Drinks At The Local Thirsty

The sequence of circumstances that led to my employment at The Local Thirsty don't make a particularly gripping tale, especially contrasted with other unusual occurrences over my years at the Thirsty. Many of the less interesting tales blur together, such like the dying gasps of autumn as brutal winter moves in to finish the hit. An occasion in my memory rises above that cold haze, despite taking place during those aggressively neutral months.

----

It was a bleak November afternoon, windy jacket weather where any beam of sunlight was unable to pierce through a dense colourless layer of cloud. The Thirsty was especially quiet, that awkward transitional part of the day when the lunchtime rush had completely died down but about an hour before the neighbourhood regulars finished work. My only table was a hungover couple in the back nursing a shared mimosa, when a young man I'd never seen before took a seat at the bar.

Immediately noticeable about this man was how he dressed, leading me to think how Halloween had been weeks ago. On the surface it seemed nothing more than a costume yet the man appeared so natural and comfortable in it that even some friendly jabs towards his style seemed an inappropriate way to approach. So I began quiet, dropping a menu and a coaster in front of him while he adjusted his large silver belt and turned his head so as to find the most gracious lighting for his brown fedora.

'What's your best rye?' He asked me without a glance at the menu.
'We've got Boswell Bullet or Lot 40, that's the premium stuff.' I replied.
'Bullet sounds appropriate, Been dodging a few of those lately. On the rocks, double.'

This was a while before the Thirsty tightened their inventory counts, so I poured this odd young man a splash or two over the standard two shots. I was very curious by his appearance and attitude and hoped to slyly and expertly loosen his tongue.

'First time in the city?' I asked him. A generic ice-breaker.
'Yeah. Stopover from Ankara, resting it off for a while. Lots of snakes there.'

He took the glass of rye to his lips and gulped down half of it. He set the glass back down on the bar and glanced up at me.

'Decent stuff.'
'I'm not much of a rye drinker, to be honest.' I replied.
'I assume you have a poison of choice?' He inquired. 'Never met a barkeep anywhere in the world who didn't.'
'Gun to my head, tequila.'
'Ha! Huh. You don't strike me as a tequila man.' Said he, his eyes wandering me up and down.
'Sure. I just don't care for cheap stuff.'
'Me neither.'

The young man stared at me for a moment with a look of both judgement and amusement. I've never been a great guesser of age but I doubt even after the fact that he was older than 26. Yet he possessed this demeanour of gruff and weary worldliness that itself surpassed him by decades. My instincts could not conclude whether he was genuine or a brilliant facade.

'So what brought you here of all places? This is a decent city but nothing special.' I asked.
'Got some time to kill, thought I'd maybe go finish up my doctorate.'
'What's your field?'
'Archaeology.' He replied, finishing his drink and smacking his lips afterwards. 'Same thing, fella.'

I poured him another with a little less ice this time. He took out a small notebook from the inside pocket of his thin brown jacket and jotted down some words quickly, all the while peeking towards the entrance. I checked in on my mimosa table ("We're fine") and went back behind the bar.

'Wyoming.' Said he, glancing up from his notebook and nodding to me.

I told him my name.

'Huh. Unusual. Huh, huh huh. Never heard that one before. You look a bit like a fella I met down in the Yucatan, Bajon. He looked up a student paper I wrote for Oxford and sent me a letter inviting me down to look at a particular find he discovered off the beaches in Tulum.'
'I've been there before.' I nodded. 'Was it worthwhile heading all the way down there?'

Wyoming sniffed his rye and took a sizeable sip, letting it linger in his mouth for a moment before gulping it down.

'Huh. We met in Playa Del Carman, at the bar of a small resort where he knew the owner. After a few tequilas he felt comfortable enough in my confidence and pulled out what he'd found. It was truly remarkable, I'd never seen anything like it.'
'Diamonds? Jewelry?'
'It was an amulet, flawless condition, a blue gemstone in the very center. Somehow it'd survived in a makeshift preservative, inside a metal box buried under the sands of the beach. Deciphering what we could of the symbols on the amulet, we concluded this had belonged to an ancient princess, and that there was a twin amulet belonging to a her beloved, a prince. Bajon fortunately was sharp enough to also bring the metal box with him, so we took a room at the resort and got to work trying to find any clues towards the possible location of the second amulet.'

At this point the mimosa table finally asked for their bill. I dealt with that, chuckled at overhearing how they were each buzzed again, and went back to Wyoming's progressing tale.

'Bajon and I spent a few days and a few bottles of whiskey I'd smuggled through customs getting nowhere on this mystery. None of the symbols on the box even resembled anything either of us were familiar with. Then one evening I fell asleep but Bajon quickly shook me awake. He'd made a brilliant revelation: the unknown symbols weren't words but co-ordinates!'

Wyoming became so excited at this moment of retelling that he knocked over his drink onto the wood of my bar. I refilled it and looked the other way.

'Cheers, friend. Yes co-ordinates! A precise instruction, hidden in code within misleading pictograph. Brilliant, really. Using a map in the welcome basket of our hotel room, we triangulated the location and groaned once the final calculation confirmed it. The spot was twenty-three miles east of the resort, in the blue of the sea according to our map.'

A regular of the Thirsty, Jake Nosul (who we referred to as "Nose" or "The Nose"), walked in around this part of the story. He sat next to Wyoming at the bar and leaned in, which made Wyoming quietly unwilling to continue the tale.

'Hey Nose, how bout I buy you lunch?'
'Really? Sure! To what do I owe this pleasure?'
'My unselfish nature.' I replied. 'Just go into the kitchen and tell Chef what you want. Tell him it's on me.'
'All right! I have been craving a well-done steak lately...'

Once Jake had disappeared into the back Wyoming flashed me a quick smirk.

'The next day we borrowed a boat and set out to see if there was anything out there. It was twilight and foggy when we reached the co-ordinates, so I cut the engines. Good thing too, because otherwise we would've crashed head on into a cliff-face! The mass wasn't wide or high but it was large enough to climb onto, maybe about the size of this bar actually. With a couple of ropes we were atop the thing, marveling at how unnaturally flat it was. In the centre of the mass was a big stone noticeably outta place, shining silver through the mist. Geology has never been a trick in my bag but this stone I swear was untouched by the ravages of the eroding sea. With a flashlight we found the thinnest of seams along the stones corner, connecting into a rectangular outline within the top. Too precise and fine to have occurred naturally. A soft touch onto it and we were certain it was removable. Bajon grabbed a thin knife from his jacket, used it as a lever and the portion of stone was free.'
'There were engravings etched on the inside of the compartment, very similar to those on the amulet. A buildup of moss was along the bottom that we had to tear away, revealing the small metal box we suspected was there. Another pry of Bajon's knife and we had the box open.'

Wyoming took a sip, swished his drink and closed his eyes, as though to savour an old memory becoming fresh again.

'An amulet almost exactly like the other, except the centre stone was vivid red instead of blue. That wasn't all. There were scraps of paper, badly worn but still the handwriting was legible. I carefully stuffed them into my pack to protect them from the mist, knowing their potential historical importance. Right as I did that, an enormous wave crashed against the island. Once the haze lifted we weren't alone anymore.'
'The clicking of pistols, the international unfriendly hello. There were only two, meaning in numbers we were an even match, but Bajon and I were not armed.'
' "Bajon, old friend." said the lead man. As he stepped closer I recognized him as the owner of the resort. Obviously he had followed us. "Deepest thanks to both of you. At first I was content with simply snatching the first amulet away from you. But when I saw you sneak out to sea, I knew something as up. Like you both knew where the second one might be. So my associate and I followed you, and now here we are." '
'Bajon handed both metal boxes over but could not keep silent. "Why? We've been friends for fourteen years. Why?" Friend Bajon growled. The associate pointing a gun at me tightened his grip. I was just extra baggage in this affair.'
' "Why he asks? Old friend, there are many reasons. Maybe my resort is losing money, meaning the sale of these amulets is just the surge of cash I need. Or maybe I'm a long down descendant of the invaders that destroyed this ancient kingdom, so if I possess the amulets the misdeeds of my ancestors is lost in history. Or maybe dear Bajon, I just never liked you that much. Maybe none of those! Or maybe all three. Speaking of the second, you there put something in your pocket. Hand it over." '.
'The associate advanced on me, gun pointing to my chest. I kept one hand raised, threw off my pack with the other and bent down to open it up. His hand drooped a little as he came closer, a lackey mistake. I swung the pack hard around my shoulder, belting him square across the face. Baggage saving baggage. In the confusion Bajon made his move, tackling his old friend by the legs. I moved to help but my adversary grabbed my arm and fired a bullet that missed my nose by a foot. Luckily I was a champion wrestler in college, dunno if I mentioned that.'

'Sure.' I shrugged.

'Right. Well I was. I tossed that bastard into the sea once I'd loosened the gun. I got up and through the haze of the crashing waves saw Bajon still duking it out. Just as I recovered the pistol, a gigantic wave gathered up just by the break of the rocks. I scrambled behind the largest stone right as this three-storey wave crashed into the island, the sound echoing into the sea like an explosion. Once the mist had cleared I looked around and saw no sign of Bajon, his betrayer, or the amulets. By miracle our boat was still intact, and I went back to shore.'

Wyoming was silent for a while, staring out towards the window with a regretful expression on his face and poking his nearly empty drink.

'The end?' I eventually asked.
'Yeah.' He grunted, his eyes looking to his glass to suggest one more.

I poured it, gave him the bill and greeted a pair of regulars who'd walked in during the climax of Wyoming's tale. This gave me a sudden sense of reality as I returned to Wyoming to settle up.

'Sounds a bit cliche to be honest.' I remarked to him.
'...excuse me?' He replied, more surprised than angry.
'Sorry, like something out of a movie. Just a tad too fantastic.'

Wyoming was silent for a moment. 'Sure. Guess ya got me. Good ears, friend.' Wyoming said, reaching into his jacket pocket for a wad of bills. 'The pleasure was mine, though I'm sure we'll meet again.'

With a subtle tip of his hat he slipped out the door like a shadow chased by a vengeful light. I cleared his empty glass and gathered up his generous gratuity. There was a strange foreign bill mixed in the middle of what he left, which I thought nothing of until I separated it. I realized it wasn't currency but a folded piece of paper, extremely old and yellowed with faded handwriting in a language resembling nothing I'd ever seen. Cliches indeed.

A Farewell To Doc

There are so many stories that should and probably will be written about Harry Leroy Halladay. I can't possibly do the man justice by trying to impart those facts within my limited knowledge.

Especially since many people know the story: how he was a top draft pick who rose to the major leagues with so much promise, coming within a single out of throwing a no-hitter in his second career start. Then the story shifted to one of a struggling young pitcher trying to make his way against the very best hitters in the world, during the tail end of an era where slugging batters dominated the sport no less. He turned in one of the worst seasons a qualified MLB pitcher has ever handed on the desk in 2000, and the team sent him down three levels the next year in a potentially vain hope he'd figure shit out.

The 2001 team stands out to me really because it was the genuine beginning of my infatuation/love affair with the Toronto Blue Jays. Which is objectively hilarious because what a truly forgettable team, despite how Carlos Delgado was freaking awesome, Vernon Wells gave us lots of hope for the future (ha!) and the Quantrill-Plesac bromance was only trumped by their awesome abilities to actually pitch good bullpen innings. Aside from that (and Jose Cruz Jr.'s 30-30 year), the most notable thing about this squad was how dreadful the starting pitching staff was, particularly early on. Steve Parris, Joey Hamilton, Chris Michalek, Esteban Loaiza (I mean, Tom Riddle), all stinking up the SkyDome mound on a regular basis. Finally this pitching-sad squad made a depth callup in the middle of June for an arm with anything resembling life.

I'm not lying, I actually remember this game somewhat: Halladay's 2001 debut in relief (a truly dreadful Loaiza start it turns out). Doc same in early and then surrendered six runs in two-plus innings to the Red Sox. I recall my thirteen year old self watching and thinking: "This guy is really awful. I never want to see him out there again.". Halladay's ERA on the season after that game was 23.14. The team gave him an actual start five days later and I thought they were completely insane. This is why MLB teams don't listen to the whims of 13 year olds.

I quickly changed my tune and fell in love with Halladay. He didn't walk anybody (25 in 105.1 IP), didn't give up home runs (3!) and was just 24 years old in 2001, yet clearly had the best composure on that staff. Nothing seemed to bother this guy now, not Billy Koch blowing his potential wins multiple times or even just playing on a team so forgettably mediocre as the 2001 Blue Jays. You could just tell he was potentially on a different level.

Indeed he was. Roy Halladay had clearly arrived. He was a lonely bright spot on a really bad 2002 Blue Jays team, a point of pride on a competitive 2003 team that scored a million runs thanks to simultaneous career years, and his injury/brief ineffectiveness was a major symptom of the Season From Hell (vol I) that was 2004.

2005 rolls in, I'm seventeen and now have fallen in love with pitching. I spent a lot of my after school time at my high school going out back to the sports field, finding a familiar square on the outer brick wall and just firing away. I learned quickly my fastball was pathetically slow (like barely breaking the speed limit in a school zone slow), but the appeal of it all was more in the art of pitching than just being able to blow heat past people. I wanted to carve corners, change speeds, make em think something else was coming. I 'd been watching a master at this in Doc Halladay for three-plus seasons now, and I wanted to emulate this master sculptor like a child desperate for just a single slab of marble. Everything he threw at hitters moved, but it moved in such unpredictable directions and was always in just a perfect spot where a hitter couldn't quite get it. Another weak ground ball. I watched every one of his starts, studied this impossible method and aspired to be capable of the same, even after an errant but heartbreaking line drive from Kevin Mench prematurely ended what could have been Doc's best season.

Halladay's brilliance as a Blue Jay became a yearly expectancy as his career continued. Once we knew he was fully healthy after an initially exciting 2006 season, Doc spent his remaining time as a Blue Jay spinning seasonal masterpieces for teams that either made ineffectual moves towards competing or just wanted to start over. After 2009, it was time for Doc to start over. It was a common secret Halladay wanted to play in Philadelphia, yet he never made a public request or complained on emerging social media, and the team made a deal that now basically results in getting a third of R.A. Dickey and all of Devon Travis. Conclusion jury is still out looking for conclusions on that one.

Losing Doc hurt every fan of the Blue Jays, despite how inevitable it felt near the end. And yet, many of us didn't harbor ill feelings towards him for wanting to get outta town. Many of us still rooted for him, and were ecstatic the night he threw his perfect game in Miami. I remember I was out on the town with some friends, heard about what he'd done and once I was free rushed home at three in the morning just to watch the highlights of another Halladay masterpiece. And he looked every bit the pitcher he had always been, except he was wearing the wrong uniform. But that didn't matter. He was still our guy.

Later that same season was the first game of the 2010 NLDS with the Phillies facing off against the Reds (before they became my adopted NL team). A friend of mine wanted to have a long hang out of beers, personal basketball/baseball rivalries and various other stuffs, but it was Roy Halladay's first ever playoff appearance for the Phillies and I just did not want to miss it, so I blew him off. My friend fired some snarky remarks my way, which I gladly accepted for the opportunity to watch live only the second no-hitter in MLB postseason history. A historically excellent performance tarnished only by the fact that Doc missed a perfect game by walking a single batter, on a borderline 3-2 pitch no less. The Phillies won that series against the Reds but lost frustratingly to a clearly inferior Giants squad in the NLCS, and that was the closest Halladay ever got to a championship he richly deserved. He had a couple more good years with Philadelphia (including that great Game Five playoff duel with Carpenter the next year) but shoulder problems slowly robbed him of velocity and he hung up the spikes after 2013 with 206 wins in the big leagues.

Roy Halladay was the kind of player you wanted to root for, to cheer for, to love, once you inhaled a single wiff of what he was about. He was an insanely hard working and well conditioned, but humble about his own personal successes. His greatest pitching skill was ruthless efficiency, yet he was incredibly enjoyable to watch when on his game. In retirement his obsessive dedication to his craft gave way to a man cheerful and relaxed with his accomplishments, whether it be trolling a fan with a Halladay jersey (who walked past Doc without recognizing him) in good social media fun, signing a theatrical one day contract so he could retire as a Blue Jay (with all the gushing that followed), or taking up an interest in aviation (which is exactly what has led to this tragedy).

All I can say is that I'm proud to be a fan of the Blue Jays, because Roy Halladay played for the Blue Jays. A great, classy ballplayer who by so many accounts was an even greater and classier human being. During those forgettable seasons when Doc took the mound I usually didn't care who the Jays were facing or what the sad W-L record of my team was, I was more excited to see a true master take the stage once more. I am truly saddened we will never get to see the man himself take to the precious stage of life again.

Maybe The Truth

Maybe the truth is
I have so much to offer
Maybe the truth is
I don't interact like a normal person
Maybe the truth is
I want to be alone
even though that's what kills me
Maybe the truth is
I imagine magic that isn't there
Maybe the truth is
I don't need to imagine
the magic is there in all of us
Maybe the truth is
I'm afraid
but aren't we all
Maybe the truth is
Most of us are noble and true
it's the bad ones that shit
on the parade

Alone At A Party

Talking up to the corner
Making friends with the snack bowl
The bathroom sure knows my name by now
It's where I've been hiding

Everyone else is so natural
like they're actually friends
So badly I want the same
but I've nothing to say

I drift through the room
like an aggressive decoration
A look here, an eyebrow raised there
I'm a phony so lonely
Hiding fear through smiles
While my eyes roll
among the floorboards

Waves In Motion

In anger I pressed hard on my pedals and was off. This was the last straw, I'd been made a fool for the last time. Everyone knew she'd been doing this behind my back, everyone in class had been laughing it up about stupid naive me. Oh she had yelled at me as I rode away, calling me a number of cruel things that bounced off the outside but cut on the inside. I rode faster, ran a red light, nearly got sandwiched between a pair of trucks, and had no clue where I was going. It didn't matter.

Eventually I was along a waterfront trail and ended up at a dock overlooking a bunch of boats. There was an empty bench and I sat down, burying my head in my hands. This was it. Dating anyone just wasn't worth the grief. Especially if they were all like her. Especially to do that with my best friend.

I wasn't paying attention, lost in my sadness, and an older man got the drop on me. He sat next to me on the bench before I could protest or even notice. Once I looked he had already opened a can of beer and was contently enjoying it. Yeah great, of all the moments in my life I needed this now. I glared at him for a moment but that only seemed to increase his enjoyment of what was happening. Senile old coot.

'Fine night, isn't it?'

Now he wanted to talk to me? My torment was never going to end.

'Sure, whatever.'
'Reminds me of a night long ago.' He smiled, sipping. 'I was much younger then, different things on my mind.'

I didn't reply. More than anything I wanted to throw myself or him into the water. Or just ride away and leave, but I couldn't gather the energy for even that. My head stayed down in my hands.

'Would you like one young man? I suspect you're not legal quite yet but it seems like you could use one.'

This old fart would not get the hint. Then again, I was in such a foul state I hardly cared about anything. I'd never had one before, maybe a "one" would make me feel better. I surely couldn't feel worse. I stuck my hand out without looking and the stranger handed me a cold can. I fumbled with it (not bothering to look, head still in my hands), opened it and pushed it blindly to my lips. It was like chilled watery wheat juice left in the sun and I nearly spat it out.

'No sweat. For me anyway, it took many years before I liked it.'

I glared up at the old stranger again and was surprised to see how put together he seemed. I'd expected torn clothing, dirt stains and common hobo unpleasantness, instead he was well dressed with sharp red shoes that, though old, shone brilliantly under the streetlight. I felt more at ease, though still very put off by his presence here.

'I bet I can guess what's bothering you. Girl problems.'
'Get lost.' I fired.

To my surprise he chuckled. I tried another sip and found it slightly less repulsive than the first time.

'Precisely.' The stranger nodded. 'What business is it of mine? The last thing you want right now is some old fart telling you what to do, or reminiscing about his personal glory days. You don't need that.'
'Sure. Cool, I guess.'

We were silent for a long moment, sipping our drinks and looking in different directions into the bay. Some feeling came over me and I felt the urge to at least test his wisdom.

'I... I dunno... I'm like, someone made a fool of me. That's all I'm saying.'
'Sure. That'll happen. There's always drama with these types of things, that doesn't change.'
'It doesn't?' I asked.
'Well, the type of drama changes. Romantic relationships are difficult, uncertain creatures. And when you're young, everything around you is so wide open, the uncertainty is even greater.'
'Does it, you know, get easier?'

The stranger finished his beer and tossed it into a recycle bin with perfect accuracy.

'Maybe.' He shrugged with a faint grin, mumbling some other words before grabbing an umbrella from his pocket and tapping it to his forehead in goodbye.

I watched him disappear and then sat for a while until the rain really came down upon me. Back on my bike I went, leaving the gift a quarter finished, an was drenched by the time I got home.

-----

It had been years since I had ridden a bicycle. In my first year of university I suffered a terrible knee injury trying out for the basketball team, thanks to a slippery gym floor, and the basic movement of riding was agonizing for some time. My accident had eventually transformed into a brief lawsuit, leaving me with a fair amount in the bank for my trouble, minor consolation since my knee was never the same despite multiple surgeries. Once the coin was mine I bought a pair of expensive shoes and then a bicycle just to see if I still could do it. Turned out I couldn't pedal very fast, but it was doable.

There was a place I'd gone years ago in high school I wanted to see again, so at night I snuck out of my dormroom and rode towards the lakeshore very slowly. Nothing was familiar as I went, there were condos now being built along the main stretches of street. I wasn't completely sure where I was going, and was relieved when I finally saw a dock with about a dozen boats floating idly in the water. I took a seat on a bench and stared into the bay for a while, my thoughts lingering on my next move in life.

These mental motions were disrupted when a man staggered into my line of vision. He was maybe a decade older than I, though his shaggy beard and reddish face added some phantom years beyond that. In his hand was a can of beer, which he gulped down and tossed onto a docked boat with admirable accuracy. He turned to me:

'Eyyyy... we've have got the same shoes man we've got!'

I glanced at his feet and he was right, though his were a bit more worn away. I commented how that was a funny coincidence and immediately regretted doing so, since he sat down stared clumsily at my face.

'I don't remember... seein' you before...'
'That'd be another crazy coincidence.' I nodded, turning in another direction. His breath was foul like an onion sandwich mixed with booze.
'What's troublin' you man? Ya look... look like yarve got something onyourmind...'
'It's nothing. Don't worry about it dude.' I said, trying to be closed yet polite. 

He mumbled, reached into his jacket and pulled out two more cans. He nearly dropped one but showed another impressive move by catching it with his foot and flipping it up to his open hand. He then offered the same beer to me and I felt compelled to accept, if only to compliment his bizarre dexterity.

'Thanks.' I said, giving him a cheers. He nearly spilled it all over his pants.
'I gots... stuffs on my minds, mans... big stuffs...' He mumbled, taking a large gulp. 'You minds if I get some ofit off machest?'

I agreed and took my first sip. It was okay considering I wasn't much of a beer fan. The clumsy gentleman began to ramble somewhat coherently about what was troubling him. Most of the details were lost in the haze of his desire to keep adding more details or just an inability to form proper sentences, but from what I pulled out this was something very heavy and important.

'That's intense.' I said when he seemed finished. 'That's a really tough call there.'

He said nothing, only rubbing his head in stress and staring out at the boats for a long moment. At last I thought to leave but he sensed it.

'So tellme what'son yer mind now.'
'Trust me it's cool.' I insisted. 'It's silly in comparison to what you told me.'
'Nono no no, please do. I would really... like to hear it.'

I sighed, sure I was about to sound like an immature dope. Another sip of beer and I glanced at my strange storyteller: his eyes were even more glazed than before but I knew somehow he was about to listen intently.

'Well... ugh... it's just I don't feel like... like I'll ever meet someone.'
'Okaysh.' He said, swaying slightly.
'I mean, it's not that I've never met anyone, you know... there have been short little things. I'm just not sure I'll ever meet the real, right person. You know?'

He was silent for a moment. We sipped beer in the tightness of quiet, the only sounds provided by the waves shifting the boats around.

'Ithinks somes fews of us never meet that personIguess... or we do but they comes along later in life, whenyou'renot looking for em... it's differents, for everyones.'
'But how do you know they're the one?' I asked, feeling stressed myself now. 'How can you be 100 percent sure?'

He began to speak but paused. His lips twitched a bit and his eyes rolled up a bit, as though a new different thought had pushed the old one away.

'100 percents? Nevethat's... doubtthere's always therisk... always the leaprisk...'

I wanted to ask more but he suddenly got to his feet, spilling the last quarter of his beer. He thanked me for listening to him and stumbled off into the night before I could return so likewise. So much of what he said hardly made sense to me, like it was hopeful and bleakness holding hands with each other. I watched the water a bit longer but could not find any conclusion to my dilemma I felt good about. Eventually I hopped back on my wheels, leaving the beer half empty, and rode slowly back towards downtown. A slight warm glow gave my knee an easier trip of it.

----

It was the spot I was needed. Definitely. Had to be. I'd asked the streetcar driver half a dozen times. She yelled at me to get off right before Coxwell. People on the streets, weird looks. The ones who would even acknowledge me didn't know what I was talking about. I wandered south in a haze of blurry traffic lights and dark enormous trees. Shadows closing in all around me. Shadows again! A sense I was close to where I needed to be kept my bravery. It was all I needed.

Still, some excess bravery couldn't hurt. I lunged my hand into my heavy jacket. A fresh cool can. Load lightened. These shadows had their tentacles near my throat now. I popped the can and dumped most of the contents down my mouth quickly. Now I was light-headed, more so, my steps clumsier and my vision slightly titled, more so. Much better.

I evaded the shadows, came upon a bench directly across from the water. A dozen or so boats floating along the docks there. Another man, younger, already sitting on the bench. I finished the rest of my can and threw it blindly towards the water, it landed somewhere didn't care. I observed to the bench man we wore the same shoes. He agreed. An invitation. I sat next to him, immediately he seemed less comfortable. I'd never seen him before, unsurprisingly. Big city. His bicycle was familiar though, leaning against a nearby tree.

Something was troubling him, deep. An inquiry into what but I was shrugged away. I reached into my jacket for my last two miracle cans, dropping one on my feet.

'You want one?' I asked, more or less.

He accepted and we drank for a moment. It occurred to me then that I was here to contemplate. All this way to a special spot, mull this heavy thing. I asked the young stranger if I could do so aloud. He agreed. Delightful. Instant camaraderie.

'Well it's a matter of life and love.'

The young stranger nodded, contemplating my gift after his first taste. I continued.

'I've been with the most wonderful awesome woman in the world. Four years. Most of em great. But we've hit a roadblock. An impasse. We've gone as far as we can without the big step. Hand in hand. Death do us part. I do? Do I?'

No response. Maybe I wasn't clear enough.

'She's dynamite, you know? An explosion of a person. Can't imagine life without her. Legs, body, mind, eyes. Smiles with style, right? But I ain't sure. Feel like I gotta be totally sure. Like a concrete block. This is my life man! Total certainty.'

The young stranger nodded and mumbled something about tough calls. Couldn't get through. What a shame. Maybe the boats out in the water could guide me somewhere. Still nothing though. Had to steer this in another direction.

'So tell me what's on your mind now.'

He tried deflecting my inquiry once again, but I persisted kindly. At last he sighed. A tell. He was going to reveal it. I looked at him intently. He was still young, had to show I was paying attention.

'All right well... ugh... it's just that I don't feel like I'm ever gonna meet someone.' He explained.

I nodded. The young stranger continued, explaining his plight. Rather emotional frustration. To some it could've seemed dopish. Not to me. Been through the same thing. Tough. It's difficult to step up to the plate and think you've finally got one to hit, but you swing and miss anyway. I attempted some wisdom:

'I think some few of us never meet that person... or we do but we let them slip away for whatever reason... or they come along later in life when you're not looking for them... it's different... for everyone.'
'But how do you know they're the one? How can you be 100 percent sure?'

My instinct was to snicker. Youthful foolishness. You just know. Diamond tough. But... do you really? Completely? Did I? Was this it? My feeling? Questions now. Certainty of certainty shattered. Youthful wisdom.

'100 percent? Never. There's always doubt and... there's always the risk... always the risk of the leap...'

New things to think about. Avenues unexplored in the dilemma metropolis. I'd been locked into a fear I couldn't understand, unaware how common it could be. Had to leave this place. Served me well, done it's job. No long goodbyes necessary. Dumped the rest of my can into the grass, back into the night. Back into the shadows. But this time I had them. There were streetlights breaking their curtains. 

----

For much of my younger life I was in a state of disharmony, an imbalance of emotion if you will. I believe many of us grapple with a similar impasse during this period of life. Two states of mind that are naturally opposed by one another, yet our instincts drive our desires towards both: the need for self and the need for someone else. As a younger man I pursued the second much more vigorously, presuming such success would also mean success for the first. This was frustrating. I neglected loving myself for the pursuit of someone who could love me, and was eventually fortunate at all to find such a person who could tolerate that.

But I did, and as we became closer and closer I found it much easier to love her than I did to love myself. This was the disharmony: I'd always wanted to love someone and so took to it quickly, but in terms of self-love I was immature and inexperienced. My diet habits were bad, I consistently had one drink too many, my clothes would tear and go unreplaced. Eventually I reached an emotional puberty, wherein I began looking out at the world and seeing opportunities one without any sense of self would be blind to. I thought this would finally eliminate the disharmony, add much needed certainty to my life but instead the questions went another direction. I was changing into a different version of myself and now wasn't even sure I wanted what had been the one true constant in my adult life: the one I loved. Now my frustration at the uncertainty of life had reached an apex.

The solution came entirely by accident, as many solutions do. It was a matter of recognizing what the problem actually was: it wasn't so much that uncertainty itself was the issue, it was my perception of it. Looking upon uncertainty as a solvable problem can slip one down a rabbit hole into an impossible search for perfection. This is where I was, seeking absolute satisfaction within myself when such a search will leave you spinning in circles uselessly. I realized in a moment that uncertainty itself is neither bad or good, it exists only because our existence is filled with so many options and choices in each instant of time. It's easy to look back at mistakes and visualize correcting them, but it's hard to look back confidently at making a good decision instead of a great one. Once I understood the source of my uncertainty wasn't from the fear of making a mistake, but from the fear of not making a perfect choice, an internal peace revealed itself to me.

This was many years ago. I made at the very least a great choice by staying with the wonderful, patient woman who had supported me through my maturation of emotional self. We built a steady life together, got into the microbrewing industry and now enjoy a work both of us have become quite fond of. One evening our car was at the mechanic's, so I dusted off an old bicycle and went for what was intended as a short ride. This "short ride" transformed into a long adventure along the lakeshore. It was a kind early summer night and my thoughts were drifting into random instances of the past, vague blurs of moments that reflected the better and worse of my former self. There was a place close to here that flashed in these memories and I continued onward to find it.

There were some boats roped to a dock up around the bend. A bench overlooked it right next to the water, the sound of the waves brushing against the boats was a siren call for me to sit there. I hid my bicycle in some bushes, cracked open a can of my microbrew and embraced the atmosphere. As I approached the bench I saw somebody was already sitting there, a teenager with his head buried in his hands. I was uncertain whether to disturb him or not, a feeling which convinced me to sit down there. He gave me a vicious look as I did so and I could hardly hide a smile. Definitely a great choice.

'Fine night isn't it?'

The gears in his young mind turned with such annoyed contempt I thought the whole mechanism was about to shut down. Instead he shrugged and unhappily hung his head around his knees. I commented how this was a night that reminded me of another a long time ago but he hardly flinched, making me chuckle to myself all the more. Knowing the next step, I reached into my jacket.

'Would you like a beer, young man? I suspect you're not legal quite yet but it seems like you could use one.'

The adjustment in his shoulders told me he was open to my offer. I gave him a fresh cold one, he opened it, took a sip, and tried not to gag. It reminded me of my very first cold one. Despite this reaction he was clearly more at ease from this point onward. I thought to press the issue by saying something deliberately irritating.

'I bet I can guess what's bothering you. Girl problems.'

Sharp hostility in return. All I needed was a reaction, any reaction was a step forward from the previous despondency. I went forward, emphasizing how it was none of my business and how I, as an older cloud of flatulence, was in no place to understand what exactly could be happening in the mind of a young fellow like himself. It was the precise thing to say in this moment, very little uncertainty there. I could sense it. Sure enough he seemed somewhat gracious at my attempt to respect his feelings. We were silent then for a while, he pretending to enjoy my gift brew while I required no facade to enjoy mine.

'I... I dunno... I'm like, someone made a fool of me. That's all I'm saying.' Said my young friend at last.
'Sure. That'll happen.' I replied quickly. 'There's always drama with these types of things, that doesn't change.'
'It doesn't?' He asked, as though his eternal spirit hung in the balance.
'Well, the type of drama changes. Romantic relationships are difficult, uncertain creatures. And when you're young, everything around you is so wide open, the uncertainty is even bigger.'

My words had given his lips something to mash together for a moment. The night was getting late for my old bones and they felt rain soon coming. I took a large gulp of my brew.

'Does it, you know, get easier?' Asked he.

All the moments of memory that had sparked in my mind seemed to align at just this moment, like every version of myself was in harmony. Except one.

'Maybe.' I smiled to him, finishing my brew and tossing it into a nearby recycling bin. I gathered myself to my feet and was about to leave when one last thought popped into my mind.

'Get yourself a nice pair of shoes though. Red ideally.'

And I was gone, back on my wheels and pedaling against an oncoming rain I hadn't evaded before, but would now. I wasn't sure my young friend had fully heard that last bit, but it was okay. It would happen, as it always did.

So, The Streetlights

So, the streetlights pop to life, proper proud orbs of small artificial suns. So, the moon brushes the clouds aside, an evermore glowing centre stage in a darkening sky. So, the shadows behind your cheeks become deeper, your face transforming into a mask of hidden intentions.

So, my hands become cold, I plunge them into my pockets but still my knuckles tremble. I check my watch but the hands have stopped. I try to cover my face but my arms are equally frozen. So, the streetlights flicker and fade, this world losing life with an inhuman laugh.

Dance In The Short Sand

You dance on the cliffside of breakdowns
always a smile on your face
Maybe to hide something harsh beneath
or a ploy for selfish sympathy
I can see your steps in the canyon stone
steps I know so very well
They move yet also drag, like uncertainty
I'm uncertain how close I am to the edge

There's a sadness in me I cannot explain
why it exists
what it wants
or where it came from
all I know is the feeling when it comes
A darkness covering all my daylight
even on a sunny day
with beloved mutual company
Shadows turn my thoughts against me
until I'm alone
scrounging for a flicker of light

Time Slips Away

I've thought of moments in life that pass by so slowly
Experiences that drag, a heavy stick held by a tired arm
So often I feel impatient
Wanting to move onto the next thing
Counting down minutes constantly
Like they're infinite grains of sand on a beach
How to spend the moments so waited for?
The permanently hot currency on your trading room floor
I want to create, but the mood is not often there
So my mind lingers in reruns
Grounds of nowhere ideas I've stomped before
Stories amusing on first glance, not tenth
I've thought of moments in life that pass by so slowly
And these are not them
They are flickering lights zipping through a metropolis
Going in a continuous circle
Speeding up the afternoons and nights
Stealing the grains of sand from my finite beach

Corner Of My Eye

From the corner of my eye
I see another familiar face
Staring blankly to the ground
Within absence of thought
The room spins just a bit
Enough to make me stumble
Not enough to make me fall
I grab your arm for support
You laugh and walk away
Once I'm almost steady
Is this another dream?
Where smiles drift out windows
Or is this simply real
And I'm the one who's drifting

The Window Of The Tower

For many evenings on my wheels I rode past a curious place tucked away by an obscure side street. It was a place I'd been recently diverted to by random circumstance: the presence of railroad construction along my usual riding route, and although it was a considerably longer trip the scenery and character of the side streets displayed an unmistakable appeal. I'd grown up in a small town, and those streets of my original home were much like these side roads tucked hidden away in this big city. Winding through them on my wheels reminded me of a more carefree past, before the financial and relational stresses of adulthood that fester within one's thoughts. These streets were an unexpected refrain from such pressures.

My first few trips I stuck to a basic detour around the railway construction, an efficient but rather dull journey as one side of the street was a gray concrete barrier wall obscuring the train tracks. I became bored of that quickly. Soon I began to plan a bit of extra time before departing so as to mix up my travel. I zigged and zagged through different streets each time, slowly unraveling the wonders and nostalgia I described earlier. There was a post office built of red bricks much like the one of my hometown, a parkette with an impressive tall wooden slide, and a little bright green bungalow almost like the one a childhood friend lived in. This sensation of new familiarity was at first odd but grew more comfortable with every trip. Soon these detours were the highlights of my days, their beginnings an inhalation of sweet flowery air and their finales a signal of a reality feeling increasingly bitter.

As I went deeper into these streets, my routes through them becoming more complex, I first came upon the curious place mentioned earlier: a stone tower about three levels high, propped up alone in a plot of earth on the corner of a short dead-end street. From my initial ride by I only caught the image of it within the corner of my eye yet the bizarreness of its presence poked my thoughts for some time. A few days later I passed by it again, taking a longer moment to look it over, only for the same bizarre feeling to intensify once I had left. For a short time afterwards I was uneasy, scared even, and I avoided the place entirely.

Feeling foolish at such a seemingly harmless apprehension however, I overcame my unease and eventually passed by this tower once again. I rode by slowly, so as to fully absorb and understand whatever sense had previously overtaken me, and indeed noticed something there I had not before: a single window at the highest level, overlooking the rest of the road. I thought little of the window again until my next trip along these deep side roads, when I noticed that this time the window appeared open, unlike the first occasion where it had certainly been shut. My imagination feasted upon this, conjuring up wild fantasies of a trapped damsel in distress just waiting for a gallant hero to free her from a horrible imprisonment. Perhaps she had extremely long hair even, so as to make for a climbing rope and an easy method of rescue.

I dreamed this dated fairy tale for some time as I passed by the tower, until one occasion on a rainy evening. My wheels were going slower than usual, both because of the slippery rain and of my neglect towards repairing my brakes. I came upon the road of the tower and peeked at the window as usual. Through the haze of falling raindrops I saw it, but this time something was obscuring the usual frame there: a shadow. I brought my wheels to a hasty stop and they replied by toppling me over the handlebars. As quickly as I could I scrambled to my feet, untangled myself from my chain and looked again to the window. The shadow was gone.

That evening did not settle with me. I went out for drinks with some old friends and hardly said a word to them. My mind was completely fixated upon the possibility of somebody actually being in that tower. Were they a prisoner there? Trapped because of a horrendous deed, or a completely innocent victim? Was it even a human being, or some colossal beast locked away for the safety of the entire world? Perhaps it was even something mundane, like some middle aged man who watched too much Wheel of Fortune, but my imagination would hardly consider something so banal. It had to be something magical, something treacherous. The feeling in my skin told me so every time I passed by the tower.

The entire next day I was completely obsessed with it. I avoided the road on my way to work in the morning, hoping that doing so would clear it from my thoughts. Instead doing so only intensified my curiousity, my desire to know exactly who or what was in there. Focusing upon anything else was impossible. I left work early, just as the sun was going down, and rode through the combination of side streets leading to that place. It was fresh darkness when I arrived, the tower especially glowing underneath a near full moonlight. I looked to the window, eager and terrified, and saw nothing. No shadow, no figure, just a single dark window. For an unsure while I waited, both hoping nothing and something would appear, until it became strongly clear enough that I'd likely fabricated what I had seen the day before. A trick of the light in the rain surely, the result of an imagination jumpy to make some interest of a dull life. I hopped back on my wheels and rode away.

'Come back.'

My wheels skidded to a stop. I didn't trust my mind to have not invented something like that, a brush of wind sounding like a voice to keep the fantasy alive. With a shake of my head at my persistent runaway thoughts I began to pedal again.

'Come back.'

I stopped again. This time the sound was louder than before, it was no trick of the breeze. I left my wheels by the street curb and wandered back to the road of the tower. There was still nothing visible in the window from this perspective, I had to get closer. As I wandered towards it that feeling in my skin I'd always had became stronger than ever before, like a signal I was about to do something monumentally heroic or idiotic. I came up to the tower itself and found a small door hidden from the road, unlocked. A deep breath and I pulled it open. I was in.

The inside was circular and small, large enough for just a stone stairwell that wrapped upwards along the wall with a tiny landing below. It wasn't particularly dark despite the absence of any candles or lamps, much of the illumination trickling down from a higher level. The smell was peculiar also, like freshly baked pie cooling on a windowsill. I sensed my destiny here was waiting up the stairway, so I began to climb. The light indeed became brighter but the smell particularly became stronger, the scent of pie now having a touch of cinnamon like my aunt would make when I was a child. There were just a few steps before the very top and I slowed my ascent, trying to peek over the top step in hopes of spotting what I was up against before it spotted me. All I could see was a single round room, entirely empty except for a single chair propped up near that infamous window. I climbed the final steps and walked towards it, only at that moment noticing a man sitting in it. He sensed my presence and stood up, stretched his arms and turned to me.

His face was unthinkably old, wrinkled, worn by the constant long passage of time. Upon seeing me, however, a youthful gleam was deposited in his mouth and in his eyes. The trench creases along every angle of his features surely made him unrecognizable to anyone who had ever known him, except I. I'd seen him in the mirror longer than memory can serve me. He stepped aside, inviting me to sit in the chair, a small contented smile hidden deep within his deeply lined face. I put my hand upon his chair, sat down, and he had never been here at all. Now it is only me, looking upon these side streets of my life that will always lead me to the window.

For The Sword

At last the battle had come, built up by brandished weapons and insulting screams. Words of conflict into violence, lines on a map into strategic objectives, dreams of glory into broken bodies.
Through the chaos of clashing irons I emerged mostly intact, a nasty gash to my elbow my only hindrance.
I was among the last of my legion, our commander slain by arrows and most of the others slaughtered in the confusion of voided leadership. The air smelled of blood and heat, lingering sour on even the driest spots of my exposed skin.
A hundred metres up the valley was a visible gang of reinforcements, their reinforcements. Our cause was now surely lost, our kingdom undefended and soon at the unkind mercy of these brutal attackers. I thought to flee, escape into the thin trees and hide, or maybe even surrender, hope for the good fortune that unexpected mercy would signify.
My thoughts demanded flight from conflict, but my feet and hands, my heart, could not be removed from this spot of ground. Behind me I saw the few remaining shredded members of my legion also fixed in position. I howled in delight, for in this defeat I found victory: not for the cause or for our kingdom, but for the sword.

Carry Me Away

One of those low days I guess
Drifting through the thoughts you fight
The things you want most
but cannot have
Daydreaming on a different place
A different universe
Where a kiss is all you need
Bringing meaning to the moment
And you exhale
then breathe it in again
A perfect smile looking back at you
Just the image in your mind
Is enough to carry you away

The Evening Rises

Sitting outside at night in my tired worn skin, the moonlight shining through the branches of the backyard trees. There's a whistling in the air, like a miniature train rolling along the wooden fences. The scurrying of squirrels, raccoons and other evening shadow creatures is heard in the next yard over. I sip on an ale, tingling my tounge and warming my skin. There's a chilling breeze waltzing with the flowers of my garden, forgotten by the recent winter chills. My eyes are old but this night is young, youthful with energy, promise and potential. Within it I am again a child.

Like A Painted Window

Like a painted window
the colours of your eyes
bring light and beauty
into my world

Opening the latch
into your arms
A soft place where pillows
are rock-hard ruffians
by generous comparison

When the sun peaks over
the shadows of rain clouds
it does so only
to see your smile
and ask it for beauty tips

Like a painted window
touched by an expert brush
You are the true masterpiece
bringing colour and light
into the world

I've Wandered Through Alleys

I've wandered through alleys
the forgotten roads of old neighbourhoods
Shaken hands with the ghosts
sitting on lawn chairs by the back doors
I've seen my reflection through the windows
my features like a blade with every glance
The ghosts, they chuckle and grin
connecting and swallowing endless beer cans
Rainy days, a common companion
a sad slippery friend with benefits
These alleys became so familiar to me
during the dark afternoons of my life
The laughter of ghosts still ringing my ears
but my reflection shines no longer in their windows

Feelings Don't Fade

Feelings are soft, immeasurable things
Delicate like thin, nurtured glass
Exposed as a growing flower in the wild
Yet when they break, they become hard
A wall of bricks no sledgehammer can dent
The lone tree in a field
impervious to the logger's axe
Feelings don't fade, don't die
They rearrange

A Frame In Time

There was a moment in time I sought to recapture, to frame and preserve upon my wall like a colourful innocent butterfly. For this end, to science I strove, pouring my eyes into calculations and theoretical equations in hopes of creating a machine to achieve my goal. My vision faded and my knowledge gained little traction. Eventually my books and journals of science lay by my doors, sprouting flowers of dust while their pages turned to gold. To history I adventured next, searching through the ages of great victors to see how they sustained such power and pride, thinking surely such a glorious framed moment was a pittance of a task to them. Instead of perfection I was greeted by tragedy, dulling my taste and saddening my resolve for such ambition: how absolute power was so absolutely corrupting to lead one down a path of cruelty and indifference. To literature then, expressions of pure creativity to inspire fresh ideas within me. I read book after book, compelled by stories but inspired to my specific action by none of them. My hearing became clogged by so many ideas that meant nothing to my purpose, like muffled traffic within my ears. Now to public service, the noblest of commitments, that I might rediscover such similar virtue deep within the commons of humankind. Countless hours I worked with unfortunate others, in hopes of both recapturing my precious moment and creating one for them. My sensation of touch numbed from the effects of sifting through these sad lives, as I felt I was hardly making an important enough difference until the moment I then felt nothing at all. At last I caved for commerce, to make quick pursuit of wealth that I might simply purchase my lost moment and hang that poor butterfly on my wall. Deals and trades, transactions and handshakes, feeding chum to the numbers in my chequebook. These swingings of assets were not all prosperous, for despite improving experience my ability to smell out bad deals from good ones deteriorated and crashed. Now I was senseless, drifting within a void I was incapable of understanding and without the tools to interact with it. I pondered my precious moment, now blurred, silent and drained of all vividness, and through those inflicted limitations I could not understand why I had worked so hard to chase and capture the spirit of it. The moment yes, had truly been worthy of such dedication and honour -- whispered my memories while guiding my hand through the nothingness. The moment could have been revisited, like an old town where the colours of paint on the houses fade and peel in the rain. But the butterfly is meant for flight, not a cage in a frame of glass.

The Word Slipped From Your Lips

The piano kicks into a tune and my hands go cold, my ears sensitive to the touch of notes and my eyes escorted away on vacation. Without vision the world is an open place, a void of empty nothingness like a blank page with a nearby pen being uncapped. Images unreal in substance but real in thought flash like recollections of colour. A reminder they exist within this void, this space so small and so large. The piano changes melody and vision returns: a wooden room with framed pictures, chairs occupied by people, a window dripping with weakened frost, candlelight providing a flickering glow to these surroundings. You're sitting across the table, staring out into something though perhaps nothing. You're quiet. You don't look my way. On the surface I don't want you to. The tune changes again and a singer appears, belting out an awkward falsetto. It works, like strawberry jam on a bacon sandwich, like a laugh track at the beginning of a show, like a pair of glasses when there's a cold wind outside. Your lips move, forming something that cannot be heard even by you. Still you are quiet, still you don't look my way. Back into an instrumental now, vision vanishes again. Words replace colour in our void, meaningless words useless even within the realm of thought. To see them is to disbelieve them, they are props, ghosts, cons posing as truth. The word that escaped from you in silence will not be found here. The word is no mystery, no illusion. You're quiet. The piano melody slows down. Vision returns and the room is darker, the candles have flickered out. No one cares or no one notices. These departed open flames leave a scent in the wooden room, how easily it all could've burned. Instead the wax has melted to nothing. Now the song ends, there is a polite cheer, while the band says a final word. The word is no mystery, no illusion.

The Chicken Sandwich

The first bite was about as delicious as Daniel could've possibly hoped. Tangy coleslaw, creamy aioli and a pinch of spice. This had been a good decision without a doubt.

'Danny... it isn't easy to say this, but... *sigh* ...it's time I move on with my life. I need to spread my wings.'

Daniel's second bite into the sandwich introduced a touch of ham into the combination. Salty but slightly sweet, a strange sensation on the tongue.

'You know I've always wanted to travel... work abroad for a year at least. I mean, we've talked about this before. You know we have.'

A third bite and now more than half of the sandwich was gone. This was Daniel's most disappointing chomp thus far, containing very little of the main chicken attraction. It was mostly just bread and sauce.

'I'm sorry to have to do this, honestly. It's not easy to say how I feel, or what I'm going through. I hope you can understand.'

The next bite of the sandwich was harshly bitter, like the bun had been soaked in pickle juice forgotten in the sun. Daniel felt around in his mouth and there was also a jalapeno kicking around, which wasn't supposed to be there. Someone had been dishonest. One bite left now.

'I should go. I'll keep in touch... okay?'

Daniel's last bite was a mix of bitter and sweet flavours. This sandwich had given him some wonderful moments in a short period of time, but there had been significant disappointment in other moments. Here was a mix of those vivid tastes, a compilation of everything delicious and everything repulsive. Sure, there would be other chicken sandwiches, but never one exactly like this.

The Devil Asks You To Dance

You sit, sad and alone
Wondering the worth of anything
A hand reaches out to you
Smooth, soft, irresistible
Pulls you up to the floor
You're even more useless than before
As you're led along into moves
that embarrass you further
Now you wonder no longer
your worth is completely gone
A cliff, conveniently close
The smooth hand nudges you there
Your toes linger over the edge
The voice whispers, tempts you
Another step and everything resets
Start over, forget your mistakes
The hand nudges you again
Only your balance keeps you
from the critical spill
The voice is sweet, convincing
like a little girl asking for cheap candy
But you twist around in misery
back onto solid ground
Maybe you're not ready for
the story to end with unfinished business
Or maybe you're a romantic
and this can't end
if the devil doesn't kiss you enough

Telephone Rain

Waiting by your telephone
in hopes of a call that ain't coming
Checking your screens
for messages undelivered and unwritten
You dream of romance
Ballets of skin meeting skin
But all you've really got is rain
Memories of drenching sharp tears
and maybe a song or two
to help lick your wounds
Like a solider surviving combat
Eager for the frontlines so fast
But what you need is time
for the battle to truly move past

Heroes To Villains

A look in your eye
partnered with a smile
A promise, a guarantee
of trust, of genuine affection
Then the looks of time
pile upon your face
The shine of shared smiles
strained by bitterness within
A look in your eye
of fondness long buried
A promise of trust
being no promise at all

Ice Storms

I put on my Stupid Idea Hat yesterday afternoon and decided, despite that all of Toronto was in the middle of a freezing rain storm, I really wanted a discount BBQ chicken from the Metro grocery store up at Victoria Park and Danforth Avenue. I mean, it was Tuesday after all.

So I adventured up from my humble Beaches shack, braving the cold drops while slipping and sliding along the sidewalk for an entire half hour, only to find my old reliable Metro grocery had no such chickens for sale, nor was there any hope of such sales in the future. That was a fun hour. Good times.

Ice storms can be visually beautiful, but also incredibly dangerous. I remember when I was a kid in the late 90s there was a terrible one in Quebec that pretty much shut down most of the province for a while, might've even been a national emergency or something like that (I'd research into it but that's not really what I'm aiming for here).

My only personal experience with any kind of ice storm was back in winter 2013 (I think). I was living on a quiet residential side street of East York at that time (East York is a large Toronto borough if you're not familiar with the city) and I remember waking up one Sunday morning to find my laptop on low battery power, despite being plugged in. It was once I went into the bathroom in complete darkness that I realized we had no electricity.

I asked my housemate at the time, who informed me a tree branch (there are some enormous old trees in this part of Toronto) had frozen and fallen onto and broken a power line, cutting out power for most of the immediate area. Much of the food I had in the fridge I could not cook without electricity or heat, so it was a definite pizza day. I ventured out, aiming for the Domino's Pizza near Jones and Danforth.

The scene that greeted me was entirely surreal: this street and these houses, these trees and roads I'd seen everyday for over a year at this point, all of it was shining under a layer of clear, imperfect ice. It was like somebody had painted my world in its finest details, then decided to draw an extra outline around every little thing. There was something haunting yet beautiful about it. A place genuinely frozen in time, unmoving and ungrowing, yet untouchable by anything else.

I went for my pizza, ate half of it on the way, and once I was a block from my house I was struck by a bizarre inclination to cross over to the other side of the street, even though I was on the side my home was on. So I followed this instinct, walked for a minute, then watched as a large frozen branch could take no more and fell hard onto the sidewalk, perhaps in a place I might've been walking at the time. Sometimes the voice in the back of your mind catches lightning in a frozen baseball mitt.

Doldrums For Last Call

..............

'Have a good night, Rose.'
'You too, Cal! Thanks! See you tomorrow!'

Gentle Rose had been one of Calvin Broe's favourite people to work with since she had started just a few months earlier. She had a soft face, dark wavy brown hair, a natural smile, and the pleasantness of a pillow after a long day. She was very attractive, although Calvin was spoken for.

Still her cheery words lingered in his mind as he made it inside the closing elevator. It had been a long day, several appointments had either cancelled or demanded schedule changes. Soon he'd be set for a quiet evening with April, his girl. The elevator opened at the main floor and a terrible stench assaulted not just his nose but each of his senses.

'Sewage leak in one of the washrooms!' He overheard someone explain. 'Whole floor's rancid.'

This was not the ending to his workday Calvin was willing to tolerate. There was a somewhat secret passage downstairs that led into another building a couple of blocks away. He closed the elevator and set course downward. The doors opened again and now before him was a bright narrow corridor with a door at the end, for which he had a key to. Through there he went, unlocked the door, which led now to a similar unremarkable bright corridor, without any kind of markings or decor of interest on the floor or walls.

This would be a slight detour but he'd be outside on Shuter Street in about ten minutes and on a streetcar within twenty. Calvin's thoughts drifted from what he and April might make for dinner (hopefully that lasagna they'd been talking about), to the big basketball game Saturday night. He was imagining a smooth three-point jump shot when the lights of the corridor flickered, faded, then went completely out. There was only a total darkness, without sound, sight, or the joy of touch.

Time elapsed, until there was once again light in this tunnel, though dim coming from straight on ahead. Broe stumbled forward, hardly able to make out anything on either side of him. A hard pain welcomed his left knee as it collided with something cold and solid, like metal. He thought this painfully strange, since there had been nothing obstructing the corridor before. His injured knee brushed the ground for a moment and felt a few inches of cold, salty water. Something which had surely not been there before.

In the dim light Broe still could not see well in front of him, so he went on slowly with his hands out to feel for anything else. A wooden something startled his elbow, he tripped over some wires and nearly went face first into the stream, while the air became smokier. None of this made any kind of sense to him. He had been through this tunnel dozens of times and never had anything like this even been suggested.

At last he came to the end of the ordeal, another door, though this one was large and silver. This would lead to an abandoned storage room on the other side, a staircase, and he'd be in the lobby of the derelict Stripnow Hotel where the old concierge didn't care about whoever climbs out from the basement. Broe put his key in the lock and turned but there was no give. Fiddling around accomplished an equal amount of nothing. His socks were wet, his knee was hurting bad, the smell of dampness had him nauseous and his patience had finally run out. With everything he had he threw his whole body into the door, and did so again. And again. It was weakening. Again he did it. One more should be enough. Every bone and muscle groaned with contempt but just one more bash and he'd be in the crappy storage room of the Stripnow Hotel. A running start and he threw his body against that malicious door. It flew open, and so flew Broe to the ground. There was a brief moment until he realized he was not in any storage room.

'Who the hell is this maniac? Why'd you bust down our door?'

Broe was hoisted to his feet by a trio of strong arms and shoved hard against the wall. After this, his ordeal in the tunnel and the battering his body took versus the silver door, he was in too much physical agony to even nod a response. The trio of arms let him go and instead gave way to a tall woman dressed entirely in white, at least according to Broe's blurred sense of vision.

'Get outta here before we call the cops. Exit's that way. Now.'

He was able to gather the mental strength for a nod and stumbled towards the direction she pointed. So he went, staggering almost blindly through a haze of colours and sounds that were almost shapes. A stranger yelled a nasty expletive into his ear, and it was only a moment later that he realized he'd caused the stranger to drop a heavy full container of something.
Smell was the first sense to return to a respectable level, and the sensation surprised Broe. It was an assault of scents all being mixed and transformed at once, combined with steam, sizzle and especially smoke. Then taste returned, as these diverse scents all landed on his tounge and overwhelmed his mouth. Touch joined the party, though it took another accidental stumble into some poor person for the invitation to be accepted. Slowly, an intense ringing came into his ears and he fell to his knees. He wasn't sure if he screamed or not, since he could not hear the sound either way. The ringing reached a level of unbearable torture for a century of a moment, then was instantly gone. Sounds of rushed voices and yelled orders and general bustle replaced the pain. His hearing had completely returned and his setting completely made sense. He was in a kitchen.

Even his vision came into sharper certainty once he reached the exit he'd been ordered towards. Sure enough it was the staircase to the hotel lobby Broe had expected so long ago. Once in the lobby, his vision was mostly restored and his born-again eyes could not believe the grandeur before them. His mind told him this was the entrance of the Stripnow Hotel, with the cracked ceilings with dangling lamps and stained marble floors and graffiti doors; yet his new eyes corrected those ideas with a gorgeous crystal chandelier and polished marble tiles and a doorman standing watch behind clear gold framed doors. The old concierge was there, thankfully bringing some reality back to Broe's world.

'These renovations eh? When'd this happen?' Broe asked.
'Pardon me, sir? How'd you get in here?' The Concierge replied.
'Come on, pal. I've been coming through the secret tunnel for years. You've seen my face fifty times I'm sure.'
'Perhaps...'  nodded The Concierge, squinting at Broe closely. 'What room are you staying in?'
'I... I'm not staying in any room. I was just using the tunnel in the basement to---'
'If you're not a guest I'll have to ask you to leave, sir. Your smell is unpleasant to our paying guests.'
'That's because I was down in... fine. Nevermind...'

Broe stumbled out the gold framed front doors, ignoring the doorman's request to come back, and finally emerged into open air. The downtown streets were as familiar as ever, which comforted him, though there were some shops he did not recognize. He hadn't enough change in his pockets for a streetcar fare, so he snuck in the back doors of one while a large group paid at the front. His feet were uncomfortable being wet and sore in his ruined shoes. All he could think about was taking a shower, putting on a fresh set of clothes and settling in with April to tell this ridiculous story.

The stop for Laing Street came and Broe stumbled down the streetcar steps, his home only a few steps away. He knocked on the front door and a tall square jawed man answered it. Broe did not know this man.

'Can I help you?' The man at the door asked.
'Yes. What the hell are you doing in my house?'
'Excuse me? Who are you?'
'I'm the one who lives here. Get out before I call the cops.'
'Call the cops?' The man at the door exclaimed. 'You want me to grab my lease agreement? Show you the picture of my wife and children in the living room you lunatic?'
'You're the lunatic! What have you done with my April? I swear if you've hurt her in any way...'
'April? April... Denners?'
'Yeah!' Broe yelled, clenching his fists. 'Know her, eh? I'll kill you, you piece of shit, if there's so much as a bruise, I swear.'
'April Denners is the woman who lived here before. She showed me the place.' The man at the door explained. 'But she's long gone, dude. This was years ago. Too many painful memories, she told me.'
'You... you're lying.' Broe growled, shaking his head.
'I have a pile of mail for her right here. All these years and she never gave me a forwarding address.'

The man at the door rummaged for a moment before producing a stack of unopened envelopes as thick as a dictionary. They were all addressed to April, some of them slightly yellowed from exposure to air. Broe nearly fainted from confusion, fortunately grabbing hold of the tiny green picket fence he himself had built.

'Listen, there's a shelter a couple blocks east down Queen if you've got nowhere to go. Get some food, fresh clothes.' The man at the door suggested, anger now transformed into concern.

Broe ignored him, took the stack of envelopes and wandered away without thoughts. The night came and had grown old when Broe at last found sleep. He awoke curled up and off to the side of an enormous grassy field, an enormous reservoir towering over him on one side and two tall smoke chimneys on the other. It was morning and his mind was clearer. He had one place left he could go that would resolve this nonsense and put the pieces right again.

Without money it was a long trek back downtown, the hour just past noon when he arrived back outside his workplace. He had expected a call asking why he was late for work, but his cellphone hadn't even flickered. He pushed through the front doors and there was the familiar reception desk beside the familiar potted palm trees. An unfamiliar woman sat behind the desk though, which curbed Broe's brief sensation of momentum.

'May I help you?' She asked, an older woman with a noticeable West Indies accent.
'Yes I work here. Just signing in.'

The receptionist quickly looked over Broe's scummy, disheveled appearance and obviously did not give his claim any kind of seriousness.

'Please sir, you're wasting my time. Don't make me call security.'
'I can prove it!' Broe insisted, patting what was left of his damp, torn pants. 'Ummm...'

His hands rummaged through every spot he had, until at last a rectangle of plastic wedged in a twisted pocket found his thumb and index finger. He showed it to the receptionist, fighting back a desperate smile.

'This... this is an old ID. I haven't seen one of these since I first started. You sure you still work here?'

Broe nodded.

'Okay. Well lemme check your name in the computer and... um... oh. Okay. Why are you here exactly?'
'I'm trying to figure out what the hell is going on!' Broe answered, more aggressively than he intended.
'Okay. You can go on up, Calvin.'

Maybe he thanked the receptionist or maybe he didn't, Broe wasn't sure. Now he was in the elevator, rising back up to his job. Something guaranteed to restore order. He felt bad about being late of course, but considering the ordeal of confusion he had suffered, his co-workers would understand. Maybe there would be some laughs over some beers. Maybe they would know where April was, off at some relative's house for a surprise out of town thing. It would all make sense soon.

The elevator doors opened and Broe stepped out. Everything had been shifted around, but it wasn't a big deal. He walked for a bit, ignoring the eyes watching him do so, until he found where his office used to be.

'Why is there a vending machine here?'

A woman stepped out of a nearby room, looking directly at Broe. She seemed older than he remembered, her dark wavy brown hair much shorter now.

'Step in here please, Mr. Broe.'

He followed, the door slamming shut behind him with a conclusive click. It was a nice office, a excellent view of Old City Hall, and spacious enough for several people to sit and discuss business. There were enough chairs for half a dozen people and they were all comfortable.

'It's good to see you again, Cal. It's been a painfully long time' said Gentle Rose.
'Ha, good one.' Broe laughed. 'I said goodbye to you yesterday.'

Rose fought back an emotion and opened a drawer in her desk, pulling out a pile of papers held together by knitting strings.

'I was crazy about you from the moment we first met. You were always so kind to me, so sweet. These papers were sent to me because they had nowhere else to go, and I've kept them in the hope that you would walk into my office one day. And here you are.'

She stood up from her chair, walked towards Broe and kissed him on the cheek.

'I'm sorry Calvin.'

Rose walked out of the office and shut the door behind her gently. All that was left was Broe and the bundle of papers before him. He lifted the bundle into his lap with both hands and glanced over the first page: it was his handwriting but he'd dated it six years earlier for some reason. Each page was written as a letter to himself, either outlining goals, happenings in life, details about April, or various whatevers. Broe dug deeper into the papers: his penmanship became more erratic the deeper it went. And so it went, his dreams lovable until paranoid, his confidence sharp until buried, his ambition admirable until unrealistic, his love tender until directionless. The whole thing was eventually unreadable. Just scribbles on a page, hopelessly seeking direction.

'What happened?'

There was nobody to answer the question. But the sound of a dark, dripping tunnel lingered long enough to smirk before leaving.

Neville Park pt. V

'Leaving without saying goodbye? Not polite.'

The woman in the red hat strutted around my sprawled out form. She wasn't exactly inviting me to get up, but I sensed no threat of being thrown to the ground again. I stood up, checked to make sure the sewer exit was still there (yes) and slowly backed away from her.

'I can't understand why you keep running away. It's not doing you any good.'

This deep into it, I wanted to know more of the mystery, of the circumstances that brought me to this absurd place. So I stayed for a moment.

'I want to be free. I want to get back where I came from, get back home.'
'You are home.' She smiled.
'This isn't home. This isn't where I belong.'
'Home is a state of mind.'

During this exchange I'd been slowly backing towards the open grate. It was only a few metres away: a dozen more lines of dialogue and I'd be halfway down. I sensed the rush of all the tremendous monsters I'd encountered approaching the crescent, but even they wouldn't catch me in time.

'Why did you bring me here?'
'You brought yourself here.'
'Not buying it. I don't know what you are, but I intend to get out of here momentarily. Then once I'm back in my own bedroom, I'm gonna use this experience to write a best selling Fantasy Romance novel, which will sell millions of copies in drugstores. So yeah lady, anything else you wanna say before I escape?'

The rush of monsters had just entered the crescent but instead of lunging for me they formed a half circle around the open grate. I thought perhaps she was deliberating over a response was just to delay me so her beasts could strike, but instead they backed away in almost beautiful harmony.

'The sooner you accept that you're here, the sooner you'll enjoy it. Until then, we just keep playing this game.'

With a dismissing shout of 'Nonsense!' and a lewd gesture to finish, I scrambled down the shaft just as I heard the monsters clawing at the ladder. A bright red light overwhelmed my vision and then my sense of touch. I lost my grip on the ladder and fell fast into an endless nothing.

-----

'Dude! You okay? That was quite a drop! Anyone know this guy?'

I was dizzy from an apparently hard impact with the floor. My body was firm as ever though, and undamaged. I tried to wave off the concerned faces from above but one came down the ladder as I got to my feet. His concern was genuine, though familiar in some faint way.

'Sure you're all right, man? That was a serious misstep!'
'Yeah... just a bad tumble but... I think I'll be good.'
'Yeah yeah. Just in case though take a swig of this. It's pretty hazy up there, I was feeling something dizzy myself.'

The stranger handed me a flask, which I took a swig of. It was mostly full and as such I swallowed more than I intended. Bourbon probably. When it's in your nostrils it all tastes the same.

'Harris! Get back up here! We're rolling another one!'
'Yeah! I'll be right up! Hold on to this for me, will you?'

Before I could refuse the flask and hand it back, he'd disappeared back up onto the roof. It was getting late and I didn't much care to wait for a herbal episode to end itself. I went downstairs for my jacket and bag, and to find Gregory so to leave the flask with the birthday boy.
Halfway down the stairs I ran into Gregory's girlfriend and she immediately asked me how I liked the food. I smiled and nodded, ignored the giant green grain still stuck between my back teeth, and escaped before my stomach could growl harsh revenge upon her. In the kitchen was where I found Gregory, having an intense conversation with a girl too busy posing in a swimsuit to respond.

'Hey dude I'm off. Thanks for a great party.'
'Coates!eyahyou'vebeen thanksfor comingIreallyappreciate it you'regrwat! Great! That's all I'm saying. All I'm saying.'
'Yeah. Great.'

Gregory gave me a giant hug, one so strong he accidentally pulled me back into the fridge, knocking over the woman on the calendar he'd been so engaged with. A coupon for Star Burger also fell to the ground, which I claimed with as much sneakiness as a pickpocket robbing a nudist. There were also some chocolate raisins in a bowl, but I asked if I could have those. Honour amongst coupon thieves, you know.

'Takeimtakeim she doesn'tlikeim don'thave enoughfibrebutgawd damn everythingshemakes hasdamnfgrains I can't even finishamealwithoutfeelinglikeI'mmadeofstraw!'

Gregory leaned towards me, spilling some of his drink onto my shoes. By the smell I figured it was wine.

'Butyouwouldn'tdo that, Miss... November... Ibetyouhavealottarecipesthat are great anddelicious... hey... where'dmyTzarBurgercoupongo...'
'Have a good night dude!'

I made it to the front door, found my jacket and my sharp blue shoes and headed out. There was a porch out front with some smokers, perfect as I did not know this area well and needed directions to the nearest transit point. All of the smokers offered their help.

'There's a streetcar that runs nearby. Just follow the major street. Be careful around the lake.'
'Yeah be careful! Lots of weirdos out there.'
'It's chilly out, hope you brought your gloves!'
'Have a good night, guy!'
'Take er easy, dude! Streetcar is right there!'
'Peace.'
'Hey, you might need this.'

A girl in a green dress slipped something into my back jeans pocket and blew me a kiss farewell. I felt around in the pocket, finding a pack of gum, and figured that was her way of telling me my breath stunk. The main street was just around the corner. My hands were trembling, it was colder than I remembered.

There was a woman in a large red hat watching me from the shadow of a streetlamp. I glanced over at her and she smiled back. My stomach also was growling and I turned away. There had only been weird food at that party, everything had grains in it. Like, ultra aggressive green and red grains that were the size of nickels. And they were in everything, even the pasta. Hopefully there was a Star Burger on the way home.

Then seemingly by my command, the smell of barbeque lingered in the air.  I figured it would fade yet instead it grew stronger. By the next corner I spotted smoke in the air, leading down this new street. The wind was whispering and my hands were cold again. I looked up and the houses of this street veered high above me, many with stairwells or walkways scaling the mini-mountains where the summit was the front door. I went on for the smoke. It felt like years since I'd last eaten.