There’s a sushi place downtown, Hurricana—best in town apparently, and it’s built to easily serve those going solo. One thing that I’ve never had a problem doing is eating by myself. I guess it comes naturally. Anorexics have no idea what they’re missing. The white-blue sky yields to the intensity of the sun and the nearly 30-degree heat. In the subconscious gears of my mind an idea is in development that a beer would accompany my sushi better than green tea. My conscious agrees. The rickety splakka splak of the bus is only audible if you’re listening for it and I, the impatient youth, always am. The sound comes and the bus that travels with it appears to be the complete physical embodiment of the noise it’s making. Material onomatopoeia: it sounds the way it looks.
The bus is sparsely populated with Vancouverites, most of them slightly retarded I think, or almost crazy—silly hats and slept-in hair on some. Most have slack jaws that vaguely mouth the names of the businesses we pass: Talia Designs, Primo’s, Eddy Vance Sportswear. Their smell is that of a liquor-store stockroom: sour and cardboard-y. Jesus, these people are just begging to be locked-up and institutionalized. The bus driver also appears “off,” masking his one mildly lazy eye under the guise of a squint. He smiles though, a rarity in Vancouver transit workers. I don’t know if I do in return though. The buildings we drive towards seem to rise directly out of the water that they are so closely built to, basking in the heated slant of the almost-summer sun. Little bronze men, carved looking, young and strong, teeter along the wood planks and concrete of the growing buildings, the reflection of the sky in the oceanic glass cooking their skin into the finest, smoothest leather as cranes pirouette overhead. It’d be easy for them to jump should they desire to do so.