wrench.
âI donât know whatâs wrong with it,â I began. Two guys
walked into the washroom, spotted us, apologized, and quickly retreated. With the pants to match, I became Jack Tripper in some lost episode.
It didnât take Mykol long to fix my busted zipper. When we left the washroom, I left convinced that I needed to reconsider my eyesight and act a little more carefully with it. I was ashamed, but in a specific sense: mine was the sting that comes with delayed transformation. I felt like a man whose mid-life crisis had caught up, enlightening him to what a bad idea his new earring was, and how silly he looked wearing the same clothes as his son. In that bathroom I left behind something like my youth and, for sure, my few punk rock days. At that specific moment I became worried, cautious, and practical beyond my years, and I was miserable. That was my first feeling for what it meant to be disabled. I felt very old. I had to wear my blindness from now on, whether I found it ill-fitting or not, and I knew it in my bones.
As Mykol and I walked upstairs into the main area of the club, a man descended the steps towards us. By his size and his stride, I knew he was a bouncer. Mykol knew it by the word âSecurityâ on the guyâs chest.
When he reached us, he blocked the stairs and asked us to leave the club. Mykol asked why. The bouncer said something to the effect that we knew damn well why and that this wasnât no bathhouse here, man. I didnât want to explain what had happened. Who cares, I thought. Itâs closing time, anyway.
My brother took a different position. As the bouncer escorted us to the street, Mykol grinned and argued, saying,
âItâs just some brotherly love, man! What have you got against brotherly love?â
When I arrived home, the apartment was dark. I didnât bother with the lights. I walked down the hall, feeling my way, and knocked on Janeâs door with the heel of my palm. Only lower tones could reach her ears. I heard her wake up, turn in her bed, and tell me to come in. Something became clear in the black of her room, but I canât remember what. I climbed into bed beside her and began to cry. I told Jane everything, how threatened I felt, how scared I was of my eyes, of my future, and of who I was becoming. She stroked my hair and said everything would be okay, everything would look better tomorrow. Her hands undressed me and pulled the blankets over us. We were two tangled and frightened kids, both wounded and hidden away. Our hope was that nothing would find us or take anything more from us. At some point, just before morning, I fell into a deep and colourless sleep. For three years we stayed together that way.
Bodysnatchers from the Planet NASDAQ
Lougheed Highway is ugly and unremarkable. It also feels cold and rough against the back of your head.
I remember waking up, spread-eagled on my back, and staring at a street lamp. Movement felt available to my body, but I didnât feel capable, as they say, of going towards the light. I palmed for my hat and wondered if Iâd crushed it in the fall. My time out and away hadnât been long, maybe a few seconds, but that was time enough on the wet asphalt to soak my pants and jacket. My palms, face down on the road, had numbed somewhat, too. That was a sort of booby prize. Shredded skin is best chilled.
Jane and I had taken the bus home from the university that night. Weâd gotten off at our usual stop, and stepped into the usual Vancouver rain, ready to hoof the two remaining blocks home. Although the whereabouts of our apartment minimized my noodling around in the dark, our bus stop proved to be an inconvenience. It was on a busy highway, and on return trips from class, we had to cross it. Not one of my great talents.
The highway also challenged my penchant for laziness. The crosswalks in either direction seemed too far, especially
in the rain, and especially at night. My
âI donât know whatâs wrong with it,â I began. Two guys
walked into the washroom, spotted us, apologized, and quickly retreated. With the pants to match, I became Jack Tripper in some lost episode.
It didnât take Mykol long to fix my busted zipper. When we left the washroom, I left convinced that I needed to reconsider my eyesight and act a little more carefully with it. I was ashamed, but in a specific sense: mine was the sting that comes with delayed transformation. I felt like a man whose mid-life crisis had caught up, enlightening him to what a bad idea his new earring was, and how silly he looked wearing the same clothes as his son. In that bathroom I left behind something like my youth and, for sure, my few punk rock days. At that specific moment I became worried, cautious, and practical beyond my years, and I was miserable. That was my first feeling for what it meant to be disabled. I felt very old. I had to wear my blindness from now on, whether I found it ill-fitting or not, and I knew it in my bones.
As Mykol and I walked upstairs into the main area of the club, a man descended the steps towards us. By his size and his stride, I knew he was a bouncer. Mykol knew it by the word âSecurityâ on the guyâs chest.
When he reached us, he blocked the stairs and asked us to leave the club. Mykol asked why. The bouncer said something to the effect that we knew damn well why and that this wasnât no bathhouse here, man. I didnât want to explain what had happened. Who cares, I thought. Itâs closing time, anyway.
My brother took a different position. As the bouncer escorted us to the street, Mykol grinned and argued, saying,
âItâs just some brotherly love, man! What have you got against brotherly love?â
When I arrived home, the apartment was dark. I didnât bother with the lights. I walked down the hall, feeling my way, and knocked on Janeâs door with the heel of my palm. Only lower tones could reach her ears. I heard her wake up, turn in her bed, and tell me to come in. Something became clear in the black of her room, but I canât remember what. I climbed into bed beside her and began to cry. I told Jane everything, how threatened I felt, how scared I was of my eyes, of my future, and of who I was becoming. She stroked my hair and said everything would be okay, everything would look better tomorrow. Her hands undressed me and pulled the blankets over us. We were two tangled and frightened kids, both wounded and hidden away. Our hope was that nothing would find us or take anything more from us. At some point, just before morning, I fell into a deep and colourless sleep. For three years we stayed together that way.
Bodysnatchers from the Planet NASDAQ
Lougheed Highway is ugly and unremarkable. It also feels cold and rough against the back of your head.
I remember waking up, spread-eagled on my back, and staring at a street lamp. Movement felt available to my body, but I didnât feel capable, as they say, of going towards the light. I palmed for my hat and wondered if Iâd crushed it in the fall. My time out and away hadnât been long, maybe a few seconds, but that was time enough on the wet asphalt to soak my pants and jacket. My palms, face down on the road, had numbed somewhat, too. That was a sort of booby prize. Shredded skin is best chilled.
Jane and I had taken the bus home from the university that night. Weâd gotten off at our usual stop, and stepped into the usual Vancouver rain, ready to hoof the two remaining blocks home. Although the whereabouts of our apartment minimized my noodling around in the dark, our bus stop proved to be an inconvenience. It was on a busy highway, and on return trips from class, we had to cross it. Not one of my great talents.
The highway also challenged my penchant for laziness. The crosswalks in either direction seemed too far, especially
in the rain, and especially at night. My
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