Authors: Jason Bryan
City of Singles
City of Singles
Jason Bryan
Sicklove Studios
Vancouver
British Columbia
Canada
Copyright © 2013 by Jason Bryan
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed
“Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below:
Sicklove Studios
55 Cordova Street East
Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada
V6A0A5
www.sicklovestudios.com
Cover Design by
Stephanie Vachon
Book Design by
Fresh Ink Foundry
To Alex, Diana, and Stephanie
I couldn’t have written this book with you,
I couldn’t have written it without you.
Contents
Bellum omnium contra omnes
1 Disconnection
A lazy blue haze hangs in the air. Smells like an Indian temple in here. Never been to India, but I’ve eaten a lot of curry. Tamarind and cumin play inside my mind before last night’s good idea pulls me back to reality. Chest pressed against cold concrete, odours of urine, garbage and stale beer. How did I end up on the floor today, and what time is it?
Mashed potatoes and gravy, these go together like Yaletown and pug shit. A flash of old memory percolates through my substance-mangled mind; a hand extending out, in its grip a steaming dish of food.
“Would you like some yam, Dylen?”
“Yes, please.”
The dish is pretty hot, better put it down. Careful now, you know how these fancy people eat, utensils, no talking, elbows off the table. Sit up straight. Did everything like I was supposed to up until this point, serving myself and then passing the food to the other guests. First mistake, taking a bite of hot sweet potato, my greedy tongue should have waited. It burns, slurping in cold air, choosing to convulse in my seat rather than spitting it onto the table. To think; just a few hours ago I was licking my girlfriend’s asshole on the floor of her living room, half of her family was ten feet away watching the hockey game highlights on the kitchen TV. A pinch on my arm lit up my face, saying grace should be done before anyone eats, I’m reminded. Hope they don’t think this is rude and all, slamming my entire glass of wine to soothe seared taste buds.
Twenty minutes. On the fucking floor for twenty minutes. My whole life I haven’t been able to sit still for this long, and now I can’t even move. Wish there was a pillow under my head right now, or breasts. Speaking of girl parts, there’s some soft snoring somewhere behind me. Not the baritone snore of a fellow, but the slow, rhythmic sighing of a petite female. The lady from the night before is the tramp on my couch this morning. Flaps on the table, whose cocaine was it anyways? Did I buy it in a haze again? Lying to myself wasn’t just a good idea anymore, but more of a habit. Thought I made a promise that I wouldn’t get involved with that shit; guess when the liquor is flowing like a hemophiliac on her rag, excuses become wingmen.
Sitting up wasn’t such a good idea. The world is dancing under me and I can’t see straight. The floor will quickly become my destination again should these party legs try to stand up. Come on man, one hand, other foot, now another hand, another foot. We spend such a small amount of time crawling as children, then again as alcoholics. Her hazel eyes remind me of Kentucky bourbon after a few cubes melted in a tumbler. Wonder if she has a tumblr. Did we meet last night? Fuck this. The whole room is spinning, that’s never good in an open concept loft. It’s not possible to stare at anything for too long without a rolling ocean wave throwing my eyes off. There are shiny floors for light to play tricks on, high ceilings for that vertigo, no soft carpet to cushion a fall. My skin’s sweaty in the way a smokie sausage blisters over flame. Something’s coming up, fuck. Retching is never fun. That first gag hits your mind like the phrase ‘We need to talk,’ or ‘Have a seat over there.’ Posting up on one arm, never thought a little jiu jitsu would help me get to a toilet to puke faster. Throw my feet under me, go! The wet smacking sound of clumsy meat hitting concrete, my mind went silent for a few nervous steps. Almost, almost, just a couple more. With precise timing of chin pimples before first dates, gravity acts up to throw me shoulder-first into the bathroom sink.
Back on the floor and in worse shape, my foot stings, warmth. Piggies get a wiggle to see if they’re all still there. Hot moist grime between the toes, and my heel sticks to the floor. A curious eye flutters open, my world now a bear spray kaleidoscope of nausea and pain, chunks of vomit ski forehead slope into quickly unfluttered eyelids.
I’m a pile of old scars.
A rough beating heart quakes inside my chest while head-on car crashes pile up endlessly between ears. Textured discomfort of tile floor presses into skin, a stale drain pipe giving off that burp smell in my face. Must have pin-balled off the sink and fallen into the shower. The rim around the base that holds in the water is now firmly planted in my lower ribs. Reaching up, probing fingers find the shower handle. My ribs hurt, so much. Shallow breaths to slow my pulse.
Maybe this is what Jesus felt like, minus the hangover.
A cold blast of water, thank you. Ah, feels good. Guess it is times like these that remind me I’m still alive. Blink. Blink. Still stings. Tile floor grinds hip bone, rolling from my right side onto my back, the shower jet spray hitting me directly in the face. A barely-caring wipe clear of bits, grease finds its way to slick my fingertips. Chunks in my hair, those aren’t supposed to be there. Finally able to see, I glance at my foot, a nice crescent moon shaped gash between the little toe and fourth toe. Ugly feet are usually the colour of peanut butter gone bad. Through the blur of steam, banged up foot resembles five fat hogs dining on a trough leaking strawberry jam. Focus seeking eyes find it on the floor outside of the shower, an orange donut shaped puddle of vomit. Did I fall, hit my head, and projectile vomit straight up and somehow not choke to death? At least rockstars die like that. I can’t even die with the style I like these days.
Hung over souls find soothing comfort in nursing envelopes of warm water. Relief runs across my body in a hug that doubles as a handy wipe. I gag and barf on myself a few more times, half-digested food doesn’t even have a chance to be identified before swirling into the abyss. Wonder if my organs are having a meeting inside of me right now, all huddled around the liver, asking it just what the fuck happened. The punch drunk stomach screams “Fuck YOU guys!” through bloody lips, storming out of the meeting. My lips are numb. Must be the nasally ejected vomit mixing with last night’s devil’s dandruff, a fresco of party running from my nostrils.
There is not a lot to do when you’re in a shower, retching. At least now it’s just gagging and not actually throwing anything up. A chunk is stuck in my chest hair. My arms feel too heavy to lift, so to dislodge it I move more into the water jets. A small, grey cube, maybe it was meat. Who knows how much effort the farmer put into his crops, how much gas and oil went into transporting the raw ingredients. The chef who prepared it applied his art to make it taste good, all to be doomed to reside in my chest hair, like some sort of half-digested vagrant. The piece tumbles and slides down into what’s left of my pubes. Groin dressing is usually kept trim to avoid a 70’s pornstar look. Lately I’ve been running low on fucks to give, so it looks more like what I imagine as a postcard from the deathly hollows. Chewed, acid-burnt, struggling for purpose outside of nourishment. Barf is stuck in my crotch fur. Well, I guess that’s as good of a place as any, not like it belongs inside my stomach right now.
After what seems to be an eternity, counting tiles and inspecting my genitals for sex barnacles, the water loses its appeal. Being alive but looking dead, my fingers are as wrinkled as a set of long, plump prunes. With a twist of the handle, my sanctuary from reality thrusts me back into the thick of the shit. Water drips from the showerhead while a shivering, cold, nude and wet me looks for a towel. The floor is soaked with water, mixed with vomit and blood, a Van Gogh with smeared oranges and reds.
Cracks in concrete wearing bodily fluids can remind one of an oak tree in fall.
Steady now, no repeats Dylen. At this point if I fall again, might as well just stay down and try again tomorrow. No time for that though, what’s this girl’s name anyways? A delicate pink purse lounges on my purple couch, doing its best impression of a rectangular breast with a swollen pink nipple. Grabbing a towel to dry myself off, putting a half-assed effort in gets a quarter-assed result out; my first steps are wetter than in the shower. Barely dry and shivering still, I try my luck resting on the ottoman while waiting for fresh hints of nausea to pass. My nose is busy smelling nothing but sniffles while bloodshot eyes spy popcorn and a bra on the floor here.
Lacey. Niiice.
The purse is already yawning wide open, if it’s good for the dentist it might get a lollipop. Papers, tampon, lipstick, pepper spray, panties. Panties? Panties. License, check. She’s Katelynn, born in 1988. She’s got the face of an angel, pure, happy, relaxed. Flashbacks of going to church youth group and time spent fingerbanging curious good girls behind the gardener’s shed.
Legs push the earth down and shuffle me to my computer. My addiction to the internet took root a long time ago. At the speed of light and through phone cable, you can make connections that you’ll never make in the meat world. Shaky hands poke a switch on the monitor. The brilliant white of Facebook’s background blinds me for a moment, my mind conjures up an image of the crew of the Enola Gay, somber and quiet on the flight home. Refreshing Facebook, I uploaded a photo of my urine stream at some bar again. Only three likes.
Ripping the mouse down to the Taskbar, it lazily slides up to give me a peek at the time. Fuck you Windows. It’s 3 PM. She’s asleep and it’s 3 PM. With my tired head perched on palms and both elbows on the table, I drift back to the yam-thermite experience. Could go for some gravy. Nothing cures a hangover like some grease. Reaching up to feel what hurts on my scalp, touching a smarting goose egg on the back of my head just pisses me off. I’d ice it, but I probably used the ice for drinks. The last time I used a bag of frozen peas for medical purposes, the bag had a hole which lead to a fruit fly apocalypse for weeks. Maybe someone should have swept them up. Maybe, but I didn’t care. A gentleman would have already found out how Kate’s doing, but status updates are more important.
The studio is a long, open rectangle, separated by set of curtains in the middle. Remembering the first time I saw this place, the afternoon sun blanketed exposed brick in a layer of gold. It usually makes for a happy and well-lit artist’s space, today it reminds me of dirty piss. An overcast grumpy sky shown through stale warm Corona. Stepping through the archway from the business section to the pleasure dome, Kate is slumbering away. Her dark and thick messy hair drapes over the side of a pillow as moss. With eyes half open as she sleeps, a drug slug-trail peeking out from her lower nostrils. Moving deftly to avoid disturbing the sleeping beauty, quiet feet tip toe the long way around my steel cube coffee table. Post-It notes litter it as evidence of prior floor-bound hangovers, messages from spirits of friends gone by.
An older man wearing only a towel approaches a younger girl asleep on a couch. Where have I seen this scenario before? A blanket mostly covers her, my towel barely covers me. Moving to sit down, taking care to lift her feet slowly and place them on my knees. The leather of the couch is soft and warm. Her feet must have been stretched out earlier. Maybe she’s cold now? Gently tucking the blanket in around her, an approving soft sigh escapes her throat. Her face is lily white, cheeks of rose. Faded mascara leaving a bluish tinge around her eye sockets, the same hue as a toilet puck a few flushes from dissolving. Caring instincts brush loose strands of hair out of her face, neatly tucking them behind her petite ear. For a moment those same feelings picture her and I together, a girl I didn’t even remember the name of mere minutes ago. Now those same feelings are asking myself; how could I forget?
Remembering a girl’s name shouldn’t be hard.
Forgetting and letting go wasn’t always as easy.
I grew up watching my grandparents in love, a Pepe LePew cartoon where the cat loved him back just as much. Together for fifty years, they witnessed their final sunset within hours of each other’s passing. If their path was walked with a gentle tangerine sunset at their backs, mine is ran with fluorescent light blasting from every direction. Does the stallion ever miss a mare after his owner studs him out? A caged mouse with white coated friends, you learn pretty quickly that the lever will always bring another slice of cheese. All of our curious pink little rat faces, a phalanx of white whiskers on each side and a twitching nose hunting for more. The squeaking little guy gets his fill over and over, never appreciating the acquisition of another meal. The next is just a pink paw press away. Now this rodent has had its fill and is satiated for the time being. My cage a wasteland of unfettered indulgence.
Her smell wafts into my nose, somehow having fought its way through the snot and blood now protesting last night’s cocaine use. Lavender and Du Maurier accompanies sweat and musk, a bouquet of the both of us. Her head rolls over and cracks open a slow crooked smile. The softest rattle of ‘morning’ croaks out to acknowledge me. The opening to her mouth is flakey and dry, a pair of dead worms awkwardly spooning on a pretty girl’s face. Her tongue stabs away saliva dried on corners of puffy lips, another lick resurrects arousing qualities. They’re a youthful pink again, matching beard burn down her neck. She turns over slowly and the blanket lifts up for a moment, my eyes feast on her budding left breast.
3 AM would have that nipple in my mouth.
3 PM would have it in a taxi out of here.
Wet whiskey-tinted eyes close as she stretches her legs out across my own. The back of her knees brush against my raw cock. My right hand moves to the blanket and rests on her upper thigh. Feeling less human, more an animal of pleasure. Her right hand slides over and covers my own.
“I don’t ... usually I am not the kind of girl that leaves with a guy,” Katelynn giggles, “I am going to catch so much shit from Josh!”
“Who’s Josh?” I hope she didn’t hear the hesitation in my voice.
“My manager, he cut you off last night remember?”
“Yeah-” I grunt, nodding.
She sits up, her heel brushes tender foreskin, subtle and smooth as steel wool on fire. Katelynn snorts back snot, throwing her hair over shoulders as the blanket falls to her waist.
“That shit wasn’t too speedy, I liked it.” She ties her hair back in a braid.
Festive sniffles bully silence.
Empty flaps on the table are party origami. It’s nearly 4 AM, or what I call 2nd delivery hour. We’re naked and sweating, the fucking paused briefly to make like urban anteaters. An old gym membership card is used to crush the rocks up, a fine whitish yellow. I hate when it’s humid and sticks together too much. Fuck, just need this in my fucking nose to get back to fucking her doggystyle. The heart shape originally came from what a woman looks like bent over forwards, it has nothing to do with love.
