Sunday Night

     The group dispersed; some to the bar, some outside for a cigarette, one to the washroom. Andy was at a bit of a loss. He walked a little ways away and stood, basking in the confidence that allowed him to stand comfortably alone, holding an empty glass on a noisy covered patio. It was just barely empty enough to mark a lone man as out of place. Andy shifted his weight as he committed to the space he was standing in. He leaned casually against the wall. His mind wandered, attempting to distract itself from the fact that he knew he was trying to give the impression of waiting for somebody.
     Groups chattered nearby and he felt their gazes pass over him indifferently. To encourage their indifference he hunched his shoulders a little more and pulled out his cell phone. He fiddled a bit with the buttons and then turned on the camera. The darkness made his shoes and the gravel he was standing in look like an impressionist painting and he toyed with the levels as he turned the phone this way and that. For a moment he could have been anywhere but a door he hadn’t realized he was standing next to opened and broke his reverie. He closed his phone and slammed it into his pocket, looking round for his friends but mostly looking for who had come out of the door.
     It was the bartender. Andy thought of the word and the tenderness he’d never associated with the job. The bartender lit a cigarette and hunched in the shadows. He was allowed. He was on his break and scanned the crowd with a weary, stubborn scowl that said “I’m on my break, find somebody else to talk to.” He’d been friendly enough to Andy but friendship with somebody who you only ever see on business is a slippery slope. Andy watched him enviously, resenting the role that allowed the bartender to have a reason to be anywhere. A purpose. Finding something to do is not a challenge for a bartender. Finding a moment to do nothing might be though, and as Andy watched him stub out a half smoked cigarette his envy subsided. The bartender coughed, spat on the gravel and then wiped his hands on his apron before slipping back through the mysterious door labeled ‘kitchen’.
     'Kitchen'. Underneath someone had scrawled the words “fuck off” in a way that resembled the Slayer logo. Evidently someone had thought it was funny because nobody had painted over it yet.
     Andy considered approaching the bar inside to find someone to attach himself to. He didn’t really want to talk to anybody though, and he certainly didn’t want to go home. If it hadn’t been for social constructs he would have been perfectly happy standing alone and musing over his surroundings. He considered going to sit at the bus stop for a little while. He could come back then, as if he’d had some errand to run, and after the refreshing silence of an empty bus stop after midnight he might be more inclined to put the effort into socializing.
     He decided against it. He didn’t feel like explaining where he’d gone to anybody, and he didn’t feel like being irritated by the fact that nobody would ask, since most likely nobody would notice he’d been absent.   
     As he turned these thoughts over in his mind, a woman brushed past him. She was shorter than he was, not beautiful but pretty. A decent body. Clean hair. He could smell the shampoo, but also a bit of a musk that made him think she’d probably been outside all day in the heat. The part of him attached to his animal wanted to lick her, just to know if she was as salty as she smelled. She turned to look at him. For a moment Andy thought that she had heard his thoughts, but her eye contact lasted only long enough to indicate that she didn’t recognize him and had maybe been expecting to. She turned and walked on, into the throng on the patio. Andy wondered if maybe she was playing the same game he was, only she’d developed a strategy of wandering instead of standing in one place. She hadn’t. As he saw her call out to some friends and climb into a seat his feeling of kinship faded, along with his interest in her skin. Her ‘Do I know you?” eyes had been bright but impersonal, and Andy preferred an ugly intimacy to a beautiful indifference. He turned his gaze to the rest of her table.
     Mostly men, but a few women as well. They were doing what everybody does in a bar. Laughing, talking, arguing for the sake of it. Raising voices with the intensity of their feelings, forgetting that they’d started out whispering because they were discussing something private or unkind.
     Andy enjoyed watching them. Noticing the way someone might toss their hair or slam their hand down on the table. Noticing who chose to stand rather than sit, or who sat silently in the group, slowly sipping a beer Andy suspected was probably warm by now. He realized he’d been holding the same empty glass for some time now. He looked down at it and rotated it slowly, making patterns in the dregs of whiskey with the last drops of what used to be ice. He enjoyed it the same way he’d enjoyed playing with his camera. Watching patterns and colours change subtly, and watching the subtlety grow into consistency and finding a quiet kind of joy in the power of anonymous creation. Knowing that nobody else would ever see exactly what he was seeing in that moment, he felt like a god.
    He put the glass on a nearby, empty table when he’d finished playing with it. Empty hands must have been some kind of a beacon because a young lady walking past lingered and smiled.
     “Cool shirt!” she said.
     “Thanks.”
     Andy did not want to talk to her. She was short, and squat, the way you might imagine Beatrix Potter looking when she was young if you’d never seen a photo but only read her books. Books about cats and mice and geese. Hen like. She seemed determined however, and doggedly chipped away at Andy like a big chunk of ice. Almost desperately trying to carve out a conversation.
     “Do you come here a lot?” she asked.
     ‘What a stupid question’ thought Andy but he said “yeah. Sometimes.”
     “Me too. Are you here with somebody?”
     ‘Oh my god,’ thought Andy, ‘she feels sorry for me.’
     “Yeah I’ve got some friends, somewhere.”
     She smiled again. Andy had no idea why she was talking with him. Perhaps her friends had all wandered off as well and she didn’t have the strength to stand by herself for five minutes. Or maybe he didn’t have the strength to talk to a stranger for five minutes. He shook his head, irritated at the uninvited doubt. She looked at him with a polite smile now. Obviously comfortable despite his silence. He found himself increasingly uncomfortable and blamed her.
     Judgment sprang into his mind like a septic fountain. Her hair was dyed black. Like everybody’s. Cropped short but teased up and sprayed. She smelled like that strip of bacon nobody wants when you’re camping because somebody spilled bug spray on it. She had applied makeup maybe a few hours ago; the eyeliner was smudged and wrinkled next to her eyes. She’d been laughing probably, or just sweating. Her lips were pale and thin but darkened with lipstick. Her teeth were non-descript and flashed everytime she put on a smile, which was also non-descript. She had arbitrary piercings and similar tattoos. Roses, skulls, a library of alternative culture littered her soft, doughy body stuffed into a wardrobe culled from the hot topic sales rack. Her shoes were new.
     Andy hated her. Hated her for interrupting his evening. Hated her for being kind. Hated her for forcing him to make small talk. He wanted to drive her away. Far away. Possibly into some remote area where he could leave her to find her own way home. ‘Try explaining those fishnets to some backwoodsman.’ He thought. He felt ashamed of his thoughts as soon as they popped into his head. He was about to make some excuse, possibly go in pathetic search of an acquaintance to escape this woman when she smiled and said “I’m gonna go grab a drink. See ya.” With a smile and nod she was off. Andy felt pathetic. And angry. But mostly pathetic. Possibly angry about feeling pathetic. He didn’t want to dissect his own mental process anymore so he went to the washroom instead.
     It was one of those small private ones where it’s just a single stall and most people pee in the alley on a busy night because it’s not worth the drama of waiting in line.  There hadn’t been a line tonight and Andy didn’t need to piss or shit anyways. He leaned against the wall and took in the graffiti the bar seemed to encourage, for ambiance. Or something. It was usually comforting but Andy was too irritated. He washed his hands, mostly from habit and because the soap smelled good. Then he left and walked to the bar.
     The trendy girl was gone but he still didn’t really want another drink. He found some of his friends. They were standing in a circle discussing music. They moved aside naturally to let him sidle in and though he didn’t feel any desire to contribute, he felt comforted. The conversation washed over him like a blanket. It warmed him but did not expect him to become one with it. His mind wandered. He was tired. A little bored. Hungry.
     Andy made his goodbyes and went home. The walk felt longer than it was, and Andy cherished this, every second he could stretch into an hour held Monday just that little bit more at bay. He wondered about the girls he'd seen at the bar. Maybe they were friends. Maybe they'd talk about him later. Probably not.
     Andy fumbled for his keys and shuffled into his appartment. He shuffled out of his pants and into his bed. Sleep crept up on him more quickly than usual and his dreams, well, I don't know what he dreamt about.
I Hope they were sweet.

Bus# 44

I can feel the hunger. It grips my stomach like an anxious child. I ignore it. I have money for food, but despite the gnawing I do not want it now. I sway with the bus as it winds through the streets. The rain batters the windows. Huge rich drops are eager to join their brothers, already settled into a cool dampness on my neck. My scarf holds them and fosters the kind of discomfort I can only be grateful for as a distraction. I love the rain. I will always wonder about those who don’t, like people who do not love small animals or music. I can’t imagine where they keep their humanity if not in constant wonder at the world falling around them. Pleasure for me is everywhere, but in small, fleeting portions. Too much effort or deliberation causes the moment to shudder and disintegrate. A fragile concept when it is acknowledged, I do not seek to hold any joy longer. I pick it up when it smiles at me, and then put it down when it begins to struggle fitfully. The immense happiness that comes to me seems perverted at times, telling me “treasure this place, this moment, this thought.” I can feel the urge to press it firmly against my heart until it is crisp and dry. The moment can never be saved; but to know that it was, and that there will be another, is a great comfort when the darkness comes. I do not like the darkness. I fight it. It hangs on me as if every small piece of my flesh is weighted with its own private concerns. They do not want or need my help. They do not need me at all. I sometimes think that my own flesh will abandon me from a disgust at the thoughts I entertain. My skin and my hair and my nails all turn from me in disdain. My wrists cramp and my fingers shrivel with resentment at being forced to commit these creatures, in a semblance of permanence, to paper. Also, from too much water because, as I mentioned before, it is raining and I am wet. There is a man sitting a ways from me. I noticed him when he mounted the bus because he resembled a friend I have not seen in a long time. When I was sure that I did not know him, I turned away without even a smile to acknowledge that we both know I was staring. Now when I glance in his direction his gaze tracks mine and when our eyes connect his eyebrows shift, ever slightly, and he squints, wondering why I am looking at him. I nurse the awkwardness like a treasured bruise and wonder if he is doing the same. People start to shuffle and rise. There is a moment when the airplane lands and everybody scrambles to gather their belongings and to stand in one another’s way for too long. They hurry to their destinations, too quickly for courtesy and stumble a little with the novelty of free movement. This moment is repeated modestly any time people disembark from a crowded public bus. I stay in my seat to avoid the crush, and to avoid any movement that might cause my cold, damp jacket to press against me with more determination. The bus is almost empty now and I too thank the driver and step out of the foggy pillbox, into the rain.

Reawakening, before an unexpected encounter.

I am lured out of my hot apartment by the promise of potato chips and a cool night. I cross a bridge over a highway and a sign flashes below announcing that a section of the freeway is closed. I feel a strange urge to thank the sign for informing me, despite the fact that I don’t drive, and that signs don’t have feelings. The sudden whimsicality reminds me of that Steve Martin movie, L.A. Story? Kind of like mine, except I’ve never been to California. Not like mine at all then probably. I twist words around trying to describe this thought with rhyme or any kind of simple cleverness. My mind gnaws on the various levels of observation, a bizarre series of meta-analysis fueled by one fantastical notion after another. The flashing inspiration is such a thing. The cars race by, even at two in the morning people flit about like individual swarms, a mess of tangled thoughts and feelings. The sign doesn’t mind or care. There is a person out there who invented the system of lights that now oscillate on the road, and there is another person who set the specific type on this sign, and there is still yet another person who dragged this sign into position. These people and the hundreds of others responsible (for there are hundreds of people involved in the making of any thing) are probably asleep right now. If they are awake, they are not musing about the sign they bred, or about the people they touch infinitesimally by its creation. The fact that this idle pondering blocks out the music from my headphones is a good sign. The fact that I purchased this pad of paper and this pen along with my snack is a better one. It’s been a long time since I’ve found pleasure in any kind of expression. Struck by euphoria on the heels of grief, my mind has had little else to do than react. My classes are done and my grief calms. My euphoria settles into a more orderly happiness. For a time my mind has been racing wildly, like a child running down a steep hill, afraid to stop lest he fall into injury. I organized my spare time into listening to convenient music, doing crossword puzzles, meeting new people, and generally being without being. Anything that demanded a productive and graceful combination of introspection and expression resulted in unruly bouts of rage. Irrational, spastic frustration came seemingly from nowhere like so many metaphors about bursting, flooding, dams, cracking, plugs, anything that might describe a careful restraint battered by futility. I sought refuge in distractions, hoping that time and careful probing would show me a way. It is easy to blame the caffeine, the sugar, the alcohol, unhealthy sleeping, and day-to-day stresses for my violent lack of inspiration but as I walk tonight, I feel a change. It came the same way most change does, when you only notice it after its arrival. It might have happened gradually or in a flash, there’s no way to tell. The shadow is gone. My thoughts are sharp, wide, and shallow, glistening like a pond in early sunlight. New thought like tentative little shoots popping up all over your untended lawn in the spring. Violets and those little blue flowers I’ve never known the name of that cover whole hillsides for a week and then disappear. Pretty weeds, difficult to organize but not always unwelcome. They do much more than herald a new season, and so too do these thoughts in my head. They are inconsequential, but they represent a ripening optimism. I don’t seek peace, from within or without, but I am always grateful when the tedium is lifted from things I know ought to bring me joy. I notice a passing motor as having two strokes and thank my settled happiness. I am eager to get back to the warmth of my apartment. I’ve eaten a whole small bag of kosher dill flavoured chips while sitting at a picnic table in front of a closed bar, under a streetlamp. This part of the city is very quiet and I find myself grateful for the cool night and the long walk to the only open shop. A smile creeps across my face as I extend my gratitude to the long walk home.