipped the pad closed and forced a quick grin, rationalizing the fastest route to the nearest phone booth.

“Well, those are the breaks,” he said and walked past me.

Asshole, I thought. What kind of a person walks out of a yacht club and right over a starving artist, literally.

“Sorry, mate,” came that voice not a minute later, having turned back to me, “that was an asshole move. Can I ask your opinion on something? I’ll flip you a twenty for your consultation.”

“For what?”

“I’ve got this catalogue proof for my shop, I spent like two thousand bucks on this thing, but I don’t know what I’m looking at. I have no idea what I need, no idea what it should look like…I’m useless at this shit. Do you have any experience with that kind of thing? I’ll give you a bill or two if you can just tell me what I should be looking for.”

“Keep your twenty, I don’t mind looking at it,” I said as if I didn’t need that money.

“Great, it’s just down there at the boat,” he nodded over his shoulder, and when I followed the direction, he must have noticed my concern. “Don’t worry, butt-ramming out-of-work youth is not my bag,” he walked off down a ramp towards the bleached dock and its bobbing white boats.

I will admit, his boat was beautiful, well taken care of and quite weathered all at once. She had been down the coast more than a few times, Frances said as he tossed me a tall can of German beer I couldn’t read.

“The hardest bit is just south of Eureka, terrible section of wind and swell that will make you feel like you’re forty miles offshore.”

It sounded as if he was about to rip into a longish yarn, so I made myself comfortable as he uncovered some design proofs from beneath piles of charts on the captain’s desk.

“I remember one evening I was about an hour away from port looking forward to a steak and a good night’s sleep after twenty hours under sail. It was a pretty tranquil journey, but sometimes those are the most trying on the mind. Anyways, I looked out to read the wind and I was disturbed to see it looking back at me like phantoms whipping about over the water, eerie and impossible to predict.” He slid me the designs, intent on talking while I digested them.

“Just as I was about to make a move on the helm, I was knocked then lifted two or three times in a matter of a few seconds, with the last lift dragging me from six to ten to fourteen knots like a god-damn motorcycle off the line. Everything above deck that wasn’t made fast was gone, including myself. I woke up mid-deck, stuck between a halyard and the mast, bleeding like a bastard with my knee bent out at the very worst of wrong ways. My head wasn’t all there and the pressure behind my eyeballs made it very delicate to focus on anything particular at all.”

I nodded as I listened to his foreign language, eyeing a bevy of tropical plants in his catalogue proof.

“I was taken over by the wind, and I didn’t exactly know how long I had been out, how far I had flown at the mercy of the offshores, but I rolled my body down the cabin and poked my head around the jib to make sure I was clear, I almost shit my pants,” he took a sip of his wine, possibly for effect, possibly because this story was true.

“It could’ve been that superhuman, adrenaline-strength, or just pure stupidity, but I ripped my leg out from between the halyard line and the mast, the tension so high that the hollow mast rang from the snapback of the line. I can remember the flesh and skin ripping down my inner thigh, beneath my knee and over my shin. And feeling the layers and layers of sea and salt from the line branding into my leg.”

He lifted up his long white shorts and turned his leg awkwardly inwards to show a long-twisted scar swerving lengthwise like a waterslide across his skin. I openly grimaced.

“I threw my body over the cabin-top, breaking two fingers on the cleats as I scrambled for the helm and righted myself in a twisting slide to land upright and face the bow again,” he shoved a bent claw in my face, “I dropped the jib halyard, the very same line that had just ripped me apart, and the entire headsail gave a few inches and flapped terribly, making the whole scene scarier than it needed to be. I was able to bring her about and the sail dropped slowly, luckily the majority of it on deck and not overboard causing another problem altogether. Regardless, when it was no longer obstructing my view, and the momentum had slowed drastically, the real problem then lay before me in plain view. I was about five boat lengths from this tiny island and my mainsail was still carrying a good eight knots, albeit slowing. I immediately turned into the wind and ducked the boom should it try to finish me off.”

“Did you crash?” I was truly into it at this point, flipping the pages of the catalogue without a glance down.

“I powered down pretty quickly, but it was too late and though the impact was much less than what it could have been, I hit the rocks with good enough force to unfasten most parts of this galley,” he looked around the cooking area and patted a swiveling oven, “But the worst part was that I took the surf on the way to running up on the rocks so I was lifted and set down lower on the hull. I was literally dashed up on the rocks with the stern dipped in, but the keel cracked apart allowing each coming wave to take me back and forth, port to starboard. My mainsail then became a bullwhip, the boom its tail, snapping at my head with random bursts of moment-um. I had to wrestle my broken body to the cabin top to uncleat the main halyard. I crawled up to the mast and fought for what must have been twenty minutes trying to tear down the main inch by inch. To this day you can see blood throughout the stitch work, not even the washing machine of sea air can clean that night away.”

I didn’t know many of the words that came out of his mouth, but I followed as best I could.

“Did you get the sail down?”

“I had it about a third of the way, but the thrashing didn’t seem to get any less from the wind. And the waves pitched us about in opposite directions creating this mad bull ride.

“Finally, my legs were not enough to fight atop the deck and my forearms too weakened to catch the lifeline as I went over the star-board side. I was tossed about fifteen feet over and down onto the rocks breaking a femur and the majority of these old ribs here.”

“Jesus.”

“I was wide awake this time, which was possibly the worst of it all because my viewpoint was such that I could see my mangled leg twisted unnaturally as the waves lapped further and further up to my waist and back down.

“And in the corner of my eye I could see the hull of the ship rocking back and forth above me, the tip of the mast with the violent mainsail appearing with each oscillation. Sometimes she would come to starboard enough to see the boom ripping over the lifeline. It was in those moments that I couldn’t be sure if I would be killed by my own boat. Or, if I would die with my wounds, half submerged in the coldest water my dick has ever had the displeasure of experiencing.”

We both sipped, me probably staring at his dick. He, staring at the innards of the boat.

“I don’t know how long I was there, but I had stopped counting the rocking of the hull, the grinding and cracking of fiberglass above me. My eyelids started closing so I decided to count the times I could lift them back up, like lifting weights, just to try to stay conscious. But like lifting weights, my lids became fatigued and just as I committed to let them rest, there was a sturdy slap across my face. A hard-muffled glove slap. Then I counted two orange mustang suits and knew the coast guard was there just in time to watch me die.”

“Helicopter?”

“No, they got there by rigid inflatable boat, but I tell you the drop must’ve been harder than any Heli rescue. I mean sure, I can find an island pretty quick and nail it via pleasure craft, but it takes real skill to get a couple men in, drop them and get out without destroying everything and everybody. These guys were pros, I was out and under a blanket within fifteen minutes watching my boat and the island disappear like a bad dream.”

“Holy shit.”

“Ya, holy shit…I believe I was baptized that day. No kidding, not in the holier-than-thou kind of way but it changed my life. To this day, I do everything a little bit differently. A lot bit differently.”

Frances took a moment, looking around the insides of his boat, like it was an old friend with all the triumphs and shame. He rubbed a rough hand over his wrinkled brow and across furry, peppered eyebrows.

“I do recall the search and rescue crew, vividly, one older fella in particular must’ve been seventy-plus. The most intense guy. Totally focused on saving my life. I remember his smile through the darkness, his calmness,” Frances buckled over his knees on his elbows. “A year later I was still rebuilding this boat from the hull and bits that were salvaged from that damned rock. I went down south to visit the guys who pulled me out, buy them another beer, you know? Turns out the old man had a heart attack not long after that mission, and that was it for him.”

I listened and just thought, ten minutes ago, I had my finger up my butt drawing horsies.

“Wow – I mean, shit. Sorry.”

“By all accounts he had lived an insane life, sailed the world, etcetera. But I tell you, his wife was pissed. She blamed everybody on that crew. For years, so I heard, she tried to single-handedly dis-mantle that entire rescue station, she even came after people that had been rescued by the unit. I never heard from her myself, thank god. How do you approach something like that?”

“That’s some story,” was the only thing I could spit up awkward-ly. He looked at me and smiled.

“Just a salty old bugger’s tales of B.S, my apologies.” He got up and made himself busy, speaking over his shoulder, “so let me know what you think of those proofs. I really don’t have a clue about that stuff.”

Like an asshole, I put my head down and flipped through page after page, not really looking at anything until adequate time had passed and the tension in the cabin had lifted slightly.

I did go through all Frances’ materials over the following days and had given him my honest, complete feedback. He was receptive to most of it and quite impressed with what I had to say. It was my big foray into commercial design, and I was loving it.

I refused payment, because I really didn’t feel I deserved it in all honesty. That wouldn’t last long as we met more in the weeks to come. I just sort of slid into my position at his nursery, and what would eventually become Verdigris.

There was some sort of flow to it all, the space was growing at the same time. Small renovations here and there with my input; new design and ideas under my guidance. Before long, I was running the operation, managing the orders and the hiring and firing of odd little workers. For this, I have the other Frances to thank. He’s the more gluttonous of the two and saw an opportunity with my arrival to travel more here and there. Shopping trips and ski trips, eventually sunny destinations for weeks on end. Years later, it’s now rare to see them once every few months.

That horse drawing is framed in driftwood, bobbing above the galley bar in Frances’ boat, named Freedom.

Unnaturally Bendy Strangers on Rubber

S o much aloe, I thought, rambling across the bridge toward the monolithic brewery.

And that goddamn Brugmansia. There was a lot of cash out the door that I needed to get back before the Frances’ return.

Unfortunately, there were worse things on my plate at the moment.

A beacon of light like a tractor-beam drew me toward the only other industrial-looking office building in the Kitsilano neighbor-hood. A five-storey brown brick, with its large red and white Greek symbol, the brand’s logo, lit up at the highest point. There it was, jockeying for the eye line against the beer label across the street, a twisted yoga shrine with something devious within.

Adina wore nothing but Harmony Yoga pants, even Elle took to them half of the week. The brand was so ubiquitous in the city, you’d be hard-pressed to see much else on women in gyms, coffee shops, along the seawall. And here, this building held its main offices, along with various active yoga studios for what I’m sure are many different kinds of the same thing.

I lurked twenty feet away trying not to be that guy watching the sweaty red ladies birthed out of class one after another. I cursed Skinny’s invite from the night before at Verdigris, but then again, those Harmony pants were everywhere, and they were wonderful.

Wait, why are these ladies so red? I thought, watching as they left the place broken down and ashamed like freshly sheered sheep. Hot Yoga. This is not how I envisioned a date with Skinny, turning several shades of bloated dead-guy purple, sweating all over her, and ripping out elaborate wet fart sounds on a hot rubber mat.

Shit, I needed a mat.

I walked through the front doors and was immediately hit with a wall of thick, tangy sweat and deep regret. I looked around the tiny reception area, a desk with an elastic little thing sitting behind it sneer-laughing at something somebody somewhere had tweeted. A bench full of heaving post-yoga bodies slid around trying to put on their shoes with a different sort of grace.

This did not look like the ads with the pants they all wore.

I could see through one of the open studio doors to an endless dark room with a shining wooden floor where several bare feet and floppy mops slid back and forth like deckhands, swabbing up pools of sweat and spittle. I could only assume the feet belonged to young yogis-in-training paying their dues to the cult.

“Welcome to Harmony, first-timer.” said the chew toy behind the counter.

“Yup, first-timer here.” I looked around at everybody pretending to look around me.

“Can you please take your outside shoes off when you’re inside?”

“Sorry about that.”

“We don’t want to bring the outside things to the inside.”

“Right, sorry.”

“Just so you know for next time, we simply take off the outside shoes and put them…”

“Here? With the rest of these pairs of shoes from the outside?”

“Have you been here before?”

“Believe it or not, no, quick learner though.”

“Good, today we will realize a fantastic vinyasa to music, extra hot.”

“How hot are we talking here?” I ignored the word I didn’t know for time saving purposes.

“We aim to enjoy an esoteric thirty-two degrees Celsius, but we really can’t control it when all of the energy and bodies in the room start to perspire in unison. It gets pretty hot. Come please, time is not infinite this afternoon, we will begin shortly,” she said bobbing up and down on her toes behind the bamboo desk. “Please fill this out and we’ll treat you to your origination experience.”

I scribbled as fast as I could with the dry erase marker, cursing my genitals for having me agree to this terrible rendezvous. I handed back my particulars on the laminated clipboard, and the girl’s dimples disappeared.

“It says here that you have no allergies, no medications, no health issues, but in brackets you wrote ‘falls down sometimes’. What does that mean, um…Sebastian?”

“I’ve had a weird week and may or may not have hit the deck a few times, no big deal. Just being honest.”

“Rest-assured, our trainers will take note and if you experience any discomfort whatsoever, please do slip quietly into Balasana or Shavasana.”

“Yes, I will do that.”

She looked directly at my crotch. “I hope you have appropriate attire?”

“I work out in these, old faithfuls.”

She turned her face slowly away, but her eyes remained glued to my light grey sweatpants. Tried, tested, and true, grass stains and paint splatters from simpler times, back when Verdigris was in its infancy.

“Please drink plenty of water, and I hope you didn’t eat before class?”

“No, no, just a couple of beers.”

Her dimples went away altogether. “The naraloka’s room is downstairs past the nari’s room on the right.”

“Oh nice, where might I go to change?”

“Downstairs past the women’s room on the right.”

“Thanks,” I said again with a nod.

“Oh, and we ask that you don’t share anything you see within these walls with any non-members. Don’t use cell phones while here with us today. Don’t tell anybody what has occurred here during your practice. Enjoy your practice, and don’t share anything you see here today with the outside world.”

“Thanks. You too.” I nodded to the wet zombies still wrestling with their shoes.

Downstairs I crept, past the racks where old mats hung limp, abused, demoralized. Into the men’s change room I stepped with bare feet, sliding on sweat prints and shower puddles. I averted my eyes from the fresh set of balls waddling directly towards me, attached to a man with hot red skin and a majestic mane.

Finding a space, I caught a few guys looking me up and down to check out my gear, almost sneering at the lack of lycra or luon or groupon or whatever these people find to be the stretchiest advent-age in getting closer to spirituality.

They spoke in tongues.

“Okay well, I’ll tell you, her upward lotus was an obscenity,” said a thin one, “I feel she tried to force me into an active state that I didn’t find appropriate. I believe she raped me.”

“I’m sorry, I felt she was guiding us towards the right corner of yin for that moment, maybe you just weren’t open to it in your practice today,” said a thinner one.

“I think I know when I’m open, Shane, and I rooted myself with focus and counterbalance all session, but she took advantage of my energy blockage and…she raped me.”

“Okay, she did not rape you.”

“Okay, well I don’t know if you noticed, Shane, but why then does my tortoise feel broken, and my pigeon weep softly? For rigpa dön gyi lama’s sake, I’m set back a year at least.”

“Well what would you have me do about it?”

“I think you should have her offer me free towel service.”

“You just got that towel on sale for sixty dollars, don’t be greedy.”

“But the ones here are smaller than the mat, just enough so you are true to your edge. And they smell nice when they come out of the washer.”

“Fine, I will let her know, but if she declines, you have to accept it as your reality and move through it.”

“Okay, I am present, and I accept that.”

The two ageless disciples wanderlusted their way over to the shower area, and thin Shane’s voice trickled off with that eternal question, “…do you think Acai berry intrudes on the modest calling of tea tree oil if you invite both into your body at once?”

I stowed my bag with a laugh. A laugh that didn’t last long as the thoughts crept into my head that I would soon be entering an entire room full of these creatures. With that, shock ran through my body and I imagined the closest phone booth.

Then I recalled her smell, the eyes, the teeth and skin, all the new things.

Outside, the line was moving and was thankful to not be at the front, I’m only assuming that these people got here early to get all the keener spots at the front or middle of the room. I was perfectly happy to grab the last spot at the back where I could steal glances at Skinny from afar and wander the perversion of my private mind.

“Bitter!” I heard and turned to see happy little white teeth beckoning from the middle of the pack.

“Hey, you,” I smiled back and squeezed past sets of jealous eyes, both horny male and bi-curious alike. “Crazy running into you here, I come here all the time.”

“Right, of course.” She looked me up and down quickly.

“Oh, right, I’ve got to go rent a mat at the front, I’ll see you in there.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered, take this.” She passed me a yoga mat in some sort of a sheath, holding it out by its drawstring. It must have been brand new it was rolled so tightly.

“Oh, ya, well are you sure? I don’t want to sweat all over this thing then give it back in some kind of awkward fluid sample exchange.”

“Don’t be gross,” she grinned, possibly biting her lip a touch, “just keep it for next time we come.”

“Sure. Yes, I will do that. Waaaait, what is this, a gift? Albeit a weird rolled-up sheet of rubber gift, made in China. I love it, I will savor it always.”

“It’s my pleasure. Let’s go get sweaty.” She grabbed my hand and led me into the line.

Whoa.

The delicate girls with mops greeted everyone at the door, forcing eye contact to perhaps spy the last glint of humanity before the transformation they assumed awaited. Inside, the room was just as large as I had imagined it to be and as my eyes adjusted, I watched each of the supercilious natives who had gathered out in the hallways scattering. In here they had morphed into sluggishly shifting dancers on the floor, writhing about in the dark in their own personal plots. They arranged things here and there, gathering belts and blocks, laying out big towels and folding smaller ones. Each little mat and area had its own color-scheme and motif like a suburbia diorama.

No white picket fences necessary, this was already a gated community, and we were all nervously puttering about, awaiting some roaming security guard.

Skinny dragged me by the hand to the front of the room where there was a perfectly strange opening for two mats. Of course, this particular space was dead center of where that security guard guru would work its magic. A tiny gong, or ancient cousin of one, stood peeking over people’s heads, beside it a cone of incense burned extra slowly under the humidity left from the last class.

“How’s this?” she asked.

“Scary” I whispered back.

She smiled sideways and we unrolled our little rubber mats, mine was so new it stayed perked up on the ends where hers laid flat and well-used. Then she unfolded some sort of special yoga towel that fit perfectly over top of the mat which made me look to mine again and around the room. Everybody had this extra layer, was it important? Skinny motioned not to worry about it and then gave me the stern pointer to lie on my back like the others. I did, and so did she.

We both turned our heads at the same moment as we settled in. My skin warmed instantly, tingling with excitement perhaps. I smiled at her and her eyes smiled back, but her lips twitched with some sort of empathy. With a turn she reached her arms down with palms up and closed her eyes. Like a snow angel at peace, she be-came totally still.

I followed suit, but I couldn’t keep still. I stared at the ceiling fans spinning around, thinking about how many people had sweat in this place.

How many pounds of human fat had liquefied down into these cork floors? Will I breathe in other peoples’ breath and taste what-ever came from the deepest corners of their lungs? Can Skinny sense my nervousness? Does she think my sweatpants are cute in an ’oh-you’ kind of way, or disgusting in a last-date kind of way? Was this a date?

Where will Adina hide the mutilated cadavers?

Many minutes went by like that, and I closed my eyes to try to stop thinking. That only made things worse because that’s where thinking is most audible. It was like rolling up the windows of your car to stop from picking your nose. Everybody enjoys austere harvesting in the transparent confines of a moving vehicle two-fold.

The thoughts spiraled. The skin tingled.

Then with the last of the bodies in the room and the final little shifts and sighs complete, the place went silent. It was silent for a long time. The thoughts slowed and I gave way to the dark sensations. Somehow, I began to feel at ease on the mat, my legs spread out under the weight of nothingness and the pull of gravity. My muscles stopped holding my body in a standing position, and my arms, wrists and fingers fell open towards the fans above.

Then came the heat billowing in from above, hitting my face and rolling over my body down through every space between my leg hair and toes. It penetrated my skin and the pores opened wide to breathe in the moisture. I was weightless in a hammock swinging from jungle trees. I could smell the aloe all around.

Diiiiiinggggggggg.

The vibrations of the tiny gong waved through to my inner ears and slowly oscillated to an end. I came to the realization that we had been in that motionless state for quite some time, I also realized that there was absolutely no way to know time in this place. How fast it was spent, how slowly it was being saved.

Diiiiiiiiiinnnggggggggggggg.

The gong followed again with longer, wider waves. Despite it being four feet from my head, I had no idea when, or rather how, the presence that was gently striking that gong had arrived.

Then the hum of heat and fans silenced, and I became eerily aware of my own thoughts and how loud they were, lying flat on my back with my eyes closed, breathing in the breath of thirty-eight strangers. I sensed a man-child beside me, deep lungs with the sweet scent of maple ham coming off of his body. I felt Skinny on my other side, smaller, more subconscious of her surroundings and keeping all noises and odors muted.

I became more aware yet as weight came back to my frame and I anticipated some sort of responsibility coming my way. If only I could pay that dimpled weirdo at the front desk to allow me to simply lie here and sweat in my jungle hammock, with the only potential activity coming from some sort of critical monkey attack with a quick ending. Instead I tuned in to the presence four feet from the crown of my head, sitting high above the energy of the room as he or she placed the tiny gong to the floor.

And it spoke.

“Prana is the wake the breath leaves behind,” she began, “Imagine you are on a small boat on glassy, calm water, moving only by a slight breeze, you cut through the surface leaving a gentle wake behind you. That wake of minute reverberations which carry on forever, so it seems, that is what remains in your body after your breath has gone. This is the importance, the life, the power of each breath, and it is the key to your practice.”

She glided across the cork floor, barely audible.

“Roll over to your right using your right elbow as a pillow as you transition from passive to active state, moving slowly from the ground to your feet.”

My cheek touched the mat and flattened out, I felt electricity in that surface. Upon rolling up to my feet the higher hot air opened the pores of my face and that tingling sensation became stronger yet. Must be part of the deal.

“Place your hands open at your sides, palms facing forward in acceptance and openness. Close your eyes and breathe in deeply through your nose, exhaling through your mouth until there is nothing left.”

I did so and felt something new with this focus and attention on breathing. It surprised me how much air I could actually hold and how shallow my normal automated breathing must be.

“Two more times, fluid breathing. Come to the apex of your lungs’ capacity and fill up even more into the back spaces where your ribs are, deep down into your kidneys. Let your spine drink it in. Without holding your breath, ride that wave back the other way, exhaling every last drop of oxygen from your system, cleansing breaths.”

Then the dizziness hit like a wrecking ball. With my eyes closed I almost fell over, searching for some sort of balance that had just been stripped from me. My skin tingled further yet and the entire sensation felt otherworldly.

Steady as she goes, keep your wits, I thought.

“With your hands to your heart, toes touching, chin tucked, head high, shoulder blades plugged in, chest open…ground down. Root down.”

There was no doubt in my mind as the instructor chunked out little adjustments, that these bendy shitheads behind me knew what was going on. My posture felt awkward and awful, but in feeling so wrong it must be sort of right. I snuck a peak through moist eye-lashes as she continued to hurl directives at the group from the other side of the room now. Arms flew to the ceiling in prayer and bodies leaned from one side to another, stretching for length at all times.

“You are creating space in the places that we have trained to become closed off and tight. In these spaces you find your practice. It’s a practice of letting go of all the things that make us tight. It is a practice of finding the edge of what’s possible and available to you today. Each day is different, what is available to you today? Where do you want to push and where do you want to pull back? You may choose to pull back and not exert in a particular position, and that’s okay. Each day is different, each day an open convers-ation with your body. The importance is that this conversation is being had.”

Let’s give this a try then.

I initiated the conversation with my body, moving in near unison with the collective group shifting downward into some sort of twisting prayer. I listened to my body long and hard in that deep twist but all I heard was that it wanted to let out a deep, explosive fart. Soon, very soon. The type of fart that is purely torn audio, no substance. The way I was warped had me regretting the many things that had been put into my person recently.

I was milking myself of air, and I needed a bucket for collect-ion soon because I was about to burst.

“Your spine is like a sponge, and as long as you protect and respect your edge, you can twist your entire back and squeeze out the juices that settle there. All those toxins, all those poisons that linger, they can be flushed out in this compaction. In our day to day lives we hold onto things. We hold on to memories and events, experiences and objects. Our body is no different; it remembers things both physical and mental so there’s this extra weight in the places we ignore, like energy trapped in corners waiting to es-cape. Squeeze it out. Squeeze it out.”

How has nobody farted? I thought, somebody please fart so I can squeeze the bejesus out of this pose and be free also.

How many times would I be held prisoner to social norms, be denied freedom of expression? I couldn’t help but consider the likelihood of old, forgotten farts locked up in my body like a prison of soldiers from long ago. Thanksgiving, ‘ninety-two, yeah, I was there. Recall the coleslaw that went sideways in the sunny window-sill all day? The attraction to a certain second cousin that was in attendance? Yes, that was the reckoning of a locked-up fart. A long march to the bowels and back again, only to be imprisoned some-where in my lower gut, never to escape.

Until now. This would be its vengeance, and with it the peril of my blooming relationship with Skinny.

Just then, I heard a satisfying grunt from beside me. The sweat-ing hulk of ham to my left had let something fall out of his body that was so malevolent, so incomprehensibly evil that the sheer heat of the production seethed the gentle inner lining of my nostrils. The afterburners kicked in and a scorching plume of hit my neck. The coward made no noise of it, and I could only curse though tear-ing eyes while locked in a death stare with his juicing hock. The entire room was twisted severely to the left and held at the orders of the instructor. My grip loosened under the sweat and the punch of his fart now caught in my throat. But realizing that Skinny was behind me, with the same view of me that I had of the farter. I had to hold.

Like a low-pressure system, the fiend’s gas circulated my area and sucked up to the roof slowly with the rest of the surrounding body heat. I locked eyes with the perpetrator as the class was ordered to unravel and work the other side. He looked guilty, but also proud in knowing he had snuck one past the group with just one casualty. And like similar men of history that have become sick with power, he simply winked at me knowing there was to be no consequence.

That glistening beast stole my fart opportunity, and as payment, traded toxins more potent than those I had arrived with. I could have retreated but found solace in anticipation of the view waiting in our next counter-twist.

“Inhaling, this breath guides your release, hands in prayer.” I sputtered a bit, tasting residuals. ”Exhaling, you counter to the other side, finding space and squeezing the spine to balance yin with yang.”

I breathed out fully, trying to aim it low in case there were par-ticles on my tongue, and only then could I enjoy what lay in wait.

This must be what all the fuss is about, I thought, as I looked eastward. For there in full glory was the pure majesty and beauty of the yogic experience. A tangled puzzle of limbs, feminine bumps and angles from fresh new perspectives, all wrapped up in the heat and breath of very, very close accommodations.

I watched with amazement as simple droplets of clean sweat trickled in slow motion down the brown skin of her back. Lean, tight muscles contracted, creating lines that flowed like the ripples of a stream. One leading into the next and so-forth until met with some nature of sparkling black material at her waist, surely no thicker than a few layers of skin itself, and lasting but six inches in length until skin appeared again in the form of the coveted under-bum crease.

I would eat one thousand farts to pause time and appreciate those sparkled black shorts and under-bum crease. One thousand.

Harmony.

In a dimly lit room with nothing but wood and rubber, sweat and mirrors, bodies and breath, I was starting to lose my grip on reality. One moment I’m at Hell’s Gate breathing in the sulfur of an infinite and evil pyre, the next I’m nuzzling the supple wings of some im-maculate angel. An angel with more ass than the highland farms of Mexico.

“With purpose, you breath out. Returning to center, you breathe in deeply, up to the ceiling with hands in prayer. Swan-diving at the waist, hands letting loose to the floor, you breathe out, letting everything go.”

I did my best to follow along, sneaking peeks left and right. Skinny was ahead of the game, and shockingly, the filthy beggar on my left was in tight formation. He must’ve unloaded enough stank cargo to fly light and free.

“Again, hands in prayer to chest, folding at the waist using your center, your core. Raise up with breath to the sky further than you ever have. Breathing deeper than you ever have. Now let it all go, loose and with noise. Swan dive, and let it go, shake it out.” She was holding a cadence now, ordering the group, and I felt I was in peril if I held anything back. To the ground I went in unison with the rest of the front row, exhaling a heavy weight of breath until there was nothing left in me.

“Again! Hands to chest, deep breath in as you rise, shining up. Show and shine, reach, reach, yes! Now let it go and let me hear you, your frustrations, your day, your life, let it all out right here, right now!”

The entire room slumped and whooped out deep grunts and emotional moans, myself included. Collectively, we sounded like gorillas in the mist…humping.

“Rise to Tadasana, Mountain pose, arms at your sides, hands open, accepting. Let your breath return naturally. Congratulations, you’ve just cleansed ninety percent of the body’s toxins out of your system.”

And breathed in a whole new mixed batch, I thought, spying in the mirror at the rows of sponge-people behind me.

“Right toes to the top of your mat, take a step back with your left, heel up, knee bent, ready for Natarajasana, Dancer’s pose.”

Dammit, there’s more.

“Left arm out, ready to accept, right arm reaching high, stabilizing and creating a line all the way down your back to your toes. Lift your left foot to your waiting hand, root down with your right. Build that foundation with your toes and your heel, creating a suction cup with the arch of your foot. And find your breath. Breath will help you through. Now kick out with your left foot, catching and pulling with your left hand. Your body will curl and fall forward when it’s reached the kick’s limit.”

Did it ever, I started to fold forward, ready to smash right through the gong and mirror behind it, squeezing my neck so hard I felt like I looked like that veiny, red guy yelling at a football game. Surprisingly, this magical instructor had pulled off some sort of engineering feat like how a float plane can poise itself so perfectly awkward and erect on solid ground. It shouldn’t make sense to balance like I was in that moment.

My eyes wandered a few inches to the right through the mirror and saw Skinny formed like a ballerina on her own stage, smiling with her eyes closed. Her toes were high above her head, where mine were barely above my waist.

Her right arms reached so far that her chest was completely open as if hugging the entire room. My own was curved, yes, but more of a quick buddy-hug. And I was struggling, losing my grip on sweaty toes and pinching hard with my grounded foot.

Shit, focus, focus, focus.

“In these moments we may struggle to remain inward, inside of ourselves. This is the true competition. This is the only comparison. The depth with which we can go inward and search out that higher state.”

I snapped to attention, suddenly feeling the instructor breathing in my ear, speaking straight to me through some yogic tongue that the rest of the class would personalize. ”It has nothing to do with your friend, your boss, your customers…your neighbor,” she said. To me.

“The search is in your breath, not in the perfect form, or in hold-ing yourself up with muscle mass from your strongest region. It is with focus, with breathing, with finding your own boundaries. Finding truth.”

I turned slightly and opened my eyes to see the instructor fully for the first time and she looked right back at me. Her eyebrows were scarred deeply from old piercings, her skin perfectly smooth from thousands of hours of pacing in this wet place. Tattoos from foreign needles lay over her arms and chest like wicked lace. Half of her long thick black hair was shaved, the rest tied up in girthy dreadlocks with what appeared to be the blue elastic band that comes with grouped stalks of broccoli. She looked and moved like some kind of Rastafarian manatee. Slowly with grace, gently used but peaceful with its station in life.

“Truth is just a stretch away, go within yourself to find it.” Her eyes ate into every piece of sinew pulled apart inside my body, her fingertips spread and reached out to my shoulders then flowed down over my bumping ribs and held. She began breathing in time with me, filling in her chest past its capacity to follow my own deeper breaths. When we were synced, her inky arms reached high and mimicked my form. She paused, then breathing for a cycle, morphed and became much longer and angular than I was. The class around sensed this guidance and also went further into the pose. Though I couldn’t follow, I tried. I could only stare in the mirror in awe as this weathered manatee unraveled further and further.

Her tattoos read like a storybook, Sanskrit in waves, interrupted by the deep sea, creatures at the surface or tangled in seaweed. They wove all the way up and down her torso from below her hips, under yoga pants then back up through her sides to a loose tank top where a flattened, toned chest showed some finality to the story. An explosion of some ancient symbol I could only imagine was a representation of that space’s chakra.

For some reason I wanted to touch it. All of it.

I continued breathing but took a sneak peek over to Skinny who was stretched out like a stalking puma, truly enjoying herself. This experience wasn’t so bad after all, sandwiched between two wo-men, one built by tantric yoga, the other, animalistic sex. Or so I imagined.

When I blinked back to the Rasta manatee, she was gone, silently snuck off to the back of the room where she was handling a shiny, tall Indian girl. In her place returned the pinkish pork fart in all of his glorious discharge. A tiny snot bubble was forming above his thin orange moustache, inflating with each exhalation, deflating with each inhalation. With that as my cue, I focussed inward again. This was very much a mental exercise.

After a few more poses, I started to get the yin and the yang of the whole thing. The manatee would string together some seeming-ly arbitrary sequence, then transition into each motion’s counter-action. It was hypnotic, a science, and an artful study of biology and metaphysics. I could tell because my spine was itchy, and I really needed to toot.

By the time we got to the floor on our backs, I was sweating quite heavily and feeling rather lightheaded. I had skipped a few water breaks, having not brought any sort of bottle. I noticed that Skinny made a conscious effort to not offer any my way, in fact she placed hers as far away from me as she could.

“Less duhkha, more suhkha!” barked the manatee from the front of the room. “This means less suffering, more sweetness for those of you new to the practice.”

With the time melting away with her words, I flowed in and out of consciousness. In those dark spaces, I could see my mother’s face. In those light and warm spaces, I would imagine Skinny’s.

I didn’t want the feeling to end.

I hadn’t felt this way…ever. Soon, the manatee held us to be still with some sort of chant, it would be the final position. The most important, she said, being rest. It was truly orgasmic, I lay in pure tranquility, listening to the harmonic gong at what seemed like monthly intervals.

My body floated gently down to the mat until it finally began to awaken with some weight. I played the piano with my fingers and toes and stretched my neck sideways letting any sweat to drip down before opening my eyes. The only thing better than this feeling would be to lock eyes with Skinny and share it with her. A new beginning.

I looked through the darkness to find her. She was gone.

Part IV: Three Days Foregoing the Electrocution of a Husky Girl

Truth and Justice, and Tea

T  he sheer bedroom curtain licked at my face, I felt it in my dreams kissing my cheek like a curious lover over and again until I awoke.

Sleeping with my back to Adina, and face to the window, the sea beyond was my escape. The positioning gave her the big spoon, which not only subdued a ravaging case of penis envy but also left me to tranquil dreams and salty breezes. All seemed at ease in our sleeping affairs.

But as I turned to lean over her and spy the alarm clock, I was rewarded with a severe close up of her undercarriage flopping out of a shiny green G-string. It looked like an apple fritter trying to escape a twist-tie factory. She had somehow mangled her body with her hindquarters landing atop the pillow at some point in the night. Likely the result of weed-mares.

I once woke up after a night that she had procured a bag of ethnic hash from Burton, horrified to find her unconscious with her left pointer finger hooked securely into my mouth, and a couple of her right digits inserted firmly up her butt. She explained later that she had dreamt of having ‘the powers to heal with a simple touch’. Obviously, I was quite concerned as to how many times she had healed me throughout the night, and with which finger. I also wondered why she was healing herself so aggressively. Later that day I learned drinking mouthwash was wrong, no matter the circumstance.

It was late, or early rather, about four in the morning according to the red lights shining off Adina’s cocoa-buttered bum. I sneakily crawled around the mess of her body, was dressed and ejected out into the pre-dawn morning. Even the creepy neighbor was nowhere to be heard at that hour.

Out in the streets I spied only the gulls that were still stirring in their various poo-riddled hideaways along the seawall. And then I saw her, huddled over herself, weeping.

“Hey,” I whisper-yelled, adding a pssst on the end for good measure.

The little girl who smelled like Christmas looked up at me and smiled briefly, I think.

“Hey, sweet-tits,” she sniffled toughly as I sat down on the steps beside her, not sure I heard her correctly.

“Morning, or, evening, if you’re still up,” I said back.

“I’ve been waiting for you,”

“Ya, I get that a lot,” I laughed, “…just kidding.”

She looked at me from beneath her hood, “You are awkward.”

“I know.” I looked down.

“Well, let’s get to it, then. Give me the lighter.”

Lighter, right, for some reason I had a lighter the other day, but I’m pretty sure I lost it, or Cam stole it.

“I, I,” I fumbled at my pockets.

And then it came to be in my left hand and I slowly pulled it out. The girl grabbed it quickly and I only could only glimpse a shining bit for a moment. Some sort of icon or logo.

“Thanks,” she said, rolling it over in her palms before lighting a thin cigarette. She rubbed it in her tiny hands and tossed it back to me. I looked it over, but the dawn’s light must have been messing with me because there were no markings on it, and it looked a different shade than it did the other day. Adina had taught me about the ‘lighter game’, where friends who smoked – cigarettes or otherwise, it didn’t matter – would try to steal or swap one another’s wares. I wondered if Cam was playing this trick on me. Then I wondered why I would even care. Some of these people got really bent out of shape if they were taken for.

“It’s not your lighter, don’t worry about it, you’re just a courier.”

“Beg your pardon?” I said.

“Just hold on to that and try not to lose it, we need it.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Who’s we?”

The little girl held her eyes closed, pulling off the cigarette and tapping it, as if to trigger her eyelids to open again.

“We, in the sense of the word that more than one person is in need that particular lighter, but unable to connect in physical matter for its transmittal. Does it help when I speak like a dork? You strike me as someone who rides the spectrum heavily toward dork-speak.”

My mouth was drooping.

“Listen, dickhead,” I perked up, then paused at the thought of calling her a dickhead, but only for a second, “I’ve been nice to you because I’m a nice guy, and because you look like you need someone to be nice to you. So, do me a favour and tone down the offensive.” I started to stand, but she pulled me back down with a surprising bolt of strength.

Her little white claws drew me closer and just as I thought she was going to bite me or something, she placed her black head down on my shoulder. This strange little thing smelled deeply of sage and cloves, cinnamon and loneliness, it threw me off considerably.

She smelled like Christmas, this little girl.

In that huddled unit we stayed forever, until she asked quietly, “Did you say dickhead?”

“Sorry.”

“I thought so. Look, some things you need to know, and some things you don’t need to know. Right about now what you don’t need to know is like a river flowing around you, and what you do need to know is just a tiny twig floating by. So, go ahead and pick that twig up, but don’t expect people to get it for you, and for sweet Antilles’ sake don’t go trying to ride that river until you can handle more than a twig.”

This girl was starting to get a little bit dark, and my mind was starting to get a tad overworked. For fear of passing out at random again, I tried to steer the course as simply as possible.

“I can’t say I know what it is that you’re talking about, but maybe – as you say - I will someday. Just promise that you’re not going to go bridge-diving in the meantime.”

She huffed at the thought.

“Death is too easy, try not dying and tell me how that goes in a few dozen generations.”

“Oh, I see, you’re on the immortal plan.” I pecked the cigarette from her and took a quick pull.

“Immortality ain’t what it used to be…” she muttered, rising to her feet. “Just do me a solid, sweet-tits, don’t go trying to swim that raging river until you graduate from your little pink water wings.”

She grabbed the cigarette back out of my hand and walked away. Across the manicured patches of greenery, the strange little girl who smelled like Christmas disappeared into the shadows of mammoth glass condos upon the shoreline.

“Great…thanks so much,” I shouted after her.

The walk to the coffee shop was about four decades long, as my mind squirmed its way around her tiny-huge words. I started to question my stability, running through the events of the past few days. Was I actually unconscious in some joke of a daydream, or was reality truly this bizarre?

The jingle of the bells on the coffee shop door startled even me, as it appeared the girls had added a couple of bear traps. There was a screech from behind the bar and what could only be coffee shot out of my favorite new barista’s nose.

“Ow, ow, ow…” she squeaked into her hands and began waving them frantically in front of her face, “wow, that smells awesome!” she yelled with tears in her eyes, likely from the burning.

“Are you okay?” asked the pierced one with a touch of concern. Despite the apprehension, I believe she did want to destroy her co-worker…but on her own terms.

“Sorry girls, I would have opened the door more slowly,” I winced.

“That’s okay, my fault, I put on a couple more jingly little guys, it brings me back into focus. It’s like I start doing something and then something else, then more things, and I forget about other stuff like when customers come in and ask for coffee.”

“Is there more than people asking for coffee?” I asked, truly curious.

“I don’t know…that’s why I need the extra jinglies maybe. Focus, focus, focus.” She giggled and snorted. I pretended not to see the bubble of coffee-snot poke out of her right nostril like a tiny, slimy groundhog.

“Right, well, no rush, but would you mind putting together a-”

“Triple shot Americano, burnt!” She yelled and the pierced one’s face turned from sympathetic to wicked much too quickly.

The latter lurched, took a giant mock bite of air and thrashed her neck about, a make-belief shark-attack of sorts directed at her co-worker. She would be amazing at charades if it mostly involved eating imaginary heads.

I looked at my watch, noting that it was far too early to go into Verdigris and spy on my little worker bees again as they opened up shop, so I hit the couch with mug in hand.

It did take a while to drown out that sweet mischief, but I had to realign. I stared into the fire, deeper than the flames lapping up the air, deeper than the warmth breathing on my feet. I stared until it was blocked out and I was in that place where you can actually feel the gooey walls of your own mind. I could imagine a tiny me searching around the darkness like a mime feeling out an aquarium, I looked for any sort of stability while knowing damned well there was not.

The baristas battled on.

“No, no, no, you need to count the beans faster, you retard. Nineteen per scoop, make sure we have increments of nineteen in each bag otherwise the whole operation goes to shit.” I didn’t need to take my eyes from the fireplace to visualize the pierced one at her latest endeavor.

“I know, but if I start counting too fast, I’ll lose the number, I was at eight hundred and three, right? Right, eight-oh-three, right? Why do I have to eat the extra beans again? They definitely taste like decaf, but I can’t see straight, are you sure-”

“We have no time, the rush will be here soon! Count faster and eat dammit, we’re all about quality control.”

Things had gotten strange lately, that much was clear. My little piece of the city was changing. The sushi man was giving me the willies, there was a mean little girl insulting me at odd hours, and Elle, even my sweet and stable Elle was wavering. Yet, all signs pointed to me being the main source of the problem, my own words were betraying me, it was as if my soul was going through puberty. But maybe not in the true sense as there was certainly no maturing going on, just the uncomfortable parts. Then, I suppose, Adina… well she was like the tube sock that my pubescent soul was whacking off into; just a means of pleasure and shame.

Shameful lust, lusty shame…

“I said do you mind?” came a voice dripping with Beaujolais and slim cigarettes. I looked up to see a very good rendition of a rich old lady.

“Pardon me?” I answered, shaking my head straight.

“I would like to sit down, Sebastian. Is that okay?” The gold-encrusted sack of skin began to give me that sideways are-you-high gawk as she made a laboured move for a free chair.

“Of course, of course, I’m so sorry, I was just dazed.”

“But not confused I hope,” she said with some sort of a smile.

“Not at all Ms. Bowry, how have you been?” I sat up into a polite young man posture that jolted my spine and reminded me how battered my skull had gotten the day prior, bouncing off of Aira’s new floor.

“I’m well my dear, very well. My, it’s nice and quiet in here then, isn’t it?”

“It’s just on the brink of insanity, before all the fiends come through for their morning hit,” I sipped from my mug.

“That’s just awful, just awful,” she looked around clutching her affects.

“What brings you back to Vancouver?” I winced slightly.

“Yes, well I had some business to attend to. Some banking that wouldn’t do itself, things of the like.” Her boney joints ground into terrified cushions below.

“Certainly, there is nothing quite like trying to call your options from a shack overlooking the Caribbean, believe you me.” I fake laughed with myself before being cut off.

“Sebastian, have you ever been outside of the country?”

“Surely you jest! Of course, Ms. Bowry. Have I ever been out of the…” I started to chuckle to myself.

“Have you ever gotten beyond Seattle?”

“No ma’am,” I ducked my head down to my coffee for a sad little sip.

“Well you simply must make an effort, my boy. But then again, if you go anywhere at all, who could I then enlist to conquer my gardens in these summer months, I dare ask.”

I smiled sheepishly, suddenly feeling like a nude pool boy sweating behind a long scrub-brush, dodging as martini olives tossed from a cackling housemaster bounced from my hairless body and ker-plunked into the pool.

“No, my dear Sebastian, this year we have an altogether new project, one that shall leave you positively buzzing.”

I smiled as best I could, “Well, I’m more than happy to put together a special order for you, our new catalogue has some great stuff from our tropical supplier in Abbotsford.”

Bowry sipped the blackest tea from India then exposed a set of suitably stained teeth. “I’ve heard that you are quite the artist, are you not?”

“I don’t know about that,” I crossed my leg nonchalantly and tried to appear haunted as an artist might, “but I’ve dabbled…who told you?”

“I’ve seen your work. I’ve seen the way you’ve put together the nursery and completely turned the business around with some strategic choices. The signage, the delicate design. The layout of what you do might be passed-by so easily as if part of its environment, yet when you look closely you might see the detail that art truly demands, yes?” She sucked a substantial stream of tea in through her front teeth, and I cringed at the thought of her dentist’s chore. ”You treat that entire space as an installation”

I had already taken to looking over her shoulder out the large front windows, gawking as the harbor began to stir. I watched a small sailboat dragging its dinghy at an obscene length as it motored out with sails up. She bobbed off beneath the Granville Street bridge, several old ladies in beige looking busy on her deck. I wondered how many of those little beige ladies still had husbands, and how many of those little beige husbands were on the golf course already, whacking incessantly. I wondered if those little beige lad-ies would be missed by their little whacking husbands had they been tested by the sea this morning.

“So, what do you think?”

“What do I think?” my eyes came back into the room and were massacred instantly by Ms. Bowry’s tarnished grill.

“My goodness, you certainly are not a morning person, are you? What do you think about the undertaking?”

Twenty minutes later, I slid into a phone booth and picked up the receiver with both hands, raising it ever so slightly to my face like a child under the African sun bringing water to his parched lips, protecting every precious drop.

Please insert your credit card now, she demanded.

Please insert your credit card now.

“Yes,” I whispered, “yes.”

The stern but sultry voice charged on and I stood with one arm raised, a hand pushing on the ceiling, eyes scouring the distance slowly from left to right, watching cars and people burst through the morning atmosphere. They were all out there, the last thing they would pay attention to would be a phone booth. Safety in scuffed plexi-glass.

I breathed heavy against the walls, emptying my piles of anxieties into the space.

Just breathe.

Nine minutes later, I walked back up the street towards Burton’s Vinyl a better man, yet still took caution in passing the coffee shop. I stretched my peripheral ever-so briefly through the windows to see if Bowry was still there. She was not, but if I wasn’t mistaken, the pierced barista was whipping handfuls of roasted Arabica over the counter at the back of the other’s head as she swept. Training was going well.

Burton was pointing his finger at an old black woman, waving his other hand around his head like a bent and bony helicopter blade. I moved in to investigate.

“Listen, if you’re telling me that Rod Stewart was not a key player in China on February eleventh, nineteen-seventy-eight, then you, madam, are insane.”

“What happened in China?” I approached cautiously, watching the old woman for signs of panic.

“According to this dipshit,” the woman shoveled her thumb twice in Burton’s direction, “my furry little hot-Rod is not only foot loose and fancy-free but was also responsible for lifting the ban on Aristotle’s works throughout the People’s Republic of China.”

“Not to mention Dickens and Shakespeare.” Burton continued to spin his helicopter blade about.

“Just shut your mouth and keep your eyes peeled for that B-side he did with Cactus. I’ve only been asking you for seventeen months now.” She slapped Burton’s finger out of her face, ejecting one of her pointier ones back at him, “You call yourself a music man.”

Burton pulled down his other hand and backed up slowly, rubbing his finger as she walked out of the store.

“Well don’t think Mr. Maggie May was all good…don’t think he didn’t have anything to do with that Sri Lankan Civil War either. Don’t you doubt that for a second, Wanda!”

“Burton, calm down.” I laughed.

“Wanda! You hear me?”

“Settle, buddy, settle.”

His face returned to its pitiful state of colourlessness, and he corrected his leather skinny tie.

“She really grinds my gears, man, she knows just where to grind.”

“Yeah, looks like she hit that Rod Stewart spot pretty good, hey?”

“I’m sorry, man, it’s been a long day.”

“It’s like nine in the morning,” I said.

“I’m sorry, man, it’s been a weird day,” he closed his eyes really hard and expelled whatever demons he had to, seemingly from the ears.

“Yeah, well, mine’s been a little off as well, so I’m with you.”

“Oh, hey, that rich old lady was in here looking for you again.” Burton turned and started flipping through a box of vinyl behind the counter. He picked out one and lifted it just enough for me to see the Elvis Costello cover before hurtling it across the store at the far wall.

“What do you mean an old lady was in here again? Who?”

“I don’t know man, her name escapes me. She had bad teeth, that much was memorable.”

“What’d she say?”

“I don’t know, something about you and plants and shit, the usual.”

“What do you mean the usual, she’s been in here before?”

“What’s with the third degree, do I come into your place of business and give you the third degree?”

“Yes, you do. You come in all the time and try to find the weed, and when you can’t, you ask every person in there where we keep it.”

“I was high.”

“So, when was the last time she came in here?” I tried again, starting to wonder how eager Bowry was to get her project going.

“I don’t know, like a few days ago. Oh, and then some little number with the most epic bum came in and bought an assortment of Michael Jackson. She was incredible, talking about mix tapes and shit. She had these great big headphones on and a bright-ass yellow Walkman. Super radical.”

“Focus, Burton. The old lady, what about the old lady?”

“Wow, what’s your problem today. I’m over here talking about an amazing ass with musical taste buds attached to it, and you’re sidetracking me with some varicose vein-type bullshit. Grow up man.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, as if I had actually hurt him deeply, “look, the old lady just tracked me down at the coffee shop—”

“Dude, I went in there earlier and the one with the metal shit in her face was making the new girl eat coffee beans again, it was amazing.”

“Yeah I know, I saw that too, it was pretty good,” I giggled, “but listen, so she comes in and corners me and offers me a bunch of money to do some artwork for her.”

“That’s great, you take that money!”

“Well, it just seems weird to me a little bit, why would she come find me?”

“Because you’re a good shit, talented, and you’re broke-ass. You’re like a young Tupac Shakur.”

I thought it over, and both points were equally valid. Not the Tupac part so much.

“So, what’s the gig?” Burton pulled out another Costello record and threw it down on the floor with a bit of passion.

“Well you know those banner things that hang on light posts throughout the city, like when there’s a festival or whatever?”

“Like in Chinatown, those ones on the red light posts?”

“Exactly, Burrard Bridge, Granville Street, Gastown, they’re everywhere. She wants me to design some of those for the Sea Festival this year.”

“Oh, ya, she was telling me about that.”

I threw up my hands. ”Why didn’t you tell me that a few minutes ago?”

“Because we were talking about the girl with the glorious donkey. But yeah, so, old-lady bad-teeth was yammering on about her husband the Navy guy, and how important the sea is, and truth and justice, and about the festival and some parade.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“What’s the difference between a festival and a parade?” Another record flew from the box up over Burton’s head, Costello’s earlier work.

“The parade is part of the festival, but it’s only a few hours, whereas the festival spans a couple of days with different events.”

“What events?”

“I don’t know really, I guess I have to figure that one out before I design these goddamn banners.”

“Why are you so upset about getting paid to do some artwork, isn’t that what your whole deal is?”

I shrugged. I suppose it was what I was looking for, but it felt vaguely to me like dirty charity coming from a rich and bored widow. On the flip side, it had been a while since I’d had more than four hundred bucks in the bank. What if I liked what I did, I mean, what if I put out some really great shit that hung high above the streets and the blighted people of the city would all hail my genius and creativity. They would put down their gerbil dogs and yoga mats and cheer in defiance of all the worthless art that had come before mine, eyesores upon the land, hanging mangled in-wait of this creative revolution.

“I’ll do it,” I said to myself, out loud.

“Good for you, man, do it hard.”

“I gotta go, Burton, have a good day. And tone-down the Elvis Costello bloodbath.”

“Fucking Nazi, I’d punch him right in his glasses if I had the chance again.”

I couldn’t help but…

“Again?”

All the Hockey

H ours can pass in the blink of an eye wandering this city. A cacophony of odours, most ripe with acidity, some sweet just to challenge your reserve. The late, unabridged nights allow for continuous foot traffic which may in itself act as a catalyst to arouse the melodic fragrances further. In the morning, you see, the soldiers that still roam, searching the alleys, finding the treasures of the corporate man, these are the workers of the night, the battery chargers of the city. They hunt the gutters for bits of this and that, crumbles of things that the rest of us hope the next rainstorm will wash away.

The other people, all terrible for the most part.

The business-folk, you know, the men and women who pretend they’re in Toronto or New York and manufacture stress to make it seem savvier. The rich kids from all around the world that drive a new car every two years through a six-year college degree. The ageless artsy type, the ones who save the oceans through toxic media and know every bus route in the city. Those streets upon streets of queer folk who walk the runway between martini houses Filthy rich, retired condo wives with several tiny dogs, and actors who’ve made it big in lotto commercials and Hallmark pilots. Tech dorks who hate the city during daylight, commuters who hate the city after five o’clock. and throngs of underage suburbanites who fill the streets with vomit when the clock strikes two and the clubs and pita joints trade capacity.

I hate the love of this place.

“Excuse me,” came the voice of a stout man.

“Si?” I answered for some reason.

“I’m here to finish the irrigation…you Sebastian?”

Was I? I looked around the backyard of Verdigris where I was standing in a pool of water from a hose directed at an oversaturated Oleander.

“Girl with the rubber gloves said you Sebastian.”

“Oh,” I looked from his name tag to the logo on his work shirt, “right, thanks for coming, Carlos.”

“Wouldn’t miss it, hefe. Shouldn’t take more than three-four hours. Might have to dig up some things around the fences, but everything else is as discussed.”

“Perfect, if I’m not around, just leave the invoice.” I kinked the hose and began to retreat.

“Already taken care of.”

“Oh, great, thanks. You saw the main shutoff and everything, you’re all good?”

“Si. Deja que el agua nos lleve a todos,” he smiled, nodding over my shoulder.

“Agua, great, thanks.”

I walked back through the nursery, looking to the jungle where I lost and found Skinny, trying desperately to clear my brain. Clear the thoughts of her tiny perfect sweat.

Clear the anxiety of this town like the flammable cobwebs of a haunted house.

Frances – the good one – had bloody silly hockey sticks around the place. Framed, signed, mounted here and there. I argued against, he argued for, citing their varied wood species, being half as old as Lord Stanley himself. I vowed to ignore them, but here and now they were pointing me toward the loft of the place. Staring above eye level, they were all over, and like an errant puck, I followed them up and away into the rafters of the nursery.

They say it was because of all the fucking hockey that Vancouver won the Olympics almost two decades ago. I was drinking bad eastern Canadian beer with Malcolm at a since defunct rathole called El Furniture Warehouse when we got the bid many years ago, reminiscing about all the hockey that hadn’t been on in months. It was the second of July, two-thousand-three. We heard the arena rumble through to Granville Street when that Jacques Rogge fellow from the International Olympic Committee announced Vancouver had won. All the way from Prague, he did.

So, we drank and ate peanuts and threw them on the floor and cheers’d and drank and threw peanuts on the floor some more. People talked about all the fucking hockey they would watch in February; Swedes and Yanks and Commies and Canucks all trading teeth for their countries. Very different from the usual hockey that went on, with more elaborate nationalistic pajamas.

I don’t know why the city was so surprised, mind you, why wouldn’t Vancouver be chosen for the Games? Salt Lake City, with its temples and tabernacles and secret tunnelled banks and convention centers - all respectfully polished and eerily kind and generous - even tiny Salt Lake City was turned into a behemoth for the world’s eyes.

At least Vancouver wasn’t pretending to be something it’s not. It wears its drug-infested populace on its sleeve. It consumes products at an alarming rate but justifies its crimes with outdoor activity and Gaia-worship.

Then it goes and gets pissed and throws peanuts on the ground complaining about jersey colours.

After we stole all the gold and the Games ended, I remember standing in the middle of the Burrard bridge looking down on Granville Island and its ferry boats spinning around False Creek. The rain washed away the biggest party this city would ever see down beneath the bridges, and I remember thinking, what will happen to all these ridiculous banners reflecting back up at me now that they look backwards in time?

Up on the fire escape of the loft office at Verdigris, the sun undulated down upon me and I squinted south to the bridges and the sea. Now something else would take the city’s attention, in this case Bowry’s Sea Festival. I blocked the sunlight and looked to the light posts dotting the bridge. There were indeed more banners flopping casually about, mementos of some ten-kilometer dash for self-indulgence over the weekend. They would ripple for but a few more days before men with ropes navigated electric buckets up to peel them off and replace them with my Sea Fest banners.

My art.

If my mother could see me now.

Part V: Two Days Preceding a(nother) Severe Genital Mashing

The Tinglies Tell Otherwise

I woke up refreshed, invigorated even.

With a few bucks headed my way, I had indulged in a late night of local pinot noir, cheeses of the world and my laptop’s charcuterie of design applications. For the first time in a long time, I had that creative injection I needed. Adina had slept at Cindy’s, or in a ditch maybe, to help me focus. More importantly, the design gods smiled upon me and I had completed the general layout of my theme; a four-prong attack of the maritime heritage of Vancouver spotlighting fishery, shipbuilding, marine life, and sailing.

The sun was shining off various pieces of the city as I stretched my cramped wrists and fingertips outside on the balcony. The ocean told of windy knocks and lifts sliding like ghosts across a deserted plain. The sun had ideas, it wanted to be very warm on this day. And so, it was not a day for spreadsheets and inventory. This was a day for bike riding, and a companion with an oversized tongue.

Dogs and bikes, and the winding seawall that wraps this city like glistening, salty-dry seaweed around fluffy sushi rice.

Elle’s dog was always up for grabs, in fact, if I didn’t kidnap him every so often, I believe he and Elle would eventually eat one another, each for very different reasons. He, having been dubbed Captain Crunch, was detained in her ratty apartment destined to chew the same soggy curtains for daily sustenance, and often left to fill up with his own poop until he resembled a bloated eighteenth-century naval captain, hence the name.

On the flip side, Elle has been known to call me at ungodly hours to pick up the beast and relieve her from his piercing gaze. According to her, The Captain would not relent, staring at her every move, including those most sought-after private moments of sin. The two live in a bachelor suite with a broken bathroom door that she’s not allowed to fix. Couple that with a raging libido for self-discovery and it’s clear that her relationship with the Captain is understandably strained. Much like the tendons beneath her curious and far-reaching meta-carpals.

So, it served that I, the great friend that I am, would walk him as often as possible and act as a mediator between the warring room-mates.

When I arrived, Elle’s apartment was dim and strewn about itself. The Captain was so happy to see me he dropped the sopping curtain from his mouth and wagged his tail so hard, he knocked a vibrator off the coffee table.

Groping around the kitchen for a napkin to put the unit back in its place, I noticed a cornucopia of delights around me, strange herbs and nuts, seeds and other dried subtleties. I couldn’t help but creep through the fridge to see what healthy people eat. I saw nothing but delicious fruits and veggies for her blendy-concoctions. Not an ounce of fleshy protein in there, just greenery. Front and center, there was a container of what looked like the remnants of that diseased plant that broke open and oozed all over my foot back at the shop. She had it triple wrapped in plastic wrap, bandaged up like a civil war vet, and sealed with a kiss by thick locking Tupperware.

Why would she save an arm, sprig, or whatever you call a hunk of that devil-broccoli? I opened it up, unwrapped it, unwrapped it again, and exposed the sliming, fibrous mess that I had witnessed from before. The stench was absolutely devastating.

The Captain retreated with a whimper back to his curtain to hide from the vapours.

I couldn’t help but stick my fingers into the container, I was drawn to understand it further. Rubbing a tiny blob around in my fingers I was immediately taken over by a sense of euphoria. It was that dizzying tingle that I’d felt before, warm recollections of… something so pleasant that it wasn’t possible to call it up from memory. Memory was hogging it.

I wrapped up the slimy critter, threw it back in the fridge and coaxed the Captain out the door. We had better things to explore out in the world.

With he in full gallop and me working the pedals, we came from the hills down into step in an orderly fashion counterclockwise around the seawall. If it’s one thing Vancouverites are it’s orderly, and believe me, if you pedal, skate, or walk the wrong way around this seawall you will be shunned at best. More likely than that, you’ll get the passive aggressive near-brushes and low-level commentary. There will be no dissention on the seawall, there must be order.

By the time we arrived at Third Beach, the city’s less celebrated, yet cleanest beach, The Captain was in fine spirits. He had dry-humped two elderly women’s polyester bits, embedded his wet nostrils into the short-shorts of a seventeen-year old roller girl, and uncurled his lengthy tongue into the anal lining of several variations of poodle. He was indeed happy and prepared for a dig in the sand.

I flopped down beside him, smiling into the midday sun. The beach was sparse, but not so much so that I could not hear the laughter of the group to my left as they sat crossed-legged, praying to the tentacles of a Hookah. The blend of weed and strawberry shisha affirmed their content. To my right there were several middle-aged women with their bikini tops off, pretending to have serious conversations about this and that, failing not to judge one another in this freedom act. Small Mexican children danced on the boulders poking from the water and their parents approved nonchalantly from shore while tending the many blankets and jugs of warm Sprite around them in the sand.

This is a happy place, this is a place where smiles begin, not where they end. And so, I smiled, quite widely in fact. I smiled until I noticed I was smiling a little hard for comfort. The realization that I couldn’t actually stop grinning was met by The Captain’s own disapproval, even as he himself had a dead crab dangling from his jowls. I breathed deeply to try to release the strain on my cheeks and coughed a tiny cough.

Wait, am I high? I pondered.

Not to my knowledge, myself answered, however, the tinglies tell otherwise.

What tinglies? Asked I, embracing the dialogue.

The ’tinglies’ worked onward, and the hair on my arms shot happy phantom fingers up my body causing my earlobes to flex and collect the last of each shiver.

I lay my head back into the sand and felt the granules creep and crawl up the back of my neck, and soon the core of the earth pulled my head down into it. Down and down into the thick, rock-salty surface of the ground.

The beating of a hippy’s drum flooded the air above me, and I could smell the sweet body odor and dreadlocks circulating in thick swoons.

Close your eyes and think no more. Close your eyes and liberate the thoughts to roam free, off to where they must go, I suppose I said to myself.

And went they did, thoughts wandering here and there, outwards and beyond to the distance of the horizon like Northern Lights dissipating amongst themselves.

Until there was nothing but hypnotic drumbeats fading underwater. Nothing but deep warmth from the sun.

And until there was nothing at all.

“Bitter!” she shouted from the sky. “Bitter, you’re burning.”

“Muh?”

“You’re turning really quite red, mate, you need to get up or put some aloe on or something.”

Looking up to some smooth-skinned adventure in the sky, I could only fight to say again, “Muh?”

She dropped her bag and plunked down beside me in the sand, cross-legged in just the right way to show off lean shiny legs that didn’t make sense. “Sit up, crazy man,” she twinkled. It was Skinny, the incredible yogic creature.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, Mizzz. Skinny?” I staggered my words, possibly sun drunk.

”I was just skating by, couldn’t help but notice you and your dog laid out so lackadaisically in the sunshine…with your eyes wide open towards the sun…not blinking…how do you even do that?”

I blinked, or tried to, and heard the crackling of dried goo from inside of my skull. The pain made my genitals bumble about each other as they retracted hurriedly up into my abdomen.

“I just…was laying out, and I must have dozed off,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

She looked at me, somewhat emotionally this time, and said, “You still haven’t figured it out, huh?” and in doing so she looked over her shoulders on both sides and raised an eyebrow. A perfect little eyebrow.

“What haven’t I figured out?” I squinted, trying to work up some more eye lube.

In turn Skinny fumbled around in her little bag and retrieved what looked like a white cassette tape. A proper cassette tape with celluloid and winding teeth, magnets and all. How incredible this girl was.

“Enjoy this, well, maybe you won’t, but listen to it. And I’m sorry.”

“Wait, what are you sorry for?” I said, shaking the cobwebs a little more.

“I’ve got to go, be safe.” She tossed the tape quickly and turned with a whipping of sand.

My hands fumbled through the air trying to catch the thing at the same time tracing her movement as she kicked off in a dusty-cloud getaway. Of course, I dropped the tape and could only stare at the Rollerblades from over her shoulder bouncing off of her magnificent chassis as she ran. Oh, how I watched.

A subtle woof came from a sandy hole beside me in accordance.

“Let’s get the hell out of here, Captain. I think my eyeballs are bleeding on the inside.”

Filthy Sombrero II

M y girlfriend, the space case that she is, was far from home when I returned. She was there, physically and philosophically of course, but she was stoned out of her gourd in a pile on the couch.

“Adina.” I nudged her shoulder, but she only jiggled slightly and settled back in place like a thick bush-cat subdued and lain out.

“Check out this bitch,” she finally said, panting lazy laughter and nodding through dim-eyed slits towards the TV where Ellen DeGeneres was weaving through her crowd, high-fiving big folks from Ohio.

“This bitch just dances her little heart out all day, every day. Cuts her hair short and dances, dances, dances. Why can’t I just buy a white suit from a little boy’s store, cut my mane down, spike it up like a dancy lesbian and just dance the day away?” She looked at me without moving anything but her little eye slits, huffing slowly like a giraffe chewing on its tongue. “I could just dance away in a little boy’s suit.” A smile crept across her pale face.

“Yes…you could definitely—”

“You all get free yogurt!” She screamed, “everybody gets free fucking yogurt today because, fucking, it’s yogurt day! Day for yogurt and dancing!”

“Adina—”

“I will put yogurt on my dancing suit, and my spikey-dikey hair will give out dancing lessons all day. All-day dancing for an army of little yogurt-suit scissor sisters. Yay!!”

“Adina, I would like to break up with you now. You can hang out or whatever, but I’d rather not be with you any longer if that’s cool.”

“Huh?” she said to the TV.

I searched her face for a jolt of emotion, or at least a lumbering awakening of some sort of neuro-impulse that would saunter up to the surface at some point.

“Nothing. I’m going to get ready and check in at the nursery, I’ll see you later.”

“I’m so excited to get out on the boat tonight! Malcolm texted me this morning and told me to bring Cindy and the girls.”

“That’s awful,” I said without thinking twice.

“I know, it’s going to be super-boss…Fuck you albin-o-prah!”

Stripping down in the bathroom, sand and salt sprayed across the floor, along with a white cassette tape. Right, I thought, picking it up and tossing it on the countertop. I gave a look around and shook my head in slight disbelief. Adina’s disgusting shower ghetto blaster might actually get some use out of me.

The white cassette slid in loosely and rattled about with that plastic-on-plastic glide. The door fought back, but finally clicked shut and I pushed down a dusty button to hear the cogs begin to whistle and wind. The music hit as I was turning on the shower and I recognized the track immediately. Michael Jackson’s fifth studio album started off with Don’t Stop ‘til You Get Enough. The initial excited whisper grew and pushed just like the shower working itself up to full speed, then as the curtain closed everything became muffled but the mild thumping of an overworked JVC.

Despite the water pressure upon my eyelids feeling like a back-alley laser-eye surgery, the cool water was getting my mind right again. The past few days of new sensations were similar; intoxication laced with dumb giddiness, a touch of flared libido and loss of all tact.

Click.

It was that plant, that slimy tropical bastard that Abbotsford left me with. Both times I came close to that thing I had some sort of break down.

It didn’t explain the first time I met Skinny at The Tapa Bar, though, nor the time I freaked out at Elle, but those were close enough to one another that there must have been some sort of echo, a reverberation of a hallucinogen.

Mental pacing in the shower.

Click.

My mind wondered to the beat of the music and I couldn’t help thinking about Skinny. Jesus, what does it take to be with a girl like that? Tanned skin all year round without the smell of bum sweat and Argon from tanning beds…Adina. The gaze of someone who’s eyes are wide open, that aren’t capable of hiding anything, nor the want to. Somebody that has something to say but doesn’t need to say a damned thing. Somebody who respects Michael Jackson’s early albums, despite the humour of it all. Somebody with hind-quarters like a finely tuned puma. Imagine all that.

The water had been cooling rapidly as it does when a West End building decides that your shower is finished. My eyes were starting to feel normal, that is, invisible inside of my skull so I shut down the whole operation and peeled back the curtains. There before me sat a grotesque scene that sunk my shower daydreams back to reality. Adina was folded over on the toilet into some sort of a lady-taco, toilet paper hanging from the highest point in her crack. An asscrack that bore a blatant oval of pasty white flesh like a lonely island surrounded by a sea of brownish orange, the signature of a serial fake tanner. Her face lay planted between her knees, steadily inhaling at close range whatever dwelled below the surface. A tin-foil G-string twisted up and hanging from an ankle at the floor.

“Adina,” I shouted, reaching over her for a towel. I felt for a pulse on the back of her sweaty neck and once confirmed I dried myself, pressed stop on the wheel-winding of the JVC and left her to wake up on her own accord. If I could count the times I had witnessed the girl pass out, it would be exactly thirty-two more than the total number of times we had ever discussed global economics, Canadian Prime Ministers, or national Medicare combined. The Adina ratio.

I ejected the Michael Jackson tape to avoid any questions later and let sleeping dogs lie. She would wake up, call me, leave raging messages, have a few cocktails, calm down, and the whole thing would repeat later that night I’m sure. But I had a boat to get to and some time on the water ahead.

I met Malcolm in Granville Island on the docks where his father kept the Filthy Sombrero II. I wasn’t surprised in the least to see he hadn’t readied the boat in any way, in fact, he hadn’t even unlocked the galley. Then it dawned on me that when his father told me of the new hiding spot for the keys, that information wasn’t likely shared with his own son.

So, the story goes, the last time Malcolm had been aboard with-out supervision, he had over-inebriated a group of young ladies from the valley, and somehow convinced them to join him on the water after closing the bar.

Luckily for him, or not, his father always kept some very inter-esting bottles of Agave from his travels. The combination of several liters of that potion alongside a Tony Montana-inspired mountain of cocaine motivated all to achieve grandiose nudity and embark upon a rousing game of tight-quartered-twister in the boat’s bath-room - perhaps more appropriately, the head.

One sexual position led to the next, with ten female thighs thrashing about. Soon enough the handle of the head received one pump too many and the contents of the hold began bubbling and gurgling out of control. As one onlooker later described in the police reports - after several nude humans were fished out of the sea having jumped overboard to escape the geyser - that he had seen so much fear in the whites of the eyes of this pack of poo-people, it was as if they had been possessed. Once they had all realized the lubrication that had been aiding their raucous motion was not synthetic, but fecal in nature, one by one they flew out of every possible hatch. Neighboring boats lucky enough to be wakened by the frantic noise were witness to a most majestic dance of naked, glistening brown bodies sliding around the deck of the large sailboat, like a smelly roller derby.

So when Malcolm’s dad had been dragged out of bed at five-thirty in the morning and brought downtown to identify his son, his son’s mountain of poop-covered cocaine, and his son’s five farm girl associates, it would be the end of any and all freedoms or responsibilities pertaining to any lineage of Filthy Sombrero’s name.

“Seb!” Where the fuck are the keys, bro?” he yelled as if he had been duped, trying to save face in front of what appeared to be a group of newly found temporary friends.

“Don’t sweat it, I’m all over it.”

Malcolm thanked me with his eyes, then turned to the group and shrugged, pointing at me for screwing something or other up that was keeping them off his boat.

Shoving off, we fell into line with a myriad of other vessels making the cruise out into English Bay for the fireworks, some for the first and last time of the year. As it goes, those who can afford such leisure often don’t care to take part.

This year had seen gossip from all corners of the business community. A dark cloud hovered over the annual fireworks event with suggested secret dealings and sponsorship scandal. It was not very many years ago that these nights were heavily endorsed and paraded by cigarette money, recalling “Celebration of Lights” by Benson and Hedges. Kids from the outskirts and suburbs an hour away would jump on the bus with packs of ill-gotten cigarettes under the same branding. They would drink bottle upon bottle of syrupy coolers, some acquired by parents eager to be cool and young once more, others earned by persuading older siblings.

Then, when the tobacco laws clamped down and advertising dissipated for those commodities, so did the money for events like this one. Who then would support the arts and the evenings of free entertainment through the city? The answer lay with a greasy mogul profiting with his Alberta Beef slaughterhouses.

The Barrel Steakhouse and Lounge was the city’s most infamous collection of cookie-cutter white-collar gatherings. Forty-dollar steaks and twenty-dollar martinis delivered by bright eyed college girls. Old men spending company money after golf, before the dread of going home to women they met there a decade ago.

Cruising under the Burrard Bridge and approaching First Beach and the bandstands, from the helm I could spot the private viewing stage of the Platinum Sponsors themselves. Forty or so patrons from The Barrel’s inner circle, the setting sun shone brightly from their balding heads. They chuckled and gobbled down appetizers like they were gifts of appeasement served nervously by nippily staff. One portly specimen in particular was glistening brashly, grease from daily riblet feedings leaked from his brow.

Derek Weissenstrat was the owner and CEO of over one hund-red Barrel locations. I had met the scoundrel several times when picking up Adina from the downtown location she worked from time to time. Luckily, it only took one or two nights of serving per week to pay out her entire tuition, it was that lucrative. I often wondered why people got sucked into the crack game when there were several Barrel restaurants in every major city fueling an economy larger than some countries. College girls across the continent were cashing out nightly with more bills than most strippers. Similar work and schedule mind you, but fruitful, nonetheless.

I cringed at the sight of Weissenstrat, having observed him in close quarters. I recall sitting at the wood one night as Adina was cashing out. Weissenstrat sat down beside me fresh from some other city and some other Barrel. I could smell the aftershave he reapplied constantly to mask the odour of pork that was ever-present in his pores.

“What do you have there?” he engaged me, certain not to look me in the eye, his gaze instead locked to the hindquarters of an uneasy new server. She squirmed under his stare, trying to tap in an order, crossing her legs tightly at the same time and shifting to remove her breasts from sightline.

“A little spinach dip and a Heineken,” I answered, and with a gaudy British accent to capture his attention away from the young girl, I followed with, “interest you in a chip?”

“I can’t eat that stuff, makes me fart,” he said.

I wondered if that was the marketing genius behind putting The Barrel’s signature appetizer on the map.

“Yeah, I hear that,” I said, and I meant it. I literally had heard the man break wind more times than I care to recall. He is known for doing rounds up and down the stairs around different dining rooms and lounges throughout the restaurant whenever he needed a release, crop-dusting over his patrons as they gnawed on prime rib and cabernet like docile koalas, stoned and obediently surrendering their money under a cloud of flatulence.

“You’re Deanna’s boyfriend?” he said, wiping his nose and looking at the bar’s liquor stock with a furled brow.

“Adina, yes. Good to meet you.”

“Sure.” He turned and whistled at the bartender, “take care of this,” he said pointing at my plate.

“No, you don’t have to—”

“Next time you come in, eat a steak. God hates pussies.”  He snorted and walked off to where he came from, yelling something about one of the flat screens playing soccer instead of sports. When he was out of earshot the brunette bartender let out an audible shiver.

“You okay there?” I remember asking.

“All good, just part of the job. You deal with douchebags coming in every night, and you deal with bigger douchebags owning the place.” She reached across the side of the bar where a junior bar-back hovered with a plate. She grabbed it and smiled bringing it down in front of her. With a look around she liberally doused the dish with some kind of hot sauce that burned the eyes as it vaporized.

“Who’s the lucky patron?” I asked as she doctored the order.

“Oh, it’s just how he likes it. Every night, riblets. Spicy.” She winked at me. “Enjoy a Heineken on me for your blind eye?”

“Can’t turn that down,” I nodded.

That was not the last night I saw a plate of riblets manipulated, nor was it the last I would be witness to Weissenstrat’s charm.

As Filthy Sombrero pulled past the viewing areas, I could have sworn he was staring right at me, pretending to engage the two golfing yes-men flanking his sides. His head followed the boat as we cruised by, but I couldn’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses he clearly purchased from a Sky Mall Magazine.

“Sebby! Martinis in the galley, let’s go!” Malcolm poked his head up from the pit, showing off a rice-paddy hat and a fake Fu Manchu moustache. His shirt was ripped above the naval and I’m quite certain he had gum boots on.

“No thanks, I’ve got the helm.”

“Quadruple shot martini for the skipper, needed above deck!”

I gave another look over to shore where the rich men were back-slapping one another, their nervousness blending into loud golf or gambling stories. My judging was interrupted by a hefty portion of vodka and olives and an oversized flower lei noosing my neck.

Just as I put the cup to my lips, I was sure I saw Weissenstrat lift his glass in my direction with some sort of ‘cheers’ motion. I coughed up into the cup in that moment but hid it well. Vodka dripped from my nose back into the cup and I worked my thumb across in a stealth wiping gesture before lifting my own arm up slightly and nodding.

Did he think I was someone else? I got the shivers just then, despite the sun’s warmth on the horizon. The man had that effect on people. I lowered my head pretending to look at the boat’s instruments but kept an eye up. He simply went back to grab-assing some poor waitress and belly laughing with a couple of sticky lemmings.

“Take her to port, skipper!” Malcolm appeared out of the cabin wearing somebody’s pink lipstick, a yellow rain hat, and a sideways grin. “We’ve got some people to pick up at Kits beach.”

“There’s no moorage over there, brother, not even a floating dock.”

“Ahhh we’ll send out the dingy, not to worry, there’s only ten of ‘em.”

“I hate to be that guy, Malcolm, but we probably don’t want that many people on this old girl, do we?” I said patting the helm of his father’s boat.

“Seb, I don’t think you understand, these are my favourite nights of the year, there’s so many crab traps to bring aboard and devalue. It’s…it’s like coming back to port from a two-year exploration, except in reverse. Do you have any idea the effect of a sailor on young women?”

“First of all, every night is your favourite night, you’ve got a hook for every single night of the year. This just happens to be a change of scenery. Secondly, are girls the crab traps? That analogy only makes sense in one single scenario, which doesn’t paint you so good. Third-”

Malcolm made a sloppy move and climbed up real close into my face. “Have you ever seen the Pamela and Tommy Lee sex video?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Seb, don’t you want blow-jays at the helm of this vessel?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Don’t you want a yellowy-blonde girl to fellate you while she’s wearing sunglasses? That’s some amazing shit! When would she ever have sunglasses on and a dick in her mouth otherwise? Where else would that ever happen?”

He had a point, but it didn’t change the fact that I did not want to bring this boat into port five hours from now covered in semen, while the authorities patiently waited to board, hog-tie me and confiscate my pride.

“Just make sure that everybody goes below after the fireworks when we’re coming back in, okay?”

“Oh, they’ll go below alright.”

“That doesn’t make sense, that’s barely even innuendo.”

“I’ll be the one putting it in-her-endo.” Malcolm pushed his martini glass up into his teeth, ignoring the hard clinking on enamel, adjusting, then slurping.

“Try to keep it together a little bit here, would you? You’re supposed to be my first mate for god’s sake.”

“I’m just messing around; you know how it is. Well you don’t, but I’m going to get a refill then we’re going to talk about you. Because you need a friend.” He disappeared into the squeals of girls as he cleared a path down below. Somebody may have gotten it in-her-endo.

The city was showing off as we pushed out past the entry buoys with sleek cranes atop them pooping majestically. I looked to stern and took in the sun shining off of Coal Harbor’s office buildings and back down to Yaletown’s wall of condo glass. The little sparkles from hundreds of beer bottles from hundreds of skippers puttering out behind us in a myriad of boats. Most of those fair-weather sailors kept their boats moored out here somewhere, but didn’t live downtown, but rather her neighboring municipalities: Surrey, Richmond, Delta, Coquitlam, and several others with names as broken as the cities themselves. Moorage was pricey in town, but if you got in decades ago, you were set. That’s why you see so many jalopies with tarps and buckets strewn about their decks, masts and booms taped together like sad soldiers advertising the struggles of yore.

It was actually gloomy to me; I’ve always been in love with the sea, in love with boats and saltiness in general. I got that from my grandfather, the old son of a bitch. The guy never came to one of my birthdays, was always out to sea. I may have seen him six times in my life, maybe. But I will say this; when grandpa came to visit the family those few times, it was like lightening striking, like meeting a bull fighter, like seeing a man lift a car up and saving some poor soul from beneath. The guy had stories from sea, he had adventure tanned into his skin. His hair was swept back and stuck to his head out of memory on the water. It was white as the sand you see in postcards.

God, I loved that man, I loved everything he represented. His salty button-down shirts, most with buttons missing, cuffs no more. His hands were rough and scarred with burns from lines and sheets tearing through his skin. He always wore shorts, dead of winter, shorts. Leg muscles of a sprinter from balancing on deck through swell, trying to maintain a cup of tea and rum no doubt.

He told me stories of places that I had seen in cartoons and that felt like I knew them. Far flung reaches of continents you learn about, but truly have no grounding in whatsoever. He would pick me up like I was a sack of rice from port, slap me on his leg and paint the ceiling with hand gestures of sprawling tales where bartering, piracy, jails, great food and women roamed free. I will give him that, when he was ashore, he was completely, fully, deeply committed to bringing me back out to sea with him through the most intricate and deviously romantic plots that could exist in a man’s experiences.

Now though, any clown with a wallet can be a part of the club. Just like any other part of life, overcrowded, underappreciated. I wish I lived back in the twenties, or perhaps the late nineteenth century. Back when there was just enough technology, yet still scary enough to repel most people from dabbling in the adventure. I always wanted to be someone who could go out and explore for years and only have to deal with humanity for a few concentrated days while I reloaded supplies and got my fill of social glad-handing. There’s something to be said for selective solitude. A man can get a lot of thinking done.

I nodded in agreement with my own thoughts and reached for the plastic red cup, one just like the dozens that littered my apartment under Adina’s watchful eye.

Adina!

I completely forgot about her little frame crumpled over the toilet not two hours earlier. I looked around quickly to port, back to starboard. If she was out here, I would find the melee, I was sure of it. It was just a matter of where. Then spinning around and ducking to see under the Burrard Street Bridge I spotted her on the docks of Granville Island. She wore hot pink booty shorts and a half dozen people at her side, all waving their arms out to any boat passing by. I’m sure she thought any one of them was the Filthy Sombrero, just as I was sure any one of those skippers would illegally dock and take the entire group aboard like a horny cab driver stalking the suburbs.

I came about and headed back across False Creek to pick up the group from Granville Island and another from Kits Beach, only to hear the cries and giggles from below of several toppling humans, already intoxicated and lacking in primary balance. I looked back to be sure I had clearance all around, briefly scanning the shoreline and catching eyes yet again with Weissenstrat. His greasy lips were polished in the sun and wisps of long grey hair flew about event-ually sticking to a larger bald area atop his dome. I shuddered and turned back to the helm.

A slight buzzing became quite apparent in my pants and noting that everyone else was below rubbing one another thoroughly, I acknowledged that it was my phone.

“Sebby’s ship of fools here, we bloat ‘em and float ‘em.”

“Sebastian, I suggest you stop messing about and get me my designs posthaste.”

“Ms. Bowry?” I answered sheepishly.

“I want those designs today and printed tomorrow.”

“But I’ve just completed the first round, you haven’t even seen them yet.”

“Plans have changed, deadlines are moved up. Get them to me immediately,” I could hear the spittle flying from her brown teeth.

“Well, I’ve got them in my email, I’ll send them through for you to see, but I highly suggest we do a few more spins before commit-ing to print…”

“You’re not here to tell me my business young man, you’re here to produce. Get me those designs.”

“…sure thing.”

Click.

You could actually hear the receiver come down hastily, but with the gentle touch that accompanies an ornate and archaic handset. White gold and ivory if I recall.

The designs were fresh from my fingers and I had put them together quite quickly with the flow of red wine. I’m sure they were decent, but nobody puts out their first swing straight to print. These things were going to be hung around the city…all over the city.

The phone in my hand buzzed again.

“What?”

“Young man, you need to work on your manners.”

“Ms. Bowry?”

“Yes, can you imagine the odds?” she huffed, ”Now listen closely, I just forwarded you the installment placements around town, I want you to assign each of the four designs to specific posts. They must be in pairs on either side of the street, but they mustn’t simply rotate through the four designs. Do you understand?”

I was silent for some time.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Bowry, I’m not sure I understand, why don’t you hang them where you want them hung, why don’t you just alternate them one, two, three, four…”

She was silent for some time before clearing her throat, obviously fed up with my insubordination.

“Sebastian, I’m so happy you are able to help an old woman celebrate her late husband’s proud heritage. I know you have such a keen eye for the art, and I know you’ll place these wonderful works however you see fit around our beautiful city.”

“Ms. Bowry, I’m a designer, not a city planner, I don’t know what you have envisioned, or what your goals are.”

“My goals are of no consequence,” her voice cracked under frustration. “There are no goals to be had my boy. I simply want to…” here she started to sniff and sputter slightly, “simply want to do my husband proud.”

“I…I’m sorry. Ok, I’m sure there’s a way to make these stand out in different ways. I can do that, not a problem.”

Click.

I cursed at the ghoul in the phone and set about anchoring with the help of a few drunk keeners then found a dark railing.

I rifled through my email, sending off the designs to the printer then opening up Bowry’s city plans. There were almost eighty ‘gates’ to assign the four designs to. From Granville island over the Cambie, Granville and Burrard bridges. Through the Entertain-ment district to Gastown, curling back through to Yaletown, the shopping district and the West End.

I worked my phone while people came and went from the deck of Filthy Sombrero II. We had gained several people and lost a few to other passing boats that I’m sure Malcolm had accosted in one way or another. Adina stumbled her way up at one point and walked right by me, surely trying to make a point of being left behind on the toilet like it was any average afternoon and she was Courtney Love. The only sure sign that she differed from any of the others was that signature vanilla perfume dripping off and blending with the pungent skunk funk of freshly cut weed.

I had nudged the boat into a nice little lane just a stone’s throw from the barge that held the pyrotechnics, right beside a small orange tented vessel with no apparent crew. But just then, I could have sworn I saw Burton through a small flap of the tarp window. Moments later a trail of sweet-smelling smoke snuck out, sure enough it was him. They had no line, no anchor, and not a rail or lifeline to be found. It was like a small hot tub with a tent in it, just bobbing around.

“Burton,” I whispered above their roof trying not to draw attention of anybody else “Burton!”

A zipper hole appeared and grew larger, Burton poked his head out and looked around from side to side to side before noticing the anchor line they were now bumping into. His eyes followed the line up inch by inch until he was squinting at me in the remaining beams of sunlight.

“Hey Seb-man! What are you doing here?”

“It’s the fireworks, thought I’d take a peek, you?”

“Fireworks, oh ya, we’ve got some, sure,” he made a move to go back below.

“No, tonight is the International fireworks competition, right over there,” I pointed past hundreds of boats around us circulating the massive barge dotted with little pyro workers.

“Oh, shit, that’s tonight. Cool, you wanna come over?”

I looked around the deck of the Filthy Sombrero. There was a group of girls dressed all in white from head-to-toe, or nipple-to-anus as it were. They giggled and ground their high heels into black streaks on the deck with each shimmy. Mid-ship there was a group of dudes looking up the mast explaining to each other what they thought they saw. Naming each line that led up and around, through, over and above then disappeared like some malicious spaghetti fight. Through the pit and down below were the crowns of at least a dozen more clueless dudes bobbing up and down to house music, spilling shots and generally living la a-hole loco.

“Yup, I’ll be right over,” I said, and shimmied over the lifeline falling toward the S.S Hot Tub. I reached for something, nearly sliding right off of the tarp and over the rails, mainly because there were no rails. Luckily there was a slightly smelly bearded man ready to pull me in through the zipper hole with the strong hands of a sweeper.

“Sanford!” I marveled.

“Of course!” he said.

I looked around the tent. It could be described as such because we were literally inside of a four-man tent. The type of four-man tent that Canadian Tire advertises despite it clearly fitting no more than two adolescents’ side by side for no more than four hours before absolute meltdown.

“Is this your...boat?” I asked both of them.

“A friend of a friend’s,” said Burton proudly as he reloaded a hookah with two cords hanging from it.

There was nothing inside of the tented vessel except two benches, a table, a gas can, and a worn-down stick rudder. The tarp was the genius part about it, exceptionally warm and bright orange on the inside, select viewing holes, and a myriad of blind spots that would allow it to have right of way anywhere it ventured. Which wasn’t far by the looks of the thing. Accidentally creeping into the Georgia Strait would raise concern.

Not before long the thing was ablaze with shisha and Sanford was giggling away like a schoolgirl. It was a much happier place for me than the other boat.

“So, man, how’d it go with the artwork?” Burton pulled hard from the shisha and I watched in awe as his nostrils flooded with the intake then outtake of rich apple tobacco smoke. There was a volcano erupting in and around his face, and he was very much enjoying it.

“Yeah, well it was weird, I won’t lie to you,” I said, “I stayed up all night and drank wine, read some local history online, and just got deep into it.”

“Cool, where’d you land?”

“Hang on, I didn’t know you guys hung out,” I looked from Burton to Sanford.

“Not a why?” said Sanford, moving his shoes from one spot to another to avoid pooling area on the…deck.

“Yeah, why not,” repeated Burton, “he told me a story about Lou Reed punching David Bowie in the face back when he showed up in Eighty-Seven, we’ve been friends ever since.”

I tried to place them together over the past years. “Oh, I had no idea.”

“You were there.”

“What?”

“Nineteen Eighty-Seven. You were there.”

Sanford nodded.

“I guess I was. Fresh out. Or in,” I looked around at all of the orange. “Say, what are you smoking there?”

Sanford retrieved the dangling Persian rope and pointed it to me.

“No thanks, I think I’ve had enough just sitting in here with you gents.”

“So, where did you land…with the sea?” asked Burton from behind a shroud of sweet haze.

“Right, well, some pretty cool patterns and depictions of fishing, ship-building, animals, and sailing.”

“Nice one, all the watery goodness of our fine city.”

“Yeah, that’s the idea. It was fun to get back into it, Burton, I’ve got to say. Brought me back to my Mom somehow.”

“Yeah,” he looked at Sanford looking back at him. A mirrored beard-off.

“Anyways, good to get creative.”

“Speaking of which, how goes the battle with Adina? You getting out or back in?”

“Oh, so, I think I’m seeing somebody else right now.”

“What?” Burton coughed up a little.

“Well, not really, but you tell me. She’s from Seattle, I think. She was at The Tapa Bar the other night, then she came into the nursery, bought some shit, and asked me if I wanted to go to yoga with her.”

Sanford squirmed slightly, perhaps mimicking that ‘y’ word he had probably heard or saw around every block in town.

“You did yoga?”

“I did. And let me tell you, it was magnificent. Then she found me at the beach today. She’s everywhere, man. And she’s in my head. I don’t know when she’ll pop up next.”

“Seattle, hey? Well, there’s that showcase over at the Electronic Fowl tonight. Couple of real fuckhole bands coming through town at the moment. Maybe she’s there.”

I was breathing as little as I could, but my chest swelled with that. “Burton, you genius.”

“I did yoga once, but Yoko wouldn’t shut the fuck up, just singing like a goddamn banshee in there. I just left, didn’t even say thanks to the guys for the weekend. I just chartered my own flight home.”

I rubbed my forehead to squish it all in there.

“Okay, I’m out.”

The Electronic Fowl

T  he fireworks were only slightly more interesting, having left the orange tent behind. And with Burton’s seed planted in my mind, I had pushed the boat slowly back to shore on the sly. Long before the last explosion in the sky, and the lineup of cruisers left to block everything up between the bridges.

Bringing in the Filthy Sombrero II was a relief, her bow and stern made well with nice spring lines and elaborate knots I had learned from Frances. The entire contents of the galley, including Adina, had made a sprint for the closest bar the moment the boat was near the dock at Granville Island.

“I’ll catch you at home, sweetie!” I shouted after the her and grabbed Malcolm before he could leave me with the mess. “No, no, you’re coming with me.”

“How dare you. I’ve been putting in work all night to mate with one of those over there,” he pointed at the strangers running off into the darkness.

“I’m pretty sure you took down two of them for half the night, did you not?”

“Says who? What did they say? Was it good?”

“You drunk piece of shit, get your stuff and come with me. I need backup. You owe me.”

Malcolm reached into his shorts, tussling about, taking stock.

“Oh, right, okay,” he said taking a look, “we’ve got some rehab-ilitation time, where to?”

Malcolm, Cam and I unfolded out of a cab an hour later, spat into a cobblestone Gastown alley.

This was hipster territory.

A concentrated space where they ruminate and flourish. They multiply here perhaps due to the avant-garde barber shops, or the old-timey furniture designers, book collectors and vegan cafes. Or it could be the delicate dance between almost-tolerable rent and homelessness, safety and needle-stabbings. Somewhere amid the train tracks by the refineries and the banking towers on Georgia Street lies the answer. But the reality is that the hipsters are here, and though they have evolved radically from their Mecca - Williamsburg, Brooklyn – and its original purpose, they thrive.

These newest spawns aren’t artists, designers, or musicians. They are not seeds of culture. These people are leeches of the arts, purveyors of snobbery, only existing to perpetuate the local cocaine economy. I will say this, however, their hardly earned tech dollars are helping attract great musical talent to this town. And hopefully, on this night, one finely tanned creature from Seattle along with it.

“This place gives me the heebs.” Cam muttered as we approached The Electronic Fowl, “Why’d you bring me here?”

“I thought you said you wanted to check out this Seattle band.”

“I didn’t know they were here, look at these people,” he said.

“Ok, well, would it make you happier if I caught the scent of another girl?”

“Really…” Cam’s face lit up and I could see the cogs turning. Maybe this meant more time with him, less time with Adina. “But look at these people,” he repeated.

“No, no, you’ve got it wrong, there’s some real weirdoes in here, but that’s a good thing,” said Malcolm. “The trick is to find the most art-fucked one you can, one that’s wearing Mickey Mouse overall shorts, big stupid glasses with no prescription, a side ponytail, and like, bright pink lipstick. Track down a chick like that who dresses like an autistic eleven-year-old from the early nineties and follow her back to her table. She is friends with somebody normal and totally hot.”

“Why? That’s not a thing. Is that a thing?” I asked.

“It’s a thing. Hot chicks like to have that one hipster friend who’s gone over the edge just so they can hang out at places like this once in a while and talk about it later with their normal friends. Brag like they live the off-the-wall creative, dangerous life or something.” He nodded to himself. “Females under forty are simple.”

“Holy shit, look.” Cam turned around swiftly, hiding his face. I looked over his shoulder and spotted an alien of the skinny white variety in the distance talking to the bouncer with his usual creepy, emotionally dead expression.

“Is that…” I squinted.

Solomon’s pale skin was almost glowing in the night. Then a tall black man confidently strolled up and pounded the bouncer’s fist while slapping Solomon on the back.

“Abbotsford?” I squinted harder, my neck clicking slightly.

“Who’s the black dude?” asked Malcolm, peering out from the streetlight.

“He’s the driver from our tropical supplier, he brought that plant in, the one that’s been kicking my ass all over the place.”

“What plant?” said Cam.

“That smelly sonofabitch, the one that snuck off the back of the truck and cleared out our office with one clipping. I think I’m being drugged.”

“Holy shit. Wait, why?” Cam wiped some initial drool.

“You’re being rufied by a make-a-wish kid and his black care-taker?” Malcolm swayed.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” my mind raced back through the past few episodes, or lapses, or whatever they were. Where had they happened, who had been there?

“What’s the plan, let’s smash some skulls!” Malcolm broke my concentration.

“Look, maybe I’m just tripping out, it’s been a weird week and I think I’m just getting a bit crazy over this whole Adina thing.”

“What Adina thing,” Malcolm perked up.

“I don’t know, man, forget it. Hey, let’s find out why those two jerks are hanging out together, maybe it’s nothing.”

“We need to split up like Han and Luke, we need to observe and stay stealth,” said Cam, “Meanwhile somebody needs to sabotage something.”

“No Star Wars, Cam.”

“What about me?” said Malcolm. “I can’t sneak around so well, what if I go break Solomon’s nose real quick?”

“Go get Abbotsford on his own. Segregate the two of them so we can work it from different angles. I’ll tail Solomon.”

“Ok, I’m going to find the entrance to the Polar Base,” nodded Cam.

Malcolm and I both looked at his eyes, now wandering off up into the sky, some triumphant scene brewing in his mind.

“Hey spectrum, you’re drooling,” said Malcolm, breaking the spell.

“On the planet Akuria II there was an Imperial command center used as a staging point with the single directive of destroying Colonel Odan and his Rebel forces.”

“So, this is the Polar Base?” I asked.

“And I am Colonel Odan,” he nodded.

“Okay Lieutenant Gonads, wait for me to scope it out first, give me two minutes alone in there to get to the bar and make sure it’s clear for you to creep around. They don’t know my face so well. I’ll text you guys. Let’s rock out!” Malcolm bolted off with a grin.

“Don’t do anything stupid!” I whisper-yelled after him.

“Cocks-out! Wooooooot!” he yelled back.

And he was gone, high fiving the bouncer on his way through the doors.

“Okay, well, there goes that time-bomb. Just do some sneaky-sneaky when you get in there, okay?”

“Then what?” asked Cam.

“I don’t know, I’m just making this up as I go along here, shit.”

My phone buzzed in my pocket at the same time as Cam reached for his. The text read, Game on moth-cukers!!! Git in here Solomons alone!

Along with poor grammar, things were escalating quickly.

“Okay, I’m gone,” said Cam, “I will be a shadow for the next fifteen minutes. Radio silence.”

“Look,” I said, “we’re just trying to figure out why they’re hanging out, just calm down.”

“If you don’t hear me over the Frequency Agile subspace transceiver, I’ll see you at the check point.” I watched the saliva form at the corners of his mouth, before he caught it with a wipe, mentally tightening Colonel Odan’s space boots as he went.

I could feel that little bit of pee come out as I approached the mouth of The Fowl. The bouncer nodded lethargically at me, and I stutter-stepped into the darkness. The sweet heat and the tangled music wrapped around me like a used Indian sweater. I tucked my hair under Cam’s hat and pulled it low over my brow. The brim hid the flashing lights and I felt somewhat more secure from the hipster glares all around, evil bastards shooting daggers toward my plain black shirt and the normalcy of my jeans and shoes.

I searched the layout of the place, having not been there since a French Kicks show a few years back. That night, Burton had committed to a self-induced coma with enough Quaaludes to tackle a rhino. I had to slap him awake six times at our concealed table, that’s how I recall the many nooks and booths spattered around the peripheral of the place.

The stage was a tiny space raised up higher than necessary in the middle of the room, backed up against a long painted black brick wall. There were various levels of seating here and there lifted by a few steps apiece, with two large bars on either side of the room both accessible on all sides. Though not bigger than a dive bar, the area right in the middle in front of the stage created a huge bottleneck making the venue feel much bigger than it was. There must have been a hundred floating zombie-hipsters bumping shoulders, taking photos and looking bored. Their abused Vans, Converse and Keds tapping hyperactively like a duck’s feet under water while their faces read ‘no big deal’.

I eyeballed the crowd looking for signs of Solomon and Abbotsford, but nothing. The bar closest the entrance was empty, save two lesbians combing each other’s’ hair. Making my way along the back wall facing the stage I climbed up a level, then another, went down one, then another, until the other bar came into view. There was Malcolm, and Abbotsford, having a beer and hitting on three girls…together.

Villainous Wingman.

Malcolm caught my eye briefly and fiddled in his pocket with his non-beer hand. Seconds later I felt the buzz of my phone.

I looked down and there was an emoji of animated handcuffs dangling where a text message might normally be found. That could mean that he found a willing participant in a new submissive project, currently in development, or that he was confirming he had Abbotsford preoccupied. I hoped for the latter and continued my sweep for Solomon.

The band on stage, up until that point forgettable, finished up a sloppy Afropop-copycat tune sounding like Vampire Weekend’s adopted, beaten, and abandoned Zambian child. The lead singer fell into the microphone hard and approached the zombies in the front row.

“Vancouver, it’s your pleasure for us to be here, thank you and thank us. We are of course called Masticulaion, we’re from Seattle, and we’re ready to melt your face off on this most special nautical weekend.”

I turned my full attention to the stage.

“You’ve been waiting for this weekend a long time, haven’t you little fuckers, huh?” he stuck his crotch out and an arm from the front row snaked up through his legs and grabbed a hold with enough gusto to jolt the frontman backwards. A bass-player with a black-died toupee atop bright blue hair caught him, slapped his genitals again and pushed him back to forward stage.

“Ya, you love the fish and the fish love you! It’s time to return to the sea, wipe this city clean of the cows and pigs and shit-covered fields of land!”

Cheers and camera phones went up and flashed against the smoke in the dark. I wondered what a field of land was.

“You’re here because you were sent for, you’re here because you know. This is the night they promised would be the last night before everything changes and we are given back to the sea, and the sea is given back to us!”

Cheers went up again, whistles blew, peace-signs and fists ejected, a couple of ‘west-sides’, middle fingers, shakas, shockers, bullhorns, and even one or two live-long-and-prospers went sky-ward. Arrogant, unimaginative, sarcastic hipster bastards all around. The stage lights flared up with the applause then died again.

“Tonight we mourn the future of the yes-man, tonight we force tears and shoot Jack Daniels in memory of all of those numbed personalities about…to…die!!”

The lights blazed up again with louder applause and screaming yet.

Then I saw them.

Stage left in the far back corner, beyond the bar where Malcolm stood, I squinted through layers of lost humans. There, at a booth, deep in conversation sat Solomon and Skinny.

Click.

The lights dropped and the place was drowned in darkness as the crowd’s noise carried through to the first thumps and pulls of deep bass from the stage.

I raced to a shadowed spot and crept along the wall until I found a chair behind an awkward group of tall moustached individuals. Purple and blue lights bounced around the room as the band found their way into their next anthem. I collapsed in the chair and put my head down, eyes darting around across the mingy carpet trying to find an answer. Solomon, Abbotsford, and Skinny all together at once, in this place.

I grabbed my phone quickly and dialed Cam.

“Ya?!” he answered with the same music blazing in the back-ground, double the incongruous blare.

”Cam, they’re in the corner, go put your phone down on a chair next to them so I can hear.”

“Who?”

I followed the echo and searched the crowd. Cam was hopping up and down in the immediate center of the dancefloor with his back to the stage, holding the phone to one ear and covering the other. Extremely stealth.

“Solomon and…a girl. Just go to the far corner left of stage and drop your phone. Walk right by and drop your phone!” I was whisper-yelling again by this point, probably gesticulating with my hands. I looked up to see the group of tall moustaches looking back down at me.

I turned around to face the wall and pulled my hat down further.

“Okay, I’m on it. Moving, moving, in motion, moving.” I heard the rustling and background hum of hipsters all around as he pushed his way out of the crowd. Soon there was only breathing, then a thud of what I imagined to be the dropping of the phone on a chair or table. I plugged my non-phone ear and listened as hard as possible.

Finally came the mumbling. My ears adjusted and something came into tune.

“I don’t really care about all of that, we need to speed up,” Solomon’s eerie little voice came out more dominant than usual.

And then she spoke.

“Listen, they’re on track. Everybody is working, and the plant is working on everybody else. It’s done.”

“Nothing is done until I say it’s done. Not until they’re all doing exactly what they’re supposed to do. Not until those pipes are filled and we see results. Nothing is finished.”

“You gave us the doses, the program. What the fuck is your problem?”

“Sebastian, for one. He’s not tracking the way I thought. Step it up.”

“The guy is messed right up, you can see that.”

“Step it up. If you won’t, I will. I wouldn’t mind taking him down a peg anyways.” There was a pause and some rustling about. “I don’t think your Grandma will be too happy if you don’t listen to me though, just saying…”

I could almost see the little fucker sneering, but I was too busy having my heart broken to focus too much on that.

“Okay, I’ll do it, I’ll make it happen,” came her voice with a thousand daggers.

“How?”

“Fuck off, this isn’t the Solomon show, you know how, just leave it.”

I heard him faintly laughing again.

“Well, you just let me know if you need my assistance.”

There was some shuffling of chairs.

“Order me a cola, I’ll be back.”

“Go fuck yourself, psycho.”

The laughing came closer then trailed off. I looked over my shoulder and saw his weird little frame moving away from the table and off towards the opposite corner where there was a hallway and stairs to the washrooms in the basement.

Don’t do it, don’t do it. I said to myself as I got up and pushed passed the moustaches. Don’t even do it.

Passing by the lower bar I snuck a peek at Malcolm and Abbots-ford, both were making substantial leaps and bounds towards public copulation. Malcolm had his hand massaging the rump of a strange young thing and Abbotsford was feistily wigwagging to the other two likely film school interns. I tucked my chin down and hurried past the scene into the dark hallway.

African drums became more stifled behind me and the guitars’ Ska riffs transitioned into treble-less ricochets the deeper I went down the hall. Posters from past live shows were slapped up and ripped down along the way. The Fragrant Retards, Slop-Chap, Mind the Gap, Skenecktitty, and Twatslut among other local fav-ourites blurred back into darkness as I paced. Then came the staircase with its wavering slope, steps alternating between squishy-waterlogged hollows and brittle-crackling ply.

A wall of urine stench hit me in the face upon approaching the men’s washroom. With a deep, slow breath and a bite of the lip, I gently pushed the door open and crept in. The bank of toilet stalls to the left were taking turns hissing and regurgitating the trickling water from decades of old pipes. Flickering fluorescent tubes pushed back off the mirrors barely helping me to see a pair of dirty white Adidas in the distance.

It was a large space as far as washrooms went, and from what I remember, doubled as the visiting musicians’ Green Room, or White Room as it were. On a zesty Saturday, you’d be hard-pressed to enjoy a minute’s break from abrupt snorting blasts from within alternate stalls. Giggles from nefarious ladies, thick plumes of cigarette smoke, and the occasional slurp of oral pleasure all commonplace. But on this night, there was just Solomon peeing against the urinal trough, and me, stalking him from behind.

“Solomon.”

He gave a frightful shake. “Shit.” he turned his head while fiddling with his zipper and wiping himself.

“Solomon,” I repeated and leaned up against the counter, cross-ing my legs in preparation for a good chat. Also, that I might fight the urge to dropkick him in his face.

Zip went his zipper, slowly and surely as the moisture eased the joining of its metal teeth. “Sebastian, heyyy. How bout this band, hey?” he slowly spoke with his back to me.

“Oh yeah, massive fan. I saw them in Calgary last year.”

“Really?” he turned around.

“No, you piece of shit. No, I do not enjoy this band. What the fuck, Solomon? How could you do this?”

“Listen, there is a reason…”

“There is no reasoning that could ever possibly exist for you to go bat-shit crazy and poison me. To be in a cult that wants to murder a city…apparently!”

Silence between us grew and the flicker of gaseous lights and trickling of rusty water filled the space.

“You ignorant…self-righteous…dummy,” he started.

“Tread lightly, Solomon. I got you a job when you couldn’t find a hope.”

“You think you are almighty, don’t you? Plant-boy? You think you hold some kind of power in nonchalantly hating everything around you, meanwhile doing nothing about it. You’re indifferent, and therefore you are of no use.”

“What are you talking about? Who cares about all of this? People are assholes, just let them do their thing and you do yours, why are you fucking with natural selection?”

He laughed a little whiny laugh, even pulling his head back slightly to reveal a disgusting Adam’s apple rolling up and down a pretty gross throat.

“You have no clue what’s going on here, do you?” he smirked.

I did not.

“Sure I do. I was good to you, and now you turn out to be a creepy little shit stain.”

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to watch you live your life?” he yelled back at me, “Everyday, wasting your life away in that little shitty apartment building. Sitting on your deck, doodling stupid little doodles.”

“What?”

“All I hear every single day is you and your dirty girlfriend complaining, like, ‘oh wahhh, Adina stop smoking weed’. Every night, bitching, ’oh wahhh, Sebby, fuck me and then go fuck yourself’. It’s embarrassing.”

“What—”

“You have this pitiful little life, then you go into this pitiful little plant shop and think you’re running the world. You think you’re actually making some kind of a mark on this planet because you’re not homeless in the streets doodling. Pathetic.”

“You’re the neighbor…the creep next door?”

“You’re a shmuck.”

“You’re the neigh—”

“You’re so far behind, it’s not even fair, plant-boy. It’s like watching somebody hobbling out of the hydration tent when the race finished weeks ago, in a different country. And do you know what’s holding you back? Your own narcissism. You think I came to work for you, and then started despising you? No! I’ve been studying you for years, I’ve hated you long before I even met you.”

“Wha –” I tried again.

“You’re a mark. Simple as that. This has nothing to do with you other than the fact that you are usable. You are pliable and depressing. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong lineage. You’re a pawn.”

I resisted the urge to slap the pale off his face, breathing deeply to slow my pulse down.

“So, what, you found some kind of flower on the internet, did you? You did a little googling and voila, time to drug some folks?”

“You have no idea what this is all about, the power that we have unleashed, the advancements in biology that we have set off. This will change everything. You couldn’t possibly even begin to fathom the intricacy of what’s happening around you.”

“You’re right, I’m just a pawn here. Oh wait, why then, do you have to ‘step it up’ with me?”

He cleared his throat, “What?”

“You heard me you little dickhead, just like I heard you at the table. Why are you roping her into this?

“That girl has you wrapped around her little finger, doesn’t she?”

“No, I don’t even know her name,” I said as if it were a win.

He laughed. “Just call her Bowry’s granddaughter.”

I choked.

Another dagger straight to the heart, devil spawn.

The memories flashed back like white heat in my skull. The very first time I met her at The Tapa Bar, she had told me flat out: My grandmother’s a rich old hag on a mission to fight her own senility, so she’s hired me to be her play pal for the summer. She said it right to my face, I’ve got to give her points for honesty.

But also, she has drugged me several times, devil spawn.

“There’s nothing you can do, plant-boy, this is all over, do the noble thing for once in your pathetic life and just let it go.”

He walked around me to the sink, shaking his head.

“You should know that this plant, this poison, it has effects that you don’t know about,” I followed.

“Nice try, there’s nothing I don’t know about the specimen, I manipulated it with my own hands.”

My eyes flashed.

“What, you didn’t think I was just some sort of creepy poet working in a nursery, did you,” he smiled.

“You’ve worked for me for a year-and-a-half for God’s sake. You did nothing notable in that entire time, then all of a sudden Abbotsford shows up with that bastard plant and my world turns upside down. You’re telling me you had something more to do with this whole thing other than just spying on me from down the hall like some little pervert? I don’t think so. You’re the pawn, motherfucker.”

He laughed like a wicked little gerbil and waved his hands free of water.

“Sure, Sebastian, sure. I’m just another yes-man like Malcolm, or your little tag along, Cam. Do you think I—”

A stall behind us exploded, and a mighty blur knocked me to the ground. There was an amazing commotion with squealing and flailing and before I could get to my feet I was pushed down again by the scuffle. I fought my way back against a stall door and was horrified to see a trail of smeared blood leading from where I just stood at the sink, all the way around the corner to the urinals. A heaving Cam was hunched over Solomon from behind, struggling with both hands to smother his face deep into the trough of month-old ill-drained waste. There were gurgling noises like bubbles blown through a milkshake’s straw, with thrashing and splashing and a fine mist raining down on me from above.

“Cam! No!”

Cam looked back to me with crazy eyes but snapped to and realized that he was about to do some murder. His grasp loosened and he straightened up quickly, shaking it off.

Solomon started to push slowly up on the lip of the urinal trough with both hands, spitting and gagging. “Cam,” he coughed up, “You little retard…fucking little retard.”

Cam took a quick step back and loaded up all possible weight behind his right leg and unleashed a massive swing of boot that connected triumphantly and with palpable, all-encompassing blunt trauma between Solomon’s legs. The inertia that lifted Solomon’s whole body up and out of the kneeling position carried through the crown of his head, like an oversized mallet to gong, smashing it into the central base of the urinal unit, cracking the porcelain on impact. Instantly limp, his frame crumpled back down into the corroded steel gutter.

We stood there waiting for Solomon to get up so we could have a bit of a laugh. My jaw must have been down when Cam finally looked back at me. His eyes were cartoon-wide.

“Cam…”

“Holy shit.”

“Cam, I mean…what the…”

“Holy shit.”

“Is he breathing?”

Cam walked over and put his ear close to Solomon’s head, which was starting to ooze a pulpy mess at that point. He looked back at me and simply repeated, ”Holy shit.”

“Come on, Cam!” I threw my arms up to my head.

“Jeez,” he said rather nonchalantly. “That really escalated.”

“Ya, yes it did. You flew out of a stall and bashed the shit out of Solomon,” I shouted.

“Well what do you want me to say? I was helping.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “Well shit, Solomon is the only one who knows about the plant, he bred the damn thing.”

“Did you hear that band out there? This is bigger than Solomon. This guy could’ve kept going, spreading the damn poison around the world, for all you know, I just saved the entire universe.” He stormed over to the sink and started wiping blood off where he could.

He might have had a point, but I didn’t tell him that.

“Okay I’ve got to go chat with Skinny, can you take care of this thing?” I pointed towards the mess.

“What the hell are you talking about? How am I supposed to take care of ‘this thing’?”

The bathroom door swung open and banged hard against the wall, Malcolm stormed in and high-fived my forehead in passing.

“Whew, what’s up boys!” he shouted, slamming a beer down on the urinal trough. He sidled up on Solomon’s crumpled body and started peeing not so far from his head before having a look. There was a very slow double take before he turned around to catch my eye and then Cam’s. “Oh jeeeezuz,” he said.

“Okay, you two need to clean this up, toss him in the back. I’ve gotta go catch up with…Bowry’s granddaughter.”

“Seb, this is not cool, we’re kind of in trouble here.”

“Hey, you know what? I’m kind of thinking all bets are off at this point.” I looked at each of them, “things are very different now.”

The door swung shut behind me and I could hear Malcolm high fiving the wall in front of him and cheering.

Some sort of xylophone solo was being unleashed on the crowd back upstairs. Hipsters were hopping all around, trying to maintain some sort of non-dancing rhythm. I pushed my way through to-wards the bar trying to see over heads to the back corner where Skinny was, when I was stopped short by a tight gripped mitt a-round my arm. I looked down to see silky black skin and a massive hand bulging at half-strength.

“Seb, let me holler at you,” Abbotsford was calm and direct, and after a brief heart attack, I came to terms with the idea of a short and painful bludgeoning by the hands of this lanky delivery man.

“Look…” I started.

“No, you look,” he paused with his forehead scrunched tight and his afro pinned back in a menacing fashion.

This was where I would die, in some sticky hipster paradise, a place of irony and self-manipulation? The worst of comedic torment had found me, fed me a cheap beer and would now see me destroyed.

His brow broke free and lifted his eyebrows in begging position, “Seb, I’m sorry man, I had no idea.”

“What?”

“I just met your boy, Malcolm, we was tag-teaming on them girls over there.”

He pointed at the three depressed-looking film students sipping on Pabst with short black fingernails and trying to figure out which of them would be the odd-one out, if any.

”Oh?” I said.

“Ya, he told me everything man, he told me about the tropical plant and all of that shit. I had no idea man, I promise. I thought they was playing pranks on you.”

“Who?”

“That weird little white fella, Solomon, and my boss.”

“Benny?”

“Ya, after that first trick with the plant that you didn’t order, they thought it was so funny they got trucks working overtime.”

Benny, the owner of the tropical supplier, had been my go-to guy for years, I could see why the prank-route might make sense. ”But, trucks?” I said.

“I don’t know, man, you two seemed tight long before my time.”

“Where do the trucks go?”

“Brought ‘em over here to Gastown, two a night for the past few nights.”

“Where in Gastown?”

“Well Benny never said, really, he was just like, ’drop them by the tracks at the end of Gore Street and some rookie would come by and unload’. Worked for me, paid overtime, no unloading, and I got closer to my stable of fine ponies at the end of the night, psssshht,” he smiled, before realizing he was a mule.

“What the hell are you doing here then?”

“Solomon got a hold of me, said he wanted to offer me some side job with the truck, don’t tell Benny though, I don’t want to get sacked.”

“Fuck Benny.”

“Oh right, ya, we’re on some new shit now.”

“Ya, it’s a little different then when you woke up this morning.”

“Listen man, I’m sorry, how was I supposed to know though, you know? This is some next level shit, I want to make it up.”

“You want to help me?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Just let me know what I can do.”

“Load up the truck with Malcolm, he’s waiting for you down-stairs.”

I pushed myself back up off the bar and worked through the noise and the crowd towards the far corner gladly leaving Abbots-ford behind.

Skinny was gone. So was Cam’s phone.

A shot of fear ripped down my chest and I reached into my pocket. Phone activated, still connected on the other side with Cam’s. I raised it to my ear and listened hard, plugging my free ear from the terrifying electric violin that had joined the chorus up on stage.

There was panting, her panting. Speedy little feet tapping through an empty street.

“Skinny!” I yelled into the phone. “Skinny, I need to talk to you, stop running.”

The phone disconnected.

Skinny Bowry. Damn.

The End of the Line

T  hat feeling came over me, that sheer terror.

Outside in the streets my throat tightened up and my vision became blurry. Heat hit my forehead and my chest started to fold into itself. The street formed a tunnel that I was falling into, the faces all around staring at me as I tumbled. Black eyes, indifferent eyes, watching as I tumbled on by.

I cut down Keefer Street and like a beacon in the distance I saw a phone booth reflecting traffic lights off its scratched plexi glass walls. Racing toward it I felt I was drifting sideways. My feet started to give way like cars on ice on my childhood tv set that I watched as my parents fought. Like Mom and dad arguing in the background before they hit the wall.

Just when I thought I could keep my body up beneath my legs, the booth arrived, and I hit that wall.

Crawling inside, the air was still warm from the sunset hours before, the receiver itself sticky hot as if it had just been used. I lifted it to my ear and heard a familiar click, but there was no voice, no sweet soothing savior on the other side.

The phone clicked again.

“Hello?”

There was pure and dark silence.

My ears started ringing and the anxiety crept up further until I thought I would suffocate.

“Talk to me dammit,” I whimpered, dropping to the floor of the booth with the phone hard to my face. The metallic coil around the cord tightened up as it reached its maximum stretch. Like my mind and body, the cord creaked under the pressure, I pulled harder ready to snap the thing and feel some kind of release.

Then came her voice like an angel floating in through the darkest air.

“Please listen to the following message.” She said with that voice, the only voice that brought peace to this disease, this angst so asphyxiating.

“Yes,” I nearly wept.

“…follow these instructions carefully.”

“Yes,” I whispered. Her unswerving pre-recorded voice would certainly bring me back to my senses, quell this sickness and fill me up with the thick juices of normalcy.

“Follow the signs, Sebastian.”

“Yes—what?”

“Follow the signs, you are the only hope.”

I squished my body back into a corner and looked up and around the empty street outside. “What is this?” The scratched windows told of no people, no cars, just an empty side street with nothing notable but a bodega closed for the night.

“You are the answer, you must follow the signs.”

“Who are you? What is this!” I was yelling into the phone at that point, scared senseless that all of my remaining sanity was being vacuumed down into that handset.

There was another click signaling disconnection.

With that, the receiver suddenly fell cold in my hand and I dropped it, pushing back out of the booth and into the night as if physically getting away from its doors would reverse what just happened.

The voice, that bloody voice, it was the exact same operator I had heard for years. She was in the West End, over in Kits, Granville Island, Yaletown, now Gastown. What sweet hell was opening up around me? The voice that guided me through crippling anxiety attacks, talked me off the ledge and into her auditorium time after time. This voice was my guidance, my muse, my mothering direction. Where is my mind?

“Sebastian,” came a voice from an alley.

“Hello?” I couldn’t see a thing until the blooming cherry of a cigarette held by tiny white fingernails showed off the little girl’s face.

The girl who smelled like Christmas.

For a split second I considered her voice to be that of the pay phone operator’s…but no, too depressing, yet with a higher intonation. No, my operator’s voice was special.

“Oh great, it’s you.” I said.

“Is that any way to treat a friend?”

“Treat a friend? My friends are all questionable at the moment, little girl, especially the creepy new ones. What do you want?”

“Do you have something for me?” she asked.

“No, I don’t have something for you. I don’t have time for this cryptic weirdness, there’s some shit going on right now. I’ll see ya,” I turned back to the phone.

“Give me the lighter, Sebastian, right-hand pocket.”

I pushed a palm to my body, searching up and down, sure enough I felt the bump in my jeans pocket and pulled out that same lighter I had found the first time I met this little deviant. Before she had the chance to grab it, I pulled it closer for a look.

“What is that?” I squinched and rubbed my thumb over some texture.

“I don’t know, why don’t you give it to me.”

I stared at the thing through squinting eyes and some sort of wild shapes surfaced. They then danced into another combination com-pletely, alive.

I dropped the thing on the ground like it had burnt my hand. On the dirty street it continued to change, tiny sprigs of light outlining boxes and circles and characters I could not recognize. They danced and shifted around with a twinkling property I could only compare to flashes of sunlight breaking through a rainstorm or shimmering through rustling treetops.

The girl scooped it up off the ground and eyeballed the rotating combinations of symbols. She looked up to me suddenly as if it was telling her secrets about me. Her eyes read my face and went back to the lighter.

“Ok, I’m outta here, keep the lighter, I’m done,” I said.

“Whoa, whoa, hold tight there. Just grab some pavement, we’ve gotta talk.”

“Look, I don’t really know what’s real, what’s not, my head is all fucked up right now. And I’m having conversations with freaky homeless girls in alleys.”

“Take a seat,” she turned sideways and pointed to a dirty crate on the ground beside a dirtier human that had apparently been there the entire time.

“Sit,” she said again.

For whatever reason, I listened. I sat down on a dirty crate, nodded to a dirtier human beside me and put my back against the wall. It felt good too. The bricks held in some heat, but the cool ocean breeze crept up the alley like a tunnel straight to the sea, about twenty blocks or so of direct track.

The girl gave her head a nod and threw the lighter across to the bony thing beside me, which grinned through brown teeth and scratched Its head. Hair fell out. A spoon appeared from some seedy place and I realized I was in a precarious situation just then.

“You seem to have come along since last we spoke,” said the little girl.

I thought for a moment, and it was clear there had been some monumental shift in my world. Some distinct, albeit forced, amend-ment in my own mind.

Embrace it.

“Well, I believe there are some angels and devils at play here,” I stated, “and I’m just coming to the realization that I have something of a responsibility to sort them out.” I looked at her for an extra moment. “I’m struggling to figure out which you are.”

“Well, what does your mushy mind tell you?”

The frail thing beside me wiped Its thumb across the child-proofed flint dial, flesh pulling from the bone. It was too dark to see, but there was some sort of shimmering slime coming out that I only assumed was very, very bad blood. It moaned slightly but carried on with the task again, then again, until there was a spark. The spoon crackled and whatever It had put into the bowl began to sizzle and melt.

“What is this?” I said, uncomfortable in my skin at that point.

“This is the end of the line,” she smiled.

The hungry fiend lifted a burnt syringe from the ground and pricked gently through the meniscus of milky solution. Its hands surprisingly steady so not to waste a drop or break the tip of the needle against the browning spoon.

“I don’t want to be here, there’s something I need to do.” I said, looking away as It pulled the plunger, sucking up hot death.

She ignored my discomfort. “This is the beautiful part, there is peace in this part. Watch.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

She blinked. “I am immortal.”

I turned back again.

The needle point pushed through until there was a pop in the tough scar tissue of Its arm and then slid easily another inch. Without hesitation the plunger pushed gently and consistently down as far as it should travel, the warm juices pulsing through and through.

“I’m going to be sick,” I said.

“No, this is the part, the transition. You’re so lucky.” Her eyes were twinkling by now, practically in a dream state of wonderment.

It moaned in ecstasy, some great release of unimaginable stress.

I believe now that I looked like that in my phone booths, pure heavenly happiness and escape. A vacation from time and space. I couldn’t help it any longer and I looked back at the thing, into Its eyes as It stared through the darkness, through walls, through the present.

Then It twitched.

“Here it comes, this is stunning,” she clasped her little white fingers together.

It convulsed suddenly, thrashing forward, the spoon and lighter flying off Its lap and the needle shattering to pieces from the bevel down through the glass barrel, leaving only a stained white plunger and shards. For our eyes, It whipped sideways and groped at Its chest with blood and bile foaming from Its mouth.

“Oh my god, I’ve got to get somebody!”

“Wait, wait…the changeover, do you see?”

The little girl smoked her cigarette down, watching with wonder as the body beside me contracted and fell again with some unnatural snapping gesticulation. Bits of spittle hit my forehead and I kicked myself off of the crate and back against the far brick wall as It faded in front of us.

The twitching and pumping slowed until there was no more, leaving peace over Its face. No more struggle, life had let go with a burst of fight, albeit short. And all was quiet except my breath and the pounding inside of my throat and behind my eyes.

The girl who smelled like Christmas was giddy.

“Exhilarating isn’t it? Whew, that was wild!” her eyes were filled with something thrilling, despite my horror.

“Never gets old…never.” She threw her cigarette down into a wet stain in the alley then bent over and retrieved the lighter that lay amongst the splintered needle shards.

Squinting herself, she read the lighter again as it flipped through some different patterns this time until satisfaction came across her face.

“This is all that dead-talk you’re always on about, isn’t it? You feed off people dying, don’t you? What kind of sick inborn are you?”

“Oh relax. I just told you, I’m immortal.” She flipped another cigarette up to her mouth, lighting it. “It’s a pain in my ass.”

I shook my head as if she might go away like a bad trip, like I could eject her as if I had eaten corrupt shawarma.

“Are you going to kill me?”

She sneered back. “You’re such a loser, grow up.”

“What do you want with me?”

“I want you to just shut up for a second, we’re running out of time. Do you remember that river I told you not to jump into? Well, you jumped in without your little pink water wings and now you’re up to your neck, aren’t you?

“What do you know?”

“Everything all the time.”

“Why don’t you help me then, rather than whatever this is?”

“I can’t. But I am, but I’m not.”

“Why am I wasting my time?” I turned my back.

“Because you need a nudge, or you’ll fuck this whole thing up.”

“What is this thing? Why is this happening?” I started to pace back and forth like a crazy person, my hands rubbing my eyes into my brain to make the pressure feel less upon release.

“Look, things happen. Endlessly. They happen through the ages, and that’s the way it is.” She smoked and walked and loomed over the moist body in the dark. “Sometimes things are pushed through the wrong way. Times when things need to be…realigned.”

Jesus, I thought, “Can you be more convoluted?”

There was a silence, a pause in the stench of the alley.

She slapped me so hard across the face my eardrum burst, actually.

Crackling cartilage invaded the soundsphere around my head, and nothing else would persist. I shuffled backward away from her and slammed down on the crate beside the overdosed body. Blood began trickling out moments later which I only felt once it had reached my neck, all else was stinging-numb. I lifted a palm to my ear and pushed on it but felt nothing, the little girl stalked forward and stood over me, breathing Christmas into my face. It was no longer pleasant, rather, dark and looming. She began speaking but I couldn’t hear a word she was saying. Her eyes told me it wasn’t complimentary and the tiny white fingernail pointing in my face told me it wasn’t approval.

I started to feel dizzy again and was beginning to lose conscious-ness, but I couldn’t let myself pass out beside this corpse or I’d wake up in some holding tank deep in the East side. That could not happen, not tonight.

I pushed myself up and past her and stumbled out of the alleyway only looking back once I hit a consistent stride. She was standing unimpressed, pulling slowly off her cigarette, unblinking.

Blocks passed by in a blur and I must have been stumbling pretty good because people were making faces as I flew by. That same look you might get running to a bathroom to vomit in a crisis - if there were any other kind. Judgment, laughter, pity, all those expressions rolled up like the symbols on the reel of a slot machine. Or an immortal lighter.

When I couldn’t hold up my legs any longer, I took a hard left off of Main and through a park under the Sky Train. The first bush I saw was the last thing I saw, and my body assumed some sort of rubbery missile-shaped property deploying head-first into nothingness.

Out.

A Stone in the Robe

I was in a wheelbarrow when I came to.

I wish I could say that in a good way, like, oh remember that time at the lake we had a few beers, raided the neighbor’s shed and had a wheelbarrow race? No, it was more like, oh remember that time one of my employees accidentally killed another employee in, or with, a urinal, then a phone-booth talked to me, then I watched a man overdose in an alley, then I got bitch-slapped by an immortal girl, head-butted a shrub and woke up in a moving wheelbarrow?

It was more like that.

I worked open my eyes and tried to shake off the ringing in my ear with no relief. Looking up I could see the underbelly of unkempt beard attached to a man bobbing as he pushed. He wore a flowing kimono and a broom under his arm, grunting slightly with each step.

“Sanford?” I asked.

He smiled down at me. “G’night,” he nodded.

Sure enough it was, because I couldn’t have been out for too long this time around. I worked my neck out of my barrel in hopes of recognizing where we were.

“Stop, stop, I’ve got it from here, thanks.”

“Anyways, here we are,” he said, dumping me out onto my wobbly feet. I took a knee and looked up at the gates of the sushi temple. I couldn’t tell if it was open, closed, inhabited or otherwise. The place was spooky and welcoming all at once, and for the first time that night I felt in a safe place. Not hard to do, given.

“Sanford, how’d you find me?” I groped my way around the wheelbarrow and up to my feet with a moderate level of wooziness. One of life’s great ironies is the fact that the human ear is so hideous and misshapen yet wields so much delicate power. When your ear is out of order, your world is a mess. One day I may find it in my heart to forgive that little immortal bitch for slapping me, but not today. After all, you know the saying: to forgive is human, but to ear is divine. Something like that.

“Aira…you eat fish. Send me for,” Sanford mustered.

“Sanford, your words, they’re getting better.”

He smiled widely, showing many teeth I had never seen before, and several empty spaces as well.

“How did that happen?”

He thought for a moment, grasping at his dirty beard, then look-ing to his shoes, rich, shining brown leather that reflected the streetlight back up.

He shrugged, “Fish?”

“Yeah right,” I laughed, my eardrum crackling with each jaw movement. “Thanks for the ride, Sanford, and thanks for finding me. No telling where I would end up if you didn’t pick me up.”

“Or molested.”

“Right, that too. Thanks.”

I pushed through the great doors of Aira’s sushi temple and was transported once more. Some foreign species were squeaking and crooning from worlds away and I looked to the far corners of the space for any trace of audio equipment to match, there was nothing but seemingly endless thick air. The entrance disappeared and I crept inward, up and over a small arched bridge with its hard bamboo planks fastened together somehow. A creek below trickled and swayed over smooth rocks, and the occasional splash from the kissing koi echoed with grace.

Everywhere I stepped, the light followed, as if an endless soft glow of sunset. In the distance there was warmer light from flicker-ing flames to guide me closer. Aira came into focus, standing behind a long wooden bar, working with controlled, flowing speed. Around him candles glowed in hollowed nooks of a stone wall where slight streams of water trickled and traced their way down through the floor.

“Sebastian, come sit with me,” said Aira warmly, waving me closer. He was wearing a kimono as well, this one more ornate and with a jacket layered overtop. His motioning revealed a series of crests stitched into the shoulders and back of his jacket, six or seven large ones, each quite elaborate and different from the next.

“Your face tells of trials,” he said, stopping his work.

“Well, you would be correct in that assumption, I suppose.”

“Are you in need of food and drink to heal your soul and help you on your journey?” he nodded repeatedly with a kind of optimism I couldn’t relate to at that moment.

“Aira, there is no goddamned time,” I shouted.

“Mou ichido onegai shimasu?” he replied softly.

And stared at me.

I bowed my head with a touch of shame.

“I’m sorry, really. I just…need to do something. I can’t, don’t have time.”

“Gather yourself. There is more time than a man needs. More time than a man deserves.”

I looked around the place to avoid his glare. There was no sound for a moment, no trickling water nor flickering flame.

I realized a hunger in that pause, and it disturbed me given the grotesque scenes from hours before. My body was searching for something to normalize, something to build back a shred of mental and physical energy.

“I would be honored to sit with you, Aira.”

He nodded and returned to his work behind the bar.

Sanford appeared from the darkness with two tiny cups and a rustic earthenware pot, vibrant green like fresh bamboo shooting to the sky.

“No, no, no…thank you,” I waved my hands gently in protest. “I would like to stay conscious tonight, thank you very much.”

“Worry not, this is ancient sake that promises very little falling down if enjoyed accordingly. Please,” he motioned and nodded as Sanford poured for us, and so I placed my hands back down with submission.

What more control could I lose? Everything else was unraveling around me like Taiwanese knitwear, there was no point in fighting further tonight.

Aira watched as I settled into the seat at the countertop, until there was stillness, and then he spoke. “There is a ceremony in Japanese culture that I very much admire of their people…”

“Your people?”

Aira continued. “They call this kaiseki, kai for ‘robe’ and seki meaning ‘stone’ from the times of sixteenth century zen monks. While fasting during early morning prayer, they would hold warm stones in their kimonos close to the belly. The stones would act to ward off spirits that would wish to distract and weaken their focus. Those monks were rewarded after prayer with a series of light dishes, and a most beautiful and sacred tea service.”

I noticed then that the warm and distant light through the place was now somehow cooler and new. It was a sunrise.

Aira continued, “This ceremony has since evolved and adapted over the centuries and generations. Coming down from the sacred temples in the mountains into the courts of warriors and nobles, where they would enjoy a much longer service of many small but luxurious courses. Dishes that represented the current season with animal, flower and plant held in high regard.

“The natural world here is praised; mountain, river and sea. This idea is called shun and it represents a synchronization of time, place and the aesthetics of nature’s cycle. It is said that it’s even more important to enjoy the opulence of fresh seasonal ingredients with your eyes than with your mouth and taste. And so, course after course, each one deeply meaningful to the Japanese, each symbol-izing part of life that is both spiritual and respectful to the world around us. Everything means something visually. Nothing is out of chance. Each notion leads into the next with natural flow.”

He looked to the tiny sake cup, pondering its simplistic elegance.

“Where good water and humble rice meet, on the bank of the river in Izuma City there climbs a grand shrine called Saka. This is where the Japanese artisans pay homage each year to the deity of Sake. This is where sake was created and shared amongst the gods so long ago.”

I sipped.

There was nothing so sweet that ever touched my mouth, not in this way. The sensation awakened my tongue, provoking a tremble as it went. Lighting a tiny trail of fragrant fire all along its way. I exhaled out of my nose and the sensation was complete, a numbing comfort through all ports of breath.

“This is amazing, where did you get this, the big liquor store on Thurlow Street?”

Aira smiled a little smile, “No, from my good friend, Kusu-no-kami.”

“Hmmmm, cool.”

“Very cool, yes.” He watched me sip again. “You see, sake up-lifts something ordinary like rice and gives it power through metamorphosis. Drinking in sake is a ritual purification, bringing men closer to gods. We all need to give control to another once in a while, to be taken on a journey.”

“Where are we going?” I asked, half-joking, but not.

“Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know.” I said, comforted and confused in that moment.

“Sanford?” replied Aira.

“Huh?” I asked, still staring at the beautifully misshapen cup in my hand.

Sanford appeared from somewhere, several small porcelain dishes in hand. He smiled at me and I’m sure I smiled back. The dishes he had were each different and colorful, wild and living in their own right. With a grace I had not necessarily experienced while being rushed across town in a wheelbarrow, Sanford began arranging the delicate dishes like a royal servant of sorts.

“In this first Sakizuke course, we are introduced to the season in which you start your journey.” began Aira, shifting all of the dishes behind the counter, arranging things briskly. He singled out a small clay bowl, working behind the bar with polish and weightlessness. With the small ordinary-looking bowl in his left hand he ladled over a perfectly bouncy cube of tofu with the most amazing smelling broth and placed it in front of me.

“You are transported to a village, your village, in the foothills of late summer in Japan. The morning dew fresh all around, newness and life are glistening from everything. Each tree and plant, every hut and pathway are recognizable. This is home. You know the stream and the fields where you drink your fresh water and grow your crops. You know the clay with which you make your dishes and pack into your home’s walls. This is a familiar place, a safe place, a simple place where you’ve built your life.”

I looked to the bowl, stunning in its modesty. Closing my eyes, I lifted it to my face in both hands, warming my skin with its fragrant steam. The earthiness of the broth hit first as if I’d scooped my hands into the stream myself. Drinking it down, I tasted layers of life, so subtle I thought twice of what I had just experienced.

“The fundamental essence of the Japanese experience lies in dashi; this is the broth and that delightful umami flavor you are experiencing. Umami is that magical fifth taste, often mistakenly compared to salty flavors. Like salt, umami enhances flavors and uplifts the simple dish before you but works on many more molecular levels to bring a silky finish. The magic here is that there are but three components to this, or any great dashi. Spring water, dried bonito flakes, and kombu kelp.”

I looked down into the bowl.

“You see, the kombu kelp was harvested last summer, stored and aged for many months in a dark, humid cave not far from your village. The bonito, a noble fish, was caught off another beach, again dried with respect and observed daily until perfectly aged. The dorsal fillets are shaved precisely just seconds before dis-solving them into the tempered water. And the water…this is what your world revolves around. From the edge of your village there is a path leading to a natural well. A well discovered generations before you, over four-hundred feet underground and captured by stone walls teeming with Chrysanthemum, your village’s Kikunoi.”

At that moment I could no longer ignore the stone walls behind Aira, shimmering ever so slightly with trickling water, the fragrant flowers crawling throughout brightened my senses and seemed to draw out the final layer and clean the aftertaste of the dashi.

“Water, fish, seaweed.” I said with a smile looking downward with amusement. I noticed the chopsticks before me were just like the ones I had seen at Burton’s.

Shimmering as well.

“The pressed sesame tofu you see resting gently at the center of your dish is the art of your village, the lifelong strife of cultivating soybeans in your fields, and the love of transforming it into silky perfection.”

The jiggly cube danced on my chopsticks but did not break under their rigid pinch. It held strong all the way until I placed it on my tongue where it melted in surrender. I nibbled if only from habit wondering how it held until that exact moment. The rich proteins of soy with intermittent bursts of sesame seed coated my mouth, and with a last sip of dashi the essence of this village was set.

I felt at home.

“And so, one might wonder,” Aira broke through, “why does this story begin, but not continue in your peaceful village where life is bountiful, days safe and neighbors honorable?”

“Because that would be too easy,” I said.

“Yours is the hero’s journey, there is no hero without challenge, no good without evil. No day without night. No harmony without a return.”

The fresh light of sunrise in the room around us shifted once more to an eerie and warm twilight. Aira caught me looking.

“This is the balance,” he said, “this is the cycle.”

All this time his hands were working, arranging, delicately slicing and building creations behind the bar. “You have been chosen for your strength of mind and of character, a mission unknown, an evil unseen. You are to leave at first light, but first, with this next Hassun course you are filled with the magic of this place around you and charged with something to fight for.”

Then he produced something my little brain couldn’t have concocted on its own and will likely never again. On one side of an uneven grassy-green platter was a series of red-bulbed firefly traps, they trembled slightly before me and after a moment, opened up to reveal small bites of various sea-born delights. The other side of the dish held a curving mound of cracked ice planted with tiny crystal cups that held bits of simmered and cooled field vegetables. A hit of sweet rice vinegar tickled my nose while tiny candles and shaved gold leaves sprinkled around the platter completed an other-worldly scene.

“You lay in the fields of warm tall grass and it sways and dances around you with a light wind.” Arai’s arms folding back around his kimono. “As the sun falls deeper into slumber, fireflies awaken and explore the bits of space in the field around you.”

The candles flickered from behind the red bulbs, re-enacting the capture of those tiny sprites. Gold leaves shimmered and sparkled within the embankment of ice and off of the buffed jade platter. I watched in awe as each of these components activated on different planes, at different times as if completely erratic like the flight of a firefly.

“They are as curious as you are, watching themselves conduct their orchestra in the reflection of your eyes. Their playfulness reminds you of the safety of your village, the innocence of child-hood, the armor of youth.”

He invited me to explore and taste from the red flower bulbs and crystal cups, and as I did an extraordinary thing happened. I was transported in a vision, laying amongst the long grass in the back-yard of my childhood home. Staring up at the clouds staring back down to me from stupid shapes like ducks eating ducks or upside-down volcanoes. I was in my old world, tracing the sky with my finger as I often did before I found something more permanent to sketch with. Then the silence was broken beyond the screen door that led into the kitchen where my Mom and dad were arguing.

“Don’t you want more?” her voice pleaded, “don’t you want to do something with your life, don’t you want to travel the world and have nice things, and be somebody?”

My dad’s voice rarely broke above barely audible, but in this vision, he was as clear as a bell. He said calmly but with weight, “I am not your father, and you are not your mother. I want our life. I like our life.”

The grass swayed in the warm winds, the screen door vanished, the clouds disappeared, the vision ended.

I blinked and there were fireflies glimmering all around.

“And so,” Aira spoke, “the armor of youth and the spontaneity of fireflies give way to the harsh realization that the journey is one to be marched alone.” With a nod he lifted his sake cup, “So you wait for the first light of dawn to push you onward.”

We lifted our cups and sure enough the lighting dimmed to darkness as my head tilted skyward and the sake flowed down-ward. Elbows pivoted and as our cups touched down, that smooth morning glow enveloped us once more, somehow blended with our motions.

“Rising with prayer and thanks, you walk westward along the path you’ve walked so many times, cutting through the lush, thick brush. The sea unfolds before you with all of its magic. The small islands to the north and south are places you have ventured, but to the west is the open sea, and to the east are mountains unknown. Your home has never felt so warm as the sun climbs in the early morning. You stand on a bluff imagining your place on this earth and where you fit into its perfect cycle. The sea ebbs and flows with your thoughts, far below.”

I closed my eyes and heard waves rolling over coarse sand somewhere below me, as if the floorboards at my feet were elevated high above the sea. It eased my mind and gave me comfort in this strange prospect.

The ocean was always my solace. Since my youngest memories there was forever conversation with my pencils and the Pacific. I confided in her often, she was my most trusted friend, and the only thing I truly held respect for. It wasn’t because she was not spiteful - she’s broken my heart many times - but she is honest. I believe the sea has only ever taken what was given through ignorance or ego, I have witnessed no evidence to the contrary.

Aira continued as I explored the sensations and my own narrative.

“With deep regard, you make your way to where the thick sand and smooth pebbles meet the lapping water’s edge. There you start a small fire among the birch bark and pay honors to those that have come before you. For the journeys that have been laid along these pathways, some triumphant, some dark. The aroma of smoke entices the gods and they offer you a beautiful greenling for your honor and respect. From the water, fresh to your hands you feel its life and its sacrifice. You accept this gift, slicing with warrior’s accuracy a perfectly thin piece from its belly. At first cool to the touch, the meat mingles with the smoke on your hands.”

There was motion behind the bar, and I opened my eyes to see the next dish laid out in front of me as if floating ashore by itself.

“Mukozuke is a course so simplistic that the flavor is reflected from your own state of patience and acceptance.”

Before me lay a wavering azure plate, irregular and long, polished but dimpled. Two elegant pieces of sashimi swam within the dips of three miniature waves on the plate, each sliced under half an inch of thickness. They were mirror images of one another with silvery sleek skin barely visible, save a highlight on their bottom side. I plucked one up carefully and reviewed the underside where the most amazing smoked aroma, delicate but confident, struck my palate. I closed my eyes and rested the sashimi in my mouth for just a second and tried not to speed the process by chewing…but failed.

The cool, fresh meat was something like the best tuna I’ve ever tried, but more so in every way. Its slightly brittle skin compressed and invited the smoke to come out and dance with the rest of the soft fish. I tasted the sea in all of its splendour, and half-expected to find soot on my fingers from building the fire myself on some ancient shore.

“You look to the east and you know where your journey must take you, into the unfamiliar, into the dark woods and steep slopes. Your heart is refusing, as is your mind. Your feet, however, they move beneath you and carry you off through the pathways until they too disappear, and nothing is recognizable.

“You don’t understand the plants, the trees, the hills and the flowers. All becomes new, hours upon hours pass and you are weak and confused. What if you never return? What if you dis-appear into this place because you have no knowledge of the land? You’ve been so isolated in your own village with what has become easy and readily available. Here and now you don’t know the surroundings and your ignorance deprives you of simple survival. Your body feels the hunger and your mind softens, concentration and focus fade. Will you give in to the temptation of failure?”

“No.”

“Will you contest that you are out of place, that this trial is beyond your abilities? Or will you fight to understand the natural world and work with your surroundings?”

“I will fight.” I said.

Aira bowed.

“So, you lift your spirits and search your way through the brush to the next opening where you start to read the summer season’s hints,” he rustled around behind the counter as if plucking at the earth itself. “Here we forage for vegetables in this takiawase course, exploring through meadows, rich-soiled slopes and back into the thick wood.”

I looked to the small brown plate Aira placed in front of me, little bits placed around like a miniature garden with vegetables vaguely recognizable, but representative of what I know to exist.

“You dig your hands into the earth and pull up amazing imo, warabi, kamonasu, daikon, goyu, fukinoto, sansei…sweet potato, fiddlehead, round eggplant, radish, bitter melon, butterbur buds and other mountain vegetables. Each morsel bursting with nutrients, boasting the story of its land’s history. Thousands of years of seeds and bulbs flavoured by the air, water, and soil of the seasons.”

I bit into the lightly cooked and shock-chilled daikon, instantly bitter but subtle in its infiltration.

“Carrying on through the landscape, you collect more vegetables and roots, enjoying bits as you go. Nigami fills your mouth, but you welcome this bitterness, a sign of the highest resolution of a mature Japanese palate. From the earliest times, man has avoided this of the five facets of taste because bitterness and astringency are but the nobler characteristics of deadly poisons. To overcome these most basic instincts and fears is a form of braveness like no other.”

I chewed down on the bitter melon, cringing ever so slightly in wait of something that never came to fruition. These tiny, earthy vegetables shifted me to a rustic, cool place, a place that invited deeper consideration.

“You come upon a village in the highlands, there before you is a dark-skinned creature waiting…” His words trailed off and I saw her, like a treacherous miracle.

Then it clicked. Bitter…Skinny? These words, these concepts, this representation of myself and of a girl. With another taste from the plate the daikon and eggplant mingled and whirled around and I came face to face with her. Whether in my mind, or some distant place, I did not know.

I couldn’t speak, and she only watched as I watched her. What kind of dream state was this? There was some space between us, but we could only stand staring, no movement to close the gap. She wore nothing on her feet, no makeup on her face. Her hair washed by the wild sea and of course, her skin glowed like a polished violin. The slight expression she wore troubled me, almost angered but apologetic all at once. I fought to move through this reverie, and she came slightly closer before the spell was broken.

“But you must carry onward in your exploration and discovery, so this warm village and cold heart are left behind,” Aira broke through.

“I want to explore…I want to discover here and now!” I grasped at the vision, but it was gone. I needed so badly to understand who she was and what this meant.

“Truth knows not of time, nor time of truth. Your conclusion with that lust will come, it always does.”

“But time is the one great truth, isn’t it? I mean you can set your watch to it.” I smirked.

“Time is a thing of relativity for man alone; it is not real, and it is not truth. Thus, when your closure comes it will not be because of, or in duty, of time. The only truth is the sun and the moon, the uneven rotations of the cosmos, the cycles. So, you move on.”

Aira removed the plates and with it any lingering thought of Skinny.

I looked around the restaurant and could almost feel the mount-ain air hugging the walls. It felt colder now, and fatigue from fight-ing these psychological specters set in.

“Your head becomes weary from your travels, the unknown land challenges your legs and body, your mind and soul. Soon you come upon a breathtaking river so clean and flowing quickly without danger. You wish to cleanse your body, to become part of the land. And so, in the hours before dark you make your way down the riverbed to an open grassy shoreline.

“Futamono transports us to this river, where you swim free in the cool, clean waters. You can feel the sunshine come through the trees on the riverbank, penetrate the depths of the slowly moving water, and reach your skin.”

He pulled a plate toward himself which held a length of raw eel and employing some type of butchery knife I had never seen before, he chopped quickly through the tough flesh to reveal a maze of thin soft bones throughout. He ground down further and wiggled the knife in such a way there was a crunching and soft snapping like the bristles of Sanford’s heavy-duty broom sweeping the hot side-walk. His wrists worked delicately and quickly until there were two perfectly deboned chunks of skin-wrapped, translucent eel meat glistening clean on display.

“Your bones are heavy, your skull is heavy, yet in this river you float with freedom and become what you wish to be in that moment.” With chopsticks he plucked up one of the identical pieces and placed it into my cup of clear broth and placed a lid atop, passing it to me with open hands.

I lifted the lid as he spoke. “The sun slides by, reflecting it’s generous light down through the clear water.” The light passing through the broth and an eclipse of the lid slowly exposed the scene, as the eel sunk down briefly then wavered back up to the surface. Within seconds it began to curl and plump, blossoming before me like some exotic forest flower.

The bowl itself looked like a hollowed-out stone, as I lifted it to my lips it even felt smooth and porous to the touch as a riverbed might reflect. I sipped the broth and inhaled the clean floral aroma. There was an earthy finish that had me expecting to see riverbed dirt smudged on my palms afterward. I bit into the hamo and felt its release from a lifelong strife of travel and search, the flesh was subtle, the skin tight, but thin. These textures of fish in this vivid broth were just as complex and complimentary here as I imagined them to have been in nature.

“Revitalized and clean, you come out of the river.” Aira placed his own bowl down, cleaned completely. “The night comes to you as shelter and you sleep deeply under the stars with no blanket but a fresh, thin cloak of trust in your surroundings. You feel strength engulfing your soul.”

I closed my eyes to see pinholes like stars in my mind, I heard the night sky twinkling with life from the trees above and the smooth flow of the river crawling over glossy rocks and carrying the faint aroma of flower petals as it went.

Mesmerizing.

My grip on confusion and fear was loosening, I could feel it. There was a sense of giving in, of acceptance and the sideways tip-toe toward faith. These are feelings so foreign to me that I suddenly became quite aware of the vulnerability. Yet, I dared not move in my place, feeling as if I was in some dream state that would harm me if disturbed.

“Your mind wanders in this new place.”

“Yes.” I opened my eyes.

“But not out of fear.”

“No.”

“The unknown creates a space of fear, but by definition dissi-pates once approached.”

“What am I approaching?”

“Acceptance, perhaps. Maybe awareness? Truth?”

I scoffed by accident, Aira deadpanned.

“My apologies,” I said, but he continued with no response.

“By the flow of the riverside, the dawn of the sun brings you to your senses once more and your journey beckons, as does the appeal for strength.”

His hands were working again, swift and silent, out of sight. He watched me the entire time as if his fingers had vision of their own at task.

The bowl in front of me was replaced with a perfectly modest bamboo leaf, atop which lay two simple, small fish on their sides. Beautiful, peaceful. Pine nuts and goji berries were sprinkled spar-ingly at the bottom of the plate, metaphoric of the next generat-ion of roe, perhaps.

“Here on the riverbank we are now fishing, and the catch is frequent for this Yakimono course. We grill these sweet small ayu, caught fresh from the river and roasted over a smoldering fire of hot charcoals dug into the ground. Chunks of crunchy salt harvested by full moonlight and crushed by sea-worn rocks, is sprinkled atop lightly to respect the catch.”

He lifted the tiny fish with chopstick mastery and bit through, tail and all, spinning it around in preparation of the next bite. I followed suit, but almost dropped the thing with clumsy fingers. Recovering, I placed the head to my teeth and bit through to center, shrinking in anticipation of some foreign disaster.

What occurred next landed somewhere near euphoric. A short lifetime passing before me as I could actually feel what the ayu had experienced beneath the surface of rushing waters; under the lustful eyes of bird and villager alike, the journey to spawn, the first and last flap of gill. It was a dutiful life, systematically instinctual, and ultimately a common passage. To be uplifted and celebrated with such simple cook, seasoning, presentation, this was a fitting legacy. I tapped my tongue against the roof of my mouth hoping for one last taste of vision, opening my eyes to connect with a smile from Aira.

But he was gone. The room around me was darkness and I spun to find nothing at all. Falling off the stool, I hit the frozen ground of some menacing place. Curling up, I hid myself from what I could not see, fearing the worst of some attack from blind spots all around.

There was nothing there, I could sense it. Nothing, deep, for forever. Silent fear collapsed my chest and I fell further with some evil gravity. Life as I had experienced it, my reality, was devoid of any meaningfulness. It was the judgement I knew would come one day. The pure anxiety I had felt for decades, that force which drove me to the phone booths of my city was exponential in its grip in this moment. I felt shame, guilt, paralysis, failure. I felt my mother, I felt death. I tasted bitter self-loathing. My soul’s final collapse.

Some sort of umami filled my mouth, blood perhaps from biting my tongue? No, this warmed and tingled with some satisfaction. The darkness turned to some glowing place as I worked my tongue around my mouth. A coating of some fatty deliciousness stuck to my teeth and I began to chew for more. Opening my eyes, I was on the stool at Aira’s counter.

“Wow.” I could only say. “What…”

Looking down, the plate was cleaned, the two small fish, their ‘roe’…nothing was left.

Aira lifted an eyebrow and continued, “Warmed from the fire, with increased strength and a taste for sustenance, you walk to the edge of the hills and the forest beyond.”

On cue, not that time mattered apparently, Sanford flowed through, removing plates and setting more down. In this next course, sweet and sour vapours of acidic vinegar tickled the nose and had me salivating instantly. Sprinkled playfully around a plate like the forest floor were tiny white and green asparagus heads and flawless little blue flowers.

“With this Su-zakana course you now see the trees and the soft, sweet bedding beneath the trees. You feel some form of welcome and safety having been through the trials of the unknown. Your own people, much like those of the near villages, are masters of pickling. Here you find the youth of such process.”

I snapped into an asparagus and sucked up the gentle flower petals, coated only slightly by the young brine. It was as he spoke - safe, hopeful. The darkness from moments ago was given to sooth-ing optimism in that crisp, sweet, buttery nip.

“But as with any village, there is no assured security, and you move along from this new realm, back to your home for fear of losing this hope, this anki. Swearing now to protect what you have experienced and bring it back to your known world, you run. And certainly, creatures and spirits of this place give chase, long arms all around reaching for you and the fresh seeds you’ve sowed in your soul.”

My heart began to pound, and I felt the need to devour the last two sugary tart bites. There was some eagerness, some discomfort chasing through the room. Like people snickering from dark spaces. This feeling I knew well.

“You run, you never rest, and after hours, perhaps days without sleep, you escape this dreamstate, this strange place, and finally come back to the sea. A sea you know and love. The sea that pro-vides bounty through the seasons.”

I pinched my eyebrows together as I do to block what needs blocking and clear what needs clearing. When I opened them again, I found an elaborate clay pot steaming below my face, reaching up around me like a familiar sea breeze.

“This Shiizakana signals your arrival to the sea, a safe haven to refill what you have lost on your journey, to allow you to crawl the final steps on your long road home.”

The stone bowl sat precariously over an urn of sorts burning low and powerful like some undersea volcanic artifact. In the bowl were chunks of rich seafood. White fish, crab, prawns, octopus. Deep red salmon and rich pink tuna flashed to whiteish flake as I sorted through. Feeling my cheeks warming around a goofy smile I experienced each bite, sip and slurp as instant medicine, fast comfort in a place I recognized. To the last pool of clairvoyant liquid shimmer-ing with fats from the fish, I couldn’t help myself.

Slipping into memories of my youth, I saw my mother, my home, my room and my drawings. The seafood and broth warmed my belly, and everything was in its right place once again, until his voice cut through.

“You’ve made it so far, in this strange and wonderful journey, and yet here you stand at the threshold of your village. A gate of spirits, the torii, to pass through out of respect, into the trees you know well, the stream and the onsen – a multi-levelled setting of naturally heated mineral pools. You stop at the hot springs to rest your mind and body and grasp at some peace to give thanks for your safety in the natural world.”

Many plates were then laid out, different colours, shapes, sizes. Some rugged and unfinished, others finely tuned and elaborately pigmented.

“Gohan, Ko no mono, Tome-wan. These next three courses involve the senses intimately,” he motioned, “Your resurrection as a new man, fed by your fresh experiences and the nature around you. The old and the new entwined deep within.”

I peered at the small offerings, each painstaking in their plating. Sitting delicately atop perfectly thin wisps of nori was a single baby squid, splayed out as if in chase, a subtle fold of rice with ink seeping ever slowly throughout. A clear dashi broth with cumulous miso clouds building up from the depths beneath. A rainbow of pickled baby vegetables. The fragrances collided, flickering up and around my face.

I ate bite after bite from each plate. The thick umami followed by citric-sweet saffron, chased further by salty-fat, and over again. Aira spoke slowly now, watching me carefully.

“At this point in your journey you feel some relief in your learnings, but it is here that you must be most aware. You are not alone. You have not triumphed. There is a curse upon you, some-body and some thing has committed itself to you indefinitely. To use you as a vessel for further evils. This is your kikkyo.”

The tunnel vision that had engulfed me was gone in an instant. The restaurant around me became alive and present once more. I was no longer ensconced in Aira’s magical kaiseki. The plates were gone. The taste that lingered through each wonderful course, bridging from one mystical place to the next, gone.

The cold stare of Aira, the looming presence of Sanford re-mained.

“Here with kaiseki, one might enjoy the finality of the experience, the end of the journey. The final offering…Mizumono, subtle sweetness specific to the heart of your village. This would signify a successful passage through the unknown, and a return with a transformational elixir of the soul.”

Sanford stood tall, revealing a precarious peach perched on a wooden shelf, large and pale, practically pulsing with juice, or so it appeared from where I sat.

“And so, Sebastian, here you are.”

A passenger up to this point, and truly unsure as to how long it may have been since arriving via wheelbarrow, I was now the focus.

“I,” blanked. Trying again, I mustered, “I thank you so much for your hospitality, this was an immense experience. I don’t know what to say.”

Aira watched me and bowed slightly in time. Something told me he was disappointed in my answer.

“Aira,” I tried again, “you are very impressive, and I hope to know you for a very, very long time.”

To this, he again bowed deeply, slowly.

“Thank you for what you’ve done for Sanford…what you are doing for me.” I paused, “I’ll be honest, I don’t know what that is just yet, and I know it’s not like you to be forthright. Please be patient. I will learn.”

He bowed deeper yet, staying low for a moment, exposing Japanese characters on the back of his robe, in that moment they didn’t appear foreign as they did before, albeit upside down.

He rose and with eyes closed, recited, “You are pure of soul, fractured of character, broken as man can be.”

Perhaps it was not rehearsed. Perhaps I had offended him.

“You have been alone a long time,” he continued, and I nodded, noticing in that moment that my ear was completely cleared of pain, “You are no longer. This is good, very good. And this is bad, very bad.”

Sanford and the peach departed through some silky curtain.

“Can you summon all that you despise about mankind, all that you despise about yourself? Can you harness all of that and consider everything else around you at the very same time?”

“I don’t know,” I fumbled, trying to buy seconds with my words.

“Time is something that only man knows. And it is time that will be his undoing.”

I sat in stupidity for seconds, maybe a minute, I don’t know.

Aira was gone when I lifted my head. In his place was the peach, fileted amongst cherry blossom water, together they were almost completely clear on the plate like raw scallop shavings.

In time, I ate.

Part VI: The Day before an Eighty-year Old Woman Farted on Me

Talkin’, Squealin’, Lyin’

A s I zombie-walked my way through Aira’s sushi temple, the twinkle and cricket of late twilight was all around me. With my stomach twitching and my soul content, I crept through the jungle paradise - the strange haven. Some strength from somewhere lifted my legs and tingled my mind as I went.

The heavy front door drew open slowly, silently, and the earliest morning air flooded in. Fading starlight poured into my eyes and my ears perked up with some new sensitivity. There was a moment of confusion that shook through my body and released from the tips of my fingers until there was nothing left but clarity.

Whatever had happened in that temple of tastes had brought some enlightenment, and certainly some fear. Whoever Aira was had become unsettling and safe all at once.

The trance was snapped as an ill-inflated tire mushed into the curb at my toes like a chunky paraplegic with poor equipment. Inertia causing ripples through the heavy metal of a filthy white-skinned delivery van.

“Seb, get in!” yelled Malcolm, reaching overtop of Abbotsford who was sitting tall in the driver’s seat. I peeked wearily inside the van to see Cam and Burton in the back bench taking turns sucking from some mammoth water pipe.

Yes, this looks like a good idea.

My legs propelled me onwards, Aira’s words stained in my mind, time will be man’s undoing.

The van squealed from the curb into the night and we lurched east at a nonchalant speed that felt much faster with flabby shocks and the five dudes pushing down the vehicle’s weight. Smoke billowed into the back where I could see nothing but a pile of tools in place of where the usual load of plants and flowers lay in wait of unloading.

“So, here’s the thing, we need to get those banners up in the right spots around the city.”

“Guys, they’re probably already up, Bowry was putting them up overnight,” I said.

“Exactly,” huffed Cam with a billow of smoke, “we need to mix them up like when the droids rebelled at the manufacturing plant on Geonosis.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Geonosis, the planet where battle droids and the Death Star were built.” He turned to me and cocked his eyebrow to let me know it was secret time. “There’s a little-known incident where some droids mixed up the assembly line and confused the whole operation.”

I looked at Cam with some eyes that said, ‘make more sense’, and also, ‘shut the fuck up’.

“Where have you been?” Malcolm shouted from the front. “You left us with Solomon’s carcass and ran off into the night…that was six hours ago, bud.”

Truth came to mind. Maybe telling them about the murdery little girl, a kaiseki journey, phone booths. My mother. Problem is, aside from Elle the only one who got close to the centre of me was Burton and he was currently poking the roof of the van with a gangly finger and gluey eyes.

“I ran into some trouble on my way home,” I said. “Listen, we need to get back to my building and check out Solomon’s apartment. There’s something going on here that I don’t think we fully have a grip on.”

I looked to Abbotsford, who was quite white for a black guy in that moment. He looked the colour of the type of man who had just dumped a dead body.

“Agreed little buddy, this is pretty hairy - take a pull off of this,” Burton shoved the smoking apparatus my way.

“Not now, Burton.”

“Great song, I’m cranking it,” Malcolm shouted as the radio whipped up some tinny Michael Jackson riff.

“Not now, Malcolm,” I threw a balled-up gardening glove at the back of his head, “Dammit guys, this is a fucked-up situation, let’s focus!”

“Easy now, wise-soldier,” hushed Burton, “We’ve got maybe an hour before dawn, and we believe Bowry is employing your artwork for devious business.”

“He’s right Seb,” said Cam, “she drugged you to create those designs, and now they’re placed around the city in specific areas. Maybe they’re in an order or pattern or something. A code…some kind of code.”

“Like Old Blue Eyes says best, the tramp has that wicked witchcraft.” Burton added.

I thought for a minute and couldn’t come up with anything better.

“Okay, but we have to get to Solomon’s before they do. Abbotsford?”

The driver turned a slightly paler shade and took to the gas with a heavier foot.

“Don’t stop ‘til you get enough,” sang Cam, bouncing off the back doors as we sped off toward the bridges.

Within a few turns I was starting to feel that increasingly recognizable sensation I had gotten from that bastard plant.

“Shit!” I yelled, “Abbotsford, is this van clean? Is that damned plant in here somewhere?”

“No way, hose’er down every other night, you’re good. Except—” he shot me a dirty look, “there is likely a little bit of blood from that goddamn human you people killed and dumped in here!”

“It’s all good, we’re on the light side. Here take this,” Cam tried handing the apparatus up front to the driver.

“Dammit, I will shove that thing up your ass, Cam.” I said, pulling it back.

Abbotsford was screaming in his head now, bobbing back and forth, having been stuck with this lot.

Meaning…truth…Yes, these things are familiar. It was happening again; I could feel the devil plant surging through my body as we approached the Burrard Bridge.

“There,” I pointed at the first light pole at the north side of the bridge. “We need to switch that one, I know it, I can feel it.”

The van’s hazards came on, bouncing off the four o’clock streets, and we all did a few sketchy look-arounds to make sure we were totally stealth – which we were not, whatsoever.

“There’s a ladder up on the roof, let’s MacGyver the shit out of this pole,” said Abbotsford, taking his shirt off for some reason. Colour had returned to his face, and he seemed to have a chip on his shoulder now.

Watching Abbotsford, Malcolm quickly disrobed as well, not to be outdone.

Cam turned up the Michael Jackson so we could hear it vault off the empty bridge outside.

Burton crumbled emerald bits from a worn satchel into his bowl.

The ladder went up without incident and just barely reached within arm’s length of the banner’s top fastening. Abbotsford handed me a rope and looked skyward.

“What’s this?” I must’ve looked scared.

“That’s for you to tie-off, sailor. Poles be cylindrical, and this ladder be a slippery motherfucker. You need to tie that shit together,” he nodded with authority.

“Good call, Abbotsford,” Malcolm agreed from the shadows.

“One of my girls’ a trigonometrist,” Abbotsford grinned widely.

“But there’s no triangles here, man, what are you talking about,” I shook some blood into my ankles.

“If you tie the damn ladder to that damn pole there will be,” he drew three sides from the pole down along the road and back up the ladder, “isosceles, bruh.”

“Isosceles!” shouted Malcolm.

Burton watched north along the bridge back to the city while Cam lit the water pipe for him with a vaguely familiar-looking lighter.

“Jesus - I’m going up.”

I looped the rope over my shoulder and stepped one foot at a time with my eyes on the banner, avoiding the horizon of English Bay opening up as I climbed. Sure enough, the top rung of the ladder slipped back and forth with each movement; the higher I went, I could hear my spine popping tiny little bursts of fluid. I stopped and pulled the rope from my shoulder and looped it around my body, then the pole itself. Like some half-assed lumberjack, I worked up more steadily until I had the banner in my reach. A quick clove hitch around the pole, a bowline on the ladder, some whistling from below, and I was secure for the task.

There was an identical banner on either side of the pole - the shipbuilding design - each banner was simply held in place by a sewn flap of fabric at the top and bottom which was slid over small horizontal rods attached to the pole. Had there been any wind whatsoever, this would not be a successful endeavour as any extra fabric would have been pulled tight and restricted movement. But like a surgeon, I worked through the motions quickly, detaching the first, rolling it up and missile-launching it down to Malcolm. Then the second followed suit.

My mind was a hissing mess at this point, the plant had grabbed a hold of me and wasn’t about to let go. The upside was that I felt no pain in my ear from the earlier bludgeoning. No pain, no discomfort, just the need to complete this work. Something drove me on as it did in my mind through that kaiseki voyage.

I unfastened the line from the ladder and pole and found myself hopping down the rungs alongside the beat of Michael Jackson’s abrupt grunts and nasally runs.

“Seb, you were like a spider monkey up there,” Cam’s eyes were wide, his mannerisms drastically slow with the drugs.

“You killed a guy today, that’s crazy,” I said bluntly.

“Ya,” he looked around like a sneaky sloth, “I don’t really think it was all that bad, you know? Only ‘cuz he was a nasty little shit though, right?”

“I respect your honesty. I wouldn’t feel too bad either…that’s a little scary for some reason. But why? Aren’t we all savages when it comes down to it? Eat or be eaten?”

“Trick or be tricked,” Cam nodded and pointed down the bridge to the rows of banners.”

“Exactly, let’s hustle,” I kicked up the ladder and the extension slid down in one quick, greased motion. The boys ran around like a Chinese fire drill, securing the ladder, tools and any additional smoking apparatus’ as they went.

MJ went on to his next hit through the misshapen door speakers.

“Wait, what station is this?” I shot out of the back bench up to the front, looking at the early nineties’ cassette deck and radio.

“That’s your tape, Seb, you left it on the boat. Or Adina maybe.” Malcolm patted my shoulder. “Great mix for sexy time.”

Holy shit, the tape that Skinny gave me.

The tingles continued, and that feeling that had become familiar was sliding up and down my innards once again.

The van crept along slowly, my head out the window staring up to the sky like a maniacal dog in heat. “I don’t get it, these all feel good, they’re in the right place.”

“How do you know,” asked Malcolm.

“I just…do. There’s something in my body that just knows. It’s like when you know the girl you’re about to do terrible things with has some form of terrifying bacteria masking her nethers, but you go ahead with the business regardless.” I said.

“Ya, that’s the sixth sense, it’s a gift,” he agreed.

“Wouldn’t it be more of a gift to use that power to avoid those type bitches?” Abbotsford scoffed behind the wheel.

“No, I mean it’s a gift to her…it’s those type of girls who need love the most. They need the confidence to keep going on this sexual journey we call life. Don’t give up just because there’s a hiccup or two,” Malcolm said.

“What type of sexual infection would you consider a hiccup? Is that some new thing that you kids have created?” Burton asked, “Does one’s vagina actually hiccup nowadays? Granted I’ve been out of the game since the Winona Ryder years, but those were innovative times as well. Hiccups, though…wow.”

“It’s a metaphorical hiccup, like a bump in the road,” said Malcolm.

“Oh, bumps I know about, bumps are familiar. Wynona had a seriously treacherous back alley. One night at a party in the hills I had the head lamp on –”

“Burton, shhhhh. Just one second,” I cut him off, “I just need to focus for a second.”

The banners passed by slowly overhead as Abbotsford crept to the crest of the bridge. Nothing was jumping out at me for change, like the first one had at the bridge’s north side.

The north side - the entrance to the city’s core.

“Oh shit,” I grasped at the corner of the epiphany and tried to pull it in closer. “Ah-okay. Okay. It’s the bridges. It’s north, south, east, and west. These are directions!”

“Not following,” Malcolm scratched at his bare chest.

“Four banner designs placed in the major throughways of the city. These are directions in the major neighborhoods of the city. Think about it, we’ve got Burrard Bridge which separates Kitsilano from the west end. Granville bridge is the thoroughfare from the airport straight downtown to the city centre – the shopping, business and entertainment district. The Cambie Bridge separates Mount Pleasant and Olympic Village from the arenas and Yaletown. And – what’s the fourth, there’s a fourth section where the banners went up, think!”

“Well, I seen them up on the Georgia Viaduct, that’s kind of a bridge, right?” said Abbotsford.

“Yes! From Main Street, through the East side into Gastown, yes!” I was yelling at this point. “Don’t you see, four designs, four directions, four areas of the city –”

“Hate to be the killjoy,” interrupted Cam.

“Ha, ya you are a killer, aren’t you, that’s funny,” Malcolm laughed alone and trailed off, “That’s not really a joke-type of thing, is it?”

Cam continued, “Well, it’s just that there’s way more than four neighborhoods you’re talking about there, so that doesn’t really fit the formula. Whatever formula that is that you’re working on.”

“Sebby, what exactly would be located in these four areas?” Burton rubbed his face in his hands. “Let’s just say you had been drugged, and in that transcendent haze of design and randomized banner placement, you’ve unwittingly helped Bowry herd some people to some end? Further, who are the people that are being herded?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know…but this is a parade of sorts, right? She could be moving crowds like lemmings off a fucking cliff, right? I do know that we have to move the entry points of each side of these bridges, and the set in the eastside as well. We need to at least disrupt whatever this is.”

The spasms firing up and down my spine by this time were almost euphoric, and I couldn’t help but think I was grinning like a madman by this point. I twitched to shake it off and saw all eyes back on me.

“What?”

“You okay, bruh?” Abbotsford squinted in the rear-view.

“Better than you at the moment. You’re having a hard time letting your ex-girlfriend go, aren’t you? Have been for about four years now, so you’re taking it out on several impressionable ‘ponies’. Pretending to be this city player out in the farmlands. Pretending to be blacker than black, when you’re actually just a farm boy looking for an honest girl.”

“Oh shit!” Malcolm held his hand up to Abbotsford in awkward high-five position, unanswered.

“Sorry, I don’t know why I said that. Don’t know why I know that,” I said, twitching again, “Sorry, just drive.”

“Sure thing.” Abbotsford didn’t take his eyes off me and I watched back as they moistened up just slightly. Regardless, the van picked up speed toward the south side of the bridge where the giant carved Welcome to Kitsilano sign came into view.

“Hey man,” Burton leaned into me from the middle seat, “You going to be okay? This is getting pretty heavy on you, isn’t it?”

I looked into Burton’s piercing eyes, he was stoned out of his gourd, yet somehow more present than anybody else. As I looked into his eyes, I felt the same way I did when I spoke with Aira.

“You’re all over this, aren’t you? You know exactly what’s happening, don’t you?” I whispered.

Burton winked at me, straightening his skinny tie, and tucking his wiry hair back behind his left ear. “I know exactly what this is, but I’ll never know what it will be. That’s your job, brother. I’m just along for the ride.”

Whatever Burton was saying had to be the perfect truth, I felt it in my spine, all the way up into, and between, my eyes.

“Yeah, I get that feeling,” I said.

All the Bruce’s

W

e came to a stop at the final set of banners facing south; but something was different. On the west side of the bridge closest to English Bay, where we had stopped, the artwork for fishery were posted, but looking across the lanes to the east side, the designs didn’t line up as they did consistently over the rest of the bridge. Those banners on the east-facing False Creek side, the Granville and Cambie street bridges in the distance, were the shipbuilding ones.

“That doesn’t add up,” Cam followed my eye line.

“I don’t get it,” I scratched my head looking at the two identical banners stripped and lying in the back of the van, then back up at the mismatched ones hanging above. “These are supposed to be gates, right? Gates to a destination, right, left…”

“Hang on, boss, they ain’t directions unless you going one way only,” said Abbotsford.

“What do you mean?” Malcolm shivered when a slight breeze came up over the bridge.

“I drive all day man, there ain’t no left and right. It’s all north, south, east, west…so you have a point of reference no matter where you coming from. Even a farm boy like me knows that,” he directed at me.

“Right,” I nodded, “Of course. This is for whoever is navigating to find whatever they’re looking for despite what direction they’re coming from. That means, the banners we just changed don’t matter, it’s the mismatched ones we need to change?”

“Or does it mean that the ones you just pulled down were in the right place?” said Malcolm.

“I’ll tell you what I told Bruce before he won; you need to listen to yourself, man,” Burton said, leaning up against the van like a sage, a very high sage. “If you were meant to take down those matching banners back there, then you’ll likely need to use them again at some point, you picking up what I’m laying out?”

“Bruce who?”

“Lee, Jenner, Springsteen, Willis, does it matter? All the Bruce’s, motherfucker.”

“Okay, this does feel right, so let’s think about it,” I said, pacing the empty bridge towards the Kitsilano sign. “What do we have here, which way can you go if you’re heading south off the bridge?”

“Well, there’s nothing straight ahead until you hit West Fourth Avenue and all the ski shops. But you’ve got the shitty, shitty, terrible Molson brewery there on the left,” Malcolm pointed, and we all instinctively sniffed the roasting hops that fill the air on this side of the bridge all the way through to the early morning.

“And, the yoga empire on the right, to the west,” I said, memories of Skinny’s glistening thighs, and my mind erasing itself to the repetitious chants of a tattooed manatee.

“This is too perfect, what more of a dastardly hideaway for evil doings could you have? That brewery represents everything wrong with this city,” Malcolm puffed out his chest in bartender defiance.

“What? Why, man?” Abbotsford squinted in the steam-stack’s direction.

“Are you kidding me?” Malcolm stood up, “Molson Canadian is the Fosters, the Corona of Canada. Nobody drinks that bullshit, it does not represent us, it is not part of our heritage. It’s a slap in the face of every decent brewmaster, every hard-working man, woman and child who just wants a delicious microbrew after twelve hours of toil but can’t find one because the government-controlled scam system of liquor stores is filled to brim with crates of that dusty, old, watered down swill. It is an abhorrence to the standards of a craft as old as time. The diet coke, the cancer, the raping of culture and quality of our lifetime.”

“Calm down, jeezus, you white people and your beer. Just grab a Colt forty-five and shut the fuck up,” scoffed Abbotsford.

“Oh, well, malt liquor is fine,” said Malcolm.

“Why? Why is malt liquor fine?” I threw my hands up.

“Because black guys drink it,” said Malcolm.

I looked at Abbotsford who just shook his head and retrieved the rope from the back of the van.

“Put your shirts on, for god’s sake.” I said to Malcolm and Abbotsford, grabbing the rope. I headed across the street towards the east side banners, Cam trucked over the ladder behind me, and we went to work once more.

“So, this means that the sailing design you’re putting up means east?” Cam shouted from below.

“That’s gotta be it,” I said, sure of the motions, as my spine tingled throughout. Somehow, someway, this sensation had become welcome, like an affirmation. I tossed down the fishery ones and worked to put up the shipbuilding ones we had taken from the north side of the bridge on either side of the lamp post.

I took a minute and smiled at my handy work. They actually looked good beneath the amber lights, these banners. I had designed for that, using colours and printer settings that reacted in daylight and streetlight alike. A trick I learned while dabbling with the printers back when I had all of the signage made for Verdigris.

The ladder came down and went back up on the west side of the street. The exchange was made once more so both were matching fishery banners.

“Well then, so we’ve cracked the code on one of the directions, let’s get over to Granville and bust this thing wide open,” I clapped my hands like some knuckle-headed coach.

Cruising the city in a work van in the wee hours, one can’t help but notice likeminded scoundrels embarking on their own sinister enterprises. Graffitied moving vans with shadowy drivers. Stumbling automata crooks with faded backpacks. The odd cop car chasing meth-heads through the night in the hunt for stolen bikes and lifted smartphones. We shuffled east to the Granville bridge and slowed as the first set of banners came forward.

“Well, they’re matching, how do we know if they’re right or wrong? These bridges have two sides, dammit!” Malcolm slammed his fist on the dashboard of the van, shaking a small cactus attached to what may once have been a bobbly hula girl statuette.

“Hey, man, take it easy on Quanda, come on,” Abbotsford held his arm out to prevent further strikes.

“Quanda?” Malcolm sneered.

“His ex,” I added. Not sure how I would know that, I thought, as I met his eye in the rear-view mirror again.

“She’s beautiful,” Burton smiled at the cactus.

“Keep going, Abbotsford, let’s take a look at the other side of the bridge,” I waved him on.

Granville bridge is much longer and higher than the older, classier Burrard bridge to the west. This was the major vein into and out of the city, for those who were coming into the city for the first time at night would see Granville street unfold as they came down the crest of the bridge, like a much smaller, much dirtier Vegas strip.

“There, look, those two are not matching,” Cam pointed at both the west and east side lamp poles.

“What do you feel, Seb?” Burton leaned over to me.

I looked back through the tinted back windows as the other side of the bridge disappeared, then forward again.

“Well, I mean, logically, there is much more shit over on this side, isn’t there?” I pointed towards the entertainment district’s ever-flashing lights. “More places to hide, to meet, to connive, drive the lemmings or whatever.”

“What do you feel, Seb?” Burton asked again, the turquoise in his shirt buttons mirroring bits in his eyes.

“I don’t know, I don’t feel shit. I mean, there’s something itchy, annoying, unsettled that says we need to switch up those to make them match,” I said pointed forward, “but it’s not the same… certainty, you know?”

“Well what two banners do we have now?” asked Abbotsford, “Maybe one of them matches one of these ones up there, there’s gotta be a puzzle-fit somehow.”

“What the fuck is a puzzle-fit,” laughed Malcolm.

“Like when you suddenly find a middle piece and you know exactly where it goes in, that one missing bastard that just appears when you least expect it.”

“You do puzzles, bro?” Malcolm looked eerily at Abbotsford.

“You don’t?”

Malcolm shifted in his seat like he had worms. “Ya, of course, I mean ya. Absolutely.”

“Malcolm, relax, be your own man. And put your goddamn shirt on.” I said.

I reached behind the backbench and unrolled the first banner, then the other design. There was sailing and marine life.

“Okay, pull up, let’s see if either of these match,” I said.

Sure enough, both came into view and we could see the sailing banner on the east side of the bridge. We parked, out came the ladder, the rope, and I crossed the street. I went up, the banners came down, new ones went up, and I went down.

And now both sides showed marine life.

It felt right, like sake and salmon, like a warm phone booth.

“Well now,” I said as we all stood arms crossed or holding hips, looking north up Granville Street, The Commodore, Orpheum, and other Broadway-like marquees blinking back at us, “this has to mean north, there’s no other way.”

“Ain’t nothing to the right, nothing to the left, just condos, must be north for sure,” agreed Abbotsford.

Cam put his hand up.

“Yes, Cam, go for it,” I nodded.

“How do we know it’s not just some random condo, some random building?”

“We don’t, Cam, but we know whatever Bowry - and whoever else she’s brainwashed alongside her shithead granddaughter – are up to, it’s going to go big. This is a hail Mary, the last dance, her swan song. I just know she’s looking to do some really nefarious and profile shit.”

“But how do you know?” Cam protested.

“Get in the van,” I twitched, watching the flashing lights of an ambulance coming from the other side of the bridge. “Let’s get out of here.”

Some Really Nefarious and Profile Shit

T  he van hurdled east again, through Yaletown’s reaching blue and green glass condo buildings. Burton leaned over and grabbed my thigh, spilling just enough bong water on my knee to bum me out.

“Listen man,” he said, “what were you doing all night at Aira’s place?”

“The sushi joint?” I tried to be nonchalant, but he knew. I knew he knew. “Burton, you gotta understand that there’s some wicked- ness going on here that’s completely beyond our understanding. Well, my understanding anyways.”

“So, what did you learn? Did you get some good fish? Oh, and did you get another one of those lighters, they never run out of juice!”

“Lighter…what are you talking about?”

“How else are we going to smoke this bowl?” he said.

“I got it,” Cam slid across the seat with a spark and a smile.

“Wait a minute,” I thought in slow-motion, as had become the trend of late. My mind jello-wrestled itself around a concept, which grew into a hypothesis, then on into words. “The little girl… Aira… Skinny…”

All of them were messing with me, giving me things, taking things from me. Were they blessing these items or cursing them?

“Huh?” he said as Cam lit up the complex tubing system and enveloped the two of them once more in a friendly cloud.

“Where are those chopsticks he gave you?” I waved off the smoke closing in on me.

“They’re at the record shop, why?”

“You know why, they hold some kind of power, don’t they?”

“Power, what? This isn’t the eighties man, you can’t just inflict your magical whim on material things,” he scoffed.

“As much as I want to ask you what you’re talking about, I’m more concerned with those chopsticks. We’ve gotta swing by the record shop after Solomon’s place. Cam, give me that lighter please.”

The van rumbled on and I tried to focus, flipping the lighter around in my sweaty palm, trying to block out the giggle-and-chatter from Cam and Burton and the increasing frequency of Shamone’s coming from the cassette deck.

The tape!

“Holy shit, turn this up,” I cut off Burton’s monologue targeting the corporate powers of the early nineteen-eighties.

Malcolm struggled with a lopsided dial and we were all treated to the second verse of MJ’s Bad, which is anything but, of course. Yet, with the advent of Skinny’s own traitorous manifesto, the song took on new properties.

I was transported to The Tapa Bar and the first time I met her. The sheen of her arms, the natural beauty of her whole physical situation was just rammed further into my mind with each beat of the song.

I was creating my very own spite music video.

She moved around the dance floor and the walls disappeared. It was just her and darkness everywhere except the pulsing lights rolling up and down, leaving a magical, glowing silhouette that danced for me alone.

Finding our way back to the furthest aisles of Verdigris where we lost ourselves in the lushness, I could smell her skin. As fragrant as the blooming creatures around us, she exuded hits of moisture and bursts of perfume from her body, coaxing me deeper.

Fading to black, onwards to the yoga studio we went, all other slabs of human pork disintegrated, and it was just her alone, bending and twisting with every inch of her sleek body showing itself and spinning poems of openness, energy. Perhaps reaching away from sadness, toward freedom.

Bitter, she whispered, as Jackson’s voice slowed way down to some sort of hyper-creepy, transfixing experience so delayed you might see the individual flaps of a hummingbird’s wings in the distance. Sweat dripped from her upper lip, her ponytail hanging over her brow as she faced downward. Bitter, do exactly what you have to do, but know why you’re doing it.

What does that mean, I thought, watching her move in the darkness, slowly flipping her right leg up, then her left, ending up in a full headstand on her elbows. Her body was straight, outstretched from neck to toes, completely still as if floating.

Know why you’re doing it, she whispered again.

Hold on, are you talking to me? I thought, like I might somehow create a dialogue with this vision in my own mind.

Then her head turned toward me as if I was the camera, or a person, or me. She turned to me like I was there with her…in my own mind.

Yes, she said with her eyes open, trickles of sweat went airborne from the tip of her nose and took seconds to fall inches to her mat, spraying on impact and evaporating into heat lines back up to her face.

What do I do, why is this happening to me? Why are you doing this to me? I thought calmly. There was no anger, and no room for anger in this place. I could fit nothing more into the space other than acceptance. Like a sponge, only taking, unable to give or offer any- thing more than the ability to absorb.

She breathed in deeply through her nose, and I could hear the exaggerated beats of her heart like a massive Asian drum echoing from afar. She wavered just slightly, one leg folding at the knee for balance before rising up again. Her fingers readjusted under her head and I could hear the skin between her knuckles sliding back into place against one another.

Your truth is the guide, the destruction and the savior, she whispered.

My thoughts moved into the space further until I could smell the sweat on her eyelashes, see the flecks upside down in her eyes. I breathed her warm breath.

Why are you doing this to me? I thought again.

The voice is your blood, she said, her lips moved slower yet and her eyes smiled with complete tranquility. My thoughts brought me closer, closer even than two faces touching, and I could taste her mouth. My top lip pressed into the pillow of her bottom lip, and her top lip curved open, breathing in the cooler air that I brought into this place.

The drums beat louder, and the hummingbird cadence sped up, doubled upon itself, and again. I saw fear and words of goodbye in the upside-down flecks of her eyes. There was a last gasp for memory, then with a drastic crash it all fell away. The heat, the sweat, the darkness of my thoughts all broke, and the space was sucked away from me until familiar smoke and lights and bodies of the inside of the van came back.

It all came back, but it was different. I was on top of the wheel well in the back of the van, clinging to the stripped metal wall as we squealed around a corner. My hands were tied behind my back with the same rope I had used to secure myself to the lamp poles on the bridges.

The van took another turn, firing me off to the other side with a thud.

“Abbotsford, take it easy! Our guy is rolling around back here like a sack of potatoes!” Burton yelled from the backbench.

“Burton,” I shouted, trying to get to my knees. “Burton!”

“Seb-man, good to have you back with us,” Burton turned to look at me over the back seat. “Listen man, we’ve got a situation up here that we’re trying to deal with, hang tight.”

“Burton! Why am I hogtied back here, what the fuck is going on?”

“Yeah, you had a bit of a meltdown, real Rockstar-like. Rabies meets epileptic rage. Had to tie you up so you’d stop thrashing around while we embark on this chase scene.”

“Can you please untie me, I’m getting the shit kicked out of me back here.”

Malcolm flew over the seat and landed with his face inches from mine.

“You gonna try to bite me again?” he said with an eyebrow cocked.

“Right now, or in our lifetime?” I said.

“Ah, he’s back, boys,” he yelled and poked at me with plant sheers.

“No, no, dipshit, we need the rope.”

“Right,” he worked at the rat’s nest holding me tight as I hurled more questions at Burton.

“Chasing or being chased?”

“Both,” he looked through the rear-view windows.

“Both?”

“Well, ya, kind of. We’re hot on the heels of a limousine with Bowry and a mystery guest.”

“Okay, and who’s chasing us?”

“I don’t know, it appears to be a child. A little girl on a moped.”

“A moped,” I wrestled out of the rope and kicked it away, searching the tinted glass and the single headlight half a block behind us. “Like a scooter?”

“A really fast little girl on a scooter,” he repeated.

“Oh shit, that’s not good. Drive, drive you bastard!” I yelled to Abbotsford. “Malcolm, how long have I been out?”

“Ten minutes tops, but you were freaking out for a while there before we got you pinned.”

“Shit, did I hurt anybody?”

“No, we just figured you were reacting to the plant again, but we had to take you down. You came at me for a kiss or something. Really scary shit, bro.”

“I’ll explain later – but that wasn’t about you. Where are we?”

“We’re ripping around Yaletown,” said Cam, “See that stretch up there? We saw Bowry coming out of her condo by the nursery. She jumped into the back with some greasy dude.”

“Wow,” I said, “nice work. Do they know we’re behind them?”

“I’m trying to be stealth, but that crazy bitch back there keeps rubbin’ up on my bumper,” yelled Abbotsford. “She wanna be startin’ somethin’!”

“Shamone!” sang Cam, “Got to be starting somethin’!”

“Cam, turn that tape off, please man, I think that Michael Jackson mix drove me into a seizure,” my ear was ringing again, and just as I held a newly freed hand up to it, we felt a jolt from the back, followed by the screech of a tiny tire catching itself on pavement.

“She rubbed us again,” Abbotsford yelled.

“Shake the little critter, or you’ll have us made,” Burton was on the edge of his seat bouncing up and down, clearly enjoying the whole experience.

Testing the view from the back window, the girl was close, very close. She wore no helmet, just purple and black hair pinned back with orange clips. A cigarette dangled from her lips, the cherry lit up with each swerve into the wind. It was her all right, the girl who smelled like Christmas, smug and frightening. I wouldn’t doubt if she could see straight through the tint of the window into my soul, the little freak. In that instant, she winked and clicked a finger gun right at me, sped up and nudged the van again with her little bumper grill, which was dented and ground down by that point.

“Friend of yours?” asked Malcolm.

“Ya, well no, but we’ve chatted.”

“Well, looks like she wants to chat a little bit more,” he said, “Been there, bro.”

“Abbotsford, take a right on Nelson and head for the Cambie Bridge,” I yelled.

“What about the limo,” he winced as the scooter bumped us again.

“I know where they’re going, just do it.”

The van lurched into the right lane and banked wide like a seven-forty-seven as it made the turn onto Nelson, tires blurping as she went. The limo disappeared further up the road.

The scooter struggled to keep up around the corner. It looked like the girl had never actually driven before when she wasn’t closely drafting the van.

“Who gave this chick a license?” Malcolm laughed.

“I don’t think they give people like her licenses,” I said.

“Oh, but she’s got a license to get all up on your nutssss though?”

“That’s just terrible, Malcolm, just terrible – untrue, and so very not okay.”

“Secret’s safe with me, my friend. We’ve got more important fish to fry…get it?”

“Not okay, Malcolm.”

The van picked up speed as it hurtled down the street and the bridge appeared about three blocks away.

“What’s the move here, boss, we heading over the bridge,” Abbotsford’s eye blinked a spot of sweat from his lashes in the rear-view mirror.

“See that far left lane?” I pointed to the furthest lane on the four-lane one-way street that led to the Cambie Bridge.

“The one that disappears?”

“Yes, we’ll take her as far as we can then cut over there and hope she misses the turn, it’s a super skinny exit, and unless you know it, you’ll miss it.”

“You’re not wrong, I’ve missed that shit way too many times,” he nodded, “good call.”

The van drifted another lane to the left but remained somewhat central to fake like we would just keep heading straight over the bridge and merge in with the two-way traffic lanes.

“Hold, but pick up some speed.”

The van kicked into fourth gear with a nasty jolt and the momentum of acceleration and body weight was getting close to worrisome had we needed to slow. If we couldn’t maneuver quickly enough the entire lot would hammer directly into the barrier that separated that last exit lane from the incline of the bridge. I could see the carnage now, ripping through the guardrail, flipping the right wheels over the left. Bodies and bongs airborne. Those wearing shirts smashing into those without, sweaty chests lubricating the action and projecting whole beings into the bare metal walls or through thick, tinted windows. Remnants of tools and carts injecting themselves into our persons, shattering ribs and pelvises… the flying pelvi.

“Okay, here we go, slow down a bit to get her right on our ass. We don’t want her to see what’s ahead.”

Abbotsford’s eyes darted back and forth between the upcoming fork and the girl pushing full throttle behind us. She caught up with a bump and was waving frantically now at me. Gestures from the classic throat-cut, to the I’m-crazy-in-the head went back and forth. Her cigarette was now burning down to her lip and blistering the fresh skin as I watched in horror.

“Hold as long as possible, you need to swerve at the very last moment - dangerously late…”

Abbotsford was a strange shade of pale again, like a floater-pulled-from-False-Creek kind of complexion. He muttered some- thing about white people and getting himself into weird ‘cracker’ situations. Then wiped a shaky hand over his face in anticipation.

“Steady, big boy,” I said, “steady.”

Another bump from behind and the little girl opened her mouth to yell something at me, the last of her tiny cigarette cherry lit up and took flight straight into her mouth. Her eyes widened and she grabbed at her throat with her right hand.

“Now!” I yelled, instantly flailing from my crouching position as the van surged to the left. The right panel side kissed the lip of the railing at the fork and sparks shot back into her face as she began wobbling in the open air with one hand on the grips, holding her throat with the other.

The van bounced as it reattached to the tiny exit lane and shot out through a red light on Pacific boulevard just shy of the football stadium.

“Go straight through, all the way under the bridge and to the left!” I pointed, trying to get back over the bench where the others were smartly wearing their seatbelts and definitely enjoying the ride.

“There’s a skate park under the bridge over that way,” I pointed, “just pull into the shadows.”

We came to a halt and Abbotsford sat with both hands on the wheel and a thousand-mile stare straight through a cement pillar emerging from False Creek. Malcolm reached over and put the van in park, turned off the ignition and pocketed the keys. “I call nexties,” he said and patted Abbotsford’s shoulder.

I jumped out of the side door and ran around to the right side of the van to get a look at the bridge above. Moments later there was a faint whiz of a majestic scooter engine under pressure, a spark shower from above and the little girl went careening over the side of the bridge with a fantastic yard sale of limbs and red-hot scooter shards. From such a height, I could hear the echoed squeals as she twisted trying to right herself against gravity.

“Youuuuuuuuu stuuuuupiddddd biiiiiiiiiitch-”

Sploosh.

Her final insult was punctuated with a rather disappointing slap, gurgle, and fizz. I would’ve expected something more dramatic on entry, but then again, she was a pre-teen.

“Whoa,” said Burton, “Did you guys see that?”

“You bet…that’s number two on the day,” Cam nodded with a disturbing sort of wonderment.

“How did that magical wizard do that?” Burton pointed, “taking flight through the sky like that? I haven’t seen anything like that since the seventies.”

“No more drugs, Burton, not tonight,” I shook my head.

“Tonight? Dude, it’s almost sunrise, are we going after the limo or are we gonna get this thing done?” Malcolm shouted from the driver’s seat, having pushed Abbotsford over in a folded mess to the passenger side, where he held himself.

“Banners. Let’s do it. The limo can wait an hour,” I collected Cam and Burton up and into the side door, throwing their bong into a bush.

The last hour of darkness went quickly as we circled around to the Georgia Viaduct, with the intention of returning to the Cambie bridge in the event there were any repercussions of the moped incident.

The ladder went up where I thought appropriate, certain banners were replaced, and we evacuated once again. In total, we replaced twelve banners that led into the east end of the city from the viaduct. Most of which were situated on Main street closer to Gastown. I continued to try to harness whatever fuzzy sense of yearning was inside of me. Aira, the little girl, Skinny, the voice in the telephone, they all came through and fought for attention. Ultimately, I submitted to whatever you might call instinct, whatever it is that rules the gut, the proverbial heart, and the dialogue of the mind.

Creeping back over the other side of the Cambie bridge, we were relieved to see it just as empty as the other gateways, perhaps one vehicle every two minutes in either direction. This time the switch was just one set of banners, just one that I felt the need to replace. And like Abbotsford’s notion of puzzle-fit, all felt settled once it was said and done. All poles were complete, no banners were left over, and we had successfully muddled whatever directives, whatever code Bowry had put into place.

I hoped.

“You don’t look satisfied,” Burton muttered as we took off back downtown.

“I just don’t know what this is all about, I mean, I think we’re throwing them off of whatever they’re trying to achieve, at least temporarily. But I just don’t get it, we need to know more.”

“Who is they?” Burton asked, leading me.

“Malcolm, head to Yaletown, there’s a limousine we need to visit.”

The narrow lanes and cobblestone sidewalks in the heart of Yaletown’s restaurant district were usually an unwelcome sight for me. If you were here, it meant you were one of them, or posing as one of them – those self-righteous, douchey, yuppy bastards who were just eking through to get noticed by the rest of their peers. In the realm of the forty-dollar fillet of fish, the permanent make-up consortiums, the lavender lattes and public relations firms – the place where twenty-year old’s go to poison themselves on faux-Manhattan culture and poncy tech startup thought-leadership. This is where my deepest fears lie amongst those who trade the mountains and sea around them for imported rooibos teas and afternoon status.

At the last corner of the blight, overlooking the Cambie bridge, just a few blocks from where we had ejected our clove-smoking tail, sat The Barrell’s flagship restaurant. It was the largest of five in Vancouver, standing at four stories of oversized art and dark cocaine hallways, its tanned hostesses and Alberta beef roaming freely throughout. There was a rooftop open to the sky with fire pits, and a central bar bigger than The Tapa Bar itself. A basement with private wine rooms, and platters of businessmen and wanderlust waitresses on all levels in between.

“The Barrel?” said Malcolm, “I haaaate this place.”

“How’d you know, Seb?”

“Check out the license plate…”

“BONEMAN?” read Malcolm, “I’m taking that.”

Before we could stop him, he was gone. I watched in horror as he bolted straight for the back of the limo prying and jabbing at the thing with the long screwdriver. He attacked each corner, digging through the paint beneath with scrapes and squeals in the morning air. In the flood of the parking lights we all saw that a-ha moment as he looked to the screwdriver and began using it for its original purpose to quickly unscrew the plate properly. He ran back as giddy as could be with his finger up in shhhhh position.

“Nice work,” I said, “can we get going now?”

“Now we know they’re in cahoots, Seb, I have evidence.”

“You’ve cracked it open, Malcolm, wide open.”

“Well what the fuck are we going to do? They’re in there right now, sucking down bones and planning shit!”

“Now is not the time, we need more. Let’s get out of here.”

“Cracked it wide open,” Malcolm smiled like an idiot and cranked on the ignition despite the van steadily idling already. “Where to next?”

I shook the nasty out of my head, but it went nowhere.

“Sleep. Drop me off, and let’s make ourselves scarce for a few hours.”

“Then what?” said Cam.

“Coffee.”

Namaste, Slut

S

neaking up into my own apartment was something I may have done in the past, I won’t lie. Hazards of the job when Adina is concerned. If I had a nickel for every time I climbed a fire escape, tunneled through the underground parking lot, or shimmied through my own bathroom window, I would have enough change to park right downtown for at least an hour and a half.

I could hear the faint barking of seals from across the alley as I hurled my body up the fire escape on the backside of the building. As usual the shared hallway window was unlatched, I gave up locking it months ago because one of the neighbors clearly liked to keep it open. Solomon.

That squeaky little shitstick, he must have been sliding his slimy pale limbs up through this window to avoid me seeing him since he’s been here.

Here, all this time.

I shuddered and softly pulled the window down, leaving the latch in its open position. Might need that later.

Tiptoeing along the hallway away from the overhead lights, past the other four units on the floor, I came to Solomon’s door. I crouched low and listened until I could hear the seagulls through the windows inside. My knees began to squeak, and I had that pee-in-my-pants sensation as I thought about the possibility that somebody had already been around, looking for Solomon, tidying up whatever he was hiding in there, waiting to murder me slowly, etcetera, etcetera.

There was something different about this feeling though, I wasn’t scared, I was intrigued. Something inside told me that it was okay, in fact, everything was alright.

So, I pulled the screwdriver from my pocket, having poached it from Malcolm as a makeshift weapon in the event I was being stalked. The doorframe came apart quite easily, fastened shoddily with cheap finishing nails. Prying the door open wasn’t much harder, given the consistent workmanship of the place. I made a lengthy personal note to upgrade all possible security measures in my own unit - if I made it through this particular bout of terrorism.

I nudged the doorframe back in its place and the door clicked shut behind me. In the faint light of dawn, I worked my way around Solomon’s unit. The place was roughly the same layout as mine, minus the sporadic beaver dams of putrid female bar-attire, or apparent wolverine attacks upon the kitchen. There were no smoking apparatus’, no smudged mirrors, no rolled up so-and-so, the common bric-a-brac of perilous divas.

There was, however, a wonderful array of psychopathy where the bedroom of an average god-fearing man might be. My sweet osmosis. It was the lab of a madman. It wouldn’t take long to understand that the guy was batshit loco, but looking around at all the books, loose papers, pinned photos and maps, dissected computers, it might certainly take some digging to decode this mess.

One wall boasted an oversized printout of the City of Vancouver proper, the downtown bits with bridges and all. There were pins and thread connecting various locations, typical of your average shitty spy movie. There were TV tables and chairs, even some furnishings I recognized as one-time possessions of Verdigris. Atop each surface sat petri dishes and canisters of all shapes and types. Each full of varying degrees of rot or semi-life, greenish, muddy, or otherwise. It smelled like it looked; the funk of a hundred sex-deprived fanatics humping botany under poor lighting.

There were two large towers on the floor and a few monitors humming in the corner. A couple of crates – again stolen from Verdigris - laid out for a seat, a mouse pad, and what appeared to be a beat-sock station complete with Kleenex boxes and possible DNA-encrusted beige ankle-highs. I gagged, employing a pencil to eject one particularly stiff specimen from dangerous proximity to the computer. The cops are going to have a field day with this place once they get in here.

I woke up all of the monitors and stepped back to investigate the map up on the wall, taking pictures with my phone as I navigated the threads back and forth. There were, of course, four major veins of thread, different colours – just like the banners – across Burrard, Granville, Cambie bridges, and the Georgia Viaduct and down Main Street. Funny though, each one was a distinct color, there were no different colors for different banners, nor four entrances or exits to these major portals. I took another picture to capture the colors fully with a tiny flash explosion.

There were other pins and thread trails around the city as well, but these looked to be random, surely not, but I couldn’t make sense of their placement. One trailing down by the train tracks behind Gastown, another ripping right through False Creek from a park in Kitsilano to the stadiums on the other side. Even more pins were poked haphazardly in condos around town, notably though, one was Bowry’s. Of course, there was Verdigris, the coffee shop, The Tapa Bar, Burton’s Record Shop.

I took a seat, or fell down maybe, cross legged in a heap. These are my places.

The map suddenly jumped out at me, one pin at a time, blazing into my head. My phone booths, each one of them, pricked, jabbed - stabbed deeply even - where I believed to be my only solace. Why?

My mind went to Main Street just hours ago, after seeing an addict take its own life. I ran right into that one right there, pointing to a bent pin that still felt warm…

Couldn’t be, I had seen Solomon’s body heaped in a pile on a bathroom floor twenty minutes before I found that booth. And that was the very first time I had ever even been inside of that booth.

I was starting to lose it, weakening somehow, lack of sleep, shock, whatever it was, time was running out in this place. I snapped more photos yet, noting all the other strange pins in strange places I’ve never been in the city.

The monitors hummed up to speed, the hard drive having not been in sleep mode since last use, welcomed me to an open desktop. Convenient and worrisome.

I pretended to extend my knuckles in intertwined cracking mode, like I imagined hackers did. I leaned back and took in a deep breath of what can only be described as a sort of butthole and cream cheese concoction in the air, then attacked the mice, clicking through folders. Left tower, then right, and back again with the sun coming up over my shoulder through the dirty window. I felt inspired and gross all at once.

As far as I could tell, the left tower was all eastern European poetry, western European porn, and Japanese video games that could also be classified as porn.

So many tentacles…

The other computer’s hard drives were packed with all kinds of research papers, scans of French newspaper clippings, high resolution images of plants - only some of which appeared familiar - and of course the quintessential scribbled work of a madman. He had clearly gone off the reservation and deep into amateur biochemistry for the fanatical. There were equations, what looked like DNA strains, and many, many notes, scribbled and scanned, or in plain text notes. There didn’t seem to be any form of filing system outside of the file save dates, leaving me no indication of what was right, wrong, relevant or otherwise. I needed help.

There was a bit of a racket from the alley below and standing against the wall, I tried to poke my head at such an angle to see something. There were bodies down there, moving towards the same fire escape I had climbed.

Shit.

I took a frantic look around the room as I ripped at the cables of the one useful computer tower. Taking just the unit with me to the front door and laying it out like an unwanted newborn imp.

I rifled through the hallway closets and dug like a badger until I found cleaning materials, drain-o, all-purpose cleaner, things that clearly had no use in this cave of sin.

I ran like a soiled cat burglar back to the room and made sure that every Petri dish, Mason jar, or any other container of living stuffs was doused thoroughly with lemony chemicals until there was nothing left, and my nostrils burned. One last pass at the map to move around some pins to different places, I was like an old-timey operator working the giant switchboard, as burning eyes and faint nausea set in.

I was out, the door clicked behind me. Sneaking like a drunk ninja, I keyed into my apartment quicker than I had ever cared to enter the place before, double-locking behind me. I crept down the hallway hugging the computer as I went.

“Adina,” I whispered, hearing the fear in my own voice for the first time. “Adina, are you in here?”

My breath shuddered as I crept closer to the bathroom, the door only half open. Shit.

I nudged it with my shoulder peeking in quickly, then dropping to a knee with what I saw. Blood. Streaks and droplets of blood on the white porcelain, the tiles of the floor. A light blue facecloth, crumpled up with the dark stuff blotted here and there, jammed between the toilet and the countertop.

The computer tower leaned itself out of my arms and onto its side on the ground as I bit a finger hard to not shudder loudly.

There were voices now, bodies struggling through the window at the end of the hallway outside. I rose up quickly and ran through the rest of the apartment. The living room was a usual mess of weed-nap blankets and pillows, paraphernalia, microwavables, sticker books, smelly markers and such. Nothing bizarre.

I pushed open the bedroom door and saw her, rolled up in the blankets, ankles looking pale, swollen, bluish even. She was face-down under the covers, small streams of blood like the legs in a wine glass ran down one thigh and rested in a smallish blotch on the sheets.

I grabbed an ankle and shook quickly, it was a cold-ish foot, not the usual sweaty thing I endured most nights. She was gone.

“Looks like the creepy kid has been here, he should pick up his goddamn phone,” came a female voice from Solomon’s unit.

“Shhhhh, shut up, bitch.” came another.

“Namaste to you too, slut,” said the first.

I backed out of the bedroom, holding my mouth. Mustering in a tiny whisper, “I’m sorry, Adina, you were…you,” I bit down hard on my pinky. I tried to coax guilt into the space, perhaps sorrow could come as well. They both declined.

Collecting the computer, I hurried to the door and worked the locks with shaky hands just as I heard Solomon’s door shutting and their trampling feet moved deeper into the unit.

I closed the door behind me and made my peace with my home and my girlfriend, both gone to me. I ran on tippy toes to the stairwell, not looking back until I was out the front doors and through to the cobblestone courtyards. The staircases and pathways looking so different now in this place by the sea.

Awake on Planet Quesh

S  ome dreams are so vivid, that as you navigate them, you begin   to realize that they are not dreams, but some other thing all together. And if you are lucky, if you have that gift, you might begin to control yourself in these places within your mind. Further yet, some people are also self-aware, understanding that the dream state is not in fact real life, that they may awaken of their own accord at any chosen moment.

This was what I was experiencing. This was the condition I was in. I knew quite correctly that my body was in Elle’s apartment, laid messily about her couch; that I had lugged it through exhaustion and fear into the back alleys of the city. Through the cool pockets of morning sea breeze, to eventually collapse on her love seat amongst the dildos or dog toys, one or the other, perhaps both.

The dream, the dream was where my mind was busy at the moment. I wandered back through the streams, the forest, the river and the mountains of Aira’s kaiseki realm. I walked long distances through his otherworldly Japan, the one he had painted with food in his strange palace. I roamed freely but with purpose, passing people along the way. These people I knew, these people knew me. The conversations were as vivid as the skyscape and fragrances of that all-engulfing warm place.

Upon a stream, I spoke with the little girl who smelled like Christmas, the one currently at the bottom of False Creek with her devious scooter and spiced cigarettes. She was not angry, she was not sad, she was apologetic, and she spoke of awakenings. Mostly poetic ramblings of my supposed realization - that I was ready to control my course along that proverbial river she had first told me I was drowning in. She told me to continue, but to stop doing so without purpose. That was that. She disappeared into the stream, transforming into a fish and maneuvering her way free of melancholic rage.

I knew I could wake myself up, but instead I ventured on, up through the hills of the forest and came upon Mom and dad. dad said nothing, he never did. My mother, Ramona, she was uncomfortable in this place. She couldn’t stand still, hiding her bare fingers, hiding the lack of rings. She wouldn’t make eye contact; she wouldn’t speak to me directly. I tried to embrace her, I tried to reach for her, but in this dreamy place she would only shift and float beyond my grasp. When she did make eye contact, it was clear, and it was directive. Call me, was the instruction, call me.

I moved further yet, up the mountains and there knelt the Franceses - both of them – busying themselves amongst the plants of the hillside meadow. They nodded in unison, and Frances the sailor waved me over, he wanted me to help. I dug my hands into the long grasses and dry dirt bed, and I worked as we looked at one another, smiling. It was warm, it was easy, but it was guided by his gestures and his muted voice and it didn’t feel natural. His big boat shoes were missing.

I carried on into the open fields and meadows where I met Skinny once more, but she disappeared as I drew near. Shifting around my peripheral like a digital ghost as I followed her through the tall, warm grass. She would not engage me and instead was stuck in some strange flickering limbo. I gave in, gave up and continued up towards some crest where I saw the Pacific, the open seas, unfold. There awaited staggering vistas, pulsing sunshine, the salty mist in my eyes, and Elle.

“Seb,” she whispered calmly, “Seb, we need to talk.”

“I miss you, Elle, we do need to talk, I need your help,” I murmured dreamily, drawing closer with each breath, each word.

Then I felt the sea slap me in the face. The salt, the squishy sand, the kelp on my skin, the fishy odours burying deep in my nose, the sea was upon me.

“Seb,” she whispered again, “We need to talk, get up.”

My mind met body, and I was very aware that I was dreaming and awake all at once. Elle was there with me, on her couch, stroking my forehead.

I jerked up with another lap of Captain Crunch’s dirty tongue on my cheek. The spell was broken.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yes…yes. What time is it?”

“Just about noon…you okay? I called you when you didn’t show up this morning, I even called Adina, nobody picked up so I figured you might be having another one of your little tiffs and came over here, and here you are,” she got up and pushed my head away, “I want my keys back, by the way.”

“Some stuff has been going on, things have been weird. We do need to talk.”

She disappeared into the kitchen and began rustling around in the fridge.

“Did you hear me, Elle?”

“Let’s get you freshened up, bud, the Franceses are coming in a little later tonight from Whistler. You remember that, right? They’re here for the audit and sticking around for the Festival tomorrow.”

My brain crackled.

The Franceses here for the festival? Of course, they were. The heavens were crashing down upon me, a world that I so preciously mocked was now coming down on me with delicious, vengeful spite.

“Did you hear me, dipshit?”

“Yes, right, no problem. We’ll get to the nursery and finish up the books. But you gotta listen, there’s something else going on here that’s a little bigger than Verdigris.”

The blender ripped into motion, and my words were swallowed up by the splintered marriage of soft and hard matter.

I cradled my face in my hands, trying to rub it back to life. In that moment I wished I had not dropped off the computer and my phone at Burton’s. I could just unload it all on her and get some goddamn rest while she figured it all out for herself.

“Elle,” I yelled with frustration, “it’s about Solomon.” The blender pulsed and shook under her beefy arms as I approached. “Elle!”

She turned to me, killing the blender and tipping some of the concoction into a shitty cup. “Just relax,” she said, “Let’s get you full of nutrients, you look like shit. We’ll get down to the nursery and get the books sorted.”

I ripped the cup from her hold, and in that motion caught a whiff of fake lemon from her outstretched hand. Fake lemon, like from cleaning materials…like from the ones I dumped liberally all over Solomon’s biological keepsakes.

I caught her eye for just a moment before she turned away to clean the blender, pulling on rubber gloves that were laid over the edge of the sink carefully.

“Thanks,” I said, “I need this.”

I paced the room looking down at the smoothie. I didn’t need to smell it; I knew the devil plant’s filthy musk would be masked with more potent fruit fragrances.

My mind corroded with the deceit. My hands shook dangerously close to spilling the thing on my own skin.

How could she do this. Elle…my sweet and stable Elle.

“You don’t mind if I take a morning poop before we go, do you?” I tried to control my voice.

“I know you well, my friend, you do what you have to do. But hurry up, we have shit to do. Other shit.”

Elle’s bathroom was a sanctuary of vaginal atrocities, and yet, a safe haven at that moment. I ran the tap and quickly dumped the frothy shake into the toilet, rinsed it, and poured it out again. I placed the cup daintily on the sink next to a pocket rocket and took a seat on the tub, gathering my thoughts.

When one has to take stock on their closest friends, it is a sad moment. Do those high school friends still make sense? Are those social media friends even considered acquaintances? Must one go for drinks with those people from work? Hell, is cousin Jim even actually family?

Elle was different, she never came into that internal conversation, and admittedly, I of all people scrub my social circles to the bare minimum almost daily. She never appeared to be a question. Just as bitter and decidedly absent from social norms as I. A twisted, hurt, closed specimen with equal parts pride, selfishness, comedy and tragedy.

I loved Elle, and she I.

What had changed? What was the motivation to poison me, to break into Solomon’s apartment? Was she with Skinny…shit, how tight was she with Bowry? What about that damned little satanic muse that smelled like Christmas?

With Skinny, I get it, an evil blood-gargling she-whore, sprung from the mucousy loins of a miserable namesake. But Elle? Elle was my people. Elle was my only family.

“Let’s go, bud!” She shouted from the kitchen, the taps running wild as she cleaned away any hazardous remnants.

I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it before, Elle has rougher hands than an Alaskan sailor, and yet she had used new rubber gloves to clean fruit and veggies from a simple blender at Verdigris, and in her own apartment. Rubber gloves…to protect her skin. She had poisoned me in the past. Same damn blender trick.

“Coming,” I yelled like a sad clown, “it’s big, Elle, come see!”

“Oh god.”

I had to play along and pretend I was high as a kite on this plant again. I just wish I knew what the end was; was I meant to start getting sick until finally keeling over in my own bile? Was I supposed to act like Burton on his typical afternoon tea-rage episodes until it just settled on me in perpetuity? Maybe I was destined to lock into senility like Cam on one of his Star Wars conspiracy spirals?

Rant. Why does that ring a bell?

It came to realization like a croquet mallet to the shaft of my wang. Every single time I was drugged by these septic women, I fell into a state of realization, of truth. Well, not truth on a universal scale…I don’t think…more like the truths that are my own reality. However misaligned they may be.

The toilet flushed and as I watched that frothy shake go down, I thought of Adina. I had to know who took her away from me. She was gross, but she was mine. I would avenge her dodgy name.

That I pledged, as the toilet water slurped to its end.

The door swung open and I spun into the kitchen as Elle was snapping off the last of her rubber gloves.

“Whoa,” she said.

“Whoa,” I said back.

“You okay,” she backed against the sink.

“Better than ever, poop of the century.”

“You’ve got a look in your eyes.”

“If not in the eyes, where might one hold a look?” I philosophized.

“…can we go? Cam is holding down the place, and Solomon didn’t show up at all. I think we should fire that creeper.”

“I’ve been saying that since we hired him. Why don’t you give him a call and we’ll do it together? It’ll be a good bonding session for us.”

“Yeah right, let’s get going,” she said quickly.

“I feel weird, Elle, like really woozy again. If I yack, I apologize.”

“Were you out late last night, or what?” she asked as she packed up her purse.

Her questions were shallow and forced, and I could tell that she knew, that I knew, that she knew something was afoot. Or some- thing like that.

I also got the feeling neither of us knew exactly what we thought we did.

“Ya,” I said, “Malcolm and I took in a show. Some shit band from Seattle, bunch of wankers who probably made it big on YouTube covering other shitty bands.”

“Oh, sounds like the same type that’s playing Sea Fest tomorrow. There’s a lot of Seattle action going on in this town.” She shot me the corner of her eye as she zipped up the bag.

“I’m pumped for tomorrow - we should get day-drunk and represent VanCity like a couple of real assholes!” I managed.

She smiled nervously and nodded her head. “Let’s get moving, ya?”

“Elle, I have to say, I miss us. Let’s get back to us.” I rubbed her shoulder and gave it a light punch like some kind of sixth grader. She blushed and spun her hair around, reaching for the door.

Maybe this fake-truth thing could be fun. I could plant some alternative facts and see if they come back around. This could be like World War II, and I’m in control of the Enigma machine…but on a much weirder, less aggressively violent scale.

Verdigris was open, people milling about as on any other Saturday. Cam was running around avoiding strange human contact. Tidying things, tagging things, headphones blaring, a crazy look in his eyes, possibly drooling on occasion. Pretty standard.

We had called in some of the summer help, meaning kids from the city college who were useless and generally expendable, but loved to work eleven hours for two hours’ worth of drinking-money downtown.

After a few rounds of half-assed inventory, fudging the books to an unnoticeably negligent degree, and some strategically placed truth-rants on Elle, I excused myself and ducked over to Burton’s.

Cam was outside enjoying the finer remnants of what was either weed or PCP, or both. He twitched when I grabbed his shoulder.

“Jesus, have you slept, man?” I leaned back for an overall look at his person.

“No. No I have not,” he shot a look in either direction and took me by my shirt, “I friggin’ want some more action, Seb!”

I shook loose, “What the hell are you on about?”

“This world we’ve stumbled upon, this is like from the Old Republic –”

“Star Wars?”

“Star Wars, like when-”

“Cam, I gotta run, man,”

“No, wait, listen, I’ve been going deep this morning. Really deep. This is exactly like in the Old Republic when the infamous IX serum was created for Castellan mind conditioning. See, they found this chemical called dimalium-6 from the planet Quesh.”

“Quesh? Cam –”

“Mind conditioning, Seb! Think about it, they found this chemical and massaged it for each individual target, it took a few days, sometimes weeks to fully absorb and before the mark knew it, they were imprinted with an untraceable code and their brain chemistry was silently piggy-backed until that code word was uttered by the Sith Empire’s Intelligence Service.”

“Cam –”

“If you were a candidate for Castellan conditioning, administered the serum, and that secret code word cut through you like a knife, you would be rendered completely susceptible to any commands the Sith deemed fit. You would be a fucking zombie robot assassin, Seb.”

“Right, got it, we’re in weird territory, but not that weird, Cam,” I shifted a little bit, “Just out of curiosity, how might someone who so unluckily became a catamaran zombie –”

“Castellan.”

“Whatever. How might someone break the serum’s power?”

“Actually, much easier than you would expect,” he sucked from the wavering brown rolling paper bits between his two fingers. “According to the Old Republic, all you had to do was crack a good-sized square opening out of the subject’s skull and pour bleach over the naked brain.”

I clicked my jaw and twitched slightly.

“You wanna know what the secret conditioning code word was?”

“Bleach?” I envisioned the conditioning-reversal that awaited me.

“No, that would be ironic though. The code word was Onomatophobia - the fear of hearing a specific word…”

Click. Twitch.

I wondered in that moment of the irony of being afraid of the word irony.

“Just take a couple more laps of the nursery, go check in with Elle like everything’s cool, then tell her you’re going for lunch. I need your help.”

“Yes! I’m there, we’re exactly like the Galactic Republic’s Strategic Information Service. It’s like when-”

“Shhhh,” I held my finger to my tired face. “Just bring your thinking cap, we’ve got some computer shit to get into.”

“Oh, hell yes, I was born for this,” he looked at me with some kind of intensity, “thank you, Seb.”

“Cam, you are a twisted son of a bitch, and I love you. Please, just calm down, lay off the self-medication for a little bit, and don’t let on like we know anything about anything.”

“I don’t know shit about shit,” both of his thumbs shot up, followed by a salute that was elaborate, and likely a little Star-Warsy.

Onomatophobia

“B

urton!” I hissed as I entered the record shop, locking the door behind me. There was nobody around, but I heard the same faint chirping and nature sounds from Aira’s distant lands next door. I crept slowly through the record shop eying every corner like a fiend.

“Seb, come on up, man, stop being sneaky.” Burton’s voice came from the upper balcony. I stood erect and my eyes twisted around the spiral staircase up to the nether regions of Burton’s refuge. One of his hands waved over the railing, chopsticks clicking as he tried to make an A-OK sign.

On the upper level, amongst piles of vinyl and old cushions, Aira and Burton sat cross-legged. There was an array of sashimi and various bowls of what looked like seaweed salad laid out atop an old hi-fi tabletop from the sixties. Not quite the kaiseki spread I had enjoyed, but it did resemble the better pockets of the Pacific Ocean in colour and fragrance. They both had tiny cups of tea with large hunks of vegetation, perhaps fungi, floating about like twigs and leaves in a pond.

“You’re not into the hallucinogens already, are you?”

“It is not to worry, Sebastian, I brought the tea,” Aira smiled warmly and ushered me to sit. I scrunched my body against the wall and an oversized poster of the Hundred Foot Woman.

I noticed the chopsticks in Burton’s grips, the same ornate ones he was given the other day. I wasn’t jealous, didn’t matter. They were shimmering to the music. They were amazing.

“We were just reminiscing,” Burton awkwardly picked at one of the bowls.

“Oh yeah? What about?” I eyed them both suspiciously. That was my thing now, part gullible victim, part rookie detective. I wondered how much Aira knew, looking at the old man’s face, he was so obviously wise and yet somehow younger than us all.

He knew everything, it was in his eyes. Maybe not everything about this particular situation, although I’m sure he had suspicions. No, there was more than that, he knew everything.

“Yes,” said Aira suddenly.

I twitched.

“What?” said Burton between slurps.

“Yes,” said Aira again.

“Oh,” answered Burton.

“Onomatophobia?” I tried.

“What?” both Burton and Aira looked at me.

“Nothing.”

“Sebastian,” began Aira, “you and I have discussed many important things.”

“We have?”

“Yes. You are aware, you are strong.”

“Trust in the sushi,” Burton chewed at some bluish thing.

“Trust in the truth,” bowed Aira as I sat.

“You guys are freaking me out here, I’m barely grasping what’s happening outside those doors…not in here too.”

“This is your journey, everything around you is at your service. We are all at the whim of your truth, of your reality.”

“Aira,” I rubbed at my eyes and planted a finger in my ear to shake out any potential nervous ticks dwelling in there, “I’ve got to tell you, I’m the one guy who has not ingested - willfully – a multitude of varied mind-altering narcotics. And yet, I am the one in this rag tag bunch who is at the dead centre of some bizarre ball-tripping episode, half expecting to wake up in an aluminum tub ice bath with my kidneys missing and a tracking device buried deep in my rectum. All I’m asking for is a little clarity, a little honesty.”

“What is this ball-tripping?” Aira pondered.

“That’s like when your Conscience let’s go of the wheel, your Mind saws open the roof and they both throw your Thoughts into oncoming traffic,” offered Burton.

“Ah, yes, I’ve experienced this ball-trip, long ago,” said Aira.

“Tell me about it,” said Burton.

“Okay, okay, enough. I get it, I’m on my own. You guys have my back in some sneaky-weird encoded kind of way. But I don’t have a tonne of time to crack this code. Where are the hard drives I brought in?”

“Those oversized microchips?”

“Yes Burton, the microchips…the big microchips.”

“Over there,” he pointed, “Malcolm said he was going to pick up a TV to read them.”

“Oh, a monitor, good. You don’t have a computer in here somewhere?” I looked past the railing down to where the old cash register sat, unused. “Right.”

“With that, my friends, I have expelled my use to you now. I know nothing of computers, TVs and microchips. I do, however, invite you to nourish your bodies with these, the gifts of land and sea.” He spread his arm over the tabletop and amongst the bounty of small dishes appeared two more small portions of seaweed, but much slimier than the others, if that was a possibility.

“He’s been doing that all afternoon, tricky bugger,” Burton snickered with three perfectly intact grains of rice parked in his moustache, not seeming to regard the otherworldly effects around him. God knows what he’s seen in his mind’s eye over a lifetime to reward complacency here and now.

I leaned into one of the little bowls and squinted at the shimmering mix of tangled limbs within. Inhaling deeply, I could smell something fresh and familiar. Like summer grass at the edge of the beach near the sea.

“Is that aloe?” I opened my eyes to the empty seat beside me.

Leaning over the railing I could see the tail of Aira’s kimono brush by the front desk and out in silence. A trace of golden embroidered characters lingered in the air.

Looking back to the slimy green mound before me, I wondered, has anybody ever been scared of the word ‘truth’, then lifted the bowl to my open mouth.

Warm Metal Numbers

F  uzzy peaches, hot lips, blue whales, sour soothers, gummy worms. Little puckery-sweet goodies floating around my mind.

My best memories growing up were, of course, before my Mom left, and usually took place at the corner store surrounded by delightful, cancerous little sugar goodies.

Before she went to work on the weekends, we had a few precious hours together as a family. We would leave the confines of the house, and we would take a family walk to the corner store. It always started out great, dad on one side and my Mom on the other. I would swing back and forth as they held my hands and lifted me as high as they could between them. They would quietly chat about their much louder discussions from the night before, and well, I would sing at the sky happily.

Inevitably, in these short and sweet family walks, my dad would usually start to plead in some form or another, and my Mom would start to stomp her feet in response. She would usually stop and acknowledge me sitting on the curb, eating candy after candy, take a knee beside me and whisper in my ear. It was my queue to go and open the tall, blue door of the phone booth on the corner, get inside and close it behind me.

There, I could focus on my crumpled brown paper bag of chewy, colourful, sugary shapes, play with the shiny black phone handle and push all the warm metal numbers. Sometimes I would have a conversation with the automated operator on the other side, but mostly I would dial some elaborate number as I imagined might connect me to my grandma and grandpa.

I would always ask my Mom and dad where they might be that week as I was swung back and forth on the way to the store. My Mom would say something like, ‘oh, who knows, could be Portugal, could be Cape Horn,’ and my dad would sigh and say, ‘Sebastian, your grandparents are in Oregon not so far from here, nothing as spectacular as your mother imagines.’

I would ask what telephone number I should dial in order to reach them on their boat, and between quick and quiet back-and-forthing, my Mom or dad would rattle off a series of numbers that I would definitely forget. Picking my candies, I thought of what I might say to them - my grandpa, actually - if I did succeed in reaching them. It didn’t occur to me that their skiff didn’t have a phone, nor did my parents feel the need to tell me that consumer technology availability to that degree would take another decade or so.

Regardless, with my sweaty-gripped brown bag, lips puckered, fingers sticky, I would be ushered into the phone booth on the corner, the door would close, and I would watch as they both retreated from earshot. My Mom would place her hands on her hips with grace and authority then start motioning with her whole body while my dad slouched further yet into his lanky frame.

I would try many numbers in that phone booth, but never connect to anything other than the pre-recorded voice of some unknown woman, somewhere. I remember whispering back once and again, pretending it was my grandpa on the other end listening.

‘Grandpa,’ I would whisper, ‘When are you coming to visit? Can you bring me candy from Portugal or Chile or Greenland or Mexico?’ The tinny recorded voice would answer back, asking for proper change, ‘Can you take us with you next time you leave? Dad and Mom and me can come and then Mom will be happy. You can teach me to sail and to fish.’

The answer would come through loud and clear, requiring me to insert change or dial ‘zero’ for help. My queue to check if Mom and dad were still at it, then I’d usually put another pretend coin in and talk some more.

I can’t say I knew the full extent to what she put my dad through, with her obsession with money and the trophies of early nineties materialism. She needed anything above and beyond what my dad could provide.

So, I grew attached to those peaceful times in those phone booth sanctuaries around the city, fewer as they were over the decades. I can’t eat candy like that anymore. Too many cavities.

“He’s been staring at the screen for like an hour, just ripping through file after file,” I heard someone say, “Rainman-mode.”

Malcolm, Cam, Abbotsford and Burton were milling about when I lifted my head to shake the screen’s pulsing blue light from my eyes.

“Seb, what are you seeing?” Malcolm leaned in trying to read over my shoulder. When he saw there were no drink menu buttons displayed on a point of sale touchscreen, he backed away in confusion.

The guys had come up to Burton’s one by one, telling stories of their adventures home, to the bar, or to some filthy couch after our late scramble the night before. Burton had already opened his members-only cooler box, which consisted of many, many fancy beers gifted from craft brewers from around the city, most of which was payment for vinyl or narcotics, or both. The boys were all enjoying a very hoppy brew by the smells of it, helping themselves to any extra sushi that seemed to be slowly regenerating itself around the loft space.

Cam had come through with a monitor from Verdigris, and I had been combing through Solomon’s hard drives and a library of documents that began to tell a story.

And it was very, very bad.

“Sebby…hello…what are you seeing?” Malcolm repeated with a carbonated burp upon my shoulder.

“Has anybody ever been to Montreal?” I answered, continuing through the folders with a nimble mouse and shifty eyes.

“Oh man, I once lost my sock inside of a Quebecois stripper,” sighed Malcolm.

“Anybody else?” I asked.

“They don’t like skin on skin touchy-touchy in the clubs out there,” he continued, “So, me being naked, I had to get creative, you know, because she was naked also. She was a stripper.”

“Anybody else?”

Heads shook and throats cleared.

“Well, let me tell you story, gentlemen. It’s a strange and wonderous account, much like the situation we find ourselves in at this very moment. In fact, this is the story of why we find ourselves here at this very moment. And it is very, very bad.”

Chairs and milkcrates rattled around, Japanese clay dishes were moved here and there, beer growlers were perched at arm’s reach. I turned to face the bunch, accepting a frothy plastic cup into my now cramped, claw-like hand. I closed my eyes and shook all the atrocities I had just absorbed around in my head until they fell into place, and began.

“So, there was this sick bastard named Dr. Donald Ewen Cameron…”

“MK-ULTRA subproject sixty-eight!” yelled Burton.

“What? How?” I was deflated for some reason.

“I knew this would come back around. I told you.”

My mouth remained agape and Burton grinned terrifically.

“Great, so both of you can fill us in. What the hell are you talking about?” Malcolm tapped his toes rapidly before Abbotsford smothered one with a larger boot.

“Well,” I continued, “This Scottish guy, Dr. Cameron, a renowned but obsessive psychiatrist began a series of what would become the basis for modern torture technique and brainwashing standards.”

“Funded by the CIA…and the Canadian Government,” Burton added.

“Yes, but he didn’t know where the money was coming from…but that’s not relevant.”

“Not relevant…that devil was responsible for much of what went into the Kubark Counterintelligence Interrogation Handbook – literally a torture manual the CIA has built upon since the sixties,” Burton challenged.

“I’m sure it did, and I have full confidence that you know much more about the bigger picture here than I do. From what I can see from all of the reports and clippings on Solomon’s machine here, there are a lot of shitty, shady dealings and there appears to be a pretty nasty rabbit-hole we could go down, given enough time, drugs and commitment. But if I might suggest, let’s keep to the task at hand and try to solve this most immediate ass-fucking, then we can go after the CIA. Cool?”

“Fine, but we have to address the Keanu Reeves factor,” Burton crossed his arms.

“Sure, we will – wait what?”

“Johnny Utah, quarterback punk,” Malcolm nodded.

“Guys, please, focus for just a minute. I don’t know what Keanu Reeves has to do with anything, but I’m super-excited to hear all about it after we save some lives, okay?”

Some nodding occurred, so I pushed forward.

“This Dr. Cameron was obsessed with the idea that most mental illness was the consequence of the mind learning incorrect reactions to the world, creating memories and pathways in the brain that resulted in abnormal behaviour - as it was seen in the fifties. So, it was as simple to him as de-patterning a subject and rewriting those pathways,” I read from the screen, “re-patterning or re-mothering.”

“Re-mothering, that’s some sick shit,” said Cam.

“He would prepare subjects by inducing prolonged sleep, or a sleep-like state through drugs and complete sensory deprivation. Once they were in the right frame of mind, they were then treated to invasive electroshock therapy for days and days until they were ready.”

“I don’t even want to know,” Abbotsford squirmed.

“By then, subjects were in some sort of baby-like state, completely demolished. In his own words,” I looked back to the screen, “‘there should be a loss of the space-time image and all feeling that would normally be present’. Oh, and there should also be no walking, feeding, and plenty of double incontinence.”

Malcolm reached for another nigiri roll in disgust.

“When he was satisfied, subjects would then move to the re-mothering stage. He would play what he considered positive messages from the subject’s lives, or other scenarios as he saw fit…up to a half-million times in repetition.”

“Some real Clockwork Orange shit,” added Burton.

“So, what was the outcome?” Abbotsford said sheepishly.

“Nothing,” I said, “well everything horrible that you can imagine actually. People who came into this guy’s research facility with the mildest of anxiety or depression left with chunks of memory gone, permanent psycho trauma, loss of speech, the list goes on and on. Obviously when the whistle blew there were massive lawsuits, government battles, a pretty great Canadian scandal. It’s all over the web now that peoples’ families are coming forward.”

“Okay, can we connect the dots now, for the cheap seats,” said Cam, scratching his head.

“Well, here’s where it gets weird, let’s rewind a decade,” I sipped some frothy dark beer that tasted of East Vancouver, “Solomon has a bunch of papers and lectures of Dr. Cameron’s from the forties, many of which surround a Nazi Germany that he truly hated and waged an intellectual war against.”

“Well, that’s a good thing, right?” Abbotsford said.

“Yes, but he built his career argument on the back of the Nazi plea and what he called sick people. Then he used sick people as a blanket term to push forward his initiatives. Look, here’s a lecture called Dangerous Men and Women, he describes a few loose personality types that were key in building Nazi Germany. He talks about the insecure man, the passive man, the possessive type, and the psychopath. He pushes the dangers of these sick personality types and anybody associated with such traits. That the sick were contagious and would have to be eliminated from society.”

“I mean, that sounds pretty alright. Nazis are like the Sith… squash ‘em,” said Cam.

“Yeah, problem is, who is to define what insecure is,” I asked, looking around, “Are you insecure? Am I passive? Is Burton a psychopath?”

“Hell yes!” Burton raised a cup.

“So, he goes on to build a case that the sick were enemies of civil life, and the solution was a society that permitted psychiatry to construct the institutions around education, government, law, healthcare. This is how science would prevail over the sick and save mankind.”

“You’re using a lot of big words, but really you’re just talking about creating another dictatorship, another Nazi state driven by psychiatry,” said Abbotsford.

“Yahtzee,” I snapped my fingers.

“Oh, idea…Yahtzee: Nazi edition!” Malcolm shouted.

Abbotsford slapped a giant black mitt across Malcolm’s bare tricep with a sting that echoed down through the record aisles below.

“How many points do I get for that, Mothafuhrer?” Abbotsford laughed for once.

“Yahtzeeeeee,” Malcolm grimaced and retreated to the beer cooler holding his pink flesh.

“And so, you’re saying that, on the back of the fear-mongering Nazi argument, this crazy psychiatrist-fuck got some funds, and created his own little torture paradise to fix people he didn’t even want fixed,” said Abbotsford, “like a concentration camp?”

“Well, I can’t speculate without inducing the piece of shit and de-mothering him myself. But he definitely got himself a bit of a playground together to try out some exotic workmanship. And that’s where history ends and now this research and mind-fuckery are out there for the world to decipher and become inspired…one way or the other,” I said.

“The Force or the dark side,” nodded Cam.

“What’s still not clear is if his de-patterning/re-patterning framework research was taken on by its heirs for purposes of mind control, brainwashing, torture for information extraction, or all of the above,” I looked around, deadly serious. “That’s some scary shit. In comic book terms, his work may have led to the creation of reprogrammed human robots, deconstructed human zombies, or good old-fashioned human pincushion confessionals.”

“Wait, are we the sick people, or is Bowry and Solomon?” asked Cam.

“Me!” I yelled, “I’m the fucking sick person! I’m the one who’s been pumped full of some fucking MKULTRA plant! The question isn’t who it’s what? What am I? A robot, a zombie, or a pincushion?” I jumped to my feet and threw my plastic cup over their heads and out the patio doors where it cracked, sprayed and bounced to a rest.

“I need a goddamn cigarette.”

The sun shone high over False Creek, steam rising through its rays above the Molson brewery. Cheap malty yeast wafted over Granville Island before dissipating between the bridges. Meanwhile, vapours from some organic hand-rolled tobacco spiraled down my throat, care of Burton, who joined me with Malcolm up on the roof. These cigarettes, this smoking, was as foreign to me as the devil-spawn plant coursing through my veins, yet soothing and welcome.

The rest of the cracked team was downstairs playing Death Race 3000, with the disjointed sounds of Beck weaving the background. One song ended, maybe, and another began, possibly.

“Adina’s dead,” I said at an opportune silent point.

“What?” Malcolm fell back as if she herself had pushed him from the beyond; for her, a place I imagined to be like a great Vegas superclub, Mecca for her people.

Burton simply nodded, contemplating the underbelly of the bridges.

“I got into Solomon’s last night, early this morning I guess, found all that shit – the computer, the plants - then I heard people climbing up the building. I rushed into my place and…she was wrapped up in the sheets.”

“Oh god,” Malcolm held his mouth, with a bit of a gag.

“I just saw her pale, lifeless ankles, swollen, blood trickled down,” I pulled off the cigarette.

“Those goddamn mongrels, they will pay for this, Seb,” he sniffed, “They will rule the day…”

“Not rule…roux, like for béchamel sauce,” offered Burton.

“Bechamel,” sniffed Malcolm with a meek fist pump.

“She was just left there in our bed, where so many things have occurred. So many…odd nights. Now that’s where she lays to rest.” I sighed.

Malcolm laid his hand to his chest, putting his head down.

“I just wish they had finished her where she would’ve wanted it to happen, on the couch, with her weed blankets and candy and stickers and nachos.”

“Who was it,” Malcolm snapped, “Was it Solomon, that little prick? Was it Weissenstrat? Did you find any riblet bones? I’ll kill the bastard! Bone Man, I’m coming for you!” he yelled towards Yaletown.

“I don’t know, I heard the female voices busting back into Solomon’s, so I had to get out of there.”

“Bowry!”

“I don’t think that flaccid sack of osteoporosis could traverse a foyer entrance, let alone monkey up the side of a fire escape. No, unfortunately, it was probably Skinny, and somebody else.” I couldn’t bring myself to voice Elle’s name, if I said it out loud it would become real.

Just then, my phone rang, and we three jumped with tight nerves.

I looked and answered, “Oh hey…Elle,” I said, holding my temples with a bit of a squeeze. “No, I’m just grabbing a bite, what’s up?”

I tried to tune out Malcolm who was shadowboxing the horizon, a tiny tear squeezed from his eyes.

“Oh, they’re back, great, I’ll be right over…They seem happy? Okay good, nice work. I’ll see you in a bit.” I made sure to turn the phone off, in every way possible, then tucked it deep in a pocket.

“Burton,” I pulled my friend aside and rested my hands on his bony old shoulders. He straightened his skinny tie and smiled back at me with his whiskers. “We are running out of time. We only barely know what is going on and why. I need you to rally these degenerates and brainstorm, leave no method unturned until you crack some theories, some ideas, some activities to pursue. Do you know what I’m saying?”

“I think you know I am a skilled soldier in the pursuit of truths, a devious scout on a quest for imminence.”

“I love you,” I said

“I love you too, and Keanu Reeves.”

“Okay.”

Theft of the Bean

T  he coffee shop was packed full before noon, being the weekend. People of all walks of life tend to break up the monotony of their significant other, or dog, with a beverage while they stroll, ride, or text the seawall.

The jingle-jangle of the front door was barely noticeable, and definitely unbeknownst to the two girls working frantically behind the counter. The one with the piercings was taking orders, and the new girl with the coffee-stained teeth was like a magician behind the espresso machines pumping out shots left and right, frothing the various white liquid products that one might wish to destroy their coffee with. Coconut this, soy that, almond shit-on-my-face this and rice kiss-my-chafed-urethra that. One percent, two percent, homo and skim, let me rest my balls on your chinny-chin-chin.

“Hey, you,” the pierced one pulled me back to earth, “where have you been?”

“How much time have you got?”

“None.”

“Well, let’s just say, I’ve been missing my burnt americanos. How is she on the bean?” I asked, watching the rookie float flawlessly back and forth, sweating like a retarded banshee, but graceful-like.

“She’s found her place, that’s for certain. That dirtbag can really move. Especially with nineteen milligrams of pure caffeine administered every forty minutes.”

“Wow, what have you discovered?” I asked with some amusement.

“I’ve got a setup in the basement that could double as a meth lab if I wanted to lease it on the side.”

“You inspire me.”

“And you owe me two dollars.”

“Oh, can I grab a for-here mug to-go?” I smiled.

“What do you think this is?” she pushed a tattooed eyebrow up.

“Well, I’ve been coming here for how long now? I truly believe this is your own personal workshop of terror, over which you rule with a devious touch, annihilating new baristas one by one, releasing them back into the world a shattered bunch of nervous animals with nothing left but the sweet embrace of itchy withdrawal.”

“I’ve got the clay one you like. Bring it back, or I’ll send her to find you.”

I looked over to see the wired one grinning at me with a chipped front tooth, possibly from hyper-grinding in the night. One bloodshot eye winked at me as she mouthed ‘burnt, right? Burnt, right? Burnt, right? Yeah!’

I flicked two dollars in the pierced one’s waiting hand and said, “I’ll see you first thing in morning if not later tonight, you sadistic feline.”

“Meow, motherfucker.”

Coffee, when made correctly – and I mean the right beans, roasted and ground the right way, filtering the right water, at the right temperature - by a just and patient hand, well that’s something wickedly special. I recall places I’ve dreamed of only at the bottom of a warm mug - cast to the hills of Nicaragua where indigo wings fly overhead, and the warmth of red soil curls up into the nostrils. Slipping into a shady barn in Guatemala to snooze upon the heaving sacks of fresh harvested beans. Places I would never go, I’ve been to.

I sipped that Americano, stiff and black-as-midnight, with my elbows taking post upon the white marine paint of the seawall railing. Across the water beneath the bridges, hundreds of boat masts like toothpicks, were waving gently back and forth as if the bobbing hors d’oeuvres they held upon that twinkling platter were becoming restless. The Filthy Sombrero II was amongst them.

The coffee moved down my throat without the vigour it usually had. I paused and looked into the well of darkness in my hands, not without worry. Sipping again, there was nothing still, nothing but simple hot water with no satisfaction. No bitter bite, no cringe or sense of soothing shame that coffee often brings. I tasted nothing, nor was there that follow-on punch of jittery bliss, or prickling tickle through the tiny hairs of my arms.

What is this cruel place?

I sipped again, and again yet. Soon the mug tipped to where it was spilling hot fuel on my sleeves, and still there was nothing but a useless burn upon my tongue. Without a thought in my head I threw the mug straight into the middle of False Creek, narrowly missing a kayaker. More than one passerby offered some form of quaint Canadian aggression in response, but it didn’t matter, I was now being robbed of a true love, something I held to such a mystical plateau that it could only be stolen away by some deep, twisted evil.

This cursed plant was streaming through my veins and it wasn’t until that exact moment that I understood it was actually going to murder me. It was moving to pillage my mind of any control, take my favourite sensations far away and leave a shell of a man…even more of a shell of a man.

Walking back up the hill, past the coffee shop, I started to notice people noticing me - so many people staring – they must have been staring. One after another, couples and groups just milling about, looking, some whispering. All of them judging, knowing exactly what was going on inside of me. They could see through me, see my weakness, giddy that I was losing my control.

What would they do then?

I started to run. Avoiding the eyes, the voices and the thoughts, I ran through the pathways, up stairs, into alleyways, finally collapsing into a phone booth on Davie Street. It smelled of sweat and early morning hysteria, and it was welcoming.

Feeling the smooth warm black handle of the phone, I lifted it to my ear, not knowing what to expect owing to the last time I picked up the receiver in Gastown. That voice, slightly different then, but the same in some way, the one that had gone rogue and off script targeting me directly. I still don’t know what was real and what was a hallucination then, or now. The great gift of insanity is that you never know when you yourself are crazy. Any sort of barometer for reality is tamed by an ever shifting and relative perspective.

She answered me just then, “Please completely insert your card or dial the number you are calling.”

A flood of relief led from my right ear, down through my limbs, filling in the scrapes, cuts, slashes and scars of uncertainty and fear. I breathed in the stale air of that booth like it was a wild mountain field.

“Please completely insert your card or dial the number you are calling,” she repeated, and I sunk deeper into the booth.

Breathing slower, I began to loosen my grip on the handle…my grip on the space. Years later I was interrupted by Her voice, which had shifted ever so slightly, to the very same tone that I had heard in Gastown.

“Please completely return the hard drive or die with the numbers you have following,” She said with complete familiarity, so terribly sweet and menacing.

“What did you say?” There was silence, broken by several slight clicks. “Who is this, how do you know me? What do you want?”

“Please completely return the hard drive or die with the numbers you have following,”

Holy shit, not again.

“Listen, whoever this is, you listen to me.”

Click, click. Silence.

“You tell Bowry that it’s over. We know what you’ve done…what you’re doing. This ends now.”

The line was silent for decades, the birds above aged as they flew, until finally She returned.

“Sebastian,” her tone remained directive, orderly, “there is no need to fight, there is no need for fear. Allow yourself to just let go with the current, let the water take you, let the water take us all.”

“Whoever you are, you have to stop. Bowry is trying to control everybody, she has drugged me, she’s probably poisoning you too, lady.”

“We are freeing you. Let it happen,” She said with an uninhibited charm.

“You can’t free someone by taking their free will. That is not how it works, you crazy bitch.”

There was a pause, and I was suddenly aware that I had offended Her. “Return the computer and you will be forgiven. You will be set free.”

“It’s too late, I know all about the mind control, the plant, I know it all.”

“Sebastian,” her voice turned nasty, and I put my head down like I often did when I felt somebody was about to throw a shoe at my face, “this is not a gamble you want to make. You clearly don’t know what you’re getting into, it’s time to cash out and let the big boys take over.”

That voice, that fiendish voice, it was telling me that Solomon’s computer had more on it than I had assumed.

I suspected they had trashed my place already hours before, likely framing me up for Adina’s murder at the same time. Luckily, they would never find the computer at Burton’s. My friend has booby traps strategically placed throughout to ensure any intruder a poor experience. If one was unfortunate enough to make it to the intoxicated poet philosopher himself, they won’t get past the cash counter without severe bloodshed. Burton may be stoned to the bone, but he is also a lethal weapon forged from the embers of the Korean War - an encounter he likens to ABBA’s earlier releases.

And he has many cacti.

Following the usual silence there was more clicking until her voice cut through again. “You will be contacted by someone at some time in the very near future, and upon that touchpoint, only the safe return of the hard drive will signal the stoppage of a series of…losses.”

I slowly put the receiver down in its resting place with a gentle click.

Cacti can’t help us now.

“Who pooped in your coffee?” Elle met me at the entrance of Verdigris with an armful of lilies.

I eyed her, biting back the instinct to punch her directly in the squishiness of that chubby neck.

“Well, it turns out I can’t taste coffee, actually, so if anybody did poop in it, I wouldn’t even be able to enjoy the aftertaste…it would just be poop.”

“Okay…” she lifted an eyebrow, trying to look uneasy with my behaviour, like she wasn’t actually toying with me like some wooden puppet-boy.

“What do you know about losing everything you love?” I asked her, fully aware now that I was inching closer to some kind of fire.

“What?”

“Yeah, have you ever wondered what it would be like to lose Captain Crunch? Or this place? Maybe your veggie shakes and your vast assortment of dildos. What about your snappy wit?” I growled, “What would that be like for you, Elle?”

“You feeling okay? You’re getting a little funky again,” she didn’t seem to be surprised or upset by my words this time, rather relieved I suppose.

Likely, she was satisfied the drugging regime was on track. And so was I. Not only was I pretending to unfurrow harsh truths as I had while under the spell of the plant, but I actually was feeling liberated with cutting loose. This could be fun.

“I’m great, Elle, just perfect. Hey, do you wanna grab a bite this weekend? You know, just us two?”

“What?” she was genuinely thrown aback now.

“I want to talk to you about some really serious things. Good things. Just you and me,” I stepped closer, taking a lily from her arms slowly, with a dab of creepiness, “You let me know. Oh, where are the Franceses?”

“I uh, you…they’re upstairs,” she fumbled like a guilty teenaged shoplifter.

“Okay, see you later?” I said looking as far into those soulless eyes of hers as I could without bile creeping up my parched throat.

“Sure, wait, Seb…” she started to mutter, possibly unsure of what she was going to say.

“See you later then,” I brushed past her and felt the nervousness and heat coming off her broad back. She was prone to sweating in uncomfortable situations, and this was certainly that.

“Frances!” I shouted as I came up the stairs to the office. They both turned, showing off very white teeth and real tans covering older fake ones. The good one threw his arms open like a super-gay father.

“Sebastian!”

We embraced with pats on the back as I handed the lily to the other Frances. “Here, a gift!” I said with a grin, to which he laughed and placed the thing down immediately. I’m not sure the other Frances ever liked flowers to begin with. If he did, he certainly fooled the rest of us.

“How are you my son?” laughed the good one with that syrupy gewürztraminer voice. “We’re back!”

“Yes, you are! I’m good, things are good. The nursery is good, we’re all good. Did you see those crazy interns out there doing their thing?”

“There sure are a lot of them,” said the other Frances, “we’re not paying them, are we?”

“Barely, Frances, but not to worry, they’re cheap, and they work fast and hard. Most of the mistakes they make are non-life-threatening.”

“Just how I like ‘em,” said the good one, chuckling like a dirty old man to his buddies. The other one sneered at the ceiling fan. “Right, well walk with me, Seb,” he grabbed me by the shoulder and ushered me away while the other one carried on rifling through the receipts and order books on my desk.

“Everything okay?” I asked, looking over my shoulder, knowing that the least of my problems could still be quite the annoyance at this time.

“Very much so, indeed,” we clambered down the spiral staircase and paused at the landing to take a glimpse around. “Look at this, Sebastian, look at what you’ve done.” Happy couples, grumpy couples, nervous singles with animals, and many old rich women wandered the maze of greenery around us. Being a Saturday, it was quite busy. Nearly a dozen interns were running around, some realizing that the big gay bossman was in town, others busily working for their drinking money.

“You’ve had the best year, and it just keeps on growing. You’ve really carved out some serious confidence from Frances and I. You already have free reign over the place to do what you want creatively, but I don’t want you to get bored, get antsy, you know…and leave us.”

“I honestly haven’t even thought about it, Frances, you know me, I’m just fumbling my way through, doing what I can to not lose my mind.”

He laughed like a sailor, “Aren’t we all, son. Are you happy though?”

“That’s kind of an awkward question for me,” I put my head down, wishing I could tell Frances what was going on. Hell, he knew most everything else about me, my failures, my parents, my love life, as it were. And now I was holding back some strange plot against this entire city, its boats and masts, its masses.

“I’m about as happy as I get,” I said, “Nothing to worry about there.”

“Well, I’m proud of you, really, really proud and thankful for you. And I want you to know that whatever you want, if that’s going back to school, taking a vacation, whatever. I’ll take care of you, I hope you know that.”

“Thank you, Frances, that really means a lot. I’ll tell you what, let’s just make it through the summer then we’ll talk.”

“You got it, whatever you want.”

We wandered around the juice bar where Elle was cleaning a very clean surface, not wearing gloves, I noticed. We carried on around the corner where an intern mashed directly into Frances with a tray of daffodils, rubbing dark wet soil into his beige lapel.

“Oh no,” said the intern, “ohhhh noooo, I will clean that…I will get you a new one…”

“From where, princess, Spain?” Frances glared above her, “Just messing with you, I bought this at Target, go grab a broom would ya? And be a little careful around those corners. I’ve executed a few poor tacks in this very same spot”

The intern disappeared with a squeak and Frances chuckled. “Adorable. Reminds me of you when I first met you, all awkward and nervous.”

“Still am,” I said.

“You give yourself a hard time, kiddo, you’re a leader now. I’ve watched you get your confidence and grow like…these…aloes… goddamn. Where’d you get this aloe, this is insane!” We stood at the edge of some monstrous bushel of aloe spread out like a giant coconut crab searching for its late-night dinner. “That is not normal. And why is there so much aloe on the order sheets this month, it’s up like two thousand percent this year. How are you moving so much of it?”

“Well, we’ve got a few buyers that have moved into the neighborhood. I think they’re middling it, but doesn’t seem to be denting our sales yet, so why not?”

“Keep an eye on it and raise the price if it starts to get too hectic.”

That was his answer for everything, raise the price if things start to get hectic. Golden rule of small business.

“So, what else is going on, how’s the missus, you still hanging on there?”

“Um…yeah, it’s a bit hot and cold, but you know relationships.”

“Mate, I don’t know that I do. That one upstairs is so high and low, I really don’t know which Frances I’m going to wake up with; the sweet cuddly one, his evil sidekick, or maybe just alone with myself.”

“A tale of three Franceses,” I said.

“Yes, let’s just hope there’s a happy ending. I’ve been wanting to get out on the boat, you know, just go down the coast again to get over the nightmares, but I just don’t see him being able to cut it. Or me, for that matter, I don’t think I could manage the guy in such a small place. Some days, Whistler isn’t big enough for the two of us.”

“You’re still having the nightmares?”

“Every night. Every single night. I’ve tried drinking myself to sleep, a lot. I’ve tried not drinking. I’ve tried over-eating before bed, starving myself, therapy, sleep therapy, melatonin, sleeping pills, whatever. I’ve even tried smoking that crazy weedplant that Burton down the street gave me. Nothing. I wake up with the sweats, reliving that goddamn wreck. Sometimes I actually drown in my dream a little bit before being pulled out by that old coast guard saint. Sometimes the boat crushes me. It’s a different type of awful every week for god’s sake.”

“So, you think going back to the scene will help?”

“Could it hurt?”

“You could wreck again.”

“Thank you, for that…that’s great.”

“You won’t, but shit man, just be sure Frances is on board, figuratively, for a trip like that, because you don’t want an extra variable like that to distract you.”

“What variable is that, Sebastian? The rich, whiny, effeminate, effervescent middle-aged gay-man variable?”

“That is correct.”

“Well,” he pondered, “maybe these next few days will be a good indicator of Frances’ threshold for small quarters, funky smells, and me in his peripheral at all times. Hell, that’s just like our love life, you would think he’d be okay with that.”

“Wow. Okay, good good. So, what’s up your sleeve?”

“Well, we’re staying on the boat, I’ve got a few documents to sign, as you do at my age. We’ll be heading out for Sea Fest, cleaning her up, maybe go cruising up to Deep Cove or Squamish to check all the lines and sheets. Realistically, we haven’t been out for years for anything other than the fireworks. He’s running out of excuses to avoid it, I think.”

“There’s no shopping out on the open sea, you know, I hope he got his fill up there in Whistler.”

“You don’t know the half of it. How many pairs of yoga pants does a guy need?”

“None, I’d say.”

“Here, here.”

We carried on through the nursery, turning pots here and there, adjusting things for no reason at all as interns scurried behind us and through the shadows. I noticed one had a small pair of shearers sticking through his hand, but I didn’t say anything as he hid the wound and shuffled by.

“You usually take off Sundays, don’t you?” Frances said, pushing a heap of gladiolus with his foot.

“I do,” I said, thinking of what might actually occur in the coming days, whether there would be a city left, let alone Verdigris itself. I had the sinking feeling that I wouldn’t have to do inventory for quite some time. A city overrun with brainwashed zombie-robots would not likely need a luxury nursery. Or perhaps, Bowry would turn them all into upper-class snobbery slaves, in which case, this little business would be the hub for decorating cannibal dens from here to Seattle.

“Wait a minute,” I said to myself and stopped short as Frances was muttering about something to do with a yacht club. I recalled the band that was playing the Electronic Fowl was from Seattle… and they were towing some kind of Bowry line by the sounds of their monologues. Was there an invisible hand reaching across the border to Seattle, or even beyond?

“Sebastian?”

“What - yes?”

“I said, do you want to join us?”

“Sorry, I was thinking about inventory, join who where?”

“Mrs. Bowry invited us up to the Yacht Club on False Creek to watch the parade as it goes over the bridges.”

A jolt went down my spine and there were tiny bursts of white behind my eyes. Something new and painful.

“Uh, well, I’ll check with Adina and see if she’s feeling up for it.”

“You should do that, it’s going to be great, apparently this year there’s free shit all over the city as this thing goes through, and people are supposed to just join the parade as it goes and march all the way to the Olympic Plaza for some supposed rock music. I think it’s going to go terribly wrong, logistically it just doesn’t make sense. Going to be a hell of a show to watch though.”

“I’ll bet,” I said, eyeing him.

Was he in bed with Bowry too? This guy, this lovely man who is like my father for god’s sake? No, he doesn’t have it in him, he actually likes people.

“Sebastian, what is wrong with your face?”

“Huh?”

“You’re looking like you have to use the head, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing, no, I’m just trying to do some plant math in my head, sorry. I’ll check with Adina, I’m sure we’ll do the pop-by, it sounds like fun to watch it unfold.” My spine popped like a ladyfinger with the echo of Adina’s name. He must have heard it too.

“Great…great. Well, you’re obviously in a different headspace at the moment, my little workaholic, I’ll leave you to it.”

“Okay, sounds great, Frances, see you there.”

“Right,” he looked at me with concern, and I tried to deflect with an awkward smirk and nod. “Hey,” he said, “get some sleep, would you? You look like me, and not in a good way.”

“I will, I will,” I said.

I wouldn’t.

Frances placed a giant sea worn hand on my shoulder and gave it a gentle shake before turning and wandering back upstairs.

I took a lap of the nursery, ducking outside and looping around the ponds, not looking up for fear of making eye contact with somebody, anybody that would force me to judge them. Good or evil, or worse yet, the middlemen and future minions of the city.

“Sir,” a voice cracked behind me.

“Hmm?” I turned to see two interns, a little Asian one, and a larger Asian sidekick. “What can I do for you?”

“Yes sir, we were just wondering what we should do with the order out back? It doesn’t look like there’s enough room on the floor.”

“What? Another truck, on a Friday? Come on, Cam, what are you doing to me?” I looked around for bobbing headphones.

“I, um, I, um, I, um,” stuttered the little one.

“Relax, let’s just go check it out,” I gave him some calm-down eyebrows.

Sure enough, there was another truck sitting there like an asshole. I greeted the driver, this one from a distributor in Langley. The gate lifted, and there in front of our eyes, me and the two Asian kids, there was a giant load of Aloe. Nothing but aloe.

“Close the gate.” I whispered.

“Where should we put –”

“Close the fucking gate!” I shouted for clarity-sakes. “Get this out of here, take it down the street to the Sushi place.”

“What sushi place?” asked the driver.

“The sushi place, the sushi place! Just get it out of here.”

If the Franceses saw this, they would lose it. There must have been close to ten thousand dollars of aloe in the back of the truck, more than I could move in a year.

“Give me the goddamn invoice and get out of here…please.” I offered the driver with a shaky smile and the interns bobbed nervously.

The truck pulled away and crept down the alley as I sent the interns back inside to sweep anything they could find that wasn’t attached to the floor, reminding them that the aloe order never happened, it was something that their tiny brains had fabricated.

There were more pressing issues to be sure, but I’d be damned if mistakes around here happen on my watch, and I don’t even wear a watch. Before I could look down at my bare arm, Cam’s voice interrupted my concentration.

“Where’d the truck go?”

“Just the man-child I wanted to see. Why in the fuck did you order so much aloe? What are you thinking?” I pushed the invoice in his face for closer inspection. He grabbed the thing and eyed it down and back up again.

“They left out a flat, where is that guy?”

“What?” I pulled the sheet away from his face, “I sent him to drop it off at Aira’s. I can only assume that’s where it’s going, because we sure as hell can’t move it.”

“That’s exactly where it’s going, most of it,” he smiled, “isn’t that great?”

“It’s great if I get money out of it.”

“An old Japanese guy is not exactly going to stiff you, Seb, really, get a grip.”

“It’s a lot of inventory, Cam. A lot.”

“I’ll go over there right now and sort it out, don’t worry about it,” he stopped, “I mean, does it really matter?”

“Of course it matters,” I shouted.

“Well, according to you, the city’s going to hell pretty quick here, so I don’t see the big deal. In fact, what are we even doing here, let’s blow this place and go live it up for our last hours of freedom!”

I looked to the floor for answers and had to agree somewhat with the guy, did it really matter about a truckload of aloe when my mind was slipping away from me, surely to be followed by the rest of this damned town.

“Okay, okay,” I said, “let me just go and figure it out real quick with Aira so it’s off my chest. For real though, we need to keep up appearances until we figure out what Bowry’s plan is and what we can do about it. Can you do that for me?”

“Absolutely,” he stared off for a moment long enough for me to notice his drool glands firing up.

“Cam, no.”

“It’s just like when Senator Amidala was recruited to spy on Senator Clovis because he was aiding the Confederacy of Independent Systems.”

“No, Cam.”

“She had to keep it cool and get intel back to the Jedi Council. But then Clovis was drugged…oh, sorry. Poisoned.”

The Star Wars analogies were rarely helpful, and in this case, appeared even less so. I simply nodded, too tired to humour him.

As the sun rolled along the sky casting shapes and shades across the gardens and courtyard, through the skylights and along the red brick walls, my mind stretched along with it all. The questions, this anxiety, it was all breaking me down. I wanted to be in shock with the loss, the double-crossing, conspiring, the blood…I can’t remember the last time I even saw blood in real life.

All of this pain, and whatever biochemical cocktail was inside of me was not allowing for grief. It was only asking me to carry on, take notice, and keep moving. This must be what it is to be robotized, a veritable frankensteinian monster made up of rotting parts and powered by something foreign to the body. The thing of it was, I knew it, like being awake during a coma, I was present in audience for my own unraveling.

Like the tentacles of an octopus. Like the arms of aloe.

Why all of the aloe? Why did Aira need the bloody aloe? I had to know. I thought I noticed its essence in his kaiseki, and in the bowls of seaweed today, yes, but why? Was he trying to tell me something? Was he poisoning me too?

I stopped short in thought. An intern blasted into me from behind and detonated a planter box upon herself as she fell. Another one picked her up like a downed soldier and they crawled off with a trail of dirt shrapnel in tow. I carried on.

The thought hadn’t even occurred to me to draw lines, to pick teams. Who went where and what was Aira in all of this? I never have believed in coincidence, and the fact that he had shown up just in time to see this new world order unfolding was not inspiring confidence. Yes, he is a mystical being that I don’t understand, with a sushi temple that seems to be a vortex in space and time. But I can deal with that. I cannot deal with deceit, mistrust, abandonment. I have enough of those things left embedded from my mother, plenty to spare.

I told Cam to keep an eye on Elle while I went to chat with Aira. He seemed disappointed and I don’t blame him. Nobody wants to be left in the lion’s den, not knowing which one had the taste for human flesh. Or which ones, for that matter. It didn’t take much to convince him that surveillance duties of the like were a mainstay for any Jedi worth his weight.

On my way out the doors I barrelled over an intern who was cleaning some additional dirt sprayed about. It felt warm and nice.

Third Eye Frank

“A

ira, what the fuck?” I shouted through the curtains entangling me at the front of his dashi dojo.

“Back here, Sebastian,” he called from somewhere deep in the building.

“Where?”

“Here.”

“What?”

“Here,” he called again. But there was no there. The place had shifted since last night, pathways wound every which way but how I hazily remembered them. “Come back here,” his voice surrounded me.

I’ll just walk and stumble and fall into some weird place, and he’ll be there. That’s what will happen.

I did stumble, and I fell…into a koi pond, scaring the bejesus out of many regal fish. I thrashed around trying to find the bottom, but there was no bottom. My legs fell heavy assuming there would be something and I succeeded only in swallowing a good amount of water on the downward reach.

I was trying to breathe at the moment, so didn’t expect to be tasting something, but I did. I tasted water like it was mountain air. So full of pure oxygen it sent a wave of energy into my chest. Before I could enjoy another gulp, I was fished out by a giant mitt and plunked down on a stone pathway. The coughing and choking subsided eventually as Sanford pushed a wet broom all around to soak up my leakage. A mop.

“Ah, I must fix the lighting here, its most dangerous around the corners.” Aira appeared above me, looking around the place. There were no lights, and no corners. There wasn’t a ninety-degree angle inside the entire restaurant that I could see.

“Hello, Aira,” I greeted his knees, “can you tell me about your latest aloe order?”

“I’ve ordered some aloe, I expect it along shortly.”

Sanford grunted from behind a wall of bamboo, walking slowly with a flat of aloe over his shoulder. The floor was dry, there was no mop.

“Ah, just in time.”

“Aira,” I brushed at my shorts and whipped my hands for excess water, but there was none. No water in my clothes, across the floor, not even deep in my ears. My hair was as dry and messy as any other afternoon.

“Is it humid in here?” he asked.

“Aira, you need to help me out here, I can’t flip my whole operation upside down at your whim. I’m sorry, I like you, I like everything about you and your…situation. I’m just having a tough time right now and this is a bit of added stress.”

“What’s stress to you?” he lowered himself to a seat on the edge of the pond beside me.

“Stress is the unknown, curve balls coming at you when you least expect or want them. When you’re just trying to stay on the straight and narrow, but shit keeps hitting the fan.”

He thought for a moment. “Stress for me, is too many metaphors. Like a journey through a foreign imagination without translation. Wonderful, but perhaps taxing to keep up. Stress for me is folding a western newspaper with clean hands…or perhaps any generation of Israeli politics. That is stress.”

The koi twinkled in the well of dark water, gulping at me indifferently as I sat beside him on the warm stone.

“I’m on edge,” I said.

“There you are again with anxious metaphor, though, I suppose you are literally on edge now.”

“I’m having a hard time with your humour, Aira. I believe you are here at this time in particular for a reason. And as I mentioned, I like you. Those two things together mean that I can be frank with you and you can be frank with me.”

“What is frank?”

“Honest.”

“Truth, of course. That is why we are here. We’ve spoken of this.”

“Please don’t order ten thousand dollars of aloe on a weekend… if we get to see another weekend, that is.”

“Aloe,” grunted Sanford as he passed by with another flat under his arm.

“That is a deal, and I am frank with you on that.”

“Thank you. Can you also pay for this truckload when you have a moment, so my bosses don’t gay-bash me?”

“What is ‘gay-bash’?”

“A reverse-homophobia joke in poor taste. Jeez, you really know how to dissect the fun out of a guy’s vernacular.”

“I see, not to worry, I will send payment.”

“Thank you, and I’m sorry,” feeling silly now for confronting him.

“For being frank? I don’t think that’s something we should ever apologize for. That is why we’re here, you and I.”

“Right.” I looked around at the space, with its eerily soothing nooks and levels and hideaways. “When are you opening?” I blurted out.

“What do you mean?” he brushed a finger in the pond, dabbing and swirling about.

“You know, when can people come in and eat?”

“The doors are open, are they not?”

The sleeping expanse, so elegant and pacifying in its natural prettiness hummed. Crickets sang their song through the twilight and long grass rolled in the distance.

“Oh,” I said, “of course.”

Rising to leave, I bowed, and he bowed deeply in return.

“It is for very special occasions.”

“Pardon?” I said.

“Aloe is for special occasions, to be frank.”

“To be frank,” I smiled, “Okay, Aira, I look forward to it.”

He smiled and looked to the koi as they cut through the dark waters, not one of them the same as the next.

Sliding past Verdigris, I glanced in the storefront. People and interns, plants being eyeballed and prodded, picked up and purchased. Elle was behind the bar and Cam was sliding back and forth amongst some foliage with his headphones on and his eyes glued to her movements. Not a stealth lad, but effective I suppose.

I thought I would take the opportunity to head to Weissenstrat’s restaurant in Yaletown and poke around. It was a short walk, right past Ms. Bowry’s penthouse unfortunately, but I could take any number of alleys, or the seawall, to avoid standing out amongst the other worker ants from her view above. Maybe I was already primed for the picking and one word shouted from above could turn me into some mushy-minded slave boy. Onomatophobia.

Choosing the seawall, I kept my face down, turning towards the harbor. With each step, I felt the rhythm of my own heart, and the cadence of my feet began to sync until I was brought to a pattern of concentration where I could get into my own mind. With the bass and snare of my body beating along its path, cyclists and runners plugged in and there became some kind of percussion orchestra all around.

All else moved out of my peripheral and with the closing vignette came faces like apparitions. Blurry, blank faces. The genders weren’t clear, and intentions weren’t either. Ghosts of judgement in a staring contest I would forever lose. One above all others sped forward, right at me somehow and the trance was broken. My heart was triple beating over itself when I finally came to, injecting part of my flip flop into a crack in the cement and tripping into the railing of the seawall. It held me up with a stiff jolt and I panted over the edge, heaving and dripping fear sweat into the water below

“Pull it together, man,” came a voice in front of me. I waved it off like I would any stranger, some universal sign of ‘I’m good, fuck off’. But it spoke again, “You want your mommy, kid? Maybe a bit of candy? Grow up, Sebastian.”

My watery eyes shot up to see nothing but choppy blue water, and a seal with his whiskers twitching about, staring back at me. Sneering, in fact.

“Pussy,” he said with a snort through his nose before ducking under.

“Hey fuck you, buddy!” I yelled at his bubbles.

The Barrel was as dark and musty as I remembered it being as I fell through the front doors like a drunken sailor. The hostess greeted me like any other disgruntled Yaletown-ite and ushered me in with her complex torso. She invited me to the patio upstairs, perhaps more to my liking, she suggested, with an eye on my blown-out flip flop and scraped toe knuckles.

Three floors up, there were fire pits and outdoor couches, palm trees and black wood partitions. It was Miami, with marginally more polite asshats everywhere. Greasy scumbags with matching gold bracelets and rings clinking against their Heineken bottles dotted the place like urine-legged flamingoes. Gagging slightly, I pulled up a bar chair and rested my face in my hands.

“Heineken?” came a sweet voice.

“No,” I hissed into my hands.

“What can I get for you that you haven’t already had today?”

I opened my eyes and like a jumper’s first and last bridge experience - with the ground speeding up as fast as it can before smashing into it - her face came into focus in an instant. Realization hit just as hard, and we both jolted back in reflex.

“You bitch,” I mouthed.

“You need to keep your cool, Sebastian,” Skinny replied softly, looking around.

Her arms were shimmering in the sunlight, smooth, long and brown as they stretched out to either side of my elbows. With her hands sliding flat on the polished redwood bar, she leaned in closer until our breath was nearly in reach. That vignette I had come to know, that casing of fuzzy darkness surrounding my target, it came like the pages of a comic book, framing her eyes in filmstrip. Nothing moved but thick blankets of eyelashes. They quivered, the only sign of distress I would find on her.

“Pretend like nothing is going on,” she said.

You bitch, I mouthed again.

“Hey, take it easy,”

Spite that could only come from somewhere complicated surfaced and began to boil and rise, but her hands slapped down on top of mine to slow the frothing.

“I didn’t know you,” she said, “I don’t know you.”

I shook under her soft palms, fighting the urge to break her wrists like I was capable of something like that.

“You poison me, kill my girlfriend, try to enslave a goddamn city? But it’s all good because you don’t know me? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Keep your voice down.”

“Fuck you!” I shouted.

Some kid loading ice behind the bar turned, hesitated, then reached for his headset. Skinny waved him off and pointed up at one of the screens playing European football. He nodded and gave some finger guns.

“Adina’s dead?” she whispered once the kid shied away to go tell the others he had scored.

“Ok, you know what, you can stop lying any time now, the damage is done. You win.”

“I poisoned you, yes. This city is fucked, yes. Adina has nothing to do with anything, I don’t know what that’s about. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I reached for my head, my temples pulsating now with that feeling edging up my spine.

“Just calm down, we have no time,” she turned and poured rum over ice and pushed the glass toward me. “It helps, the sugar.”

I looked from the glass back to her and scoffed, “You must be kidding.”

“Look,” she leaned in again, “you’re full up, I’m sorry, but you’re already prepped. I really am sorry.”

“Prepped? For what…why?”

“For whatever your job is, whatever she thinks you can do.”

“Why? Why me?”

“My grandmother has it out for you, for your nursery, I don’t know why. But once she gets her sights on something, it becomes reality. You must know that.”

“I’ve never done anything to Bowry in my life, I barely know the woman, why would she want to do this to me.”

“I don’t know, you seem like a good guy. A little tortured, no pun intended, but hey, we’re all a little dark at times.”

I looked at her in disbelief, so nonchalant, so indifferent.

“Why you?” I grabbed the drink and sipped with my eyes glued to her.

“Look, I really don’t want to do the whole confession thing here, I’m not a Bond villain.”

“Your psycho grandma sure is panning out to be one.”

“Ya well, nobody really gets in there unless she wants them to. I’ve known the woman for over ten years and she still treats me like I’m crew on her boat.” As she rolled her eyes with a smirk, my own brow squared up with confusion.

“Ten years, what are you talking about?”

“They took me in when I was a teenager. You ask me why? Why me?” She grabbed a bar towel and whipped it over her shoulder. “They saved my life, well, he did, so now I will pay her until the day I die. And that’s what I’ll do.” We stewed in the silence for some time until she grabbed my hand again. “I’m just a deckhand, Sebastian, I’m sorry I can’t tell you everything, I just don’t know the whole picture. But you know I would never do anything to hurt anybody.”

“The hell you wouldn’t,” I ripped my hand from hers.

“Knowingly,” she said, “I would never hurt you or Adina, or Elle…even Solomon, that dirty little pervert.”

“Look at me,” I pointed a shaky finger in my own face, “I’m a mess! You’ve literally flipped my entire world upside down. That is hurt…that is pain!”

“Shhhh,” she looked around, “just be cool, there’s people everywhere. Look, this plant, or poison, or whatever, it’s not what you think. I don’t know exactly because I’m not a botologist or whatever, but I know it’s not about hurting people. It’s not about doing anything bad to people…unless that’s what they want.”

I tried to wrap my head around that, but before I had a chance to speak somebody had shimmied up beside me.

“Namaste.”

I turned to see the same Rastafarian manatee from my first yogic experience the other day. I put my head down into my glass before we made eye contact, trying to read Skinny’s face at the same time.

“Namaste,” she returned the one-size-fits-all salutation. Her eyebrows went up and she nodded slightly to the yogi as if to say, ‘it’s okay, we’re good here’.

“Oh, hi,” the manatee fake-recognized me clumsily, “You were in my class the other day. Namaste.”

“Hey there,” I nodded and tipped my glass.

“How is your practice?”

“What’s that?”

“Your practice, are you on your mat daily, weekly?”

“Actually, I don’t even own a mat,” I said, coughing on an ice cube with realization.

Skinny had loaned me the mat! She used a yoga mat to poison me, wrapped up and ready for contact. Bitch.

Skinny was making herself busy, fiddling with some mint leaves and lime.

“Well, yoga has a way of finding you. Your practice is there when you need it. Everything great will be waiting on the ground.”

“How about in the ground?” I said.

“How do you mean?”

“You yoga people seem to spend all of your time making sure time passes by without acknowledging anything of substance. No good, no bad, just the passing of time.”

Skinny turned and gave me a look, something to do with shutting up.

“Hmmm, that’s an observation,” pondered the manatee.

“Exactly. You don’t take anything on, no judgement, no right or wrong, nothing. Just being. Like a piece of wet dog shit, sitting there, just being. Until it isn’t any more, until it’s gone.” I laughed to myself, proud of my crudeness.

The manatee sat staring at the ice buckets. “Well,” she said, “I have purpose, if that’s what your aggression is trying to navigate toward.”

“Oh yeah? Enlighten me.”

“If you’ve ever sat in the open air of the desert overlooking forty students as they lay resting in Shavasana, their bodies heaving, fighting to stay silent and come to rest. Forty bodies pouring sweat from every fibre of skin. Forty hearts heaving blood and oxygen, nutrients and love into the darkest corners of one-another’s freshly opened spaces. Eighty eyes twitching as the third eye awakens for perhaps the first time in their lives, if even for a microsecond. Palms outstretched to the sky, accepting all that they’ve achieved in their practice…” she turned to me and caught my eyes squarely, “All that I have given to them. Energy swirling up from the tops of the heads and the bottoms of their feet. All of it coming to me, entering my being and becoming me. You don’t know power like that, and you don’t know judgement like that. You are just another body flopping around on the ground. If you’re lucky, in the ground as you’ve requested.”

“Okay, okay,” Skinny interrupted the manatee’s intense grip hold, slamming down a mojito-like thing in front of her. With a red hand to blotchy red face, the yogi quickly slurped at the boogery chunks of lime flesh and shreds of mint, impaling bits in her many lip piercings.

Through the panting and slurping, I could hear the chatter from around the bar returning as if it had been there all along, and the silence I held with Skinny was in my head alone.

“Alright,” I rose up on shaky knees and looked from one of them to the other, “it has been a pleasure…ladies…I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow at some point. You know, given the impending…Sea Fest, and all.”

The manatee spat up on herself and shot Skinny a look, which was returned by the same ‘it’s okay, we’re good here’ headshake.

I bolted to the exit, mind spinning. I heard the steps behind me before I reached the second stairwell. In a dark space between the tiny wall lights she pulled at my arm, turning me around on a heel. A slender, soft hand reached for mine and pulled it open. I watched her sad eyes set in the shadows of falling hair as she placed something warm and plastic in my hand.

A cassette tape.

I felt the celluloid sticking to the pads of my palm and looked up in time to see the shine of her legs bound back up the stairs. She didn’t turn around and I didn’t chase her.

Sick Puppies

T  he echo from the seventies speakers hanging in every corner of Burton’s record shop served as a blanket over my mangled soul. A melancholy starfish, I stared up at the filthy skylights with dead eyes listening to the revolution of the wavy vinyl’s effect on the needle.

“I think I found something,” Cam’s voice broke through, as he pulled the headphones down his pale, sweaty neck.

“She just…handed it to me,” I said, playing my fingers through the sky like a maestro trying to command his defeated orchestra from a pit of quicksand.

Burton fingered the well-used tape, flipping it all around in his hands. “Not now,” he squinted at the inked title of its single white label. “What kind of a mixtape name is that? Not very sentimental, could have many different meanings, none of which strike me as romantic or sexually healing in any way.”

“I agree. Not now, like ‘we shouldn’t be together’, not now?” I asked.

“She killed Adina,” said Malcolm, fuming.

“Hey, I think I found something guys,” Cam said again.

“We don’t know that for sure,” I pointed a finger at the heavens. “Not now, like ‘don’t blow Bowry out of the water just yet’, not now?”

“Well, a villain would say that anytime, wouldn’t they?” pondered Burton.

“Not now, like – “

“It’s not now, like, ‘don’t listen to the fucking tape right now’, not now,” screamed Cam, “Jesus you guys, I said I found something!”

Burton looked at me and smiled slightly, impressed by the lad’s pith.

“Not now, Cam.” I shouted back. “Just kidding, calm down. What did you find?”

“There’s a hidden folder that I had to reset the permissions on, check it out,” he pointed the cursor around, clicking here and there and bringing up several files from the folder, aptly named ‘Sea Fest’.

“Blueprints,” Cam said.

“Why do criminals always have blueprints, why can’t they just walk around and remember what they see?” Burton raised his arms.

“No, these are city plans, look, I’ve seen this program before,” I squinted at the image, “This is a screenshot of a map overlay program on the city website. I’ve used this to check out all of the municipal utilities around Verdigris, you know, panels, junctions, mains, sewers. They show you everything, totally public domain.”

“So, what is this? What are the red lines and the blue lines, traffic?”

“No, look at the layers selected here on the left, he’s got the water transmission mains and the distribution mains selected. And there, in red, those are abandoned mains. What else is in this ‘Sea Fest’ folder, Cam?”

“It looks like a bunch more test notes from Solomon’s lab of plant oddities. Notes, notes, more pictures of scribbles on walls. I’ll go through these, but it will take a while.”

“Thanks man, oh you know what,” I pulled out my phone and threw it to Cam, “Hopefully this thing has some juice left, can you pull the map photos that I took at Solomon’s off of there? Let’s compare them to see if anything pops up.”

“You have map photos…didn’t think to tell me that?” Cam shot me a dirty look I’d not seen before.

“Easy, Jedi.”

“Sorry,” Cam looked away, fiddling with the old phone. “Have you had this off all day? Smart, the GPS on these things is scary.”

“Ya, well, anybody that I want to reach me is in this shop.”

“What’s your code?”

“Two-four-seven-two.”

Downstairs there was a commotion, at first some gentle thumping around on the floor, then a shelf shook, and the rattling of one thousand jewel cases became worrisome. We all rose to our feet and peered over the railings to see Abbotsford and Malcolm in some strange armlock, rolling around near the front counter. Malcolm’s shirt was off, and he was collecting a good amount of carpet burn as they squirmed.

“Hey!” I yelled, “What are you doing?”

They continued to grunt and roll about, knocking over a cactus so dry it merely coughed when it hit the ground.

“Lou Reed, noooo!” Burton yelled to the cactus. “That’s enough you barbarians!”

Malcolm went limp, Abbotsford came to rest straddling him, their fingers intertwined like a pile of sleeping zebra. Abbotsford paused, then pulling his fingers free hurriedly, he swiftly slapped Malcolm across the face. The connection was followed by a wheezing laugh and, “Oh, you bastard.”

“What’s the problem down there?” I shouted trying not to laugh myself.

“This guy thinks he gets more hot action than I do,” Malcolm wheezed under the weight.

“It’s not about that,” Abbotsford slapped him again across the other cheek.

“Dammit, stop that,” Malcolm squirmed.

“Seb, your phone is blowing up over here,” Cam nudged me from behind, “when’s the last time this thing was on?”

“Cut it out, save your energy for something constructive,” I shouted as the messages popped up on the phone’s dirty screen. Seven missed calls and text messages from…Adina.

“Holy shit,” I said.

“You said that she was –”

“I did, this doesn’t make sense.”

“What if it’s Skinny, you said she probably did it, right?”

“I don’t know, I’m not so sure now.” I spun around and paced. “It must be Bowry. She must have Adina’s phone, if she didn’t kill Adina herself, whoever did would’ve given the phone to her, right?”

“She probably wants this bloody computer back,” Cam carried on scrolling and clicking.

The text messages, all three of them, were the same but with different inappropriately placed emojis. ‘Where are you??’ they each read, with middle fingers, smiley faces, devil faces, kittens, alligators or balloons in succession.

“Whoever it is…they want to know where I am.”

“You just walked into one of Weissenstrat’s restaurants. You’ve been at Verdigris, Elle’s place…you’re not exactly trying to fly under the radar. I mean what kind of a shitshow operation are they running?”

“Exactly, whoever this is must think I’m pretty slow, because this is a trap. We need to go faster, Cam, we need to find the plan get rid of this computer.”

“I’m reading this shit faster than Count Dooku.”

Another text popped up, this one from Elle, ‘Nice job with the  Franceses today, thx, big day tmrw…rest well oxoxo’.

“I don’t even know what I’m looking for,” Cam continued, “It’s just notes about plants, pictures of dogs and shit. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Dogs?” I looked over his shoulder.

Burton’s voice came from below, “You have no respect for Lou Reed, you have no respect for me,” he was muttering about as loudly as he did when he was upset.

“Sorry, Burton,” said Malcolm.

“Sorry,” agreed Abbotsford.

I blinked hard to focus. There were several low-resolution mobile phone photos pasted in with the notes. Subject 12: Scottish Terrier, 4 read the first one. In the image, the undercarriage of a dog was displayed. The next showed an eyeball, neatly peeled open by long, gangly white fingers. Another was its face, completely dead to the world, tongue hung out limply on the dirty carpet.

“Oh my god,” I leaned in closer.

“What, what?” Cam squinted.

“That’s Captain Crunch…that’s Elle’s dog.”

I took over the mouse and scrolled through the notes reading faster and faster. There were tables with numbers and symbols, rough graphs with wave-like data points over time – six-hour periods. I didn’t understand any of what I was looking at, even the notes were shorthand and cryptic.

Subject incoherent; third administration, first induced neuroleptic sleep.

Another entry read, Subject disposed, seventh administration, audio trigger receptive, action limited, incentive unknown.

There didn’t seem to be much order, with entries either missing or unaccounted for. Images were seemingly pasted in haste, some layered behind text, some inline, some outside of the margins. Basic word processing errors and mishaps signaled either high-school dropout, or a Biology doctorate.

However, the picture was quite clear, Solomon was administering the plant to subjects, dogs, people…me. He was recording outcomes for himself alone, not a bad way to cover tracks…keep it mostly in his own mind with spotty documentation.

“Looks like we got him. Clear evidence,” Cam broke the silence.

“Is it though?” I said, “All this says is that some subjects were given something. There is no real crime here, is there? There isn’t really evidence of non-consensual human testing…and with what - a plant that nobody knows anything about? Plus, the guy is dead! You killed him. Isn’t that a pretty good judgement to fit the crime?”

Cam shied away, pulling at his headphones, and I felt remorse in the wake of my words…though I thought I noticed a touch of smirk at the corner of his mouth as well.

“Sorry man, I’m just a little perplexed here,” I paced back. “We can’t go to the cops because the star of the show bludgeoned himself on a urinal. We can’t throw around the ringleader’s name as she happens to also be the major donor of the city’s biggest festival - and nearly dead herself. We don’t have a conspiracy weapon, because we don’t understand the biology of whatever this thing is…there’s nothing concrete here, is there?”

“Well, we’ve got a lot to go on in terms of some kind of scheme.”

“Yeah? Run it down for me, Cam. Let’s spitball here,” irritation ticking behind my eyeballs.

“Let’s see those pictures,” Cam fiddled with my phone.

Downstairs, Malcolm and Abbotsford were trying to help Burton piece together his cactus, pushed away from time to time by his gentle and sullen record man hands.

I ran it through my head again: Solomon, Bowry…how did they fit. Where was the gain in this game?

On the one hand, Solomon could have just been ill in the mind - only a sick puppy would make puppies sick. On the other hand, he may have just been under the spell of some promised land that Bowry was selling. But what motivates a young, spooky guy with his whole life ahead of him and everything to lose? And what motivates an old lady who already has everything she could ever need in life?

Motivation…

Power is cliché, it can’t be power. The new power is the ability to influence without people knowing it. To do thy bidding without question.

“Seb, check this out,” Cam came bounding to me with my phone, “These pins here, look,” he pointed to the blue ones with the strings running across the map. “These are the water lines running through the city. The old mains that we saw on the computer.”

“Yeah, we established that.”

“Right but look at the whole picture. Check out where those key banners are and where the other pins sit.”

My eyes darted through the images on my phone, The Burrard bridge’s southside banners were in vicinity of a water main in a park directly between Harmony Yoga’s head office and the Molson brewery. Granville bridge showed a blue pin just below the banners we had swapped out, plugged directly into Granville island. The Cambie bridge showed a pin dropped between the football stadium and the hockey arena. The Georgia Viaduct boasted pins at both the Central train station, which welcomed US and tourist trains, as well as the Waterfront station in Gastown that serviced the rest of the lower mainland from Abbotsford to Whistler and beyond.

“All of these pins are in places that would affect the greatest number of people in the city. These are major gathering points,” I squinted, “Well, except for Kits, nobody really hangs out at these spots, do they?”

“The droids were successful in poisoning the Clone Army’s water supply, downing the Republic Military Base temp –”

“Nope,” I simply said.

“Well, what if it is as straightforward as moving the plant through these pipelines to control the masses?” Cam continued, “What if this is just that obvious…poisoning the water?”

“But these are not active waterways, they’re from a hundred years ago, I’m sure the city has the current water supply under tight security, no?”

“You would think so, the Republic would,” he tapped his lip, possibly pushing back some creeping drool. “What if they’re not trying to spoil the city’s water, rather, moving supply around town during the parade?”

Cam had something there, but I couldn’t fully grasp it. There would be thousands upon thousands of Vancouver’s loyal fanatics being ushered around the most iconic sites. Waiting around each bend would lie reservoirs of devil juice to placate the crowds?

I looked closer at the image of the map, “That pin in Granville Island, that’s right where the first Barrel went in.”

“That’s right,” added Cam, “I did a school report on Monsanto Chemicals years ago. They used to operate on Granville Island in the sixties. It was a dilapidated warzone until some investor guys took over the leases on those industrial buildings and talked a few restaurants into moving in with cheap rent. The Barrel was the first. Then the weird chocolate and jewelry people followed suit and voila, thirty years later you get tourist mecca.”

“You’re a weed-genius, Cam. I missed him today, but I’m going to check out Weissenstrat later, he’s the one guy who has the resources to push something like this ahead. He’s a real pervert too, so there’s got to be something there.”

“Ten bucks says he’s at the old Barrel tonight. I’m coming with you.”

“Fine, but no killing tonight, okay?” I patted his shoulder with a pally smile.

He looked blankly back at me.

I moved away.

“Malcolm, put a shirt on, we need to ready the Filthy Sombrero.”

Mighty False Creek

A fter a hot shower and a bowl of some kind of Star Wars cereal at Cam’s West End studio apartment - half comic book store, half amateur recording studio - we made for the water taxi over to Granville Island.

“Funny sort of night out there, hmm?” struck up the skipper as we stepped aboard.

“Has been,” I said.

“Feels like rain,” he tapped his right knee from a perch high above us in the middle of the awkward vessel.

“Hey, how much would one of these things cost, I mean, if I were to buy a used one?” Cam shifted forward on the salty-white bench as two nice-looking Asian couples in matching foul weather gear closely watched the exchange.

“This right here is a custom-built, four-hundred-thousand-dollar workhorse.”

We all looked around the thing as it gasped up and over the incredible chop from passing rental kayakers.

“Say again?”

“She may not look like much, but the Queen of Burrard here is an absolute animal. If you want to know the truth, I’ve been saving my dollars since I started in the off chance I might earn the opportunity to purchase a similar retiree.”

“But you drive them all day,” Cam scratched his chin.

“I skipper these majestic beasts up to nine hours a day, indeed. I couldn’t see it any other way. Picture me walking over bridges, biking the stretches of the seawall. No sir, not me. Not now, no way.”

He looked down at the tourists pointing their foreheads closer to hear over the puttering diesel engine, the flapping tarps and zippers of her skirt.

“I mean, this city is breathtaking in all facets, but I’m lucky enough to view her from the angles of this fine False Creek in all manners of weather. Did you know, ladies and gentlemen, that False Creek was once a filth-ridden cesspool of slosh, having been dredged in the early twentieth century only to build up Granville Island to create yet another industrial hub atop ancient Indian fishing land?”

“‘First Nations’, or ‘Aboriginal’,” corrected Cam, to which the skipper stared back.

“Son, this is why you will never own a specimen such as this, you don’t have the resolve of a helmsman, see, the problem with you land walkers –”

“Watch it, asshole!” came the deep voice of a silver-back gorilla of a woman on a stand-up paddle board from the port side, followed by a direct paddle whap on our roof.

“Hey! Get the fuck out of the creek, paddle-whore!” the skipper yelled and veered starboard to create some chop of his own, challenging her ankle and knee power. The tourists watched with delight and one snapped photos that might capture the paddler wobbling on one foot, dropping to the water, then returning to balance with the slap-chop attack of a chubby ninja.

There was silence for a few boat lengths.

“Granville Island was resurrected from its industrial heyday in the seventies and soon became a beloved heritage site for all to enjoy,” the skipper continued, lengthening himself and placing a foot up on his cashbox. “It boasts one of the larger indoor markets in North America with local fish, meat and vegetables, artisans and entertainment of all types. Tourists and locals alike are pleasantly surprised by the cultural aspect, given all of the theatre, comedy and live music packed tightly around the market.”

“This guy’s good,” I nudged Cam.

“Guy’s a dick,” he didn’t really whisper.

“Try not to get all murdery,” I didn’t really whisper back.

He looked down at us, “Tickets please.”

I huffed at Cam as we searched for the couple of bucks that tourists have to pay for the boat, but locals are rarely accosted for.

“Not actually an island at all, this stretch is also home to a cement plant, an arts university, and various designer and artist studios. It even has a hotel, boat moorage, and a community of permanent house boats.”

The ferry putted across the creek and in the distance, off Dock C the Filthy Sombrero appeared. Malcolm was aboard with Abbots- ford, they appeared to be standing at the mast, holding court for three girls on the dock. The sun was going down, there may have been some arm-waving as if to say there’s bubbly below, come onnnnnn girls, your family won’t miss you for a few minutes.

Jesus.

Cam was watching my eye line and he snickered. The skipper took this as prodding and carried on. “What if I told you there was a maze of corridors and catwalks adjoining the buildings of the Creekhouse?”

I perked up, “What’s that?”

“The Creekhouse was the original set of buildings that were purchased by civilian developers, rather than industrialists. They were hoarded in the seventies until enough were purchased to create something new, something commercial that didn’t destroy the environment or invite the scourge of the city to dwell upon with drugs and crime.”

“They’re connected?” I tried to cut through his verbiage.

“Connected. Mostly under the Granville Bridge.”

“The Barrel?”

“Not above ground, no, that was the first restaurant to take a chance on the development project, so it’s as old as they come on the island, but I don’t think it’s connected to the theatres or anything like that. The main stage theatre though, that one is a maze with all the other buildings surrounding the market itself.”

“That is awesome,” Cam said as the Asians’ eyes darted back and forth between us and the skipper, the latter of which seemed to enjoy the more respectful attention given now.

“Indeed. A series of staircases, catwalks, rooftops and doorways, a runway of diamond grade and corrugated steel. You might get lost up there if it weren’t for the underbelly of the bridge above to provide a point of reference.”

The ferry’s transmission grinded into neutral as she came in at forty-five degrees against the ferry dock. She popped into reverse to slow the bump of rubber and wood and the Asians held on for life. A lens cap hit the brined deck and people went askew as we climbed out thanking the skipper, who in return gave us back our coins with a grunt.

The island is indeed a special place. It represents the adaptability and shame of Vancouver. We steal land from its First Peoples, we destroy it, we resurrect it and then honour those we stole from by attracting tourism dollars with native art installations, sometimes made by non-natives. And of course, truckloads of smoked salmon, mostly prepared by Asians to sell to Asians.

I’ve got bigger fish to smoke at this point. I can’t comment on land rights if there’s nothing left to fight for but the scorched land of zombie-robots, plant deities, and cursing sea mammals.

“You okay, boss? You’re not…slipping…again are you?” Cam patted my shoulder tentatively as we walked up the easeway toward the market.

“I’m fine, Cam, thanks. Let’s go grab a pint at The Barrel and try to find some trouble.”

The place was awash with tourists and the rain started to come down as we settled in at the bar. As was the way, there was a heart-breaking blonde working the bottles. Weissenstrat’s formula was crass but noteworthy.

“You two in need of a lifeline?” she smiled.

“A couple of beers please, pilsner varietal,” I said.

“I can just smell him,” Cam slouched and stared aggressively around the bar. “He’s got to be in the back, chewing on greasy bones and wiping his mouth on the ass of some young nursing student.”

The bartender dropped a pint glass and the handle of the tap she was pouring shot back with foam spit.

“Take it easy, young Jedi,” I whispered at Cam, “let’s not get all crazy just yet. I don’t think I’d even know what to say if the guy sat down right next to me.”

“Hello Sebastian,” came the voice of a man who had eaten mainly pork bites for two or three decades, warm animal fat glistening in the corners of his lips. I turned and watched him speak to me at close range. “You’ve been busy this week, haven’t you?”

“What is it you want?” I blurted out looking deep into his med- ium rare sockets. “What could you possibly need?”

He looked at me as the TVs above flickered everything but soccer.

“I want you to do what you’re told, when you are told to do it. And it appears that maybe you have…but maybe you haven’t.”

Two beers appeared, as well as some sort of brown liquor that slid towards our new arrival before he needed to ask for it. I could hear the riblets dropped in the fryer from the kitchen.

Weissenstrat stared on, “Thank you for your art, the banners will be remembered notoriously with this Sea Fest for a very long time.”

“Why are you and Bowry working together, is this some play on Real Estate? Some new development scheme?”

“Why does there always have to be money involved in relation- ships, that’s a bit suggestive, isn’t it, Sebastian?”

“Motive tends to lead towards gain, gain is illustrated in monetary terms at this moment the world around,” Cam interjected.

“You’re smart, but you are a smart ass as well, whoever the fuck you are,” Weissenstrat shoed away Cam. “Don’t you think I have enough riches,” he waved an upward palm to the barters busying herself at the sink, “look around you.”

“Power then, you need more control, do you?” I shifted towards him now to show some false masculinity.

“Control? I have all the control that I need in this city. By the way, how’s Adina, does she need more shifts? I hear those student loans just don’t go away.” He smiled and sipped, winking at the nervous blonde pulling an order chit from a clicking machine as she pretended not to listen.

I wasn’t sure he actually knew everything, or anything, that had happened over the past couple of days, so I simply sneered. Adina, Elle, Solomon; maybe he was in the dark as much as I was on the other side.

“Who else is in on whatever this is?” I attempted.

“Well if you’re talking about Sea Fest, we have a very strong organization. A lot of really diverse leadership, each great in their own right. Frankly, one of the more impressive groups I’ve ever had the pleasure of executing with.”

I placed my hands on the bar and slid back in my chair like I’d seen in courtroom dramas. “Is there anything that I can do to stop you from hurting anybody else?”

“Anybody else? I don’t know what you mean by that. It appears to me that you’re the only one going off the rails here, Sebastian. If you play ball and do as you’re told, everybody wins.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Well, unfortunately that’s not really in your hands anymore.” He rose and nodded to some more waitstaff crawling through the shadows with platters of meat. “See you tomorrow, lads, it’s going to be a grand spectacle. Please do join us at the yacht club when you’re done.”

“Done what?”

He smiled that well-lubricated smile. “Tomorrow then, cheers.”

Cam gave the back of Weissenstrat ’s head a strong middle finger, and the blonde barters cringed before smiling at him with her eyes.

“Well, what now?” asked Cam.

What now. Time was passing and this was becoming more and more complex. We needed to get some control back, we needed to simplify and get a better position.

“I have a bit of a crude plan, tell me what you think.” I leaned in. “Feel free to use any Star Wars examples you must to debunk.”

“Great, I’m going to go burn one down to get in the mental zone.”

“No, sorry man but time is of the essence, and your shit goes into slow motion when you’re stoned.”

“Fair, but it’s very enjoyable inside of my mind.”

“Well, picture the inside of my mind lately; you ever seen Kangaroos fight in the street? Right, I need to use calm clarity when I have it, ‘kay?”

“Yeah, if I’m being honest it’s like you’ve taken on every woman in the world’s vaginal cycle this month. Very roller-coaster.”

“I’m not sure how, but that feels sexist. Focus, here’s the plan, I think we need to lure Bowry, or Weissenstrat, or whoever is running the show into some kind of trap.”

Cam looked back at me for a moment, “That’s stupid.”

“Why?”

“It’s too simple.”

“Exactly.” I said.

He sipped his beer with an eye on the bartender. “I see. You wanna know something, it’s like when Admiral Akbar famously yelled at the Battle of Endor, ‘It’s a trap!’…and it might just work.”

“There is beauty in simplicity. You outthink your opponent by simply being completely obvious. More importantly, they outthink themselves out of frustration and miss something.”

“It’s The Princess Bride battle of wits – ‘Are you the sort of man who would put the poison into his own goblet, or his enemy’s?’”

“Both!” we clinked our beers.

Laughter came too easily, as if we had had more than a few drinks in this place for quite some time. I looked at Cam, to the blonde he was now ogling, then to my…goblet.

Shit, I slapped the bar top. I reached for some bills in my shorts, ejected them and grabbed Cam up off our seats. “Thanks for nothing,” I slurred at the bartender. She grimaced back, notably embarrassed and mouthing ‘sorry’.

“What are you doing, let’s hang for a bit, this is fun,” said Cam, “the city as we know it may be crumbling to the ground, can we not stop to enjoy a cold pint at Chalmun’s Cantina?”

“What? No - it was fun until your Wookie girlfriend over there slipped us a rufie, let’s go.”

The girl whispered, “He said it was a plant you would like the flavor of, some new garnish he was working on. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not wrong, but you are now an accomplice. Let’s get out of here, quickly.”

Cam took another sip of his half-full glass before slamming it down like a bad actor. “Yeah, thanks for nothin’, you beautiful monster!”

I shook my head at his gentle idiocy, and we rushed out the doors and into the darkened streets.

“I don’t know what your problem is with this plant thing, I feel great,” Cam said looking up to the dusk sky.

“Let’s go, follow me, we need air.”

We sped through the pedestrian cobblestone of the island towards the cluster of heritage buildings and artist’s sheds at the water’s edge. I pushed Cam through a back alley, up a grated fire escape that hugged rusty corrugated steel walls and up onto the roof of the theatre. The Granville bridge above shook, dripping congealed liquid in rhythm from the passing auto underbellies.

My heart pounded in time and I grasped my knees and searched Cam’s face for some similar feeling. That unctuous anxiety I had become familiar with overcame me.

“Holy shit, Seb are we high?” he smiled widely.

“I’m not sure, I guess that’s a way to look at it.” I paced, rubbing my eyes.

“This is awesome! That extremely hot girl down there just date-raped me!”

“No, dipshit, no,” I said.

I thought of the ways I might explain that Weissenstrat - that Bowry - had poisoned us. I thought of ways I might reinvigorate him to help me detail the idea to entrap the evil and finish this strange dream. I thought of trying to flag down help from Malcolm and Abbotsford who were surely now in sight from the roof aboard the Filthy Sombrero.

I thought of rubbing the eyeballs out of my head because they were now burning to the beat of the vehicles above.

Tha-dump, tha-dump, tha-dump.

I thought and thought but could not think.

“Hey guys, how’s it going?” a voice that wasn’t Cam’s came from outside my head and my eyes were refreshed.

“Who the fuck are you?” Cam hopped around to face a man climbing up from where we had mounted the rooftop.

“Just a guy on your team.” He flipped a black toupee back in place over blue-dyed hair.

Cam and I looked at each other in search.

He wore a hybrid sort of leather apron and chaps. Like a cowboy-butcher who neither owned cattle, nor had ever butchered one. Sprinklings of homoerotic anime mixed with the darker side of Led Zeppelin. And a toupee.

This guy was not a friendly.

“Listen, we both support the same idea, we’re all here to make things right. The way it oughta be,” he said.

That accent, was he American…Seattle?

“What do you want, this is kind of a private party,” I said.

His eyes targeted in on me. “Sebastian, don’t you think by now you’re ready to just give in?”

A cellphone from somewhere began to omit some terrible ringtone. From the corner of my eye, Cam fumbled in his pants with a smile.

“I can’t talk right now…who? What the fuck is Masticulation?” he whispered into the phone.

My mind snapped back to the Electronic Fowl and the band who played the soundtrack to Solomon’s unfortunate urinal attack.

“They call me Bassplayer, I believe you’ve seen our work.”

Cam looked over the side of the building and waved down to the water where the Filthy Sombrero was likely putting around in False Creek.

“What is Masticulation anyways, that name sucks.”

He stopped creeping forward and went upright.

“You suck, shut it.”

“Seattle sucks, why are you here?” I walked towards him, again postulating some kind of mock-manliness that I surely couldn’t back up.

“Just give us the fucking computer, you hockey-playing cum- bucket.”

“Why? Why do you need it? What are you going to do?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he stumbled, “we want it, so give it.”

“You don’t even know, do you, Bassplayer? You’re just a fucking…bass player,” I shouted into his face.

“What’d you call me?”

“Bass player!”

“You son of cool bitch-” he lunged. Cam dropped his phone, and with the cars beating into my skull from above, everything went into flickering slow motion.

I felt the thrust of somebody’s arms over my neck, the grasp of somebody else’s around my waist, sandwiched in some collision course.

I closed my eyes.

I fell.

I fell with some other mass off the roof of the theater. Spinning over and under with the stench of leather. A toupee brushed past.

Perhaps thrown, perhaps tackled, perhaps dragged. I’ve never spent so much time in the air to contemplate.

Tha-dump, tha-dump, tha-dump.

Darkness once more.

“Is he toast?”

“Shut the fuck up man…Seb?”

“You threw him off the roof?”

“He was pulled…I…I.”

“You kill real good, bro.”

“Is he toast?”

Tha-dump, tha-dump, tha-dump.

My eyes flickered open, four figures stood over me. One with a sly grin, one with a big stupid perverted grin, one perplexed black brow, and another’s skinny tie dangling in my face.

I felt around for blood and found some.

“Holy shit, what the –” I scrambled.

“Seb, calm down, calm down,” came Malcolm’s voice.

“That’s not your body, man. No need to molest that guy, he’s just a bass player,” Burton’s voice sobered me.

I pulled a sticky toupee from my gripping fingers, rolling over to digest the scene as best I might and revealed the former Masticulation star. We appeared to be on a lower rooftop, still under the bridge, but levels up from the cobblestone ground.

“That guy’s dead,” was all I could manage, feeling around my own bits.

“Those pigeon spikes were helpful,” Cam nodded towards the line of thin spikes on the railing that were gruellingly puncturing parts of dyed-blue scalp.

“Oh jeezuz,” Malcolm gagged.

“Cam!” I yelled.

He had his hands over his head and gave a casual oops shrug.

“He’s just a bass player,” said Burton.

“Abbotsford,” I summoned.

“No, no, not this time. The van is out of commission on this one.”

“Fine, let’s get this thing over to the Filthy Sombrero.”

“Aw man, come on, Seb, that’s my booty boat.”

“Relax, thirty minutes’ tops. We’ll wrap this guy up in a sail and roll him overboard out in the bay.”

“I’m just a bartender,” Malcolm whined.

“Cam, this one’s on you, get at it.” I said, rubbing my neck, trying to find some kind of pain somewhere. “Malcolm, help him out to the boat, please, the rest of us need to get into the basement of this theatre, meet us there.”

“I know it well, and have I got a story for you,” his spirits lifted.

Cam was already set to work pulling Bassplayer’s ruptured blue skull from the strip of spikes, bits cracking and popping.

“Jesus, Cam,” came the chorus.

The darkness of the place felt poetic.

They say all theatres are haunted. I felt that this one was about to be.

Malcolm found our way through a gauntlet of doorways, steps and cement passages, at one point passing through the orchestra pit from below.

He told a Malcolm story as we crept.

“The Sandbar is the go-to cougar bar, as we all know.”

“Remind me what a cougar is again,” said Burton.

“Well,” said Malcolm, “that’s when a woman ripens into her sexual prime, hunting for meat, possibly to feed her cubs at home, but more likely to trap younger men for sport, who either do not know what awaits them, or-”

“Or in your case, eagerly awaiting,” said Abbotsford.

“Or in my case, this species is simply an equal counterpart,” said Burton.

“Exactly, typically old as fuck,” Malcolm confirmed, “So, I’m in there after shift, you know, at Sandbar working through some emotions at the wood, laundering some tips. Then, that distinct smell wafts over me, and my tapster associate makes himself scarce. So, I know what’s coming, but it’s too late, I’ve already been stalked from afar. The game is afoot, and she is on the approach.”

“Or…you were eagerly awaiting,” repeated Abbotsford.

“Shut it. We’re working the scene here,” Malcolm stutter-stepped in the darkness, “So, she’s got me stunned with the essence of expired Chanel Number Five, and a bejewelled paw cups over my ear. Before I know I’m caught, her spicy cosmopolitan breath whispers the titles of several immortal seventies porn movies into my ear.”

Burton grunted in approval.

“Watch your head, there’s low ceilings up there,” he continued, “So we negotiated real estate for a moment, but her suggestions were too risky, given I’ve been reprimanded by Sandbar management in the past for lude acts on premises. Luckily, one of the dishwashers I buy blow from had told me about a liquor deposit in the holds connecting the restaurant with the theatre. Sure as leopard print blouses at happy hour, I found my way down here.”

“And what became of this cougar?” asked Abbotsford with a sense of shame.

“Well, we found a bottle of really fake absinthe and some butterscotch liqueur and went several rounds in the orchestra pit. You know, things got pretty weird, at one point she made me blow a load on an old trumpet she found…then she played a pretty good tune.”

Several groans and a retch echoed the chamber.

“Remember the song?” Burton asked.

“Okay, okay, let’s get it together,” I interrupted, “If I’m not all turned around, we’re still headed north. Check all the doors, we’re looking for anything that looks like water mains, pipes…I don’t know, anything.”

Doors were rattled, some locked, some not, abandoned storage mostly. Musty, filthy rags everywhere which led me to believe we might find some kind of water source. Finally, we did.

“Agua!” shouted Malcolm. We all rushed down the hall and poked over one another in the doorway. A mess of steel and copper parts were humming and spitting dewiness. The space was tight and there was nothing to be found on the floor or around the units.

“This isn’t right,” I said, “this is too new.”

“There’s no way to really tamper with this thing, it looks like it services this building alone, like for the bathrooms, we’ve got something similar at Tapa Bar,” said Malcolm.

“As if you know what the fuck you’re looking at,” said Abbotsford.

“I’ve seen more plumbing than you, farm boy,” said Malcolm.

“Oh ha-ha, mothafucka.”

“It’s got to be bigger, older, likely not in service. And I’m assuming it’s closer to False Creek to the North. Let’s keep going.”

“There’s only a few more doors, man,” Burton said.

Sure enough, those doors held nothing, and the hallway leading to another staircase circled us back to the bowels of the stage. We retraced our steps looking for anything in the darkness. My spine was tingling, and everything felt familiar and wrong. We must be on the right track.

Then we found it. Burton found it actually.

There was a distinct clinking of his hardened brown cowboy boot on diamond plate aluminum. With a lighter we found the edges of the plate. It took two of us to pull at the filthy handle and another to hold the thing up before flipping it to rest.

“Would you look at that,” Malcolm said, “The things I could do down there.”

“What kind of a sick fuck would want to do anything sexy-like down there?” said Abbotsford.

“You’d be surprised by the experimental desires of fresh art students. You know, the college is just across the street.”

“Enough, I’m going in.” I descended the steep stairs, nervously watching their legs and feet disappear above me. I could feel the space was large, high ceilings, breadth enough to warrant echoes from my flip flops.

With a lighter, that lighter, it took about one blink to register what lay before me. My entire body prickled, and the weight of the air was drastically different.

It was a munitions dump of the plant, that plant.

Everywhere, crates upon crates. It felt thick and wet, overly vivid like some lucid dream. Then the giant piping mess came into view a few steps deeper in. Man-sized lead and iron waterways ending or beginning, but generally goliath. No rushing water here, just ancient monsters of the past lying dormant.

Waiting for their command.

Bigger Fish

I wandered the aisles of plants in the darkness of Verdigris, hands outstretched, feeling their leaves. Brushing their veins and midrib, the laminae, blade to tip. Fuzzy, rubbery, sticky and spiky petiole bending with me as I floated by in a dream state.

This place at night, the lights out, not another soul to be found, is nothing short of magical. It’s truly alive in the way a forest doesn’t sleep under the stars. There is a feeling of chatter, species that have no business knowing one another in the wild buzzing across the building.

My thoughts drifted up there in their wavelengths, a signal for help. Tell me why, tell me how, let me help.

The phone rang, and my stomach and ass fell out.

I rushed through the brush to the juice bar and fumbled for the phone as if it were the plant gods on line one.

“Verdigris,” I said excitedly like an idiot.

“Hello Sebastian,” Bowry smiled from the other end.

“Ms. Bowry. Hello.”

“I’ve been trying your mobile telephone, to no avail.”

“It’s not on my person at the moment.”

“Not to worry, I saw you from the balcony,” she oozed.

“Oh…good.”

There was silence as she drew heavily from a teacup completed with a clink of the saucer. I could hear the pores of her teeth soaking up the stain from the leaves.

“You’ve completed your assignment and I’d like to thank you for your efforts over the past couple of days. Quite busy, I’m told.”

“Yes, well, I’m glad you were able to hang the designs and the formation works for the festivities tomorrow.” I took a little comfort in our work dismantling the original layout with a little bit of chaos, hoping this would throw a spanner in the works in some way or another.

“Yes, and thank you for touching them up last night, I’m sure you were able to harness your inner perfectionist to a fine end.”

“What?” I froze, my spine sparking up with tiny explosions.

“Your work is very helpful, in fact, any further actions you take are direct aid toward the cause. Thank you for your continuing support,” she sipped once more. “I’d like to extend an invite to join us in our viewing platform tomorrow afternoon, Frances and Frances will of course be there. Feel free to invite any of your other acquaintances you’d like, those that are…available at the time.”

The popping and crackling reaching up my spine to the back of my skull was like the nibbling of undersea coral. It was all around and through me, eyeballs, ears, the back of my throat.

I squeezed the phone until it crunched at the seam and the contraction of every tendon in my body came to a popping halt.

Clarity.

“Um, thank you Ms. Bowry, I’d be happy to join you.”

She sipped slower yet, surely some tainted smile creeping in.

“I, uh, also have something that belongs to you,” I grimaced.

“Good boy, bring it to me.”

The streets seemed darker than necessary as I stumbled towards the water, hunched over in a hoodie as if Bowry wasn’t watching my every move down the hill. Her penthouse viewed south over False Creek, the bridges, and Granville Island itself. I tucked around a corner and headed straight for The Tapa Bar, one of few crevices she could not penetrate.

On route, down on the docks I spotted an obnoxious Jolly Roger flag laying flaccid up the mast of the Filthy Sombrero. Malcolm flew this flag when he was ashore, which always meant he would be at his bar telling false sea tales.

“Sebby!” Malcolm yelled above the mumbling crowd and some familiar music. Cam was behind the DJ booth popping around like he hadn’t just increased his confirmed kills – or maybe because of this.

“Did you solve this thing or what?” Malcolm loosened a button on his shirt as I took a seat next to Burton and Abbotsford. The latter of which looked fairly defeated at the moment.

Burton always looked a bit mangled, so he was probably just fine.

“Well,” I said, “set a trap, I think.”

“Ya, Cam filled us in. Sounds too simple man,” Malcolm popped the cap of a stubby beer and spun it over.

“Speaking of which, we need to –”

“Copy the drive, already done,” said Abbotsford, his face squished up like a dark pug resting in his hands.

“What’s his problem?” I nudged Burton.

“He’s bummed about the demise of the city, and his lady I think.”

“Ya, well at least he’s got a lady. Mine’s probably laying in a ditch somewhere.”

“You shut your mouth,” Malcolm slammed down a bottle to interrupt most conversation around the bar. “You don’t even know if she’s gone for sure,” he hissed at me, shooing away the eyes with his hairy hand.

“Ya, well, believe me, if she’s alive, she will find me. And she will beat the shit out of me. That’s how our relationship works. If she doesn’t, then she’s dead, or worse yet, she’s being used by Bowry.”

“Worse yet? You are the asshole you think you are,” Malcolm turned his back on me.

“Bigger fish, Malcolm, bigger fish,” I slugged off the beer, not minding his tantrum and turning to Burton with a what’s-with-that-guy look.

“So, what’s the play?” Burton diverted.

“We have to return the hard drive to Bowry tonight, and I have to pretend I’m succumbing to the plant to buy us time.”

“How do you know you’re not succumbing to the plant?” he raised his eyebrows like a stoned conspiracy theorist. Like a Burton.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” I shifted and looked behind me to check.

Burton eyed me up and down like I was some kind of narco from some plot in his youth. “I suppose.”

“I think we ought to just go up there,” I continued.

“Whoa whoa, we? Up where?” he squirmed.

“Up to Bowry’s to return the hard drive, get the heat off us, buy some time and try to get more info out of her.”

“I ain’t going up there, that’s a world I don’t want to see,” he shook his head.

“Come on man, back me up, you’re my guy.”

Burton pulled at his gaucho for some time, “Fine, but he’s coming too,” he elbowed Abbotsford, “need some hustle muscle.”

“What does that racist shit mean?” Abbotsford lurched up.

“Calm down, fudge thunderdome, I just mean you’ve got dangerous and delightful karate dance-power.”

“I don’t even know karate, and I can’t dance worth shit, this isn’t a seventies movie and you need to drop that racist bullshit, Willie Nelson-looking motherfucker.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, take ‘er easy, Abbotsford,” I interjected, “we’re all running a little bit hot right now, for good reason. But let’s stick together, alright? And I’m sorry I said what I did about your ex-girlfriend last night, this plant gets a hold of you and it makes you say stupid shit.”

“Well, it seems to me it makes you say shit that’s pretty fucking honest,” he plopped his face back down into his hands then plunged into a fruity cocktail.

He wasn’t wrong. Lack of filter was a gnarly side effect of the plant.

“Okay, well I apologize, let’s just get through this and see if we can’t put a dent in their plan so we can all get back to normal.”

“Count me out,” said Malcolm, returning with his sour face, buttoned down further.

“Why?” I said.

“Well, speaking of normal, I have to keep up appearances over here, I’ll meet up with you guys later. Just come back down when you’re done consorting with the enemy. I’ll maintain…the norm,” his eyes searched the girls at the end of the bar, but not with the usual fervour.

“What is normal?” said Burton with those raised eyebrows.

I looked at my old friend. “I think you should do some mushrooms before we go up there, you’re being weird.”

“Fourteen steps ahead of you as always,” he raised his mug and the woody chunks that bobbed around within.

“Perfect.”

A Boy Named Trauma

B owry’s building was the one structure in Yaletown that didn’t look like a syringe poking into the sky’s pillowy skin. Pointy, yes, but the ultra-exclusive condominiums were of a broad sandstone exterior with crawling copper spires. A gothic throw-back with gargoyles growling out at the city, wrought-iron gates at each corner, with a Spanish courtyard beyond holding swirling staircases and staggered verandas. There were only a few units in the entire building, hers holding the upper three levels; a tower above the rest.

“Cool, a retinal scanner!” Cam bounced up to the intercom and jammed his head into a dark glass box with red lasers percolating.

“Cam, no,” I said just in time to see a crimson burst and his head jolt up into the aluminum lip of the encasement.

“Agh,” he shrieked, rubbing at his eyes and swirling about.

Burton shook his head, “Son, you sure can kill good, but you’re about as bright as Johnny Rotten.”

“Good evening, I see you brought your…friends,” came Bowry’s voice over the intercom.

I looked to Burton and Cam, having left Abbotsford and Malcolm back at the bar.

“Good evening,” I said smiling meekly at any one of the three cameras pointed at us.

“Please come up, you know the way.” Click.

The wrought-iron gate buzzed at its lock quietly and we entered the courtyard.

“Wow, would you look at this,” Burton smiled and spun around, walking backwards, staring upwards. “It’s like a fairy-tale…but with an evil cunt up top.”

The building was magnificent, to be sure. The plant life was crawling up and around, creating depth and tones like the stockades of some Irish castle. Yet the warmth of the inner walls from the day’s sun, the fragrance, and the trickling fountains all around spoke of Spain’s villas.

“The belly of the beast,” Cam squinted around.

Her large wooden doors opened from the balcony outside and as we approached, I got that familiar crackling feeling up my back and neck. Pachulia filled my nostrils and I knew instantly what was coming.

“Namaste, Sebastian,” said the yoga manatee, dreadlocks flowing in the breeze so many stories up.

“What the –” Burton fell back as the dull light exposed her pronounced features, sinewy arms and chest, floating at the doorway draped in Indonesian textiles.

“So many shadows,” said Cam who was rubbing at his eyes.

“Lucky bastard,” Burton whimpered.

“Ahh, mushrooms, I have that effect on mushrooms,” the Rastafarian manatee smiled in her own way, lip piercings glistening, blotchy skin stretching.

“Oh god,” Burton shuttered quietly.

“Please invite your energy inside.”

We crossed the threshold one by one and the expanse of the place unfolded before us.

Bowry welcomed us adorned in some sort of evening gown, like an elegant ghoul, dripping in sparkly things.

“Good evening boys, thank you for coming, please have a seat,” she smiled with various shades of yellow, grey and light brown.

The city was spread out below us. Two-storey arching windows created a theatre for the streetlights and Salish Sea beyond. The container ships sparkled in the bay, lined up in waiting for the port’s guidance.

I tapped nervously at the hard drive in my hoodie pouch. Bowry smiled deeper at me. “Can I get you a drink, Sebastian?”

“No thank you,” I tried to retreat from her eyes.

Burton sat forward with his hands cupped over his bony knees. “Old lady,” he offered, “these boys tell me you’re looking to take over the city? What should we expect for your big day tomorrow?”

I winced.

“Yeah, is it going to be like Castellan conditioning by the Sith Empire’s Intelligence Service?” Cam piped up.

“Cam,” I closed my eyes.

“What’s the code word, Bowry, spill it!” he pointed a finger at her.

Bowry snickered, “Although I’m certain whatever it is you’re blabbering about must be exciting, I’m not exactly in concert.”

“Out with it, oldballs!” Burton shouted at the ceiling and we all jumped slightly.

“Your pure masculine energy is filling my gate,” the manatee lowered herself beside Burton, who alerted and scrambled nowhere.

“We’re prepared to cut a chunk out of Seb’s skull and pour bleach over it to release the devil plant’s hold, fully prepared,” Cam pointed at me now.

“What about yours?” Bowry smiled grimly at him. Cam retracted his finger.

She shifted in her seat and sipped some tea casually.

“Young men, there is no need to pour bleach into your…skull, or whatever it is you have in mind.”

“In mind…” Burton giggled.

The manatee placed a sensual fin upon his knee, and he jerked back into transient sobriety.

“You have it all wrong, you see, this ‘devil plant’ as you call it is quite the opposite. This plant has qualities that will free the bounds of mankind – of society – as we know it. This is the God plant if anything.” she leaned forward, “but you know this of course, you know this because you stole one of my students’ computer files, didn’t you?”

“Solomon? Your student? Student of what, exactly?” I said.

A toilet flushed deep in the penthouse from behind me and Cam’s face told me exactly what I needed to know before I saw her.

Elle slid sheepishly through the room and sunk down beside Bowry. “What’d I miss?” she looked around, trying not to catch my eye.

“The day when loyalty and morals were handed out,” Cam sneered at her.

“Oh sure,” she growled back, “you’re becoming quite the disciple of Seb’s, aren’t ya, little Cam?”

“What exactly do you have to say about discipleship, Elle?” I nodded toward Bowry, mouthing ‘sellout’.

Elle looked genuinely hurt. Bowry saw this and put a lizard-skinned arm around her, “This young lady has nothing but your best interest in mind, if only you could see it.”

“Right,” I looked to Elle. “Then who has your best interests in mind… these ladies here? Weissenstrat, Solomon? Do you know that kid experimented on Captain Crunch…he was a test subject?” Elle’s face scrunched up. “These are the choices you’re making now?”

I stood up, if for no other reason than emphasis.

“Where is Solomon, my son?” Bowry stood with me, “he seems to have disappeared, and you seem to have this,” She reached into my pouch and ripped the hard drive out like she was catching a fly with her tongue, tossing it awkwardly back to Elle.

“Maybe one of us was poisoned by you assholes and Solomon paid the price…what about that?” I yelled.

Bowry paced with a pale digit to her chin.

“Interesting, we wouldn’t have thought that a likely outcome,” she mumbled.

I smiled, “This is what happens when people are traumatized against their will.”

She turned and looked at me, and in that moment, I saw only her fingernail pushing deeply into the skin below her lip.

“Trauma,” she said, “you know nothing of it.”

“I know everything about it.”

She thought further and the colour returned to her chin as she released her nail.

“If you did, you wouldn’t act the way you do, son.”

“How do I act?”

“You are complacent, weak, you hide away and build worlds that are small and do not matter.”

In the corner of my eye I saw Elle shifting. “Jesus,” she said.

“And how would you act if your free will was taken from you, if you were traumatized without assent?” I said.

“I would avenge those who were harmed, and I would venge onward against those who had done wrong,” Bowry lifted her chest with this strange irony.

“I would agree with you there, lady.”

Bowry laughed, “And yet you do nothing, so I will do everything.”

“You’re on the wrong side of this, how can you not see?”

“And you are truly blind, until you awaken.”

“Come clean,” I said, “what is the end game?”

She paced to the window.

The manatee was basking in the thick energy of the room.

I too could taste the air as my spine tingled.

Burton was deep in the vibrations, rocking back and forth. God knows what was going on in his head as he smiled at the roof, one hand locked in a claw position.

The manatee was breathing in some bizarre yogic pattern, in a trance with a smile creeping across her metal-hinged lips.

Cam was shaking, hands clenched, he had a stabby look in his eye.

Elle was quietly crying.

“Come clean, come clean…” Bowry turned and reached for her teacup, “Sebastian, that is exactly what’s happening. I’m glad you’ve arrived here,” she sipped through the cracks of her failing teeth, “The filth of those people below, their lies, their fear, their shame of not being free. It will all be cleaned.”

The teacup hit the saucer.

I twitched.

There was nothing until the explosion.

Cam had jumped to his feet and dove over the glassy-gold coffee table with arms outstretched for Bowry’s vein-tangled neck. I saw the red in his eyes from the ad hoc retinal scan, which possibly caused him to misjudge the flight by inches. His fingers dragged down her dress and gripped only the dainty teacup and a very pricey-looking tennis bracelet. His sneaker toe caught the corner of the coffee table and its gentle edge tapped, popped, and exploded instantly.

“Cam, no!” I yelled far too late and jumped on his back.

Bowry jolted back in horror. The manatee shot over the mess and covered the old woman like a secret service agent, backing her up towards a spiral staircase near the far window.

“Oh my god,” shouted Elle, “Are you okay?”

“Shut your trap…Sith,” Cam grunted from beneath me, his palms crunching into the glass.

I looked to the staircase and saw Bowry smiling back to me from behind the manatee. I was splayed over Cam, having possibly saved her from a secondary strangling attempt.

“We have to solve this thing first,” I whispered to Cam, assuring myself at the same time that I wasn’t actually protecting her. I pulled him up, brushing the gold shards out of skin.

“Thank you, Sebastian, I see you may awaken yet,” said Bowry.

“What are we doing?” Elle was crying on the couch, her hands covering her face as she belted over, dropping the hard drive to the ground.

“Get the drive…and her,” Bowry pushed the manatee feebly, who in turn advanced on Elle with mindful, shit-kicking vinyasa. Elle struggled and screamed as she, the hard drive, and Bowry disappeared up the spiral staircase and out of sight.

“Seb?” Cam rubbed at his eyes.

“Holy shit,” said the couch behind us, “you guys see the dread- locks on that sea-cow?” Burton was staring at various reflections in the shattered prism of golden glass sprayed across the white carpet.

Before he could reach for the shininess and try to eat it for its powers, a terrifying blast of alarm came from everywhere around us. The bowel-evacuating screeches, lifted from some fancy European jewel heist movie, shocked our bodies in unison and we ran like bastards out the great room, through the large wooden doors, falling down steps, up and over fountains to escape that cunty fairy tale.

We climbed more modest stairs, back up to Burton’s annex of rarities and laid out on the turquoise carpet like dazed starfish. Having escaped with not much - aside from a score of exotic necklaces that Burton confiscated on his way out and was currently wearing – we retreated to the record shop.

“You should’ve let me shit in her bathtub,” Cam said, busying himself at a keyboard and the folders of the copied hard drive.

“You’re right, that would have been the right thing to do.” I pulled the lighter from my pocket and flicked at its flint.

“Hey, that’s mine,” he grabbed it from my outstretched hands.

“It’ll find its way back,” I muttered, flopping my body down to the crumb-ridden rug.

I closed my eyes and wiggled in discomfort, reaching around to a back pocket. I pulled Skinny’s cassette out and lifted it to the light.

TDK, dull and scratchy black, classic.

The relabeled label read ‘Bitter’s Demise’ in pretty blue script that leaned to the left like a drunk sailor trying to get home. Sinister and harmless all at once. I pulled the top label off with a few fingernail scrapes, revealing another with the same writing, this one citing ‘A Tribe Called Quest’.

“Burton,” I shouted to the lower level, “Throw this on, would ya?” I tossed it overboard and heard a commotion and some gentle cursing regarding a cactus. A minute later the wheels turned, and some familiar beats came over the loudspeakers.

“Tribe, excellent,” Cam bobbed his head, picking up the pace, clicking through files at full speed.

I closed my eyes again and let my breathing slow to a crawl.

“Holy shit,” I heard Cam say through the percussion minutes later, far, far away in some other dream. “Holy shit,” he said again. His voice bounced around, something about Montreal, something about Solomon, more about Bowry and Dr. Cameron.

Too tired, too dizzy, very tingly.

I let my eyes rest like pillows atop the crackling of my spine. Now familiar, that popping sensation was almost soothing. I smiled to myself as Cam went on and on, his excitement was kind of nice. Like a yappy guard dog allowing me to safely catnap.

My mind wandered back toward a smaller fish.

Like a Gentleman

S ure, in these strange days I’ve found myself repelled by her, but it was not so much time ago I admit to being quite fond of Adina’s antics. I’m not sure where the divergence first began, but I can say with certainty that the past years have been less than clairvoyant. That my choices have been traversed with casual detachment.

I had been working at The Tapa Bar when I first met her. Struggling to find my way, if even to justify the art classes I was scraping the tip money together for. I hadn’t spoken with my dad for years having left the house for a new life reality. Something I hoped held more love, and more conversation than the nothingness that sat in place of Mom at the dinner table.

I had no real family to speak of, no real job outside of retrieving wet currency from the bar top, sliding drinks in return through thick pools of liqueur, as aged tourists licked their jowls in my general direction.

I had lost the ability to care about standard transaction. I needed more, and I was in an open, if delusional state of readiness. That deadly combination of desperation and overwhelming melancholy topped with a layer of treacherous egotism. Something about that recipe resulted in the even sadder by-product of attracting the more picante variety of the opposite sex.

“Dude,” I recalled Malcolm’s nightly reassurance, “do we have it good, or do we have it good?”

“This is some kind of special hell,” I would say in return as I picked up a cold, sticky rag and wiped something, anything to make it shine momentarily.

So, when she walked in and commanded the entire bar, as she did so well, I found myself enchanted, ensconced.

“You, barboy. Pour me a shot you’ve never mixed before, and name it after me. I’ll be on the dancefloor, keep tabs on this,” she said, throwing an oversized orangutan-bladder of a purse that was coloured like, and smelled of, that signature vanilla cream soda…and orangutan bladder. Things flew out of the bag as it went over the bar, and I found myself for the first of many times on my knees collecting artifacts that had no business in my life. Many makeup-smudged mirrors, panties, gum, chapstick, lipstick, chop sticks, more gum, more mirrors, a switchblade.

“Who is that magnificent specimen?” Malcolm stood over me and popped another button from his shirt, this one actually snapping free from its frayed threads. I tried unsuccessfully to recover the filthy thing from the ice well as a slick of Hawaiian Tropics oil spread instantly from its surface into the next few dozen drinks to be made, possibly an improvement.

“I don’t know, but something tells me that I will soon,” I said, horrified at my words and their truth.

As sure as the grease in Malcolm’s trimmed chest hair, I did get to know Adina that night, and again in the morning. And for whatever godforsaken reason, she never really left.

There was a time near the beginning of whatever our relationship became, maybe our third date, when I thought she could be the fix. We sat with our backs against a log on Kits beach, the sun going down behind the tankers in the bay, dogs barking playfully through the park. The scene was idyllic, and I was happy.

My arm rested around her neck which lay sweetly on my shoulder. There was a layer of peach haze sitting on the horizon between Point Grey and Bowen Island. Rogue sailboats nodded about the bay with little notice from the shoreline, beyond the odd flash photo to capture their glistening bows. My mind drifted with the plastic cup of cheap shiraz I held loosely in my lap, thoughts split between our evening bike ride over the Burrard bridge and the long hot night to come. It was a simpler time.

I looked to Adina with a smile, her cute little tongue hanging out, eyes closed tight, an oily joint burned out but still in her clutches. Things were easier back then, and maybe things never changed for her, but I do credit that moment as the one that would inspire me to get out of my own self-pity, my family shackles, out of the hospitality business and into something that meant something. In my case, it would be horticulture and the business of selling strange organisms to strange people who valued such things.

I had the number of a big gay sailor named Frances and he was waiting for a call back about some artwork for his big gay plant shop.

I was grateful for that time.

Adina peed herself on the beach that evening, but like a gentleman, I did not tell her, but simply carried her home, left her outside on the balcony and quietly washed the sleeves of my shirt in the night.

But now – now she could be gone forever, my cream soda’d orangutan bladder.

“Seb!” the slap across my face stung, but the waft of vanilla almost broke my nose.

I shook through the pain and my blurred vision cleared slightly with each hard blink.

“Take it easy, he’s at the mercy of the plant,” Cam’s voice came from above.

“He punched me in the dick,” Malcolm shouted from some- where, “slap him again,”

“That was amazing, this plant is amazing!” Burton was clapping his hands and hopping around giddily.

“Seb, get up you piece of shit!” her voice shot through me like a glittery cannonball.

“Adina?” I inched to my elbows and came face to face with the ghost straddling me on the sticky floor of The Tapa Bar. “You’re alive?”

“I should say the same thing about you. Where the fuck is your phone, asshole?”

“Oh, I took it,” Cam raised his hand, “didn’t want the bad guys to find us yesterday. We thought you were Bowry texting, so we went into dark mode.”

“What in the shit are you talking about, you weird little turd?”

“You’re not dead?” I said again, trying to push her off my tingling legs. “I saw your body at our place, I thought the manatee got you. There was blood.”

Adina twisted from me, looked around the room then lunged at Burton like a rabid squirrel, “What did you give him, record-man?”

“Me? Nothing, the plant’s got a hold of him, we told you that,” he backed away, smiling wildly.

“That wasn’t you in our bed, bleeding?” I said, shaking my head, trying to get up.

“You punched me in the dick, bro,” Malcolm repeated from behind the bar.

Adina stood with a hip cocked out, fingernails tapping on her black apron. “I was at The Barrel, working, you piece of sh…oh. Oh,” she paused then reached for her phone. “Ohhh,” she said again.

“What, ‘ohhh’? What?” I got to my feet and surveyed the bar. When did we go to the bar?

“Ohhhhh,” Adina swiped through her phone and smiled like a slutty ghoul, “Cindy left me this cryptic text yesterday…she says she owes us new sheets - Aunt Flow came in early.”

“Awwww, dammit,” Cam groaned.

“Cindy, huh? What’s she up to tonight?” Malcolm leaned over the bar top.

“Back off, Pervert,” Adina smiled over her shoulder.

I didn’t ignore the fact that he smiled back…in a less creepy way than usual.

“Did you deserve the cock-shot?” I interjected.

“I was just talking to Abbotsford, trying to see why he bailed on us this time around.”

“Well, he would have been made,” I said, “don’t forget he’s the one who delivered those first plants. Bowry probably thinks he’s still one of her gofers.”

“Exactly my point,” said Malcolm, “maybe he is.”

“And that’s when you punched him in the business,” Burton saluted, “just like Janis Joplin.”

I looked around and rubbed my eyes again, “Well, where is he now? And why are we here?”

“You were flailing around on the floor upstairs,” Burton pointed in the direction of his shop, “I thought you would start foaming at the mouth again, we figured the best thing would be to change locations and get a beer in you.”

A beer slid down the bar and over the edge to the floor. Malcolm winked at Adina on the sly.

“I once had a very druggy milkshake in Indonesia,” continued Burton, “and as I was tripping ballsack out on the beach with a magnificent turtle, some guy offered me a Bintang, but I drank water instead. Got worse, way worse. They found me naked on the other side of the island with that same turtle hours later, or maybe his brother. The beer was the only thing that could bring me back.”

“Memories,” Malcolm said.

“Yeah, great trip…good vacation, too,” Burton agreed.

“Abbotsford, where is Abbotsford?” I said again.

“He ran out of here when all the commotion started.”

“Why does the black guy always bail?” Malcolm threw his hands up, “and why is there only one of him, why not two black guys?”

All eyes turned to Malcolm.

“This isn’t a movie, man,” I said finally.

“Could be,” he muttered and made himself busy sweeping broken glass around behind the bar.

“Well, this has been fucking weird, guys,” Adina said, “I’m bagged, I’m going to Cindy’s to get my sheets back, then I’m going to bed. Weissenstrat has me working the Sea Fest tomorrow. So, whatever the fuck is happening with you,” she poked a finger into my chest, “and some fucking plant…figure it out. I’m getting tired of your bullshit.”

She was gone before I could tell her to move out. Meanwhile, it didn’t pass me by that Malcolm was smiling like a shithead with a dustpan in his hand.

“This is bullshit,” I spun on my heels, “What time is it?”

“It’s like three in the morning,” Cam said.

“I’m out of here, I need some air. Sorry about your genitals, you deserved it though,” I threw the back of my hand towards Malcolm as I walked away.

“Yeah, well I hope you figure out whatever is happening with you and that plant, too, bud,” he said back with a bit of meek spice.

I walked to the door and heard Cam following suit. “Wait up, Seb, I’ve got to tell you some things.”

“Not now, Cam, I’m done for the day.”

“Well, let’s just say I stumbled upon the script to the rest of the Star Wars franchise…you’re going to want to give it a look.”

“Cam, I can’t digest your metaphors right now…”

“The plant…Bowry…I’ve got it,” he said, following me out.

I sighed, rubbing my temples.

“Let’s get some coffee.”

I cupped my hands between my face and the dark glass of the coffee shop door.

“It’s late…or early, I don’t think they’re going to be open, man,” Cam paced.

I tapped on the window, seeing the pierced barista working the bar like a submarine engineer. Arms firing independently, headphones on. One hand held a rag, cleaning the various components of the elaborate espresso machine, the other stacking bags of organic, free-trade, non-GMO, yada-yada-yada beans from the deep south continent.

She stopped and squinted. Then she came to the door like I thought she might.

“I brought your mug back,” I said, smiling.

“Night owl, huh?” she pulled the headphones down and returned to her station.

“Yeah, well, work never sleeps, does it?”

“Not if I can help it,” she smiled, “I’m almost shut down, but do you want your thing?”

“Please, I’d appreciate that,” I said, “do you mind if we chill by the fire while you finish up?”

“Of course, just don’t make too much noise, the rookie is passed out downstairs.”

“My god, what did you do?”

“I wasn’t fully sure if someone could OD from caffeine, but it turns out there’s no drug in the world that won’t grip the body if given enough liberty.”

Cam nodded.

I wondered if murder is considered a drug.

“Is she okay?” I asked.

“We’ll find out tomorrow I suppose,” she winked.

There was something sinister and awesome behind that pierced brow.

Best coffee shop in the city.

“Can I have a hot chocolate please,” Cam said from behind me.

“Sure princess, no problem, just don’t strangle me.”

“Wha –” Cam said as I pulled him over to the mismatched chairs at the fireplace. A good barista knows everything. Everything.

“Okay, spill it, Cam.”

“Right, so when you were sleeping, or thrashing about on the floor at Burton’s, I did some digging in the darkweb.”

“Darkweb?” I rubbed my skull.

“No time, let’s just say I googled some shit.”

“Okay.”

“Bowry was connected to that twisted psychiatrist guy, Dr. Cameron. Good name, bad dude, baaaad mamma jamma,” he said.

“How?”

“She was a benefactor of McGill University…Montreal. The city of hip hop and hotties.”

“Is it?” I continued to massage my head, possibly hearing bone crunching, under my fingertips

“Yeah, that’s what Malcolm says. And lots of cigarettes… thousands of amateur models just smoking and giving out tonnes and tonnes of blowj –”

“Cam,” I winced, admittedly considering the weight-unit measurement of Quebecois fellatio.

“So, as we know, Dr. Cameron got this grant and moved his operation up from New York. But what we missed was that Bowry was one of the major donors.”

“She helped him with his research?”

“Not directly, in fact there was a bunch of money coming from her trust to fund several university projects back east. But then, I found a trail of Solomon, he was all over the dark web, trying to get funding to re-up Dr. Cameron’s work decades later. He was totally ignored for a couple of years of blogging and publishing shitty papers that made no sense…and then, nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“He disappeared. Nothing after the summer of twenty-ten.”

“What happened then?”

“Well, that I don’t know, Bowry was on the west coast by then, you could track the trail of her donations along the coast down to Northern California. Then, nothing, around the same time.”

“So, something happened around that time to bring these two scumbags together, is that what you’re telling me?”

“It’s a theory, I’ll keep looking.”

“How do you know how to dark web?” I was impressed.

The pierced barista dropped down two mugs of delicious warmth.

“It’s easier than you’d think,” she interjected, “Burning the mid- night hash oil?” she asked, plopping down beside us.

“You could say that,” I said, “Hey, you notice anything weird going on in the neighborhood this week?”

“More than usual? This city is a complete disaster on a good day,” she smirked.

“I hear that. Yeah, but like, anything not-so-average?”

“I see you running around like an idiot a lot these days,” she said.

I tucked my face behind the mug and sipped a long one, probably nodding, maybe twitching.

“Other than that, I’ve seen that rich old lady around quite a bit. The one that you’ve met with here a few times. She seems to be spreading it out with some other young bucks. Is she running an escort service out of my coffee shop?”

“That would be so much better,” Cam said.

The sadistic barista looked from Cam to me and back again. “Okay, well, you two lovebirds have a good one, I’m going to get out of here, things to do. Head out the back, it’s self-locking. Don’t touch a goddamn thing.”

“Thanks, uh,” I realized I had no idea what her name was.

“No problem,” she completed my thought.

“Oh, hey,” I said as she bounced up, “be…careful tomorrow.”

“I always am,” her pierced eye twinkled, and she was gone.

Cam and his chocolate moustache turned and looked at me funny. “Does she know about Sea Fest?”

“The person who makes your coffee knows more than you do, always. Think about it, she fuels you with drugs when you’re at your weakest, like clockwork every morning and every afternoon at the exact same time. God knows what kind of intel she extracts subtly day after day, dummy after dummy.”

“Right! That’s the other thing,” Cam popped up in his seat like a seven-year-old with a fudgsicle, “In the posts and papers that Solomon was spewing out before he went silent, he was especially focused on ‘remothering’.”

“So, he had already figured out the plant?”

“No, not necessarily, he was using all kinds of shit, but the consistent element was repetition.”

“Repetition?” I said proudly.

“Very funny. Yes, repetition of a thing or patterns of things repeated. His theory was that administering something at intervals and then using some sort of sensory activation - or patterns of them - repeatedly, well, that would trigger the person, or dog in his case, to do x.” Cam was getting worked up now, Star Wars comics surely flipping through his mind.

“Right, so using hypnosis and some kind of brain muscle memory training to call on x, but what is x?”

“I don’t know, I figure the action is built in like a command, buried into the sensory trigger, then repeated.”

“But I haven’t had any commands piggy-backed into my head… that I know of.”

Cam put his finger to his ear, “Skinny’s tapes?”

I thought about Michael Jackson and A Tribe Called Quest and my spine popped.

“Just music,” I sipped quietly.

“So, what if there is no command?”

“What would be the point of that?” I said.

“Chaos. What if she just wants chaos?”

I thought for moment, but it hurt the backs of my eyeballs.

“Ok, well, we know we have three opportunities to stop whatever this is,” I struggled, “First, the plant getting into people, we gotta stop that. Second, the sensory triggers that will activate the devil’s lettuce. And third, we need to stop whatever it is that the combo of the first two ‘remothers’ people to do. Command or chaos, both are bad news. Right?”

“M’kay,” said Cam.

“We found the plant, so we need to ruin that shit.”

“Yes.”

“Now we need to find something that is repetitious to crowds of people.”

“Exactly, maybe to the ears, the eyes, patterns.”

“Then, failing that, we need a backup plan to deal with a city under command - or chaos.”

“Sweet,” Cam licked his lips.

“Fuck,” I sipped.

“Yup,” said Cam.

Part VII: A Few Hours in Advance of Violent Retinal Gorging

Tapping In

B urton once told me a story. It was of Vancouver in the late nineteenth century. I believe we were on the roof of the record shop, perhaps sharing a cup of tea.

The city was dire, possibly even more so than at current timing. It’s all relative, however - they didn’t have water back then. Well, they did, from wells dug deep beneath Hotel Vancouver and elsewhere. But the holes were full of drowned and rotting rats that provided little other than nasty Typhoid outbreaks for the city.

That is to say times were tough, and apparently quite racist. There’s the example of a lad who came over from Japan, likely the first of his brand, having lost everything in Osaka. With nothing left to be stolen, he made his way to the fishing village of Steveston, not so far from the city itself. This man was passionate, he was earnest, and he longed for a smoother life for his next generation, god willing.

Osaka was further than most Vancouverites could’ve imagined at that point. The travel was drastic, and if one was to disembark without business of trade, he was likely holding less currency than his shoes were worth. If he still had those.

So, this man fished, and he made a life for himself. He sent for his family, for the other young men of his village. They would set up a new life, a new village, he gave his word. And so, they did. They fished, they built, and they thrived. All with little water. They moved business into the city proper, and they were met with disaster. Such was the way for these early immigrants, namely Japanese and Chinese.

Put a pin in that.

Water then persecution, persecution then water.

Two of the more fantastic moments in those budding times were both a massive step forward and two gigantic leaps backward, and within twenty years of one another.

First, the water.

The story goes that there were two warring utility companies vying for the bid to bring fresh water to downtown, either from the coastal mountains, or from lakes much further to the east, respectively. The former, through a yet-to-be-conceived pipeline laid across the raging narrows of Burrard Inlet where the Lions Gate Bridge now straddles proudly. A political battle went on for years, engulfing the entire town with that Blood or Crip mentality. Finally, the local choice was victorious and with piles of tax dollars, the Capilano Company set out to find the right engineer to captain the would-be debacle the public thirsted for.

There were expensive heroes tapped from afar, some of whom had supposedly succeeded at equal feats in the past. However, no person anywhere had attempted to lay pipe at submarine depth across three thousand feet of saltwater, running at almost ten knots. Yet, one after another, some in pure cowardice, proud men accepted and triumphantly abandoned the plot, burning money and reputation as they went. One individual from New Jersey made it a couple hundred feet before destroying some rather important equipment and promptly left on ‘private business’ to some Midwest state with his tail tucked, never to return.

Finally, in 1889 the right team succeeded, and the first hydrant was cranked open and minutes later Vancouver enjoyed the best tasting water in the west, flowing freely without Typhoid. Of course, large-keeled ships that passed through at lower tides would often snap the line and the entire city would shut down for days. These were early times.

Second, the persecution.

Just twenty years after that victory, well-hydrated and feeling quite sophisticated, a group emerged in town aptly dubbed the Oriental Exclusion League. One day, the league gathered at city hall to share their vigorous discomfort with all Chinese and Japanese immigrants - the very same they had grinded side-by-side with to build and feed the city. When times are good, the people have too much time.

The mob spent its time marching through Chinatown, destroying businesses and fighting where they were safely backed by the throbbing, raging horde. Eventually, they made it to then-Japantown but were promptly beaten aback by the immigrant locals who were majority veterans of the recent Russo-Japanese war. A small, but wonderful detail that still mostly evades historic pages today, according to Burton.

These two events always stuck with me amongst the often-celebrated antics of gamblers, pirates, hookers, rumrunners, gold-diggers, vigilantes and scoundrels that pepper the Gastown-era tales of the city. How could a town so fresh, in such a boom, go from the heights of welcoming immigrants, solving a significant engineering challenge to unlock far off freshwater, to the lows of pure, unedited and actioned persecution of those same folks?

That, to me, is Vancouver. Today, yesterday, every day. The yin and yang of absurdities. A spectrum of social cannibalism.

Thus, was the dream state I now faced in the very same city, where I was now being forced to conjure powers of the Japanese and some sushi master, while trying to conquer city plans and watermains.

Constantly tapping through the brain, were those dream state moments and stories.

The tapping became louder, and without interval. It was the tap of somebody who tapped often, not impatient, just stoically passing time.

“Sir,” said the tappist, “Sir, this isn’t the place to sleep. Time to go home.”

As one might, in such cases, I shot up, curious before the embarrassment would arrive. The surroundings were clear and familiar. The innards of my phone booth, one of them anyways.

“Sir, do you need assistance?” asked the tappist. I could see through bleary eyes that he was an officer of the law, and his chosen tapping device was the butt of his gun attached hip side. He leaned on the plexi glass, looking around in the early morning light, bored, perhaps resting.

“Uh, sorry officer, I dosed off.” I lifted my crumpled body and checked for blood, vomit, any fluid that might betray the secrets of an unconscious but eventful evening.

“It happens, sir, do you need assistance?” he carried on looking over the horizon of the bay, his mind elsewhere, or possibly offering some humanity to my situation.

“No, thank you, apologies. I, uh…phone call with my mother, a real snoozer. You know how it is.” I pushed through the accordion doors, brushing off my thighs, searching my pockets from the outside.

“Never good,” he nodded.

I noted his body language, slouching against the booth, it read of a heavy man, much on his mind. His shirt patch read Muniez, he looked vaguely dark, but not Spanish. A single eyebrow stretched above his eyes.

“Listen,” he said, “I’ve seen you before around the west end. I’ve seen you in these phone booths being…weird.”

It didn’t strike me as the speech of a rigid officer, more like that of a faded, jaded, broken man who was held back and/or down.

“I, uh…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Muniez sighed, “See it all the time, just, you’re different.”

I searched myself to find an excuse, but then calmness spread. This cop clearly didn’t care, or cared too much, to not throw me in jail for falling asleep in a phone booth.

“I find solace in this booth, I won’t lie. It’s harmless, it’s a place of peace for me. I work up the street at the garden nursery. It gets hectic and sometimes I need to get away from people. I know that’s weird,” I said, turning to walk off.

“Son, we all need solace,” he said, pushing off the booth and walking up beside me. “You do what you gotta do in this world to get by, right?”

“Thanks for your understanding, I wouldn’t fall asleep again if I can help it, promise.”

“Just be careful out there today, humans everywhere. Won’t get much solace in these things any time soon,” he tapped again for punctuation.

“Thank you, officer Muniez,” I said. He stopped in stride, recalled his name patch in a smooth second, nodded and moved off with syrupy indifference.

Pull My Thousand Fingers

I pushed at Aira’s heavy sushi temple door, but it pushed back. I was weak with bad sleep and dreams, and life.

Eventually it let me pass through, which I regretted once I felt the thickness from within.

“You are one disjointed son of a bitch,” wheezed the girl who smelled like Christmas, “And I dig that about you.”

Her mangled hands were wrapped in bandages like a dozen overcooked cocktail sausages in a worn-out facecloth, and there was a flippy-flapping koi at her feet. She kept one eye on me and one on that fish, even as I slid back against the wall by the door.

“Aira?” I squirted.

The girl booted the fish with a shiny black leg and as it arched perfectly up and into a pond beyond the darkness, her snicker was covered only by the koi’s sploosh.

“Who was driving?” she spat, “It wasn’t you, but I’m sure you gave the call. You called it, didn’t you, Sebastian?” the little girl stalked toward me, jabbing a broken finger through the air.

“You’re alive…good!” I said, kicking myself off the wall. “I certainly didn’t want you to get hurt, but you scared the shit out of us…out of me,” I continued to walk slowly toward her so as to not be pinned against a wall I didn’t particularly trust.

We met in the middle of the sushi temple foyer. A dirty, broken index finger poked through bandages and a holey black glove and jammed itself like a loose door stopper into my chest. Some large bits of fingernail fell off and a gob of plasma stuck to my shirt before stringing down.

“Jesus, are you okay?”

“I’ll be just fine sweetheart. You’re the asshole in the shitstorm right now, not me,” her nub recoiled with a floppy, but effective collapse.

“Sebastian,” Aira spoke from somewhere, “Come in, and bring… your friend.”

I squinted for him, then simply fell in stride with the broken, oozing girl who smelled like Christmas as she limped between ponds and bamboo fields to the back of the restaurant.

Settling to our knees in the corner of this place, this strange moving, shifting, ethereal space, I looked to the sliding walls of parchment and pine. Everything was lit dimly, with just enough to view both Aira and the little girl seating themselves cross-legged, very orderly, in tune.

With some trouble, I ejected my flip flops and folded myself into the corner of the paper-box. I wondered about the integrity of this place, indeed questioning the entire engineering program of post-war Japan. Had they reverted back to this Shogun-era architecture out of duty, out of pride, or out of self-perceived necessity, given the entire nation had been embarrassed, obliterated, confiscated for crimes against the west?

Still, the arrangement was quite refreshing.

I was brought to ponder the past few night’s sleeps. How disturbed, how awful, possibly drugged and manipulated they had been. But instead I felt nothing but raw, hard, unforgiving pine holding up my bottom. No room for change, just pain.

Aira looked at nothing in particular and spoke softly, “There are four virtues of the classic Japanese tea service. Harmony. Respect. Purity. Tranquility.”

Sanford appeared in a rather glorious kimono and proceeded to lay out various cups and saucers that appeared to be made of fresh mud, misshapen and dull. Next came a bowl with leaves and some type of twigs, kind of a pestle and mortar situation. He pulled a bright red handkerchief from his waistline and folded it about until it came to a stiff halt in a perfectly small rectangle. He wiped the modest cups and saucers with smooth calculated motion. Each utensil was wiped four times with that crisp new red handkerchief.

What I thought was a mortar, was pulled out of the tea leaves revealing it was some type of whisk with spiked tips instead of looped wire. He then lifted the lid on a larger-bellied pot and viewed the steam from above with a nod. Next came a large bamboo scoop, like a bucket for an old well. He drew from the pot and poured it over the leaves without losing a drop. His arms moved slowly as he replaced the scoop to the top of the pot and lifted the whisk to the tea bowl. His fingers worked thoroughly in figure-eights, stopping each lap to squeeze the whisk against the side wall, tipping the bowl to concentrate the contact of the leaves.

I was confused as to what happened next, and Aira looked on with some kind of satisfaction. Sanford inspected the tea bowl and promptly dumped the entire mixture out, wiped it clean with another small white cloth and put everything in its place once more.

Then came a smaller container with a tiny bamboo spoon with a scoop no bigger than a pinky nail, the lid came off to uncover a tropical frog-green powder. This must’ve been the real deal, the good stuff.

I had seen something like it firsthand from one of the Asian interns at the nursery. It got everywhere in the bar area. Staining my new white countertops, and every mug in the place with that greenish brown, to match the kid’s teeth. Needless to say, I let the guy go after the summer was finished. Elle was not impressed, but hey, fuck Elle.

More water, more whisking, but this time there was a rapid tapping until the green powder frothed about and created a milky concoction. Aira appeared more and more excited as the mixture settled to a halt and Sanford passed it along.

I was the first to receive. This, I believe, is some honour. So, I bowed slightly around the table, even to the little girl with the mangled finger. She sneered back, and I straightened up a touch.

“Please, go ahead, Sebastian, you may sip to Harmony,” Aira motioned with an arm sweep across the table.

Sanford carried along with the next cup, taking as much time and care as with mine. I raised it to my lips and sipped slowly. The temperature allowed me to take too much in my mouth with but a cheeky singe to the sides of the tongue. Perfection.

The tea itself was slightly chalky, bitter with a touch of sweetness, then very bitter to finish. The full sensation called back to some kind of hallucinogen that I’ve had in my time. Not the plant, but something else entirely. That excitement that instantly floods the body. I didn’t know when it might end which was scary; that hint of danger that made you want to smile and pee a little all at once. I felt slightly hyper, and somewhat at ease. Harmony.

“Thank you, Sanford,” Aira passed the next cup along to the little girl, who’s sneer disappeared at once. She drew from the cup and slid backward against the paper wall. Her head seemed to bow deeper than Aira’s as her eyes became slightly soft and evasive. Respect.

Sanford took his place and Aira knelt to complete the task. His movements were slighter than his student’s, but possibly more powerful as they swished the green powder into oblivion. I watched his hands, the thin bones beneath deep brown-and-spotted skin poked and shifted about as if he were playing an ancient harp.

Aira put his tools to rest and offered the dish, Sanford bowed and received his reward.

Now, I’ve seen this man devour a hot dog with such ferocity - and witnessed the subsequent spray zone of siracha and pickle-bits - that children freeze in awe and parents tug away with haste. It truly is one of the most satisfying moments of my day, and definitely Sanford’s as well, making that sort of mess after sweeping up everything else in the city. But here and now, he accepted his tiny bowl and lifted it above his beard to parched lips with curiosity. He sipped and smiled to himself, a child-like pleasure. Purity.

Aira went to work on the last serving for himself. Gently, quickly, without so much care perhaps. This was not ordinary, I imagine, for the host to make his or her own potion, skipping the extravagant gift of service by another. He bowed to each of us in line and indulged. He pulled the lip of the cup from his own, but only slightly. I believe his closed eyes were smiling when he swallowed. And he rested there as I imagined the liquid traced downward. Tranquility.

Looking around the table I met eyes with the little girl, then with Sanford, and at last with Aira. The air seemed to be very clear now. I wasn’t aware it wasn’t clear before, but now I could see, it was clear.

“The act of laying out the vessels and utensils, the weapons and the art,” Aira said slowly, “the cleansing and the mixing, the service and the manner of time taken; these are all unified in the four virtues of Harmony, Respect, Purity, and Tranquility. Much like the kaiseki, this ancient experience asks that you uplift your being and take it to another place, away from man’s faults and traps.”

“Four virtues,” I muttered.

“Yes,”

The little girl’s eyes brightened.

“Yeah, four virtues, four banners…four assholes trying to ruin this city,” I propped up, nearly puncturing an elbow through the paper wall. A paper wall that should have broken through.

“Go on,” said Aira.

“Four banners that I designed. Fishery, shipbuilding, marine life, sailing. The banners for the festival tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Aira sipped again.

“Four enemies; Bowry, Weissenstrat, Skinny, Elle – wait, jury’s out on those ones. Solomon…the Yoga manatee…the bass player?”

“Too many,” the little girl tapped her broken finger on the table.

“What’s going on, Sebastian,” asked Aira. It was more of a directive than a question.

“I don’t know, that’s what I’m trying to figure out. All these patterns.” I looked up and realized that these people had no idea what I was talking about. But they didn’t seem too bothered. “Wait, what’s going on here, Aira?” I stood up, or tried to, then merely fell back against the ‘paper’ wall.

“You have taken on more than any man I have ever seen in my lifetimes,” Aira smiled. “You are strong, and I’m not sure why. You show true diligence against powers and potions. And they continue to attack you for some reason, perhaps to break you, perhaps to learn from you.”

I breathed in his words.

“Who are they?” I demanded, “No, scratch that, did you just say ‘lifetimes’?”

The little girl stared at me as she slowly and completely pulled off her broken finger.

“Ahhhhhhh,” I shared loudly.

Sanford passed out on the table, his beard absorbed much of the shock, but his head did make a good bonking noise alongside my groan.

“We’ve been around a while,” said the girl.

“What does that mean? What does that mean?!” I pushed hard back into the wall, a jolt of pain shot up my spine. Not paper, not paper at all.

“It doesn’t matter, Sebastian,” Aira said, “What matters is that you harness your gifts, everything you’ve seen, felt, heard, smelled and tasted. In the end everything is beautiful, so in the end you should make everything beautiful.”

The Rue of Four

T  he click of the wrought iron latch felt at once like the first time, and for the first time like it could be the last. The front gates to Verdigris crawled open and her expanse of greenery struck with some kind of sadness from within.

This had been my home, my true home, my only home. Now it sat on the precipice of nothingness along with everything else in this unlucky city. I walked the floor, brushing my plant friends with open palms. Nodding to the taller fellows that groped through the spiral staircase and up into the skylights. Waving my arms over the endless countertops of oddities, in and around cacti and air plants of various spunk and spire.

The underlings had done a decent job of cleaning up and closing down for the big weekend. Upstairs, the Franceses had clearly done nothing of any consequence as I rooted through the office for signs of commotion. Not that it mattered at the moment, but that’s me, optimistically worrying for an end to this bizarre trip so I could get back to my paperwork.

An undead girl who smelled like Christmas just pulled a finger from her undead hand while looking me in the eye. The fertilizer order can wait.

“Seb, you here?” Cam’s voice came from downstairs.

“Up here!” I sorted through my desk drawers, looking for my art notebooks.

Cam, Abbotsford, and Burton sauntered in, looking like they had had a medium-sized night out.

“They’re starting to set up out there,” said Abbotsford, with guilty bags atop his slim cheekbones.

“Welcome back,” I smiled warmly at him. “Yeah, I’m just looking for my –” the sketchpad revealed itself under a pile of old orders, not exactly where I would have put it. There were pages missing.

“No time to sketch, boss,” said Cam, his eyes darting to the skylights.

“I need to find my notes again for those banners.”

Sure enough, there were very few sketches of the initial ideas left attached to the spiral bind. There were pages of text left, however.

“Here, look at this,” I squinted to read the frantic scribbles of a man under the influence. “‘The four concepts of Sea Fair; Marine Life, Fisheries, Sailing, Ship-building.’ This is how I came to these designs.” I pointed to the random words and fragmented blocks of copy, barely legible.

“Yeah, we got that, the designs were good, man,” Burton said.

“No, no, it’s just that I’m trying to piece it all together. Look, I jotted down the things that I thought characterized these four parts of heritage…”

I stopped. For some uncertain moment of time.

“Hellooooo?” Burton flicked a hairy finger through my eyelashes and grabbed the paper from my hand as I blinked back to life. He read aloud, “Vancouver was born out of the purity of wilderness, a harmony of ocean and man. The tranquility merging with vast activity on the water through respectfulness.’ That’s gayer than George Michael.”

The words rang through my brain one by one. All four of them.

“Purity. Harmony. Respect, Tranquility,” I mumbled.

“Listen, Seb, I gotta tell you, I don’t know how much more of this I can handle,” Abbotsford leaned in. “You’re pretty fucked up right now, just talking shit to yourself. I want to help where I can, I feel bad, you know? But you’re pretty fucked up right now is all.”

“It’s the four virtues of the tea ceremony,” I said to nobody in particular, “It’s the exact same four elements that Aira just showed me.”

They looked at one another.

“Ok, I’ll bite,” Cam said finally.

“I had some tea. Sanford and Aira gave me some tea. The little girl pulled her finger off. She kicked a fish also.”

There was a sizeable pause around me.

Abbotsford started to inhale for a word, but turned around, walked down the stairs and out the front door. The latch of the gate made a small click to let me know.

“Pussy,” smiled Burton, “I love tea.”

“Aira told me these words, he showed me the tea ceremony. But I had already written this…I already designed those banners days ago.”

“So, this is all about the patterns,” Cam said.

“It’s got to be. Four virtues, four banners.”

“Four assholes,” Burton murmured.

“What’s that?” I grabbed his shoulder, possibly to steady my legs.

“You got the old lady, the manatee, the sweaty meat guy, and the shitty band dude – not the bassist, that guy’s super-dead. Right, Cam?”

Cam smiled nervously.

“Ok, ok, yes, ok.” I paced. “They’re all very different, how do they match up, and why?”

“Well, if we think about patterns, making people do shit and all that, it would make sense that each one of these people represent the virtues,” Burton fingered his chin.

“I find it hard to believe a killer can be respectful,” I shook my head.

“They could be tranquil though,” said Cam.

“No more deathy-death for you,” Burton wagged his finger at Cam.

“The banners could match up,” I said.

“Gung Slabs,” Cam drooled.

“Gesundheit,” answered Burton.

“Gung Slabs are the monoliths on Naboo…like a Rosetta Stone they linked two seemingly unlinkable concepts to solve a puzzle.”

“…Use the virtues of the tea ceremony to find the link between an evil bastard and its representative banner,” I ripped the paper back from Burton’s hand.

“Why do they each get a banner?”

“Bowry tapped me to make these things, and it mattered how they were arranged around the city. Why?” I walked to the window and stared to the sky.

“If I’m a human –” Cam started.

“That’s a big if,” said Burton.

“…and I’m taking in the day, having a good time, not brain- washed yet, walking around the city enjoying the sites…”

I nodded at Cam, picking up his trail. “The sites. Representing the ocean – the banners - fishing, ship building, animals, sailing. Right, right.”

“Right, and so I’m a human,” he continued, “walking along, getting hypnotized by a bunch of things and stopping at these places – oh, shit! What about at each site I get more drugged up with the plant – the reinforcement of Dr. Cameron, remember?”

“Ok, yes, that would be the way to ensure the most people get into contact with the plant. You’re bound to hit at least one station, right?

“What if you have to hit all four? What if there needs to be an order?” Burton said.

“Maybe,” I said reluctantly.

“Definitely. The whole point of the Gung Slabs was to use them the right way, in a specific order – without order, there’s chaos,” Cam said.

“Is this the last bit of order that is needed to create chaos?” I said to myself.

“This is doing my head in,” Burton muttered, seating himself slowly. “So, where in theeee fuck do we begin?” Burton managed.

“Harmony,” I said, “Harmony was what Aira started with in the tea ceremony.”

“That’s the first key. Harmony. Now who represents harmony?” said Cam.

“Not who, but what,” I said.

“Both,” said Burton.

“Right, both, but start with the what, then we can match the who.”

“What?” Burton sat back deeper in the couch, rubbing his eye- brows off.

“What is harmonious – fishing, shipbuilding, marine life, or sailing?” I paced. Who paces?

“It could all be harmonious, depends on what your idea of harmony is,” said Cam.

“Harmony is all around us, it is the frequency of life,” Burton moaned from behind his hands.

“Don’t humans create harmony in music? That Masticulation guy plays music?” I prodded Burton.

“No man, harmony was here before us, it will be here long after us. When I pick up my guitar, I don’t create it, I harness it for a time. It’s not mine. I’m piggy backing atop waves that have been all around me the whole time. And whatever that band does…is not music by the way, not according to my wavelengths.”

“Waves,” I pointed at Burton with a shaky finger, “Yes - it’s marine life. It has nothing to do with humans, it’s been here all along. Goddamn prehistoric harmony beneath the surface. Who out of these pricks represents marine life?”

“Bowry is a bit prehistoric,” muttered Cam, “Wait, that’s not how a slab works, it unlocks one side, then allows two things that are not connected to connect.”

“Ok, ok, so what about Weissenstrat?”

“Why are we dancing around here?” Burton stood up, “there is a goddamned manatee in this pack of scoundrels. What more do you need?”

“The yoga teacher, you’re right, it’s her. When I went on that date with Skinny –” I began, looking into their doubtful eyes, “Ok, fine, when I went to yoga with Skinny so that she could drug me, all the poses were based on sea animals.”

“Could be that, or the fact that this city is the headquarters of Harmony-goddamned-yoga pants!” Cam clapped his hands like a special monkey child.

“Easy, killshot. Let’s get the hell out of here, they’re setting up by now,” I pushed Cam towards the stairs.

“Harmony manatee!” shouted Burton from the couch.

Outside, the city was moving into action, the type of action where people carry around trays of coffee or generally look at their phones, or yell into a radio with some form of frustration.

Much of this town’s economy is based on the film industry. So, many people in it are used to such activity, which is to say, turbo-full-motion with very little forward momentum. These people have it down to an artform in their willingness to pretend the day away in a hectic world of flurried non-action.

“Get out of the goddamn way, please,” shouted a pale, frail woman draped in black denim and bad black stage shoes, straight from the theatre prop room. “We’ve got a lot of cable coming right through you.”

“Well, then, everything should stop, so you can pull through a couple hundred pounds of cable in an otherwise wireless world,” I said. She snapped back to me ready to fight some battle before realizing she might be a shithead.

“Something has already happened to this town, why don’t we just let the plant take control,” Burton offered, “might make people a little more tolerable in the final days.”

Another black-clad English-major slashed through our group carrying many sacks of bagels, clearly much more important on this day than anybody else.

“Ok, here we go, look where that little bagel-weasel is heading,” I pointed after his tiny, bony bottom as it struggled up some scaffolding steps. “There’s an event map over there.”

“I hate to be that millennial-guy, but couldn’t we have just found this online,” Cam reached for his phone.

“Twenty bucks says you can’t find shit,” I said, “The ink is probably still drying on that thing. No way Bowry is posting her plans in advance.”

The event board illustrated the route of the parade through the city, along which there were several so-called cultural stations – places that promoted the themes around fishing, boating and sailing, marine animals in the area, everything that makes this city what it is.

I traced my finger along the map, all corridors where we placed the banners were pronounced along the route and there appeared to be some major areas of interest nearing the end of the line of each array.

“Ok, ok, look here,” I traced the board, “you’ve got the Olympic torch, ‘Main Stage’ it says. Then back here, you’ve got Granville Island, obviously, the docks back in Yaletown…and then, what is this…” I poked at a park surrounded by buildings on the south side of the Granville bridge.

“That’s where I buy my weed from a yoga weirdo,” said Cam.

“That’s the yoga building…” my eyes widened.

“What ‘yoga building’ are you talking about? There’s a million and nine yoga places out there,” Burton cringed.

I couldn’t help but go back to that sweaty place where I first experienced Skinny’s body at full attention. Like a big elastic band.

“Seb –” Cam poked my shoulder.

Must’ve been gone longer than I thought. “Yeah, yes, the yoga building.”

“Yes, the yoga building, did you catch that? That’s the head office where the majority of yoga pants in the world are designed. This is ground central of all the tight bootaaays in the citaaay!” Cam hollered.

“Soooo, how does this fit?” I shook the lycra from my brain.

“Does it matter why it fits? There’s a Rastafarian manatee out there…and it wants to eat my cock!” Burton crawled down the ladder and jogged off in slow motion, “Nom nom nom, manatee!”

I looked back to the board, tracing the main stage to Granville Island to the docks to the yoga building. Four places, four virtues, four big bosses.

Find a phone booth.

No Please, Thank You Yes

I used the warm wash of sweat on the back of my neck to clean my hands. Streaks of grime slashed my shirt, a fair trade to dry shaky digits before reaching for that phone.

It rang as I touched it.

“Hello,” I answered before my lips reached the receiver.

“Hello, Sebastian,” her voice came through like a shot of caffeine into my brain.

“I’ve missed you,” I said.

Her voice hesitated, before she said, “And I you.”

“What do I do? What is this?”

“This is what we’ve been waiting for. What you’ve been waiting for. You are to do what you are supposed to do.”

“What is that?” my hands were trembling, and I felt my spine light up once more.

“It is what you believe it is. It is what is deepest in your mind to do.”

The backs of my eyes warmed up and through the corners of each came a halo of white, lighting the entire phone booth around me.

“You are free to do what it is you feel,” she said. “You are whatever you feel around you. What you hear in the music, what you taste in the water, what you touch and smell, the colours and shapes that you see. Be free to it.”

My fingers popped and straightened, nearly dropping the handpiece. The noise around the booth increased its murmur and combined to a singular frequency, some low devious hum that perked my ears.

“Sebastian?”

I tried to speak but was floating in some dead sea soup at the moment.

“Sebastian?”

“Merrrhh,” I said poetically.

“Sebastian?”

“Meerrrrrhhherh!”

“Exceptional. I am proud of you, Sebastian. You are helping more than you know.”

There was a triple click, then nothing.

I melted for some time in the booth, contemplating, or not, of the last six days, or five hours, or thirty seconds. Or whatever.

Back in the streets I fumbled about with my feet, trying to mimic what the other people were doing with their bodies. Blending splendidly.

“Hey man,” said a mushy brown guy with green shoes and some kind of hair.

“Merrrhh,” I waved.

“Ya man,” said his friend, an equally squishy beige guy with feet, hands and a face.

“Meerrrrrhhherh!” I chest bumped him, a wall, and part of a bush.

The crowds were all flickering together as I came upon a slight hill looking down towards the water. It was a happy mass. Some people danced, others punched, others yet were nude. Some kind of harmony throughout. A boat slowly mashed into the rocks in the distance. Another was pirouetting between the bridges. A cartoonish scene all together pleasant and…free.

I smelled in the landscape deeply. The humid aroma of a greenhouse dew mingling with that of the last day at the campsites of a German music festival.

Feral. Spectacular.

I tasted the air, thick with humanity, and listened closer to the low hum of a unified frequency. I placed my sweating hands on the head of an insurance broker that walked in front of me.

“Hello,” she said through her skull into my palms.

“Hello,” I said back, “what are you doing?”

“Walking.”

“Where are we going?”

“Where you want to, you don’t have to go with me I don’t think. I’m going to burn some paperwork, and a car, and a building.”

“That sounds great, I don’t want to do that.”

“Okay,” she said through her brains, and my hands dropped.

“Hi,” I said to a group of mechanics sitting on park benches and eating from the backpack of a delivery boy. “What are you doing?”

“Watching,” said a big one.

“What for?”

“Dunno. Fun break.”

“You wanna go see more stuff?”

“No, we got work, it’s better in the garage.”

“Okay,” I waved bye.

The sun felt great. The clouds too. Some trees were tanning up there, some others seemed darker and more twisted closer to earth. I didn’t meet any squirrels or birds on this street, they had gone away.

“Do you want my socks?” a nice-looking man with a handsome suit asked.

“No thank you,” I said.

“I never gave them away before. Should have.”

“That’s okay, not for me, thanks.”

“I can give yours away too.”

“That’s really good for you but go that way.”

“Great!”

A hand slipped into mine. It felt like a warm piece of licorice, a sweetness crept through my pores.

“Where are you going, sir?” said Skinny.

I looked far into her and squeezed her hand.

“Well, that sounds nice,” she said, “let’s go down there real quick,” she pointed to an elevated area, a makeshift plaza for mingling above the masses.

So, I followed.

From up on this platform, you could see everything unfolding, a beautiful biopsy across the cityscape. Skinny and I had floated through the hundreds of conversations and thousands of thoughts in the sticky streets below. She found a door and an elevator, a hallway and more doors. A funnel pouring out to this great big patio where Bowry, the Franceses, and a bunch of other friendly faces from around town swayed. They were having fun. There was an officer – Muniez – looking on with no sort of interest.

Bowry drifted toward me like a constipated ghoul. “Cocktail, my dear?” she showed off a dozen amber jeweled chunks in her mouth, like teeth almost.

“Merrrhh,” I waved. Skinny shared a look with her to say maybe or maybe not to the drink.

“Hi guys!” I hugged the Franceses in tandem. One was tight and stringy, the other was lovely and plush.

“What a day,” said the good one, “Ain’t this great?”

“Absolutely, weird and wonderful,” I smiled.

“Sebastian, about this month’s books,” said the other one.

“Oh, yeah, we’ve got some upside there,” I slapped his bones and rattled some powder from his cheeks.

“I told you, Frances,” said the good one, “just try to enjoy yourself.”

With an unimpressed look, the other one went away arm-in-arm with Skinny. I missed her already.

“Seb, thanks again. And don’t worry,” he thumbed back to his partner, “that bitch is just concerned about his divorce money when the time comes. I know all is well, and it’s okay to have one or two big orders outstanding – but no more than that. Who needs that much aloe anyways?” he chuckled and sipped from a very tiny wine glass.

“Aira. He’s got plans. He loves aloe. Oh, you need to go check out his sushi, the kaiseki is quite something,” I thought back in time and smiled, then recalled a question I had back then.

“Oh, I did, sensational stuff! He took me sailing on Freedom, before I wrecked her, I swear to god. I won’t soon forget that piece of fish.”

I felt the other Frances roll his little eyeballs from amongst the next group over.

“I never went sailing, but I know what you mean,” I was glad to hear I wasn’t the only one on some strange personal journey.

“Well, someday you will, son. Who’s the girl?”

“Pure love…brought from pure hatred.”

“Sounds intense.”

“Very,” I smiled. So did he. Then Frances, the good one, the plush one, turned onto me, blocking the sun’s warmth along with our view of Skinny.

“Where is Elle?” he said with some sobriety.

“Bowry kidnapped her,” I answered.

“Oh, she’s doing some side work, is she? Well, tell her I’d like to see more of her. You say she’s supposed to be your right-hand man, I haven’t seen much of her at all.”

“Ya, she’s coming around.”

“What?”

Bowry slid across the deck like a slidy-slider. “Here you are, gentlemen, speciality of the house.”

The atmosphere of the place was fantastic as the ear music and eyeball pleasures all blended down into her outstretched hands. A clear cocktail in a lovely little glass, garnished with the hell-plant itself.

It tasted marvelous upon my lips. I drank from the plant. I wanted to.

Frances sniffed wearily but sipped, then unravelled his arm around Bowry and me at once, squishing us up together like an Oreo with brittle, rotting white stuff in the middle.

“This is nice,” I said to Bowry specifically.

“So, you choose this?” she said back from within the huddle.

“I like this. But what is tomorrow?”

“The same,” she said, “but more people. More people doing what they are free in their mind to do. What they truly want to do. So nice, this freedom, isn’t it?”

Freedom is nice, I thought.

“In freedom, you either find yourself or you lose yourself,” she said.

Below, there was freedom everywhere all at once. I saw lots of people on their phones, most of them crying, but in a good way. Free to call who they needed to with whatever was on their mind, I suppose.

There were a lot of people kissing as well, lots of freedom there. Some people were smiling while fist fighting. That seemed odd and safe all at once. One man in the distance was climbing higher and higher, later he jumped from the bridge into the water far below. The music played from all around. I saw my banners wave into the distance. The colours and shapes. Groups of fours.

Skinny returned from somewhere and took up my landscape, she came closer and closer still until she was everything there could be. She leaned in to one of my ears, or both. The skin of her plump cheek grazed mine so quickly-slow, and her lips kissed the tiny hairs on my earlobes. She whispered something over and over again, and I heard it but once. “Do what you will do,” she said.

I fell free from her embrace, her sweet whispers blown away to darkness.

This freedom.

Harmony

“W

e have to stop meeting like this,” Cam said to me sideways.

“Hey, Cam,” I touched his ear.

“Hey, boss. Can you stand proper? You’re really leaning.”

“Sure.” I stood up and walked like the rest of them.

“That’s impressive, I thought your bone would be sticking right through your damned pant leg or something. That’s a lot of blood there.”

I looked at the colour of my leg, a nice mixture of wet red and dry red, thick and thin and all around pretty. “Skinny was there,” I said.

“Yeah, I think she pushed you off that platform back there.”

I looked back up at all the people having fun up there with their little plant cocktails. I waved with my mind to say ‘hi’.

“She told me to ‘do what I will do’,” I smiled.

“Well, I guess they’ll get what they want then, but maybe not exactly what they were expecting. The van’s over here.”

“You wanna go to that yoga park and fight the manatee?” I blinked pleasurably.

“Yes, let’s.”

Cam had that murdery look in his eyes, he looked free.

The juicy white van was grumbling low like a dirty polar bear, Abbotsford sat with his head in his hands in the driver’s seat.

“Heya,” I patted his back on my way up into a torn seat.

“My girl is having an orgy in Yaletown,” he said to the steering wheel.

“Yeah, I know,” I smiled. “She’s footloose and fancy free, let her be. Let’s go get us some stretchy demons!”

He saw me with some sort of sympathy, then looked down and gagged at my leg.

“Jeezuz, that is funky,” he leg-gagged again.

“This is the funkiest!” shouted Burton from the sliding door. He slapped my shoulder with a yellow Walkman and jammed one earbud into my ear as the van lurched on once more.

Some kind of sweet computerized bossa nova filled my ears and the van jerked into action.

“Oh shit! Skinny’s got some B-side flavor!” Burton shouted over the synth, “This is from the dark side of MJ’s nineteen seventy-two masterpiece, Bad. Can’t remember the title, can you?”

There were some lovely synth violins, a killer shaker and looped beat that only Michael was able to humanize with the snapping of his tiny fingers. And his voice came in like an angel on a big fun cloud.

Free, free like the wind blow

To fly away just like a sparrow

I smiled out the window and felt the other end of the earbud grooving smoothly behind me. At full speed, I really enjoyed the faces, the smells of hot humans bouncing off one another. Strangers become friends, friends parting into strangeness.

To feel letting my hair blow

To take my time wherever I go

I want to be…

The van rolled on through the streets toward the bridge. We were on safari, an impenetrable, moveable fortress sliding through the plains of downtown. A nice-looking woman held her baby up to the windows as we passed. A gift offering. Two men exchanged pants and watches. An elderly woman slowly juggled water bottles while her gentleman partner urinated through the leg of his shorts and clapped in unison.

“You guys drank the water, didn’t you?” Abbotsford looked at Burton and I grooving.

“I didn’t,” Cam said.

“Me neither,” sang Burton.

“Free, free like the wind blow. To fly away just like a sparrow,” I added, definitely to pitch perfection.

“Great,” said Abbotsford, “where are we going again? Kitsilano, or whatever you people call it?”

“You know Kits, It’s the neighborhood across the bridge, it’s right there with all the totem poles,” Cam pointed, “where you get the good yoga weed. You need to get out of Abbotsford more often, Abbotsford.”

“Why don’t you white people just stop pretending you care about taking the natives’ land and just call the neighborhood what it is, stretchypants-latte-mountain-surf-farmtable-to-fuckoff-volleyball-wine-beach.”

“That’s kind of what the totem pole represents, I think,” said Cam.

A wise eagle appeared at the top of that very totem pole in the middle of the park beside a big, tasty fountain full of copper and dog water. It said hello to me with its huge wooden brain, the eagle did, but the salmon in its grips said not much more than, enjoy your self-determination, or something similar. It’s tough to understand all of the fish all of the time.

The banners on the bridge ticked by like a hockey card in the spokes of my childhood bike, before Mom sold it for ‘groceries’. The two banners at the end were those designed for Marine Life, welcoming us to the land of the manatee.

“Holy shit, she’s there, look,” Burton ducked down in his seat and tip-tapped on the window with his Walkman.

There was a glorious crowd rolling out in front of the van as it crossed through the intersection at the foot of a park. The yoga building was positively pulsing above the park itself. I felt the heat of the crowd bouncing off of its brick levels and slamming back into my forehead.

The van was no fortress, it was a giant white sponge soaking up the fervor of the people, and I was the luckiest sink drain unto which it was squozen.

“She’s in the middle, see?” Burton poked an eye through my dangling seatbelt buckle. “What are we going to do? That is an army of sea-things doing sea-stuff.”

“Yoga?” Abbotsford asked.

“Just get me in there,” Cam lit something stuck between his little lips.

“Hey,” I said, reaching back toward the flame.

“Just let me handle this one,” he said, rolling open the door, slipping and falling out at half speed in front of the park.

“Jesus,” Abbotsford put his foot down into the mushy brakes.

Cam rolled past the stopped van and got up in front of us. Whatever he lit was still lit and he pulled from it with a wince, looking at his left hand and shaking it swiftly. He was happy, it felt happy, and like a slightly broken wombat at the end of a long journey, he hobbled off into a bush, then on into another.

“Okay, then.” Abbotsford played with the stick on the steering wheel and brought the van into some sort of empty space down the street. He left the engine running, turning to me like I was to leave his dream machine. “I’m lost, Seb.”

I looked into his eyes, like a bounty of coconuts hidden in a pirate’s cove. “To take my time wherever I go. I want to be…free, free, free,” I sang like an angel on a big fun cloud.

Abbotsford placed his forehead to the steering wheel, my song had tamed him.

The park, usually so empty with the exception of a few rogue dog owners, some slack-lining buttholes, and several dozen bendy-pants marketers come down from the head office for a stretch, was now teeming with the sweet sweat of hundreds upon hundreds. Probably all the same people crawling around Kitsilano, but now untethered, flowing, nutritious and delicious.

Despite their gooey muscles and stringy otherbits, they were all writhing about out of sync. Like many giraffes fallen over, the limbs of a beast wavering and odd, the masses were glorious in their irrationality.

I wanted to join them, so I did.

“Don’t do this,” I heard Burton say, “I can’t help you when you’re in there, man!”

“I’ll see you after the manatee has drowned,” I waved to Burton. “Just meet by the eagle, follow the smell of the fish.”

“Nom, nom, nom, motherfucker!” he yelled and ran toward the yoga building.

Nom. Nom. Nom. I tromped through the outstretched and writhing bodies on the ground. It was a luxurious game of twister, sometimes green was the grass spaces between limbs, sometimes blue was a buttcheek, and a red or yellow, the naked thighs or elbows of the giraffe. Sometimes it squeaked, sometimes it laughed, one or two times it groaned sexual-like.

Surfing atop the crowd. I took my shoes off to feel more. Some oozing red bits came from that one itchy leg I had, painting a group of sweating downward-dog people below.

“Free, free like the wind blow!” I shouted to the sky and somebody shouted back, “To fly away just like a sparrow!”

I found my way to the voice of the manatee and lay down a few bodies away, nestled between one hairy brown leg, and another fully tattooed one with long toenails and very sweet forest aromas.

She spoke, and I listened freely.

“So, you see, we wander the land, this city, like lost children. Cold and wanting. We search and cry out. Cold and wanting. We thirst for healing nectar of our own passion. But this passion is locked in our hearts away from society, away from judging eyes and hard minds. We are out in the cold wanting to open the doors of our hearts, to bring out the warmth of our passions. To do what we’ve always wanted to do. To become what they told us we could never be!”

The words swirled above the crowd and made people twist and crook. My own limbs like to dance to the words, I think. So, they did, my legs shot above my head and shook about because I don’t know yoga. I sprayed a bit of red stuff in my hair on accident. The smell of copper from my leg as well as from the grand fountain was adrift, riding the heatwaves from the ground up to the eagle’s beak, heavens above.

A mist of water came over the crowd, that familiar smell of love and regurgitation from the plant. It dried to my skin in the sun and pinned my eyes closed.

“What were you supposed to be?” The manatee gargled, “Were you supposed to be whatever you want? Or were you supposed to be the person next to you? Were you supposed to do whatever you wanted to do, or were you supposed to wander, cold and wanting?”

My legs were hovering about back and forth, brushing and writhing against the hair and the tattoos. I was a grasshopper with these neighbors now, a grasshopper because I wanted to be.

“You may now be the you that you always wanted to be. Be free. Be free. Be free. Be fr-. Wow! Wow! Owww! No! Nooooo!”

The copper smells gave way to sweet sage burning in the hot sun. Sage, and socks. Worldly socks burning in a fiery sun. Travelling socks deep in a musty backpack lost on a Malaysian chicken bus, on fire. A fireball of old, dead poultry and recycled pornstar socks ablaze in a dumpster fire.

I shot up like a whac-a-mole in a crowd of flaccid humans.

“Seb!” Cam’s voice cut through the smell and I turned to see the manatee on fire. Her dreadlocks were melted and sticking to her exposed scalp with tiny flame droplets like lit plastic falling across her face and chest.

Cam was locked in her massive arms and legs, grappling over yoga mats and patches of grass left around the fountain. I popped to my feet and yelled like a frightened child enveloped in the pure and true pain. I fell back to the ground, grasping some bloody leg wound, only looking to where I should have been to help him.

Her grip loosened with the loss of sight. Eyelashes, brows, and a decade of dirty hair tubes were bonded to the whites of her eyes. Cam took to his feet and pulled her by a remaining handful of locks up and over the lip of the fountain. It was fast and nasty as they thrashed about in two feet of grey water. He punched at her from above while she flipped her thick legs into the sky, head submerged. Nearly catching his neck more than once, it would have been a quick python-like demise. On her last fledgling attempt, she kicked so hard she broke off the neck of the stone fountain itself. It crashed down upon them both, pinning Cam’s arms around her head beneath the surface. The gurgles were only overmatched by his own screaming and the grind of bones between stone.

I hobbled over and fell to the ledge of the fountain where you might usually see your reflection, or some coins, or a fish lipping back at you. Instead, the dark surface revealed the mutilated arm of a young man wrapped around the throat of a dilapidated yoga teacher, entangled in torn dreadlocks. One of her melty eyes open, expired below the surface.

I looked up at Cam who had tears in his eyes for the pain, but a faraway smile etched into his cheeks. A murdery, happy smile.

“Guys!” yelled Burton from the roof of the yoga building, “Is she toast, can I come down?” He pointed around the park lawn, “All these people look freaky from up here!”

“It’s happened,” Cam muttered behind me.

“What?”

“I am Luke Skywalker,” he smiled through his streaming eyes. I watched with dread as he slowly pulled his arm from the water, ripping flesh as he went. A Dreadlock popped loose from the manatee’s skull, shooting his flopping forearm skyward like a stick on a rope. Like some wet geological excavation, the layers of flesh, plasma, ligament, and honeycomb marrow exposed themselves to the sunlight for the first time. The two bones in his arm were snapped completely on an angle, not cleanly, shards mingled with saclets of pale pink cream. A fed-up vein shot blood to the sky. And as I stretched toward him, possibly trying to aid, Cam reached over his head and grabbed his flaccid wrist and began to tear it away from his body.

“Oh god, man.” I squirmed backward in the grass, rolling over the limbs of some small women lying silent in variations of tortured sleep positions.

“Jedi!” he shouted, and pulled until there was some spreading and popping, like when you peel the fat cap from a New York striploin with your fork and knife.

My knees buckled with some new gravity and I fell atop the sleepy-posed ladies and joined them in slumber.

The inside of the van’s roof looked quite nice in the light of the afternoon, with the ba-bump ba-bump of the bridge beneath. The voices were nice, hypnotic. I felt good like when Skinny whispered in my ear. I felt warm and safe.

The voices were my friends. Some of them were high-pitched and frantic, others were soothing and drenched in smoke. Cam and Burton and Abbotsford, something about an arm.

“Throw it out the window, man!” Abbotsford screamed.

“Keep it! You can make a robot hand in its likeness, and it will do your bidding,” Burton shouted back.

“It hurts so bad!” answered Cam.

“Pull tighter on the tie,” Burton said, “You owe me a new one, pal. I got that tie from Burt Reynolds. He left it at an orgy I was cleaning up.”

“Ahhhhhhh!” Cam continued.

“We’re going to the hospital, the rest of you get the hell out of the van,” Abbotsford shouted back at me, my eyes now open to the world, articulating.

“Ya, pop us off over by the ferry dock there,” Burton collected his things and reefed one last time on Cam’s makeshift tourniquet, detonating a hellish banshee discharge.

The door slid open and I waved at the two in the front and thanked them for the lift. “Lots of blood up there,” I noted.

“Where to?” Burton was working a flip phone in his yellowish fingers on the dock.

My brain was coming back around, but it felt better than before. Better than yesterday. New. It felt new.

“I’m going to The Barrel,” I said firmly, shaking the wet spot on my leg. “I’m going to find Elle.”

“Oh boy,” Burton said.

“Yes. And, hey, if Cam can murder some people, maybe I can take care of Weissenstrat?”

“I don’t think you have it in you, kid, but I support your initiative. I’m going to go for a boat ride, I’ll pick you up in an hour on the docks by The Barrel.”

An orange thing made itself apparent in the water off Sunset Beach.
“Ah, there’s my ride,” he winked, “Have fun. I love you.”

“You too, brother.”

That was nice, I thought as he hobbled to the end of the dock, lighting cigarette and throwing his headphones on.

Respect

I walked into the lounge side of The Barrel and looked around at the empty space. The stench of chemicals hit the back of my throat, and although a temporary savior against the oils of the plant sticking to my innards, humanity and the layers of contempt crept through and I was reminded of the atrocities committed nightly in this place all over again.

In this place, I was thrust back into the Sebastian of hours ago, though I recalled everything outside these walls, and felt terrible wounds infesting my body from toes on up. This was a portal of sobriety, like the inside of a buffalo’s anal igloo delaying the blizzard outside.

“Sebastian, have a seat,” his voice crawled into my ear with a trail of ooze dragged close behind.

Weissenstrat was in a dark place at the long wood bar, gold dripping from his wrist, skin glistening under the dull pot lights above. The screens behind him were synchronized to various soccer games.

I took my place beside an enemy of the city, an enemy of bovine and most college girls across the country alike.

“You know, I built this place from nothing,” he trotted into some kind of soliloquy.

“Is that what you got from your father?” I immediately regretted the comment. Not that it was antagonizing the man, but that I had to drop it so early in whatever kind of conversation this was going to be.

“My father,” he turned and pointed a martini glass at my face, wedding ring finger-first, “was a man of fortitude the likes of which you will never realize,” he sipped with a frown, “He gave me his burger franchises, yes, but he could not have built something like this in his lifetime.” A porky arm waved across the land of wooden tables and chairs around us, bundles of bleached linens dropped in groups for easy deployment.

“Mr. Weissenstrat?” came a meek voice from the kitchen behind the bar.

“Get back to work, chef,” he said without turning from his thought.

“Yessir, the food is done and en route, sir. Thank you.” The set of grimy whites fumbled back to the kitchen to stock and re-stock more pre-cooked cardboard boxes of whatever.

“The food, eh?” I said, and Weissenstrat watched that I didn’t move from my seat or reach for my phone.

“Yes, the food, boy. Laced with that plant, as I’m sure you can imagine. So much so, that anybody that eats a single chicken wing will fall under the nightmare that I’m sure you’ve enjoyed thoroughly this week. So much so, that you’re being here is but a nicety, an utter waste of your fleeting time.”

“Why do it? Why poison the city that’s made you a fortune? The city that has offered its own daughters for your ass-grabbery in exchange for a sweaty hiding place with appies.”

“Very nice, boy, very classy. I’m afraid you are no longer needed in this arrangement. You’re done.”

“I’m not some fucking employee, Weissenstrat.”

“Then why are you here, boy?”

There was an offensive noise in the kitchen, some sort of a large refrigerator door slamming shut.

“Same reason you are,” I started, just as the flash of some new worker in blacks emerged from the back of house and knelt down to tie its apron, “because I’m scared. I’m scared that this isn’t the life I wanted, or the life I chose. Now we’re here, in this city, just watching it go by. Watching it change and throb and blow the fuck up into something we never wished to be a part of.”

“That’s really deep, man, really morose,” came a voice that belonged behind a bar, and Malcolm popped out from behind a wine cabinet. With the pull of a black apron around his waist, he stretched his hairy Hawaiian Tropic arms across the bar top towards Weissenstrat and I. “Can I get you another, sir?”

“Who the fuck are you?” Weissenstrat nodded with a tipsy smile, now loving the conversation I’ve set for him.

“Oh, just covering from over at the Surrey store, busy downtown today, huh?” he started fussing about, almost looking like he knew where everything was.

“Well, talk about the wrong place at the wrong time,” snickered Weissenstrat, “Sure, pour another for my new friend and I, not much longer now,” he jiggled in his seat.

“Can I get you some riblets?” Malcolm said with his back turned.

“Good man, good man, thank you, but not today,” Weissenstrat shuffled in his breast pocket and retrieved a clip of money where he might find within the lowliest member to shove across the bar. He approved of the new serviceman, he approved of rightful respect of position.

“Well, in the meantime, here’s to you,” Malcolm passed him a new drink, and one for me as well.

“Name’s Malcolm, good to finally meet you, sir,” he extended a hand across the bar to the steak mogul.

“Good to see you,” a shake of testosterone prevailed, “and this is my young nemesis, Sebastian, he’s a lost soul on the losing side of a lost cause.”

“Interview didn’t go well?” Malcolm fist bumped my limp hand on the bar.

“Oh, I don’t know, I guess I just admit when things aren’t working, and I show my hand. Let the cards fall where they may,” I shot a look at Malcolm.

“Amen,” said Weissenstrat with a deep gulp.

“Good, good,” Malcolm scoffed. I scoffed back and sipped my drink, tasted the plant immediately, looked up at Malcolm, then sipped again.

“Whoa, slow it down,” Malcolm shifted.

Sure thing there, big guy. I sipped again. This plant is my plant now.

“Oh, just pour him another, new guy, I like you, but don’t be such a pussy. This lad here hasn’t a hope in the world today, he needs a stiff one.”

Malcolm watched Weissenstrat with a sharp look that I had only seen when any American came into The Tapa Bar and stole the girl that he was working on. Granted that happened often, but the look is no less intimidating.

“Pussy?” Malcolm muttered.

“What’s that, new guy?”

“You like to be that vulgar type, don’t you?” Malcolm came closer to the bar.

Weissenstrat was clearly confused by the insubordination, and took a moment, “What did you say to me?”

“Yeah, you love pushing people around, bullying people. Harassing innocent girls, maybe…?”

Weissenstrat stood up slowly. “You’ve got about two seconds to apologize and twenty seconds to get the fuck out.” There was some sort of primordial growl in his voice, a layer of pork phlegm bubbling up as he croaked the words.

Malcolm stared at him while slowly pulling something from below. He gently laid it down on the bar top with a rattle. The license plate reflected light into the Bone Man’s face.

And, as Weissenstrat lifted his heft and stretched his mitts outward, possibly toward a casual choke-out or a mellow back-handed bitch-slap, there was a swift flash from the other side of the bar.

I sat in sticky motion, as Malcolm’s long right arm used its full bartending range to bring down rage on Weissenstrat’s neck. I swallowed with honey drip effort, and it took me ever longer to register the chopsticks thrust into his throat, deeply, perfectly.

Malcolm pushed harder and I turned away, rightly and in time for a popping noise. After a few moments of silence, I sensed the man slump to a ball of beige yarn with knitting sticks retired within, set to rest in a pile. He slid from his stool, dragging his arms awkwardly behind him to the floor.

The chemicals of the meat kingdom came back. I looked at the free-form human puddle at my feet and decided they would need many more chemicals in this place real, real soon.

“Malcolm?”

“Sebastian?”

“You okay?”

“No.”

“Okay, good, good.”

We sat for a while longer.

“That was as much for Adina, as it was for you or the Vancouver hospitality community as a whole,” he said, staring at the floor.

“I know,” I said.

And we sat for some time in that awkward place where a guy decides to see about another guy’s girl.

“Have you told Adina?”

Malcolm thought for a minute, “No. Out of respect,” he said.

“Thanks, man.”

“Not for you. For her.”

I paused for a thought. “Sure bro, I gotcha. All’s fair…” I stood slowly, lobbing it to Malcolm for the assist.

“No war. Sorry, but I think we’re a little better suited, you know?” he said with his eyes glued to the chopsticks poking up and out as if they were listening.

“You’re right about that,” I said, “I’m not mad.”

“I love you, but I think I love her, you know?”

“I don’t love her, Malcolm. I’m lost.”

“I know, ain’t we all.”

I looked at my shallow friend and searched for something funny, but what he had just said was the deepest thing I’ve heard from this man, this child, this guy who’s been nothing but lovely to me. And nothing short of surprising in this moment.

“Look at that greasy crack,” he said.

I looked at the floor, not at all sensational about the lifeless, blubbery body before me. “Where’d you get those chopsticks?”

“Burton…he said I should have them, out of respect.”

“Right,” I said, pushing off the stool.

Purity

“I

don’t remember giving those away,” he said with a strange orange mouth, shisha hoses wrapped around his body like overworked snakes.

“Well, those chopsticks are currently releasing the grease of ten thousand pork bites from the guy,” I rubbed my eyes, but the colour didn’t go away.

The orange tent boat pulled around the point of Stanley Park and into Coal Harbour looking like a slow-moving sore.

It felt like what I imagined the landing on the beaches of Normandy to be. I couldn’t see anything but Burton’s face, knowing that we were there to kill or be killed.

“Do you remember when fat Elvis called me over to his table, and tried to settle the score?”

“Nope,” I said.

“Oh, right, that was Sanford, never mind. Well, the score was not settled.”

I was now seriously considering the choice to leave the others behind, even in their varying degrees of squalor. But who else to bring to a musical event for espionage than the city’s greatest record man?

A flap in the tent took flight and the open corner exposed sunlight, boats, crowds of people, and that iconic glass Olympic torch peeking out from the plaza at the convention centre.

“Holy shit. Look at all those assholes, it’s a full-blown concert!” Burton perked up. “Last concert I saw at this magnitude was The Boss.”

“Let’s not do this,” I shook the gurgle from my stomach.

“You know why they call him ‘The Boss’?”

“No Burton, you haven’t told me this month.”

“Trick question, he never wanted to be called ‘The Boss’, he always considered himself ‘The Doctor’. The Boss was the guy who collected club money for the band or played the banker in rogue Monopoly games around New Jersey. He never wanted to be publicly known as that guy, he was a working man. He wanted to work like a doctor, fixing shit.”

“Why not The Mechanic then?”

Burton slumped back on his bench, placing his shisha hose on his knee.

We’ve had this exact argument, he and I, and if I didn’t love the guy so damned much, I’d push him out of this boat…thing.

“Well if you’ve a backache or a earache or too much LSD. Well I am the Doctor,” Burton’s heady singing began, though he slumped like the embattled everyman. “Your car smashed, you got whiplashed, your lover’s gone, or you’re all alone. Or you broke some of your bones, or you might just be a little too stoned, won’t you call me? Call me. I am the Doctor.”

The orange tent pulled up to a non-descript dock behind a houseboat littered with kayaks, perfect coverage for a midday disembarkation.

“Is that…” I said, holding Burton back as we reach dry land.

“Babies, little baby babies. You know this is the day you lick my balls, your balls, her balls, his balls. This is where we get looser than loose. This is the day we bring your ass to your knees and back up again. We rock your cock off from this shithole to the Emerald City and on down the motherfucking coast!”

Burton slapped his forehead and shook his hair around to deny the sound waves from penetrating his brain.

The lead singer was sweating ravenously, as we scuttled into eyeshot. He was on his knees yelling something about food trucks and skateboards into the mic. The drummer thrashed back and forth between an electronic drumkit and a child’s xylophone, knocking over stands and monitors that didn’t appear necessary on stage.

“We’re nearing the gates of hell!” Burton yelled through his hands. He pulled his Walkman earbuds up through his shirt and around his new skinny tie. I watched as he hammered on his pockets, trying to hit that ballooned grey play button through his jeans. Something worked, and there was release across his face. A cigarette appeared and was lit to his moustache. A smile.

With Burton satiated, I looked around the crowd. Most people were with it. Not necessarily the music, but they were switched on and aware. However, there were a few sets of eyeballs that appeared worrisome. Just a few too many glazed faces bobbing with the frequency.

“It looks like we’re ahead of the game, buddy! These people haven’t been hit yet by the plant. It’s not like the other spots.”

Burton was twitching slightly, clearly pained.

“Stay with me, Burton. What’s the game plan?” I rubbed his shoulder.

Like any festival, the place was surrounded by garbage and recycling bins overfull with empty water bottles and other camouflagery vessels. I spotted a few booths that were handing out various landfillers and free water.

Nudging Burton in that direction, I said, “Ain’t nothing free in life.”

“Or after,” he said, “I need to go and fix this music.”

He was already gone before I could quiz his plot, so I headed out into the crowd toward the water booth.

The heave of sweat and the smell coming off the masses rested its cloak over my body. I overheard a young woman and her friends as I pushed through to the pong of the xylophone, “I want to listen to these guys forever,” said a brunette.

“Yeah, I want to go out on one of those boats and never come back,” said another.

“I don’t know what I want, but that’s okay,” said the third.

“You’re amazing,” the first rubbed her back.

“You guys are bitches, I don’t know why we hang out, but who cares,” the second one piped up. They all continued to dance in sync without acknowledging the abnormality they were enveloped in.

The crowd bobbed past and I slid through, conversations came in and out, with various levels of truth or dreaming. Was it the plant, or some mixture of cocaine and ecstasy?

“Water?” came a voice I knew from some minor encounter somewhere deep in my damaged skull. A spark of some sort.

I looked up to see the bartender from The Barrel on Granville Island that had drugged Cam and I the other day.

“You.”

“Water?” she said again.

“Why are you being such a shithead?”

“What?” she looked like a small doe.

“Why are you poisoning all of these people?”

“I don’t know,” she said in all honesty.

“Can you stop?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“…water?” she pushed a bottle towards me.

“Jesus.” I took the water bottle and pushed around the corner, through some folks and to the back of the booth setup. There was a truck backed in with skids of water bottles, the same as was in my hand, labelled Sea Fest with my four banner designs printed hastily.

“Hey!” I heard a voice over the loudspeaker as guitars distorted and drums came shuttering to a halt. I found the far-off stage and saw a miniature flash of beard and skinny tie leaping from a monitor into the band in an impressive reverse stage dive.

Well, there’s the plan.

The truck was backed into an old growth tree, so I assumed the driver was the same space-case currently throwing water bottles into the crowd at the back of people’s heads to distract them from the stage.

I got really low and climbed under the booth’s vinyl curtain, through a mess of cables until I spotted a purse that smelled of meat and vodka at her feet. I pulled at it quickly and rolled out like a terrible ninja.

“Hey!” cursed the dummy, but I was upright, racing to the truck.

Keys, keys, fucking keys, please.

Ducking around the hood of the truck, I dumped out the innards and grabbed two sets of keys through the mess. I was up into the cab as tiny fists of fury machine-gunned the hood and side panels. She was pounding very fast, and very hard, but her face appeared serene, pleasant even. Very creepy.

“The biggest key, the biggest key,” I yelled at my trembling hands. “Or the one with the giant Ram’s head on it, that’ll do.” I inserted the thing sharply, turned over the engine and pulled into reverse, smashing through the booth and bumping a few surprised and thirsty people along the way. The girl flew off, raked by the side mirror, which I enjoyed.

There was nothing short of chaos on the main stage. People everywhere, mic stands flying about, guys with black shirts, guys with no shirts. Lots of tall-skinnies, but no sign of Burton.

I navigated behind the crowd as if I were meant to be there, waving people out of the way, meanwhile looking to the seawall for an escape back around the side of the stage. Like a slow-motion chase, I nudged my way onto the seawall and settled into a cool rumble along the cobblestone. The scene on the stage unrolled before me. All band members were on top of Burton, pinning him down, yelling, some beating at him with their thin tattooed meth-wrists. Security was then trying to pull them off.

At the edge of the stage lay the frontman in a heap, some uniformed fellows working on him.

I picked up speed and opened the windows, “Burton, let’s go! Let’s go, buddy, concert’s over!” The truck halted at stage left and I could see the top of his head bouncing up and down off the stage with each belting. He turned to confirm with one bulging bloodied eye that he recognized my calls.

“Burton, let’s go! Bruce is The Doctor! You were right, let’s go, buddy!” I yelled again, opening up the passenger side door.

I looked around at the masses converging on the police, or vice versa and it appeared to be a peaceful melding, mostly conversational. Not too many of the crowd appeared offset by the scene on stage. Things were changing, the plant was creeping in.

I yelled again in time to see him squirt out from the bottom of the pile, fall off the stage, jump a fence and fall again before reaching the door. He lifted himself up with a busted grin. His yellow Walkman was broken apart, shards sticking from his bloodied hands.

“Encore?”

“No encore, mate.”

The truck spun out on somebody’s foot and we watched the slow resentment of a group of mangled and dazed in the rear-view as we pulled away from the stage towards the underground gates of the convention centre.

“What happened? I was trying to get rid of all the water around the concert.”

“Looks like you got quite a bit,” he pointed behind me at the truckload.

“Not good enough. What were you thinking making a scene like that?”

“You should’ve seen it, it was magical! The King of Pop made a triumphant return like you would never imagine.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I was there, I became his sequins glove, thick and bright, whipping around, grabbing pubis swiftly, gingerly.”

“On a scale of one-to-right now, how high are you?”

“Right now,” he assured me.

Right now, being Amps to Eleven.

“I was all like this…” Burton continued, mimicking those in- famous moves, but instead of groping at his crotch, he slapped at the busted Walkman. He ripped open what was left of the face and pulled out a cassette that was barely hanging on. It came out with a fight with what looked like a tooth embedded in it.

“That tape!” I swerved and bumped a recycling bin, burping up dozens of crumpled water bottles. Skinny’s mix tape was mashed up - and was apparently coated with the inside of somebody’s face.

“Did you attack the lead singer with that tape?”

“Shamone!”

I looked from Burton to the pile of pulp in his hand, back to Burton.

“MJ became me, and I him. We had a conversation with the band, we told them to respect the music. We told the lead singer that if his band couldn’t do that, we would have to take the vocals away. It begins and ends with the vocals.”

“Holy shit, man, you shoved that down his throat?”

“Their track lost the vocals. Completely choked out.”

“Ok, come back to me now Burton, for chistsakes. You’re not the producer of death over here.”

He crammed the tape back into some kind of gooey plastic taco and nodded his head solemnly like he was retiring on the Grammy stage.

“Or are you?”

“The music of MJ, there’s nothing purer than that.”

“Wait, what?” I slowed the truck down to a roll.

“It’s pure. He rode nothing but the simplest wavelengths. He was a true musical being. Nothing fancy…purity.”

“Harmony, respect…purity,” I mumbled.

“Oh, your tea ceremony. Yes, let’s get some tea going, I’ve got loads of mushrooms back at the shop.”

“No, Burton. Well, yes to the tea, but no to the mushrooms at the moment. The last virtue Aira mentioned was…tranquility. And the last banner…sailing.”

When Frances recounted his old sailing stories, despite them often ending up in trauma, he often used that word, tranquil. I used to joke at his many tranquil scars.

“We have to get to Freedom,” I said.

“Yes, we all need to get to freedom,” Burton nodded in a groove up to the sky.

Freedom

T  he early days working alongside Frances, the good one, were the closest times I had to a father figure in over twenty years.

We argued into long summer nights, Frances and me. We talked about life – plants and girls mostly. He loved talking about girls. He loved his ex-wife, and he loved the idea of infatuation with the fairer sex. They were less complicated than gay men, he believed. I disagreed like a stubborn heel from my only point of reference.

“Adina’s an absolute atrocity, there’s no fixing this,” I argued one night over inventory, still tender about something gross or lazy that she had inflicted upon me that week.

“So, I gather.” Frances was still not sick of the subject, no matter how much I whinged.

“You know how you can come upon an episode of Tom and Jerry halfway through and not miss a beat?”

“Sure, a cat and a mouse torturing each other day-in and day-out.”

“No. Well, yes, but –”

“Like you and Adina, a constant battle with no end in sight, all wrapped up in peculiar affection?”

“No, that’s not what I mean, Frances. I mean she’s just one-dimensional. You can turn on that show and know exactly what Tom or Jerry is going to do. There is no growth, just repetition.”

“Are you Tom or Jerry in this equation?”

“I don’t know.”

“So, you’re saying that you are so multi-faceted, so dynamic and ever-evolving that you are out of her league? And so, you choose to remain in this recurring cartoon of a relationship, for what?”

I dropped a cactus atop another cactus. “Dammit, Frances, I’m just saying –”

“You’re just saying you want to complain, and I get it. Some- times there’s a time to unload your frustration, and sometimes there’s a time to not be frustrated.”

“What do you mean, just accept that she is never going to grow out of this?”

“No,” he said, picking up my cactus and brushing it off with gentle, apologetic hands, “to accept that you don’t want anything to change. Rather, like a dog in a dead thing, you’d prefer to roll around in the problem for a while longer. That, or find a new situation to be frustrated in.”

“Are you saying I’m the problem?”

“Absolutely. I can guarantee you that Adina is strolling through her days, happily unaware and without protest. You are most definitely the problem. But we’re all the problem to some degree. The trick is to find someone who fits your problems better. Or can help you be a better you so that problems are less ‘gross’, as you put it.”

“But I want her to want more,” I said, continuing down the line of greens, tapping them, logging in my mind.

“No, you want to want less. You’re misaligned, sir.”

“Misaligned, come on now.”

“You’re not happy with her, meanwhile, she’s completely happy with herself. You’re not happy with yourself either, because you aren’t able to be at peace like she is. Doesn’t matter if her level of complacency settles easier than your own. Again, your problem.”

“Son of a bitch,” I said.

“Whoa, you’re the one whose mother ran off, mine was a saint.”

I dropped another pot, “Jesus, you’re just on fire, aren’t you?”

That low belly laugh came often on those nights. And we argued at length in those early days, surrounded by an audience of green oddities.

I was very aware that the skin stretched over my beating chest was sweating into my shirt as we pulled up to the docks of Yale- town. Coming in and out of the plant’s hold on my mind, I grappled with some kind of serenity, double-dipped in ecstasy and fear.

Bowry called to me, I could feel her pulling me to the water’s edge. To the boats nodding their mastheads to the heavens.

The stolen delivery truck parked itself into a fence, casually scattering a few onlookers that appeared to be locked onto some show down by the water.

Getting out, I locked onto the eyes of one of those plant-spiked dullards…and saw the flames. The black smoke.

I saw the tears of fire spitting from the fibreglass hull to the cold water below.

My heart dropped as some fluttering anchor, untethered and searching for silt.

“Oh sheeet,” Burton mirrored and was out of the truck against the fence of the yacht club’s entry. He looked back to me as I approached.

Their shoes were at the end of the dock where they were always left. Only bare feet aboard, Frances insisted.

Giant fresh, white loafers. Long like the boat, white like the boat.

They both had big feet.

Had.

Freedom was ablaze in her slip at the end of the dock, Frances, the good one, had earned that space over decades of schmoozing upwards.

They were inside that boat, both Franceses. I could feel the loss, the plant let me know.

There was nothing but streaming. Everything was a-stream – the tears, the sweat, the voices, the sky. Arms and faces and teeth. Smoke on water and sparks. Sirens and laughter and screaming – all of it streaming. Like a river.

I grasped around reaching for something to stop the streaming flow of this river raging ever faster. That feeling of falling in your own bed while you lay still after too many drinks and drugs and hours of late-night. Falling through your own mind with everything streaming by you, unaware or uncaring if you could keep up.

I ran, or fell, or swam away into that streaming river. I pushed away from the boat and that fire, and was swept away. Everything streamed away.

The streaming went on until it didn’t, and I sat up from the ground of my favourite phone booth, the one through the vomit alley at the edge of Granville street. I kicked closed the tiny flaps like penguin wings and slammed my body against one of the walls, pressing hard to slow the shuddering of the Plexiglas.

She answered. Seconds, maybe minutes streamed by with my cheek to the curved black handset before she finally did.

“Sebastian,” she sounded disappointed.

“Yes, hello.”

“Have you seen enough?”

“Yes,” I squeezed my eyebrows but couldn’t stop the flames.

“Will you do what needs to be done?”

“I will.”

“And what is that?”

“I…don’t…know,” I pushed my head against the scraped chrome of the call box. “Tell me.”

“You will know. Trust yourself. Trust your mind and just let it happen. Be free…like I never could.”

Her voice rattled through the analogue speaker like a prisoner in a box.

“When will this stop?” the shaved edges of the chrome dug into my forehead as I drove forward further. “Why can’t this stop?”

The mute static streamed through the headset.

“Your father always said that,” she said.

“What?” I said.

Click.

Before I could get my breath, the flappy doors smashed open and caught me in the legs with a whip. More blood swelling up somewhere warm down there.

I spun around expecting some drugged-up karate patron to come down swinging on me. Instead, at my feet was a friend. A dog named Captain Crunch.

“What?” I said again, whimpering maybe, and looked at the phone before putting it to my ear for one last sip. It clicked rapidly in return, making the inside of my eyeballs itchy. There may have been a spasm before I tore myself out of the booth in technicolour.

“What are you doing here, buddy, you okay?”

The Captain looked at me, neither wagging his tail, nor appearing amused, hungry, sleepy. He looked like a picture of a dog, just looking back at me. He turned, unimpressed and walked off slowly, turning only to make sure I would follow.

Like all the others.

A Dog Named Captain Crunch

I  was the only other person that he knew of - that I knew of. Elle didn’t really have other friends, her love life was the shits, she was a workaholic with no family ties to the city. And she wasn’t overly nice to strangers. Plant people could be like this.

So, I followed the dog.

Captain Crunch took me down some streets, away from my phone booth, through sloppy crowds of sloppy people. He looked back once in a while to keep me with it, to tell me to pick up the pace.

This was familiar, his eyes were Elle’s eyes. He saw me as she saw me at the nursery, and he led me just as she did, through my fits of anxiety with those humane eyes. And now, this look he had learned from her, was pulling me through town. And the realization cut through the plant fogging my mind, that this dog, her dog, was bringing me back to her.

He found a building, then a door, then another, a hallway, an alley, another door, another building. He was following a scent, perhaps, not a route. In my fading state I made out that this was the erratic route of a honeybee, weaving through Gastown.

He finally stopped at a dirty door in a cement place, some bowel of some artful and haunted edifice. The door came partially open with a stiff heel kick which alerted my standing leg that it had not fully stopped bleeding, and now intended to increase the flow. I kicked again with some pain and with some motivational barking, the door smashed over whatever was holding it there.

The Captain and I came over top of a folding chair with Elle crumpled within. I had booted her over with quite the force, spraying all belongings attached to her person. In particular, a smallish female satisfaction device shot out of a burst purse. Captain Crunch went straight for his prize, barking at it and Elle with full tail whip thrill.

“Elle!” I pulled at all forms of duct tape, and after much discomfort she was scabby-red, patchy-eyebrowed and free to shout louder.

“Baaaaahhhhh,” she kicked her feet at me like tiny bicycle pedals and Captain Crunch licked at her mouth.

“He found you because of your dildo, I think,” I spoke over the melee.

“Gaaaaaahhhhh! Ow, ow, ow. Fuck you, man!”

I looked around as I untied her, dodging air knees and toe punts from below. The room was dark, soaked, generally creepy. There was a loading bay and a few other doors, a garbage compacter, all quite small by modern standards. Old, and cold.

“Get off me, just leave it!”

“Sorry, just getting that knot there,” I let some nice sailing rope drop to the floor.

Wonder where that line came from, I shook the image of Freedom from my head.

“They’re dead, Elle, both of them.”

“Who?” she glared at me as she rose, backing up as if trying to escape the person who just saved her.

“Frances and Frances. Their boat. The whole thing,” my spine crackled up to the back of my eyes and I almost fell over in my spot.

“The plant, you’ve had too much of that damned plant,” she was still backing away, looking for some kind of exit.

“How much is too much…you did this to me,” I rubbed at my forehead.

“Look, it’s gone too far, it shouldn’t have. But you’ve had too much, everybody has. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

“What have you done, Elle? Why are you helping Bowry destroy this city? What’s happened to you?”

“Nothing! Absolutely nothing,” she started to well up, “that’s exactly it, you selfish piece of shit. I’ve never done anything but help you and you’ve given me nothing in return. You just keep living your small, pitiful life day after day, chasing victimhood. Well, now you’re the fucking victim, Seb, congratulations.”

I may have been chewing too slowly on her words. Perhaps my ears were ringing too loudly, my eyes sparking inside themselves, vertebrae grinding like turtle sex. The orchestra must’ve drowned out Captain Crunch as he lost all shit at the lights coming through the loading bay.

What looked like a fuel tanker was pulling in masterfully, and I had all the time in the world to lock eyes with Abbotsford behind the wheel as the rolling garage door snapped to finality.

“Shit,” I managed.

“Shit,” he mouthed.

Elle made a run for the open bay and was met with the full bulk of a swinging passenger door which bounced her back to the ground like a commercial sack of onions. The door slammed shut just as fast, Skinny stepped slowly over Elle’s pile and with a solid boot, punted Captain Crunch into the side of the garbage compacter.

“Whoa, hold on,” I held my hands up to distract her from any follow-up pursuit, “just hold on here.”

She turned towards me, hopping up the steps from the bay. Her eyes were on fire, her skin shining, slightly flush. It was a swift strike as this sexy puma, with iridescent waves of black hair shot within arm’s reach and thrust a spray bottle into my face.

Sqssssst. Sqssssssssst.

That mist as heavy as oil hit my open eyeballs. I inhaled the second shot deeply and brought my tongue to the corner of my mouth for a taste. When my skull cracked on the cement, I held my eyes open until I could no longer and was rewarded with one last image of Skinny stalking down upon Elle.

Tranquility

T  here was a steady drip, and a reluctant echo inside my fractured skull. It was damp in there, with some sort of burnt smell. I couldn’t see yet, but I could move. My body was thrashing about, but my head was paralyzed.

Awkward and new.

“Jesus, just get off of him.”

I could see. I could see now, but everything was sideways. Bowry was sideways, Abbotsford was sideways as he got up off my head and wandered away. Skinny was sideways in a chair. The whole coffee shop was sideways.

Elle was right-side up though, in a load on the floor by the fireplace.

I was sideways, maybe.

“I’ll get up,” I choked and coughed up a piece of a tooth. Tonguing around, I felt the absence of two major molars, one of which was blocking my windpipe on my next breath trying to sit up. I thumped my chest and helped it down to tummy town.

“Playing it cool, playing it cool,” I said, looking at the group above.

“You’re talking out loud,” said Skinny.

Goddamit, was she ever glistening by that fire.

“How are you feeling, my boy?” said Bowry.

“Rubber,” I said, pulling up into a chair.

“That’s part of it. Good, good,” she smiled, “Well, my husband’s work was hard to decipher at times, but it became clear that it could sometimes take…” Bowry’s eyes came up over my head, tracing somebody else, “that one last trigger to get to the core of a stubborn subject.”

A woman. She came from behind me, I felt the breeze. I continued staring into Bowry, as the woman patted my shoulder, stepped past Abbotsford with some form of grace and sat at Bowry’s side to face me.

My mother.

“Hey there,” I said.

“Hi.”

There was a tremor between my eyebrows, and I fell through a thousand phone booths to the floor of some other place. Like a vast wool blanket, her voice swept over me with a cozy itch.

“I want you to know, Sebastian,” her phone voice was clear and slow, “that I owed a lot of people a lot of money and your grandmother was gracious –”

“Enough,” said Bowry.

“What’s the difference, you’re done, he’s so far gone,” Mom said.

I watched Bowry look into my eyes, she smiled. I smiled as well, and some bits of gums and nerve dribbled out.

“I owed a lot of people a lot of money after I left you and your father. I had a big problem…”

“Had?” Bowry scoffed and sipped her fancy cup.

“Well, I just wanted you to know that I liked you, Sebastian, you’re a good kid. And I liked your father.”

“Useless,” Bowry added.

My smile wasn’t fading.

“You guys were a pretty good family,” she shuffled a bit in her seat next to Bowry, “but, you know, I had other things going on.”

I dragged my smile over to Skinny. Her head was down a little bit over there.

“I need some action once in a while, a little adventure, and, I’ll tell you, that can be hard with a family,” she looked to Bowry and back to me, “So…you know.”

“Come now,” Bowry dismissed her, “he and his father did nothing with their lives. Sat around digging about in the dirt or sketching in notebooks. Not fit for my daughter…the potential… Useless until now, right young man?”

“Grandson?” I answered. My face was starting to feel odd from the shape it was in.

“Good for you, okay then. Let’s get started,” she shifted herself around, trading her cup for a laptop that Skinny passed her.

“Granddaughter?” I nodded at Skinny.

“Don’t be silly,” said Bowry, “look at the complexion on this child, Sebastian, she is not of the family.”

“Adopted, kind of,” Skinny said to the floor.

“We’ve spoken about this,” Bowry said, typing with her nose above the screen at the same time.

“Adopted?” Mom turned her attention.

“Another of your father’s ‘selfless’ decisions, but not to worry, no legal trace.”

“As per usual,” said mom.

“Watch your mouth, girl.”

“Let me guess? Oregon?” Mom looked from Bowry to Skinny, who nodded with that curious look I had seen before.

“Jesus mother!” said mom, “You told me not to come there, you said you were sailing all year.”

“Calm yourself, Ramona, none of this is important now.”

“It is fucking important because I was on the goddam run. Do you have any idea how much shit I went through?”

I looked around the room, “I’d like to know,” I said.

“You watch your mouth, Ramona, you should be so blessed I didn’t let you come down there. You are lucky I took on the loss of your father alone and protected you lot,” Bowry slammed the key- board, “Damn this, pull up my documents, girl,” she thrust the laptop at Skinny.

There was some more yelling about Oregon, the tapping on the keyboard, the drip in my skull. Then a tap on my shoulder.

A husky barista came around the chair and into my face. She smelled sweet and acidic, like a foot in vinegar.

“Triple shot Americano, burnt?” came her breath, the sugars deep in my nostrils crystalized.

I nodded, more entrenched in the waters of the Oregon coast, south of Eureka to be exact.

‘I believe I was baptized that day’, Frances told me of that island off Eureka, where Freedom ran aground.

“Nobody said dad had to take on the world! Nobody said you had to take on the world!” yelled Mom.

Frances’ voice cut through, ‘The most intense guy. Totally focused on saving my life. I remember his smile through the dark- ness, his calmness…I went down south to visit the guys who pulled me out, buy them another beer, you know? Turns out the old man had a heart attack not long after that mission, and that was it for him’.

“You were never there for me, neither of you. He was out trying to save the world in labs and boats…and apparently adopting young children for fuck sakes,” yelled mom, thrashing towards Skinny, “and what happened to your only daughter? I was on the run!”

‘By all accounts, he had lived an insane life, sailed the world, etcetera,’ recalled Frances, ‘But I tell you, his wife was pissed. She blamed everybody on that crew…she even came after people that had been rescued by the unit. I never heard from her myself, thank god’.

“You don’t know anything about your father, Ramona, you selfish rake.”

“Triple shot Americano, burnt?” repeated the big ol’ barista, planting a mug in a purply clawed hand that looked like mine.

I pointed with the other towards the group now shouting at the fireplace, Bowry in particular, “That one blew up a boat?” I managed and the barista nodded, still grinning with rapidly decaying teeth.

“Mad about Grandpa…dead…so, she…destroying society?” I trailed off sipping the shaky mug - a for-here mug, not to-go, but for right here. The barista nodded again as her portly arm unexpectedly came down like a mudslide, severely mashing my genitals with some form of weighted espresso paraphernalia.

“No!” shouted Bowry as I buckled and slipped into some kind of ride up my pee-hole through to where a tail may have once been, and upward to the gag reflex, which wasn’t ready for flexing at all. There was burn and overall discomfort as she fell upon me with the full weight of customer service odium.

Around the time when all oxygen had been squeezed out to stop the pain receptors from firing with such disquiet, there was a grand commotion and my sideways vision came back.

There were varied cinematic trickery projected across the floor of the coffee shop. The audio was terrible, unfortunately, and I couldn’t right my seat.

Abbotsford was thrown into the fireplace by Malcolm with a force that could be felt and smelt, but no sound.

Burton leapt over me and plunged a fatty cacti deep into the barista’s thick neck and they fell to the floor, rolling about like a baby constrictor besting a winter goat. Cam came through a window, I think, crashing down upon Bowry, Mom, and Skinny all at once. He bounced up swinging a switchblade in his remaining hand, glass all through his hair and face. The women scattered, some quick, one very slowly. He chose a direction and swung around catching Mom across her back.

“Cam, don’t…” my tongue dribbled apart, just before Burton and the barista rolled over my throat and face and pinned me to the legs of a mismatched chair. When light came through, the barista had retrieved a cake fork and was jabbing around Burton’s skinny tie region. They rolled on violently into a side table. Through splintered wood and torn lampshade, I caught the moment Burton reached further into his hallucinogenic powers to overtake her. The barista’s sweating trunk of an arm was contorted to redirect her fisted fork across her body and deeply into a wall outlet.

The fireworks, so wonderous, smelled of pea meal ham as the lights tripped on strobe, stalling everybody for a flash. There was a twinkle in the corner of my eye, and I turned and burped up some form of wind to warn Cam just as Skinny came down on his switchblade hand with both arms. There was a secondary flash upon my ticking eye of what looked like a decorative Columbian machete. Peruvian machete, maybe.

A horrid squawk came from Cam, like some alien manbeast of a distant place.

There was a motion and I pointed feebly as Mom dove over the couch and easily through the window like she had escaped worse before breakfast on occasion.

I pushed up onto my elbows and tried to scream at someone to do something, but there was no voice. Cam fell to the floor, and Skinny dropped the dull weapon locking eyes with me. She stalked toward me and crouched in front of my face, spraying hair across my forehead

“Do what you need to do,” she whispered into an echo.

And she was gone, pouncing out the window on the heels of my mother.

Then, without much more warning than the stench of decades’-old tea leaves between failing teeth, Bowry slid into my vision. She had crept along the floor from the couch no more than six feet through the chaos. She clawed up onto my chest and reached a thumb, ever-so-slowly into my left eye socket. And she pushed.

Burton was up and wandered casually around the back of Bowry and kicked her mightily in the rear quarters. My eye popped on her release, but not before she farted on me. I believe she got some pretty good distance as far as I could surmise with the remaining eyeball, however. Tucking, rolling, out through the door and into the courtyard like a sack of damp kindling.

Malcolm had buried Abbotsford’s torso so far back into the fireplace that the flames were all but distinguished. They were folded up at the end of what looked like a terrifying wrestle. Malcolm alone was panting, clutching Bowry’s laptop.

There was an awful sound from outside, and Burton, who had been looking at me in a very strange way, lifted me up and around his shoulder. He was small, but very firm, this man. I could feel his strength coming from the depth of his marrow. It was sturdy, this marrow.

We hobbled out to the cobbled courtyard and saw a figure with a broom, beating an old woman into the street.

“Sanford?” I slobbered.

“That guy,” said Burton, eyes wide.

I locked a good eye on my friend in his kimono. His broom was beautiful, a convincing structure, now quite drippy wet whilst raised to the sky. He stalled, looked off into some other place, righted himself and walked that way.

Bowry lay smaller yet in rest. Soaking like soy sauce into the cracks of the city.

Golden Angel’s Trumpet

T  he streets appeared some mix of derailed Pride parade and post-prom massacre. New sweethearts in bushes, naked looters, fistfights and dancing circles.

“Are you okay, brother?” Burton looked me up and down, pinching his nose slightly on our way away from the coffee shop.

“Dunno, too far gone.”

“You’re too far gone for what?”

“Everything. Look at me. My dick is broke, my leg is out of blood, I can’t talk so good with no molars! My ear canal has popped, my damn eyeball is somewhere deeper than it oughta be,” I stopped and grabbed Burton by the skinny tie, but my claw hand just wiped itself downward, “and I can’t feel any of it, man!”

“I think you shit your pants too…a while ago,” he straightened himself. “Not to worry, we’re looking good.”

“How are we looking good, Burton?”

“We’ve got this,” Malcolm waved the laptop, holding it open like a book for some reason, Elle hanging loosely under his other arm.

“And your Grandma’s very dead,” said Cam, lagging in the back, for good reason, having cauterized his newest wrist nub with a very expensive coffee machine. Because that’s what you do with a machete wound.

I stopped and gathered myself.

“Listen. I realize that this is a bad situation, that just so happens to be centered around my immediate, albeit, estranged family.”

“And the hot adopted girl that has it out for you,” said Malcolm. Elle groaned like a sedated moose from his somewhere deep in his armpit.

“Sure,” I said, “so this mess is clearly mine. I’m drugged up like they wanted me to be. I’m broken down and beaten up. I’m like a superhuman with supreme anxiety and deep-seeded passive aggression.”

“And it is he who shall save the world!” Cam winced, and drool- ed.

“Whoa, bud, you must be in pain, take this,” Burton dug around his body.

“Weed? Yes please, Dr. Doctor,” Cam closed his eyes and puckered his lips, having lost his other-other weed hand prior.

Sqssssst. Sqssssssssst.

Cam’s surprise turned pleasant very quickly.

Burton smiled then turned the spray bottle from Cam toward himself.

“Wait! Wait, that’s Skinny’s bottle!” I shouted.

“She gave it to me,” Sqssssst. Sqssssssssst. “Great stuff, makes you feel real, real good.”

“What the fuck, Burton? You’re shooting the plant into people’s faces now?”

“No man, that’s what I said when she gave it to me. I was like ‘I don’t want your plant, and stop fucking with Seb, wouldya?’ And she was like, ‘no, you don’t understand, just tell Sebastian this is what he needs to do’.”

I stared at my favourite record man with my mouth open enough for some pink plasma to leach slightly.

“She’s not a bad one, Seb, she’s solid.”

Then I remembered the rule of Burton’s Vinyl: Always know where your stuff comes from, and always trust that source. In that moment my mind was clear enough for an optimistic guess.

“Where’d she tell you she got the stuff from, Burton?”

He pointed the bottle at Malcolm, who ducked and shielded the laptop with Elle’s floppy cadaver. “Verdigris, of course,” he said.

“Of course,” I smiled through one teetering tooth, “Brugmansia Aurea, maybe?”

“Among other words that I don’t know, nor recall, thank you very kindly.”

“Wow,” I looked to Aira’s sushi temple up the street. “Wow.”

Sqssssst. Sqssssssssst.

Kokoro and I

I t was becoming quite natural to wake up in some kind of large vehicle barreling down some kind of road towards some kind of bridge.

I came to with the disconcert of ten-thousand toddler slaps to the face. The truck was indeed the one with the giant tanks that pulled into the Gastown bay hours ago, right before Skinny dummied Elle and her dog. Which, in hindsight was not so necessary.

The problem – one of them – was that I was behind the wheel.

The tanks behind me were full of the plant, D.Solutus, of what I recalled from Abbotsford’s introduction to it six days ago. It was now in concentrate form. The truck was Bowry’s swan song. It was going to Seattle, the contents were, then on to Oregon. Eugene in particular. Her laptop was a mess of Dr. Cameron’s – grandpa’s – files. Including a bunch of amateur plans to get the stuff onto a train and across the border, care of Solomon, the human urinal cake,

Why not just do all this in America, I would ask. Well, she needed Abbotsford for some of the rare specimens. Malcolm said he ‘cracked that code, like he cracked open Abbotsford’s dumb head’. Then he shotgunned a beer and threw one of Burton’s cacti across the record shop. Then he apologized and picked it up.

And now, I was very, very much in the throes of a sort of D.Solutus-and-Brugmansia Aurea hybrid cocktail. Which, I must say, inflicted a lucid dreamlike state of heightened id. A sort of awakening within, the above and beyond. All of that aggressively peaceful hippy shit, alongside the scary Ecuadorian third-eye explosion of geometric-shaped alien source code.

“Are you tripping out?” she said.

“Bahhh!” I spazzed, just as the second bump of the Granville bridge bit the front tires of the rig.

The girl who smelled like Christmas was sitting cross-legged in the passenger seat. She rolled up the window and lit a little cigarette with a familiar lighter.

“Look at the road, you’ve got precious cargo aboard,” she pulled hard and snicker-winced, “and there’s a lot of shit in the tanks behind us, too,”

“How’s your finger?” I asked, nodding at the hand with the missing white nail.

She turned, sucking, then blew smoke into my bulging left eye, or where an eye should have been.

“Doesn’t matter, can’t feel it anyways,” I said, then tongued an empty couple of molar grooves. Felt neat.

“You are one ballsy sonofabitch, and I mean that. Your mother is a real cunt, though.”

“Whoa, hey. Whoa with the words now, little girl.”

I could feel her eyes burning into the side of my face as I watched the road unfold.

Where was I going?

“Just drive,” she said. Staring. “So, you’ve cannon-balled into the river, have you?” Smoke of cloves and cinnamon pluming from tiny explosions at the tip of her cigarette. “You’ve jumped in, figured some things out, and now you’re a part of it, eh?”

“I’m moving with what I’ve been given, I guess so.”

“What you’ve been given?”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“Nor did I,” she sighed.

“What is this?”

“Don’t know.”

“Why are you here?”

“For you,” she said.

“Why am I here?”

“For us.”

“Us?” I said.

“And them.”

“Them?”

“Look out.”

I did, and quickly pulled the wheel in time to avoid a wandering group of bodies exploring the roadway, possibly negotiating a mobile orgy.

“Them,” I sighed.

I drove on in silence, trying to feel my face, trying to understand this undead little girl, trying to freak out appropriately.

It was all too normal. And even that couldn’t freak me out.

“So?” she said, finally.

“So, what?”

“What are you going to do, Sebastian?”

“You ask me as if I know,” I watched a man in the distance staring up into the sky. He was waiting for answers also.

“Well, you have Bowry’s disposition in your mind, you know where this truck is going, and to what end. Don’t get it twisted, this is not a good-and-evil discussion. I could care less if you want to turn a province and a couple of states into molasses. Doesn’t bother me an inch.”

“That’s a weird saying,” I smirked, wondering what a smirk might look like on a face like mine at the moment.

“Oh, you like words? Well what if your current state is not providence? You like those words?”

“Huh?”

“Look, buddy, you are in the hot seat. You are on very intense, mind-controlling drugs, as well as anti-mind-controlling, but – might I add – sophisticated, mystically powered potions of the highest potency…”

“D.Solutus? Golden angel’s trumpet? Aloe?”

“You bet your ass, aloe.”

“‘Ass-aloe’?”

“Joke away. Your future is very interesting indeed…or it is not. I just wanted to pop by to see you off. One way or the other. Things to do. Balance to bring.”

“I wish I could say it’s been clairvoyant and pleasurable, but let me tell you something, little girl…” I turned and pointed a gooey claw in her direction just as she opened the truck door and flipped me a couple of dirty birds, falling backward like a skydiver, striking the walkway with a nasty thud and cartwheeling up and over the bridge’s railing.

I watched for the splash in the passenger door mirror, it was small like her.

“Average!” I yelled into the mirror.

The bridge continued to ba-bump, ba-bump and I sat in her words.

Then it caught my good eye. I saw the lighter standing up right, where she had just been.

I double-taked the damned thing, and it looked back at me.

Its colour shifted slightly. Shapes appeared and disappeared, replaced by others, or perhaps repeating to the beat of the road. Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump.

I slapped my rubber face with a sticky claw hand.

Then it occurred to me to look to the banners on this bridge. My banners. They were flashing by overhead.

There was a simultaneous flash riding shotgun with each ba-bump.

The lighter was changing as they passed. “Okay, sure.” I said, watching for the patterns to change. I grabbed the thing and placed it sideways on the dashboard like some demonic GPS.

There were four symbols. As I passed a set of banners, a symbol on the lighter disappeared to the left, and a new one appeared at the right, near the sparkwheel.

It happened again, and again. So, I looked ahead for the last banner above the bridge, and the road beyond.

This lighter was giving me directions.

So, I chased the banners, the nautical icons that I had created myself. The concepts melted from my own mind to the print on the fabric, now flashing before me on this bodega dollar lighter.

There was a left, then another left bringing me over the Cambie bridge this time, heading back downtown. The banners passed, and like dye through water, the lighter’s icons came and went across its surface, or maybe throughout its body. It was iridescent and solid at once. Shimmering in the light, glowing through the shadows. At this point in my week, it was way to normal to be strange.

I was being taken to Gastown, to the old buildings and loading bays where the truck would be hooked up to a tank car waiting since this morning, due south, as we learned from Bowry’s laptop. The lighter and banners were taking me there.

I was taking myself there.

And then there were the drugs, the plants in my brain. There was a growing sense of fear and gratitude in my guts. The only other place I had felt that before was the church of a phone booth.

And so, my mother’s voice came over me. Whispering like a maniac, screaming calmly.

Frances’ voice joined chorus, Gewurztraminer-smooth. Then Elle, and Burton, Cam, Malcolm, Adina…a frenzy of directives. No questions, only answers. Their answers, not mine.

This is how it had been. Life.

The truck burst through the heart of the city, block after block of green or red or yellow lights. My heartbeats caught up with the speed of the banners passing overhead.

Outside the truck, the streets were alive with people doing everything and anything. Whatever inner freedoms the plant, and some programming, had allowed them to tap into.

A young Asian lady had some outfits laid out on a bus stop and was deep into some type of runway show. An older Indian woman was snapping photos with exuberant crouch poses and handsy direction. She had no camera, but the model had no catwalk, so it was tit-for-tat.

I saw a familiar barista, the pierced one. I thought to wave, but she was fist-fighting a Starbucks employee who wore a green apron like a cape. They were both winning, it was gruesome and beautiful.

There were many people climbing, and many people shouting. Those seemed to be popular choices. Naked fighting was second only to clothed lovemaking.

Carlos, the one who put in the new irrigation system at Verdigris, he was stepping over a maze of racing suit-guys, who were crawling around on the ground. He had a hockey bag sneezing wallets and purses and colourful bills. He had no shoes. He had twelve toes.

Riding bikes was lucrative, as was tipping things over with new friends. Here I saw several interns doing quite well. Overall, interaction rather than seclusion appeared to be the way to go. For them.

The Plant is freeing, it was becoming so clear. This city, with her seawall trails wrapping her like glistening, salty-dry seaweed. This city, with the layer of wealth and polite society like pristine, fluffy white rice. And the middle bit of this city, that funky piece of fresh fish belly that keeps your gut guessing. Will that bacteria in the middle bit inspire you? Will it nourish you?

Will it kill you?

This city could be amazing if all the parts were running freely with only their true intentions.

Order will kill you.

My mind was sharpening. Finally, I was thinking for myself.

I closed my eyes and thought of a place where I would be as lucky to be free. And I was lifted back to Aira’s kaiseki, the Hassan course that transplanted me to my childhood.

I lay amongst the long grass in the backyard of my childhood home. Staring up at the clouds staring back down to me. I traced the sky with my finger as I often did before I found something more permanent to sketch with. The peace was broken beyond the screen door that led into the kitchen where Mom and dad were arguing.

The vision was once again slashed with the cut of my Mom’s voice. Dulled like dad staring at his sad shoes.

Back in the truck’s rumbling chair, I guess the blocks rolled by. The people doing what they are to do, like fireflies.

“And so,” Aira came to me, “the armor of youth and the spontaneity of fireflies give way to the harsh realization that the journey is one to be marched alone.”

The lighter was pulsating now, and my good eye darted to the end of the street, Canada Place, the cruise ship terminal. And as the very last banner passed overhead, the Marine Life icon, I was destined to turn right into Gastown. The street blew by until I had too much speed to turn the truck without destroying half a city block.

But I knew that.

Purity.

I blasted through the last intersection, around a curving road and into the tunnels beneath the cruise ship terminal and convention centre. The guts of the city.

I sped up, grabbing the lighter and tossing it out the window.

Tranquility.

The voices of all my people, chatting like they were at a cocktail party in the back wall of my mind came to a unified halt. They were listening now.

Respect.

The truck exploded through an orange water barrier, a group of abandoned luggage carts and many smoke-break chairs on the loading docks. There were food delivery trucks, half loaded and deserted, intended for the cruise ship on the other side of the pier. I blew through much of it, hoping for a little smile.

I could see light at the end of the loading area, a straight shot out of the underbelly of this place. It was an iron and cement framing of the coastal mountains across the harbor; the slopes holding the Capilano River, Vancouver’s water source. The sea rose and showed itself as I barreled through the tunnel, taking any piece of loose material along for the ride. The noise was unbearable, as my ears both popped. I could hear fully, completely for the first time in a long time. Before I could enjoy it, my eyeball exploded with pain and I felt some liquid oozing from its cracked lids. Next, the nerves in my crotch were awoken. My right leg came to life and retched off the gas pedal in reflex to what felt like some vicious infection.

The truck exploded through a rail guard and an industrial elevator. The cab succeeded into the air but was pulled back by the steel bladder it towed. The whole thing folded and tore at itself as it fell with great violence. I pushed hard against the steering wheel, watching the water pull closer.

That charmed Pacific water, like miso soup. Murky soy clouds and floating, flying tissues of seaweed.

Gohan, Ko no mono, Tome-wan: Aira’s last kaiseki courses flashed before me. The resurrection. The old and the new entwined deep within.

I can’t be free, but Harmony is something I can get behind.

Chashaku & Chasen

Y ou can’t be scared of the word truth, I thought, and opened my eyes.

The place still smelled like coffee. It stank.

“That’s everything I can tell you,” I managed after some time.

Officer Muniez looked at me like I had been talking for a while, or not at all, or somewhere in between in some distant language.

He sat back in his black vinyl seat against the window. The community police station was as it usually was, maybe a bit more disheveled given what was going on outside. I wondered why there was no interrogation room, under the circumstances.

“Well, sir,” he said in that broken voice, given up for another day, “I think its best you go on your way while we wait for the big boys to figure this whole thing out. I know where to find you.”

His shoes were wretched, trodden along the sagging arches. He passed me a tasty-looking muffin and patted my sore shoulder on my way out.

I looked up to the afternoon sun and the filthy streets all around me, always nasty on the Granville strip.

Then I saw the group huddled up by a phone booth and I hobbled over. They looked like they just got out of similar conversations with Muniez. I wondered what truth they had shared.

There was Elle whimpering at Burton. Cam looking very rough, a bled-through shirt fastened around a nub with Burt Reynolds’ skinny orgy tie, another nub just dangling. Malcolm and Adina holding one another.

I tried to find words for each, but mostly searched their eyes until it was uncomfortable. I think I said something nice to Malcolm and Adina, but they didn’t seem to mind either way, they looked content. I reached for Cam’s arm, and he lurched backwards, definitely tender. Good kid. Elle was pretty broken up, she wasn’t really registering that I was there, so many tears coming out. I went to comfort her.

Burton intercepted me and turned me around with his hand up on my shoulder. It was a kind hand. Good marrow.

“Hey, big fella, you should go check on Aira and make sure he’s all good, know what I mean?”

“Gotcha Burton, thanks. I’ll see you around the record shop later?”

He squinted, focussing on my words. “For sure,” he said.

I passed a phone booth along the way and smiled at some memory or other. Water bottles and all types of new debris were littering the streets, and I kicked piece after piece into the gutter on my way down the hill to the intersection at Verdigris. That fancy new sprinkler system was humming at capacity, people dancing around everywhere in there, naked or otherwise. Some sort of party haven of happiness.

Let the water take us all.

The doors of the sushi temple opened around me. My friend, the tall wiry Japanese man was pacing around, his bare feet sliding without sound. His arms behind his back.

“How did it go?” Aira asked without looking up. His feet, so clean and bare, slid upon freshly swept bamboo floors. I liked that very much.

“Good,” I said, watching his toes move. He must have been talking about my trip to the police station, or to the coffee shop, or when I was down at the water. There were many things today.

“The journey is a long one, especially when you have just begun,” he stared at me. “For now, we take the seki from our kai and we rest. We have something to eat, and we enjoy the tea.”

I liked the tea very much. I would enjoy preparing it today.

There was a warm and distant light resembling sunset across the room, somehow cooler and fresher than outside.

I took off my shoes and went in further.

Sakizuke

S tepping out of the alleyway, I stretched up to the morning sky. The sun made its efforts on this brisk early hour, as was noted by birds and all manner of bush and tree creatures out in the street.

I took note of the sidewalks immediately, quite dissatisfying following the events of the days passed. My shoes, they look very nice indeed. This kimono, it feels good on my sore shoulders.

This city is big, the sidewalks are dirty.

So, I sweep, and maybe later, I get fish.

This book is for Ania, Koa, A Dog Called Quest, a bunch of chickens and, of course, Vancouver.

About the Author

A ugust Hill is an adventure-hoarding bastard.

Having crawled up through the mucky ranks of academia and business, August now exposes the characters and themes of a fragile and silly world through his fiction.

His comedic explorations soar in this fresh series dedicated to the magic at play all around you and the people you love to hate.

August has eaten and surfed all over the world, finding himself touched by strangers of all types, but not like that.

Working at an infamous hotel in the nineties, he once delivered a toothbrush to Barry Manilow, who was ironing his underwear at midnight.

www.augusthillbooks.com

@augusthillbooks

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