no idea how delicious this fucking coffee is. I bet he probably thinks I had everything handed to me, much like I think he probably has never held a job. A few generations ago, his family and people were free to roam and live how they’ve always lived. Now he’s obsolete, his community and spiritualism given the token treatment. Here, bang this drum and smile for the camera.
I’m lost in thought and a double tapped horn from behind brings me out of it. I have no idea how long the light was green for. Throwing it in first gear, my impatient feet give it enough clutch slip and gas to open a new conflict on the Niger delta, or some other shithole I could care less about. The next block is a blur and my red BMW blows through a late yellow that marks the line between feces and fancy. The road turns to cobblestone about a half block ahead, a few tourists are out. I stop to let a group cross the street. My eyes glaze over as my mind returns to the native guy. If he had seen so many of his friends and family getting high, maybe he couldn’t build another vision for anything else in life. Looking to my own relationships, maybe my nonchalance stems from how inevitable divorce seems to be. If I don’t play your game, I can’t lose. On the flip side, my dick can be friends with a million pussies, but if my heart doesn’t play nice with others, what then?
My right hand leaves the wheel to find the play button on the stereo. Back to a default Gastown frown and muttering “Fuck” to myself whenever life’s gloom gets too much. I’ll take this opportunity to put some heavy metal on to drown out the narrative of self-doubt. Driving my aluminum chariot around the block, into the urinal smelling alley, swipe, click, and the gate opens its mouth to swallow me. I whip the agile car inside and watch it close, preventing any windows from being broken in the urban hunt for loose change. Parking and taking the elevator up to the studio, the lift sounds like it’s about to completely disintegrate. Old sushi welcomes me home. There’s a shit-ton of emails I have to sort, a post-it reminds me of an event, and piles of laundry equal only in height to the mountains of dirty dishes. I pour vodka with cranberry, 50/50 mix. I smile and imagine myself relaxing against the side of a building, watching busy assholes sipping overpriced coffee.
9 Cold Trickle
The rain battered down in waves, fall’s wind cutting it into the shape of sails, with each gust a new form. It appears as a clear blue whip chastising streets of red brick, light spilling into puddles machine-gunned by a mad sky. It’s late afternoon, my furrowed face matches the tension of fabric at the back of my neck. A huge fucking drop had already ran down my spine once, that cold trickle can ruin an eggnog latte, even one poured by Natalee. She’s always wearing a smile, but girls at work sort of have to. Her intricate leaf drawn into foam has distinctively turned more yonic. A pack of cars jostle up the nearly flooded street, and my cab pulls up with the groan and stink of budget brakes.
Hunched over to protect my coffee, a free hand reaches out and the cab’s door opens a moment too soon. Crack, knuckles meet stamped steel. My left middle finger crunched into the door when Habib or what’s-his-fuck tried some good ol’ fashioned door courtesy. On the road to hell rolls yellow cabs with thoughtful drivers. The pleather stretches as I squeeze into the back of a Prius cab. Pointing with a non-bleeding hand, I inform the driver to take me to Commercial Drive.
Tick tock, patter patter patter. Beep! Patter patter. Distant spinning tires shriek. The street is filled with the busy cacophony of steel, glass and rubber beasts everywhere while rain drums away on the cab’s roof. The hypnotizing rhythm of the wiper blades swiping back and forth lazily, the lonely turn signal ticks while begging for an opening to get inside of. Fond recollections of my similar desires post beer and blow.
I’m lost in thought and a double tapped horn from behind brings me out of it. I have no idea how long the light was green for. Throwing it in first gear, my impatient feet give it enough clutch slip and gas to open a new conflict on the Niger delta, or some other shithole I could care less about. The next block is a blur and my red BMW blows through a late yellow that marks the line between feces and fancy. The road turns to cobblestone about a half block ahead, a few tourists are out. I stop to let a group cross the street. My eyes glaze over as my mind returns to the native guy. If he had seen so many of his friends and family getting high, maybe he couldn’t build another vision for anything else in life. Looking to my own relationships, maybe my nonchalance stems from how inevitable divorce seems to be. If I don’t play your game, I can’t lose. On the flip side, my dick can be friends with a million pussies, but if my heart doesn’t play nice with others, what then?
My right hand leaves the wheel to find the play button on the stereo. Back to a default Gastown frown and muttering “Fuck” to myself whenever life’s gloom gets too much. I’ll take this opportunity to put some heavy metal on to drown out the narrative of self-doubt. Driving my aluminum chariot around the block, into the urinal smelling alley, swipe, click, and the gate opens its mouth to swallow me. I whip the agile car inside and watch it close, preventing any windows from being broken in the urban hunt for loose change. Parking and taking the elevator up to the studio, the lift sounds like it’s about to completely disintegrate. Old sushi welcomes me home. There’s a shit-ton of emails I have to sort, a post-it reminds me of an event, and piles of laundry equal only in height to the mountains of dirty dishes. I pour vodka with cranberry, 50/50 mix. I smile and imagine myself relaxing against the side of a building, watching busy assholes sipping overpriced coffee.
9 Cold Trickle
The rain battered down in waves, fall’s wind cutting it into the shape of sails, with each gust a new form. It appears as a clear blue whip chastising streets of red brick, light spilling into puddles machine-gunned by a mad sky. It’s late afternoon, my furrowed face matches the tension of fabric at the back of my neck. A huge fucking drop had already ran down my spine once, that cold trickle can ruin an eggnog latte, even one poured by Natalee. She’s always wearing a smile, but girls at work sort of have to. Her intricate leaf drawn into foam has distinctively turned more yonic. A pack of cars jostle up the nearly flooded street, and my cab pulls up with the groan and stink of budget brakes.
Hunched over to protect my coffee, a free hand reaches out and the cab’s door opens a moment too soon. Crack, knuckles meet stamped steel. My left middle finger crunched into the door when Habib or what’s-his-fuck tried some good ol’ fashioned door courtesy. On the road to hell rolls yellow cabs with thoughtful drivers. The pleather stretches as I squeeze into the back of a Prius cab. Pointing with a non-bleeding hand, I inform the driver to take me to Commercial Drive.
Tick tock, patter patter patter. Beep! Patter patter. Distant spinning tires shriek. The street is filled with the busy cacophony of steel, glass and rubber beasts everywhere while rain drums away on the cab’s roof. The hypnotizing rhythm of the wiper blades swiping back and forth lazily, the lonely turn signal ticks while begging for an opening to get inside of. Fond recollections of my similar desires post beer and blow.
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