pages 13 and 14
“Where would we go?” I ask her, knowing full well she doesn’t care so long as it serves alcohol. “Anywhere good will have line ups to Surrey, and it’s pouring outside.”
“Moss has killer electro and 80’s on Fridays. They just extended into that warehouse or whatever it is next door…” My mind runs shrieking away from the subject matter as Estelle’s yammering degrades into a dull hum. My brain’s a generator.
The sun split through a cloud today as I was walking home from the bus stop. It was only for a brief moment and it shot directly out onto a big salmon colored building with little rectangle windows and wrought iron balconies. The brightness of the light made it stand out more than any other apartment building on the street. Three people, myself included, stopped and stared. Three people that I’m sure failed math in high school, who didn’t know how to play volleyball and who never noticed that stain on their jeans a week after it had landed there. Three people out of the crowd of angry, busy, shop-o-holics scuttling around the district. Pouring rain and still, the sun was intent on touching that one building for that one second.
“…And Rhi works there anyways so we’d get past the line. I called her earlier to put us on the list so we can go right in. Can you believe she’s dating that base player? Oh my god, I can’t believe she’s dating a base player. Rhi is definitely smarter than that.”
A pigeon landed on one of the flower boxes under one of the teeny little windows—the only one on the entire building with actual flowers in it. The pigeon sunned itself, wet and warm, and it flitted around in the iridescent beam of light, twinkling with the incessant downpour creating an image that was rife with West coast symbolism. I thought of common birds and domestic animals—the mundane.
“…so if we get there by seven Rhi will let us in through the back or something maybe. She’s been hanging out a lot with Berlin, that chick with all the coke. You down? I think I am if it’s free or whatever.”
The grey plumage turned purple and green as it reflected the sunlight, morphing from drab monochrome into the opposite: something extraordinarily colorful and interesting. It was like an ugly girl putting on make-up or an amputee wearing a prosthetic limb. It was in costume.
“Good. Stick with me kid and you will have fun. I’m coming over first. I want to give you smoky eyes and I need to borrow that red slip dress, the one with the clingy bottom and all the cool rips. Do you have any diet coke? We can make Slam Cities, I have currant vodka.”
It was only a second or two. The clouds overhead sealed up again pinching away the sunlight and the three of us, the math failures and the non-athletes, were absorbed back into the frenzy of Vancouver’s bustling city streets. At some point I must have still been talking to Estelle, and following that, I must have hung up the phone. She still ends up at my place though, holding a tool kit full of make-up and an ice-cold bottle of currant vodka.
Unfortunately, we go out.