 
Stag-Nation

a novel

By: Jan Tailor

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012

ISBN: 978-0-9880807-0-6

Cover art thanks to Paul McFarlane

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

1.

"I am a sick man... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I think there is something wrong with my liver."

Fyodor Dostoevsky

God, why can't I write like that? I'm a hack. Sure, I've been published... by pornographers. I've written the blurbs for pictorial in such literally publications as Barely 18, Fresh out of School, and others not worth mentioning. Do I put those credits in my bio for this book proposal? This is not a novel, it is smut.

A pill was taken before heading out the door to the gym. It was MDA – half-way between ecstasy and methamphetamine.

The door to the gym burst open as I reached to open it. A guy half my size pushed me aside with a grunt. Others in the gym took my right of way as I walked to the bike. Why was I there? This was not my place.

The gym is for those who believe themselves to be heroes or anti-heroes; cops, firemen, paramedics, criminals, tough guys and drug dealers. The women are vixens and angels, completely out of reach. The men and women are the same. They read the same reality magazines, Maxim and Vogue. Both rags tell you who to be and preach such as reality. But the fantasy of Hustler is unacceptable.

A few minutes was as long as I could go before viewing the monstrosity that was me in one of the gym's many mirrors. My gut pushed out from my waist and I needed a manzier or bro (a bra for men). My girth totally blocked out the guy next to me. I wanted to leave. I didn't leave. Without the gym I would die of heart failure caused by living too much. I wanted to get it over with but was too lazy; too fearful of failure; too worried I'd hurt the few people I care for.

Sometime between the leg press and seated rows I became one of them; an anti-hero. My eyes were like saucers. I stood up straight; chest puffed out, gut sucked in, arms held like I was wearing a belt with a holstered gun. I pushed the door open and made the person trying to enter wait.

It was my birthday, not that that mattered. The only thing special about this night was that I might bag a few free drinks.

At home, I chugged down Gatorade and water. The MDA was pumping strong. It was too straight forward for me, like a few too many cups of coffee; reality but fast. I wanted an escape. I grabbed some chocolate mushrooms from the freezer, they thawed in my hand as I walked downstairs.

Vancouver's favorite type of rain fluttered down continuously and softly. I jogged the block to Sauses, my local. It's a restaurant that likes drinkers and has a smoking room. There was a beer waiting for me before greetings were exchanged. "How's it going Damian?" Liam the bartender asked.

"Pretty fucking good," I replied. "It's my birthday today."

"Jaeger time." Liam went to the Jaeger machine. The machine made a grinding noise as it pumped out a pair of shots.

A waitress sat down at the bar next to me.

"Hey Lisa."

"Where's Trevor?"

"He's got to work."

"Jaeger for the birthday boy." Liam put a shot in front of me. I grabbed it and we drank.

Lisa motioned with her hand "Why didn't you tell us it was your birthday?"

"There's no fun in birthdays after 20... let alone 28."

Lisa went to tend her tables. I ate the mushrooms, drank another beer and left. I'd be back later.

The bus took too long. I flagged a cab. "Hey, take me to the Banana Peel... and don't spare the horse!" The cabby moved through the streets like all cabbies do; fast when in traffic, slow when he could go fast. I didn't care. The world was a heady mix of reflections and refractions; of cars going in every direction. The 3D traffic reminded me of Blade Runner and the role-playing game Cyber Punk.

I strode into the Banana Peel like I owned the place. The door girl stopped me and demanded I pay cover. I handed her the cash and found a seat in the back, waiting to see my velveteen goddess, Nyet.

She wasn't there. No worry; she would be. The fantasy grew as I waited. That black corset; the pony-tails; the lips of Angie Jolie; the voice of Liv Tyler; perfect legs and curves. But that's not it; it's more. The purr and breath on an ear; the real smile and gapped teeth; the raw intellect and wit undamaged by structure; the ability to talk with anyone on par with them; the perfume and the smoke on her breath; her ass pointed at the next to be seduced, strong and in control.

I waited for her, confident I'd talk with her; laugh with her; see her naked; dry fuck her; and have the fantasy of her to comfort me for another few weeks of tedium in a world that doesn't like me. She's my fantasy... my velveteen girl; my pin-up; my Betty Paige; my Nyet. The first pitcher was finished, another was ordered. I was putting together my next story. Ocean looked over to me and smiled. She walked up in her florescent yellow with blue hibiscus patterned bikini with a pink flower in her black hair. "Damian, how are you doing?"

"Great, it's my birthday." A new pitcher arrived. I paid. "Like a drink?"

"I'd like something green today, thanks Gem," Ocean said to the waitress. She turned to me. "Are you doing anything special today?"

"This is it. How about you – how are you doing?"

"Shitty... the Canucks aren't playing, so I don't have that job. And the other is just enough to pay the rent... and this place. I need to win the lottery. I don't know, I'm so down lately."

Ocean looked at the dancer on the stage. She and I have known each other for years. Before Nyet came here, Ocean was my Nyet. We went out a few times but just became friends.

With her eyes still fixed on the dancer, she said sharply: "I went to Church yesterday, it was good." I wondered if she'd said this because she was turned on by the dancer. "Tell me something interesting and funny," she challenged me. "Anything, come on."

Ocean is a good person and far too naïve for her own good. Somehow she's 30 but seemingly innocent. She appears ignorant of the drugs and the crime behind the scene. I smoked her up for the first time two years ago. The naivety is not a cover. She's simply not bright. But that doesn't mean she's not good. A friend that is all.

I told her about mushrooms, the Aztecs that ate them and the coming of Cortes. She listened, thinking it was science fiction laughing at the absurdity of reality.

"Damian I love your stories. They're all so funny and strange." She sipped the end of her drink. "I gotta to do my rounds. Should I come back for you?"

"Possibly," I said.

I waited for Nyet. She didn't appear. My beer disappeared.

Ocean reappeared and sat next to me. "What a crappy night. Not one dance all shift." The reason was obvious to me. Ocean's hips are a little wide. Her tits are still perfect, with nipples unlike any others I've ever seen. But she has lost it, she has no zest left. It's not what you look like, it's how you feel. Her fake smiles are seen as fake. Her asset is her sweetness, but the job has soured her. "I've known you five years and you've never had a girlfriend, why?" Ocean asked. "Why do you come here all the time?"

The question chipped at my strip club persona. "Girls are too much work, too many games. And, as I've told you before, I come here so that I spend my money on you and not on prostitutes. It fills the void of touch that a loner and loser like me has without going a step further." I changed the subject before it cracked. "Hey, is Nyet working tonight?"

"No, she found something better... not stripping."

For a split-second my selfishness got the better of me and the thought that I'd never see her again angered me. That moment passed. "Really, she's gone on to bigger and better things? That's great. Any idea what she's doing?"

"I can't remember. I think it was selling something."

"Good for her. You know I always liked her. She's a smart cookie. That's great."

"Didn't you guys go sailing a few times?" Ocean asked.

"Yeah, we went out a few times. But not in a while. Working too much. She's probably doing the same now." I changed the subject. "I like her, but you're the sweetest one here. Next summer you should come out sailing. I know I said that last year, too."

Ocean cuddled up to me. "Sailing next summer... so would you like a dance now?"

"Sure, just let me go to the washroom."

I met Ocean at the stairs to the private dance room. Every time I stand next to her, I'm astonished how short she is; barely reaching my elbow. We climbed the stairs as she said: "Damian, Damian, Damian... what are we going to do with you?"

The dimly lit room at the top of the stairs was full of couches separated by curtains. We found a vacant couch. She pulled the curtain shut and took off her bikini. She got on top of me and started to grind, rubbing my face with her nipples though keeping them just out of my mouth's reach. 'Ocean seems to have learned from Nyet', I thought, as she gave me Nyet's patented purr before biting my ear. She continued to kiss my neck and I grinded back. The music changed. She asked if I wanted another dance. I nodded yes. We started talking and another song went by. "One more please," I said.

Ocean put on her bikini. We talked about movies. I gave her the hundred and twenty bucks for the dances and $40 more. "We should go to a movie sometime," she said. "You got my number?"

"Yes," I said. We walked downstairs where she gave me a hug. I had no intention of calling her.

I drank my beer like the girl I love had left the building and stepped outside into the rain. Solomon, an Ethiopian Jewish Prince crack-head who watches the cars, yelled: "Daddy Long Legs, what's happening man! I'll flag you a cab."

"It's my birthday Solomon."

"Good for you Daddy Long Legs... was my birthday yesterday. Spare any change?" He opened the cab door and I gave him all the change in my pockets.

"To Sauses, post-haste... Broadway and Bayswater."

I sat at the bar in Sauses thinking wonderful thoughts and counting the number of skulls I could find on the black marble bar. And I drank beer. My thoughts were of Janette and how she was doing. Most were mundane, such as working at the mall for minimum wage. One had her opening her own dungeon. I hoped she was in school studying to be a reputable massage therapist. The mundane thoughts of her working sales led me to think of meeting her in the changing room.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. "It's time to go into the back room," Lisa said. I moved to the smoking room as the restaurant officially closed. I sat next to Seth out back with the other regulars. A political argument ensued.

Lisa sat between me and Seth, "When did you start wearing perfume?"

"It's Alison's from the nudie bar. Seth, remember we used to go there before?"

I got a dirty look from Lisa. "Before what? Anyway, I thought you had a thing for Janette?"

"I do, but she wasn't around. Apparently she's got something better; a real job." I raised my glass alone. "And good for her, even if you hate her."

"I don't hate her. She couldn't remember my name and that pissed me off. But good for her, anything better than what she was doing before." Lisa tried to have no bias. "So why don't you call her?"

"I did – and left messages yesterday and today. She didn't reply."

"She's a bitch." The tch had cigarette smoke trailing from it.

"No... that's not it. She doesn't want to see me because I'm a connection to who she was. Try going from 500 a night to 65 and not be tempted with what was. I'm sure it's more about a clean break than only using me. And, if not, I don't care to know. She's better off, besides." The persona was again under fire.

Seth leaned in to look me in the eyes. "Besides... besides what?"

I needed a gulp of beer to continue. "Well, just look at me." I stood up and did a twirl, letting it all hang out. "Why would she have anything to do with that? The only leg up I had was that I didn't care what she did. Now what do I have? The same thing many better-looking guys have."

"Come on, I'm sure it comes down to more than that."

"Well, if it doesn't, I don't care. It's not something I really wanted. All I wanted was a third to go sailing with. If she doesn't want to talk to me, fine. It was a good time. Really, she doesn't need another broken person in her life."

This was where it ends, drinking vodka and something – listening to The Smiths. A step away... not very far now... I will be asleep, despite the hold MDA and mushrooms have on me. Before I go I think still of Nyet or Janette. Who do I love more?

I sang: "I am the sun, I am the air, I am the son, And the heir...of nothing in particular.

"I am human and I need to be loved, just like anyone else does?

"'Am I human?' I look in the mirror and my shape is vulgar.

"You go home and you cry and want to die.

"The Smith's, they're not for me anymore. I am far too old for that. Its time has passed. Janette has gone on... and it's time for me to go on, too."

I went to my computer and started to type my latest opus. The keys typed out this: 'A guy is trolling the stroll for hookers. A good girl, all dressed up with no place to go, on the corner after a fight with her boyfriend. She's just trying to get to the 'burbs, but doesn't know when her bus runs. She thinks it stops here. He pulls up smiling at her through an open passenger-side window. She doesn't know what he wants, then looks up the street to see another walker and knows how to get home. He takes her to the Poon Palace. It rents by the hour.'

With that typed, the computer was used for its true purpose, perusing porn. Two minutes later I was drinking on the couch, joint in hand.

Grey light came in the window. The sound from the street could be heard. There were black soot marks all over me and a burn mark on the couch. My glass teetered half off the table. I drank the dregs from last night and lit up the roach. I had to be at work at midnight and there were 16 boring hours between now and then. A vodka and OJ helped relieve the boredom. I made some eggs while waiting for the Liquor Store to open. But this would be the last day I drank the day away. Trevor came over with a Play Station II and we played the new EA Sports hockey game and drank.

2.

Again I was riding a bike to nowhere for 40 minutes before bussing it to work. My job is a joke. I baby-sit bad employees; the marginally employable, people with no real skills and worse than that, no social savvy. People whose only assets were a strong back and a willingness to work at night.

I got to work and Jerry was already there, waiting in his car an hour before his shift. He'd come straight from the bar. He comes two hours early, so he's sober. His life consists of smoking and swearing. "How's it going, Jerry?"

"Another fucking day in paradise. They're going to make me work again and I don't fucking do that."

I relieved my colleague Norm. I hate Norm, but keep on good terms with him because I'm sure he'll return with his guns one day. Norm left, Jerry came in. Jerry wasn't allowed in the building until 15 minutes before his shift. I don't care if he comes in early, it keeps him from showing up drunk.

"Damian, we got a problem" Mike, the night-shift group leader, arrived. "You haven't worked nights in a while. Those new kids think it's cool to smoke-up on their break."

"Fuck, we all smoke dope, what's the problem?"

"They're flaunting it. The general manager is talking about getting a drug tester or something to check to see if we've been smoking."

"Everyone will be fired," I said. "Is he seriously thinking of doing that?"

"Norm told him about an ionizer tester thing they use at the prison and he's been looking for one on the internet."

"Norm...that anal little fucker. Fucking kids. Well, we better make an example. Do you know where they do it?"

"No."

"Who are they? Let me guess – Dave, Sparkles, Richy and Cheese."

"Yup."

"Who do we want to keep?"

"Richy is the only one who's not a dog fucker."

"I thought you'd want to keep him; he's a good kid. Let's go test the coffee machine."

Mike and I went to get coffee. I intentionally forgot to turn the machine back from free when I closed it, after topping off the ingredients. "Remind me to turn that off before the five o'clock crew gets in."

"Thank for the coffee, Damian... night always goes faster with free coffee."

"No problem." I changed topic, "I figure we should at least give them the chance to change before we catch them. I'm going to talk about the evils of pot. Then we'll set them up."

"Giving 'em a chance, you think that's wise?"

"We're dealing with Cheese and Sparkles. They'd go to the cops if a dealer ripped them off."

"True. I remember when Cheese came in with that huge blister on his lip. Sparkles put a lit cigarette in his mouth when he passed out."

"That's who we're dealing with."

For the next couple of hours I surfed the Net for anything interesting. But, without porn, nothing is. Before break, I slipped out to the back of the warehouse yard to see if the pot-heads were puffing. I didn't find them, but most likely they wouldn't smoke 'til lunch at four. It felt wrong to be skulking around at two in the morning, especially without a joint. I've worked this shift every two weeks for five years and it still feels wrong.

With company Code of Conduct in hand, I rushed to the meeting in the warehouse. The shift was already gathered around Mike as I approached. "Nice for you to show up to a meeting you wanted," Mike yelled. "Let me guess, important security business?"

"Very important business," I countered.

"I know, I was in the washroom. What the fuck did you eat!" Gerry got a laugh.

Cheese tried for the same. "What didn't he eat!" Mike's glare made Cheese quickly follow up with: "Just joking."

"Eggs, Fruit Loops and beef jerky. Oh, Cheetos, too." Humorous gasps and snickers greeted my remark – fart jokes and smut are the graveyard workers' solace.

"But seriously, we have a problem. Does everyone here know our drug policy?"

"They're great?" Sparkles got a smile.

"It sounds like you've forgotten, so I'll remind you: No employee may use, distribute or be under the influence of alcohol or drugs in the workplace. Employees who are found to be under the influence of drugs or alcohol will be sent home immediately, and may be subject to disciplinary action. That is, actually will – and that action will most likely be termination. And those of you still in your first three months can expect to be dismissed."

Mike interjected: "Sparkles, Cheese, Richy, Dean and Danny, that means you!"

"But pot is legal in B.C.," Sparkles said. "Last month I got caught by the cops and they just took it away."

"Took it for themselves more like," Joked Cheese the wag.

I cut the laughter short. "Weed is still illegal. But that's not the point. The point is, we know some of you are smoking during coffee and lunch – and that's company time." Mike looked directly at Cheese and Sparkles as I spoke.

"The company tells you what you can and can't do. If you don't do what it says, you won't have a job. Now, I know some of us like to smoke the odd joint. That's not my business. But being stoned here is. We work with forklifts and move heavy merchandise. Being stoned while doing that is dangerous; not only to you, but to the others you work with. So don't come to work stoned or get stoned at work. It's a waste of a good buzz." They all laughed. "But seriously, if you can't go 10 hours without getting stoned, you have a problem."

Mike weighed in. "As Damian has said, this problem will be dealt with very seriously. For those who have gotten stoned at work, this is your warning. Don't do it anymore. Do you have anything else, Damian?"

"Yeah. I've been noticing a few of you not using the rolling stairs when unloading merchandise from above your heads. We bought them for a reason. Any lift with your arm above your head is a dangerous lift, potentially causing shoulder injury. Use the rolling stairs."

Mike wrapped things up. "I'll be watching, along with Damian. Get back to unloading. Gerry, Al and Kevin, get on to that Victoria trailer when you finish what you're doing."

I went back to my office to write a few lines of the great Canadian novel I've been writing for three years. All I did was re-read the last few lines, before playing computer solitaire

I felt sleepy at 3ish and went for walk around the yard. I hoped to talk with the yard guy, Peter. He drives the shunt truck, moving the hundred or so trailers around. He was asleep. I got into the warehouse to waste some more of the night. I thought to myself: 'Wasting time is all I do, one way or another. Not anymore. Today I will do more. But first I have to do some work. Running around looking for their smoke-up spot would be stupid. Richy will tell me if I ask him right. God I hate this part the most.'

"How was your weekend Richy?" I inquired, as he manhandled a fridge bigger than he was and bigger than most would think possible.

"You know, same old, same old. I drank some rye and played on the Play Station. Got the new EA NHL game. It's fucking hard. Impossible to score."

"I didn't do much either. Went to a strip bar for my birthday. Got fucked up on shrooms. I got that game, too, but I have to play it at a buddy's place else I'll play it all the time. You said it's fucking impossible to score? Shit, I gotta get a hockey fix somehow, with no NHL on the TV. You guys busy tonight?"

"Yeah, may not get it all done tonight. Fucking Christmas rush."

"You don't mind if I help?"

"Sure. You don't have to ask. Why are you the only security guy to help us?"

"I ask, cause I don't want to take hours from you guys. Sometimes I like to work and it gives me some respect around here."

"I see what you're saying."

"Fuck man, I'm feeling I gotta change, you know? Stop drinking and smoking dope; get a real job. Last week I felt like a kid, like you guys. Today I realized I'm two years from 30. No girl, no school, a crap job – nothing but beer and the nudie bars. Don't be like me."

"Fuck, every time I go to my folks' house I hear: 'When are you going to school?' But, I don't know; I kind of like this. I got what I want: a place with my buddies, girlfriend, my car. Shit, tonight I'm going to dinner for my mom's birthday and all night long it's going to be: When are you going to get married? When are you going to school? I'd rather be at work."

"Be happy, my mom's in a home and doesn't really know who I am."

My answer made Richy visibly uncomfortable. "Sorry man."

"No worries. But seriously, don't be here at my age or even in a few years. Don't be a lifer, like Gerry and Al; this is all they got. Started here right out of high school – like you – and will retire or die here." I changed topic. "Hey listen, I know you go out and smoke the odd jay with Cheese, Sparkles and Dave, but it's causing a problem. Management is out for blood – even thinking of drug testing."

"No way, drug tests?"

"Yeah. Right now we have a good thing. Mike gives you leeway and I do too. But if this problem is not solved, it could cost all of us dearly. And really the problem is not you guys getting stoned – I never said that – the problem is that the boss is hearing about it. Sparkles and Cheese do their best Cheech and Chong all the time, even in front of Steve the General Manager. Steve's not a warehouse guy. He doesn't understand that 70 per cent of his staff are potheads. He's a born again. Nothing wrong with that, but he'll never understand, so we must keep that on the down low or face a puritan's wrath. But I'm not sure what to do. You think you could explain it to them?"

Richy stopped working and looked thoughtfully before shaking his head. "No, they wouldn't stop, even if I told 'em that. No, I know I'm not going to hang around 'em."

"Listen Richy, one way or another, those guys are going to get themselves in trouble over this. Whether it's bad or not is the question. You know I like you guys, but they're making their bed, mocking rules. That angers people. I think I can keep the damage to the minimum. That's my goal."

A long pause followed, as Richy looked unsure. "I don't know."

"Richy, remember anything you say to me will not go any further. Just like that other time with the guy stealing. I caught him because he stole, not because you showed me how he did it. Everything you say is confidential. I'll not say anything about it to anyone. OK? I want to know where they're smoking so I can catch them. And hopefully, if they're not stupid, keep them from getting fired. If Norm or Kent or Len catch these guys, that's what'll happen. If I catch them and they do the right thing, they may not."

"OK. What do you want?"

"Tell me where they smoke?"

"Back end of the warehouse, under the camera pole. There's always that junk trailer there to block the view."

'The little bastards are smarter than I thought and, at the same time, dumber,' I thought. 'The fools are on school property (company property, but since babysitting is what I do), their ass is grass.' Because they were smoking on the property, there would be no amnesty. Worse than that, they had no idea the camera can point straight down.

"Thanks Richy, I'll do what I can to keep them from getting in real trouble." I used my exit strategy and let go an underwear-checking fart. "That's enough work for one night."

"You FOUL BASTARD!" followed me out of the trailer, as I laughed my way to Mike's desk. Profanity continued to stream out of the trailer.

"What's Richy's problem?" Mike asked.

"I took a dump in his trailer. You gotta give 'em motivation to finish quicker."

Mike chuckled. "That's a shitty thing to do. You figured out where they're smoking?"

"I'll know after lunch tomorrow. You'll probably need some temp workers after tomorrow."

"That's good to know."

"Well, I'll be sleeping in the first aid room 'til lunch."

Up until now my hangover had been cut with a lingering buzz and a quickly fading energy drink. I knew the heartburn was only the start of six bad hours. I'd get the sweats and shakes, too. Worst is the disassociation from reality these bouts of withdrawal cause; always feeling they can see something is wrong with you. But I could handle it now my booze breath was gone. I had a foolproof excuse, too. It was my first day on grave yards. Plus, I'd had too much caffeine and no real sleep beforehand.

With the exception of turning the coffee machine back to pay, stocking the vending machine and walking around outside, I hunkered down in my office 'til my boss, John, came in. He got in at exactly 0740 and let me go early. I bussed it home and picked up two MacGriddles on the way.

I thought of strippers – my favorite people – the rest of the bus ride. They show people who they are; I hide it. I'm inspired at home. 4minutes 20 later, strippers weren't on my mind anymore. I washed my hands, smoked a joint and ate the ritual. The love; the comfort; my solace. One thousand calories' worth. Two hours of biking to nowhere in two sandwiches – but they're just so damned good.

Tripping, I thought: 'Strippers are real, not like me. My hate causes me to love them. I can't take my shirt off in public without hate from within or out. Strippers are happy naked. I'm not. I'm just a fatty. I'd love the truth of nakedness, but I can't do it. I think too much. And therefore drink too much. I've been beaten down by society's subliminal ad campaigns. I can't see anything but the package. What is inside never matter as much as the outside; the visible. That is that and always will be. It's all I can see. My packaging – not my package – means as much to me; keeping me perpetually on the shelf; too ugly for this salesman to sell. Strippers are too real to miss. There's something they can show me; and not their tits or their ass. But I don't know where to look.

Nyet, how powerful she is. She controls all. She could make me die on the way up to Everest if she wanted too. I'm not drinking for her. She has changed. I will too. I was on my way to the liquor store. I'm stronger than that.... Jerking off and weed stopped me from drinking. Or was it Janette. I love her, you know. But she'll never know.'

Sleeping in the day is wrong. Doubly so when detoxing. I was awoken by every loud noise and sweat in a cool room. A pack of bad, vivid dreams assaulting a mind not actually asleep.

3.

A ring of the door bell got me out of bed. I yelled down the stairs to hang on and found a shirt and pants. I descended the stairs and opened the door to my main floor renter. He was standing on the front porch sheltered from the rain. "Damian, it the 28th and I've got no cash. I know you need money, but could you take a QP for some of October? Our crop is late and the flow is all screwed up."

"Troy, I like you – and your girls in the basement (the weed he grows) – but I need some money. It's not for me, but my mom. She's in a home. I can take a discount for the value of two ounces – but man, I need the rest in cash. We have a good thing, don't we?"

"OK. But I know you know people to buy our crop at a premium and you don't tell' em about me. Do it. Please."

"Listen, I don't tell people about you for a fucking good reason. I've been entrusted this house with the express stipulation that I don't grow weed. If you get caught, robbed, raided or some shit happens, I lose it to my asshole father – and my mother loses her bed at the home. None of the people I know want a pound of weed – and one or two that do are real criminals who wouldn't hesitate to burn me." We exchanged looks of consternation. But the look this harmless hippie gave and knowing he did all the gardening, yard work, grew the best weed and maintained the house, changed my mind. "Hey, just give me the QP. I think I know someone. This is a one-time thing, though – one-time. And it's got to be the best shit you got. I'll take whatever I get off your rent, but that will only cover seven hundred or so. You'll still owe a grand or so." I knew it would happen again.

"No problem. You want blueberry or AK-47."

"I gotta call my buddy. He'll want some samples, most likely."

"Let's go smoke some and I'll get some samples." We went inside his floor of the house and smoked with his common-law wife, Holly, while we heckled the world news.

I took my samples, then called my dad's lawyer and manager for his Vancouver properties. "Lloyd, it's Damian. I wouldn't mind dropping over. Catch up on old times."

"Good to hear from you Damian. We don't see much of you at the club."

"Yeah, I haven't made it up to the deck. I've been too busy sailing or fishing. You know sailing's the reason you're a member of a yacht club?"

"Don't rub it in, my boy. So you're wanting to chat. Is it business or pleasure?"

"Pleasure, of course."

"No problem. The wife's taken the kids to soccer. Be here before my third scotch. No public transit."

The drive to the good edge of Shaughnessy was short. Not that there's a bad edge. Lloyd's is on the outskirts of where the Crème de la Crème live. They don't need a train to Richmond.

I called Lloyd as I walked up to his house. The house is almost a mansion, with glass and gravel stucco – the type so common on older Vancouver homes. He answered the door in a robe, scotch in hand. We walked down the dark wood paneled walls of the main hall, through a kitchen only Filipinos have known intimately, and onto a patio featuring a huge bricked-in BBQ, swimming pool, covered area complete with propane heaters, bar and whirlpool – and sauna.

"Lloyd, I love what you've done with the patio. Last time I was here, it was just a bunch of holes in the ground."

"It's my 24-7-365 deck – the ultimate solution to the Wet Coast," Lloyd said. He made his way to the bar. "What are you drinking?"

"Not drinking nothing; I gotta go to work in a couple of hours." I took a chair at the bar.

"Hasn't stopped you before."

"It's a bit of a heavy day today. I gotta do shit I don't want to do. It's a bit of a moral dilemma. Certainly, as a lawyer, you have no concept of that."

"There are no morals – only benefits and losses. You always do what benefits you."

"Yeah, fuck those that lose. Just like my dad fucked mom." I broke out the samples and showed them to Lloyd.

"You're still pissed about that? She fucked herself. She knew that if she fucked around she'd be out of luck cause of the pre-nup." Lloyd inspected the weed and smelt it like it was wine. "They're both good. What's your opinion?"

"Blueberry every time." I took some and put it in my hand grinder. "But Lloyd, there's a thing called compassion. Loyalty, you know? Sharks like you don't have that. You don't leave your ex-wife out in the cold when she gets early onset Alzheimer's five years after the divorce and has no pension, savings or family able to help her. Especially when you use a private investigator to catch her cheating before you get caught. She knew about his philandering, but was never was going to divorce him."

Lloyd tossed over some papers. "She had family to help her and if that family used his ability he could help her even more. It's not easy to out-negotiate your dad, but you did – and got a sweet deal. A 42" boat with whaler to use all but two months a year with expenses paid for; a house with enough rent potential to keep your mother in a home and you with some money; and the club's bills paid for. My boy, your dad would be proud of you if he wasn't the loser in that deal. You got some of his talent."

I started to roll. "All I get from the house goes into the home. I could have put her in a cheaper place and got some money; but that's plain wrong. And I had to blackmail him into getting that."

Lloyd interrupted. "Your language is all wrong. It's not blackmail, but a power-play; information lever; or strategic discretion."

"Whatever. I have to do all the maintenance on the boat, which I got because I was the only trusted member with enough seniority to keep the boat at the club, now that he lives in the US. And all of this is dependent on his idea of what 'taken care of' means. And all the other arbitrary rules, like... Well, you know. You drew up the fucking contract."

I handed the blueberry joint to Lloyd. He lit it and toked. "FFFFFFF... Rodger, your dad, was pretty pleased with how the boat was when he was here. He said it felt fast, had less weather helm and everything was ship-shape."

"Well, he didn't say that to me." I took a toke. "And he'd never know what weather helm was or if it felt fast. I did rake the mast a little to get rid of some weather helm. But really, you need to put a reef in the main when that becomes a problem; then some jib. He thinks the more heeled over the faster."

"Yeah, that was me, but I told him." Lloyd broke out coughing with his next toke. "That's some good shit. We should race your dad's boat."

"Where am I going to find the money to get all the sails needed, take the roller furling off and a whole bunch of other shit my dad would freak at?"

"I'm sure we could get him to do it. At least come racing on my 242. I need a guy with good instincts and some moveable ballast for heavy days. Light days are for girls in bikinis."

"No, sailing is a lawyer's game; too much politics, protesting and shit. Fuck people with the rules. That's why Conner won all those Americas Cups. Ocean racing is the only good yacht racing and dad wouldn't agree to that." There was a long pause. "Lloyd," I looked at the joint. "Don't Bogart that joint."

"Sorry, that's some good shit." He passed it to me. "Keep an open mind. I think we would make a good team. So what's your opinion of the weed?"

"I think the blueberry is the best tasting weed ever and all true connoisseurs agree it's the best to smoke, if not the most potent. The AK-47 is what you buy to impress your friends. Really, you should try the AK-47 and see how much harsher the smoke is – not tasty at all." I packed a bowl for the taste.

Lloyd only got a half a breath in before explosively coughing. I finished the bowl as he hacked. "AHUhhh, ahuhh. I see what you mean. Ahuhh... my friend is an aficionado and not into trends. Blueberry is the one."

"Well, you're lucky, cause my buddy is one of the few who has blueberry these days, but it's a bit more – seven fifty. That a good deal for shit this good."

"That's a bit steep, seeing as it's three days from the end of the month and it happens to be your favorite type of weed – which is rare these days. Five hundred."

"My buddy can't sell for that."

"But you can," Lloyd winked. "You're selling for your buddy, as I'm buying from mine. This is the last time to buy at that offer; all the rest will be lower."

"You're a fucker, I'll have it tomorrow. You know you're fucking me and my poor mother?"

"You should have thought that was a possibility. This is business and I just used my information to lever you into a mutually beneficial arrangement in my favour. I get really good cheap weed without having to screw a friend treading on thin ice. You get the knowledge I'll not relay this circumstantial information to my boss, causing further investigation."

"You fucked me. Thanks Lloyd."

Lloyd went to get another scotch. "You want one?" I shook my head. "My boy, you may see this as an anal probing but I'm looking out for your interests and mine. My interests are keeping my best connection: You. You get me the best stuff and deals with the least heat. I'm your dad's friend and associate checking in on you and his properties entrusted to you, nothing more. And I keep your dad's eye away– I'm sure you see how that benefits you."

"I see what you're saying."

"I'm having a big Halloween party. I'll need some party favours." Lloyd snorted with a finger to a nostril. "Can you help me out? You've always got the good stuff, why is that?"

"I can always get the best cause I don't burn people. Which leaves both parties happy. You should try it."

"Don't be bitter."

"Yeah, I can help you. But you're leaving me in a fix; it'll be a very tight month. My renters are going to be short and I've only got fifty bucks left when I pick up all the bills."

Lloyd smiled. "How about this: I got a pretty hectic October, so why don't I front you the money for party favours and you'll have something to cover expenses?"

"Lloyd, I've always had a hell of a time trying to pin down where you stand – it's never in one spot."

Lloyd and I chatted until his wife and kids got home – at which point he quickly lit up a cigar. He freshened his drink before his wife, Hillary, and daughters, Breanne, and Jacky, came out to greet him. It was awkward and I left shortly after.

Walking in under a cloud-speckled sky at 0200, my consciousness lit the dark. I started worrying about the fate of Sparkles, Cheese and Dave. What right did I have to frame these pot-heads when I'm just the same? Sparkles lives at home; he'll be fine. Cheese has a chick he lives with. But Dave, he's on his own and pays child support. Sure, doing what he does is wrong – but wrong enough to get him canned?' I sat on the steps to a fire exit and called Trevor, who was on the road somewhere playing the security game. The sound of bad techno coming from a bad stereo on a weak station came garbled through my cell. The music faded away then Trevor spoke. "Dude what's going down?"

"Same old, same old. Being the hand of the man. I'm stressing out, I gotta frame some pot-heads for smoking at work."

"What do you mean frame? Like, put weed in their locker or something?"

"No, I got one of their buddies to rat on them under the auspice of being lenient with them. But there won't be restraint. They're smoking on the property."

"Give them a warning. It isn't like your boss knows you're going to catch them. What are their stories?"

"Well, giving them a warning is an option, but the problem is that they're loud mouths – talking about weed in front of the big Christian manager. As for them, I got no real problem burning two – but the other one needs the job."

"Dude they deserve it. Fuck 'em."

"I know they do under the man's law. But I hate to be that. Of course, I'm too lazy to have a real job. It bothers me cause I'm more one of them than the manager is me. It crosses my line, which is different than the company's. Truthfully, my only real creed is, don't hurt anyone. Unless they want to be, of course."

"Dude, I go by that – with the added, 'you gotta do what you gotta do' and 'why the fuck not?' as a modifier."

"You know, when I was 20 I had a huge list of morals and things I would do in penance if ever I broke my rules. Now only two are left."

"What are they?"

"If I kill someone and that person isn't the killer of someone or an enemy at war, I kill myself, even if it's manslaughter. And the same goes for rape."

"That's pretty much mine, too. Dude, I'm going underground. Take it easy... the fuckers." The call disconnected.

For a couple of hours I read. Fifteen minute before lunch I went into the warehouse and talked with Mike about nothing. When lunch was called I made it obvious I was going to eat in the cafeteria with Mike and the rest of the crew, as Sparkle, Cheese, and Dave left to get lunch. Mike and I talked for five more minutes and then I went to my office to make sure the camera was in the right spot. I left Mike there and headed to the back end of the yard where Richy told me the smoker would be. I hid for a short time before Cheese's car pulled up. Then I waited for the joint to go around a few times. I walked up to the car from the side unseen by the camera. I wasn't noticed. I tapped the door with my Maglite. The car jumped from the shock and Cheese said, with joint in hand, "Fuck! You scared the shit out of us!" The other two sat stunned.

"Cheese, what are you doing?" I said.

"What are you stoned or something? Isn't it obvious?" Cheese took a toke and the others snicker.

"No. Pass it here, Cheese," I said.

"Smoking with the security? Fuckin' eh, always knew you were cool Damian." Sparkles and Dave cheered me on.

Cheese passed me the joint and I took it, knocking the cherry off on my Maglite. "OK you guys, enough fun. I wanna see all of you in the conference room as soon as you get back. Mike will be there to meet you."

Cheese turned to the others. "He's fucking joking!"

"This is no fucking joke!" I pulled my radio out. "Hey Mike, you there?."

The radio crackled. "Yeah, Damian."

"Cheese, Sparkles and Dave are coming to see you. Give 'em a seat in the conference room."

"10-4."

Those in the car had nothing to say. "Guys, get out of the car and go and see Mike. If you don't, there'll be an automatic meeting with HR. You know what that means?" Profanity streamed from the car, but slowly Sparkles and Dave got out.

"I don't want to leave my car here," Cheese said.

"Cheese, either you leave the car here or I call the cops and you get to prove you're sober. It'll be fine here; it's under our security camera." Cheese mumbled some trash talk as he got out of the car. Over the radio, I said: "Hey Mike, call up Neil."

"Already done. Good one getting him to pass you the joint."

I got back to the front office. Mike was watching the door to the conference room. I told him I had to burn the tape and write a report and he should do the same. I finished the report as Neil the warehouse manager came in. "What got me out of bed early Damian?"

"Well, I caught Sparkles, Cheese and Dave smoking a joint on the back of our property."

"Sure it was weed?" I produced the baggy with the half joint in it. Neil smelt it. "Hell of lot stronger than in my day."

"Here's the video."

"On tape, too? Knew something Damian?" I winked to Neil. We watched the video. "So we can see Sparkles smoking and you get the joint handed to you from Cheese. But we never see Dave smoking?"

"Yeah, that's it. I never got a good look at Dave. He was, but we can't say that."

"The two are gone. If Dave acts right he'll get a warning and have to work like a star to keep from getting canned. Better call John. Don't want one of these punks getting pissed if you walk them out the door. I'm sure you don't want the paperwork. Call the GM and HR too."

From then on I was out of the loop. I sat in the office getting compliments, telling the story, and showing the video of the 'bust'. I end up doing three hours of overtime as John had to finish several reports so Sparkles and Cheese could be 'released'. Dave was smart in his interview and got a warning, but that created paperwork, too.

Sometime in the early afternoon I got home and went to bed. Shortly after, Lloyd called, telling me to hook him up by five as his wife and kids would be home at six. I went over and did the deal.. Then I went back to bed.

Within a few minutes I was awake again, thinking I could get to the liquor store and be drunk with five hours to pass-out, sober up and be ready for work. I threw on some clothes and was out the door, singing 40 Oz. to Freedom, by Sublime as it played on my iPod.

A bus pulled to a halt at the stop half-a-block down from my house on Broadway. I sprinted for it, arriving in time to be part of the human crush. I stood with both feet just behind the red line to mark where you can't stand. At the next stop another three people piled on. At the back I spotted a girl with black bangs and a ponytail wearing a black hoody with a skateboard logo on it. I couldn't tell if it was Janette, but I was sure it was. Pushing back to find out was not an option, as I tried to get a good look. I couldn't get any closer, although I scrolled the wheel on my iPod to find Closer, by NIN. A stop later she moved toward the nearest exit and I decided to do the same. She got off the back door of the bus. I went out the front. She turned my way, walking by me as the bus left. It took a moment for my mind to accept it wasn't her – and by then the bus had gone.

I stood puzzled, in thought. 'Why would I think that was Janette? That chick looked nothing like Janette. Her style was close – well, like a bad knock-off. I knew it wasn't Janette, but accepted the illusion. Now I have no bus and the liquor store is 10 blocks away. I should have gone to the other one. Fuck, why is Nyet all I can think about? It's over... like booze. LIKE BOOZE! Thank you Janette; I nearly forgot. See you in my dreams, Nyet.'

Janette's reminder caused me to evaluate how I would get through the next few days when, undoubtedly, I'd experience more moments like this. My plan was to indulge in everything else.

Across the street was a grocery store. I crossed and went into the store. First, I hit the pharmacy for Nyquil, a great sleep aid and vision producer. Second was the frozen food aisle to get waffles, burritos and lasagna for lunch at work. Third, and most important, salty snacks, chips – regular, BBQ and smoky bacon – beef jerky and smoked steak nuggets. Fourth was the dairy section for milk and butter – everything is better with butter. And finally I did a quick walk around the store, adding some Fuzzy Peaches, a four-pack of Red Bull and a tube of icing for the waffles to my cart. I felt good resisting the urge for cola.

I took a cab home, where I smoked a big joint and ate a little of everything. I jerked off, then ate a lot of everything. After another joint I slept for two hours.

4.

The indulgence in all my other vices to drown out the drinking worked. However, my life of sloth and gluttony had pushed my place past the state Pink's hotel room was at before Comfortably Numb comes on in The Wall. Empty bags and boxes of chips, smoked steak nuggets, and frozen food littered the kitchen and balanced awkwardly on all surfaces. Mostly beneath but sometimes on top of that layer were dishes and glasses. Clothing lay where it was taken off. Large roaches – the kind from a joint, not the bug – were put neatly in a roach motel. The little nearly unsmokeable ones and the paper from those stripped of their insides were everywhere; on the coffee table and under it; in the kitchen and bathroom; and the largest concentration next to the computer and on the night table. The washroom needed a pressure washing. Books were moved from the shelves to the washroom. DVDs and videos were stacked 'til they toppled in front of the TV. Magazines – porno, of course - normally hidden under my bed were now mounting up beside it. And ashes were on top of everything. It was art. A tribute to Pink Floyd's The Wall and a disposable nation.

By the morning of the fourth day (actually it was night, as I was stuck working graveyards for the month – morning's when you wake-up) the squalor, combined with my four days of sobriety, was causing me to be at odds with the mess; even if it was art. I didn't want to let the mess go, as I knew it was a reflection of me – who I really was. But no matter how many joints I smoked or how much porn I watched, I was uneasy with it. So I drank a Red Bull and worked out for the first time in four days.

I went to work, it sucked as usual. But at least it was Friday (it was really another weekday, but I didn't have to work so it was Friday).

When I got home in the morning (real morning) the chaos agitated me enough to finally force action. My ability to procrastinate is one of the qualities I have the highest aptitude for, so I called Trevor, but didn't reach him. I grabbed a garbage bag and picked up the most foul of the moldering food containers. But I was disheartened when no visible dent was made in the mess. I resigned myself to smoking, eating and jerking off. Two cycles into the routine or religion or prayer, at about ten o'clock, my cell phone rang – I only have a cell. "Hello," I answered.

"WASSSSSUUPP! I woke you, didn't I?" The slight Quebec Quoi accent let me know it was Cassandra. There was a pause. "No... WAKE UP DAMIAN!"

"Yes, I'm awake. What do you want?"

"I was hoping you could take me to Costco? I need a bunch of stuff. Please?"

If she only knew I'd do anything for a woman. "Well, I really have other stuff to do."

"Pretty please, with me on top?"

"That sounds great, but what would your husband say? He's a good friend of mine, you know?"

"Oh, I forgot. Well, we can take Precious to see your mother. They are both in Richmond?" I had no quick answer, so seconds later she continued. "I'm beginning to wonder if your poor mother exists. I lend you my Precious every month so you can take him to see your poor mother... but I'm beginning to think you and sick Trevor are doing other things with him. I know how much of a pervert he is – and you're his best friend."

"Come on Cassandra."

"I've read what you write."

"And you've liked and lusted for it." A cackle comes from her. "We can go there. But seriously, Cassandra, I don't think you'd like seeing my mother. It's not fun at all."

"Will it make your mother happy?"

"Of course."

"Well, let's go."

I took a quick shower and chugged a Red Bull before driving over to pick up Cassandra and Precious. They were waiting on the boulevard when I arrived. Precious, the all-American mutt, took a seat on Cassandra's lap as I drove at top speed, ''cause that's what Precious prefers. We walked into the old folks' home with the same strange look I would get because of the dog – but the Filipino at the desk smiled and came out to pat Precious. "Oh, you've come to see your mum, Damian. I wish I had a son like you." And she walked us to my mother's room. I never knew her name. I thought the nurse's name was Sherry but I was never sure. Cassandra was giving me a look like I'd lied, but that didn't last long.

"Knock, knock." Presumably Sherry knocked at Mum's door. Mum answered. "It is your son here to see you Jane," Sherry said.

"Oooh, send him in." I walked in with Cassandra and Precious following. "Who are you? You're not my son?"

"Yes, Mum it's me, Damian."

"You don't look like him. And who are you?" Mum looks to Cassandra, then addresses Precious. "And you my lovely – oh you are so good, aren't you?" Mum cuddled Precious. "It's so nice to see a dog. My son used to bring Sweet Pea to see me."

Into Cassandra's ear I whispered: "Don't say anything about Sweet Pea." Then I said to Mum: "Mum, Precious is a great dog – and I brought him to see you."

Mum switched from snuggling the dog to searching through a night table draw, then at the bureau. . "You are not my son. My son is – and I'm only being honest, I love him – a portly fellow, well-rounded, jiggles like the doe boy. Hee hee. You are not him."

As always, I stood dumbfounded but replied: "Mum, it is me." This always happened, but still I couldn't grasp it. I knew her, how could she not know me?

"You're the nice man from the government who brings the dogs to me. Why do you always try to fool me? And this is?" Mum gestured to Cassandra. But before an answer, Mum continued: "You're not a couple or even special friends, are you?"

"I'm Precious's mum – a friend of your son."

Mum looked to the bureau with its picture. "Why do you persist on saying he's my son? You're from the government to help old people like me. He's not my son. This is my son." Mum pointed at a photo of younger, fatter me and then talked to Precious.

I whispered to Cassandra, who was white as a ghost: "Just go with it. She never knows who I am. But she loves Precious."

After that, the only things said were a goodbye and a thank you – presumably to Sherry. The only happy 'person' to get in the car was Precious. Cassandra held onto him as I drove to Costco. I was so stuck in my own thoughts I didn't notice she was hiding a tear by staying close to her dog. I heard the crying as I turned the car off – and with it the stereo.

"Cassandra, don't cry. Seriously. Precious, give Mom some kisses." Neither listened to me at first.

"Your mom doesn't know who you are." Then Precious gave me a big lick.

"No, she doesn't... yes, she does... don't cry." With my hand helping Precious lapped her face. "She knows me in the picture, and that's it."

5.

Sobriety was only novel for the first week. After that, it became a boring pattern. Mediocrity set in. Stories of getting wildly drunk at strip bars were all that defined me. It's what I talked about at work. It's what I would think about in the can at work. It's what the guys at work would trade stories about. They'd go something like (I'd initiate):"Man, remember that place, the Marble Arch? I'd always go there after work on Sunday for $3.00 high balls and get stoned in the rat-infested park beside it. A few years' back on 'duos night' these two girls got on stage in matching green and pink boxing outfits with huge gloves. Little tight hot ones, brand new to it. A blond and brunette. Obviously, they were doing it ''cause they were into each other and liked it. They punch, playfight and wrestle, until they were in a mock 69, lapping and licking in time to dueling banjoes. This person then gets up on stage and starts to join in. The DJ's yelling for 'him' to get off – then for the bouncers to step in. But before the bouncers get to the stage, 'he' takes his shirt off... and a pair of tits flop out! It was a woman! The dyke asks the strippers if she can join in. The bouncers were having none of it. She was thrown out."

Richy took his turn. "You see that guy on the internet, Captain Stabbing? He goes out to a marina or bar and picks up a couple of hotties for a boat ride. He and his crew take them out on a boat and then fuck the shit out of them. Once they're done, he throws them overboard with a life preserver. And they're totally far out; too far to swim back."

"That shit's fake," Mike replied. "He stole the idea from Bang Bus."

"I don't know, it looked pretty real."

I motion to slap Richy. "Are you stoned? Is that why you're so stupid today. I thought I talked to you about that. Don't you think CNN would be having 24-hour cover with Nance Grace if that shit was real?"

"Damian's got a point," Mike said. But then he has a go. "So I was up in Prince George at the strippers with some tree-planting buddies years ago. Having a few before hitting a bar to get laid. No peeler's been on in a long time. Almost long enough to make us leave. We hear arguing coming from the back and a guy looking like the manager comes out from a door next to the stage. There's more screaming, then the previous stripper comes on stage, yelling: 'Fuck off, I'm not dancing twice as much for the same money.' He didn't listen to her, so she throws her six-inch heels at him. Seriously. Shoots the shoes right at him." We all laughed.

"I got a better one," I smiled. "I was at The Penthouse. The girl on stage wasn't getting our attention. It was a week night, so there were more hookers at the back than customers in gyno row. So she went to do the splits and couldn't even get within a foot of the floor. She said: 'I gotta practice some more.' She bounced up and down, not getting any closer. 'I know,' she said. She grabs her pussy lips and pulled 'em to the ground. No joke, nearly a foot. Everyone was in shock. One guy said it's disgusting. She replies: 'I'm sure it's bigger than your dick.' She gathered up her blanket as the one guy leaves and my buddy, Trevor, went to see if he could get a private show." Mike and Richy were in as much shock as I was when I saw it. "We couldn't get a private show."

The memory of the lippy stripper made me search for chicks with big clits on Byte Torrent. I spent the morning alternating between cleaning and checking the progress of my downloads. I didn't get much cleaning done on the Friday night of my first weekend sober (Friday night was really a weekday morning). Checking the progress of my downloads kept me at the computer every 20 minutes. I'd need to smoke a joint after.

On Saturday (my one) I called Trevor and got his voicemail. "Trevor, you're an asshole. I need your help and you're not answering your phone. If you don't call back, I'll put your balls in a vice then slowly wind it closed." I hung up. Less than a minute later I called again.

"Uhhhh, hello?"

"Fuck Trevor, hang up – I was going to leave a good voicemail."

"OK."

The next call was answered by the voicemail. "Trevor, if you get here any later then 10am I'm going to force you to drink a six-pack then stick a glass rod up your dick hole and smash it with a hammer." I called him a fourth time. He picked up. "Trevor, I'll be by your place. Be ready. You're helping clean my house, then we'll play hockey (video game). I'm buying beer, but only you are drinking it. Cool?"

"Cool."

"Of course it is! I'll be there in a few minutes."

It didn't take long to clean with Trevor's help, and by mid-afternoon we were playing video-game hockey. We played hours longer than it took to clean the house.

"Fuck, Trevor! Are you trying to make us lose?" I replayed the last move. "Can you see the fucking open man? 12 Iginla – and you let the fucker walk in!"

"Dude."

"You're fucking wasted! Roll us a joint. I'll try to salvage the game." I played the game, unable to come back from the two-goal deficit. "Fuck! We lost to fucking Calgary. Calgary... Vancouver's most hated rival. Fucking bastard!"

"Dude, have a toke. Can you burn that porn for me?"

We go into my room to burn the files. Trevor and I have the kind of friendship strong enough – or we're depraved enough – to sit in the same room burning dog porn. "I'm not burning all of it – in some the chick doesn't like it at all."

"So?"

"So, I'm not burning that. You're a sick bastard."

"Why won't you burn it all for me?"

"Cause... watch." We watch a scene I won't burn. It was disgusting. Obviously shot in a Tijuana back room for money or drugs and not for pleasure. Even dog porn should be about pleasure. I clicked it closed and selected one I'd burn. A green-haired girl with a Great Dane lapping at her pussy came on the screen. "See, she likes it watch... see?" The dog stopped licking and she knows it's his turn. She stood up turned and bent over for the dog. "She has even had stylish red leather legging made for him, so she doesn't get scratched." I clicked on another. "And this one, she's trained that German Sheppard – like Lisa's whipped Seth."

We were both horny. I was hard – and I'm sure he was too. Often I'd thought, if I wanted to, I could easily play around with Trevor. I was bi enough to be fine with jerking each other off, receiving head and possibly giving it (most definitely if the dick was pounding a pussy at the time). But that was it. Ass fucking, kissing and feelings deeper than pleasure were completely out. Trevor was more gay than heterosexual and even more try-sexual (as in try everything twice).

It was the deeper feeling that wouldn't let me get my dick sucked, because I wasn't sure if Trevor lent romantically towards men or women. Taking the chance of playing with him, only to find out he was in love with me, was an unacceptable price for some nasty fun. There were far too many signs he'd fall in love with me – if, indeed, he was romantically attracted to men.

All I wanted was someone to be my bitch, minion or henchman. And he was good at that. Really, how many friends would come over with no notice to clean your house for beer?

"Trevor, you sober enough to play a last game?"

"Dude, most definitely." Trevor grabbed a final beer as I rolled a joint. Soon after Edmonton fell five-nothing. "Was that better Dude?"

"That was the way we play."

"Dude, I love you."

"Me too, Trevor – me too."

I drove Trevor home. He had to stop at the beer store for a six-pack. When I got home I had an overwhelming urge to go to Sausi's for a beer and talk to Lisa, Cat or whoever was smoking in the back room. But I knew it was only the beer talking. I held out, with the help of joint, The Simpsons and Nyet's memories in fantasy form.

At 9am I was struck by the thirst again. I needed to get back on the graveyard schedule and few drinks to aid an afternoon nap would be perfect. But fate intervened. The phone rang. I answered. "Hello?"

"John here, I got a big problem."

"What's up John?"

"Tony got himself in some deep shit today. IT security caught him using a proxy server to go on the Net and chat. Basically, he's been written up for breaking the IT user code of conduct. He's had all his computer privileges revoked, so can only work days in the gatehouse. I've been forced to cut his hours to the three-day minimum – but you didn't hear that from me. I got too many hour and no one to work em'. We're screwed!"

"Whatever you need I'll do it."

"I need you to work a 2000 – 0800 tonight, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday."

Twelve 12-hour shifts and working one whole week, that's a lot of overtime, I thought.

"It should smooth out after that. I know it's a shitty schedule but I need you."

"I got nothing better to do. Just one thing; skip me in the next gatehouse rotation?"

"As long as Tony can't use the computers, I can do that. Thanks, you're a lifesaver. See you at eight."

Drink wouldn't get me to sleep quick enough to bother with it, so I went downstairs and knocked on my tenant's door. Holly helped me out lending me an Ativan.

6.

Sometime towards the end of the 12 days straight I got a knock at my door from Troy with beer in hand. "What's up Troy?"

"I got the rest of your rent, some beer and a wicked big gagger; a three-paper cone. Come by, have a beer and smoke one."

"Sure, but I'm weed-only for a while."

"I thought it strange you weren't stumbling around so much." We smoked the joint, counted the money and laughed at the tunnel they found under the Canada-US border near Blaine. We all knew there were many more. Then I excused myself to go and call Tony.

"Damian, Whatttzzz-up!" Indian music played in the background.

"How come I get the pleasure of working your shifts?"

"IT Security caught me downloading stuff through a proxy server and took away my ID. It's great – only three-day shifts. I get to talk on the phone all day; then, when they want the trailer report, I photocopy the in and outbound sheets from the yard guy and the day's done. I'm gettin' out of there, anyhow. John has it in for me."

"You fucker, I'm working 12 days in a row, ''cause of you!"

"Sorry about that buddy. I'll make it up to you. What's going on with you?"

"I'm hoping to meet up with Charley at about 6." I tried to use code.

"Charley at 6? He's not gonna be around for a couple of days. But we should all hook up for drinks. When are you off?"

"Tuesday – and it's gotta be early; I'm going to a movie at 7."

"5:30 at the Cactus Club on Broadway?"

"Sounds good."

"OK. See you then."

I set aside the $600 for Tony and went to put the rest in the bank. My phone rang as I put on my shoes. "Hello?"

"Damian, what is it you wanted again?" asked Tony.

"Six hundred bottles of Coca-Cola."

"In English! How much do you want?"

"$600 worth of it."

"See you Tuesday."

On the way to the bank I called Seth. We made plans to see a movie on Tuesday. Getting dragged out with Tony, gun-carrying gangster Tony, was not my idea of fun... especially with $600 of coke.

Tuesday came quickly, but I couldn't get to sleep that morning because of autumn's cry; the leaf-blower. At noon it finally stopped and I slept 'til quarter to five. I woke, drank a Red Bull, showered, got a few shrooms out of the freezer, chomped on a frozen fourth, then left.

It was rush-hour so I had no problem getting a bus. I got there early. Panic hit me as I opened the door to the restaurant. I hadn't thought I may have to sit at a bar not drinking while I waited. The fear left as I clapped eyes on a big brown guy, dapperly dressed with a well-kempt four-days growth jaw-line beard and mustache. If you were to pick the gangster in the room, everyone would pick him; Tony.

"Damian... Whattzzz-up!" Tony looked to the other guy at the table, his cousin Bobby. "Whattzzz-up!" Bobby returned it and the pair shared a shot of manic laughter.

"What's up," I said. Tony and Bobby continued to laugh, then each in turn gave me a hand to shake.

"You got time for some food, we just ordered," Tony said. I nodded. He yelled to the waitress who came immediately. "My buddy needs a beer and some food."

"No beer. Just a Coke and bacon burger, please." The waitress repeated my order and left.

"No beer Damian, you gone soft?"

"Yeah." I giggled my belly. "Gotta get rid of some of it."

As I picked at my burger I regretted taking the 1.75 g of shrooms and Red Bull. Tony and Bobby were too loud; too open about drugs; too open about taking roids; and too hitting on the waitresses. They were like stockbrokers in a bull market. And if they were that, I was an accountant who'd just learned his clients are criminals. Tony and Bobby were too self-absorbed to notice my discomfort.

"Let's get out of here," Tony said, before drowning his beer.

We paid and went downstairs to the underground lot. "A big guy like you Damian needs an SUV like that." Tony proudly pointed his alarm remote at Expedition and deafened us with the disarm honk. "Get in the front, Damian." I obliged and whipped out my wallet to do the deal. "You don't even wanna try it?"

"Tony, Bobby – I trust you guys implicitly with matters of this nature." Then I handed Tony the money.

He counted it then gestured to Bobby, who handed me the drugs. I put them in my backpack without looking. "I'm sure you'll be happy with that – it impressed me and Bobby. I put some E in there, too."

I knew Tony would give me extra and that's why I brought the shrooms. Never be beholden to real criminals. "Fuck, I love E. Thanks man. Hey, Bobby, you like shrooms; here, have some." I turned to give them to Bobby, but he was busy shaping lines on a large folding make-up mirror.

Bobby smiled. "You gotta have one." He handed me a bill. I snorted the whole line – the first in more than a year. "Holy fuck! I can't feel my face." There was no reply as they snorted theirs.

Tony laughed. "You wanna come with us? We're going to Brandy's. Pick up some classy strippers, feed them some candy and party."

"Fucking tempting." I thought about it for moment. Fear was all that came to mind. Fear that I would use all the coke or get caught with a half ounce of Coke in the company of gun-carrying gangsters; or end up on the receiving end of a bullet not meant for me. "Sorry, can't do it," I said sniffing. "I'm meeting a buddy to see a movie."

They sniffed in tandem. "OK Damian. It's a business doing pleasure with you, as always." We all snicker at Tony's backward words.

I shook hands with Tony, then Bobby. "Take it easy." I got out of the car.

Bobby got out to take my spot and patted me on the back. "Thanks for the shrooms."

"Don't do more than one at a time – they're strong," I said, as Bobby got in the front seat.

The engine roared to life and ignited more Indian music. At the elevator a horn honked. I turned. The SUV's passenger side was directly across from me. Bobby raised a GUN! I assumed a defensive crouch, arms guarding my face. "It's an Air Soft replica!" he yelled. Then Bobby peppered me with plastic pellets.

Shaking and still scared to death, I walked up the stairs to the street. For a moment I thought of public transit, but that was impossible. On the street there was a cab. I hailed it. "Take me to the Law Court downtown." The cabby was talking on the phone, so I did too. "Seth, where you at?"

"10 or 15 minutes away."

"Meet me at the Law Court spot; we'll smoke a joint."

The cabby was still on the phone when I paid him. Quickly, I walked up the steps to our favourite spot and began to roll. The weed was in hand when I felt a tap on my shoulder. In the same time it took to jump I thought, 'Fuck; busted today of all days.'

My rights didn't follow though; only mad, familiar laughter. "I can't believe I got you so good," Janette's unmistakably sexy voice said. She laid a hand on me. "You're shaking."

"What would you do when you're paranoid on mushrooms, rolling a joint and you know cops tap you on the shoulder to arrest you? Fuck, you could have given an old guy a heart attack!" If her voice made me horny, seeing her in a black leather jacket, jeans, studded belt, bag over one shoulder, sporting full lips with the bottom one pierced – and smiling – oh GOD smiling –-- made me come. 'Well, wouldn't you shake if the girl you love fell back into your life?' I thought.

"What are you doing?"

"Isn't it obvious?" I continued to roll.

"No, today."

"Smoking a joint."

"After."

"Going to see Shaun of the Dead."

"Mmm... mmm," she shuffled around, then towards me. "Brains... mmmmm," she went to chomp on my head (the wrong one). "Mmmmm... no brains. That's a wicked movie. I love zombie movies."

"And I love smoking joints here. You know it's the best spot in Vancouver to smoke."

She lit a cigarette and took a drag. "It's good, but not the best." She took another drag. "Definitely not the best." A drag. "When I lived on the street I found a bunch of better spots; harder to get to, but better."

"OK, maybe not the best, but none are more poetic. I mean look, there's Lady Justice." I pointed to the 30-foot statue behind the glass of the Vancouver Supreme Court. "And we're smoking behind her."

"Most poetic, I'll give you that."

I hold the joint up. "You wanna smoke a joint behind Lady Justice's back?"

She looked torn and blew her bangs up with a drag. "I uh, can't. I'd better get going. I'm already late. Give me a call, I'd love to see a movie."

"I'll do that."

She gave me a squeeze around my shoulders with her free arm and that smoky breath grazed an ear, making everything perk up as I sat surprised and nervous again. No, this time it was giddy. "Fuck it, I can't wait for you Seth," I said to no-one. I lit the joint and smoked it, laughing at Lady Justice. Seth came walking down from across the pedestrian walk-way side. "Seth, good to see you. What a great day!"

"Why's it so great?"

I handed the joint to Seth. "Janette just asked me to take her to a movie."

"What, she called you or something?"

"No, I was rolling and she scared the shit out me right here. I thought she was a cop."

The joint came back to me. "Good job. All you had to do was ask her." Seth put out a hand for me to shake.

I shook it. "No, she was the one who asked."

"Wicked."

We'd got three-quarters of the way through the joint when a security guard approached us. "Ok guys, put that out. Get a move on – out of here."

Seth knocked the cherry off and put it in his cigarette pack. We started walking away with the guard following. Seth turned. "Do you know a guy named Trevor, worked for your company? I think he worked here for a while"

"Yeah, he's a funny guy," the security guy said.

"You don't know how much," Seth said. We went to school with him."

"Apparently, he got moved from here because he and an older, like 50-year-old, judge had a fling. She got him moved when gossip started. That's the story."

We howled with laughter. "Sounds like Trevor," Seth said.

7.

Procrastination took hold of me. I pushed back calling Janette for a date for days. I had an excuse. Kent had been hired full-time at his contract job, so I only had one day off. Actually it was 24 hours off, with no overnight midnight-to-midnight. There was no time to do anything and I didn't. I could have gone to a movie then work, but that would have meant the bad end could close in. Inaction was success. I still had a date to go on. Or were we friends going to a movie?

On the evening of my ninth day worked, I tried to call Janette. But I couldn't. I shook too much. My mouth went dry and I stammered. So I decided to break up my routine with a 5pm trip to the gym – then call her right after with the work-out high giving me confidence. It worked. I dialed the number with no hesitation. Janette answered. We agreed on going to a movie the next Tuesday.

I didn't need a joint to feel high, but I smoked one anyway.

Not long after the phone rang. This time it was Lloyd. "Hello?"

"Damian, I send you out to run an errand and you don't get back to me for nearly a month. What kind of service is that?"

"Lloyd, it's the kind you get from a friend; not a lackey or business partner. Relax, you will be happy. Very happy. Impress everyone you will." I laughed at my Yoda-ism.

"That's good to hear. Can you come over tomorrow, say 8pm?"

"I'll be there."

Dank, dark and spooky is how Vancouver feels days before Halloween. Shaughnessy is even danker, darker and spookier. All the houses are wannabe Victorian or Tudor mansions that don't look lived-in. Dressed with well manicured hedges, gardens and tall overhanging maple or oak trees. The streets also don't connect logically to the main thoroughfare ;you can start out going south and end up on the west edge. Luckily, I didn't have to go far into it or I may have got lost amid its nonsensical maze.

Again I called Lloyd before getting to his house and he met me at the door. We went to his office as it was too windy on the deck. Lloyd had his trademark high-ball glass with a few fingers of whiskey in it on the go. "Can I offer you a drink, Damian?"

"No, still on the wagon."

"Don't tell me you found God, too?"

"No, just trying to be a bit healthier." I unzipped my bag and searched around for the Coke. Lloyd pulled out a small silver tea tray with razor and glass straw on it.

"So how much were you able to get?"

I put it on the table. "A half ounce."

Lloyd broke out laughing. "Drugs are the only things in the world that get cheaper. Who is really winning the war on drugs?"

"It's not the DEA."

"Do you read the club's newsletter?" Lloyd asked as he cut up some lines.

"No, why?"

"There's a vote on raising dues, new member incentives and other crap. It's a money grab and I was hoping you could come next Tuesday to vote the right way. Can you?"

"No, I'm going out with some girl."

"That reminds me. I was out sailing with Doug from Wind Shear. You know, the boat two slips in from yours? I mentioned you and he got all agitated. He told me you threatened him for some bullshit reason. I told him you must have been pulling his leg."

"Bullshit reason eh? Would Doug think it a bullshit reason if I called his wife or daughter a whore?"

"That's all he would say, mind you I felt there was more. If it was about nothing he would have caused a stir at the club." With the line laid out, Lloyd did a rail. He came up sniffling. "What did he do?"

"Last summer I went out for the weekend with Trevor and Janette – the girl I'm taking out on Tuesday. Me and Trevor took the Whaler over to pull it up. Janette was going to spray the boat off. We got back and she's gone. I called her and she didn't answer. I'm like, 'What the fuck? She said she had a good time.' I was pretty pissed and worried, ''cause I definitely felt more than just my hard dick for her. I called her again later.

"What!" she answered.

"What's going on? I was worried when you weren't at the boat. Something bad happen?"

"Nothing that's your fault."

"OK, well I'm not sure what to say. I thought you had a good time?"

"Sailing was fun; the island, dinner, drinking, fishing—were all great. But I'd rather not go out again." Her voice cracked.

"What... why not?"

"I uh... I just don't fit in there."

"What the fuck are you talking about, I don't fit in there? What happened, did someone say something? They're all arrogant, pompous, self-righteous dicks there. You don't have to take their shit." There was a pause. "Who said what?"

"Don't bother, it's nothing; it means nothing." There was nothing alive in her voice, only surrender.

"It certainly means something. It's my fucking place and I have as much right as anyone else there – and if someone said or did anything, I have every right to fuck with them. What happened?"

"I... uh, went to get the hose from the guy with the green sail cover a couple boats down and..." she stopped.

"And?"

Strained, she replied: "I asked for the hose. He recognized me from The Peel. He said... he said I could only have it for a lap dance. I had nothing to say; I wanted to say something. I turned to go and he said if I'd blow him he'd wash your boat. I walked away, packed my bag and left. He said he was joking as I gave him the bird on the way by."

"I'm going to kill that fucker. Why didn't you say anything?"

"I didn't want to cause you any problems. If it were my place, I'd have spat on the fucker and kicked him in the nuts. But it wasn't. I couldn't act. Look Damian, you're a good guy and I like hanging out with, but I can't handle that."

"Janette, that was completely uncalled for and wrong. You should have spat on him and told me. I have every right to be there and when you are with me, you do too. What was his name?"

"He never said, but he was on that boat with the green sail cover... Wind Star... no... Wind something. You don't have to do anything to him Damian. I was just pissed. It's gone now."

"I will smack the shit out of him if you want me to. But if you don't, I won't. However, I will have a talk with him. I'm sorry this happened Janette. If you ever want to come sailing with me, you're always welcome. You're a great crew. Trevor thinks a sheet goes on a bed."

"You don't have to be sorry, it was that dick. I'm sorry I just took off; I didn't know what to do. Call me up next time. I do like going."

"Neither of us has to be sorry. Take it easy."

"You too."

Looking in the club registry I found four boats with the name Wind... something. It would have been easy to call each owner and ask if their boat was on my float – then tear the guy a new asshole. But I've always preferred to speak with people face-to-face. Plus, there was hardly an afternoon when Wind bastard was not doing something on his boat.

The next afternoon I went down to my boat to do some maintenance. About an hour after the guy from Wind Shear arrived and began puttering. A little while later I went over to see him. "Ahoy there Wind Shear."

"How's it going, I don't think we've formally met?"

"No, I'm Damian from Reefer... at the end."

"Doug's the name."

"Doug, I was wondering if you could give me a hand? I gotta tighten a belt and it's really a two-person job. It won't take long."

"Sure."

We tightened the belt. "Can I offer you a rum and coke for your help?"

"Sounds great." Doug took a seat at the galley table.

I got the drink then sat down across from him. "This is the life; to think I spent last night driving around skid row."

"Why the hell would you do that?"

"It's a fucked-up situation, Doug. My niece fell off the wagon. I was over on The Island yesterday with her, she had a great time. Or so she said. I came back to put the dingy away and she wasn't there when I got back. I called her and she wouldn't answer. She was doing so well too – had been off crack for almost a month. Seemed completely better; laughing, looking good, eating. I went looking for her and found her out of her mind downtown. Luckily, I have some good friends, and I got her into detox. I just don't understand what set her off; she was doing fine. I can't help but think it was me or something I did. What would do that?."

Doug sat mouth agape. "I don't... don't know. Never had to deal with that."

"Funny, I thought you might."

"Huh?"

"When I picked her up she said something like: 'Fucking Wind Shear... BASTARD! Got no right, NONE! Says I'm a whore... lap dance for the hose... blow to wash the boat, FUCK YOU!' She repeated that like ten times. Now, she maybe my niece, but I don't know if I can trust her when she's fucked up. You ever been to the Banana Peel?"

Doug was now trying to hide the shakes. "Yeah, a few times. Not in the last few months, though."

"Doug, you're shaking; did I touch a cord or something? You aren't NA are you? If so, I'll stop talking about drugs. Or is that guilt? Doug, you don't have to feel guilty. How would you know about her... shit you just thought it was like at The Peel."

"Yeah... it was like a joke. I saw her at The Peel a few times and thought—"

I cut him off. "You didn't think!? No... that's how you see her whether she's here or at The Peel; a piece of fucking meat for your pleasure and nothing else... tits and ass? You're a fucking pig! She's my sisters fucking DAUGHTER you dick!" He puts his head in his hands. "Next time I see your daughter down here should I ask to see her tits?"

"NO!" He hit the table with a fist, revealing swollen, wet eyes.

"Doug calm down, man, you're crying." I moved around the table to comfort him as he wiped his eyes. I put an arm around him and said: "I was just fucking with you. She's not my niece. She didn't fall off the wagon." I waited for him to compose himself. He took a big swig of drink. I continued. "However, she's a very good friend of mine. I love her a lot – which is why I took her advice and didn't kick the shit out of you. She, like everyone else, deserves respect until they disrespect you. Did she disrespect you, Doug?"

"No."

"Then why did you disrespect her? I don't need an answer, just meditate on that tonight. But seriously Doug, I don't know how to see you; who are you? What do you do?"

"Realty; I'm a realtor."

"Doug I've had enough of this gay crap with my arm around you. I'm going round the other side. Drink up... be a man." I moved and poured him another glass. "So you're a seller? I thought so. You know what I do?"

"No... what do you do?"

"I work as a security guard." He laughed weakly. "I know it's not much, but at least I love my friends and will do anything if they're disrespected."

Perhaps emboldened by my lack of station, he questioned: "Are you threatening me?"

"No Doug, threats are things used to terrorize. I'm not trying to do that. I'm predicting a future. If a certain course is followed, a destiny I know will happen. It's not a threat."

"If you do anything to me I'll sue the shit out of you!"

"Doug, Doug, Doug... you don't know the first thing about power. I would never do anything to you. Karma, luck, misfortune – it has a thousand names and not one is mine."

"I won't take your intimidation, I'm leaving!"

I stood in front of this man-midget, to me at least. "You're going nowhere. I'm not finished. How do you think I got here and who do you think I know?"

"I don't know."

"I have more seniority than you, more friends than you and more money than you. A smart hustler, like you, should ask how does a twenty-something guy that works security and has strippers for friends, own a 42-foot boat?"

"I don't know."

"I thought everyone watched The Sopranos?" The pause was too long to bear. "Doug, don't fuck with me or my friend, or you'll have bad karma. If my friend is here again, treat her like the queen she is. Remember, I have a registry just like you... but I have the kind of friends you don't."

"If I understand right, you're going to do nothing?"

"If you don't act like an asshole nothing will happen. That doesn't mean forgiveness; you don't have enough respect to have forgiveness. But I'll take your words as ignorance. That's what I told my friend. If you see her again, apologize and treat her well. OK?"

"OK."

"I guess we have nothing more to talk about. Drink up."

Doug drank up and was thinking of me more as a companion again when I said: "Hey, I'm not your friend or enemy; just another equal that will fuck you if you give me reason too."

Lloyd looked up from his last line of coke. "You laid that shit on him?"

"Fucken' eh, I did. He's a hustler, like all the other sellers; no respect for no-one. Everyone's a mark to them."

Lloyd started to laugh for the fourth time. "You fuck with people better than your father."

"Don't say that Lloyd, I was defending a girl."

"This is good coke. Are you fucking her?"

"No."

"Fuck boy, you gotta act like a man. She obviously loves the perceived money and boat. Do it right; give her 'da'... fuck her all night."

"Lloyd, is there anything pure in your life?"

"No, I'm a lawyer. Sure you don't want some whiskey, it's the good stuff?"

"No."

"Well Damian, I'm damn happy you got this for me. My most lucrative clients will be impressed." His most lucrative clients are gangsters. "As you know my boy, there's a little bit of threat when a lawyer can score better than they can. But I didn't really need so much, so here is some for you." Lloyd made a pile and pushed it onto some paper. By my eye it was between two and three grams. I didn't care, as it wouldn't get used any time soon. "I'm going to need to smoke a joint, you roll."

I rolled the joint and we went out onto the 24/7/365 deck to smoke it. Shortly after the family arrived from soccer practice and I excused myself.

8.

On Sunday I got on the scales at the gym. I wasn't shocked at the 12-pound I'd lost. I was using a new belt hole. Then I did the stupid thing. I looked in the mirror. Men should be wide through the shoulder, getting thinner down to the feet. Wide shoulders I had and I narrowed to the waist – but my hips were wider than my waist. The lost weight gave me curves, the most feminine of features. You can take the ugliest woman, give her the right shoulder, waist, hip ratio – 36/24/36 – and she'll be sexy. Now I was what makes women hot.

There was the possibility I was overreacting, so I put on the snug-fitting metro-sexual/minimalist artist-not-quite-turtleneck thin sweater I was thinking of wearing on the date. The mirror gave me a worse reflection than before. The curves were still there. Now, with my diminished beer gut, my breasts stuck out like small-chested braless fat girls' milk sacks. The jeans didn't look right either. My smaller, fat ass caused the excess fabric in the ass area of the pants, making it look like I'd shat myself. There was no way I could go out in these clothes. Like every big girl, I'd become a master of hiding the body I'd been cursed with.

I just can't go to Sears to buy clothes. I have to go to one of the few big and tall stores in Vancouver. There's nothing wrong with the big and tall store. Of course, all the people I know would choose a normal store over the fat store. And when someone compliments you on your shirt and asks where you got it, there's the dreaded: 'Oh, the big and tall... hmm, never been there,' thinking, 'I don't need to go there, fatty.' The only solace I get from going there is that I'm on the small end, 2XLT (extra large tall), and not the poor bastard buying pants big enough to be a sail. There's always the hope that, as West Africans love big women, the sales girls at the big and tall feel the same way about big men. Of course, there's always the one sensitive sales person that remarks, 'vertical strips are slimming.' I hate the big and tall. At least I leave the store with some clothes that do their best to make me look normal.

Tuesday came around and Janette and I decided to see some horror flick at a theatre in the downtown Eastside. Planners hoped the mall and theatre would revitalize the adjacent area, but to do that all the rooming houses would have to be torn down or tenants forced to live there no longer than two weeks at a time, so they weren't eligible to collect welfare. All the Central American refugees selling drugs would then have to be deported. That'll never happen. The neighborhood was, as always, scarier than the horror movie. So I sat in the empty food court waiting for Janette. I tried to read, but could only look at the words.

Again I jumped at the tap on the shoulder. "Ha-ha, you're too easy to get, Damian. I've been standing behind you for like five minutes."

"I knew you were there, but I also know you like to startle me."

"Faking it were you? You can't fake the surprised jolt. Let's go and get the tickets." We took the escalator up to the top floor.

"This escalator scares the shit out of me." I looked down at the ground six stories below from the catwalk-escalator. "Once I was on mushrooms and MDA and had to sit on a step to avoid vertigo."

"I'm not afraid of heights," Janette boasted, leaning over the rail.

I felt sick, sure she would fall. "I'm not afraid of heights either – it's hitting the ground that worries me."

"Smart ass."

I bought the tickets and we turned to go back down the escalator, as we had time before the movie. Half-way down, as I gazed at some sign in the distance, Janette pushed me. Over-the-edge falling I was sure of it... but instead I sat as much as fell onto a stair. Janette started to laugh. I caught my breath. "That was the best. You're actually breathing heavily. Stop being a baby; here, take my hand. I won't push you again."

I couldn't tell which was stronger; my embarrassment or happiness from holding her hand. "If you find it funny, you can do it again but make sure I don't actually go over."

"Let's go in here." She pulled me into a strange gallery. It couldn't make its mind up what to be. Clothes and jewelry were on sale alongside the art and a DJ was spinning. "Look at this one... I so want that. I love that style." It was a picture of a bad-ass cyber-punk/Japanimation heroine.

I thought about buying it for her right then, but Christmas was coming. "Yeah, it's good. There are some pictures in a book I have in that style. But this one over here, that's what I like. The texture and mosaic tile-jigsaw puzzle thing works."

"Ah, I didn't notice that, I was looking at the naked girl – and I'm sure that's what attracted you. Men are all the same!" She pulled me away. "Look, that is crap – I could do better than that."

"I thought you only did body painting?"

"Noooo..." I got a dirty look. "I also paint with water colours," she said, exasperated.

"Me too, but at my age I have a hard time explaining why my fingers have paint on them."

"Very funny... hardy-har-har. Your wit is as sharp as my elbow." She pretended to elbow me in the chops. "You said you did some sort of art, right?"

"I'm going to be a famous writer... as soon as I finish my book."

"If you're not published, you're a wannabe writer."

"Well, you're not a painter until you've sold something."

"I have. At a charity art auction."

"Well, I've been published."

"Where?"

"I can't say, as you may think worse of me and I'm not proud of it. It's like Van Gogh, he sold dirty cartoons for booze before any of his work was sold."

"I never heard that and I watched his biography."

"He wasn't proud of it. I only found out from a far-removed family member who owns one of Van Gogh's naughty napkins; signed and everything. It's amazing that napkins haven't changed in a century."

"You expect me to believe that? I forgot you're a story-teller. You probably have some crappy poem published in an elementary school yearbook, just like everyone in the class."

"Nope, I actually got paid. Someday I'll show you."

She looked at her phone. "I gotta have a smoke before the movie."

We left the gallery but didn't get far. A toddler ran into me, his parents following 100 feet behind, trying to catch the runaway. Janette grabbed hold of the kid. "Hey, guy you're going the wrong way!" She turned the boy around. "On three go that way: one... two... three!" He ran towards his parents laughing all the way.

"Thanks for sending him back this way, he's quite the runner," his father said.

"No problem. He's gonna be a track star," Janette replied. Then we walked to the escalator. "I love kids. One day I want to have two or three. If I have three, I'd like one to be the other sex, but if I get all boys or all girls I won't mind. You?"

"I don't know, I've never really thought about it." We got off the escalator and continued towards the street.

"What do you mean, you never really thought about it?"

"I guess... first I would have to find someone to have them with before thinking about it. It's a two-person kind of job and if that person isn't in the picture, how can I take the next step?'

"What kind of answer is that? Either you want them or you don't."

"I think whether you want them or not rests on whether the partner you're with is the one you want to have them with."

"OK, my question is the problem. Do you ever think about teaching your kid or kids to fish?"

"Yeah, lately more and more. Teaching them, seeing their firsts – all that."

"So you want kids then?"

"I kind of do, but I worry all the time that I'll be like my dad. He's a dick."

"What did he do?"

"Well, he never really wanted me. I was always mom's kid. I was a concession by him for my mom. He never took care of me. He never thought I was good enough. Mostly he never thought of me. Like, if I had a birthday or school thing and he had a craving for steak and lobster dinner, he'd go out to dinner."

"You're joking. A steak dinner over his son's birthday?"

"Actually happened. His response: 'He'll have other birthdays.' He had no problem telling me to my face I was mom's kid and not to bother him. And when he did 'care' it was always in a negative way. Like I'd bring home an A paper. He'd be like, 'Well an A is not an A+; look, the marks off are all sloppy mistakes.' If I got second in a regatta, there was no pat on the back; no 'that's pretty good.' Only, 'Second is as much a loser as 20th.' He wouldn't ever console me with the old, 'I'm being tough for your own good.' I guess I'm lucky he never hit me. My mom was... is a gem. She'd do anything for me. She'd even try to spin dad's put-downs and indifference into something good. The indifference was what really got to me. I broke my leg when my mom was out of town and he didn't come to the hospital until after his meeting was done. Even then, he only gave permission to set it, before leaving. It was a bad break and I had to be in the hospital for a few days. He didn't see me again until I came home. Mom flew back ASAP. He felt the hospital had it under control. I was nine. Oh, he used to call me names, too, like fatty, butter-ball, lard ass, tubby, rolls, and his favorite, tons of fun... the one he'd use around company."

"That's awful. People don't understand that when you're young words can be worse than getting hit. A kid can always physically hit back when hit – it may not get them anywhere, but at least they can hit. If you try to get your parent's attention and you never can, there's no way to fight; especially if that person really doesn't care. You can't hurt someone who doesn't care. Your dad's fucking asshole."

"Funny thing is, I kind of reconciled with him eight years ago. Not, in a father-son way, but as friends. He still maintains he never wanted a kid, that it was mom who wanted me and he was victim of something he never wanted; that he was never supposed to be a father. After saying that he'd emphasize the new relationship – or continued lack of one., 'Remember, we're not father and son, but buddies.' His true colours always came out. A few years later he screwed my mother. I never think about kids because I think – even though I don't want to be – I'll be like him."

"Are you your father?"

"Of course not, but too many times you see things like that repeated, even if it's not what you want."

Janette gave me a long look. A look meant to look like she was peering into my soul – and it felt that way, too. "That is insanity. I don't know your asshole father, but you are not him."

"I bet you're right – but I'll probably never find out."

She gave me another scowl, shook her head, and blew the last drag in my face. She stamped out her cigarette butt and saw a worm squirming on the sidewalk. "Save the worm, Damian."

"You do it."

With a huge grin she said: "I'm a girl, I don't touch icky worms – that's why I have a gallant man with me."

I squatted down to pick up the worm and Janette kicked me in the ass. "What's that for?!"

"For being too stupid to see you're not your asshole father. Now give me the worm."

"I thought they were icky?"

"No, I just needed to get your ass low enough to kick." I gave her the worm. "OK wormy, I'm puttin' you in this nice hole in the plant. You'd better not go on the sidewalk again, ''cause I won't be here to save you next time." She coved the hole with the worm in it. Then glared at me and walked towards the theatre. "Come on, the movie is about to start."

We walked quickly, as the movie's trailers were probably rolling. Janette guided me to the concession and we ordered popcorn and drinks; she paid before I had a chance. Again we rushed to the cinema, but were stopped by a guy. "Hey Janette, how's it going?"

"It's good. Haven't seen you in a while."

"How are things?"

"Good. But hey, I'm in a bit of a rush –the movie's starting, Colin. Give me a call sometime."

"OK, take care."

We walked on. "I met Colin in biology class for therapeutic massage." And into the cinema we went.

The movie had already started when we found seats. Janette's a talker. She tells the screen what is happening. She laughed at the horror and made it known she didn't like the movie. It was a bad movie. Watching her was more entertaining. She was doing the same; especially when I was going to be surprised or startled. She seemed to love seeing me scared.

"That was the worst movie ever! Why did I pick it? I'm happy you paid."

"I wanted to go to the one about science."

"I told you, I already saw that one with my mom and sister."

"If you saw it again, maybe you would have learned twice as much."

"Haha, smarty... you know there are people out there who don't understand the way the world works?"

"Yeah, like Trevor."

"No, he's a psychopath."

"You don't know him well enough."

"I don't need to know anymore—he's a psycho."

"He's my best friend."

"That's your problem."

We got on the escalator down. Janette was looking me right in the eyes, two steps up on the escalator. I doted on her a second, as she looked edible; tasty, yummy, lovely, everything good. Better than a MacGriddle or a steak and king crab dinner or an International Slam. "You know some people just don't get the way the world is. There's a way that it goes and how it works but some are oblivious to that. They walk through the world never knowing others. They forgot to study during the recess and lunch classes. They painfully lack social skills."

"We got lots of them at work."

"You know, the funniest thing is that if you tell them, it will only make the lack of socialization worse. It's an affront. I'm not what a normal person should be, yet we are all normal."

"Your point is?"

Janette craned her head around looking as the long descent continued. "Like them on the up escalator. She's telling him one thing and he's saying another."

I looked back at Janette as she got shorter. "What? I can't hear what they are saying?"

"Exactly... WATCH OUT!" Her warning was too late. My back heel hit the non-moving edge of the escalator. I shuffled back, but one foot tripped the other and I was going down. Without the momentum to do a backward somersault, I lay there. Almost concealing her laughter, Janette asked: "Are you ok?"

"Are you making me fall for you?"

"No... hiccup... but it's funny as hell... hiccup... here, grab my hands... hiccup." She symbolically helped me up. "I need a smoke... hiccup." We continued outside as Janette's hiccups subsided. She lit up as she stepped out of the door. "What now?"

"I've been going straight edge for a while – but if you really want we could go for a drink?"

"I don't know. Hmm... I wouldn't mind but I probably shouldn't. Sarah, my sister, has a day off school and my mom has the morning off. We're going to get some breakfast and go shopping. Yeah, it's not a good day to go for drinks. But walk me to the SkyTrain." We walked, talking shit all the way. When we got to the platform, Janette turned to face me. "Well, the movie sucked. Next time you choose. It was a good time, though."

There wasn't much of a chance for me to feel awkward and wonder if a hug, handshake or kiss was the appropriate level of touch. The moment was hi-jacked by a cool leather-wearing, pierced, tattooed, and messy spiked-hair guy. "Janette!"

She turned as the gust of wind from the approaching SkyTrain hit us. "Crazy Kenny! Where have you been?"

"Out for a few drinks after work." The three-tone chime signaled the opening doors. "And you?"

"To a crappy movie. This is Damian." Kenny and I exchanged greetings. Then the chime for the door closing sounded. I got in the way of the closing door. "Take care, Damian." Janette gave me a half-hug as she passed. Kenny thanked me as he passed.

"Yeah, see you later Janette." I gave a wave but Kenny and Janette were already talking.

OK. Mediocre; not bad; nothing special; a date. Those would all work as descriptors of the date I had. Or was it friends going to a movie? I couldn't tell. Assessing the sense may have been helped by more experience, but I could count the number of dates I'd been on in five years on two hands. And the majority of those were taken to make me feel like I was at least trying. If only it had been great or really bad, I would have had the foundations for a frame of reference.

The funny thing is, I wasn't torn up about it. My mood had leveled since I'd stopped drinking. It was now a little high, a little low – with the occasional laughing jag. I wasn't worried if Janette was a friend or a lover; I could live with either. And I wasn't going to strive for one more than the other.

Marijuana affects a person's level of motivation. I smoked a joint and didn't think about it. Into place things would or wouldn't fall. It was now fate's decision, not mine.

9.

"It's the fucking 0320 blues, Mike." I slouched into a chair next to his desk. "Got anything to cheer a bored security guy up?"

"Here's a man getting hit in the nut with a ball; always cheers me up."

"Think I need something heavier than that. It's been like three weeks since I went on a date with this chick and I've been takin' too many tokes to put any real effort into trying to see her again. Now, just when I'd summoned the gumption, I get a call from a friend saying, 'my husband probably won't make it back to town for my birthday, get drunk with me. You have to.' I get the feeling I may end up in bed with her."

"Get drunk with your buddy's wife and screw the shit out of her. She'll be willing... you probably won't even have to pay for the drinks."

"Yeah, but it's the other girl in my head – even though it'll never work."

"That's the one you went on a date with who she saw two guys she knew and asked one to call her?"

I nodded.

"Fuck your buddy's wife."

"That's pretty low."

"Missing your wife's birthday is, too. If she wants to fuck, she'll just get some other guy. Better you than him, right?"

A smash, then a yell made us turn. "I'm not taking that shit from you, Brian!" Darrin was stomping towards Brian. Brian backed off giggling like a child, bouncing from side-to-side in glee. "Retard, you've crossed the line with that bullshit! Say it again and you're dead!"

Mike and I closed in on the two as Brian replied. "But I caught you, I did... right in the alley with my favourite girl. Darrin gettin' a blow job! He can't bug me for gettin' $20 whores! He gets 'em too! Let's go!" Brian's laughter got louder and his grin bigger as he did his jig.

I arrived in time to stop Darrin from taking a swing at Brian. Simultaneously, Mike stepped up to Brian, as Richy and Dave gathered round. Speaking loudly and firmly I told Darrin: "You hit me Darrin, you're fired and going to jail."

"I'm not taking shit from a retard!" Darrin fumed but didn't move. Brian could be heard arguing with Mike, but his words didn't register.

With the same power I said: "Darrin I've heard enough from you, as Mike has from Brian. You're coming with me. Mike will talk with him." I was sure Mike was having a similar conversation with Brian. I took Darrin directly to a meeting room, sat him down outside and waited for Mike to arrive and put Brian in the room next door.

"Brian, have a seat in the office – I have to talk with Damian," Mike said.

"But I didn't do anything more than Darrin, why am I here?" Brian looked more confused than usual.

"Sit down. I have to discuss the situation with Damian." Mike rolled his eyes at me while Brian took a seat. Mike closed the door. "What are we going to do? Fucking old guys... they just don't get it today. If either gets written up for workplace violence, they're fired. And you know that's what we have to write 'em up for. But man, they're two of the fastest workers and it's the Christmas rush. Even if we leave the threats out, that righteous bastard Steve will send 'em packing for something."

"We could bully them. Maybe not. Then they'll just fight off-property and one'll bring it back. And the other two saw what happened."

"Better page 'em right now, so they don't spread anything." I went to page them. "Hey Damian, I got an idea. Write 'em up for something different and send 'em home."

"Might work. Dave and Richy should be easy to bribe – a little carrot and stick for the greater good. We'll have to lean on the others, too. Is anyone coming in early?"

"Only Neil."

"We're going to have to make this look totally real – statement and everything. Then get them out before Neil gets here at 5. Let's talk with Brian first; he's already anxious."

"We gotta tell Dave and Richy first."

"Oh yeah. Maybe start by asking them what should happen to them."

Mike nodded, as Dave and Richy arrived. "Guys, we just had a serious incident. Brian and Darrin got themselves in a lot of trouble. We all heard and saw them; they were going to scrap." A low tone of agreement all-round. "I want to ask both of you what you think of them – are they good workers? Dave?"

"Honestly? Brian irritates me, but he can't help it. Great worker, though can't do paperwork. But when it comes to loading or unloading he's as fast as anyone. Darrin, I'm buddies with – and he's a great worker, too. I think he knew Brian was offended by the hooker thing. Brian was always shrugging it off, smiling and joking, apparently not embarrassed – but then he joined in. You heard it at lunch. Darrin took offence; and who wouldn't? I don't know if it's true, but he's a family guy. He doesn't live in the Patricia Hotel, the skids. Neither one is right for going that far."

"You know Mike, I always kind of thought Brian was just a good sport." I threw in my five cents' worth. "Never asked if he was hurt."

"Yeah. It got out of hand 'cause of all of us." Mike looked at Richy. "What do you think?"

"As Dave said, they're both good workers and we kind of do take advantage of Brian's, err... disability."

There was a pause, then Mike said: "Now here's the real question; what disciplinary action do you think is fair?" Both Dave and Richy looked puzzled. "OK, let's put it this way, should Brian and Darrin be fired?"

Both looked shocked, but Dave spoke first. "No, written-up for sure, but fired? Come on, they didn't even get physical. They're good guys who work hard. If they get fired, I'll quit!"

Richy chirped in: "Yeah, that's a fucking joke."

"Well, it's unfortunate but it's the only option Mike and I have. They'll be fired if we do what we're supposed to do and write them up."

"We don't want to do that and Damian and I have thought of a way of punishing them without getting them fired. But it's up to you guys to help us, Brian and Darrin out?" With nodding heads, Dave and Richy agreed to the plan. "Good. Brian and Dave will both be sent home for not having steel toes. The argument wasn't an argument; they just both happened to be caught at the same time and were angry about it. That's all you say if anyone asks. If Brian or Darrin ask why people think it's about steel toes, say you're not allowed to talk about incidents like the one they had and they aren't either. From now on, this never happened. They came without steel toes. This is very serious if it gets out that we – as in all of us – miss-reported a work-place violent incident. We would be in deep shit. Everyone agree?" Everyone agreed. "OK, we're going to have OT today – you guys have first dibs?"

Dave spoke up first: "Yeah."

Richy looked unhappy. "What's the deal, Richy?" I asked. "Don't you want OT? Wouldn't rather start your days off earlier?"

"Yeah."

"Mike, Richy looks a little pale." I reached over to feel his forehead. "Man, you're burning up. Mike, check it out."

Mike touched Richy's head. "He is."

I smiled. "As a first aid attendant, I can't let him work anymore. Go home. Sign a slip at HR and I'll OK it."

"Burning up? More like toking up the second he's out the door," Dave quipped.

Mike turned to Dave. "We've got to talk with the troublemakers individually, so keep an eye on who we're not with. Take lunch when we're done."

Mike and I put on our serious faces and went into see Brian first. Brian was fidgeting, moving his feet, looking around the room and twiddling his thumbs. Then he put his hand over his face. "I didn't do anything he hadn't done to me for weeks. He gets to tell everyone I was with a hooker – and when I catch him red-handed, I'm in trouble?"

"You're in trouble for trying to fight Darrin," Mike said.

"He started it!"

"Brian, calm down. I need to have a statement from your side." I knew he could barely write. "I'll write – you just tell me everything that happened." It took ten minutes to get it down.

"So now what? I'm guilty?" Brian's agitation hadn't subsided. "He says, 'I caught Brian getting a blow from a hooker,' for months. And I get in trouble for saying he did it once."

"Brian, I'm sorry I didn't do anything earlier." I consoled him. "But you never told me you were offended by his actions. Every time you were bugged, you laughed it off. If I laugh about something, do you think I'm angered by it?" Brian shook his head. "Did you laugh and joke about it after people bugged you?"

"Yes, but I had to – it's true. And it's true that I caught Darrin. Why can't he laugh at it?"

Now it was Mike's turn. "Brian, even if it's true, you don't have to take it if it bothers you. It's like this: Damian, have you eaten too many Twinkies already, tubby?"

"Mike, I don't have to take that – if you continue to comment on my weight I'll tell my supervisor." Brian covered his mouth to hide his delight, but the rocking gave it away. "Brian, what is serious is that you were going to fight Darrin, right?"

"Yes, but I was angry and he wanted to fight me, too."

"That doesn't matter Brian. The rules state that, if a person tries to fight and has been in trouble for verbal abuse before, they'll be fired."

"I didn't do that to him before."

Mike took over again, in our tag-team interrogation. "Didn't you tell the manager Donna to fuck-off – and if she didn't, you'd make her?" Brian looked ashamed and nodded. "Brian, the rules say you should be fired." Brian tried to interrupt but was stopped. "I don't want to fire you. You're a good, hard worker, as is Darrin. But I have to fire you... unless you and Darrin can work it out. Brian, are you willing?"

"Yes!"

"That's good. Damian and I still have to see if Darrin is willing too. If so, we'll work something out."

We got up to go and see Darrin in the other room. Darrin was slouched, leaning his chair on two legs and looking at the far wall when we took our seats in the room. "Brought Damian to walk me out, eh?" Darrin snorted.

"So you know how serious this?" Mike replied.

"Yeah. I know you're just doing your job."

"No, me and Damian are actually trying not to do the job we should; or at least bend the rules to create a situation where you can both stay."

"Ha! You think I'll agree if I know it'll get him fired? Spreading rumors about me, fucking retard. I'm here 'cause of him."

"He thinks Brian is the cause of this; that's funny, eh Mike? Darrin, let's take a step back and look at this.. You see Brian with a hooker in the Downtown Eastside. You then rub it in by embarrassing him in front of his co-workers for a month. He sees you with one and says even-Steven."

"I was never down there – he was lying!"

I smiled. "If I was saying I saw someone somewhere, would I have to be there to see it? If not, aren't I a liar? In any case, that isn't the point. you should have said nothing. It's like seeing a co-worker playing hooky when you are; say something and you're both fucked, understand?"

"I guess."

"Good, 'cause Mike doesn't want to lose two good workers and I don't want to be the asshole in Security. This deal will mean that anything between you and Brian will end in the termination of both of you. Cool?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"I'll take that as a yes," Mike concluded. Darrin nodded.

We left and went to my office to get the official write-up sheet for violating safety protocol. "I've got a question, Mike. Do you think they'll believe pretending to read an adlibbed letter?"

"Pretty certain they will, especially if you're the one doing it."

"Thanks for volunteering me. Remember to hit the bit about not telling anyone what the write-up is about. And make sure they don't see the real write-up. We'd better sign our names now."

We signed our names and gathered the two culprits into the same training room. "We all know why we're here," Mike said. "You two are getting a third chance. That chance is based on some strict rules. But first, you'll apologize to each other." Both shook hands begrudgingly. "As important as any of these stipulations is that neither of you tell a soul about what you're written up for – is that clear?" Quiet agreement was given. "And if you see each other – or anyone else, for that matter – outside the workplace doing something strange, questionable or sexual, it will not be talked about here. Damian will read the letter; let him finish and then ask any questions. Then you must agree with it and sign – or you'll both get canned."

"You – meaning both of you – have violated the company's code of conduct concerning harassment by ridiculing the other sexually. You have violated the company's code of conduct concerning workplace violence by verbally expressing you wanted to fight the other. Because of these actions, your behaviour at the company must not cross any of these guides for conduct spelt out below. The disciplinary action taken for crossing any of the guides for conduct is instant termination for both associates.

"1. Any remarks that may incite, aggravate, humiliate, denigrate, ridicule or in any way make the other or his co-workers uncomfortable will result in the aforementioned discipline.

"2. If either of you or any other associate talks about an incident occurring outside of the workplace, involving either of you, it will result in the aforementioned discipline.

"3. If any horseplay, play-fighting, pranks or physical violence occur the aforementioned discipline will result.

"Refusal to agree by not signing this disciplinary action will result in the immediate return to the prior situation and the termination of both associates.

"Any questions?" Brian put a hand up. "Brian?"

"What does aforementioned mean?"

"Previous. Anymore?"

"That's harsh," Darin said. "What can we do? And what stops the other from getting us fired?"

Mike fielded them. "Act like normal civil people and nothing will happen. Only Damian and I will know about this agreement. For your sakes, don't tell anyone. We won't just look for something or take everything at face value without checking it out – but we will be strict. Is that it?"

I tipped the folder with the write-ups in it against my lap and desk so they couldn't see. "This is yours, Darrin." I shoved it over with my hand, covering most of the document. Darrin signed. I did the same with Brian and complied in kind.

Mike concluded affairs. "OK, I now pronounce you man and wife. What hurts one, hurts the other. We all hope this solution works. Don't tell a soul. And Damian will see you to the door. Oh, you both know when your next shift is?" They nodded. "See you then."

Back home I smoked two joints and hit the sack with no way to sleep. I was tired, yes, but static also fizzled in my brain. I was too tired to sleep. I did finally lose consciousness for three hours until I was awoken by a call. Three hours of sleep is the worst amount you can get; an hour or even 20 minutes is better. Three, though, and you wake more tired than when you nodded off.

"Uh, hello?"

"Damian, you're supposed to be having dinner with me and my other friend. It's MY BIRTHDAY!!! We're having drinks, but I want you to be at the Japanese place in half-an-hour. Or you'll feel my wrath."

"Sorry, Cassandra. Yeah, 30 minutes or I'll feel your ass." I hung up.

It took me more like 45 minutes to get there and Cassandra hadn't arrived. My love was put on the table in front of me. Now that it was back, I was content to look at it for a while before taking that first sip. Mmm... draft beer. One and a half pints in, Cassandra showed up with a faggot in tow.

"Shocking, a man of his word!"

"You're late."

"No I'm fashionable... right Gordy?"

"Girl you are stunning! And is this the bear you told me about?" He put his hand on my shoulder. "Can I keep him?"

"Gordon, play nice... he hasn't come out yet. Or have you and Trevor finally made it official?" I didn't answer. "No rush, it'll feel right some-time."

The gossip flew between Cassandra and Gordy as they speculated on the world of the rich and fabulous. The only thing of interest to me was when Gordy wanted to go to Brandi's to find the stripper that broke up Ben and Jay-Lo. Being excluded bothered me little; I was having make-up sex... loving liquor. We agreed to never break up again. I drank more beers than spoke sentences during dinner.

"Shit! Look at the time! My darling Cassandra, I have to get going," Gordy announced at a strategic moment; we'd finished eating but the bill had yet to arrive. "Again, Happy Birthday! Too bad we didn't have a bigger party. We have to go clubbing." Gordy gave the international sign for snorting coke. "Kisses." They gave a flurry of pecks on the cheek to each other.

"Yes, we'll go clubbing. Take care."

Gordy turned to me. "And you being coy... I love the strong silent type. Call me anytime you like. Cassandra's got my number."

"Is tomorrow too soon?" Gordy blushed at my answer. "Joke."

"Mmm, a sense of humour, too." Gordy turned to go, a few feet away gave a wave and then... "Bye."

"So you like him, Damian?" Cassandra looked over the table. "BASTARD! He stiffed us on the bill."

"It's your birthday, I got dinner."

"That bitch is the closest thing I have to a female friend here – Trevor not included. I'm so alone in this city. In Montréal I would have a thousand people and I would have them pay when that faggot ditches us. Here, all I can get is you and him... WHAT THE FUCK!" She was almost in tears.

"Who did you call?"

"You, him, Trevor and Amber... but only you two answered."

"You only called two people the night before. Give me your phone. She obliged. "There are like a hundred people on here and you only called four?"

"I know, I'm such a loser."

"No, you're like me; you want to be miserable on your birthday. I bet, in the back of your mind, you're saying: 'It's my day and they should know that and come to me.' But they can't if you don't tell them. I know no-one ever shows up for my birthday. Let's drink and be miserable. Really, everything is downhill after 22."

"You're right, it's all crap. Let's get drunk."

I got the bill. We then took a cab to Cambie, where we sat with several others on a long wooden table drinking $11 pitchers that were once $8.50. Somewhere around the second pitcher I asked: "Are we drunk and miserable enough?"

"Yes. No I'm too miserable. Owen is always away and I'm here alone. When he is here, I work nights and he works days. Too much work is making it not work. And I'm always so fucking HORNY!" The 'horny' was timed perfectly with silences between songs and the whole bar heard it. She grabbed the arm of my shirt and shook me. "Damian, I at least need one of your stories or porn or something."

"I can't help with the 'or something', but I'll send you a story."

"Let's get some wine and go to my place. Owen is away 'til Friday. I hate being alone."

"Let's have a few more drinks."

"I have K and ecstasy at my place. I just want to watch movies and get high. We should have gotten high."

"X rated movies?"

"Duhhh."

"No. You know I don't do animal tranquilizers. And besides, I have coke, shrooms, weed, and E at my place."

"Your place it is, then. But we have to stop and get Precious. I have to get home... he's been inside all day! Fuck, I can't even take care of a dog. We have to finish up and go to my house."

"I'm not coming." We sat silently and drank seriously. "Well that's it."

Cassandra grabbed my arm and led us out. "We're taking a cab."

"You seem to think I'm coming with you. I hate sleeping on couches, they're all too short."

"Then you can sleep in bed with me."

I stopped her on the corner outside. "What did you just say?"

"If you don't want to sleep on the couch, you can sleep with me."

"That's the problem."

She stood stunned, her hand clasped over her mouth. "I didn't mean that. You can sleep together and not have sex; Precious would be between us."

Nothing was said as I hailed a cab. A taxi pulled up. Cassandra turned to me. "Thanks for a great birthday, I really had a great time." She then rose on tip-toes to go in for a hug and kiss, but I turned away, so got a wet smooch on the cheek. She got in the cab.

"I'll send you a story." Cassandra's cab drove off. I went back into the Cambie to get a magnum of red wine. I would have liked something harder, but they don't sell liquor as off-sales. Then I was on my way to The Peel.

I hate this walk. Firstly because of the aggressive panhandlers and partiers. Don't ever do crack or heroin. Crack-heads perpetually searching the pebbles for rock. Don't ever do crack or heroin. Prime Time Chicken keeps the place alive with dollar drum sticks. Don't ever do crack or heroin. A toothless whore is talking to the rain and trying to take her skin off. Don't ever do crack or heroin. A pimp, boyfriend, stalker, John, father, husband is trying to get his whore, girlfriend, daughter, wife, property out of the emergency woman's shelter. Don't ever do crack or heroin. Groups of men huddled around the doors to the detox centres, smoking cigarettes. Don't ever do crack or heroin. Half of them look as if they'll bolt across the street for a fix, the other half plead with them not to. Don't ever do crack or heroin. One or two people visibly high plead in vain to get back in. Don't ever do crack or heroin. A girl from The Peel was found dead in that dumpster. An overdose apparently. Don't ever do crack or heroin. Then the Vancouver Police Station and Jail located across the street from its best customers. Don't ever do crack or heroin. And finally the Banana Peel.

"Daddy Long Legs, long-time, no see! Do you have anything for your brother Solomon tonight. It's raining and I got nothing."

"My man Solomon, you know I won't have anything 'til I leave." Solomon got the door for me. I paid the cover and found a seat at the back. Soon after, a waitress I didn't know came by and I ordered a jug of beer. I was hopping Ocean would be there.

Then my goddess, Nyet, walked out from behind the DJ booth where the stairs to the private dance room are located. Behind her, an old guy in a white shirt and tie followed as she made her way to the bank machine. She looked down on him from her six-inch high heels. She took the money, recounting it as she walked into the glass-encased smoking room across from me. I stayed in my shadowy corner, knowing she'd see me when the smoke cleared. She was angry as she smoked, but smiled when she saw me. A finger was held up at the smoke in the other hand, telling me she'd be out after a smoke. The break between seeing her and talking with her was needed, as any more stimuli would probably cause my heart to explode. Among other things.
Nyet rushed the smoke, and walked her corset-clad curves towards me; bum hidden by a schoolgirl's skirt, legs as long as the Nile, hair in long black braids and neck dressed with a ribbon no vampire could resist.

"Where have you been Damian? I thought I'd hear from you? It's good to see you. Tonight's been fucked; must be a full moon or something."

"Why – what's wrong?"

"The bar's busy and there are only two other girls – but I've still only had two dances. One was a kid, younger than me, who pulled his dick out as soon as I took my gear off. I told him this was a lap dance and he seemed to get it. The next time I got up to change positions, he got it out again and told me to suck on it. I'm like: 'Put that away and I'll finish my dance.' He wouldn't and then argued with me as I put my stuff back on. Another girl heard us and sent the bouncer up. The kid got thrown out. What the fuck; is lap dancer a synonym for whore? Young guys are the worst – always thinking they can get it for free, 'cause 'dey da pimp daddy.'... assholes. Then that old, bald bastard. I don't mind most old guys, but he's an exception. He tries to get me to call him 'Daddy' and I have to repeatedly remind him not to touch my pussy. You'd think pushing his hand away would be enough, especially after I'd told him the rules. And after I told him that each new song equals 'more money honey, he got all funny. Claimed I'd never told him that in the first place and so he should get laid for two bill.' LAP DANCER DOESN'T EQUAL WHORE! He paid up, but was a bastard about it."

There was a pause, as I was too stunned to reply. "Why can't they be like you – nice, always following the rules, happy and washed? I love seeing that smile you get... will I be able to?"

"I don't know?"

She got into my personal space. "Of course I will."

"Have a drink with me."

"Yeah, I need one." Nyet got the attention of the waitress and ordered drinks. "So what have you been up to?"

"Working. Staying sober. I had to go for a drink with a friend of mine for her birthday tonight; a bad idea."

She poked my cheek. "Is that where you got this?"

"What?" I stood up to look at my face in the mirrored wall. "Oh yeah, it is." Nyet took a napkin from her lunch box, wet it with a lick and wiped Cassandra's lipstick off. "I had to get away from that girl. She's the wife of a friend and, as you can see, she was all over me like a rash as her husband is out of town. She wanted me to go her place and celebrate her birthday by getting high and watching movies."

"Nothing wrong with that."

"Except they were porno movies."

"That takes restraint."

"Or respect. Hey Janette, I heard you got a real job?"

"For a while I did, but I couldn't stand it; the serving asshole customers part. I wasn't getting enough hours either."

She got up, turned and kneeled on the bench-seat, checking her make-up in the mirror for a minute obviously not liking the topic of conversation.

She turned to me. "How do I look?"

"You look awesome. As always."

"No, that's not what I'm asking. Is there anything that doesn't fit?" She tilted her head back and looked up.

"Yeah, it's the red ribbon around your neck. I like it, but I think it's too much. It's that story from elementary school we had to read, remember?"

"The one where the girl has a ribbon around her neck -- and she's been told never to take it off. She falls in love and her lover wants her to take it off. She eventually relents and agrees to his request... and her head falls off. Kind of a sick story for a kid in Grade Three."

"Yeah, I'm sure of it now. Everyone subconsciously buries the trauma of that story in the back of their minds."

Nyet took the ribbon off. "Isn't it amazing that we both remember that story and you're like six years older than me? What's your favourite kids story?"

"A Salmon for Simon."

"Never heard of it."

"It's about Simon, a kid who fishes for salmon every day and never catches one. One day an eagle drops a salmon in a tide pool. He thinks about taking it, but feels bad and instead digs a trench out to sea so the salmon can go free. Then he goes fishing again. A very muddled moral in that one. How about you?"

"The Lorax, by Dr. Seuss. It's about a forest where the Lorax lives, but a guy comes and wants all the trees. claims he needs the trees. He the proceeds to cut 'em all down and the Lorax and other forest creatures have nowhere to live. It made me want to save the world, but I couldn't even save my family."

Janette's drink came. She commiserated with the waitress about the old bastard (she'd earlier danced for). Then Janette and I talked about politics. "Hey, I gotta go and do some rounds. Will you be here when I get back?"

"Of course." I ordered another pitcher and was loving the drunk. A girl got on stage, but I watched my Nyet as she plied the room. She got two takers immediately after initiating contact. I was jealous of neither. The next time she came down the stairs I wanted her to go straight and be up with me. But she stopped at a table with two guys who'd just come in. Young guys flashing money and muscles, talking up a storm with her – or that's what I thought as my jealousy grew. They weren't getting the piece of her I knew was best; the one that was so sexy but could never be seen alone, only experienced; the one with the mind behind it. She lured one upstairs and I ordered a double rum and coke.

I was truly drunk when Nyet came to get me. I had to stop at the gents on the way upstairs and, in trying to miss the low ceiling, fell forward, catching myself on the rail inches from Nyet's ass. She closed the distance, smacking my face with her ass – then turned to scold me, waving a finger. "Naughty, naughty boy... not until we're upstairs." We walked into the room and Nyet picked her favourite couch, as they were all vacant. She gave me a serious look. "Everything out of your pockets." I handed her the contents and she put them on a shelf next to her lunch-boxes. Same look. "Centre of the couch... more that way." She slipped her thong off then got on my lap, facing me. "We have a few minutes before the start of the new song."

I ran my hands over her corset, loving the feel. "I don't care, I'm drunk. It's not often you see me hammered. Normally I'd take some shrooms or somethin'. I shouldn't have got this drunk, but I had to or I'd have slept with Cassandra. If I'm an ass, just slap me."

"You'd like that too much. You're a good drunk; I've never seen you out of control – and I've seen you drunk quite a lot. You're my favourite customer... and a friend." She winked, then put her forehead against mine, looked me in the eyes and smiled. I went from half hard to full with just a look. She wiggled her nose against mine in an Eskimo kiss, then went for my neck, kissing and nibbling to my ear. I had to hold her tight. She moved my hands to her thighs, still covered by the skirt. A foot from my face she smiled and purred as the corset came off. I'm smothered in her cleavage. Literally, I'm suffocated by her for 20 seconds. I bring my hands to her breasts and she moves back, running the nipple along my face, over my eye and finally down to puckering lips. "The other one's turn," she said, looking down and smiling. Moving down, she went from nipple to neck which I kissed, which caused her to shiver; history repeated with a nibble of her ear. With a move back and a glare she started to grind, but I wasn't in the right place. She slid down my body, stopping to look at me from between my knees spread wide. My pants were pulled, readjusting me, and she put her silk pussy rag over my lap. I got an evil look and, with hands on either side of my cock, she tightened the fabric then bit my shaft through the cloth like a rabid dog. She became nice briefly, giving me a tit fuck for second; but only a second. Another couple of bites followed, then another moment of Russian before she stood on the couch. Her pussy was inches from my face as she played with it lightly. Opened, it was the perfect butterfly; shaved, with a little dark meat on the edges of the lips and the rest dewy pink. She pressed it against my forehead. I felt the wet between the lips as she rubbed it up and down the bridge of my nose. 'Lap the cat,' my brain said – but I resisted, as the smell of funk and shower and sweat fought back. This was the ultimate tease, 'cause 'cause there's nothing I like more than to please. And that pussy was beggin' me to please. Back down on my lap she went, starting to grin – then simulated a dry fuck, with her pussy rubbing up and down my cock -- only three layers of fabric wedged between. With great vigour she ground, her forehead to mine hitting nose-to-nose now and again. I caught the rhythm. She slowed and stuck her tongue on my nose. She kissed me. Again she kissed me. I tried to say something, but she was kissing me! Then she lent back, still grinding slowly with that smile.

"What was that?"

"I kissed you, duhh. I know you well enough, you're good." She gave me a peck. "Another song?"

"Two more."

She moved close to an ear, "PPPPPUURRRRfect," and bit the ear lobe. The heavy grinding renewed. My breath was heavy on her neck, as the rhythm held her close for quite a time. Then she arched back, going fast, before she stopped and kissed me on the lips. We sat there, smiling nose-to-nose for a second. A second kiss on the lips, then the nose and with her eyes wide she put her tongue on my eye. She cackled: "Haha!" Then got off of me and turned to stand so her ass was in my face, with legs spread wide and bent over. A finger split her pussy, as an eye or two or other part of her face was peeked through under the mound. I moved as close as I dared without breaking the rules. She straightened up. I stayed put, but a push on my head forced me to lean back. She sat back down on my lap, but this time in reverse cow girl position, using her butt cheeks to grind against me as I got reacquainted with the nape of her neck and ear. Soon after she lent all the way forward, hands on the floor, so we were in a seated wheelbarrow position with the sweet rose of a bud daring me to stroke it. With unbridled enthusiasm she renewed the rhythm. I'm sure she got as much from this pose as I did. Minutes passed, until she was just sweat in the cool room and I began going limp from the drink. She stopped and turned to kneel, rubbing her chest against my dick which looking up at me. It was very sexy, but I was too drunk.

"Come up here." She sat on my lap facing me. "You know, Janette."

"What do I know?"

"You drive me insane; completely mad. Totally, apart from the plot. Why? How?"

"All it is, is a rhythm; men are that easy."

"No, no, not that; not down there – the other thing you stroke."

"I'll tell you Damian, but you can't tell a soul. Or rrrrrhhck." She ran a finger across my throat. "Men don't have the power women do. Women can have sex pretty much whenever they want. Most animals can, too. They have a penis bone; but apes and men don't. Male animals can take a whiff of a stinky, swollen ass and just start fucking; get wooden 'cause of the act. Men can't. And in the back of every man's mind is that fact; he can't fuck without a boner. He's not in control of sex, 'cause he can't always have it. Women can have it anytime. Follow?" She got off of me.

"Maybe."

She slowly put her outfit back on. "Men need something to be aroused by. And some things cause men to lose interest. One of those things is ego. Men need women or men to give them the feeling that they're great; ego. Ego is what controls the defining part of a man and I'm the one who strokes or laughs at it – I control it. I build it up or break it down. There is that animal bit, but it's not as strong."

"I don't really get it."

"OK, because I control your ego, you're attraction to me. I can make you want to fuck me and even let you without ever being attracted to you. A woman has that power over a man because she can make him desire her, even if she doesn't care for him." She handed me my keys, phone and change.

I dug my wallet out. "I get the idea, but there are so many examples that don't seem to sync with that."

"Most girls, the ditzy ones downstairs, see men as something to worship, because that's the easiest way to give ego away; by being submissive. And if it works, why ask any more, 'He-he, you're so smart and strong – and I'm just a girl. Save me.' None care to see; the why and how don't matter if you get what you want. But that's the norm. Then there are women like me who see all the ways fucked-up souls like you can be given ego. Some are pretty strange."

I counted out the money. "So what are the buttons you push on me?"

"A witch like me can't tell the spell to the enchanted, it would break the spell. You'll be happy to know you are a strange one."

Did she really know saying that would make me feel good? 'Cause it did. I counted the money again. "Hey, I've got to go to the bank machine."

She gave a stare. "TO THE BANK MACHINE... again!" On way down the stairs I hit my head on the ceiling. She laughed at me. I ducked into the washroom for a quick pee. She gave the club its cut. As I made the bank machine released money, she stood looking into the mirrored wall putting on lipstick. I gave her my money. "Come here, Damian." She pointed at the floor right in front of her. In her heels, she didn't have to get on her tip-toes—to then smooch me on the cheek with such force I almost lost balance. "Ha-ha... that looks better than the other one. Look in the mirror."

Looking in the mirror I saw the perfect copy of her big red lips. "Looks good, better than the other one."

"A hug?" When we embraced she made sure to get the non-kissed cheek. In my ear she said softly, "Purrrrrr... get it?"

I was instantly hard. Walking out, I carried more wood than a lumber-yard. "Hey Solomon, my man get me a cab!"

"Daddy Long Legs, here is your cab my friend. Do you have anything for me?"

"Here you go." I emptied my pockets of all the change, enough for a rock or two. I got in the cab.

The last clear memory was drinking wine in the cab. There were vague blurs of drinking at Sausies. Though the memories were patchy, I was sure I went there as I had a second unopened bottle of wine on my coffee table. There was no memory of paying the bill. But I must have done more, as in the morning I got a nice e-mail from Cassandra telling me how much fun she'd, how it was good I didn't come over and that the story was a good one. The day was already done, my head hurt too much. So I drank the wine, smoked some weed, thought about Nyet and passed out.

10.

Upon opening the doors to Sausies, Lisa greeted me with "Beer?" I found a seat at the empty bar. "Hey Lisa, I was in here last night?" She didn't hear the question-mark. "Did I pay my bill?"

"I don't know, I left as you arrived. I'll check the tabs." Lisa looked through a box of regulars' unpaid bills. "Funny, here is yours but it says the twenty is yours." Lisa stuck her head in the smoking room. "Cat, what's with the twenty on Damian's bill last night?" Something was said out of my earshot before Lisa returned to pour some Jaegers.

Cat came out of the smoking room. "Damian, don't you remember leaving $80 for you bill? It was only $44.57."

"I was pretty drunk last night. I hardly remember coming in here. I actually came in to make sure I paid. I wasn't an asshole, was I?"

"Would I buy you a Jaeger if you were? You helped me throw some drunk kids out... or at least looked menacing for me. Even with the lipstick kiss on your cheek."

"Jaegers." Lisa put a shot in front of each of us. In unison we said "Cheers," drank and grimaced.

"Damian, come out back with us," Cat requested, heading to the smoking room.

"No, not right now – I want some food." Lisa gave me a what do you want look from the till. "Can I get some coconut prawns and a burger? Both at the same time."

Lisa finished a drinks order and took it to the smoking room. Then she came over to talk to me. "So what's been going on, I haven't seen you in ages? Last night doesn't count."

"Well, I was sober for more than a month. Didn't really do that much. Saw that movie with Seth, bumped into Janette, went on a date with her, saw Trevor, worked lots. Last night I went out with Cassandra for her birthday where I got hit on by a fag, then by her – almost went home with her – and finally, fell in love with a stripper for the second time. I'm still trying to figure out if is love or obsession they are so much alike."

"You saw Janette at the strip bar... and you went on a date with her. Do you think it's a good idea to see her strip if you are trying to date her?"

"No, but I'm just a man... I can't help myself. Besides if I ever do go out with if I have to accept what she does and going there shows I don't care if she strips."

"But can you accept that other men are looking at and touching her?"

"I'm not sure. Jealousy always sprouts from a feeling of inadequacy. If I came across as secure and she saw something in me, as I think she does, no problem. In fact, it would be kind of a turn-on being with the girl everyone wants." My thoughts were different. 'Of course it scares me to death; I'm an ugly, fat, loser, inadequate to almost all.'

"Well, that's big of you. How about sleeping around?"

"She seems to have only had long relationships – like more than year. Not sure if they were open or not. But I know one ended cause he slept around on her. What do you think?"

"My mother always told me, if you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything. You're too good for her."

"She just pissed you off with that name thing." And I thought, 'it's the other way round.'

We talked about the dog Lisa wanted to get until the food came. Only the prawns had been eaten when I got a call. "Hello Trevor."

"Dude, they fucked me at work; said that if I worked yesterday I'd get a full day's OT. I get to work and they are like, 'Oh, didn't you get the message, we got someone to fill in for you.' Where are you at?"

"Sausies. But I feel the need to play hockey. I got no booze and can't get to the liquor store before it closes."

"I can't either, Dude. That's what really pisses me off."

"OK, its ten thirty. I'll take a cab to the liquor store. Meet me at Sausies."

"Cool."

"Hey Lisa, I'll be back. Keep this for me." I ducked out and flagged a cab. The mission was completed before the bugger was cold.

"Where did you go?" Lisa asked when I got back.

"Trevor and I have to play hockey and we had no booze. We have some now." I held up my prize 40 oz. of rum.

"Why are you and Seth so tight with Trevor and yet such assholes to him?"

"I'm offended." I started on my burger. Still chewing I said: "Seth and I are as much assholes to each other as we are to Trevor."

"OK, but he is such a freak compared to you guys. He's like that crazy uncle that lives with his mother and hangs out at the playground. Why's he fucked up?"

"The usual combination of teen angst; being different; LSD; being bullied; bulling, crazy broken family; and gender confusion. Added to my being molested at modeling school, heavy metal, and us."

"Still, why doesn't he just go gay? It obvious to everyone."

"Cause of me and Seth."

"What d'ya mean?"

"It happened a couple years after high school when we were doing our best to screw up at college and had the odd coke bender. Trevor was experimenting with his sexuality. One time he got me really fucked up on coke, then wanted to play. He did the same with Seth. This freaked the shit out of us, so we teased the shit out of him. We weren't the open-minded guys we are now. I wouldn't say we were homophobes; we actually threatened we might like it. Now, I only get or give a blow-job for crack... not cause I like it."

"You should be ashamed of yourself. No wonder Seth never answered."

"Hey, we still hang with him; even went to a gay bar to play the video game he likes to play. Yeah, we were assholes and I feel shame for that – but we're with him now in whatever he does... as long as it's not me. But there's more to it. I think Trevor actually loves Seth and I – like men and wife. That's why he put up with our shit that year."

"That's an awful way to act, just because he hit on you. Friends of mine have sometimes hit on me and I always take it as complement."

"For men, especially at that age and eight years ago, it was no compliment to have a guy hit on you. If a girl gets hit on by a girl, it's like saying you're pretty. If a guy gets hit on by a guy, it's like saying you're gay. Not right, but true. It's changing, though. Whenever I want to build my self-esteem I go to bear night at a gay club and grow more confident with every guy I turn down."

"A true 21st Century man." Lisa went to see who needed drinks and to have a quick smoke.

Cat and her boyfriend came out of the smoking room. They said goodbye as I finished my dinner. I put the bottle behind the bar and went into the smoking room, taking a seat at the coffee table where Lisa and Seth were. Lisa got up, pointing to our beer bottles as a last drag was taken. We said we needed more. "You were fucking gone last night," Seth said. "Nothing a bartender would notice, but as a drinking buddy I did."

"Why didn't you tell me to go home?"

"Payback for that time you guys left me after I passed out in the movie theatre. But you didn't make an ass of yourself. Good job."

"Fuck, what a night. I had to get pissed. I was trying to drink her out of my head. I think I'm falling for that stripper."

"Ocean or Janette?"

"Janette. She drove me crazy last night. Man, for the first and only time, a stripper made out with me in the back room. And there was no way I can see that as anything but a sign. But..." I trailed off.

"But what?"

"Well, it's like this: I'm not sure if my thing for her is real or not; lust or love. Then there's the fact that the crazy feelings I have are easily seen – if expressed fully – as a psycho-stalker. So I gotta try and not look like Mr. Psycho. On top of that, there's the whole, 'Why would she want fat old me?' That's the worst part; even if she doesn't care, I do – and that'll cause me to feel jealous of everyone better looking than me. Which is everyone. Finally, there is the using me thing. Will she use my feelings for her as a cash machine? Others have. I'm either totally fucking confused or completely in love. Or just obsessed."

"I say you only give Ocean attention and see if Janette notices. Seriously, just tell her."

"Yeah, but—"

I got cut off. "Are you going to get buff in a couple of weeks? Are you going to look any less like a stalker in a few weeks' time? No. As for the cash machine thing, you already give her more than a hundred bucks every couple of weeks – and now you know she's back stripping. So what are the chances you miss a week, only when you're broke? Hell, if she hates you at least you'll save some money."

"I see. But honestly, I'm not sure if this feeling is real."

We talked about the Middle East crisis until Trevor arrived. Seth greeted him. "Hey Trevor, sodomize anyone on the way here?"

"Does your mother count?"

Seth raised a glass and we followed. "What are you two up to tonight?"

"Going to Damian's to play hockey. Wanna come?"

"I don't know? Do I wanna wake up with your dick in my mouth? Hmm..., NO! Really, I'd like to, but I gotta work in the morning."

"Too bad Seth, I picked up some cherry-flavored lube you'd love," Trevor said, lighting a smoke.

We all had one more beer while telling each other how we're never watching the NHL again and are only going to WHL games. Then Trevor and I left to getting mixer before going to my place. The first thing we did was search for the long list of porn Trevor had made. The first six games we kicked major ass, but then liquor caught us up. It took us four more games – two being reset – to understand it had.

"No more hockey. We're far too fucked up." And I threw the controller on the ground. "Remember to save that shit. I'll get more drinks."

"Check on the downloads."

"Holy shit, most of them are done."

"Check out the Suicide Girls one... Hu-Hu-Hu, you'll like that one."

I sat down to double-click the file as Trevor sat on the bed. "Fucking Goth lesbians... wicked!" They were getting into it on screen when a girl that looked like Betty Page came on, wearing a corset and stripper boots. She also had big lips and a lip ring. "That isn't... is it?"

"No, I don't think its Nyet; just looks like her."

I couldn't sit there with my dick in my pants. "I can't watch this Trevor! Out, out of the room!" I followed him out, finishing my drink on the way and getting another. Trevor was giggling at a televangelist. "Man, I'm fucked up."

"Then stop drinking. Here, take this." Trevor handed me a plastic bag to puke into.

I batted the bag away. "Not fucked-up drunk; Fucked-up by a woman. I saw Janette at The Peel last night and she got right under my skin."

"Wasn't she always?"

"Yeah, but this time she kissed me during the lap dance. No, she... MADE OUT WITH ME!" I shook Trevor.

"That's good Dude. She must like you a bit."

"But I don't know if it's just lust or actually love."

"Test it."

"How am I going to do that?"

"Dude, remember you usedta say you knew you were in love with Sandy 'cause you aced history and never read the text? Maybe there's something Nyet can inspire you to do miraculously?"

"Yeah, like I'll take a course and if I pass without studying I'll know it's meant to be. Right. I'll know if I can jerk off ten times in a morning it's love."

"I don't know Dude; you could also not jerk off for like a week – and if you fuck Nyet in a dream, it's love."

"Now that has some promise. One problem, I can't go eight hours without polishing the porpoise. In fact, I'm thinking of kicking you out so I can shoot one off."

"We could do it together – there's nothing gay about a circle jerk... ha-ha-ha-ha!"

"FUCK OFF YOU PERVERT! You're cut off. Roll a joint." Not long after that, we were watching cartoons and tipping the last of the rum into our glasses.

11.

Sometime before the end of my fifth graveyard – my Friday – it dawned on me that if the thought of Janette could elevate my mood when I felt the shittiest, it would mean what I was feeling was a real feeling of love. Obsession, I reasoned, would be something that caused me to pine for her – but not feel any great sense of relief from just thinking about her. Only a longing, dissatisfaction or sickness would come from the thought of not having what I obsessed over.

Making myself feel bad was exactly what I needed to solve this mystery. Which was easy on the first day of a three-day weekend. It was time for my monthly visit with mum. The visit always brought me down. After dropping off Precious, I hit the liquor store to start the binge.

The grind of waking up, drinking the hair-of-the-dog, going to get more booze, drinking, then passing out and starting all over again had begun to take its toll. On the night I was due to go to The Peel I wasn't in a good state. I forced myself, tipping the two single shot bottles of vodka into a glass and topping it off with a can of Red Bull and some OJ. It made me feel better. I took a shower, ate some mushrooms and left. Eating some greasy dollar pizza and guzzling down a sport drink made me able to get on the bus. The mushrooms were now apparent, distinct from the jitters that withdrawal and Red Bull sparked. Squished into a single seat on the bus I could cope because I had music. It kept me from falling into myself. I got off the bus early to get a bottle of vodka at the liquor store. I was feeling groovy as I mixed vodka sports drink in the alley behind the liquor store. Then my I-Pod battery died.

On the walk back to the bus stop, I was beginning to realize the music was the only thing keeping me from coming undone. Pacing didn't get the bus to pull into the stop any quicker. When it did arrive, the ticket-taking machine took four tries before working. Talk from behind me too garbled to discern was taken to be remarks against me. Moving to the back of the bus, I was confronted by a choice: sit on the back bench with the fucked-up bum talking with his refection and bottles, or sit squished between a crack head and a woman fatter than me. Or stand. I was too unsteady to stand. So I sat on the back-bench, sipping my drink to cover the stench of the binner next to me. 'Fucking battery, music would have soothed this; a Walkman in the 60s would let psychedelia last for decades,' I thought staring intently out the window. My gaze was fixed because the bum had begun trying to talk with fellow passengers.

Downtown was rapidly approaching as we trundled up the Granville Bridge. I could get off at the next stop and take a cab. At the crest of the bridge we slowed for reasons unknown and lurched slowly forward. The binner stopped harassing fellow riders and looked at his shoes, head bouncing on the glass. A sound every bus passenger is familiar with knows was heard as he wretched. I wanted to move away, but there was nowhere to go. Passengers opened the windows as we were waved through the Drinking Driving CounterAttack road block. The circulation of fresh air only moved the smell around the bus. With my nose and mouth up to the window I gasped for fresh air. As soon as the bus stopped for some lights on the other side of the bridge, I pushed my way to the back door and made an emergency exit, as a second bout of hurling competed with the door alarm. I was swallowing all the way to stop myself from puking. I fell... almost, a parked car stopped me from hitting the ground. The car's alarm went off. My mouth watered as I stood poised to vomit in the gutter, but a big loogie was all I could muster. At that moment, I realized I should leave. The owner of the expensive sport car whose alarm I'd just set off could be about to leave the Cecile, Yale or coffee shop across the street – and would no doubt love to prove his manliness to his woman by beating a guy on shrooms.

The world broke into shards stabbing my senses. Yells made me jump and turn. Flashing lights made me look with each flash. Angry car engines growled and I stayed close to buildings, as far from them as I could. Beggars forced me to the street side. I knew their gaze would cause empathy and emptied I'd quickly be. I walked quickly to move on past.

The paranoia peaked blocks from the bus as I passed a transvestite hooker. I thought she was a hot tall blond girl, until I saw the Adam's apple. A voice deeper than mine asked: "Looking for a date honey?" I shook my head. Not much further along was an Asian one unmistakable from the real thing – except I was still on the stroll. The Penthouse was a block further up. The prospect of stopping in there to chat with hookers gave me a thrill. A glance back stopped me. The tall blond had Nyet's boots on. Purpose was renewed. I was walking backwards down the stroll trying to flag a cab. Then I thought better of flagging a cab on a tranny stroll, as I might be picked up. I walked back to Granville where I was able to quickly hail a cab.

At The Peel I took a seat at the back and relaxed. Ocean saw me right away. "Damian, how are you?"

"Up fucked... sorry, I mean fucked up. Too much craziness."

"What do you mean?"

"Mushrooms, sometimes they turn on you. Little BASTARDS! Pixies put dust on them to keep hippies from stealing 'em and trips like this happen. There is a cure... lots of beer. Then I have to hunt down Puck."

"Huh?"

"My I-Pod died. No music caused a bad vibe... caused a bum to puke... caused shrooms to go bad... then car alarms, street people and angry cars chased me to the transvestite Queen... where I saw the way in the shine of her boots. Now I'm safely here again. I need to drink beer."

There was silence as she furrowed her brow and looked at me. "I uh, I guess you don't want a lap dance?"

"Yes. No. Yes... Maybe. But just a beer for now."

"OK." She walked away, like she was leaving someone for dead; but was nice enough to send Jem over, so I could get my beer.

A beer later, Nyet emerged from upstairs and headed to the bar. Ocean intercepted her there. I had a flash back to a fantasy with them in it. With drink in hand, Nyet walked slowly across the club pointing at me. Her pointing made me uncomfortable and I shifted from side-to-side, trying and failing to not look in her direction. She approached me, then swirled the pointing finger around as she sat down, poking me with her other index. Janette then looked in the air pretending to whistle, bobbing her head. "Pixies did it." I broke into laughter. "Are you fucked up? Looook into my eye." She spread her eyelid wide with her fingers.

I caught my breath. "You think you can trip me out with that?"

"No. But you shouldn't fuck with Ocean like that. She thought you were really in trouble. She actually watched you to make sure you were fine until I came."

"Well, I am pretty fucked up; I just wanted to express how. Should have known; she's only smoked pot and that blew her mind. You told her not to worry?"

"When she told me about the pixies I knew you were fucking around and started laughing. Said, 'you believed him?' She turned as red as her dress. So you took some shrooms?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know how you can do shrooms in public. I like them when camping or maybe at an outdoor party. But in the city, that's insane. Ah, I see – that's the reason Ocean thought you were crazy."

"Yeah, you gotta love the weed and shrooms. MDA and ecstasy, too, in moderation."

"Weed gets me too paranoid. My drug is booze. Once, in a blue moon, E or mushrooms. Like maybe once a year. The rest are bad; I know, I've done 'em. I used ta do way too much crystal and, since then, I haven't toyed with the bad ones. One day you're doing a line at a party every couple a weeks—and the next thing you know you've been up smoking it for nine days straight. On the tenth day you go to the doc 'cause you feel sick. Now you've got some infection that's going to kill you with no immune system left, you're seein' shit from no sleep and are sick from the detoxin'. It's fucking great, everyone should do it at least once. I'll never go there again, though."

"Crazy. I've heard it's the worst to get off of, too. Worse than heroin. Good for you. I've been lucky. Never tried those two."

"My choices were quit and get better or die. I'll never do meth again."

There was a long pause – and we drank when it got too long. "I did love PCP, angel dust. It makes you feel like you the Michelin Man; arms and legs go numb and feel bubble-like, while you act like Iron Man. You can speak through water and hear backwards. I can't do it anymore. A friend of mine ran into traffic thinking someone was after him. He's a paraplegic now."

We chatted about a lighter topic before Nyet excused herself to do some rounds. I had a drink with Ocean while Nyet successfully worked the crowd. But when my second pitcher was almost done, Janette came by.

"Damian, you're trying to be a writer, right?"

"No, I'm trying to be a famous writer, right?"

"Whatever," she said, like a valley girl – left hand making an L on her head. "I was looking through the Langara College Continuing Ed course guide – you know for something interesting to take for fun – and came across the novel writing course. You should check it out."

"I don't think a course can teach you how to write a novel. Those who formally try usually fail – becoming teachers. You know the saying, 'if you can't do, teach'?"

"Be open-minded. With that attitude, you could write the best thing ever and die being the only one who's read it. The outline also said it teaches you how to send a book to a publisher. The instructor is also a published writer."

I thought, 'certainly the submission process is different than that used for Penthouse Letters.' "I think I'll take your advice."

"Oh you will? And as your advisor, I suggest you come upstairs with me... NOW!" How could I resist? Nyet led me towards the stairs, clutching my hand, before I could answer.

Shit was better than I felt in the morning. Draft beer and vodka don't gel so well, but the hangover was only the beginning. Worse was waking at 6am too tired to move, but with the DTs keeping me awake. Today the dog was hairless and the booze had run out. However, that was the plan. I dwelt on her as this Torckumatta of addiction stretched my will to breaking point. But it didn't break. I remained resolute in ignoring my urge to go to the beer store, because of the love I was trying to prove. Love not lust. And I lay, drenched in sweat, half-way between wakefulness and sleep on the last cold November morning with my dementia firmly stuck on her dimensions.

Later, I jerked off to the bit of ass funk I smelt with her pussy in my face. Afterwards I thought of the wisdom she had earlier dealt me – so unexpected from a girl who never got her Grade Nine.

A bowl, sparked for the same reason a cigarette is smoked after sex, gave me reason to write. It was what I wanted to do with Janette, but she would not sell in this role; too aggressive, too worldly, too Nyet.

"Damiannnn! Where you been? Never see you on the afternoon shift these days," said the unmistakably high-pitched voice of James the Chinese janitor from Brunei.

"Tons of bullshit because the other assholes I work with are married. The single guys always get the night shift. Steve feels sorry for the others and gives them the afternoon shift to keep 'em away from their wives."

"Hehehehe... but I thought you have seniority?"

"Seniority means shit in a company with no union. It's not all bad, though. I don't have to deal with managers at night. How have you been?"

"Fuckin' tired. Boss got me working two jobs and my gout's acting up. Yowww! It fuckin' hurts."

"No more ginseng tea; it's a diuretic. Makes it worse."

"And I got stripper on my face. Now it's all itchy."

"I don't feel sorry for you having a stripper on your face. Get what you deserve, you dog. Where were you?"

"Work."

"What!? You got a stripper at your other job?"

"Yeah, got stripper on my face. See? It's all red."

"Tomorrow, I hope to get some stripper on my face."

"No man, it's bad; made my face all itchy. Give me a rash."

"You gotta get some better strippers at that club you work at. Did she at least look good?"

"Hehehehe. I got floor stripper on my face – that's what caused the rash! Stripper on my face gave me a rash." We both laughed for a while. "Damian, you shouldn't waste your money at the strip club. Go to the massage parlor. I go every two weeks. My wife's too old to have sex. I'm happy she thinks so. Hehehehe. It's like eight dollars for a massage and hand job, one hundred for a blow job and one thirty for full service. What does a lap dance cost?"

"Forty a song."

"Ssshhhiitt. Two bills for an escort is better value than that. Don't waste your money. You have Internet, right?" I nodded. "Go to NWERB. It reviews escort and massage parlors. You see how much better it is than lap dancing. Cheaper in the long run."

"No, I can't. I'm falling for this stripper." I wrote down the name of the site on a Post-it note anyway.

"Man, that's no good. Come with me; I'll take you to my massage place. You won't waste money anymore."

"Thanks for the offer, but I can't come."

"I'm sure you will. Hehehehe. When I go back to Brunei, I'll get you a wife. What would you like – Malay, Chinese, Thai, Filipino? They do anything if you bring them to Canada."

"I think I'll have to come with you to choose."

"Sure, they love white guys. Just say you're rich. And don't fuck around with any Islam girls. Ssshhhiitt. I was 19, had a car... picking up chicks all the time. I picked up this one girl; an Islam girl. she wasn't so hot, but I picked her up anyway. No-one was going to catch me. I took her to the beach and we got in the back seat. Then a car full of Islam men pulled up. They recognized her and yelled: "OUT OF CAR!" I'm not stupid. So I jumped back in the front seat and sped off. It was a half-hour car chase.! I barely got away. Had to hide for three days. Pheeeeeeeeewwww. I was so lucky her father caught her talking with another non-Islam guy – who looked like me – and made him marry her. You don't fuck with an Islam girl on their own turf. Else you have to marry them or worse."

"Maybe I won't go with you. Get me the number of a nice Filipino next time you go."

"Yeah, I will. Better get to work or we won't have any time to watch the DVDs I bought." James went to work and had done his cleaning two hours later. That left the rest of Sunday night for us to watch movies, as no-one else works that shift.

12.

I spent Monday day searching for the dirtiest porno I could find, while waiting to go to The Peel. I also came across an article about the long-term effects of ecstasy, which gave me a new way of testing love or lust. It was along the same lines as the drinking binge test. This time I'd take a couple of Es to deplete my serotonin, so that, in theory, there should be no way I could feel good.

Before I left, I checked the battery on my iPod. The night was exquisite, if completely uneventful. I drank my beer, had my lapdances – featuring a little making out – and finished the Fireworks story when I got home. All-in-all, the night was bright orange. Or the human equivalent of one of the now nearly extinct flightless birds in New Zealand; unable to find fault, fear or fly from anything. And content.

In the morning, though, a depression took hold. I couldn't move from my bed, nor sleep. Something primal in me, the same thing that fights a detox from booze, urged me to jerk off. Thus began the hour-long cycle of smoking a bole; thinking of Nyet; jerking off; feeling good for three minutes; then digging a deeper hole with all the doubts a guy like me has when trying to woo a goddess like Janette. The first spin on this downward spiral was taken by my fat ass – and how a girl like her could never love it. The next was a fear that if I did somehow start something with her, it would be over two minutes after the first time we had sex – as that was about how long it would last. Thoughts of her using me became all-consuming, before jealousy got in on the act. Self-doubt bought a season pass and thoughts of my not being good enough for her took a seat beside me as I drove to the liquor store.

As I drank, it was clear that I loved her – but also just as clear that there was no way she could or would feel the same. I passed out watching The Simpsons. I woke watching the same Simpsons episode, but now at night. I continued where I left off, renewing my obsession with a search for the Suicide girl who bore an uncanny resemblance to her. I found nothing new. Taking a different tack, I searched for The Peel's website. No pictures of their private dancers were on the site.

Frustrated, I went on a beer run. Then, while the cashier banked my money, I dug out the Post-it I'd written Jamie's website on. Once at home, I mixed the vodka with whatever I could find, before sitting at the computer to type in the address.

I entered the world of the North West Escort Review Board. At first the language troubled me. The reviews of escort and massage parlors were in a dialect dominated by acronyms like DOD, CIA or FBI. Few meant anything to me. What on Earth was DATY, MSOG or CIM? Soon I found the post for the acronyms:

AMP = Asian Massage Parlour. BJ = blowjob = oral sex = fellatio. BBBJ = bare-back blow job = BJ without condom. BBBJTC = bare-back blow job to completion. BBBJTCWS = bare-back blow job to completion with swallow. BBS = bareback sex. BBW = big beautiful woman. BLS = ball licking and sucking. BTW = by the way. CBJ = covered blowjob = BJ with condom. CMT = Certified Massage Therapist, professional masseuse. DATY = dining at the Y = cunnilingus. DDE = doesn't do extras = Private Show or Dance. DFK = deep French kissing. EOM = end of message. FBSM = full body sensual massage. French Kiss = Kissing with tongue insertion. FS = full service = BJ + sex. GFE = girlfriend experience. Greek = anal sex. GS = golden shower = urination. HJ = hand job = a manual / hand-release. LE = law enforcement. LK = light kissing. MBR = multiple bell ringing. MSOG = multiple shots on goal. Pooner = hobbyist = SP user or john. PS = Private Show or Dance. PSE = Porn Star Experience. Reverse Cowgirl = girl on top facing away. Russian = Pearl Necklace = titty fuck. SO = significant other. SOG = shots on goal. SP = Service Provider. Spinner = very petite, thin girl. XOXO = Kisses & Hugs. YMMV = Your mileage may vary or what you get may not be the same as review. 1/2 and 1/2 = half and half = full service. 411 = seeking information. 420 = 4:20 = marijuana. Browns----$100. Reds----$50. Greens----$20. Purple----$10. Blue----$5. $ = $100. $$ = $200. $$$.5 = $350 (get it?). Incall = You go to her place or a place she designates. Outcall = She comes to your place, home or hotel room.

The reviews were of four basic types in the escort review forum. The quick-and-dirty review dominated: Wham bam thank you Mam, with three out of ten for the looks, service and attitude of the SP. Principally, two types of aficionados; the low-track (street-walkers) reviewers and the wannabe romantic novelist reviewers. The reviled shills made up a good portion, too – but were outed as fake pretty quickly. My interest lay with the combat pooners (low-track reviewers) and the hobbyist poets. Theirs made the best reading.

A typical low-track reviewer was also a dope smoker and possibly a weekend user of coke or crack. They loved the chase, the hunt and the worry of LE catching up with them. Many would have goals – like getting the cheapest blowjob, or trying to go three times a night known in the trade as a hat-trick. Many seemed to be blue collar family types, driving around town with nothing better to do on a Friday – and a free mini-van in which to do it. A Poon Palace was another option – usually a hotel renting by the hour. The posts were generally straight-forward:

I cruised New West, nothing but scabby, cracked-out hoes wigging out. On to Kingsway, where I spotted a hotty. It got my spider sense tingling; felt she was LE. Moved on to downtown low-track, where a blond, heavier girl gave me the eye. I picked her up and got her to go half-and-half for three grand. She had a place, but it was an extra purple for the owner. I was bit nervous and offered to smoke a J with them. We did. It was a bit weird having the guy sat on the couch smoking as we used the bedroom. She asked if she could smoke some crystal first. Fuck yeah! Then on went the hat and she fucked me like a porn star. Even wanted to go again for another green. I was up for it, but neither of us had another condom. Good lay, but could've looked better. Ratings were: L:5; S:8; A:8. Repeat, as soon as I get to the bank machine. I got a #... but won't post it, as I don't wanna wreck this one too quick. Even better, the guy with the place said I could bring hoes there any time for purple. Cheaper than the Poon Palace.

Those who posted weren't saints, but they didn't seem to be perverts in trench coats hanging out in front of high schools, either. Nor did they come across as misogynists. Hatred or the subjugation of women were not the reasons pooners – who posted about low-track girls – were doing it. It was more like the post was a confession or the justifying of a lifestyle they were born into and which they couldn't escape from. In the same way a gay or transvestite can't change who they are. This is bottom rung of the sex trade, where there's a strong argument that those participating are committing rape, as the drugs force the girls to work to feed the habit. But enabling as it may be, the posting low-track pooners are probably the best people the SW will deal with. If a lot of posts are searched through, there will inevitably be one where the poster has tried to do something to help – only to slam into the brick wall of addiction. I got the feeling that the conclusion many low-track pooners came to – callous as it may sound – is that he cannot help, but doesn't hinder. He is the symptom – and addiction is the disease.

The romantic reviewers are all wannabe writers like me, and aren't looking for sex. Or they don't want just FS; the old in-and-out just isn't good enough. They need the GFE and all it entails: the kissing, pussy-eating, cuddling and conversation. The reviews from the GFE, cuddling-and-coitus crowd read like this one:

Gina, Gina, Gina, you should have seen her; with only a towel she opened the door. She hugged me, wet hair driving me nuts. Prior to our meeting I'd said how much I love just-out-of-the-shower hair. I told her how good she looks and she smiled. Then I gave her the donation, a red for two hours and the wine she loves. She put them in the kitchen, still without saying a word. When she came back, she slid the towel off slowly. The temperature rose to about 34C. "Oh Gina, I love your tits." I reached out to touch them, but a shake of her head stopped me. The towel sped down past 24, but was slowed by 36. "Gina, you know 34-24-36 is the combination to my heart?" She smiled and nodded. Then, kneeling on the towel, she unbuckled my belt roughly, pulling my shirt out of my pants. Unbuttoned and unzipped, she wrenched the latter down. She then rubbed her damp hair up my legs, balls and manhood. It was harder than when I was a teen and I was hoping I could last longer than I did back then. She started to suck, deep-throating me. I'm sure she could feel how close I was, licking my boys and brushing her hair against me. "Oh, suck it," and she did. But with her licking the head, jerking me off and looking me in the eyes with wet hair brushing my thighs, how could I last? "Oh God, Gina – I'm gonna come!" She moved to get it on her tits. "I'm sorry Gina, you're too good. That was the biggest and furthest I've ever shot a load."

"Don't worry, that's why I wore glasses. I should say nothing more often." She posed for one last good look at my work, then wiped herself before removing her glasses. She got me a towel to clean, too.

Oh, I could go on forever; however, I will leave it at this: I made a comeback in the third but Gina won 3-2. It was the best SP experience I've had – and that's why I keep coming back. Of course, YMMV... and I don't do L/S/A; they're just too subjective and tacky. Thanks, Gina.

The romantics don't live in the real world because they don't want to. Real sex is boring or becomes so. It involves relationships and the troubles of not knowing if you are seeing what you want it to be or what it is. Or those involved have been bruised by love and have stuck with GFE, because it only hurts the wallet. These guys only want something to squeeze and please; then leave. They are avoiding themselves; premature ejaculation; a small dick; big dick; fear of commitment; an obsessive nature and hate for themselves, in some form. The belief they were born to be tragic is what this site thrives on. So they live in a fantasy land they're mostly conscious of; but when one fails to see reality – and crosses the line between reality and fantasy, revealing obsessive or stalking behaviour – he is banned.

A good review on this board is a boom for a SP. Word-of-mouth is the best form of advertising there is. So why not make a review up? Have a person or the SP, herself, post a glowing review; a shill. The shill's post is short and sweet and too good to be true. Like this:

Well, let me tell you this: Tiffany girl is the shnizzle,. I mean... HOT! She has a gorgeous smile with little dimples that are adorable. Don't get me wrong, she may look like the-girl-next-door, but really she's the one your mother warned you about! She has shoulder-length blond hair and is natural 36DD-26–36 – just like her picture! I got the one-hour incalls for $$. But she also does outcalls for $$.5 per hour and offers a 30-min incall for $.6 and 15-min incall/quickie BJ for $. Hour and half hours are GFE, MSOG – everything covered but no digits; DFK, Greek. I got through to her with my first call and we arranged to hook up a couple of hours later. Finding her place was a breeze. Parking was free and close, and her up-scale apartment clean and discrete. We chatted a bit and she made me feel right at home. After a sexy lap-dance, she gave a superb CBJ. We did CG than Doggy (her favourite), 'til I finished. I wanted to go again, but couldn't. No problem. She pulled out my vibrator and gave me a toy show. She was not a clock watcher and I'd highly recommend her. Looks: 9.5; Service: 9.5; Attitude: 10. Tiffany's # is: 604-555-0848. If you get her answering machine, leave a message.

A post like this would only last a few minutes before being labeled a shill. Many pooners see shill posts as such an affront, they look for the markers: Low post count; youth language; inaccurate information about services; being overly-enthusiastic without any real detail; accidentally saying 'my'; the use of too many exclamation Marks; and leaving a phone number – especially one with instructions and an unusually high L/S/A. The community calls the poster on it without pulling any punches. Some are so good at it, they don't need to use the markers. Instead, the language and grammar tip them off because most SPs that shill are not well-educated or have learning disabilities. And there are English teachers on the site. A shill will be banned as soon as they're identified. This, in turn, kills an SP's reputation and any post about her in the future.

From the Escort Review forum I went to the Massage Parlour Reviews. The board itself and the posts were mostly the same sort of thing. The difference was the girls – and where they worked. A huge portion of the posts were on the many AMPs that are in every neighbourhood; across Vancouver and its many suburbs – from Shaughnessy to Richmond to Surrey. Most are in office buildings with discrete signs in Cantonese. Some are houses in residential neighborhoods, or in two or three suites in a high-rise apartment. The rate is about $30-$45 for an hour massage. The fee is for the room and massage... but most people come for more than a massage. Each parlour has at least a few girls, some offering up to ten or more to choose from. Having selected a girl, you go into the room and have a massage at the flip (the turn over for the happy ending). A price for extras is agree upon; sometimes it's done up front. Usually it's between $20—$40 for HJs; $80—$100 for BJs and $100—$120 for FS. Most of the AMPs won't let non-Asian's in without a reference. In the reviews, there's always talk of girls fresh off the boat (FOB) with little or no English. A good number of the reviews are from old men like James, whose wife is too old for sex and lets him go to an AMP once a month. But that's the best that can be said about these places. They are notorious for being attached to organized crime, especially those with FOB girls. This part of the board sickens me. There's no doubt many of these girls are no more than slaves. Girls normally have either a debt from being lured into coming to Canada – or they rent the room like one would rent a chair at a hairdressers (money is paid out upfront to pay for the use of the chair). Most of the time at high rate and loaned to the girl with huge interest, so the girl then has to do whatever is requested of her or lose the money. The men who frequent the AMPs can be real gems too:

I don't know why I still go to AMPs. The mamason at the last one I went to promised me the girl was new and young. The girl I got was older than my wife and had this huge bush that smelled. Not exactly bad, but an odd spicy/funky smell – not that I'd ever eat out at an AMP. I was too drunk and high to leave or argue with mamason and the massage so far was pretty good. Her tits, like most Asians, were small but perky. She was doing her best to get me going. At the flip, I asked for full service with a BBBJ and CIM. She won't do CIM and I'm too pissed to argue so I ask for doggy. She gets into position and I start fucking away real hard. 'Fuck it,' I say to myself and slip the condom off, fucking it into her. She doesn't notice! I hit it as hard and fast as I can and let go inside her. Then I pull out real quick, covering my junk with a towel. She doesn't seem suspicious of anything, but I wasn't hanging around to find out. L:5; S:3; A:3. I'm not going back there again.

Morally, I have nothing against buying sex. In fact, it's not really illegal in British Columbia – as long as the SP or pooner doesn't solicit in public. If done in private, the defense can always be made and upheld by a president sitting in a BC case, that it was time and not sex being sold. Sure, the massage parlours or escort agencies have to worry about being labeled a bawdy-house. But that's hard to prove, because the parlour is only renting a room and the agency is only providing a call and drive service. The girl is selling time. And even though many of the massage parlours, some of the escort agencies, and some so-called independent SPs are run by every colour of organized crime, the police can do very little. For LE to bust one of the places, a sting would be needed and Lower Mainland cops are too busy dealing with non-organized crime, affiliated grow-ops, addicts, stolen cars and home invasions to care about organized crime. Organized criminals are also too dangerous for ordinary cops to care about. So the owner of a site can let it be read by even non-registered users.

But the site doesn't seem to be a bad resource for the pooner or SP. It has a sexual heath forum, with an on-staff nurse at a sexual health clinic to give advice on safer sex, sexual problems and diseases – anonymously if desired. The SPs have their own private forums to discuss which pooner has the smallest dick, and other stuff that I can only imagine. There's also a warning forum, where bad dates, rip-offs and warnings of LE can be posted. That forum's where a real sense of community between long-time members on both sides can be felt, as they help each other out. Whether it be to help an SP go to the cops after an assault or advising a pooner what to do after being rolled. There are posts of new pooners getting advice from old ones – and the same must go for SPs. The moderators have a rule that, if any pooner or SP is accused of threatening, harassing or describing an assault, that information will be given to LE; including IP addresses and registration information.

Of course, that's a cover-your-ass statement, as the police could get a warrant for any informant relating to a real crime case – and that's part of the reason I didn't register. Plus, I don't do hookers anymore, so had nothing to contribute. Even if I did, I wouldn't write a lurid review without first sending it to some flesh magazine for $50. Besides, there were already more than a thousand idiots on the board. At one time, 128 of them were reading the reviews at the same time – five times more punters than the busiest day on the fishing forum I sometimes read! No, I was content not to post and just be a lurker; like the rest of the other perverts not proud enough to acknowledge their kinks.

The strip club forum had hundred of posts on The Peel – on every dancer and lap -dance. There were posts on who was the best stripper; who was the best lap dancer; who gave discounts; who provided extras; and who worked as an escort on the side. Shaking, I clicked on one, then the next – keeping my courage up with tips of the glass and tokes. Every click brought a fear that Nyet would not be the person I thought she was. Like the fool I am, I told myself that it didn't matter if she was one of the ones who did a little extra. What's the difference in significance between a dry hump and a hand job anyway? The idiot asked: "What if she does suck cock in the back room and never offered it to you?"

I was at The Peel tonight with the boys, and we got drunk – good and proper. I took – can't remember her name, but she was a blond Hungarian – up to the private room. Looks better in the dark, and is older than she dresses. She let me suck her nipples and give her pussy a lick, but it was three songs for a HJ.

I took Channel to the private room. Hot girl, big C cup; tall, long legs, auburn hair and a good dancer; that's where it stopped. I asked about extras. She said 'next dance', then 'next dance', then—you guessed it— 'next dance'. Finally, pissed off, I ask once more. "I don't do extras," She says. $150 and nothing. She's a bitch!

Monthly visit to The Peel. It was Tuesday, not many girls. I decided to try Ocean for the first time. She's a cute little thing, little older than I thought. Still, her tits are firm with great nipples. She doesn't do extras, but does a good dance – especially when she does the reverse cow girl. Oh yeah! Dick right between her cheeks.

Was looking at a little blond when I get a purr in my ear. I turned and this gothic-looking girl in a corset is looking me in the eye. I asked if she as tattoos. She said you can find out for a dance. I had to go for a dance. All I can say is, it was the best $.2 I've ever paid without having any type of sex. Just can't describe it. And she had no tattoos! Strange name; I can't remember it.

All of Nyet's reviews were like that one. No extras; no kissing; ass-pussy funk occasionally; no to all the marriage proposals; 'best dance ever'; and 'close to the best thing done with clothes on'. OK, I added the last one myself. There were a few that complained, mostly because they wanted extras or they found her not prissy enough or just too much. And, of all the weekly goers to The Peel, she was the only making out with me and none ever mentioned having their nose fucked by her pussy. OK rubbed. There was only one more thing I could do – and I couldn't do it at 3:30am.

I read the posts on Nyet again – drinking, smoking jays and jerking off until the craziness of this night had been put into an institution. Amid the craziness, I threw a control board through a window and escaped the asylum two weeks after it had been drugged away. The doubt and lethargy of chronic depression, driven by the gloom of December and the approach of a hollow Holiday season, had kept me from doing anything more than a routine of: work; gym; smoking dope; and stopping at Sausies on my days off. With my apathy at an all-time high, I thought that Trevor's absurd idea to stop jerking off and see if I loved Janette was a good idea. At least I wouldn't have to do anything. On the third day she came to me in a dream. Still in bed and without taking time to think, I called her.

"What!"

"Janette?"

"Oh, it's you... sorry."

"So how's it going?"

"Crappy. What's going on with you? Sign up for that class yet?"

"I was just about to."

"Well you should – it starts in January."

"I'll sign up soon."

I paused, knowing exactly what I was going to say. "Ah, Janette... I, um... you know I've got the biggest crush on you? And you wanna... sometime... I'd like to go out with you... like on a date?" There was a long silence. "Ah well, if you think I'm unattractive or anything just tell me. I've heard—"

"It's nothing like that. I'm just seeing someone right now."

Janette's tone became angry. "But the way it's been going lately that will likely change."

"Oh, OK."

"Listen, I'll give you a call if things go the way I think."

"OK."

"Hey, I can't talk now—I'm waiting for a call... the one I thought you were. Take care."

"You, too."

13.

I pulled myself into the tight suit. "John, I don't think this suit is going to fit me."

"It better had – it's the only Santa Claus outfit we have."

"Damn, Damian – how can you be too jolly to be Saint Nick," Mike quipped.

"It's not that. The fucking suit is too small through the shoulders and the legs are too short."

John shut us up. "Damian the suit will fit, but Santa doesn't swear. Mike, who should we give the turkeys to?"

"On the night and 5am shifts it should be these guys." Mike handed a note to John.

John looked at it for a minute. "You got two too many. Everyone one here has a family?"

"Yes."

"With kids?"

"Henry doesn't, but he takes care of his grandparents and is a great worker."

"He's off the list. What about Small Terry – didn't he win the 50/50 pay day draw last week?"

"I don't know... Damian?"

"Yeah John, he did. It was a big one, too."

"OK Mike. He's off the list. Damian, let's see how you look?"

"HOES, HOES, HOES—I want—HOES, HOES, HOES!"

Mike chuckled. John didn't. "Santa, stop the BS. Here are the names of the guys who win the turkeys. Memorize them. And don't read from the list. We don't want 'em to know we fixed it."

John saw the GM, Steve, going by. "HEY STEVE!"

Steve turned back. "What do you need John?"

"How long 'til the turkey breakfast?"

"The caterers are almost ready... 10 minutes or so. Santa, you'd better get to sled. If everything's under control, I gotta go get a couple of things." Steve walked off.

"OK, Mike, get back to the warehouse. Damian, you got the names?"

"Speedy Steve is getting the PlayStation; that's the young Steve. Warren, Billy... which Bill?"

"Old Bill."

"I'm assuming Steve is Stevey, Cal, Darryl, Tucker and Ian."

"One more time." I went over the list once more.

"OK. I'll radio when it's five minutes away. Ride on the yard goat and have Peter pull right up to the smoking pit by the lunch room. Here's your sack and bells."

"John, riding the yard goat is against safety regulations."

"Screw them! Now, get out there without being seen."

"I'm in your favorite spot for nap-time, Peter." The yard goat roared up to me, stopping with a screech feet from where I stood. I'd gotten used to the way Peter drives and didn't move. "What's new Pete?" I yelled above the diesel.

"Another fucking day in Paradise, Santa."

The radio spoke again. "Santa, Santa, Santa, it's Christmas time."

Pete answered. "Our nog is without Rum... we're coming in hot!"

He then whipped the goat to the lunchroom smoke pit, as I held on for dear life. Pete screeched to a stop in front of it, getting the smokers' attention. "HO, HO, HO, MARY CHRISTMAS!" I yelled, climbing the steps and handing out candy canes as I went. Everything went well. I remembered the names and in a few minutes I was back on my sled, Arctic-bound. With the deed done, I went to the security office to change back into my normal clothes. As I was changing, there was a knock on the door. "What is it?"

"Damian, it's Steve. I need to see the cameras."

I turned the door handle, opening it. "What do you need?"

"Can you get the camera on the lunch room?"

"Yeah, who do you want it on?" I said as I panned the room.

"Him! The older guy with the Santa hat on, follow him."

"No problem." I tracked Dean, as he got some turkey, buns, potatoes, bacon, salad, muffins, ham, fruit, more than he could eat. He sat down.

"Zoom in real close." I did and at Dean's feet was a back pack. As he talked with those at his table, he was filling the Tupperware container he brought his lunch in with food. He finished and ate what was left then, then went back for more.

"Do you know this guy?"

"Yeah... Dean, he works on the graveyard shift. A good worker. Quiet. Kind of a hard luck case – lives in a rooming house Downtown. You know those hotels right Downtown? First job he's held down for more than a few months. I think he's one of the seasonals we're keeping."

"Damian, I know this guy's got a bad lot, but if he steals food, he'll steal from us. I know it's not nice – especially at Christmas – but theft is theft; turkey today, digital cameras tomorrow. I'm going to get John. You keep watching him. Oh, and tell me what food you want, we'll put some aside for you."

"I'm not hungry."

"Sure?"

"Yeah."

I watched Dean fill his containers once more, before Steve, John and Mike came in. "Are you still filming him, Damian?" Steve asked.

"No, he's back on the floor."

"Play back the stuff you recorded." I played it back as the rest watched. Steve and Mike looked sick, for the same reason I had a lump in my throat. None of us wanted to axe a guy before Christmas for stealing an all-you-can-eat turkey breakfast.

Mike tried to preempt. "What an asshole! Pardon my French. I'm going to write Dean up right now."

In a patronizing tone Steve said: "Mike, I think you're letting your feeling blur what Dean is doing. He's stealing from the company. It may seem like something less because it's food we were meant to eat – but if he steals that, why not a MP3 player or iPod? An employee that steals, however minor the object, is to have his contract terminated. That's what the policy is and there's good reason behind it."

"Steve, with all due respect..." Mike said trembling, "I'm not firing Dean. I'm sure he doesn't know that he was stealing. He's one of my best workers; quite, reliable, good at taking direction and willing to work the graveyard shift forever. If this guy was stealing it would not be food; he doesn't understand. I'll not fire him for stealing bread."

"Am I going to have to write you up as well?"

"Do what you must." Mike was turning to leave the room and had his hand on the door knob – but turned back. "Why can't we lay him off instead? This guy just got his act together and we're going to kick him down again? You know if he gets fired for stealing he'll not get another job? Please, lay him off."

"Principal. And it doesn't help him if he doesn't know why he was let go. Mike, I can see why you're sympathetic, but this is not the time. If he's had as much trouble in the past, don't you think he should have learned his lesson by now? And with that knowledge we shouldn't give him latitude he's not deserving of."

There was a pause. Mike turned to go but Steve stopped him again. "Mike, I understand why you're concerned, but we're not social services. I'll do the termination interview with Dean. Go back on the floor and finish up. Once you've cooled down we'll have a talk." Mike left, as John and I stood there shocked. Were we shocked at Mike for speaking up or at ourselves for not? The shock must've been from Mike speaking up, as we're good dogs. "Damian, I want you to search Dean's bag on the way out. When you find the food, bring him to my office. You'll be the witness for the interview, then walk him out."

Burning the video kept me busy and I didn't think about Dean. That hour went by and I was checking bags as the night-shift left. Normally, I'd have joked about looking for weed or wanting twenty percent of anything stolen, but not today. Dean swiped his time-card up the hall and walked up with a big smile, still wearing his Santa toque. Dean had his bag open as he walked up to me. "Merry Christmas Damian."

Right in front of me was the bag with three containers of food. "Dean, where did you get that food?"

"From the breakfast, it was one of the best I've had in a long time. Turkey and breakfast... mmm."

"Err, yeaaaaaaah. Dean, you're going to have to come with me to see Steve."

"OK. Why?"

"You're not allowed to take the food home." Dean said nothing and we walked to Steve's office. I knocked on the door.

"Come in." We came and sat in the chairs across from Steve.

"Steve, I found this turkey inside of Dean's bag." I showed the contents of the bag to Steve.

Steve replied calmly. "Dean why did you take the food?"

"I thought it was alright to take the food \-- thought it was going to be thrown out?"

"Why didn't you ask someone?"

"I didn't think I had to."

"OK, you believed you could take it and there was more than would be eaten." Steve paused, turning his laptop to face us then clicking play. "I can understand that. But why did you conceal your action, if you thought it was OK to take it. The video shows you talking with others in your crew while the other hand is stealthily putting food in your bag." There's another long silence as we watch. "Again, why would you hide your action if you thought it was OK to take it?"

"Well, I guess I wasn't exactly sure, but it was going to get thrown out so I thought I'd keep it from getting wasted."

"Dean, I don't want to do this, but what you did is theft. You stole from the company. There can be only one consequence; termination."

"But I—" Dean didn't say any more, just hung his head before writing his statement and signing the papers to finalize his termination. There was no kicking, slamming of doors or berating me as I took him to clean out his locker. He was totally resigned. I walked him to the edge of company property, where he finally broke his silence. "Damian, it was good working with you. You've always been fair and I know this is just your job." He extended his hand for a shake.

I shook it. "Dean, what happened today was bullshit. There was no way to change it. Steve got it in his head and well, that was that. I hope you have better days."

"I think it's a good day for a beer," Dean said, the only time he'd mentioned drinking in the present tense.

It took me twenty more minutes of finishing reports before I could go. When I got to the bus stop, Dean was still there waiting for his bus. I didn't know what to say, as I'd normally leave before the night crew got off. A nod of the head seemed to be enough for Dean.

A few minutes later Mike car pulled up with his passenger's door window open. "Dean, you were fucked today," he yelled. "Steve was off on some power trip and you got in the way. You were one of the best workers on the shift and I'll tell that to any place you apply to for work in the future. Here, take this." Mike handed Dean a folded piece of paper. "That's my personal number and local in the building. When you give someone your references, give them my number and I'll give you a recommendation."

"Thank Mike." Dean put the piece of paper in his wallet.

That was the beginning of a crappy Holiday season. The next day I found out Tony had finally worked his way out of a job. Since he couldn't make the mandatory three shifts a week he was laid off. That didn't really matter to me, as it was so slow during Christmas that we didn't need a person in the gatehouse. What did affect me was that two days later, a trailer full of high-end electronics, plasma TVs and such vanished from the yard. This prompted Steve to cancel the contract security we were going to have over the Holidays and have us do it instead. Another example of the single guy getting screwed in the 21st Century company because, although I had seniority, it didn't matter; it was a non-Unionized company. I was pulling a sixteen-hour split shift on Christmas Day, so the others could see their kids open presents and eat turkey. All I had to do was see my mom. Normally, I'd have gone to an orphan Christmas dinner with all the Sausies regulars that couldn't get home or had nowhere to go. But not this year.

My phone rang, interrupting my thousandth game of solitaire sometime before ten on Christmas morning. "Damian, Whatttzzz-up!"

"Let me guess, Tony – you have really great Boxing Day deals on plasma TVs?"

"No, I was calling to say Merry Christmas, since I'm not working there anymore. But if you want a plasma TV, my cousin's got some great deals."

"Again, I'm working on my day off because of you. At least I'm getting quadruple time."

"You're at work? John's an asshole for doing that."

"Well, it's actually Steve that's the asshole; he wants his crew working since that trailer went missing."

"A trailer went missing? I can't believe it. Steve's nuts – there are no trailers worth stealing after Christmas."

The front door clicked open and Len walked in. "Eh Tony, I gotta get going – Len's here to relieve me."

"No problem, buddy. Give me a call anytime you need anything. And if you need to get into a club, don't hesitate to call either. I'll buy you a beer sometime for having to take all my shifts. Merry Christmas Shiznit!

"Yeah, Merry Christmas Tony. I'll call you for that beer sometime." I hung up. "Merry Christmas Len – how's life?"

"Oh, you know... I'd rather be home watching the girls play with all their presents." Len let out a huge sigh.

"Yeah, I'd rather be at home, too – but it's massive overtime."

Len let out another sigh, bigger than the previous one. "Yeah, the OT."

I may have felt for Len, but this wasn't the first time he was trying to get the sympathy fuck, so to speak. If I commiserated with him, the inevitable question would be: 'John said he really needed me here, but if you don't have anything important to do today, I'd love to go home and be with my kids. I only get to see them over Christmas every other year,' gigantic sigh. Just once, I knew I should answer: 'Fuck man, you only have to do three shifts week. Grab some back-bone and tell John you can't come in.' But I knew that may end in a murder-suicide. So instead I said: "I gotta take off and see my mom."

"Can you try to be a bit early?" Len asked.

"No, but I can try not to be too late." I didn't wait for the pathetic sigh.

From work, I went straight to the home to see my mother. When I arrived, the woman I presumed to be Sherry greeted me. "Where's your dog today?"

"Um, it's not my dog. I borrow Precious from Cassandra, the girl who was with me a while back."

"Is she your girlfriend?"

"No... she's a good friend, that's all. Ah... I hate to ask – but I always forget your name?"

"Sherry, it's on my name tag."

"Oh sorry. How come you're here every Christmas?"

"The overtime."

"Yeah, I'm working too. Hey Sherry, I want to thank you for all your help. It's great that you come and have dinner with us every Christmas and also allow Precious to come in for visits – my mom loves to see dogs. I guess I should've brought some gift chocolates or something. Sorry."

"I get too many chocolates this time of year; thanks is good enough for me. Let's get the turkey for lunch."

Sherry and I brought the food to my mom's room. It was the same as always; a few minutes of trying to tell mum I was her son and, as always, I gave up. I gave mum her presents: a sweater with a dog on it, a dogs calendar and a picture of me. We chatted about nothing while eating. Soon after I left – another Christmas with the family completed.

Outside of mom's room, Sherry asked: "How come you always give your mom a picture of you for her birthday and Christmas?"

"Each picture is a picture of me another year older. I'm hoping that by giving her pictures of me getting progressively older, she'll eventually catch on to the fact that the guy in the picture is the same one that brings the dog. Her son. I still have a few years to go; the first picture was of me at six, the latest is me at eighteen."

14.

The New Year came in without a call from Janette. And without seeing Nyet. I did make a resolution, though; to take my friends out to dinner on their birthdays. That was why I was soon on the phone to Ocean (AKA Alison). "Hey Alison, Happy New Year and Happy Birthday!"

"I don't know what there is to be happy about. New Year's was almost a month ago and my birthday was last week. You had to remind me I'm thirty? Everything is crappy."

"I know what will cheer you up – a nice juicy steak, with Alaskan king crab. When do you want to go?"

"I'm working every night 'til Friday."

"Even better, nothing cheers you up like skipping work. You sound way too sick to go to work tonight. How's eight o'clock at the steak house on Howe and Pender?" There was a long pause. "Come on, you know it'll be fun."

"OK – it's not like I'd make any money at the club."

Sipping my second beer at the bar, I was beginning to wonder if Alison would show. I'd pulled up to the bar exactly at eight and now it was twenty after. 'One more beer and then I'll get dinner,' I thought, as I watched the sports channel on the bar's TV. There was still a slim chance for a hockey season.

I felt a hand on my back. "Hi—sorry I'm so late."

"I just got here a couple of minutes ago. Should we have a drink here or get a table."

"A table." We got shown to a booth and sat down. "Damian, it's so nice of you to take me out to dinner. I'm really sorry I was late. I don't know what is with me these days, I don't even want to get out of bed."

"If I had a body like yours I wouldn't want to get out of bed either."

A comment that normally got a laugh and a, "You're too much!' from Alison only got a, "Very funny," with a flashed grin. "It's nice of you to try and cheer me up, but I don't know if it'll work. I feel like a total failure. Over Christmas I maxed out my credit cards on gifts for my family and stuff I don't need. I was hoping the Canucks would start playing so I could work there – but it doesn't look like that's gonna happen. And since Christmas, all I've heard from every one of my relatives is that I should be married... that I should go to church more... that there are nice guys there. But I don't know if I want to marry a guy. And, to top it all, my little sister answered my phone one day and it was one of the girls from the club—who thought it was me. Now my sister knows I'm a stripper. Of course, she's like seventeen and thinks it's the coolest thing. But I'm like, what the fuck! I don't want her to be like me; with no education, unmarried, working two part-time minimum wage jobs and stripping so I can afford to buy nice clothes. I'm a complete failure at thirty. Plus, I accidentally poisoned my cat."

"What? Is it OK?"

"It drank some fruity smelling cleaner. It nearly died and the vet cost me five hundred bucks." Breaking down, she sniffed back some tears and dabbed her eyes with a napkin.(Sniff... sniff...) And I break out crying for no reason; that's why I was late (sniff)."

The waitress saw it wasn't a good time to take our order.

"I don't want to be here. I find myself thinking it would be good if a bus jumped the curb and ran me over... (sniff)... or I just stepped into traffic."

"Listen, things are never as bad as they seem. And, remember, failure at suicide is the worst kind of failure."

She was shocked away from her tears. "Women almost always go half-way, so find a good foolproof way. Sticking a pipe on a car's exhaust and funneling it into the car through the window is the best way. Taking pills is good, but you need to have the right ones and make sure to take some anti-nausea pills first. Slitting your wrists in a warm bath is the worst... almost never wor—"

"Are you insane!?"

"No. What I'm getting at is that all everyone has ownership over their life, so why shouldn't they be able to take it? If your life is only suffering, why not get it over with? If you're serious, I'm totally envious, 'cause I've never had the balls to do it."

"Is this some dark joke because I'm leaving? If you think this is something to joke about—"

"Listen Alison, this is not a joke; and I'm not trying to be an asshole. But the truth is, killing yourself doesn't hurt you. To be honest, I've felt the same way you do many times, and don't have the karmic downer of suicide being a mortal sin to stop me. Do you know why I haven't done it?"

"Why?"

"Killing yourself hurts those who care for you. Once you're gone, you're gone. But everyone you leave behind – from family members to friends and co-workers – will wonder if there was something they could have done. But it wouldn't matter, 'cause it's too late. So who do you really want to hurt?" There was a pause. "Really, what revenge do you want to get? You don't have to tell me – but you'll leave everyone you know distraught and tearing their hair out as to the reason why. Even brash, trash-talking me will wonder if it was this dinner that took your life. Would it be?"

"(Sniff)... No; I don't want to hurt you or anyone. You don't get it. That's not what I want to do... (sniff)." She wiped her eyes. "It's just that that's all I see when I feel that way – and it seems like the only way to save me from all my failures."

"Yeah, I know it feels like the only way out. But really, is your sister better off with you being honest with her about your mistakes or with a suicide that leaves her always wondering why – and with no way of ever really knowing?"

"She's better off just having her dumb sister be honest with her."

"Alison, any time you feel this way, you can always call me. If you can't get hold of me, then at least talk to someone." There was another, longer pause. "Have you talked with anyone one else about how you feel?"

"No, I didn't know who to talk to. My family won't understand."

"People will understand more than you think. I don't know your family, so I don't know who would understand there, but sometimes a big sister can get help from the little one. I'm sure the grocery store also has links to a counseling service and how about your priest? Seriously, if it weren't for my buddies Trevor and Seth, I wouldn't have made it through high school. I know I helped Trevor through, too. Again, anytime you feel this way, call me."

She started to cry. "Damian, please excuse me – I have to powder my nose." She really did; her heavy make-up was now not holding up so well.

"If the waitress comes round, what are you drinking?"

"A Singapore slinger."

Alison left. The waitress came to ask for our order, then swiftly brought it. I worried if my words had worked, because Alison had taken her bag – which in these days of terror could have had anything in it. Long gone were the days of bombs, but there was a chance she could have heroin or even rope.

I breathed a sigh of relief when she eventually came back smiling, with her make-up repaired.

"You were right. I will call you if I feel like that again." And without any conviction, she turned to go.

"Come on Alison, I haven't even gotten to the cheesiest of my lines yet."

She turned back. "OK, what is it?"

"You can't be a failure at life if you're alive."

I got a smile and a 'haha' which I judged as real. "That is the cheesiest thing I've ever heard. Who am I with, Damian King of Cheese?"

We drank and ate crab, a thing she'd never done. Dessert came and nothing more of importance was said. I walked her to that bus. "Damian, you're looking in the wrong place for a girl. You are too good for The Peel."

"It's easier than reality."

"Whatever. I'm happy you dragged me out – it was a good time. I'll call you if I need to... and you'll call me if you need to?"

"Yes. And we'll go sailing sometime."

Alison hugged me and encouraged me to give her a bear hug. Then her bus came.

15.

Weeks whizzed by in my dope-fueled apathy. I hibernated in the perpetual dim of a Vancouver winter. Sometime near the end of February it was sunny again. Too sunny to sleep through the day – and I couldn't do that anyhow. Troy the farmer had given me some pills—MDA—and I had swallowed one while we jeered at the news; bad as always. It was the day after pay-day and I was en route to The Cambie. Troy wanted to come, but it was a crucial time for his girls. Always the family man, he stayed at home. I went trekking.

The Cambie had beer. Cheap, bad beer. But I drank it. A lot of it. Thirty bucks' worth, in fact. And was still able to walk to The Peel. I bought a pitcher of beer there – and not long after, Nyet came up to me. I told her I was drunk. Very drunk. She seduced me anyway. I didn't mind. Upstairs we went. It was great, as always – and, as always, I couldn't tell her how I felt. All I said was that she made me, "Crazy." And she did. On the way down she asked about a website with posts about girls from The Peel. I shouldn't have answered, but I did. I knew she could see me shaking. "Janette, there's this site... err, well... err, it's called North West Escort Review. It... well, rates escorts and dancers. I'm NOT a part of it. I NEVER post. I only stumbled across it. You know, to jerk off to. I—"

"Is there anything about me on there!?"

"Yes, and it's all flattering. I never wrote any of it. However, other girls are not described so well."

"What do you mean?"

"Her." I pointed to another dancer. "She'll fuck you for the right amount, so will that girl. And she gives blowjobs in the private rooms."

"What!" Nyet stopped walking. "Go and sit down, I have to get a pen."

The prickly feeling that had been MDA was now ramped up ten-fold. My thoughts spun from, 'how could I be so stupid and say that,' to, 'she'll think I'm a pervert who jerks off to posts about her,' to, 'worse, she'll think I fuck escort,' to, 'oh my God she'll think I'm a stalker,' and back again. I fidgeted to keep my hand from visibly shaking. Nyet stalked back from the bar. I rehearsed my lines.

"It's just one of my little perversions, like a fetish. I don't actually screw hookers or haven't in seven years. As for posting on that board, I never did or would – I'm too paranoid. Look at me; just the mention of it makes me shake." I didn't have time to go over it again.

Nyet sat down next to me clearly agitated. "What's the site's address?"

"I think it's: www.NWERB.com." She repeated it as I said it. "And, if that doesn't work, try searching for North West Escort Review Board on Google. Listen, Janette—"

"Are there any other sites like this?"

"Probably, but it's the only one I've seen."

"And they say the girls here will fuck them?"

"Some do.... um, extras is what they call it. The site mostly reviews escorts."

"I gotta go see if this is the one the guy was talking about." She got up to go.

"WAIT Nyet!" She stopped and turned. I stood up, shaking and with my voice cracking. "Um... err, I'm a bit of a pervert. I err, look at the site to get my rocks off, you know? I-I-I haven't been with an escort in like seven years."

"Why are you shaking? I'm angry at the site, not you. Pervert? Whatever; I probably go to places dirtier than you could even imagine. I've even been on the internet."

I didn't listen; I knew she was only saying that to be nice and had already judged me a deviant.

"You know I would NEVER do anything to hurt you or defame you."

"I know. Calm down. Have a beer, you're shaking." She turned and walked over to a table with four men at it.

"Fuck, how could I be such an idiot?" I said to myself and grabbed my coat.

16.

It was 0229 and nothing was happening. Boxes were moving. Lunch was getting closer. But it was the same as yesterday – and the ten others before. Routine; dancing in the same way; to the same tune; and with the same repetition of rhythm. Topping myself was the only way out and I hadn't the nerve.

Mike looked at a security camera. "Damian, I've got the best idea. You have access to the cameras, right?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Securitycam.com that's why."

"What?"

"We could film porn on our cameras and sell it over the internet – maybe branching out to the stores.. Our gimmick would be that it's real; you know, during store hours. We would have them fucking in bedding as "customers" walk by; of course, all after-hours. And we'd sign-up normal couples that like to fuck. We'd make it amateur-looking, like it's real footage from the store during normal hours – with the eventual and appropriately-timed security guy breaking them up... and possibly joining in. There's a market for that shit; everyone wants to believe it's real, so they will."

"Great idea man."

"A dull, 'great idea man' is all I get? What the fuck? It's better than that. The last few weeks you've been, 'man like, what the fuck?' Walking around like Frankenstein – not caring."

"Sorry, I've been fucked lately. I have this thing hanging over my head."

"What?"

"I err... don't want to talk about it."

"Oh, fuck off. I tell you about my Securitycam.com idea and you say you can't talk about it. You're insane."

"I am."

"Tell me, I can relate."

"OK. This stripper..."

"The one you always talk about?"

"Yeah. I went to see her two weeks ago and she asked me about this Internet site featuring prostitutes and dancers. And being me, I told her."

"So?"

"No—it reviews strippers and escorts and I told her I look at it."

"So?"

"You don't get it. It reviews strippers and escorts and I look at it."

"So? You look at her and she's a stripper."

"You don't get it; it reviews the strippers and escorts... making me the pervert who loves them."

"So you met her at a club."

"Yeah, but I didn't want to."

"Would she ever have talked to you if not for the club?"

"That's not the point."

"What is? She's a stripper."

I was saved by my phone.

"Hello?"

"Damian?"

"Yes, Cassandra."

"I need your help?"

"What?"

"I can't stay at my house. It's... it's... it's fucked. Can I come over?"

"I'm not at home."

She cried. "But I can't stay here... I just can't."

"OK, you can – but when?"

"Now."

"Now? Um... there's no one to let you in and I can't wake Troy or Holly."

"But I can't be here!"

"OK, just wait and I'll call Troy."

"Thank you."

17.

So many things could be wrong after an afternoon, evening and night of drinking whiskey and snorting cocaine with your good friend's wife. What day is it was the first question I had? Turned out to be Sunday, after a call into work – to check I wasn't supposed to be there – set me straight. I felt good; too good for today. Physically, I was not so hot; my nose was plugged, my mouth was dry and everything seemed distant, as if on cable TV. But those were only symptoms of the night before and not the cause of good feeling; my new feeling; my 'ah, it's so much easier driving in the rain now the windshield wipers are on.' Or was it more like being let in on a trick, to know the working of a slight of hand? Whatever it was, I was sure to remember. I was not going to let dehydration, sinus congestion and post-bender malaises eat away at my goodness. I had things to do tonight, even if why and what needed to be answered.

A note on the railing of the stairs caught my eye as I walked to the kitchen for some OJ and decongestants. It read:

"I didn't want to wake you, Damien. I'm going to live with my new lover Marty, now that he's back from Whistler. I had a time last night, whether it was good or not I'm not sure. We've got to go out sometime. My number at Marty's is 604-555-9742... don't tell Owen; I don't need him obsessively calling me. Thanks for being such a gentleman and friend – but stop being such a tease. Love Cassandra and Precious."

'A gentleman, a friend and a tease,' spun around in my head as I sat on the couch. What did that mean? My head was too much of a mess to try and figure it out, so I got my phone to call Cassandra. It was then that I noticed all the messages.

First, were a long string from Owen, asking where Cassandra was; getting more desperate with each call. I erased them, remembering I talked with Owen early in the morning just before Cassandra decided the couch wasn't comfortable enough and got in bed with me. Did I protest? Yes, but she wouldn't leave and I wasn't going to give in; it's my bed and I'll sleep in it. Not long afterwards, a blue pill did its magic and we were out until afternoon. I was quite sure all we did was sleep together and not 'sleep' together. Was that where this strange goodness was coming from? No, it was not smug enough for chivalry.

There were still more messages; a combination from Owen and Marty. Marty's were for Cassandra and Owen's were for me or her. I felt I should answer him, but the thought of how to gave me a chill. I knew my side of the conversation would be like: "Yeah, Owen, she left yuh... FOR ME? NO WAY! For some snowboarder, Marty or something. Last night? Yeah, we partied... some candy and whiskey, then passed out and slept through the day. Where did we sleep? In my bed, but we didn't fuck. How do you sleep together and not fuck? Well err, we did. CALM DOWN MAN!, she's with that Marty guy. I'm just the other, other guy. Fuck, CALL HIM!" But I didn't have to make that call. Cassandra had left a message saying she'd talked to Owen and would be drunk again tonight. I had other things to do.

I drank a Red Bull on the way to the gym. I wanted to sweat some of yesterday's booze out. Half-way through my warm-up, the memory of Cassandra coming up from a line saying: "You know I always wanted to fuck you, (sniff, sniff), ever since I met you. I even went after you, but you didn't pick up what I was putting down. You were too cool." I said to myself: 'No, I was somewhere in mushroom land. I wouldn't have noticed anyway."

Knowing Cassandra would have jumped my bones didn't fit the giddy, newness of this feeling. It was more confidence, minus the regret failing with her would leave. And it definitely wasn't the absurdity of sleeping with her without having sex when I surely could have. The absurdity was greater than that. During the last part of the workout I found myself posing in the mirrors. To my surprise, I had a flat stomach, if not left to hang out. My arms and chest had definition when flexed. The breadth of my shoulders over-shadowed the slight hourglass figure my waist being narrower than my hips created. I was a strong man from the fifties; a Schwarzenegger in a flesh sweater. I gave up wondering why I was so happy, giddy or renewed.

The street light threw the shadow of a roid monkey or cop or enforcer for bikers or the big man I was, as I walked home. My stop at home was quick. I did the three Ss (shit, shower and shave), put on the snug-fitting metro-sexual/minimalist artist-not-quite-turtleneck thin sweater I couldn't stand a month ago, and took a cap of MDA.

The first stop was Sausies for some dinner. As usual, Lisa had a beer for me before salutations were exchanged and my steak was on its way soon after.

"What you all dressed up for?" she asked.

"Nothing." I pulled at the sweater. "Never really liked it before, but thought I'd put it on today. Looks OK?"

"Yeah, looks great. What's new?"

"I got totally fucked up on whiskey and cocaine and ended up sleeping with Cassandra."

Lisa giggled. "Isn't she married to that guy Seth hates?"

"Yeah, but we didn't fuck. And she's living with some other guy."

"That's too funny. As you can see, nothing's really happening here. We're gonna close early – only have the two tables plus the regulars in the back. Wanna come for a drink at The Fringe?"

"No, I'm going downtown."

Lisa went to check the table, then to the smoking room for a quick drag. She came back with my steak, setting it in front of me. The smell triggered a memory for me and I started laughing. Lisa finished getting us beers. "What's so funny?"

"Ever since I woke up I had this, like, good feeling for no reason. How often do you feel good after a coke bender? Never. But I feel great. More like new and I have no idea why. At first I thought it was the whole absurdity of sleeping with Cassandra, but not fooling around. But the steak reminded me." I started to laugh again.

"What?"

"OK. Last night, while me and Cassandra were drinking and getting high, I decided to make some dinner; some steaks. So I asked her if she wanted any. She said, 'Yes, I'm so hungry.' 'One steak or two?' They were tenderloin, so not that big.

'I'll just have a bit of yours,' she said. 'I'm trying to lose two pounds.' I'm like, 'What the hell, you need to put on about ten pounds!' She's like, 'No, I'm trying to lose two pounds to be 98 pounds. Look how fat I am!' and she grabbed an inch of skin from her arm... just skin, no fat. Isn't that fucked!"

"Cassandra, that's the one with the nice dog?" I nodded. "She's like, tiny... that's crazy."

"Yeah, she needs to put on about 15 pounds, fill her curves out. So, with all the other shit that happened that night, like her telling me how good-looking I am and how she'd sleep with me, I took a step back. Maybe I'm doing the same as her – thinking my extra 20 pounds is two hundred. Sure, I've got a few pounds on me, I'm a big guy. But it's not like I'm that sloppy fat guy who jiggles his way to the buffet."

"You are SO NOT a fat guy... big and tall but not fat." And for the first time I believed what she said.

"I know, but I totally believed it—just as Cassandra believes she needs to lose two pounds to be attractive. How insane is that? Completely. I can't believe it took a whiskey and coke bender with a horny anorexic to see how warped my perception has been. Worse is that, if you see yourself like that, you project that energy. But not anymore. Well, I hope not anymore. At least I can see this craziness now and have a chance of heading it off. 'Cause it's like one of those things that's just there, you know?"

"Yeah I get you. So you gonna let Cassandra in on her problem?"

"How can I, it took a moment of complete absurdity and being totally out of my head for the penny to drop for me – how do you show a person what they don't want to see? Because I didn't want to see the fat, ugly me, it was easy to finish things before they started. 'Oh, have pity on me, I'm fat and ugly and can't get the girl.' It's an easy excuse we grow accustomed to living with. No, all I can do is show her the door. She has to walk through it."

Lisa rolled her eyes. "That's so trite."

"Only 'cause it's true."

"If you aren't coming with me to The Fringe, what's your plan?"

"I can't let this new thing get away. I was going to go see Janette."

"Seth told me that whole thing was finished. Something like you found a website with her on it and she got angry when you told her?"

"Well, sort of. I found this website that reviews dancers and escorts. She was reviewed in the dancer section. I wasn't going to say anything, but a customer told her about it and she asked me if it was true. I had to answer. She got angry, but I didn't know if it was at me. I assumed she was angry at me and that she believed me to be biggest pervert since Humbert Humbert or Peewee Herman. Even after she told me she doesn't care, I ran off. What an idiot I was."

"I'd agree."

"It's funny, all of that. The pervert and the fat man has everything to do with seeing only what I wanted, however insane. And the delusion is only broken by seeing the same someone I respect. Totally absurd. Cheers to the delusional Cassandra. We should get a Jaeger."

The machine buzzed, pouring two ice cold Jaegers. We chinked glasses and drank. Evil faces followed. "So yeah, I'm going to go and see her – and this time I'll take my balls." I took another gulp of beer. "You know what's really funny though?"

"What?"

"Less than a week after I told Janette about this site, the review portion for strippers was made 'members only' – before the public had the chance to view the posts again. Coincidence?"

"That is strange."

Lisa and I had a beer in the smoking room while I waited for a cab. We wondered aloud whether the media can be trusted, now that we have to support the troops with pictures of tanks in Baghdad taking up the twenty-four hour news station. We would both rather have watched hockey highlights, but the season was now officially over.

A cab arrived shortly after. I told the driver: "Don't spare the horses." But it must have been a cliché he wasn't familiar with. The drive found the only streets with traffic on a Sunday night and got stuck in it. I didn't mind, though; I wanted to get there, but wasn't in a rush. My nerves had a harder time giving into the calm of confidence than I expected.

Seats abounded in the sparsely populated club, but I still took one at the back, away from the stage and the few people present. Sunday night is my favourite day to go to any club, bar or tavern. It's the day that people who really love life are at the bar. Tonight was no different. At the pool table were some bikers, and the Indo-Canadian tough guys were at a table just behind gyno-row. Assorted drug dealers and wannabes populated gyno-row. There was none of the Friday/Saturday night party crowd; no stag parties; no business men two drinks beyond their limit. Because it was so dead, Nyet walked right up to me moments after I sat down. "Mind if I have a seat?" She put her drink on the table and sat beside me.

"Never," I replied. "How's it going?"

"It's so dead. Haven't seen or heard from you in a while. What you been doing?"

"Working. Seems I'm always having to take extra shifts 'cause someone gets sick, their car died or some other shit. And you?"

"This is it. And some family bullshit."

I held the edge of the table so I wouldn't nervously tap it. "Hey, you remember the last time I saw you?"

"Yeah."

"You know I'd never post anything on that? And I'd never do anything to hurt you?"

"Yeah, I do. And if I thought you would, I wouldn't be sitting here." She paused for a minute and had a drink. "Damian, you're a good guy."

"I'm sorry—"

She cut me off. "Don't be." I said nothing as she finished her drink. "Do you want a dance?"

"Yes, but a beer first."

"Hey, you want go for some food after that?"

"Sure."

"OK. You get a beer. I'm going to go around the room once, then back for you. Then we'll get some food."

Could a day go any better? Was it all in the perception? Probably. Who cares?

Janette didn't care about that trivial shit and neither did I. After I'd erased those thoughts my mind was clear, as I sat tapping to the rhythm of Top Forty dance music and the gangster rap the girls here favoured. My beer turned into two as Nyet seduced another. She walked behind the DJ booth with some guy. I didn't feel envious, jealous, usurped or impotent as most men would seeing their girl go up those stairs with another. There was nothing proprietary in what I felt. More like I wanted her; I loved her; but to hold her, or keep her, would take from what I wanted – from that love. I was emboldened, empowered and inspired as she went upstairs with another guy. I knew she'd be back for me.

Nyet came back and took me upstairs where, as had happened so often lately, the rules were broken and we made out like teenagers under bleachers. As always, the song ended too soon and Nyet was putting her corset, skirt and panties back on as I fished for my wallet. Nyet put the money in her Betty Boop lunchbox and said: "I'm gonna get some clothes and my stuff. I'll be down in five."

It was a long five minutes, but Janette made it downstairs. From across the bar she beckoned me to follow her out the back door. Once outside she asked: "Where should we go Damian?"

"Been thinking about that. But on a Sunday at, what, ten o'clock?"

I was corrected. "10:36."

"Yes, 10:36; there aren't too many choices. Denny's and Fresco's on Davies will be open."

"But I want a drink and I'm sure you are, too."

"I'd say The Cambie, Bourbon or Lamp Lighter. I can't think of any other places close enough. Most restaurants are closed by now."

"I want food, too... but I hate the food at The Cambie. The rest don't have food."

"The Cambie's not that bad."

She huffed. "Fine... to The Cambie."

We were too loud and happy for a Sunday in this part of town. But there was no one to stop us. A police crackdown had kept the streets of the Downtown Eastside relatively vacant. A cop car did drive slowly past us as I smoked a joint; its lights lit up, but then it sped off.

Yes, the cops' crackdown had kept more junkies and homeless people off the street. However, the street was far from safe. Only the desperate ones and people like us were on it. Removed was the easy, normal prey for the desperate, other junkies. So the desperate were forced to move a step up the food chain and take bigger game. We had nothing to worry about; I was too big.

As we approached Prime Time Chicken, I jokingly said: "How about chicken, 60-cent drumsticks?"

"Yeah, the guy who owns the place just opened a bar on the other side of the place." I laughed as we crossed the street. Prime Time Chicken is good – but only when you're drunk enough not to ask how chicken can be sold at that price. I stopped laughing when she said: "Look, it's open 'til 1:30. Let go in. I haven't been in since I lived on the street."

The inside was nice. Too nice for this part of town. The tables were new, made of pine with a light finish, and the walls had a similar pine veneer. The place was bright—much brighter than most Canadian bars. Finding a seat was easy. All but those at the bar were empty. One of the three people at the bar grumbled something incoherent as we sat at a table. The owner of the place came from around the bar to get our order immediately. He looked like a rooster; tall, thin and sporting a red mullet. The music playing was from the same era as his hairstyle, but it played at a volume no hair band would approve of; rock needs to be loud. We got two double rum and cokes and a mess of chicken and fries. It all came at the same time, as the food was brought from the other shop where it sat cooked under hot lamps.

Finishing her last drumstick, Janette said with a mouthful: "Damn, that's good chicken."

"Yeah, the fries aren't bad too. But it's the gravy to dip 'em in that's the best. Trevor will actually buy gravy just to drink."

"I told you he's a psycho."

Janette turned to get a bartender's attention and ordered two more drinks. The same guy at the bar yelled something in our direction again. Janette sucked up the last of her drink.

"So how's that writing course coming along?" I didn't say anything right away. "I told you to sign up for it. You did sign up for it?"

"Err, yeah... it's, well, OK."

"What do you do in it? What does the instructor say?"

"We read pieces of what we're writing and the five others, including the instructor, critique it. He, the instructor, doesn't say I'm bad per se – but with comments like 'you need to find your voice' or 'your characters are caricatures and need to be fleshed out more,' it's easy to see his opinion."

"What's his claim to fame?"

"Oh, he's been published by a big-time publisher in the States once. And he's a pompous prick with a huge ego. Worse, he thinks he's a sailor and every time I say something I struggle not to kiss his ass by inviting him sailing. It's bad enough I bought his book."

"Is it good?"

"So far it's just a book. It's not my normal thing. I guess you'd call it crime fiction."

"I stick to sci-fi."

"Me too. I guess that's why he sees my characters as caricatures – sci-fi isn't known for its character studies. Whatever my thoughts on the course overall, there is a class on how to get published, so I'm sure I'll get something from that."

"You should take him sailing. A lot of the time it's not what you know but who you know."

"Yeah, I know. But I don't like to take people who appreciate it for the status of the club or expensive yachts. I get the impression he's a wannabe snob, as he's always wears a sports jacket."

"What about the rest of the class, what do they think?"

"Most like it, but I get the feeling that they like mine so I'll also like theirs. I don't trust their opinions."

She looked right at me. "Print it out for me, I'll read it. But I have to warn you, I'll be honest."

"Once it's finished you can read it. The class has been good. It's got me writing again, even if it is to spite the instructor when I get published. You know all the best novels are written from spite?"

"No, but I can see how it might be the case." Janette stood up. "I need a smoke."

I got up too. As I did, the guy at the bar turned. "Hey! Stop looking at me, I got warrants." This time his speech was rather clear, but at the detriment of his balance. His chair wobbled and he would have fallen off it if the guy next to him hadn't applied a steadying hand.

Janette smiled. "Lookin' at you, I'd rather look at a pile of shit." The guy mumbled something, then turned back to his beer. We walked towards the door with me on his side and Janette on the other. Janette looked at the bartender. "Just going for a smoke. We'll be back."

"Quit looking at me!" The drunk yelled again as we headed outside. He made three steps towards me, as I got ready to lay him out, before hitting a chair, then a table and going down hard. I did nothing as Janette began to laugh. The bartender and the guy next to the drunk came around the bar to help him. "Don't worry about it, he goes off like this every so often," the bartender reassured us "Always falls before hitting anyone and only hurts himself. Luckily there were no glasses on the table."

Outside, we were in hysterics, laughing at the scene. It only got funnier as the friend of the drunk tried to walk him home. The drunk continually insisted he was sober and that they should get another pint – though his friend was having to hold him up. The drunk tripped every third step and made his slightly less drunk friend stumble, to keep them from both falling. Then, in the middle of deserted street, the drunk stopped to take a leak without telling his friend. His friend yelled: "You pissed on my pants, you bastard!" and left him there.

Inside, we regained our composure. Janette continued where we'd left off. "So spite is going to be your key to success?"

"No, it doesn't inspire the ideas behind the book, only the writer. I guess I'm spiteful because I don't feel I'm getting any respect from him. I do have quite a few things published – and someday I'll show you where."

Sarcastic was too light a dressing for what she put on it. "Yes, the great but enigmatic works of Damian Johnson or did your nom de plume, Colin Powel, write it between speeches to the U.N. on WMDs?"

"Yes, I deserve that. What about you, still thinking of going to that therapeutic massage school?"

"Not anytime soon. I want to, but I can't."

"Surely you could save enough for at least a semester."

"If it were only a money problem." She waited for me to say something. I said nothing. "I told you I lived on the street for a while, right?" I nodded. "Well, I didn't run off because my parents wouldn't let me smoke pot in my room or stay out late. I had a damn good reason to leave." She fidgeted for a moment, then got the attention of the bartender. Then said to me: "Can you get these I got to use the little girl's room?"

The drinks came and Janette sat back down. "God, every time I look back on my life I get the feeling I'm watching an afternoon special. It's sad, wrong but far too clichéd. Stop me if I'm boring you. When I was like five, I started to become the kid from hell. You could push me and I'd push harder. My grandmother's approach to controlling me was to discipline with a wooden spoon. I hate the Old Russian Bitch to this day. I would only listen to my mother or father, Fred." Fred was said with malice behind it. "But they were at work most of the time. So all I did was fight with the old bitch. That's where I got my nickname Nyet. She just shortened, 'Nyet Janette!' or 'No Janette' to 'Nyet' or 'No', as everything I did was wrong. I lied whenever I could and got in trouble because I could. I hoped that my actions would cause my parents to get someone else to take care of me and my sister. But it never happened. By high school my parents had no trust in me and I was the bad girl at my school."

She paused for a moment and looked around, then took a large drink. "Around then, Fred got laid-off from his mill job and started to drink. At least, that was when Fred started to drink at home. Before then, Fred would come home shit-faced three times a week or not come home at all on weekends. The odd time Fred would come home – and hit mom or me, though that was rare – he was all repentant the next day. But once Fred was on E.I., he'd stay home drinking all day, sometimes with the Old Russian Bitch. Mom ended up taking as much over-time as she could. She hoped he'd get a job. He didn't. Fred would say: 'I can't look for work all the time,' or, 'it's a recession, no-one is hiring.' Then have the first drink of the day, so he couldn't look for a job. Fred got more out of control the longer he drank and punishment for me and mom was a back-hand across the face or a belt across the back. In Grade Ten, I got suspended for a week for mouthing off at a teacher. By the second day I was drinking with my dad. The Old Russian Bitch had quite the painkiller addiction and, after a shot or two of vodka with dad, would sleep the rest of the day.

Again she stopped, looked around and started again in a softer, slightly more wavering voice. "He drank beer with vodka shots every hour or if something caused him to need a drink. Little me could have about three beers, which left me shit-faced. Add a shot or two and I'd pass. Fred then fucked me." Janette revealed this in a matter-of-fact tone, with no emotion just force; like a nuclear bomb. I choked and had to cough for a minute. "You OK now?"

She patted me on the back, had a drink and resumed. "I woke up once, but I couldn't believe what was happening. The next time I skipped school and got drunk, Fred couldn't wait until I'd passed out. He knew how to get me to do anything. He then threatened next time to go to my sister's room – my 10-year-old sister. For a short time, Fred's threat kept me compliant. I was saving my sister from the same fate. It wasn't long before I realized I wasn't saving my sister; Fred would do the same to her once I left home. So I ratted him out, told every person I could – from my mom to the school counselor. The Old Russian Bitch defended her son, saying she was with Fred all the time and there was no way it could happen. She was there... passed out in the next room. With that, the other lies I'd spun and trouble I'd been in – drugs, drinking, shop-lifting, fights and boys – meant no-one believed me. I don't blame them; I was a bad-ass. They wanted me to go for counseling and possibly a special school. I only had one choice: to run away. So I did."

She paused. I sat, dumbstruck, wondering if anything I could say would help or even have enough weight to show how I felt. "I lived on the streets, people's couches, the beach and with older boyfriends. It wasn't fun, but it was the easy way out. I should have stayed home to help my sister. I couldn't stop him from going after her when I wasn't there. Fred had already done the worst he could to me. I could have got him somehow if I'd stayed. But I didn't, and Fred tried it with her when she was like 14. Sarah's a good girl; smart, good in school and doesn't get in trouble. Mom believed her instantly—aided by the fact that, by then, the Old Russian Bitch was rotting in hell."

Janette sniffled. "Fred didn't get very far, but I could have stopped it. It wouldn't have been easy, but I could've kept her from that, if only I wasn't so selfish. I took the easy way out. Since Fred left, I've helped support them with money from dancing. They think I'm a waitress at swanky restaurant making good tips."

The sadness turned to anger after a drink. "Now, that bastard Fred is trying to get back in their lives. He's stopped drinking, found God, has a good job and thinks he should be forgiven. Some things can't ever be forgiven. But Mom still has a thing for him she can't shake – and Fred's been trying to buy her forgiveness. At least Fred knows that if he sets foot in that house, I'll charge him and get Sarah to as well. As long as Sarah is living there, I'm going to make sure I help them out as much as I can. So I'm going to have to keep dancing until Sarah moves out – and maybe for a time after that. I don't want Fred to jump in and get the satisfaction of paying for Sarah's tuition. I could kill Fred, but I'd be the prime suspect."

"Janette, how can you beat yourself up about something so out of your control? Shit, helping your mom and sister like that is unbelievable. All I do is bring a dog to the old folks' home every month to see my senile mom – and I thought I was a good son."

"Everyone says that. You don't understand."

"Seriously?"

She stopped me with a, "Whatever." And finished her drink. "Hey, what time is it?"

I looked at the clock behind the bar. "11:50."

"Fucking Sundays, the SkyTrain stops running at 12:30, we should get going."

We walked up the dead streets, talking about books, the weather and other stuff. Not far from the bar we rounded a corner where there was a demonstration camped out, calling for more low income housing and assistance for the growing homeless population. We walked on the street across from it, so as not to disturb the people sleeping in makeshift shelters and lean-tos under the awning of the old Woodward's building. I stopped Janette at the middle of the block and pointed to a handmade banner. "Read the banner."

'The Poor are Revolving.' We both tilted our heads in confusion, like the dog on the RCA commercials, and giggled.

"Shouldn't it be the Poor Revolt?"

"Yeah... I don't know?"

"Do you think it's meant to be a double-entendre?"

"I'm not sure. If they don't know it is, a lack of education may be the problem."

The protesters that were awake were too concerned with getting high to worry about the syntax of their signage. We went on our way to the station. A block further on Janette's cellphone rang. She answered and after a: "It's all good. I'm on my way, just stopped for some food with a friend." She hung up. I didn't look to her or ask who it was, but she quickly brought me up-to-speed. "That was my ex checking up on me."

"Isn't that a bit strange?"

"Well it could be, but we're good friends. We still live together. It's nice that he calls – especially if I'm late – since I'm around this part of town a lot."

I couldn't help the dejection in my voice. "Sounds great."

"We're just really good friends. We're so beyond the couple thing. He sees who he wants and I see who I want. It's a good set-up. We should always have been roommates. And we're never around at the same time. I'm a night person; he's at work all day."

We found something else to talk about on the way up to the SkyTrain platform. Our chat was cut short by the sound of an approaching train. Janette gave me a quick peck on the cheek and hug, then ran for the train. She made it on and I began to wander, wondering what had happened.

What had happened had definitely been good. I felt like I was wandering the streets all night or at least walking home, but my phone rang a few minutes later. I didn't know the number and, for two rings, I was sure it was Janette calling from her home phone.

"Hello?"

"I've been trying to call you but I lost your number," Cassandra said.

"So how did you get it?"

"I called Trevor, but he wouldn't answer 'til after midnight."

"Yeah, his phone will only ring if I call when he's asleep."

"Damian," Cassandra pouted into the phone, "I'll trade you Precious for Trevor. I walk him, feed him and force him to do my bidding. Please? Pretty please with me on top? You know I'll treat him like shit, as should be the case."

"No, he can do so much more than Precious... and if I wanted you on top I'd have taken you yesterday."

"Fine, be that way. If you feel like being nice you can come to my restaurant. My new lover – the owner's son – and some others are watching Kubrick films and drinking. Be quick, we're on the last one, 2001."

"What's the address again?" I flagged down a cab and promptly forgot the address. It wasn't a problem, as I'd been there before and got dropped off at Commercial SkyTrain station. I got my bearings and almost walked straight into Janette, who was come in my direction, head down. "Janette! Crazy to see you here."

"Yeah. Are you like stalking me or something?"

"No... no! Not at all. Just a coincidence. I'm going to a buddy's restaurant to watch some movies."

"I'm joking."

"Wanna come?"

She intently looked towards a side street. "Give me a minute... I err... gotta see someone."

"OK." She walked down the side street quickly and got into an idling black Acura. I thought nothing of it. A couple of minutes later she was walking towards me as the car drove off.

"So, what movie are you going to watch?"

"2001. It's at the place my friend Cassandra works. There will be booze."

"Tempting, but I'm pretty bagged. The rum and coke's got to me. And, to be honest, I hate that movie. Not tonight. Earlier was great. Give me a call." I got another hug and peck.

I found the restaurant and sat down in the back with a few people very seriously watching 2001. Thankfully, Cassandra brought me a pitcher of beer. 2001 is not a movie I consider to be good.

Disinterested in the movie, I thought about what had happened a few minutes earlier when I'd bumped into Janette. It wasn't odd seeing her around this neighbourhood, as it is hers – and she is a night person. But the car, a black Acura with wicked rims, blacked-out windows and possibly lowered said dial-a-dope. OK, she bought some green to get a good night's sleep. Of course, she'd never smoked any weed with me. Certainly, if it were marijuana, she'd have shown me and let me smell the ganja or smoke a jay with her after the pickup. But she said nothing about that. Maybe she was paying off a debt? Doubtful. Guys who sell dope out of black Acuras – or any delivery service for that matter – do not deal solely in chronic– it does not make enough money. Usually, they'll sell coke and E too, with many also flogging heroine and/or meth. Fewer still boot liquor and sell various prescription pills. Which was Janette getting? Or was it more innocent; perhaps she was buying for her ex, a friend or being the middle woman for someone else. There were too many options and combinations that I wanted to discuss with Cassandra or anyone. I wanted someone to tell me what I saw was not what I thought – and the one person who could definitely tell me that was the one I would never ask.

I needed a harder drink after listening to these geeks discuss the greatness of 2001 with only beer. Cassandra had the right idea supping JD at the bar while cashing out. We drank whiskey. Cassandra reassured me that Janette was not a drug addict. We drank more whiskey. I assured Cassandra I would drink with her in Montreal once she was settled there in the fall. We had one more glass of whiskey. We made plans to go sailing before Cassandra left for Montreal. There was no more whiskey. We left.

18.

"Man, you look like death, Damian. Gotta love the first night of graveyards; fucks you up good and proper. You're lucky, though. If one of the other guards was cleaning the First Aid room for the first three hours of the shift I would've taken a picture and blackmailed him." When Mike referred to cleaning the First Aid room, he meant sleeping on its cot.

"I'll be fine when the coffee kicks in." I finished the cup of coffee. "Three, plus a Red Bull and I still need toothpicks to keep my eyes open. What can I do for you?"

"We need some pictures of a trailer that wasn't loaded properly. Everything in it is fucked. The assholes at the store didn't put the load bar in and everything bounced around the trailer."

"I'll get the camera."

We got to the trailer and started taking photos of the broken merchandise. The hour before lunch was taken up filling out the paperwork – reporting that the store that sent this to our warehouse was responsible for the damaged products. When 4am came, we were still filling out the records for damaged merchandise. The whole time Mike muttered to himself that Peter the yard guy did this as a laugh, because never had any unsecured load been so damaged – even after a cross country trip. Mike was livid when we got to lunch ten minutes late. He yelled at Peter sitting in the lunch room. "Why the fuck did you shake the shit out of that trailer?"

"I wanted to know what was in it, Dad," Peter replied.

"We spent half the night on that!"

"Don't get your panties in a pinch – we get paid by the hour and the shit in the trailers is insured."

"You don't get it. I'll get in shit for using overtime."

"You don't get it. Son, the trailer from that store is never loaded right and sending them notes hasn't worked. When the manager of that store gets your bill they'll secure the load right way. Rock and Roll saves the day."

"I should write you up for insubordination."

"Before you do that Mike, change your pants. Those baggy ones make it look like you've shat yourself. Your mother dresses you funny." Peter got back to reading his paper, but not for long.

"Look, those cocksuckers in Ottawa are going to let gays get married. What's happening to our fucking country? First they disarm the army; then they let any criminal fucker from any backwater country come here as a 'political refugee'; they make everything so politically correct you can't have an opinion; and now this bullshit. What's next? Letting Scotsmen marry their sheep?" There were some sympathetic groans from the older guys.

Ron, an older guy, spoke up. "I don't know why the fuck they'd wanna marry – I've had three wives and all I got from them are letters saying my alimony is late."

Danny, a young Pole, jumped in. "It's not only wrong in the Bible, it's also bad for society. Being gay may not be a crime, but it's easy to see that it's not good for society. It's like smoking – a bad habit not to be encouraged. And letting them get married encourages it."

"Drinking and driving aren't good for society, but I don't see you or your family stopping anytime soon." Mike joked.

Danny rebutted. "It's different. Part of our heritage. And how can you get to the liquor store if you're too drunk to walk? You have to drive."

Richy piped in. "I don't get it. It's like pot, man... smoking it is illegal, but it doesn't hurt anyone. Gays getting married doesn't hurt any of us. They should be allowed. I was raised Christian and I don't think being gay is a Christian thing – though neither is smoking pot, according to my pastor. So sure... let them get married – by whoever will marry them. But it's not like they'll be married in the eye of my church's God – and I'm certain my pastor would never marry a gay couple."

Mark, a quiet religious guy who took the Protestant work ethic too seriously – and thus was still working graveyard shifts while deciding if Pastoral School was the right direction – took notice of the conversation. Normally, Mark only silently laughed at our dick and fart jokes and never engaged in any of the nightshift's ludicrous banter. But, for the first time, he spoke up. "Like it or not, Canada was founded by Christians and our ideals. It's false to say we're not a Christian country. Marriage is a sacred religious union, while homosexuality is against Christian beliefs, as the story of Sodom and Gomorrah shows. To allow the right of marriage to a group that go against Christian morals is an affront to God. And certainly religious people of any faith see it the same way."

"Canada is a Christian country? Give me a break. Go tell that to Chinatown," Mike admonished. "This country is based on the Charter of Rights, which may have some of its ancestry in Christian morality, but is not about the rights of any one group. Rather, it's about the rights we all have – whether Christian or Sodomite."

"Fucking Trudeau's Charter of Rights was only a concession to the Frogs," Peter retorted. "Go and ask a veteran what they fought the Nazis for."

"Freedom; that's what my granddad always said," pitched in Richy.

Jerry opened the door to the smoking pit and yelled inside: "Fuck gay marriage – it's just another way to increase fucking taxes and I won't vote for that shit."

"How would they raise taxes? Married people pay less." Mike rolled his eyes.

"Raise the fucking price of marriage licenses and the bastards would sell more of 'em." Jerry then closed the door.

Brian smiled, rocking from side-to-side as he said: "I don't really like gays but, in a way, it's good for us straight guys; the more gay guys there are, the more women there are for us." He had a hard time saying that without breaking into laughter – but did so immediately after. A few others laughed, too.

"But seriously guys," Peter said. "Who here would vote for that shit?"

Hands rose for both sides. The count came to a draw. But more didn't rise at all. "Look at that – the TV's right; this generation's full of apathetic fuckers. Just like the last election, where most people didn't vote. Pathetic. I would've thought that a socially conscious bastard like Damian would have at least taken a side – but I guess he's just a whiny cunt with nothing to say when it matters."

"To be honest, Pete, some things shouldn't be talked about around the dinner table and I was thinking about something else. I was thinking about sodomy." That got everyone's attention. "Or rather fucking girls in the ass; like half of all the porno is about ass fucking—so there's got to be something to it. Me, I've never really been into it – but I've met girls who love it. How many of you like poundin' your girl in the ass?"

Darin smiled and said: "Whenever I can get her drunk enough."

Everyone laughed. I repeated my question. "How many of you like to ass-fuck your girl? That includes if you want to, but she doesn't. Let's see those hands."

About six or so put up their hands, including Peter. "Looks like half of you are sinners, 'cause last time I looked sodomy was a sin and illegal in earlier days."

Peter fumed: "I can see what you're getting at Damian, but there's a big difference."

I cut Peter off. "Last time I looked, an asshole was an asshole whether male or female; an ass is an ass."

Darin defensively said: "But there's a big difference between giving it to my girl and getting it from some guy."

Mike sardonically added: "So you're only gay if you're catching?"

"No, you're gay if you're doing it with a guy," Darin said.

I threw another wrench in the works. "How about if a girl gives it to a guy with a strap-on or strokes his prostate with her fingers? Lots of guys will say that's the bomb... the best orgasm ever."

"That's deviant shit," Peter spat. "You go and watch more of that kinky shit on Showcase and keep it at home." The ensuing silence suggested the rest had reached their limit of depravity.

I brought the argument back. "Yeah, I agree, Peter. And as I said, I stick strictly to the pussy/dick relationship and don't want the dick/ass one. A pussy has always been tight enough for me. But it seems to me that gay and straight doesn't really exist – rather it's a matter of those who like to ass-fuck and those who don't. And you, as an avid ass- fucker, should not throw stones at your ass-fucking buddies."

Peter got up from the table saying: "You know Damian, if you had something more to do then hold the chair to the floor in your office you wouldn't have to think about such profane things. I've got real work to do. Rent a cop."

I couldn't let Peter have the last word. "Like figuring out how to get the old lady drunk?"

Peter addressed Steve the General Manager who looked stunned at the entrance to the lunch room. "Eh Steve, it doesn't look like mornings are your thing. Go home and get some sleep. And you won't want to read the paper either, morality's gone out the window again. They want to let gays marry. See you later mate. Gotta get back at her."

Steve addressed us all and put his lunch in the fridge as the crew shuffled back to work. "Hey Damian, can I get your help. There's a training session in here at 5:30 and we need to get the coffee on the table and projector up right away."

I helped Steve arrange the room, while talking about fishing, then hid in my office 'til my shift was over. The graveyard crew got off and left the building, with Mark bringing up the rear as usual. But what wasn't usual was when Mark asked: "Damian, you got a Jetta too?"

"Yeah, but I hardly drive it."

"Come outside. I gotta question, but I can't describe it."

"Sure," I went outside with Mark.

Not far outside the door he stopped me. "It's not really about my car, but I didn't want to tell you in front of John or the others."

"You know anything you tell me or John is confidential, right?'

"Yes."

"What's up?"

"OK. It's not to do with theft or anything like that, but I thought I should tell you. Steve came up to me after lunch and wanted me to write a statement saying that you offended me with that conversation during lunch." I struggled to stay nonchalant. "I don't approve or care for the kind of talk you guys have at lunch. But if I were offended by it, I'd tell you at the time. In fact, I found your argument today quite funny, if a little too crude for my taste. I refused to write any statement and told him that I wasn't offended. I added that, although the conversation was crude, as far as I was concerned, it didn't cross the line of being offensive towards any one group. And that's that."

There was a silence for a second.

"Well, that's good to know. And as you know, if you're ever offended, just say so and we'll tone it down. I've always respected your resilience. You're a stand-up guy for telling me this... but why tell me?

Mark bit his lower lip for a second. "Well... I got the feeling that there's more to this than meet's the eye. I got the feeling he was very angry. I feel this won't end with me and I'd be the most obvious person to point the finger at if something came of it."

"Are you saying Steve is trying to get me? Why?"

"No. It's just a feeling I have, that's all. And I wanted to let you know."

"Thanks man. I'll see you tonight."

"No problem." Mark nodded and walked to his car. I turned back and waited out the clock in my office.

Early in my shift the next night, I was sitting outside a fire door when the radio crackled. "Lost Sheep, Lost Sheep, Lost Sheep... Den Mother, Den Mother... come in Lost Sheep."

"Whats up Den Mother?" I answered.

"The oracle of Delphi has shown me an evil prophecy... what is your 20 Lost Sheep?"

"Fire Door 18, outside."

"10-4, I'll meet you there in Oh, a second... Den Mother over-and-out." The diesel engine roared from somewhere at the end of the yard. It grew louder and the light from the truck blinded me as Peter turned into the space between the trailers where the fire-exit was. I sat not moving, as Peter played his game of chicken; stopping the truck inches from me. He turned the engine off, climbed onto the front side of the yard goat and sat down. "So we ruffled some feathers, eh?"

"Yeah, I got a strange message from Mark that Steve's up to something."

"That low-life Steve stood right at the door listening to you spout off and didn't have the decency or courage to tell it to your face. No, he weasels around seein' if others will point the finger so he's not the spineless rat. Even came to me asking if I was offended. Of course, I said it offended my intelligence when he was promoted to management and, since being desensitized by that, nothing – however deplorable – has offended me since. He got pissed, but he ain't my manager."

"I heard. I'm sure I'll hear from others. It's the one I don't hear from that's gonna get it – an eye for an eye, you know?"

"Let me tell you what a little birdie told me – and damn that birdie was fine in my day. Knew it, too; knew what VPL was, too."

"What's VPL?"

"Visible Panty Lines. Today's chicks give too much away with g-strings pulled right up the crack of their asses and above the belt-line. Uncovered midriffs, low rider pants – it's all too, too much. Gina was a fox back in the day; I nearly split with the wife 'cause of her. But it turned out they were good friends, too—if you catch my drift? Anyhow, she's good friends with Steve's assistant. Last night, Gina called up my wife about something and it came out that Steve couldn't find anyone to rat you out so he did it himself. He was so pissed that no-one would come forward when asked, that he insisted you be written up for a policy breach. Monica from HR will be in early to see you."

"What fucking policy breach! Fuck, we only give those for workplace violence. What an asshole."

"Too bad everyone stuck up for ya. If they hadn't, Steve would not have put you on such a short leash."

"So now that bastard can listen for anything I say that could be construed as offensive, harassing or whatever and have me shit-canned. What a fucker."

I held my face in my hands wondering if this was just the beginning; if he wanted me out for other reasons. But more in my mind was getting him. 'This was all bullshit,' I thought. 'I did his dirty work with the only expectation that he gave me some freedom. John knew that and looked the other way when he needed to. Fucking six years toadying for this company with no real pay rise, better hours or benefits—and he attacks me for some bullshit? Fuck him.'

"Don't take it so hard. It's a message and in a few weeks it'll find a way out of your file."

"A message always needs a reply – an eye-for-an-eye kind of reply. I've got more people disciplined for harassment than Schwarzenegger's copped feels. I'll get him, too."

"Old Steve didn't get to where he is because of talent; he did it by eliminating the competition."

I smiled at that. "You don't know who my dad is, do you?"

"What?"

"Nothing. This kind of shit, it's in my genes. You'll see."

The radio interrupted us. "Peter the Sleeper, Peter the Sleeper, Peter the Sleeper, this is your employer... come in Peter."

The radio said this a few times. Peter reached a hand through the open cab window and turned the radio off.

"Fucking jack-asses. Working too hard for a man that shat on us?" my radio interrupted us this time. "Do us a favour and turn that shit off."

"Can't do that, I'm the First Aid guy."

The radio spoke again. "Damian, you out there?"

"Yeah."

"Can you find and wake Peter? We got shit to do."

"Err Mike, I'm pretty sure he's off getting fuel for the goat."

Peter stood up. "Thanks for reminding me the goat's nearly empty – and I need a good coffee." Peter climbed back into the yard tractor, revved her up and deafened me with a blast from the horn.

The night was spent thinking of ways to get Steve – but all of them were too far- fetched to pursue. Anyway, retribution was still just a dream. In reality I'd do as I'd always done... take my lumps.

At around six, Monica from HR arrived.

"The coffee I put on for you and John should be ready," I said. "You want some?"

"Huh... coffee?" Monica replied, sounding flustered. "Sure. Err, who told you John and I were going to be in?"

"Knowing this kind of stuff is part of our job description. I know everything that happens around here. Sorry for creating all that paperwork for you and forcing you in so early. The coffee's in the lunchroom."

"Oh, it's nothing. I was thinking of starting earlier anyhow. There's almost no traffic. Call me when John gets here." Monica headed off, apparently lunch-room-bound.

Sometime after six John wandered in.

"John, it's not like you to be late. Monica's already here. There's coffee in the lunch-room."

"Don't give me that attitude – I'm only here 'cause of your shit. Go take a seat in the conference room."

"Sure thing, boss." I replied, adding a mock salute in parting.

On the way to the conference room I wondered how I'd deal with the write-up. I'd thought the wheel of what-to-do would stop. Still, my mind was churning through the whole spectrum of possible responses; from flying into a rage and quitting to apparently surrendering completely before cooling off and concocting sweet revenge. Disinterested defiance was what I settled on as Monica and John came in.

"Damian, I never thought I'd have to discipline you for such a tactless act. But here we are."

Sounding as disinterested as I was, Monica added: "So you understand why you're here?"

"The real reason or the tactful one?"

John brushed me back. "Damian, you've been to enough of these things to know that juvenile antics will not help you. Sign the paper, say you're sorry and don't do it again."

"Juvenile was how the person who didn't voice their disgust directly to me acted. And how can I apologize to an anonymous person? As for this not happening again, well, I'll try ensure that's the case – but the purpose of this write-up was to give Mr. Anonymous more control over me and, by John's need for me, him. But hey, now I'm under the microscope I'll act as I do when on the day shift—and remember who doesn't have my back when something dirty needs to be done."

Monica rolled her eyes. "Damian, you know this is all just a procedure and nothing personal. Everyone here knows your value to the company and respects your dedication to the job. However, you crossed a line in our Code of Conduct and this is the only course of action we can take – our hands are tied. So sign the letter and don't let it happen again."

I took the letter and began to read it. John pushed me to sign. "Two words—there at the bottom: Damian Johnson. Then I can get to Timmy's for breakfast."

I read slower, then read it over again before finally saying: "I feel gypped. Every other time I've been at a conduct write up the lucky guy either got a paid suspension or at least avoided having to work the graveyard shift before his case was dealt with. There's something in the policy manual about not having to work until HR has seen the employee in a conduct case."

"Tell it to your union rep. Oh I forgot, there isn't one." John got an evil look from Monica for that jab.

At the bottom of the letter was the most aggravating thing; a spot for the General Manager Steve to sign and his previously signed signature. I was tempted to write Mr. Anonymous under it, but thought better of it—knowing it may hinder any chance for revenge. But I did say: "Mr. Anonymous is not here to sign off on this letter of discipline." I got a synchronized 'huh' in response. "Steve – he's the management rep. and needs to sign off on this; yet how can he if he's not here?"

"I'm taking his place," John announced.

"I want it written on this letter that he wasn't here in person to sign this letter," I said.

"What does that matter?" a frustrated Monica replied.

"Hey, I'm just sticking up for process and truth. If he's not here I want it known."

I wrote down in my comments that Steve wasn't present at the meeting, then initialed and dated it. "Now you two, initial and date my comment."

"Yeah, right," John smirked.

"If you guys are going to do this to me – 'cause it's all you can do for this particular breach of policy – I want it done right; or at least an accurate record of who was here and who wasn't. If you don't initial and sign, I'll go to Regional and ask why the correct procedure wasn't followed on a serious matter." There was a silence. "I'm not joking."

"Fine," spat Monica. They both initialed the letter and I was sure it would go straight into HR's locked files without Steve knowing about the statement saying he wasn't at the disciplinary meeting.

Without a management and HR representative at a write-up for misconduct I knew it wasn't official. John was only a supervisor, not management. If ever I was to have another write-up, I could just demand to see my file and show the first letter to Regional HR – and thus couldn't be fired. It maybe wasn't revenge, per se – but at least I now had recourse should Steve try anything again.

19.

Revenge was still on my mind as I washed my dad's boat during my day off. It wasn't a scheduled day off, but I took one in lieu of the suspension I never received. John had probably tried to sucker someone in to doing my shift, before finding out that I was the only person who could reliably take an extra shift at short notice. The fact John would most likely have to arrange two twelve-hour shifts, using overtime Steve hated to give, was a small slice of revenge. However, the reality was that revenge was more of a candy to be sucked on than a fruit I could pick.

I was contemplating putting the jib on roller furling, then finding someone to go for an afternoon sail with. That plan was thrown out the window though, as the wind on this overcast spring day shifted from a westerly to an easterly breeze – signaling rain. Below deck, I found a rum and coke and had nothing else pressing to do. So I began calling to see who'd be into a night of drinking. First I tried Trevor, but he didn't want to miss work twice in one month. Seth was already going to dinner with Lisa, though I was welcome to tag along... but that didn't appeal. I called Cassandra but was unable to get through, as the number I called was apparently not hers; which was strange, as it was written on a card from her restaurant... by her. Moments later I got a call from her on the very same that number.

"Sorry Damian – Owen's been calling every five minutes and Diam thought you were calling for him. It's been crazy," Cassandra sighed.

"Why? What's going on?"

"I've decided to make that move back to Montreal in a few weeks – and he's gone insane, thinking I'm going to divorce him."

"Are you?"

"I don't know, but at the end of the summer I'll have a better idea. Having said that, if he keeps on calling it may make my mind up sooner."

"Sounds like a good reason to come out drinking with me."

"Believe me, I want to, but I'm going to Whistler with Marty tomorrow and need to work tonight."

"You'll have to come sailing before you leave."

"Certainly. And we'll have to go to The Peel, too."

"We will."

"Hey, if you're out late drop by the restaurant – it'll be dead."

"OK."

I looked through my cell directory to see if there were any other people I could persuade to get hammered with me on short notice. Of course there were – but I didn't want to spend time with any of them; or, more specifically, my money on any of them. The only person I really wanted to see would likely have to work.

"Strange, I was thinking of calling you Damian." Janette's answer threw me off and I couldn't think of anything to say. "Damian, there's no point in crank calling someone if you don't block your number – and they're no fun if you do nothing. At least do some heavy breathing."

"Sorry." I started to breathe heavily down the phone. "How was that?"

"Better. So you're calling me to see if I want to go see Life Aquatic?"

"It was going to be a more general Wanna do something? But now it's Life Aquatic."

"Sure. The one at five on Burrard. We'll get some food after but I gotta go to work at nine. Cool?"

"Cool."

"You get the tickets, as I'll be fashionably late... as usual. See ya later." Janette hung up.

I checked the time; only a couple of hours to get there.

I sat on the edge of a potted tree in front of the theatre taking discrete tokes from my pipe, with the sky spitting on me – trying desperately to resist the urge to call Janette. It was only ten past five. Minutes later, she surprised me from behind. We headed up the escalators. At the top we were confronted by a multitude of food choices that were not of the traditional popcorn and candy variety. Every fast food place—with Pepsi as its parent—was there. We settled on KFC, then rushed to watch the last five minutes of trailers.

"Why are they called trailers?" Janette inquired. "Surely they should be called previews, as they come on before the movie. Like, duh!" She said this while taking the top off her drink, then pulled a 40 oz. bottle of vodka out of her bag and topped the three-quarter full large drink with it. Then took a sip.

"Whoa! That's got some zip," she said, stirred it with her straw.

She looked at me. "Here, give me yours and hold mine." She took the top off and saw it was too full to pour anything into. "Damian, you're supposta drink some."

She then poured a quarter of the drink out by the seat next to her and filled it with vodka. "Your drink." I took the drink but had to force it down. We watched the movie eating popcorn chicken and drinking vodka and coke. My kind of movie – and I didn't even bring the booze.

It was preordained that the washroom would be the first thing we'd hit following the movie, so we met up at the escalator after that.

"What did you think of the movie Janette?"

"Made me want to go out on a boat. I was a bit disappointed that the story was essentially the same as their other movie, though... except this time set on a boat. It felt like I was watching it for the third time, only with a different backdrop."

"Yeah, it was a lot like The Royal Tanenbaums. But closely mirroring Cousteau's last documentary – where his son and financer die in a helicopter crash – seemed to be in bad taste. Even if funny."

"I liked the end, with the whole 'it's too fantastic to describe' undertone."

"Yeah. Really gave a sense of the ocean's wonder."

"Or was that the vodka?"

"Could've been."

We walked outside and stopped before the awning due to a downpour. "Shit, it's pissing down," Janette said, stating the obvious "Where should we go, Damian?"

"I don't know. What do you want to eat?"

"A burger would be good."

"Granville Burgers it is."

We walked quickly through the rain, staying under awnings as much as possible. We were seated immediately.

"So what's new with Janette?" I said.

"Nothing good. Mom's been talking with Fred again and my birthday's coming up in a few weeks. I hate birthdays."

"You can't hate birthdays until you're at least 25."

"Well I do." Janette changed the subject. "And how's your book club going?"

"It's over – and I got a little certificate. Here, you can have it. It's just in my bag." I got it out of my bag and plucked it from inside the book I was storing it in. "As for what I learned? Tenacity and a day job are the two things you need to make it in Canadian literature. And then making it is another slap in the face."

"Why?"

"Well, if I get published, my take will be about five Gs for five years of work. The encouraging bit is that if the guy who wrote this (I pulled out my instructor's book from my bag) can make it, I can too. Even if my voice is still illusive. Look, here's the only good part of his book." I flipped the pages of Toy Gun until I found the one section I liked. "These pages; here, read:"

'Don't speak about your father that way.'

'You know what I'm talking about.'

'I know what you're talking about and more about what you're talking about than you do but nobody and I mean absolutely nobody should talk about their own father like that. Whether they're in prison or dead or alive or whatever. You have to not disrespect him, as irrational as that sounds.'

Barry saw that Wayne was taken aback at his near-vehemence on the subject. 'It's just something that's fundamental.'

'Okay.'

'It's linked to a theory of mine, having seen how guys get warped by what happens to them as children. You see a guy who got whipped by his dad. Maybe even raped. As bad an experience as you can imagine. When they get older they just hate the guy purely. There's nothing else to them. It encompasses and permeates. They can't think about anything else and all their behaviours are defective because they don't do any thinking, they just walk around with this weapon of angry hate in them cocked at all times.

'So then the problem is so interwoven, so hard-wired into their systems that it's tough to get them to behave in any other way than angry. What they have to do, if they have the intellectual capacity—and it does take brains, dumb guys just about never change—is identify this hatred they carry as the problem. Not the fact their fathers were assholes. That's past. That's common. There's nothing you can do about that. What they have to do is get in touch with humanity again by finding love.'

My beer kept me occupied until Janette stopped reading, dropped the book and gave me a sad, dirty look that made me feel I'd made a mistake.

"Did you make me read this as some subtle way of saying 'look at Fred in a better light?'" I was unable to respond. Words failed to form. "If you did, fuck you." The book was pushed across the table, falling onto the bench seat.

"No! No, I meant here is this guy's best passage and look how wrong it is! I hoped you'd say: 'it's dime store detective morality, what crap.' Hell, you know I hate my dad, too. I'm only friendly with him to squeeze what I can out of him for me and mum. I see no reason to give amnesty to any of my dad's acts or Fred's. Shit, one day, when mum's gone, I'll sink that fucking yacht of his just to see his face. And if you ever need anything done to Fred, it'd be my pleasure."

Janette squinted, then with a smirk said: "Really? 'cause Fred has always liked fishing and I could see him falling off that boat."

"Any time."

"Great. If I ever need that taking care of, you're top of the list."

"You know when I say me I mean Trevor? Really he's just my by proxy. He's my bitch, you know?"

The waitress excused herself as she set the burgers down on the table. When asked if we needed anything else, Janette replied: "Two shots of Jaeger and two tall glasses of Tom Collins. Doubles." The only thing that interrupted the gorging was shooting that Jaeger.

As we finished my phone rang. The number was unknown to me and could have potentially been John's cell, knowing that if he phoned from work I'd know and wouldn't answer. I answered.

"Damian, are you coming over to the restaurant? It's dead and I'm on 'til closing."

"Err, I'm not sure. Maybe. Um... I'm kind of busy right now; I'm out."

"Damian, how can you be too busy for me? Precious and I are the most important people in your life. Unless you're on a date? Are you?"

"Yes."

"With... with... err, what's her name... the stripper?"

"Yes."

"I'll let you go, but remember to ask her to go sailing. I want to meet her before I leave for Montreal in a few weeks. Anytime next week is good."

"Have fun, Cassandra." I hung up the phone.

"Hey Janette, that was Cassandra – a buddy of mine. She's leaving to go back home to Montreal soon, but I promised her I'd take her sailing before she goes. I was hoping you might want to come along. It'd be sometime next week. I just gotta check my schedule. What d'ya say?" She didn't say anything. Just kept chewing.

"It'll be fun."

This time she pointed at her full mouth and exaggerated her chewing then visibly swallowed. "For a guy who's a member of a yacht club you have no manners. Taking a call at the table?" She blew her bangs up and put her nose in the air. "And then questioning me when I'm eating? Even with your uncouth behaviour, I'd like to go sailing with you and your friend. However, that means I'll definitely have to go to work tonight as I'll need a new bikini. I'm slightly heavier this year, especially in the top." She squeezed her breasts together.

"You don't have to go to work. Cassandra and I wouldn't be at all flustered if you sunbathed topless."

"I forgot; you're a savage. On the high seas that's acceptable, but appearances must be kept up while we're moored." She dug around in her bag, retrieving a pack of smokes and a twenty-dollar bill. "I'm going for a smoke. Take this for the food."

"That's fine, I got it."

"You'll walk me to work?"

"Of course."

Janette got up and walked to the front of the restaurant. I tracked her with my eyes until she was out of view. I paid the bill, somewhat surprised at the number of drinks listed, then left. The rain had stopped. Janette was nowhere to be seen. I waited a few minutes then phoned.

"I'm in the store across the street," She said.

I crossed the street and she came out of the store clutching two bottles of Coke. "Here, drink." I did and she followed suit. She topped hers up with vodka, then did the same to mine. "One for the road." She tapped my bottle with hers and took a drink. Her face suddenly resembled a prune after she swallowed a mouthful. "Whew! That was a strong one," she panted. "I suggest you mix yours first." I did, but it was still stronger than I like.

Janette looked at her cell phone, "Shit, I'm fucking late. I've got to get a cab."

She immediately turned towards traffic, looking for a cab to flag down while still sipping from her bottle.

"Damian, are you going to go to The Peel?"

"I'd love to, but I can't; I don't get paid until Friday and I've only got 40 bucks."

"OK. Call me about sailing. Tuesday works best for me, but I can do any weekday."

"I'll find out from Cassandra when's best for her and let you know."

A cab appeared in the distance and Janette waved franticly to attract the driver's attention. He pulled over. "Hey Damian, I had a great time tonight."

She hugged me and gave me quick open-mouth kiss.

"Gotta run."

I stood there as the cab took off. Then I flagged a cab myself, heading for Broad way and Bayswater where I knew my credit was good.

20.

The work week went well. It usually does when you work graveyards over the weekend. On Friday and Saturday morning the only people around are the truckers that have to be let in and out, so you can otherwise do as you please. Meanwhile, Monday goes quickly because there's a crew in. By 5am all I could think about was sailing with Cassandra and Janette. I was thinking a little too much about them and had to go for a brisk walk. I returned with my fifth coffee catching up to me and diverted to the washroom.

With my zipper down and manhood out I heard a "Good morning," from one of the cubicles. At first I wasn't sure who it was, but pretty certain it wasn't someone from my generation. I guessed it was a guy from the previous generation who feels the John is an appropriate place for unofficial, uncensored, inadmissible conversation – or in my case, clarification. I responded. "Sure, it's morning."

"Damian is that you, because it's me asking?" Now I recognized Steve's voice.

"No, graveyards just get ya thinking that way."

"I understand. Been there. Listen, I know you're sore over the talking-to the other day. And I know on the graveyard things need to be a little looser. I can accept the odd 'F-this and F-that', the trashy humour and the lip those working it can give. But what you said was—"

I cut him off in a monotone, disillusioned voice. "Over the line of decency and both offensive and hurtful to co-workers that are here for a paycheck and not to be insulted or degraded."

"Sounds like the pamphlet on harassment. But that's not what I'm getting at. What you said was wrong because it questioned what gay is. That's fine, but not in here. That last thing I need is for a bunch of our testosterone-pumping meatheads to start feeling they're being threatened by the gays who work here. Yes, gays work here."

I really didn't want to hear this, but there was no way I'd be believed if I brought up this conversation; my word against his.

"They're good about it, don't flaunt it and are some of our best workers. But there would be real problems if this pot was stirred. All the bullshit of who works with who in a trailer – that's why you had to get written up. I got a complaint and had to deal with it. I wish there was a way that I could only hire normal people – but I can't and, until then, we have to be very sensitive about what we say. Consider that reprimand to be non-existent if you remember what I've said."

Maybe I got the courage to say what I did because I was looking at my balls while trying to piss. "Steve there was a time when I thought you and I – or any of the others in this warehouse – could talk openly about whatever, however dirty, racist, sexist or religious it might be, because we knew they were beliefs held outside of work. You just broke that and went from bigot to gay-basher."

I zipped my pants up, unable to piss.

"Don't worry, I say this as a warning and I'll not bring it up unless there's a need to. But, as it says in our literature on the subject, I'll be putting it in writing in my personal notes. Have a good morning." I walked to the sink and washed my hands.

"Are you threatening me?"

"No, I'm doing what you should have done when you found my words offensive. I'm noting that this took place and telling you that you've crossed the line in the hope that what you said was a slip. I'm not going crying to HR. I have the guts to tell you what you said was wrong to your face."

I pushed on the paper towel dispenser's plunger hard and fast, blocking out anything he may have said, and left the washroom. Still needing a piss, I ducked outside to find a trailer to go behind—laughing at having had the last laugh. Revenge maybe not – but good enough. The last hours of my shift flew by in a giddy blur as I doted equally on the past and future.

That night, I got the boat ready to cast off as soon as we got there, then had a few drinks and some food at Sausies. I left under clear skies and knew they'd last for at least tomorrow and most of the next day.

Knowing neither of the princesses would be up when I wanted them to be, I'd told them I'd pick them up an hour before I actually would. But even that didn't prove to be long enough – and I ended up waiting tor both of them.

As so often happens when people see my boat for the first time, there was a surprised reaction.

"Holy shit! That's a big boat... a yacht," Cassandra exclaimed.

"That's why I'm part of a yacht club."

In a short time we were motoring away from the dock and burning diesel 'til we hit some wind. Janette fixed us some breakfast and Cassandra marveled at sights.

We then powered on 'til we hit a line of dark water – dark from the wind riffling the water.

"OK Cassandra, we gotta put the sails up. Janette, take the helm. Cassandra, help me take the sail cover off and put on a life jacket."

We started taking the sail cover off as a large tug passed us.

"Cassy, hold on!"

"Don't call me Cassy!" was all I heard as she bounced on the deck – but luckily not off it.

"Go back to the cock pit," I yelled. But she'd already caught on. "PUT HER INTO THE WIND."

Janette did and I pulled all but a foot of the main up, then moved it to the cockpit, where I winched it up the rest of the way. The jib was unfurled and we were moving well on a fresh south southeaster (10–12 knots) with no swell and an ebb tide pushing us down so we could sail a fast beam reach. Six-and-a-half-to-seven knots, towing a whaler with only our tunes and the water rushing past as noise. Plus the two hotties. Though, unfortunately, it wasn't yet warm enough for them to clad themselves scantily.

The sail was almost too relaxing and the motion of the ocean soon had the girls heading below deck for a nap.

I smoked a joint and slowly untangled the mess my fishing tackle was in. The distraction of having to change from focusing on the knots of line in my hand to scanning the horizon for debris and shipping, kept my mind from thinking – and a meditative state was achieved. After straightening every leader, the quiet of my mind was broken.

I was left looking over the dodger at islands getting imperceptibly large and more detailed. An analogy for the future. It seemed that last year I was right here in the middle of the strait unsure if I was getting closer or further away from Janette or Nyet. Either I was taking Nyet out sailing in a pseudo-relationship as eye candy in a stunted realization of stories I wrote to porno-mags with sugar daddy terms agreed upon by both of us. Or I was attempting to woo Janette, whose alter ego had seduced me on a crappy couch in the back room of a strip club—but only made me fall for her when I met her at a movie in a universe where a fat man like me has nothing to offer her except what all the guys with money do. Though not much of it. If this future was not going to get stuck in the strait again, I'd have to say: "Janette, I wish I'd never met you at the strip club." Of course, that would mean we'd never have met. But it had made things very strange. Where did we stand? Were we friends based on mutual likes? Like me seeing her naked and her liking the money (with the shared interests of movies, booze and boats)? 'cause that would be fine, knowing it wouldn't change the fun we have. However, there was this part of me that loved what it saw – and even more the Janette behind it – a part that would never live down the regret if I didn't ask whether we had a proper boyfriend-girlfriend thing going on here." Something short and to-the-point, like: "Where do we stand?" would likely work just as well.

A beer was needed to lighten that line of thought and I ducked into the galley to get one. The sound of me banging around below deck woke Janette. "Ahoy Damian, can you get me my purse? It's in the cubby in the cockpit."

"Sure." I bounded up to get it. While I was there, I had a glance at the horizon to see if the coast was clear and went back down at the same speed. Well faster, actually. I missed the first step and fell, hitting each step with my ass. I landed with a huge thud, crumpled up next to the table – bruised, but fine. I couldn't hear Janette laughing, but saw a hand in front of her mouth.

A second later Cassandra's cabin door flew open and she yelled: "What did we hit? Are we sinking?" Then: "Are you ok Damian," as she nearly stepped on me trying to rush above-deck. Janette laughed long enough to get hiccups. I broke out laughing, too. Cassandra climbed up to the cockpit, not happy she was being laughed at.

I handed the purse to Janette and said: "You made me fall. You have some spell don't you? You made me fall so you could laugh at me, didn't you?"

Janette replied: "Yes, yes and yes. Now what about some lunch?"

"I'm sailing the boat."

"The autopilot's steering the boat, you can make lunch."

I did as Janette said, preparing us sandwiches, chopped melon and drinks.

The wind started to drop off as we neared the Flat Top islands, with Gabriola behind it. We pulled in the jib and powered towards the flat sandstone islands, making sure to be north of the reefs marked by the light on Thrasher Rock.

"Hey Damian, didn't you say we were going to put down a prawn trap?" Janette asked.

"Yes, but we're still too far off. I'll get the trap out ready, though. You go get a can of cat food."

A bewildered Cassandra chipped in: "Cat food?"

"Tuna cat food, the best bait," I smiled.

About half-a-mile from the first of the islands, we took the main channel down and headed northwest. "See that reef, Cassandra?" she nodded. "All those things that look like logs are seals."

"Bullshit." Janette and I both assured her they were seals. Cassandra had to get her camera with telephoto lens out before she believed us. "Holy shit, there must be more than fifty." She snapped pictures.

"There are just as many on the other two reefs and even more in late summer when they have pups. One September I was fishing off here and I saw orca fins right in that little bit." I pointed to the spot. "Must have been four whales in less than ten feet of water. You could see them pushing a wave in front of them as they chased the seals. It was right out of a National Geographic documentary. I thought I was in Argentina where the killers come right up on the beach. After a few minutes they moved off and two circled with a calf going though the middle. I didn't get it for a minute, but then a circling adult flipped a seal pup back into the middle. They were teaching the calf. Later, the seals fled the reef but in a way I'd never seen before. They left in a group of twenty or more – very odd for harbour seals – and dashed at top speed for half-a-mile. They then stopped nervously to breath, with their head fully out of the water also checking for predators, then sprinted off again. Like you'd see on the Discovery Channel but for fur seal in South Africa they run a gauntlet of white sharks."

"That must have been fucking cool," Cassandra said.

There was no need to answer that. We passed the reef and ran parallel to the islands. Janette pointed out a bald eagle on one of them and the other half of the film was gone before I could say: "Save some! The eagle will dive right in front of us for any old bait when we go fishing."

A few minutes later we were at the right spot with a good current and 350 feet of water, perfect for prawns.

"Janette, this looks like a good spot." I cut the engine.

"Better be better than last year," she said, getting on the water level transom. That was too much work for a shrimp cocktail."

"It's not commercial season; we'll get lots. Make sure the line to the trap is spooling out from the top of coil and the floats line is coming from the bottom."

A sarcastic, "Eye-eye Captain," was her reply and she tossed it off the stern line, ensuring it flowed out exactly as required.

I revved up the engine and steered Reefer through the narrow channels to the yacht club's moorage, tying her up with the other five or so boats that were using it this weekday. A beer was needed once all the work had been done and I cracked one open as Cassandra and Janette got into sunbathing attire. Cassandra and Janette went to explore the island but I was too beat to tramp around the island.

The sun was too high in the sky for me to get any sleep. Instead, I rested; checking the boat's rigging, sails, whaler, fishing rods and barbecue, with a beer in my hand. I slowly worked through fixing things out of place or in disrepair – though if the job got too big I took a few sips of beer; and soon a new beer had to be found... along with another job. My hope was that each problem would be easily fixed so the beer would have to be renewed due to success and not failure. I was checking the propane tanks for the amount of fuel in them when I heard Lloyd.

"Permission to come aboard?"

"Granted," I said, as I extricated myself from the starboard stern locker. "You wanna drink?"

"On a day like this? Two please."

"I got some of my dad's whiskey – single malt – along with some rum, beer, Kahlua, coolers and vodka."

"A beer would be great. Are you out here on your own?"

"Nope. And who gave you a ride over here – or did you pony up and get a boat?"

"I'm on that big bastard on the outside dock. I volunteered to help on the work crew. Normally it's a booze-up, but with all the downed trees this year it was a nightmare. I'm on a yacht of boy scouts. We voted unanimously to stay two more days since there was so much damage from last winter's storms. Then they didn't want to leave this morning because of the wind."

"Wind? There wasn't more than 13 knots and the water was flat as a pancake."

"Yeah, I said that to them. But the weather station was warning small craft 'til the afternoon."

"And they worried about a small craft in a fifty-footer?"

"Don't ask. I don't want to think about it. I'd rather think about the two birds I saw on the other side of the island. There's a black-haired one with an attitude and curves better than a slalom and small brunet with my favourite proportions."

"Those the two?" Lloyd took a look in their direction and nodded. "They are with me." Lloyd shook his head and clinked my beer can with his.

Janette walked up onto the boat and said to Cassandra – but loud enough for Lloyd and I to hear: "God, it's like perverts automatically seek each other out, like gravity."

"Janette, Cassandra, I was going to introduce you to Lloyd, a friend of mine and my dad's – and my dad's lawyer. But it looks like you've already met."

"Yeah, he's the guy who was staring at us for like half-an-hour," Janette said.

Lloyd responded. "It's a nice view from that side of the island and, besides, girls as gorgeous as you two should love to be looked at."

Janette sniffed the air and grimaced. "I smelled the same smell on the other side of the island... I thought it was seal shit or something but it's here, too. Oh, that's it: lawyer."

"Great, I love lawyer jokes. What do you call one lawyer at the bottom of the ocean? A good start." Lloyd shot back.

Cassandra and I were beginning to laugh at them.

"Damian, it's nearly five – time to go fishing," Janette said, as if Lloyd wasn't there.

"Damian, I'll be as true to my word as I can and leave now I've been introduced. Remember, I'm only acting as an ass because I was never afforded a chance to be anything other than an asshole – and, as such, I'm not responsible for the failure of this cocktail party. Beautiful Cassandra, our brief meeting was nice and I hope to talk with you some other time. Damian, good luck fishing. And lovely, feisty Janette, you've got the same spunk Damian's mother had. I'm sure I'll hear you tell me to fuck off sometime in the future."

Lloyd got up to go. From the dock, Janette predictably followed up. "Fuck off."

As Lloyd passed Janette, he said: "I should be a psychic," and smiled.

I started to laugh uncontrollably. A look from Janette demanded a reply. "Janette, you gotta know Lloyd to see how funny that is."

"Damian, Lloyd's an asshole, can't you see that?" Janette said seriously.

"Yes I can, he's a lawyer. Lloyd also knows that. And takes pride in it. He believes in green. His belief about right and wrong has everything to do with who is paying him – and he makes no bones about it on his time. But you've got to give it to a guy who's that self-aware. Knows all the facets of who he is."

Janette just shook her head. "Let's go fishing," she said.

We got into the whaler and tore off to the Grandy, a 120-to-180-foot undersea flat where salmon feed in the late spring. "Here, take the cannon-ball. I'll put the other one on."

I took the 15lb lead ball from Janette. "Hey Janette, that string's attached to the ball, don't wrap it round your wrist."

"I don't want it to drop in the water," she replied.

"If you fall in with that around your wrist you're going straight down 140 feet." I looked her in the eye.

"Oh."

"What are those big weight and wire winch thingamabob for?" Cassandra asked.

Janette set her straight. "The big weight attaches the cable on the downrigger, and this clip then gets attached to the wire. The clip has the line to the fishing rod inserted into it. The weight is then lowered into the water with the line and its lure attached to it – and it goes down to the depth you want it at. If a fish bites the line, off comes the clip and you reel it in. Or that's what they say... it's never happened."

"OK, which hoochies should we put on? I say the Purple Haze, Army Truck, Wonder Bread spoon and Flaming Hans spoon." My choices were what we would put on.

"Purple Haze on the bottom, with the Wonder Bread spoon, no flasher next and the others on the shallow lines," Janette said, reiterating my instructions from previous trips.

A confused Cassandra then asked: "Flasher: like, a guy with a raincoat? Hoochie: a girl who uses guys on Springer? Spoon: a comfortable position for a couple? Flaming Hans?"

I answered as I put the gear on. "The plastic squid with the hook is a hoochie. This one (I held up a translucent one with a purple strip) is a purple haze. This plastic thing is a flasher. It rotates in the water, flashing and making the hoochie spin."

I stripped out twenty feet of line, clipped the gear on the wire, then lowered the ball. "See the flash?" the flasher was pulled down.

At thirty feet I attached the next line. "This is a spoon 'cause it's shaped like a spoon. In the water it wiggles like a fish. This one (I held up the half lime green and glow white spoon, split by a red line) is a Flaming Hans. No idea why it's called that here. The rest of the world calls it a water melon. It glows in the dark. Hand me that fluorescent light."

Cassandra handed me the UV or black fluorescent light and I shined it on the lure.

"The light charges up the glow stuff on the spoon—apparently the fish love it."

I let twenty feet of line out and attached it to the cable, then lowered the ball until it hit the bottom -- before cranking it up ten feet. A white spoon with red, green, blue and yellow spots was put on the other side.

"It's called Wonder Bread cause it spot are like the package for Wonder Bread." I clipped it on and let the cannonball down forty feet; then clipped on the Army Truck, hoochie and olive and white—separated by a red strip. Then it was dropped to one hundred and ten feet.

"We're fishing!" I cracked open a beer.

Cassandra, dissatisfied with my answers, asked: "You're telling me that hoochie is the name for that little squid? How long has it been called that, ever since Jerry Springer? How will we know if there's a fish if it's a hundred feet down?"

"Some dirty fisherman, far from land, and many women thought the squid looked like a grass skirt – so called it a hoochie 'cause it covered her coochie. Really, I have no idea why it's called a hoochie – but it was called that long before Springer was on; in fact, as far back as the 1940s. Here, have a cooler and ponder the hoochie."

I gave Cassandra a cooler from the cooler. "A hit, when the fish bites, will look like the rod bouncing but not to the rhythm of the waves. If it's big enough, it'll pop the clip and the rod will go slack for a second."

A beer later the deep line with Purple Haze hoochie got hit hard. I grabbed the rod and set the hook. "This one's a good one, Janette – see how it's running?"

The buzz from the line running out was music. "Let it do that until it stops that reeling.."

I gave the rod to Janette with the reel still singing. I started to clear the lines. "It's stopped for now. Reel – and keep the rod tip up."

"I can't reel it in, it's too heavy."

"Here, hold the rod like this." I got behind Janette, not even thinking how this looked—like a guy showing a girl how to play pool or spoon.

"Pump the rod tip up and then reel down... just like that; pump it up and reel in on the down. Got it." Janette nodded and I could feel her shake. I went back to clearing the gear.

"It's really pulling. I think it's going to do something."

"Let it run when it wants to," I said, as the reel began to sing again.

The angle of the line leveled with the water as the fish came to the surface. "See it out there." It ran a bit further and I remembered that I needed to turn the click off on the reel.

"Why did you do that?" said Cassandra.

"Seals can hear it and will come looking."

With the gear up, I moved the boat slowly towards the salmon.

"Janette, don't reel once you get to the leader. Keep the rod tip up, but don't pull the salmon's head out of the water."

Cassandra grabbed the net. "I'll net it when I get chance." Cassandra handed the net to me. "Go to the bow of the boat, Janette." She did, pulling the tired fish in reach of the net and I scooped it up head first.

Janette screeched and jumped up and down. "That one's big enough for sure." She handed me the bonker and looked away. I clubbed the fish three times before it quivered and expired.

"Janette, come hold it for pictures." We took pictures of the chromo Chinook with purple-speckled back.

"Hurry, take the picture – this thing is heavy!" Janette said, as she and I posed for pictures.

"How big is it?" Cassandra asked, quickly followed by Janette.

"Fourteen or fifteen pounds," I guessed.

No more fish where caught in the next hour. We decided to call it a day and pull up the prawn trap.

"OK Cassandra. When you pull the trap, you've got to pull it up as fast as you can or the prawns will get out. You can't stop or switch people, 'cause if the trap stops moving up, the prawns won't be pressed against the bottom and they'll get out."

Cassandra whined: "Can't you do it, Damian?"

"I'm the only one who can drive the boat and there are freak waves around here. They're ricocheting off the rocks."

"I pulled an arm muscle fighting the fish," Janette said.

Cassandra picked up the float and started pulling like mad. A minute went by and she was starting to huff and puff with only a quarter of the line on board. At half-way, she began to beg.

"Come on! I can't pull it all the way up; I have to stop. Please take my spot." With only a quarter of the way to go Cassandra just stopped – and we heckled her to keep on going. She did, but was losing more line then she was picking up. Janette took over and Cassandra sat down with her drink. Once on board, the trap yielded about seventy, four-to-five inch prawns.

"If you hadn't stopped, we'd have more than a hundred and fifty," Janette scolded.

We came through the passage we'd been through on the way in, but went really close to the sandstone cliff on one side. Cassandra took yet more pictures of the rock wall cut open, where the waves had hit on a high tide or storm. They'd dug rounded holes into the rock as much as three metres deep and high.

"The soft sandstone makes the best tide-pools On the other side of the island there are some huge ones with cool shit in them – but you can only get to them at the lowest of tides," I explained.

"I'd love to explore them," Janette said, as I hit the throttle and made a mental note. Soon we were back a the dock.

Cleaning the fish took some time, as we had to stop and try to feed the otter with all the fish's innards. Once out of film, we got to business and soon salmon steaks were cooking with enough dusk to get them cooked before dark.

With every chore there was another drink. Janette and I were now on vodka paralyzes.

We sat full from the salmon, as the stars came out, trying to finish the prawns.

"Oh, I hope you didn't bring any dessert Damian. I couldn't handle that as well," Janette said "That was so good I've got no room for anything else. A drink, however – I've room for another of those."

She pushed her glass towards mine wanting it filled. I went below deck to make more drinks and clear the cockpit of dishes. While doing the chores, I tried to think of when I should make my move. I planned to ask Janette about us, but hadn't planned for Cassandra. The time was so right for it. If Cassandra hadn't been here, it would have happened already. But she was and it was her trip as well – so I could hardly say: "Bugger off Cassy, Cupid needs a chance."

One of the girls was bound to go to bed before the other and there was a fifty per cent chance it would be Cassandra. There was also a fifty per cent chance that Janette would be blind drunk by that time. I would take my chances. The sound of Janette and Cassandra's laughter quickened me and I was soon back on deck with new drinks.

In the cockpit, Janette and Cassandra were talking about porn. I listened intently but couldn't join in. Why couldn't I? I'm an authority on the subject, having been published in some of its finest journals. But I couldn't. Even when Cassandra asked me about my story, I forgot I'd written anything erotic and tried to say how cool the stars were before going below to get us more drinks. When I got back on deck, a topic I knew just as much about was now being discussed – and again I was a deaf mute. I didn't even sit calmly. I felt as discombobulated as a guy trying to find his way out of an Escher painting on acid. I was only drawn out of my uncomfortable place when Janette started talking about pubic hair.

"Usually I have mine clean-shaved, but lately I'm not liking the whole adolescent girl thing behind that. I've had guys say it makes me look young. It grosses me out, 'cause I'm like, 23, and they're old enough to be my father. So younger is what, fourteen? Sick. Mine's like... a... you've seen it, Damian."

"I think it's called a landing strip. I like it."

"That's it," Janette confirmed.

Cassandra weighed in. "I totally want to grow mine into a 70s porn 'fro for all the guys who want their hairy nuts sucked but can't get past that itchy stage. After a day of that, I have to shave. But I've kind of got a bit of thing that grosses boys out." She pulled her shirt down and tits out. I looked away, but only for a second. "I've got these three hairs that grow out of my nipple. I've pulled them out but they come back."

Janette whistled. "That's neat and they're so big." I'm sure Cassandra blushed at that. Janette looked at me. "So what do you like, Damian – bush or no bush?"

"Stubble, a fade in a triangle or an exclamation mark. For me, they're all good, but around the lips has to be shaved."

"I should've expected that from you." Janette now talked only to Cassandra.

"Isn't that so typical of guys, expecting us to shave everything – and they don't even shave their chests, backs or asses."

"That's a bit hypocritical – not wanting to shave your pussy because it makes you look like an adolescent girl, but telling us to shave our manly backs, asses and chest hair. Any way, if anyone wants to shave me they can. I'll reciprocate. Just don't go near my boys with that razor."

Janette blew her bangs up. "What's good for the goose is good for the gander. Time for another drink, everyone want the same?"

"Damian, why are you drinking a girl's drink?" Cassandra asked.

"How is this a girly drink? It's like, half booze. Janette, tell her how much liquor is in these?"

"It doesn't matter, Damian, Paralyzers are most definitely girly drinks."

Janette winked and gave me a peck on the lips. "I'll find us something more manly."

I shrugged, giving Cassandra a what the fuck? look. She leaned in so Janette couldn't hear below. "I've had such fun on this trip; it's one of the best times I've ever had. Just want you to have one as good."

"So you're going to get me too drunk to walk?"

"We'll see what happens. Today's been great, Damian." Cassandra gave me a hug and peck on the cheek.

"I found some grog suitably manly for us all to drink," Janette said, before pausing at the bottom of the steps to the cockpit after seeing us hug.

"What's all this about? No getting mushy right now, we have drinking to do." Janette brought up the two hundred dollar bottle of scotch and poured a sloppy three fingers into each of the three glasses.

"A toast to the Captain." She clinked all of our glasses and downed hers in one. "WHOOOOeeeee, that's smooth."

"That's a thirty dollar drink." I did the same and nearly spat it up.

"Ahuhuhuhu... just ahuhuhu... like licking shag carpet."

Cassandra was smart and sipped. We soon descended into lovely drunk talk. At some point I went to use the head and came back on deck to find Janette and Cassandra full-on making out. I looked to the stars, making sure to remember them as my lucky ones, only to look back and see them coyly giggling at me. Janette went to fill the drinks again and spilled whiskey on the table.

"Oh, I'm so sorry I did that... I mushh be abbreviated," she said, correcting her pour.

"Inebriated, you mean inebriated, not abbreviated," I said.

"No, I mean ABBREVIATED. It's like inebriated, but better."

Janette picked her glass up for a toast. "To abbreviation." We clinked glasses and drank, getting more abbreviated. Not long after that I was fetching water, abbreviating this inebriation. I was doing latter once more when I caught Janette giving Cassandra a hug and kiss.

"Cassandra, it's been a great day but I'm going to have to abbreviate it as I'm a bit tipsy," Janette said.

"It's been an awesome day. And you're a great kisser. Goodnight Janette." Janette gave Cassandra a goodnight kiss.

Janette caught me looking. "And you, I haven't forgotten you." Janette started down the companion way, looking at me and walking sexily. But then she slipped; whether on purpose or not, I wasn't sure. In any case, I caught her, at which point she added: "Looks like I'm falling for you this time." And with that I kissed her.

"So was I as good as Cassandra?"

"Better." We made out to the Chillies' Under the Bridge for most of the song, before Janette said: "Goodnight."

I got another peck and whispered: "You drive me crazy."

"I know," she said, then headed for the cabin singing a very drunken version of Under the Bridge.

I went back up to the cockpit, where I found Cassandra and a now empty whiskey bottle. I poured the rest of Janette's cup into mine and Cassandra followed suit with hers, filling my cup half-way. I took a sip.

"I like her," Cassandra said. "There are few women I both like and find attractive. I think you've got a good one, Damian. Too bad she went overboard with the booze. It could have been a very interesting night... for all of us."

I took a consolatory drink. "It doesn't bother me—she was too drunk. And I'm not sure that what you were thinking is a good idea for the first time with someone you love."

"I can't believe you just said that."

"Well, it true."

"No wonder we've never fooled around, you're too much of a romantic."

"I guess," I said, not listening to Cassandra but to Janette – butchering Bad Fish by Sublime.

"Damian, I'm totally torn. Really. I want to go back, but at the same time there's so much here. But I have to. Tell me you'll come to see me... with Janette?"

"I can say I'll come, but I can't speak for Janette."

"She's totally hot for you. She was totally giving me the jealous vibe every time you and I talked – and when I hugged you, it was too funny. Be confident, Damian."

"What, with the movie and snowboarding boy?"

"He's a slut. I've got to have something more than your stories from time-to-time. And you should be proud of your porn stories; few people publish anything. I'm sure Janette would love them." Cassandra then changed the topic. "So, I guess you're going to have to get a dog now Precious is leaving?"

"Nope. Lisa and Seth got a puppy. Cuter than Precious and, for now, easier to transport."

Cassandra punched me. "Take that back, Precious is the best dog in the world."

"Precious is the best dog, but Clover is a puppy." I took another hit.

We continued to talk about nothing until we'd both had a few glasses of water – then went to bed as the first drops of rain from a newly-clouded sky fell.

Sometime in the morning I was woken up by an evil screeching and something bounding down the dock to splash in the water. I was pretty hung over, so fetched some water and painkillers, before returning to bed where the rhythmless rain had me asleep in minutes.

Again I was awakened by the noisy animals flopping about in the water and screeching. This time I thought about last night and imagined the best possible climax—before the dipping of the boat stopped me.

I spotted Janette's feet through the hatch to the cockpit. I threw something on, stepped out of my tiny cabin – just big enough to stand up in but not turn around – and opened the curtain to the companionway. Janette was at the top.

"Hey, find some water for these... it'll get a little of the boozy person stink out." She handed me some lilacs and I found some water to put them in.

"Fucking otters, wake you up. Sure doesn't sound like they're having fun screwing."

"Is that what they're doing? It sounded like they were trying to kill each other."

"The guys like chasing the girl around – and she was having none of it."

I tried not to believe her words were subtly directed at us.

I turned on the marine weather channel on the VHF and listened to the report. "Looks like that 60 per cent chance of rain is really 100 per cent. They're right about the wind though, there's none of that around."

"What's the plan, Captain?"

"I think we should have a bite to eat then shove off. Once we get going, you and Cassandra can sleep all you want. We're going to be blowing smoke all the way home, so I won't need any help. No need for us all to get soaked."

We were underway quickly. Janette and I got the boat ready, while Cassandra prepared some muffins, juice and fruit for breakfast. We ate, huddled under the dodger, as the rain began to blow in under the canvas sunshade which covered the cockpit.

Soon after eating, Cassandra and Janette went below deck to sleep, while the diesel roared and belched smoke. I looked for dark lines on the water to indicate wind, but the ones I saw only showed where the rain was heavier.

After four hours we approached the yellow can and the rain had tapered off. Then wake from a large ship bounced the girls awake. The girls made some lunch and soon after that we were back at the dock.

Once moored at the club, the sky darkend and threatened to unleash a monsoon at any moment, so we quickly packed up and left. Before leaving the boat, Cassandra demanded to get a picture of us all on the boat. Janette picked our pose; we were like Leo and Kate in the movie Titanic – I, of course, holding her over the bow.

21.

That night I was late for work, which was a good thing, as it meant I wouldn't have to see Norm – or at least I'd only have to say: 'hi, sorry, and bye' before he left. As usual, the first thing I did on the graveyard was to find Mike and set the coffee machine to free.

"So Damian, sounds like something's up and you're playing a lead role."

"Hey Mike, why not ask a good question like: 'how was your weekend?' before stirring rumours about me."

"OK, how was your weekend?"

"Almost perfect." I told him how I was a couple of drinks past having a three -way with a stripper and my buddy's newly estranged wife.

"Man you gotta control the booze better. If you did that your story would have been a good one." Mike looked serious.

"What's up?

"Since you went on your weekend, Jack's been on paid leave. Higher-ups from HR came in to talk with him and Steve – then checked your schedule. Something going on, but no-one has a clue what; well, except Jack – who, as you know, is now out of the closet. And you got in shit for that ass-fucking rant."

"I've no idea what's going on and a potential three-way is more exciting news than some shit implicating me in nothing."

"I guess, but don't say I told you so if you find yourself in something come five o'clock."

"I'll be in something at five? My fantasy's fuckin' both of 'em on my break." I was happy to play along with the sledging, but didn't like the tone of the conversation. The things I'd about didn't worry me; but if I was out of the loop it could only mean one thing: I was the topic. Five o'clock came slowly, but I wasn't in any hurry.

At ten to John arrived.

"Damian, get your coat on—we're going for a smoke."

John walked past the office and swiped his time-card in. I followed, not bothering with a coat. Nothing was said until we were outside, well away from the smoking pit. John lit up and took a drag from his cigarette.

"OK, what the fuck is going on? Are you fucking around for the fun of it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, John."

"Bullshit, you're playing dumb. But I'll play along, as I'm not awake enough to care. All I know is that Jack went to HR saying he overheard a conversation between you and Steve in which Steve said disparaging things about gays."

"Oh that, yeah. Steve approached me in the washroom to tell me why he had me disciplined. He then started talking about gays in the workplace and I took offence to it. Having just been disciplined for a similar thing, I told him the conversation had gone over the line. And, though I assured him I wasn't going to bring it up with HR, I did promise I'd note it in my journal – just as company policy states we should."

"That's bullshit." John coughed. "You writing in a fucking journal is laughable. Let's see it."

I pulled out the thumb drive I had in my pocket. "It's on here." I put it back in my pocket.

"You're fucking with me, aren't you?"

"No, I'm not. And what Steve said is none of your business."

"What is my business is keeping you from getting us in deep shit. If you have what you say you have, think about what will happen if you show it to HR. Steve will make it very hard for you. And don't think he can't or won't. You've seen how it can be done; in fact, you've helped. Remember you're on our team."

I put my hand up to my face like a thinker. "Hmmm, what will happen if I don't show this? Jack will be disciplined – probably terminated – and the boys in the warehouse will see me as Steve's tool. I know what team I'm on... theirs."

"Fuck Damian, I'm only telling you this for your own good. You may bitch about this place, but you also love it. I can assure you it'll quickly become a place you start to hate if Steve gets in shit. You know I wouldn't even have this talk if I wasn't trying to help you. If it was anyone else in the department I'd throw them to the dogs. At least think about it for me."

"How are you helping me – by suggesting I do something wrong or by not defending me when I'm right?"

John took one last drag and stomped it out. "You seem to be very aware of all the people here that need their jobs – but can't you see you're in the same boat? I can't just protect you because you're right. Steve had already made up his mind. This is the best I can do. Forget what was said in the washroom and I'll tell Steve you did it on purpose to help him. You know how shit-disturbers are dealt with here. You'd better know the employee's handbook off-by-heart." John walked back inside, not caring if I followed.

I sat in the office updating the employee lists, while John worked on the schedule. Not a word was exchanged between us. Steve came in early and made a point of not addressing me. Not long after that, an HR rep stopped by. "Damian, John, you remember Julie the Regional HR Manager?"

"It's been a while. Since the training for the pension plan, I think?" I extended my hand to shake hers.

"Yes, last summer. Good to see someone stayed awake for it." Julie shook my hand, then John's.

"Damian, we're going to get some coffee, could you take a seat in the conference room," Monica said.

"Sure."

Monica turned back after two steps to the lunch-room. "Sorry, where are my manners. Would you like a coffee?"

"No, I'm good," I said. I then walked into the conference room and sat down, getting more nervous by the second.. I thought to myself, 'Why should I be nervous? All I was doing was providing information; I wasn't accusing Steve and I wasn't colluding with Jack. But would they see it that way?'

Julie and Monica sat down and fiddled around with their coffees and briefcases for a minute. Julie broke the silence. "I hear from Monica you're something of a psychic and know everything that goes on here. So why are we here today?"

"I'm not quite sure. I was out sailing on my weekend and don't really have a clue. Just that I'm involved somehow – along with Jack and the GM."

"I'm amazed you know that. We try to keep these things very quiet," Julie said.

"When HR does anything unscheduled we notice and we notice when anyone is away from work."

Monica smiled. "It's good to know our loss prevention guys understand inductive logic."

I smiled back. "It's our job. We're the guys with the badges."

"OK, you have an idea why we're here. Did you have a conver—"

"Julie, Monica..." I looked at both individually. "...before we say anything more or any questions are asked about what was said in the john, I want to know how my life is going to be affected by anything said here. I basically know the story and I'm not sure the words in some pamphlet can be trusted when it comes to biting the hand that feeds you. I've already seen how petty the politics can be here – it's already in my file. I've had higher-ups give me grief for nothing and don't want to start a ball rolling that will eventually squash me."

"You certainly know our policies and that this is all confidential. And, of course, you're not the accuser or accused here; no punishment can be brought to you for this. So what are you worried about?" Julie looked confused.

"Punishment like that write-up in my file... or the kind that is unofficial— the personally motivated kind."

Julie looked to Monica. "What was Damian written up for?"

"Improper conduct. He was talking about something offensive to one of his co-workers."

"Co-workers? I don't know any that are paid salary... plus, a co-worker would have told me up front if I'd offended them."

"Let me see...Julie opened the file and looked at with a frown. "What's this at the bottom, Monica?"

"Um... I can't... ahhh... I'll have to tell you outside."

"Give us a minute, Damian, we have to confer."

"OK."

A minute passed and they came back in both looking unhappy.

"Anything wrong?"

Julie answered: "Let's just say I understand your concern for having unsanctioned punishment administered against you if you say what you've heard. I assure you that all instances requiring your disciplining will be reviewed by me before any action can be taken. Further, your write-up will be looked into. You have my word."

"Sounds good. So what do you want to know?"

"Last Monday, did you have a conversation with Steve in the washroom?" Julie asked.

"Yes."

"What was said?" she continued.

I told them what had been said. That I'd told Steve his words were out-of-line and then documented it.

"Where is it documented?" Julie said.

"It's on here." I pulled out my thumb drive. "If I can use your laptop I can show it to you."

Julie took out her laptop. "Why wouldn't you write it on paper so you could sign and date it?" Monica questioned.

"'cause I really didn't think I'd ever need to show it to anyone. Well, officially that is. To be totally honest, at the time I saw what I said as kind of revenge... like, I've got you. But I was man enough to let it go."

Monica snorted: "Anyone in management dumb enough to say they 'would not hire gays given a choice' should have that brought up to us."

"Plus, I thought we were alone in the washroom but I guess the walls have ears."

Julie, having turned the computer on, added: "Yes, that was definitely crossing the line, but you did the right thing in voicing and noting your disapproval. Here, show us it."

"Err... OK. Just gloss over some of the titles; this is my personal drive and many of them are for an adult audience only. It's all in pursuit of being the great Canadian writer, you understand?"

There were a few snickers and one giggle as I clicked my way to the file and entered the password. "This is it."

"Just to be sure, is there a way of telling when this was written?" Julie asked.

"It'll say in the properties when the file was made and modified," Monica said.

I clicked in there at the same time. "Monday, at 6:50am."

"Can I copy this file?" Julie asked. "I'll also need one printed, signed and dated."

"Sure—no problem."

The rest of the proceedings ran smoothly, capped with a final reassurance that I wouldn't be the subject of punitive treatment. I then took a walk around the yard, heading back into the office a few minutes before my shift ended.

"Damian, you'd better look at the schedule," John said. "There have been a few changes. New one's on the desk." With that, he went for a smoke.

I picked it up and saw that I now either had graveyards over the weekend or gate-house day shifts with the minimum three-shifts-a-week give. Worse, it looked like the three days a week were split so that the most days off in a row I'd now get were now two in a week, wherever possible. My requested vacation in late August was given to Norm, but the schedule had definitely been changed as per Steve's orders. The old one was still on the wall, so I grabbed it – plus the new one. I took them to the photocopier, making myself copies of each, before quickly returning to our office. John came back in as I was trying to hang up the old one. I changed tack. "No need for the old one."

"Like your new schedule?" John asked, clearly fishing for a reaction.

"I just looked at the first couple of weeks. I see I've only got three days a week now, you're a mind reader. That means I have tons of time to go fishing... and it's hot right now."

"I had to give you fewer shifts as you're getting close to your maximum hours for part-time – and the others have gotta catch up." John lied badly, blowing up his cheeks after each one.

"Well Steve... sorry, John – have a good day."

I thought to myself, 'Maxed hours? You never cared about that before. And I only got more 'cause I took dropped shifts.' I didn't get a response. In the parking lot I made a call.

"Human Resources, Monica speaking."

"Monica, it's Damian from LP."

"What do you need?"

"I'd like it if you could take a look at the schedule John has in the computer for me, 'cause this morning he made up a new one."

"What's wrong with it?"

"Monica, just look at the schedule he has on the payroll computer for next month as soon as you can – and then look at the one in our office he put up today. He's not on the payroll computer is he?"

"No, not now."

"Good. See for yourself if something strikes you as odd."

"OK, I'll have a look at it. Have a good day." She hung up the phone.

At home I arrange to go for dinner with Janette for her birthday later that week. Then I called Tony to find a suitable gift, something with cache but cheap. Tony helped me out and I had a pair of designer glasses for the price of knock offs. I was sure Janette would like them.

22.

The day flashed by without me even thinking about events at work. They were put to the back of my mind as I nervously waited for dinner with Janette. I sat, shaking at the Commercial Drive bus-stop waiting to either see or hear from her, as she hadn't answered my call. I was saved by a ring. "I'm so sorry, I just woke up from a nap. I'll be ready in five. Well OK, it's me; so make it fifteen. What should I wear?"

"Whatever you want, it's your birthday." Twenty minutes later Janette was crossing the street after telling some guy on her side to "Wait there."

"Damian, got ten bucks I can borrow?"

I opened my wallet. "I only got twenties."

"That's fine. I'll be back." She took a twenty from my wallet and ran back across the street as the lights changed. She ducked into a doorway with the guy and came back out her purse bulging and open. Then she disappeared... reappearing a minute later with a Slurpy and crossing to my side of the street. She walked up to me and gave me a one-handed hug.

"On such a hot day we need a drink." She opened the top of her large purse, revealing a 40 of vodka. "Pretty good for fifteen bucks." In a store the bottle cost thirty.

"Happy Birthday... and wicked score! Um... we should get a cab or something." I turned to look and a bus was pulling in. "This'll get us there just as quick.

On the bus Janette topped off the Slurpy with some vodka. We shared it as I told her about my fucked-up situation at work. We then got off the bus still slurping the Slurpy – but now also buzzed for the short walk to Sausies.

Once there, Kat seated us at a booth. We ordered a feast and ate. Extra drinks were preferred to dessert.

"So, you only told me about getting your boss for harassing gays. What happened today?"

"Well, I got into work and was treated like a hero by all the workers. Guys came up to me, shaking my hand and slappin' me on the back calling me 'the man!'. My direct superior didn't saying a word to me, while Steve the GM avoided me like I was the HR manager. Then I went out to the gatehouse. Shifts in there are like a punishment. All day you take the licenses and numbers of trailer –plus their seal numbers. And that's it. Normally we'd use the Internet all day long. It's technically not allowed, but no one cared. However, today there was a big, bold printed copy of company policy for computer use plastered on several walls – with the allowable Internet uses underlined. The one that really got me was the company policy on intellectual property. It basically states that anything an associate produces at work is owned by the company – so any of my writing done at work is technically theirs."

"But they can't tell if you've been writing on their time can they?"

"Probably can – if they're looking for it."

"I could ask my ex; he knows computers."

"No need to. I'm going to play the game for now." I paused for a drink. "So now I have the most boring job in the world. But I've also got an ace up my sleeve. HR have my back and management's already cut my hours. At about ten, Monica from HR came into the gatehouse. I showed her the paper.

'Look at this... never have they enforced this – except when Tony was caught for abusing his computer privileges.'"

"It's company policy," Monica replied "The Internet is only used as outline on there."

"But Monica, this is exactly the type of punishment I didn't want to incur."

"I'm sorry, but your new schedule and this memo are not, technically, punishment. I know it doesn't seem to be fair, going from the hours you had to the new ones – but because you're all of equal level in your department, no-one has any more right to hours. And as long as you get at least three shifts a week no rule has been broken."

"So you led me on? Said I wouldn't get punished officially or unofficially."

"No. To be honest, I'd say I was naïve to how they could make your life worse. However, we have not left you out in the cold. Have you checked your e-mail?"

"Why? To see what else I've lost?"

"No. Management, with the encouragement of HR, has recommended you for the management training program. It would mean you'd have to transfer first to a retail store. There's a full-time position downtown that I've only heard good things about. The manager thinks Steve's an idiot. If you excel, you'll go into management training. What do you think?"

"I like it here. I don't need the extra day or raise, I was happy here."

Monica rolled her eyes. "How could this be better than that? God, if your girlfriend heard that you'd be slapped. Come to your senses. You're being given the chance for a career – a salaried job in a couple of years. Which is an excellent opportunity. And you're more than smart enough. All you have to do is apply yourself – probably not even fully – and you'll be management."

But if I leave it's like saying, Steve's—" I stopped myself, knowing Monica was not the person to say that to. But it was too late. I'd already said too much.

"You'd stay to beat Steve? That's petty and stupid. These days, when David fights Goliath, the best David gets is time to run. Sure, you love this place and had a good thing – but it's time to change. If you're worried about not being able to write without the graveyard shift to do it in, you'll never be a writer. It takes more incentive than boredom to go anywhere with that."

"Writing? I never do that here."

"And that's why there's also a memo on your desk forbidding you from doing it. Damian, all I can say is that it'd be a huge mistake to pass on this chance. And if you don't take it, you deserve to be pushed out of here by any means, however petty. Tell the person you're closest to and do what they say." Monica left slamming the door.

I stopped telling the story and looked for Kat to refill our drinks." So Janette, what do you think?"

"I think she has or had a thing for you."

"Monica? I don't think so—she's always picking on me in meetings. Plus, she's like the straightest person I know – even though she's not married."

"You're going to take the job, right?"

"The upsides are... the good money; an extra day of work; it's closer, only days and evening shifts; and the chance to be management. But I still like it where I am. I've got enough money, the people are good, I get three days off most weeks. Plus, leaving is like letting Steve win. I'm leaning towards staying. I'm comfortable with where I am." I got slapped.

Kat must have been listening from the bar. "Give him another one for me!"

Janette hit me again. "You're such a dumb-ass sometimes. You'd stay there not to lose a pissing match? Fuck man give it up! There's a time to be proud and it's not now."

"You're probably right."

"I am right. It's my birthday."

"So, I got you a little something. It's really nothing... boating equipment." I handed the gift to her.

Janette opened the package. "Nice... and they're Gucci." She took a better look. "Real Gucci." She bent over the table giving me a check-to-cheek hug and a peck, before sitting back down to put them on. She looked at them in the reflection from the smoking room's coloured glass. She bounced up and down and they fell off. "I don't think they'll be good for boating – they're a bit big."

"Glasses like that are for showing off. They need to be big for the name."

Janette shuffled over to my side of the booth. "I really like the glasses, Damian. But if you get me anything like this again, please let me come out and choose so you can get the right size. I love the way these look too much though, to take them back."

She sucked up the last of her drink making a slurping noise. "I'd better get going." Janette looked at her phone. "Oh shit, I'm late. I gotta get the next bus. Sorry, I have to run."

"Hang on. I'll get the bill then a cab... I was going to head downtown anyway."

"That's awesome." She gave me a peck and hug. "Maybe I'll also help feed your paint-ball fund."

We took a cab down to The Peel, where I had no choice but to go for two dances— extended to three just for me. Soon after that I found myself on a bus back to Sausies, where I heard a countless number of reasons why I should take the promotion I'd been offered. That was when Seth and Lisa were not doting over there new puppy Clover.

The next day I worked was a Monday graveyard shift. Unbeknown to me, it would be the last graveyard at the warehouse. However, since I didn't know that, we didn't do anything special.

Well, we did play floor hockey 'til the first break. It was part of my new philosophy at work do something every day that could get you fired. Later that morning I sent the required e-mail to the people who needed to know my intentions. When HR came in at eight, I stayed to make sure all the details had been taken care of. A perfunctory conference call interview had been set up for my next shift.

My last shift only became tagged as such once my conference call interview was finished. The interview was more of a meet-and-greet with my manager in loss prevention – who seemed to have an inkling that, at some point, I'd move to a store full-time and ultimately become a general manager. With an assurance that their 'search' for this position was over, I made a trip to HR.

"Hey Monica, I got the job as predicted. But I really don't want to hang around here until I'm officially hired. Is there any way I can use up some of my vacation?"

"No. But isn't your mother in a home?"

"Yeah, but—"

Monica didn't listen to my objection.

"I sympathize with your concern that the renovation currently going on at the home might affect her health. As a company, it would be inhumane of us not to let you take some of your vacation so you can take care of your poor mother at home, while her care facility is being renovated. My great uncle caught pneumonia from the mold spore floating around during repairs to his leaky condo – and he nearly didn't make it. I suggest you leave as soon as you can."

"OK. Err, the home said the reno would be completed a week from this coming Sunday."

"No problem. If John or anyone wonders why you're leaving, tell them to talk to me."

With that I went back to the gatehouse to send some e-mails; informing the good guys here that I was off to bigger and better things. I then grabbed my stuff and walked to our office.

"Hey John, sorry to make your day but I've got a personal issue I have to attend to, so I'm off."

"Who's going to man the gatehouse?"

"That's your problem."

"I'm going straight to Steve and HR!"

"Go ahead."

23.

Cassandra and I started our trip people-watching Robson St from the steps of the art gallery – as so many others had done before. Trevor did not partake as he was already mad. Not long after, some cops came and started to hassle a group of skaters smoking weed. We took the hint and left walking towards The Cambie. Things began looking odd as we walked past an alley—cut off from traffic to film a movie. I started to giggle at the wavy buildings as we passed the scene. I was really beginning to worry about crossing the street as we came up to the Ninety -Nine Cent Only pizza shop. Cassandra stopped, then walked right up to the glass staring in. Trevor and I were twenty feet away before we noticed. We turned to look at Cassandra who, in turn, was looking at the guy leaving the pizza place. His face was bloody, hair matted with blood and large shards of glass were protruding from gashes.

Cassandra gasped, horrified, and said, voice wavering on the verge of tears: "Oh my God... are you OK?" She covered her mouth with hand, saying through it: "You should see a doctor about that."

The person started to laugh. "It's make-up! We're doing a movie up the street."

Cassandra put her hand over her heart. "Holy shit! I totally thought that was real! My heart's beating a mile a minute... let me catch my breath."

She put a hand out to hold onto the side of the building. "You shouldn't see that shit on acid."

Trevor and I came over to see how Cassandra was. The closer I got the less I could look at the guy's torn face. I focused on Cassandra, who did the same with me. When close enough she held onto me, shaking as we turned to go. We were followed by Trevor and the actor's mocking laughter.

Half a block further down the scene was no better. We began to see many more of the downtown's undead – mostly victims of crack, meth and heroin – and our horror did not subside.

Cassandra then spoke so softly we had to get her to repeat it. "Trevor, go in that store and get us the drink. We need E."

I turned to go with him but she stopped me. "Don't leave me alone out here, Damian." She held me, still shaking. I wasn't yet that panicked, but might have been if alone.

It took what seemed like an eternity for Trevor to sort out the drink. In that time, scores of junkies—driven by their need and the heat—desperately looked for rocks in all of the cracks. They didn't see people or cars or buildings – only the potential for drugs. That tiny percent chance that hassling, robbing or breaking someone or something would result in drugs.

I tried to project strength and distain, hoping no one would one ask us for anything. I may have given them everything I had as I really didn't need it. But no one approached us in the millennia it took Trevor to get the juice.

We quickly took our medicine; Trevor sensing our fear was at boiling point. He kept telling the undead to fuck off and flicked butts at them when necessary.

Our fear eased as we got closer to The Cambie and the pot block before. Our number grew, in comparison to the urchins of the street. The relief at making it to The Cambie was tempered, though, by the crush of people inside. Moving without touching people was impossible. All were loud and wouldn't move without aggression – something Cassandra and I had forgotten about. However, that terror was short-lived, as we found a seat outside with Cambie-ites; people we were acquainted with by virtue of also attending this bar – but whose names we'd have to ask each time we saw them. Soon we got beer, though, and calm was fully restored.

"I can't believe that guy with the glass coming out of his face," Cassandra said. "It was so real." She was stopped mid-flow by her need to laugh. I joined her. "I'll miss this place," she said. "It's so—" she was stopped mid-sentence this time by two guys getting off their bikes and looking like they'd walked out of Mad Max and the Thunder Dome.

"It is The Cambie!" And we all broke out laughing again. The Cambie welcomed our mania. The Cambie was our friend. Whatever the day or night, it was with us. We stayed there until the sun started to go down.

Walking sober down Hastings Street on a long, sunny evening in late spring tested one's humanity/sanity to the limit. In our state, it would have been a very dangerous walk, with every one of the desperate, drug-addled inhabitants ready to pounce on any soulless conscience they could.

The downtown Eastside on a hot summer's day is truly a carnival of the desperate and dispossessed. Couples fight to drag in a third who can be robbed. Zombie-like addicts look through cars as they jaywalk the traffic amid a symphony of howling horns – to which they were totally oblivious. A guy who's overdosed and is now slumped in a doorway may be totally ignored, as a second one shrieks at the bugs crawling out her arms, in between falling to the ground. In the heat of the evening, everything moves faster. The senses of even the most deadened are overloaded by the crush of fear, desperation, frustration, obsession, violence and immorality. It is insanity. And there's no order – even with the police station just a block away and beat cops on every other block.

Three blocks away, we mingled with tourists as we made our way through one of Vancouver's oldest blocks in Gastown. We were only assailed by aggressive panhandlers and Solomon as we neared the Banana Peel.

My favourite seat at the back was free. We sat down, as a waitress I didn't know (with an unbelievably large chest) took our order.

I pointed to one of the girls giving lap dances. "How about that one Cassy?" A few seconds passed and I looked over at Cassandra, whose attention was wrapped by the girl on stage. I gave her a poke.

With eyes glued on the performer Cassandra said: "Who? I like the girl on the stage... do they do lap dances? And don't call me Cassy!"

"Not normally. If they do, they're usually not as good and charge you more."

I looked to the floor again. Ocean was slowly making her way towards us. I pulled Cassandra's arm and pointed at Ocean. "Cassandra, she's a really good dancer... and I think she's bi."

"Ocean, this is Cassy."

Cassandra offered her hand. "It's Cassandra... Damian calls me that because I don't like it."

Ocean replied: "He's just jealous of how good you look."

I made Ocean sit between Cassy and I. "Ocean, wouldn't you be envious or even a bit jealous if your sexy friend was going to be going upstairs to have a lap dance with the best-looking stripper here – and on your dime?"

A confused Ocean replied: "Who's the best looking stripper here?" I pointed at her. "Oh!" Ocean turned to Cassy, putting a hand on her leg and giving her a peck on the cheek. "Did that feel nice?"

Being on the same drugs as Cassy, I knew it must have felt awesome. The two whispered into each other's ears for a few minutes, as I pretended to be interested in the main stage. The confidential conversation then ran out of steam and their eyes turned to me. Without a word I took out enough money for two lap dances.

As Ocean walked to the back with Cassy following, I looked up at the ceiling and peered though the plaster, envisioning the awkward moments at the end of the last song when Ocean and Cassy had time to think. My imagination ran wild with thoughts and story-lines of the two of them doing... well, each other—in a fantasy told many times. But this time the sight of them going upstairs together made it as real as the mind could ever make it.

I was so focused on the fantasy that Trevor had to tap his glass with mine to break me free. Our expressions told the other what we were thinking. We silently decide not disrupt our fantasies – and all positions and styles had been tried by the time Nyet showed up at our table and in my fantasy.

Nyet and I chatted about nothing as the drugs drove my imagination to places new and interesting, never to be thought of again. Her proximity to me was too strong. Not long after she arrived, she had me walking up those stairs as Cassy and Ocean walked down. Smiles and giggles were exchanged. As always, the two dances I had with Nyet were amazing, but the merging of the ETC and acid pushed the feeling up to an indescribable level. Anything indescribable on ETC or acid is something you want to share, just to know it was real.

"Have a drink." A shooter was forced upon me by Cassandra as I sat down. "That was incredible... I want another!" I agreed and we took the shot.

"Hey Dude," Trevor said, leaning forward from the bench seat to see me. "Remember you owe me a lap dance for that game?"

"Yeah I do. But I get to pick who."

Cassandra broke in. "I want one, too!"

"I gave you yours. I've only got enough for Trevor."

Nyet arrived back at our table after being in the smoking room and sat down to finish her drink. "So what are you guys doing after this?" she asked.

Cassandra answered. "There's a think happening with good DJ and a bunch of people at a cool art studio in Yaletown. We're going there."

"Call it what it is, Cassandra – it's a rave." Trevor spat.

"No... it's cool. There aren't going to be any dumb teenagers or people from the valley; only cool artists. People you'll give your left nut to be as cool as."

"Sounds like fun," Nyet said. "If I can make enough money I wouldn't mind coming. I can't leave until closing here. Will it still be on?"

"It'll be on 'til the sun comes up," said Cassandra. Just call Damian and I'll get you in."

"I'll try to get there, but if I don't make enough money I can't go sailing with Damian."

"I want to go for a lap dance before we leave," Trevor announced. "And you owe me one. I want to go with her." Trevor pointed at the girl he liked.

"Me too," Cassandra interjected.

"Trevor, it's my call. You're going for a dance with Nyet – she's the best." I got a look I didn't understand from Nyet.

Trevor shook his head. "Come on, I want to go with her."

Cassandra interrupted: "I'd love to go with the fabled Nyet, Damian. Trevor can go with whomever he wants. I'll go with Nyet."

Nyet instantly moved to purr in Cassandra ear.

"No! I can compete against Trevor – or at least beat him up – he's a dude. And I can compete against another woman." I took out my wallet out. "Here Nyet, take Trevor upstairs and do your worst." I handed her the money.

Nyet shot an evil look at me, then Trevor \--before demanding: "Trevor, follow me!" She stalked off with Trevor in tow.

Cassandra rolled her eyes. "Damian that was so wrong."

"What?"

Cassandra tried to say something but stopped. "I should have gone... not Trevor."

"You heard why I didn't want you to go."

"That's not it. Whatever. Let's take some more."

I took out my wallet containing two more individually foil-wrapped squares of paper and we put them on our tongues. A last round of drinks came and a cap of XTC was taken. Cassandra went up for one more dance as Trevor came down. Trevor went for a cigarette and Nyet sat down, leaning forward to sip her drink from a straw.

"We're probably not going to stay at that rave thing too long. We'll likely go somewhere else to have a drink... maybe the beach. Want me to call you?"

Janette looked up from her drink, appearing cockeyed, and then looked down at her feet.

"Is something wrong?"

"I don't think I'll make enough money to go out tonight."

"I got money, don't worry about it."

"Yeah, maybe."

Something then caught Janette's eye. She straightened up, pulled out a cigarette and switched to Nyet. "Call me." She finished her drink, got up cigarette-in-hand and walked to the smoking room, passing Trevor.

"Was it good, Trevor?"

"I don't know what you see in her. She didn't even get me hard."

"What do you mean?"

"That's what I mean. and she pretended to bite it, which is not cool."

"I don't believe you."

All of our round metal objects were given to King Solomon for hailing us a cab. The cabbie knew we were too fucked up to argue, so we were taken the long route. Which was fine, as we got a good look at all the freaks on the street.

Cassandra found her way from the cab to the dance studio without getting entangled in a line.

Trevor and I were trapped, though. We stood in line behind a guy wearing a blue tracksuit, rainbow headband, aviator glasses, candy necklace and sucking a soother – and we were the ones stopped and searched. The bouncer tried to look intimidating, but I was much bigger than him. His tiny associate blurted out: "No weapons, no drugs, no booze, no violence."

Trevor chuckled: "Did you ask about any drugs to the guy sucking on a soother?"

"I know him, he's fine," came the curt response from the small guy.

"Hey guy, our buddy Cassandra is already in there and we want to join her –but, to be honest, we have booze in our bag. Can you hold our bags at the front? I'll give you a few bucks."

"No."

Trevor pointed to a guy and girl walking past with only pupils for eyes and a rolled cigarette behind his ear. "Those guys are high – search them. They've got drugs on them."

"Shut up, Trevor!"

"You guys are not going in."

Right at that moment Cassandra and some guy came out from the studio.

"Hey, these are my buddies Damian and Trevor. Damian, Trevor, meet DJ Nhee from the Knights that Say." We all shook hands and were about to walk in when the doorman stopped us.

"You can't bring the booze in." But the DJ spoke and the doorman listened, holding our booze at the front.

The room was loud, the lights flashed and the people moved. But it was not our crowd. Twenty minutes into this thing I was scheming with Trevor to fake a seizure so we could leave. Fortune was on our side as Cassandra had a falling out with whomever she was there to see.

Having left, we wandered down Granville, finding lines to places we didn't want to pay to get into. The street was full of howling drunks and girls who had been going – or were about to go – wild. We were too high for that, so found our way into the first club without a line.

The guy at the coat check whistled to us and said in an effeminate voice: "You're not getting past me big boys." We turned to check our backs and encountered a girl as tall as I was with an Adam's apple the size of a softball. As the coat check girl took our bags, they touched with a loud, CLINK!

"Where's the after-party boys?"

I pointed to Trevor. "His place." Trevor walked away quickly.

The coat check girl yelled: "I'll just take a card from your bag."

I smiled. "Have a drink or two if you want."

We walked up the stairs and into a room full of transvestite Aretha Franklins and Asian ladyboys. Quickly we got drinks and made a beeline for the smoking area. We sat close to each other, giggling at the scene and grooving to the music. Our defensive huddle was not tight enough to keep guys from trying to get Trevor and me in the sack. "Hun, you got a light? Thanks, that shirt looks great on you. What's it made of?" Without a stopping for an answer he was rubbing my chest. "Oh, it's not the shirt that makes you look sexy, IT'S THE MAN!"

My mind screamed, 'React!' But I couldn't. I was two feet behind and above myself looking down on the four of us. Stunned, I looked towards Trevor and Cassandra with a stupid grin.

My suitor turned to Trevor. "You two aren't together are you? Oh gawd, I'm sorry if I'm getting in the way."

Trevor replied. "No... he's just really high on E."

"Good, I won't have to fight you for him," he laughed. Then turned to me. "This must feel so good." He continued to rub my chest and unbutton my shirt. "You know a guy with chest hair and bit of fat is so much more manly... sexy."

I... my body felt good; my mind felt good. Everything was alright. I turned to smile at the guy and in the mirror behind him was the reflection of a person I liked. No, loved – even if his waist was 44" and there was more to love than most. I focused on the fortyish George Michael look-alike who was hitting on me and didn't feel awkward, uneasy, resentful or undeserving. I was honestly flattered and took in the love or lust he was feeling towards me as if it was true – which it was – without having my damaged mind censor its truth. In this new light I discarded the lie that my boyfriend would not want me flirting with him and told the truth. "I'm totally blown away by your affection, but I'm not into you." I gave the guy a peck on the cheek. "Cassandra, let's go and dance."

"Let's!" Cassandra got up and I followed, as my suitor started talking to Trevor.

The dance floor was homogenous, everyone a freak. All eight genders grooved and moved and were beyond themselves, or so it seemed.

I was there cutting a rug with Cassandra. We slowly loosened clothing as the temperature rose. The house lights tuned up as the music died down. As our dancing slowed, our smiles turned to intensifying laughter. Cassandra's top had gone and she was now only in a bra. I stood with my shirt around my shoulders like a cape.

Cassandra hugged me, turning her head up towards me for a kiss. I hugged her back but stood tall, getting a kiss from her on my shoulder. "Damian, I'll miss you." She looked for another kiss, getting up on her tip-toes.

I bent my neck enough to give her a peck on the forehead. "I'll miss you, too." We stood for a few seconds without moving. "Hey, let's get out of here; I want to call Janette and see if she wants to go to the beach."

We actually had no other choice, as the bouncers and bussers were now rapidly ushering us out. The tranny at the door gave us our bags and thanked us for the tip. Trevor and I had said in synchrony: "What tip?"

"Cheers!" She raised a glass to us.

Trevor went to look through his bag, while I tried to dial Janette's phone number. Meanwhile, Cassandra pulled us both towards the street and the taxis, freshly washed by warmish rain. "Janette? Damian."

"I got call display... what?"

"That bitch!" Trevor said into his bag. "The fucking tranny took a quarter of my rum."

"Bitch who!? Janette?"

Cassandra pulled at us. "Get in the cab."

"Trevor was talking about the door girl, err, person... the tranny at the club we were at. So we were going to the beach, wanna come? We got booze?"

"I'm piss..."

Cassandra drowned out the phone. "Trevor get in the fucking cab!"

Janette tried again. "... it's shitty out and going to rain..." Trevor yelled something at the club, cutting out my conversation for a few seconds. "You..." The door slammed. "ME! You take Trevor to the bathhouse...." The cabby cut Janette off a final time. "Sure... I'll meet you there."

The inflection may have been wrong, but I gave the cabby our destination. "First Beach and step on it."

Within a block of the club, the heavens opened with a monsoon-like downpour. "Are you sure you still want to go to the beach?" Cassandra said. "There'd better be cover."

"There is at First beach," I said.

Trevor finally got over his loss and joined in the conversation. "What is it with you and gay shit tonight? First Beach, where the bathhouse is? What's up with that?"

"Janette suggested it."

I looked out the window at the rain; vertical streaks hammering down on my jumble of thoughts. I was now asking myself about the conversation I'd just had with Janette. The closer we got to the beach, the harder the rain came down, clearing my head of the fantasy it had made up about how tonight would turn out. Finally, there were two thoughts that hadn't been dissolved by the rain: 1. It was too rainy to go to the beach. 2. The selection of First Beach by the bathhouses was strange and suggested gay sex—as that's what went on there.

A day earlier, I wouldn't have made the call I then made to Janette. But all was now grand in my world – and would be alright as long as I was honest and true. That's what the new me thought – or the drugs had told me.

I called Janette. "It's me. I get it; sending Trevor and I to the bathhouse. We nearly got there before I got the joke. If it was not raining so badly we probably would have gone there. It was a joke, right?"

"Not exactly."

"Are you angry at me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Look, I don't have time for this."

"Why is over rated. I'm sorry and please stop me before I do something stupid next time – especially if I'm high."

"OK."

"Are you still angry?"

"Yes, but I'll get over it."

"Are we still going sailing?"

"Yes."

"You know, if you want Trevor and me to do gay stuff while you watch, that can be arranged?"

I could see Janette smile and put a hand in front of her face to mute the giggle I heard. "Go to bed you freak!"

I hung up my phone and felt content as I told the cabby to change direction towards Trevor's place. Straight lines of goodness were falling through my head like the rain. Each line was attached to a feeling and a moment yet to happen between me and Janette.

The cab came to a stop. Trevor's voice pulled me from my fantasy.

"Dude, I'll call you tomorrow. Cassandra, it's been nice knowing you and your dog. A kiss before you leave?" Trevor lent in, in hopeful anticipation.

SLAP! "After what you said to me on the way here? NEVER!"

Trevor got out of the cab. "I'll be thinking of you as I go to bed, Cassandra – and Precious, too!" He punctuated his words with a jerking off gesture.

Cassandra tried to spit at Trevor but he was out of range. "Asshole!"

As we pulled away, I reminded Trevor: "Find out about your days off. I might need you to go sailing."

"He can be such an asshole," Cassandra said, referring to Trevor.

"Trevor's always like that when he knows he may not see someone again."

"He said he'd keep in touch."

"Doubtful. He's a great guy, but if you aren't close enough to go for a beer with, you don't really exist."

Cassandra draped herself over me. "You're not going to forget about me are you Damian?"

"How could I? You'll hear from me; I'm a drunk caller. You'll hate me after the third successive call you get at like, five in the morning from a drunk me sayin' how much life sucks."

"Come with me. Montreal is cheap... and I think I love you. I know Precious does."

"I can't move to Montreal. It's the drugs telling you you're in love with me. I'm in love with Janette – you know that. And Mom is here."

"Well, at least stay with me 'til the drugs wear off. We can go to your house – or mine – as long as we pick up Precious. It'll be great. I have lots of drugs and I'm sure you do, too." Cassandra kissed me and, after a few seconds with her lips against mine—tongue darting out—I gave in and made out with her.

"Wasn't that good? Stay with me, I don't want to be alone. It is my last night here, after all. What regrets could there be?"

"No... I'm not staying with you. Things would be too strange. You're my friend and I'm in love with Janette. If she was not in the picture, sure – but she is."

"Come ON." Cassandra put a hand on my crotch and gave my hard-on a squeeze.

"I know you want to."

"No."

"You're such a tease, but I'm going to make out with you all the way home. You can't go back on that."

The cabby must have felt for my situation as, once I'd pried Cassandra off me at her house, he had no problem with me drinking in the cab. Or it could have been the almost hundred dollar fare.

24.

There was no day after going to The Cambie with Cassandra. Sobering up, to the point where I felt human again, took more than a day.

Since it was now my vacation, being sober was no longer a priority. I did have to go to my mom's and take the boat out of the water for maintenance. But both could be complete with a buzz. Mom's was awkward without a dog and I wanted another couple of drinks. But I knew, if I succumbed, Sherry may well have taken my keys.

My other priority was arranging for a few days to go sailing with Janette. I wanted to take the boat out with just the two of us. But something wouldn't let me. I could single-hand the boat in most weather, but docking was not so easy. Safety demanded a crew of two. Trevor was a sure thing, but I got the feeling Janette had a problem with him. So I called Alison (or Ocean), knowing the one thing better than having one stripper as crew was two. However, Alison was busy.

After working my way down my list of five, no-one was available and the weather report suggested wind. A small craft warning had been issued and I knew we'd have to sail into the wind on the way there. Trevor was the only crew I knew with enough experience if the weather turned crappy.

The weather essentially arranged (or at least dictated) the trip. I was hoping to go for three days. Trevor got two days off; Thursday and Friday. By Wednesday afternoon, I could see the weather wasn't what the man had predicted. The wind had been pushed back a day or so.

Since crabbing was at its best – one week before commercial fishery opens – I dropped a trap in the bay to guarantee dinner for the trip. Normally, it's an easy pull from shallow (70-foot) water. When I went to pull the trap it felt stuck. I had to put my back into it. The trap came up slowly as I looked for the blue two-foot-by-two-foot box in the depths. An orange object inched its way up, a little more with each pull.

"Damn! Must be a Sun star." Sun stars (like a giant starfish) can be up to two feet in diameter with twenty arms, millions of micro tentacles and if you get one in the trap it will eat all the crab. It wasn't a Sun star. Just a lot of crab.

I heaved the trap into the boat and took off for the dock, where I sorted through my catch. Eighteen delicious Dungeness crabs, sixteen legal size. Two were over eight inches across – monsters! Thanks English Bay for your bounty and best crabbing spots by the storm drain/sewer overflows.

The crabs I kept were put in the trap and I threw in all the extra bait I had to keep them busy overnight. Then I lowered it to the bottom under the boat. The crabs would be fine in the trap 'til we butchered them.

I gave Janette a call to firm up when I should pick her up and to brag about the crab.

"Hey Janette, I got us a crab dinner for tomorrow."

"Crab? I love crab!"

"So when should I come round to get you?"

"Can we go little later? Something came up or well, I forgot about it. It may be a very late night... it's a lingerie show."

"If we go later it'll probably be rough. There's supposta be a heavy wind in the morning and lasting until late afternoon. It's due to subside by the evening and then get cloudy."

"Can I sleep on the way there?"

"Trevor's coming, so you can if you don't mind the rocking."

"Oh, Trevor's coming. I thought you were trying to find someone else."

"You don't know how hard it is to find twenty-somethings who want to ditch work and go sailing for free. He'll be on his best behaviour."

"Fine. But if he isn't, he's crab bait! What drink goes with crab?"

'I don't know, white wine?"

"No, wine is a hangover-maker. Get some vodka, Kahlua and mixer and we'll have Paralyzers. Come around 8-ish."

"OK. See you then."

25.

I dropped Trevor off at the boat before going to get Janette. He would get it ready to roll, so we could just cast off and go.

Traffic made it more like 8:45 before I got to Janette's. Getting her out of her apartment took another ten. I would have waited a minute less than forever for my Goddess. Her attire was not exacting yachting style, but I didn't object. She was in a light blue top, transparent enough to see a dark polka-dotted bikini top and short pleated skirt with white and light green shoes that didn't really match – but who was looking at them. Her large, dark sunglass – my present to her – were somewhat hidden by black bangs that were part of an oriental looking hair-do, complete with chopsticks. It was all punctuated by those Ferrari red lips that were closing in on me to give me a peck on the cheek. A waft of liquor with an underlying blueberry or wildberry aroma got in the car with her. My eau de vodka was overcome. She looked as if she was in her clothes from the night before; but that was hot, so I cared not.

"Man, I only got a few hours sleep... a very strange night. What I need is some McDonalds for breakfast – a McGriddle to be precise – and I gotta go to the bank. They're next to each other. Take a right at the end of the block."

I followed her directions and we arrived. "Pull in here. I'll be right back. Do you want anything?"

"Err..."

"I'll get you something. Juice or coffee?"

"Juice."

Fifteen minutes later, Janette was back with breakfast. She looked a little angry, but still shot me a smile.

"I need to stop at another spot. I gotta get some money sorted."

Again I followed her directions and found myself pulling up to nondescript building that looked like a 1950s school or government office.

"I shouldn't be long, the office is just opening."

"I got breakfast to eat, I'm OK." I finished breakfast before she got back.

"Sorry it took so long. I popped into the massage therapy place next door. They had some cool body lotions. Look, this is my favourite." I looked away from the road.

"BUS!" I narrowly avoided the bus. "Don't look this time; smell."

She rubbed lotion on her hands and raised one.

"Are you saying that I smell bad? I splashed on Old Spice this morning."

"No."

"Smells good... like blueberries or something. Aren't you wearing something similar?"

"That's from last night."

The wind was up when we arrived at the dock. I wanted to leave quickly to make sure we got out before the waves picked up – and to get the benefit of the high tide. A flood tide pushed the boat northwest towards the Flat Top islands, counteracting the drift caused by the beating up wind. The ebb tide in the late afternoon would cause us to drift east with the westerly and make us tack back up when the Gulf Islands were neared. Basically, it added two to three more hours beating into the wind, which was uncomfortable.

"Janette pull up that line," I ordered.

She pulled up the line to the crab-trap sitting under the boat. "Man, it's heavy. WOW, it's full of crab!"

"You think that's enough for tonight?"

"We'll need more butter," she said.

"I've got to clean them before we leave. Wanna help?"

"How do you do that?"

"Dude, don't you just cook 'em alive in a big pot?" weighed in Trevor.

"Trevor, that's evil...we're not doing that," Janette scowled.

"We're not doing that," I confirmed. "We've got to clean 'em and put 'em on ice. You do it like this."

I grabbed the two back legs of a crab and held it upside down, calming it slightly. Then I grabbed all the legs and claw on one side with one hand, then the other with the crab upside down. "Now you crack it in half like this." I raised the crab over a metal eye bolt in the dock – used to attach the boats' mooring lines – and smashed the crab's back on it, cleaving the crab in two.

Janette grimaced. "That's gross and evil. I can't do that."

"Dude, like this." Trevor tried and bashed it on the eye bolt – but only hard enough to crack the shell. He hit it again, smiling. "It won't come apart... and it's still moving; crazy."

"Trevor, kill it," Janette said coldly. "You're a psycho. I can't believe you smile while doing that. That's wrong. It's a living thing."

"It's a fucking crab," Trevor replied. "A rock that moves. Besides, Damian's killing them, too."

"He's not smiling and torturing it. Psycho." She spat then looked to me. "Damian, will you kill the rest? Trevor can't, he's a psycho. I'm going up to the bathroom while you do that."

As Janette walked off, I said to Trevor: "You can clean them. Take all this shit off the meat. And don't argue with Janette, OK? Be friendly."

"What did I do?"

Janette got on the boat. "Good, I like crab – but more as an appetizer than a full meal."

I moved to the wheel and turned on the engine. "Everyone ready to go?"

"Yessss—Sir," Janette replied.

Trevor nodded.

"OK. Before we cast off, can you both do a double-check to ensure everything is stowed so it won't rattle around or fall overboard. Janette, just so you know, there are Gravol – sea sickness pills – in the front head."

The two of them scrambled around the boat, checking stuff I'd already checked. "All's ship-shape... and I found the pills," Janette said.

"Trevor, cast us off. Janette, keep an eye on the left stern to make sure the whaler doesn't hit the other boat. The boat hook's over there. You can fend it off with that if you need to."

We were off a couple of hours late with a building sea. It wasn't looking as if it would be the worst weather the Reefer had seen, by far. But the wind was strong enough, and the seas steep and high enough to be boring and annoying to bounce around in for five hours. Boring and annoying, because the wind is high but the waves are short – so you lose speed with each hit. And, though the boat feels or looks fast – heeled over bashing through waves – it's not and you've got to tack many times (adding distance to the trip) to go directly into the wind; where we wanted to go. A boring experience is actually worse than an adrenaline-pumping near-death one. Well, to me at least.

This was about as heavy as the weather had been with Trevor as crew – and was definitely the worst Janette had been in. Janette was smart; she was asleep before we had the sails up. Definitely the best way to deal with boring weather.

It was 3:30pm when we tacked north, skirting along Valdes Island. The tack had rolled Janette nearly out of her bunk and, if that hadn't woken her, the bang and whip of the sail crossing the boat would have. "Are we there yet?" Janette groggily asked.

"No, still an hour or so to go."

"It seems much calmer?"

"Yeah, we're in the lee of the Gulf Islands."

"Do you guys want anything?"

I wanted Janette, but Trevor spoke first. "Beer for both of us."

Janette got us some beer and sat next to me. "Are we going to go fishing again?"

"If you want to. But the best spot is way to rough to fish in right now. That may change. The other good spot this time of year is inside – facing us from that light off the starboard bow. But it doesn't work well on an ebb tide or westerly wind, which we have both of. It may be good at the tide change, just before dark."

"I don't think I'll want to go fishing after the crab feast we're going to have," Janette said. "One thing; how are we going to cook all that on your tiny stove?"

"The clubhouse has a kitchen we can use, as long as we clean it up, share it and act civilized – not drunk."

"Hear that, Trevor? You'll have to be civil."

"It's too bad the crossing was so rough and slow."

"Give it up, Damian. So what if we can't go fishing and the water's a bit rough? It's sunny, warm and better than being in the city."

The sail into the dock was relaxing and made up for the boring, earlier stretch of the journey. At the dock, Janette took over trying to get Trevor and me to prepare the food for dinner. Ignoring Janette, Trevor said to me: "Dude, it's too hot for dinner – let's have a swim."

"If we're going to go fishing, we should eat now, right?" Janette said.

"I'm not up to either right now and to be honest I don't think wind the will drop," I replied. "If it does, I don't think we'll want to go out after a few drinks and dinner. Why don't we have a drink or two and slowly prepare dinner?"

"Sounds good, Damian. Get us some Paralyzers."

"I don't want a girl's drink," Trevor scoffed. I'll have a beer."

"A Paralyzer's got more booze in it than a beer," said Janette. "How can it be a girl's drink."

I quickly passed a beer up to Trevor, to keep him from saying anything else. He cracked open the can. "I'm going for a dip."

Janette and I gradually went from talking about how to cook the crab, to getting things prepared. Then we moved up to the clubhouse kitchen to take care of the actual cooking part. We had three boiling pots on the go when Trevor turned up inquiring: "Can I help?"

"You're a little—" I cut Janette off.

"If you could set the table and go fetch us some more drinks that would be good," I said.

By the time Trevor got back with a second order of drinks, the food was all ready. Salad, bread, baked potatoes and a mountain of crab's legs and claws – with a lake of butter to dip them in – was spread out before us. There was little talking done while we tucked into the feast. We needed a third and fourth round of drinks while we picked at the remaining crab.

As we ate, we were interrupted by jealous boaters who would say: "That looks like one hell of a meal; where did you get all those crab?"

Janette answered, after swallowing a forkful of the succulent, white meat. 'Damian caught them last night." She turned to me and winked.

The boater asked: "Where did you catch them?"

"In a trap," I said.

"Come on, be nice," Janette said.

I clarified my answer: "I put the trap in the ocean."

Janette slapped me with a napkin. "Oh, come on! It's not a big deal. He caught them a few hundred yards off the Jericho pier."

The seemingly endless haul of crab was diminishing steadily as word got out to those on the dock that if you donated a drink or two you could land some quality crab. By the time we'd finished cleaning up all the crab had been given away and Janette was the most popular person on the dock. I was happy she was having fun. As we left the club-house Janette, said: "Looks like we're leaving with more booze than we came with."

After dinner there was no chance we were going to do anything more than continue drinking. Of course, if I'd my way, I'd have been professing my undying love to Janette. But Trevor didn't know when to go to bed. So we listened to music and circled through happy drunk talk, with Trevor and Janette childishly bickering with each other about stupid stuff. "Trevor, I don't want to pull your finger or give you my lighter to light your fart on fire," was a prime example.

"But, it's cool – COME ON... pull it!"

"No. And I don't think Damian would like the fact that you're acting like an idiot at the club."

"Nobody can hear. You know you want to pull my finger and I'll light her up."

Janette's anger was now boiling up. "If you don't shut up, I'll smack you with all these rings... it will leave more than a mark."

"Hit me... I like it."

"Damian, shut him up or I'll have to."

"Zip it Trevor." Trevor looked towards me so I could see him in the galley and motioned with his hand that he'd zipped it.

Janette came up from the cabin and sat next to me. "Thank you, Damian for shutting up that retard. Hey, have you seen the bug spray I saw a mosquito?"

"No, I don't know where it is? Trevor?"

Trevor pretended to talk with his mouth sealed.

"That's not funny. Have you seen it?"

"It's in the head."

Janette went down to the head for the spray. I turned to Trevor. "Why are you being an ass?"

"Dude, she's giving me evil looks and saying shit under her breath, so I'm just giving it back. It's all fun."

"Cut it out. And do me a favour, go to bed or for a walk or something – just give me some time with her."

"I'll go to bed after another couple of drinks, I promise."

But the same squabble kept recurring and Trevor had more than a couple of extra drinks.

Not long after, I was down in the cabin when Janette started singing Bad Fish from Sublime and I knew our night was done. She came down the companionway and began to dance with me, repeating the few lines of the song she knew.
"Damian you can have my last drink. I'm completely abbreviated and am going to bed then the head... or the head then bed. A kiss goodnight?" She got on her toes and started to make out with me, pushing me towards her cabin. I span her round so her back was to the cabin door.

"Good night Janette." I gave her one last kiss and she found her way into the cabin. I found my way to the drinks, put them in one glass and went to talk with Trevor.

"So Trevor, do you think she gives a shit about me?"

"Dude, you don't want to know what I think."

"I'm beginning to think this is just really good customer service."

"Dude, your right."

I looked deeply and sadly at Trevor with all the hidden emotion I felt for Janette. Trevor wavered. "No, that's too harsh. She likes you but doesn't love you. And who's going to question what is given if it's good? I know she doesn't want you the way you want her, but she does like you."

I felt like crying, as I saw what Trevor must have. "Well, that is that." Sniffles followed.

"She must like you a bit, 'cause she went sailing with you and me – and she hates me. I got to use the head."

I looked for a star to wish upon, but the sky was beginning to cloud as Trevor went down the companionway. 'Get out of here, Trevor!" Janette shrieked.

"Use the aft head, Trevor!" I yelled.

The cabin door slammed as Trevor said: "I was going to the head, sorry."

Trevor came back up with more drinks. I decided to ask him about his dad, who he'd been reluctant to talk about on the trip over.

"He's got some disease like MS, but they don't know what it is and they think it's genetic," Trevor said. "In January he could walk, but now he's in a wheelchair. They want to know if I want to be tested for it." We discussed this and other things, before eventually hitting the sack.

As per my normal routine on a boat, I was up at the crack of dawn – just after 4am in late May. I thought about going fishing, as it was dead calm, but the morning sky was pink. A pink sky in the morning usually means 'sailors take warning' – and I knew the wind was up over the horizon. I went back to bed.

At around eight there was movement on the boat and I got up to find the source of activity. But no-one else was up. I was now up for the day, though, and sat in the cock-pit drinking water in the morning sun.. After a while, Janette came walking down the dock from the shower. My Goddess was stopped by other boaters who commented on her generosity – and she was happy to entertain her audience. I sat entranced, wondering if she'd wanted to walk around the island or do something without Trevor.

She approached the boat. "Good shower?" I said, knowing every drop of water was lucky to have dripped down her. If it would somehow show how much in love with her I was, I'd drink all that water.

"Yeah, but the water pressure's a bit low."

"It's blowing westerly again, but the tide is right to fish – the spot that's shielded from the wind a bit. What do you say?"

"Fishing? Yeah, sounds good. But let's have breakfast first. Something light. All that butter and crab made me feel a little sick. What do you want?"

"Muffins, juice and melon?"

"I'm up, so I'll get it.

"Great," I said.

Trevor roused himself as Janette made breakfast and demanded: "Get me some, too – and some water. I'm pretty hung over."

"Was I asking you?"

"Please..."

"Fine."

We ate breakfast as the sun's heat intensified. But there was a chill from the wind and no-one talked. When everyone was finished, I put away the dishes so as to prevent any squabbles.

As I went to get the fishing gear organized, I said to Janette: "We'll try jigging at Thrasher Rock for an hour or two. If there are salmon, we'll get one and there are some big lingcod this time of year. We'll have to let them go, wink-wink, nudge-nudge—if you know what I mean? They're a good fight."

I got the two rods rigged with Buzz Bomb quickly and picked up two life jackets, taking all the gear to the whaler. Trevor and Janette met me there.

"Don't we need three rods?" Trevor asked.

"It hard to fish with three rods in this wind. And I was thinking just Janette and I would go."

Janette spoke: "I'm really not feeling that well, why don't you two go?"

I asked: "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, rocking on that little boat wouldn't make me feel good – I think I had one too many last night."

"This is going to sound counter-intuitive, but if you're feeling bad now, we should leave – because the later we leave the rougher the sea will be. If we go now, the trip would be shorter and less rocky."

"That would be good, Damian. I do have to work tonight and a couple of hours in my bed would help."

"Well, let's get the boat ready to go." It didn't take long for us to be on our way. The crew was as quick to ask if they could have a nap below. I granted permission.

With a westerly breeze, the sail back was easy sledding, pointing somewhere between a broad reach and a dead run. Having no crew I didn't bother putting up the main sail, which wouldn't have helped us much. The jib was a much bigger sail and the more we pointed downwind, the more the one sail would cover the other—taking its wind. Even with the wind and waves about the same as yesterday, today the sail was relaxing. We were pushed along at about five-to-six-and-a-half knots, and the boat rode gently over the waves rather than pounding through them.

The wind began to peter out the closer we got to English Bay. As we approached the centre channel marker (QA) – which marks the centre of the shipping lane – we had slowed to four or five knots.

There were five or ten boats fishing around the marker, one of which had fish on. Though on Vancouver's doorstep, this area has been and can still be a great spot to fish. The fresh water from the Fraser River mixes with the Georgia Strait, causing plankton to bloom and bait fish to feed on the plankton. And the Fraser has the world's second largest run of salmon.

I flipped the VHF radio from Channel 16, the emergency station, to the 'secret' channel the local fishing guides use. The boat with the fish on looked like a guide-boat. Crackling voices from three of the boats in that area talked of a 'good bite' going on as they spoke.

Slow sailing or fishing? Fishing won. I pulled in the jib, started the engine up and went to get the salmon fishing gear ready. The engine must have woken Janette, as she was coming into the galley of the boat as I walked down to get the gear.

"Hey, I just heard on the radio that the fishing's good right here and now."

Not looking totally awake yet Janette said: "What time is it?"

"One-ish." I continued to get the gear ready, and had one downrigger out and was working on the second when Janette came on deck.

"Hey Damian, is there a chance we could get in so I can get home before four?"

"Well, if we power up from here we'll make it to the dock in about an hour-and-a-half. But there's some hot fishing here right now." I said this as I got the second line ready.

"I know you want to fish, but I really need to get back home and get some stuff done I couldn't do yesterday."

I bit the knot I'd just finished tying off and put the gear in hand away.

"I know how much you like to go out. Thanks." She sat down and tried to burp. "I also feel a little sick. Those seasick pills are all gone."

"Stay in the fresh air and focus on the far horizon. I find eating or being busy helps. Others say the best thing is to puke; you generally feel much better afterwards. But I hate puking."

As quick as I'd got the gear out, I put it away again and we were soon steaming along at seven knots. The first boat we passed fishing hooked up a fish which Janette viewed with interest. "Maybe we should have continued to fish?" I didn't answer.

An hour-and-a-half later we were moored. I left Trevor with a six-pack of beer, so he'd wait for me to return and clean up the boat. There was a chance my dad would be the next person to use the boat, so it needed to be ship-shape – and it was.

The traffic in the city did more to delay us than anything on the water, but I was still pulling into a parking spot behind the building which resembled a 1950s government office (where I'd stopped for Janette previously) with half an hour to spare (at 3:30pm). "Thanks for getting me here, Damian – it's a big help. Can I ask one other favour?"

"Yes, what?"

"Wait and give me a ride home?"

"I thought I was already doing that?"

"I'll be a couple of minutes." Before I had time to answer she'd gone. Twenty minutes later she was back.

"You know how I was thinking of becoming a registered massage therapist? Well, I heard that from that massage place you can get certified while working. That would be great."

I agreed, but was too focused on driving to keep up with the conversation – an error that might have cost me a massage. A short drive later I was dropping Janette off at her apartment. "I had a good time but I'm feeling a little ill," she said.

"Next time, go easier on the booze," I said.

"Hell yeah." She gave me the best hug and peck on the cheek she could while stretching across the centre console in my car. "Give me a call soon—we should go and see a movie."

"Sure, in a few days."

Knowing Trevor would have finished the six-pack by the time I got back, I stopped to get a case of beer. That was almost gone by the time we started working and we were done when it was. I knew that, even with freshly washed decks and heads – and the rest of the boat's cabins in the same condition as the day it was bought – I'd still get shit from my father if he used it. He'd still find something out of order.

26.

The ringtone of my phone woke me on Saturday. I picked it up, assuming it was someone to continue drinking with. I still had a week of holidays left.

"Hello?"

"Hi Damian? It's Kate from the downtown store. We met a few times at training."

"Oh yeah, I'm going to be working with you." I tried to sound collected.

"Yeah, you'll be the new boss here next week. But we've got a little problem."

"Let me guess, it's a problem that needs me to come in before my vacation time is up?"

"I like a psychic boss. Erica's ex-husband works at a camp in the territories and had to take an extra week up there, so she can't find anyone to take care of her kid until Friday. Erica would take your shifts next week. I was thinking that if you could come in for those five shifts you could get some extra training. Brian (the security manager for the Vancouver stores) said you've never worked in a store?"

"Nope, but I learn quickly."

"If you come in I can train you on arresting and stuff."

"Sure, anytime but tomorrow."

"Monday at 7am so I can show you how to open?"

"I'll be there."

***

Getting downtown for 7am was easy, as the buses ran at least every ten minutes. That made it easier to wait until the last minute to leave. I got to the store on time and met Kate at the employee's entrance.

Kate was much older than she'd sounded on the phone. The yellow security jacket she wore while opening covered clothes that had stopped being fashionable in the '80s. That's not to say she looked bad, but at around 50 some fashions should be consigned to history.

I had no memory, however vague, of meeting her at any training session or general meeting. She insisted we'd met, but it was more likely that Brian the manager had talked about me, as I'd start working for him before he got promoted from John's position.

The next two hours were a blur of introductions to people – each one with some bitch about issues I would find out were out of my control. I answered in the only way I could, saying 'I'll look into it,' and writing something in my notebook. There was then a store pep-talk/meeting fifteen minutes before opening, where I was formally introduced to the other staff and last year's year-to-date sales numbers were highlighted as a target to break. Kate and I then rushed from entrance to entrance, opening them for 9am.

With the frantic opening out of the way, Kate and I retired to the security office which was down a five-metre-wide hall, set apart for the store floor by an unmarked, inconspicuous door next to the changing rooms in women's lingerie – not far from the main entrance. The office was a small L-shaped room. There was just enough room for three people to work at the table that lined the wall. One of the walls had the obligatory bank of TV monitors – 20 or more – with multiplexers; two larger flat-screen monitors with many images on them; two joystick consoles for moving the camera; and a computer that ran the whole system. A cell had been added to the room by building a square box out of about three quarters of the room.

Once the door to the security office had closed Kate said: "You know all the crap you wrote down in your notebook? Eighty per cent of it is not security's business."

"I know, in fact, I could have told most of them today why I was not the one to see and who they should see instead... but that would piss them off. However, one-by-one I will tell them all, as nicely as possible, whose shit it is and how to deal with it. They'll all think I care."

"A diplomat."

"I like to think of it as more pragmatic. At sometime we'll need their help or trust."

"I like it. But there are those here who don't want to work with security, whether we're pragmatic or not. Mostly the marketing manager, Ken. You'll find out about him." Kate quickly changed the topic. "So let's see what you know."

She took me through all the daily, monthly and annual duties. After an hour or so, we were finished.

"Good. You now know everything but how to catch thieves and do the money audits. We can start your training for catching thieves later today – it's fun."

"I'm happy I learned something in seven years working at the warehouse," I joked. "But seriously, I know I'm not good at many of the catching criminal aspects of this gig – and I'm not going to pretend I am. I was hoping, as the person with the most experience here, you could be the lead when it comes to that stuff . At least until I'm up to speed. I also get the impression most of the guys here (security) are big into catching crooks?"

That didn't really need to be a question. There was a board that compared our store stats to other stores – and we were way ahead. There were also bets on how much product would be recovered by year-end.

"I don't mind being the go-to-girl for arresting people, but you'll still have to enter the Crown reports. It's true. all of the crew are into arresting people – most wanting to eventually get into police work."

"I guess I'll have to get the girlfriend to use handcuffs more to get some practice."

"I was beginning to think you were humourless," Kate said. "But seriously, hand cuffs... even these ones," she pulled out a pair with pink fluffy material around them, "do NOT leave the office."

"Why do we have those?"

"These were found on a thief and we never got them back to the store they were stolen from, which is now out of business."

"Has anyone used them? I mean for arresting someone."

"No."

"We should have a pool, but the whole thing has got to be on camera to win."

Kate broke out laughing and still gasping said: "Imagine if we had to show it to the cops or at court... it would be hilarious!"

"Do you think the rest of the crew will go for it?"

"I like the way you think, but I'm sure you'd be screwed if you were caught."

"We'll save it for another day. Teach me how to catch a shoplifter."

"We don't call them shoplifters, as that doesn't say they steal. 'Shop thieves' is the term we use. To catch a shop thief you need five things: 1. Selection of the item; 2. Concealment of the item; 3. Continuity of evidence – you always know where the items is; 4. Walking past the point of payment without paying; and 5. Exit, leaving the store. The best way to learn these is to talk through the steps. It may seem easy, but watching someone steal – whether on camera or on the floor – is exciting and your emotions perk-up, making you sometimes see what you want. If we don't have all five things mentally ticked off, we don't take action – because, although we know they stole, if we falsely arrest them we can be charged or more likely sued. A false arrest costs the company about three grand. Get more than one and you'll likely lose your job. Unlike the cops, we don't have the power to arrest on suspicion. We must see the whole crime."

"I remember learning a bit of that, but I've never arrested anyone before. At the warehouse everything went through HR. So how do we spot shop thieves, watch the cameras?"

"Yeah. And walk the floor. Or get a tip from the one of the sales people or sometimes customers. However, in the latter case, always watch the customer that gave the tip, too; it can be a diversion."

I smiled. "Sounds real cloak and dagger stuff."

Kate looked serious. "It can be. You wouldn't believe the crazy shit that goes on. I was once watching this guy – older, with a cowboy hat – walking around the lingerie section selecting underwear. He then went into the changing room for a bit before coming out and putting the stuff back on the racks. Luckily I was on cameras. I had the floor-walker go check the panties that were put back on the rack... and, how can I put this? They were wet with... well, you can assume I'm sure."

"What a fucking pervert!"

"The guy stayed in the store long enough for us to call the cops. That was good, 'cause I wasn't sure what to arrest him for. However, in the future if there's some sort of sexual incident which you're not sure is an arrestable offence, arrest them anyway and call the cops. If you're wrong, the cops will most likely be on your side—or the person will be too embarrassed to press charges."

For the rest of the day Kate and I tried to fight crime but we did not succeed in foiling any plots, however, fiendish.

Near the end of my short shift, Karin arrived for the start of hers. She was well dressed, like a business woman with glasses, but small in stature; probably 5-2 and a hundred and ten pounds. Her first words as she extended a hand were: "I heard you were big but, wow, you are huge."

A short, uncomfortable pause followed, and then the dreaded but so expected: "Huge, like a giant – but I don't mean fat. Thieves will shit themselves when they see you. Oh, I'm Karin by the way, how was your first day?"

I stayed for an extra half hour, getting to know Karin a bit and telling her how I was going to run the show. However, it ended up with all of us shooting the shit and telling war stories.

27.

Coming in early is not my normal way of doing business. I always make it in on time, but the thrill of the first shift had me walking in twenty minutes early.

"You must be Danny," I said to the twenty-ish-looking guy watching the wall of monitors. Like all undercover store security, he didn't look like it. He wore sports clothes, a ball cap and was about 6-foot. He looked more like thief than a store detective.

"Karin said you're big – that's good; intimidation's a good thing in this business. It's Damian, right?"

"Yeah."

"No one will ever want to fight you," Danny remarked.

"How often do you fight with thieves?"

"It's against the rules and you've got to remember to only use reasonable force in making arrests. But shit happens and you gotta do what you gotta do. How often do apprehensions go badly? About one in ten, with one in five of those ending with the guy fighting you or pulling a weapon."

"So I can expect over the course of a year – if I'm involved in a quarter of all the arrests here – that ten people will run from me—and one will fight or pull a knife?"

"That's about right."

"And we get paid?" I was thinking 'the two dollar an hour raise and full-time hours were not worth all this hassle. Seventeen bucks an hour is not enough to have your life threatened on an annual basis as part of your job.'

"It's not worth twelve-fifty an hour, but I like the people and it's more fun than flipping burgers." Danny played with the cameras, quickly zooming in on a girl's cleavage and laughing. "It has some perks."

"You probably shouldn't use the cameras for that." I smiled.

"She could have concealed something in them – I have to check it as part of my job."

Danny turned back to me. "You worked in a warehouse but never a store?"

"That's right."

"What makes you think you can tell us what to do with no experience in a store?"

"'Cause I know more about the organization and how business is done and we have internal theft, too. I'm going to let Kate be in charge of the crime-fighting 'til I'm fully up-to-speed. Today, you can tell me what you're going to do."

"I was going to spend most of the day on the floor and I've got two register audits to do."

"Let's catch some criminals."

The first thing Danny did was to walk the floor with me and show me where the cameras were and the most often-stolen merchandise. He went through a list as long as my arm of things to look for that could suggest one was a shop thief. It was starting to feel like the easiest way to remember all the tell-tales for a shop thief was to eliminate those who didn't do anything suspicious. However, those people were suspicious just by not being suspicious. When we returned to the office, I jokingly said while pretending to write in my notebook: "Be suspicious of anything and everything – everyone is a shop thief."

"That's probably the best way to look at it; watch everything."

I broke out laughing. "Really, everyone is a potential shop thief to you?"

"Well, I'm not too sure about you... you might be too stupid; I know I am. We only catch those who aren't that good and look the part. But who knows?" Danny sat at the TV wall and zoomed in on a grandmotherly-looking lady. "She's probably robbing us blind. Oh, by the way, do you know the difference between a robbery and a shop thief?"

"No... but hold on, you're telling me to watch everyone? Impossible!"

"No – you should watch the one that is best at the time. The best ones will look and move more suspiciously, look dirty and generally go for the most gangster stuff possible."

"Look?"

"Yeah, that's the best way to tell. They look over their shoulder to see if someone is watching them or for cameras. Or for whatever. But it gives them away. And a robbery is when someone threatens or approaches you or the register and demands money. It's a much bigger deal than shop theft. If you call the cops and say you've just been robbed, they'll come racing out with sirens singing and lights blazing. If they find you only have a shop thief, they'll never give you any respect again."

We watched the cameras for a half-an-hour with nothing of interest happening, to me at least. Danny was sure a trailer trash Surrey girl with a stroller and a kid playing inside – sucking on an empty mini-bottle of Bols liquor – was good to go. However, after twenty minutes she left. I was sure Danny was just watching her for her ample spandex, arresting chest and t-bar. I was learning, too – lechery 101.

Shortly after the Surrey girl left, Danny felt he should go on the floor and see if there was anything missed by the cameras. The next twenty minutes was ongoing banter between he and I about who looked good and why. I got the feeling someone was looking at me and instinctively looked at the door camera, where a guy with a grey hoody looked straight into the camera for a second. "Four, I got a looker coming in from the street door walking towards the escalator. Grey hoody, blue jeans, no hat." I stalled, wondering if it was 'OK' to say white over the radio.

"Two, I've gotta get down there, give me running commentary on where he is."

"Four, walking through men's accessories and still towards the escalator. He's looking right into the cameras! He's on the escalator!"

"Two, I'm on the second floor watching the escalator... quiet for a minute." On the camera, I could see the guy walk right past Danny who was pretending to look at the store map at the top of the escalator but caught a look at the guy in the reflection of the map's glass. I continued to follow the guy, who was going into men's wear. "Two, I'm RTO (returning to office) – I know this guy. He's good-to-go, but chances are he'll bug out if he sees me on the floor. You gotta watch him from the floor when I get back there. Keep a good count of what he selects. He generally conceals in the fitting room and is quick. Chances are I'll need you to check the fitting room and the route he takes leaving the store, to make sure he doesn't drop the stuff."

I made sure my radio and earpiece were not showing as I continued watching the guy getting more and more nervous. "Four, he's looking through the jeans; he's selected one pair of those with the funky pattern on the back."

The sound of the outside door to the office opening took me away from the screen for a second. Another shot of adrenalin brought me back to it, as a panting Danny came in the office. "He's only got the one pair of jeans?"

"Yeah," I confirmed.

"Get on the floor. Take the fire escape on the west side as it will place you across from where he is. Watch him from there until he hits the fitting room, then get close. Don't look him directly in the eye and stay behind him. The cameras are good; I should get it all from here. He's selected another of the same jeans. GO!"

At the top of the fire-escape stairs I stopped for a second, out of breath from adrenaline. The intensity was as extreme as any drug I'd ever taken. I caught sight of him from the shoe/sportswear department as Danny crackled in my ear: "He's got three pairs of jeans in the fitting room..." I started walking over there. "...all darker than the pair he came in with. He'll likely take off his pair and put on one of the three others, leaving his jeans with the other two new pairs. You've got to confirm this. Check the fitting room first then follow him. If you find his old pair of jeans, he's a go. If he puts back less than three pairs and there are none in the fitting room, he's a go."

The silence of the radio was unnerving and time went slower the longer he was in the fitting room as I focused so hard on the shirts in front of me they could have burst into flames at any moment. I heard the slide from the fitting room door like a fire bell and turned, with an ugly shirt in hand, to check it. Quickly and efficiently I hung the shirt on a hook, then checked the floor and under the seat. There was no tag and no clothes, just some rolling papers.

"Two, he hung the jeans back up on their rack, right in the middle." I immediately walked out of the fitting room and looked for the rack, but was then overcome by the feeling I'd shown myself to this guy. But no, he was walking towards the escalator. The jeans were in the middle of the rack and should have been hard to find, but the light jeans he was wearing when he came in gave them away.

"Four, I got his old ones on the rack and one other pair, he's a go!"

"Keep with him and don't arrest until I'm with you. He's a guy we cuff. We should get him by each arm." I walked faster to get on the escalator. I stepped on it just as he was approaching the bottom. The escalator was empty and I got to within ten paces of him. He went out the front door and I heard: "GO! He's a GO!" I immediately stepped up the pace and caught up to within a few paces as my mind oscillated between 'Where the fuck is Danny?' and 'Get him!' Suddenly Danny appeared, sprinting up on this guy's right.

"You get his left arm, now!" Danny took a quick step, as I did, and yelled: "Stop! Store security!" We both grabbed our respective arm. The guy looked to Danny, then up to me, as if he was trying to decide something. Danny already had a cuff on one hand. "Damian, give me his other hand." I did as Danny said, but felt I only hindered what would otherwise have been a series of fluid moves. It was clear cuffing was an art.

Eyes bore down on our backs as we escorted the cuffed guy to the cell in the office. But the public's stares didn't register. I was too focused on the guy, waiting for him to fight or flee. Danny seemed less concerned about the guy escaping and more worried about concealing his smile as he guided the guy to the cell.

"Morrison, Brad caught again." Danny smiled, once in the cell. "You're getting predictable and sloppy – always going for the designer jeans and not bothering to hide them well. You've got two pairs of our jeans on right now."

"You can have them back," Morrison said.

"Keep 'em on Brad, we'll get you old ones. First we got to read you your rights and search you." Danny looked to me. "You can have the pleasure, Damian. They're on the wall over there." Danny quickly patted down the suspect and asked: "Got anything you shouldn't have?"

"Nothing dangerous."

I read Brad Section 10 a and b of the Charter, feeling as if I was on a cop show on TV. Brad answered 'yes', 'yes' and 'no', to the appropriate questions and the game ended.

"Why didn't you fight today? Don't you normally run or fight?"

"Look at the guy with you, he's a monster. If I tried to run, I'm sure he'd tear my arm off. Plus, I haven't scored in a while."

"It's easier to run when you're high?" said Danny.

"Yeah, I'm like the Energizer bunny on crystal – and not just the running bit." Brad smiled and pretended to fuck the wall.

"I've caught you speeding before."

"Barely."

"You got your ID?"

"No."

Danny chided Brad. "What do I tell you every time I catch you?"

"Bring my ID. But I don't have any ID and I ain't wasting money on getting none."

"Get a tattoo or something then, so we can ID you to the cops and don't waste your time and mine waiting for them to ID you."

Danny changed the subject. "Do you want any water?"

"Yeah."

"Damian, there are bottles of water in the fridge, get one for Brad." I did as Danny said while he switched the cuffs from Brad's back to his front. "We'll get your pants in a minute." I handed Brad the bottle.

Brad looked at me like I was stupid. "I can't take the cap off."

I took the cap off and said: "Sorry."

Danny and I closed the door on Brad and sat at the desk, quietly starting the paperwork. Danny had me call it in as he went to get the pants. I felt as awkward as a teen attending Prom without a date. I was thinking: 'Do I talk with my prisoner? If so, how do I? Nicely about the weather? Down to him like a dog? Do I council him?' Brad broke the silence. "You're new to this?"

It took me a second to register he was talking to me, even as he looked straight at me through the lens of the cell camera. "Yeah, sort of – it's my second day working in a store. I worked in a warehouse before for seven years."

"Do you like it?"

"It's interesting... kind of exciting. A lot less boring than working at the warehouse."

"Catching junkies is exciting, hahaha! I thought it was fun once, too. But the game got boring and it's the only one I know."

"If you don't like it anymore, why don't you get out of it?"

"There ain't nowhere for me to go."

I was struck dumb, thinking I should help. But I had no sage advice. Fortunately the radio spoke to break the silence: "Two, what rack were the pants on?"

"Da... Four, they were on that one." I zoomed the camera out. "The sales clerk has them at the register."

"Thanks."

The door to the office opened and Danny immediately walked into the cell to give Brad his pants. Danny put the sharps disposal container on the floor of the cell, too. "I suggest if you have any shit on you that you don't want the cops to find, you put in there."

He took off the hand-cuffs then left the cell, closing the door. Danny raised his voice to speak over the cell wall. "We've turned off the camera." Whispering Danny said: "Turn the recorder off, but with guys like him still watch. Look, he's putting two syringes and possible a crack pipe in the box. Getting stuck by a needle is the worst. If you get sticked you gotta go straight to the hospital and get a cocktail of anti-virals and antibiotics that make you sick. And that's not the worst part. The worst part is that you won't know you're clean for like three years. Most people stick themselves when searching a suspect. I fucking hate searching people; first we aren't really allowed to – it's only really kosher if you know the guy's a threat. But if you don't search the guy, how do you know? If you get a wise-guy – or worse a girl – you could be sued. Second, none of these needle-proof gloves really are... and a needle isn't the only way to get diseases from these fuckers. Many have antibiotic resistant bacterial infections MRAS or some shit otherwise known as flesh-eating disease."

Over the cell wall Brad called: "Here are your jeans... and can I have some more water?"

Danny said: "You're not going to drink so much you'll have to piss? I'm not escorting you to the washroom."

"No, I just gotta dry mouth."

"Can I leave the cuffs off you, too?"

"Yeah, I ain't gonna do shit."

"If you do, the big guy will fuck you up."

Danny went into the cell to collect the pants and sharps container, leaving the water behind.

When Danny sat down I quietly said: "What's with the water?"

"Almost all of these guys are addicts of some kind – and if they aren't high when we catch them, they're usually detoxing... and so are dehydrated. Our guy's got the DTs." Danny pointed to Brad who was uncontrollably shaking the water bottle.

Danny pulled out a new file folder. "Now we've got to do all the paper work; Crown report; pictures of the evidence; burning of the video evidence; check with other stores to see if he's wanted by them; call the civil litigator; ban him from the store and get his picture.'

I questioned: "Civil litigator?"

"We sue them for our time, the cost of the item and other damages. Usually it's around $500 bucks; however, it's also bullshit. The only people who ever pay up are teen parents and the odd person with problems. Generally there's no address to even serve them. But we gotta do it or we get in shit. If I got some of the money, I'd never forget to call the litigators. And the stupidest part of the whole thing is we have to ask this question," in a louder voice so Brad could hear: "Do you have any cash on you?"

"Hell, no! And since you caught me, I ain't gonna have any money for a room tonight." I must've looked as guilty as I felt after Brad's statement, because Danny smiled and replied: "You mean money for drugs."

"At least I'd feel good!"

We worked though the paperwork and, after an hour, the cops arrived to ID Brad. It was a strange thing to be joking around with a cop, on his side, rather than being on the other side. We found out Brad had four or five warrants out for his arrest but, as they weren't from Vancouver, he was let go with a promise to go to court.

Near the end of our shift Danny asked: "I was going to grab some food and a beer... you doing anything for dinner after?"

"I could go for a burger and a beer. How about The Cambie?"

"No. I've met a guy I caught there once who was not too happy with the experience. I'd rather not get in a fight tonight. You're going to find that's the downside to this gig."

"Yeah, that could suck." I paid no attention to Danny's worries, as I was a Cambie-ite, whatever my job. "I'll follow you."

We had a few beers at a hotel bar but left early, as we were both in at ten in the morning. The job was romancing me. I liked the excitement; I liked the game; I liked that, on one level, I was a crime fighter and sympathetic to the criminal because, on another level, I was one. I even got to bed more-or-less sober.

The next day was boring, with very little crime-fighting. I was tied up meeting the staff officially, chairing the safety meeting, teaching Danny how to conduct an accident investigation and giving First Aid to a cashier who was sure a minor cut closed with a band aid was a good enough reason to go home. The only time spent crime-fighting was the final hour of my shift.

My cell phone rang as I was on the floor trying to find a good-looking person. I looked at the phone and saw it was Janette. "Three and Four, I have to take this call. I'll be out of radio range for a few minutes."

My heart raced as I found a place to hide and take the call. I thought, 'this has to be good, she rarely calls me unless I've already called her.' I took a breath then answered the phone.

"Hey Janette, what's up? You wanna go to a movie or something?"

"I'm coming over to your place. What's the address?"

I smiled. "Sure, but I'm at work... I won't be home 'til around 8:30." I made sure to allow enough time to clean my place up and stop by the liquor store. "What's going on?"

"Nothing. What's your address?"

"2039 Balaclava Street – two blocks before Alma. Do you want me to stop and get anything?"

"We've got to talk. I'll be there after 8:30."

"See you."

I wasn't sure if she heard my goodbye, but who cared? She was coming over. I was overwhelmed and called Seth for support.

"Hey Damian, how's the new job?"

"Good. But even better, Janette just called and she's coming over to my place!"

The last twenty minutes of work were unbearable, but everything else fell into line. I got my bus and hit the liquor store, bagging only a mickey of vodka, some Kahlua (for Janette's Paralyzers), a bottle of rum and some wine. I also picked up some easy-to-make gourmet-looking food at the grocery store and some condoms. The condoms took the longest, as I hadn't bought any in at least three years and the selection had grown. I still had an hour-and-a-half to clean my house and shower – and luckily the house was relatively clean.

Eight o'clock arrived and I was working on my second rum and coke, nervously waiting. Drink five was quickly drained to make room for number six by eight thirty. By a quarter after nine only the bottom of the quarter of rum was left and the belief Janette was coming was evaporating as rapidly as the rum. "Nyet, Nyet... I shouldn't call Jannette. Too drunk am I... but I'll start having Paralyzers in her honour – a tribute to how she makes me feel when I see her." The drink let me fall asleep knowing Janette wanted to come but shit happened and she couldn't make it. Or get the chance to call. That was OK.

28.

Sunday was another day mixed with rain and boredom. Boredom, as I waited to go to The Peel. After a couple of days of not hearing from Janette, I was concerned – but didn't want to call her. I thought that would be weird, in the same way that showing up at her workplace would not be weird.

I gave Trevor a call to find a way to pass the time. We found a movie to go to that wasn't worth paying for. The flick was over before it was late enough – or I was drunk enough – to go to The Peel. so we ended up at The Cambie.

"Hey Trevor, I'm out of here after this beer. I'm going to The Peel."

"Dude, I don't want to go there tonight."

"That's OK. I want to see what's up with Janette. She said she was coming over to my place – got the address and everything – then didn't show."

"Yeah I know – you've been going on about it for most of the night."

"I'll give you a call after, if I'm still out drinking. Maybe we should play some hockey?"

"Call me."

I walked to The Peel in the twilight of late spring and even the downtown Eastside felt fresh and new. There was no cover on Sunday and very few people around. Still, I found my way to a seat near the back. A pitcher of beer was ordered and emptied before I saw any of the lap dancers. Ocean was with someone at the far end who seemed to be a high-roller. When Nyet made an appearance, she went straight to that table, too.

As I drank the second pitcher, I was beginning to feel the two of them were avoiding me. They knew I was here and were talking with each other – something they'd rarely do. I instantly thought this was a good thing; that perhaps Janette had made the decision I couldn't – and was now making it known she didn't want me here. On my last beer, Nyet made her way over to me. "Want a dance?" she said curtly.

"Sure."

Nothing was said until I was sat down on the couch whereupon she demanded: "Empty your pockets." She began the dance immediately. It was different. She was naked, but there was no sexuality. She was close to me, but also far enough away to say, 'fuck you, I'm doing what I have to do.' There was no feeling. None of the passion or soul or heart or empathy for a loser that there so often had been. She was cold, even though she was sweating in the hot room. Her dance was mechanical and rhythmless – and not in the least bit arousing. Still, when the song ended I asked for more and got the same.

My belief that she didn't want me coming here anymore was backed up to the point where I thought there might be something really wrong. The dance ended and I gave her the money with a good tip – as always. I struggled to ask what I surely needed to. "Hey, is something wrong? You seem really distant. What is it?"

"I'll meet you outside."

"Sure, we can get a drink or something."

"Finish your beer and I'll meet you outside."

Waiting for Janette was not something I had to worry about. She was already leaving before I'd finished my beer. She signalled me to follow her with the smoke in her hand. I gulped the beer down and left, meeting her outside the front door with a big smile.

"So you want to go to a movie, get a drink or maybe watch a movie at my place?"

She smoked at me for a second, then said in a deadpan tone: "You don't know anything about the condom I found in me the morning after we last went sailing do you?"

"What?!"

"I found a condom in me in that morning sailing."

I was dumbstruck for a second.

"And I don't know how it got there. Do you know anything about that?"

"No. We didn't do anything that night, as far as I know or remember." I thought for a second. "I can remember everything from that night. We made out for a bit, you went to bed, Trevor and I talked about his dad and then went to bed."

"Then how did it get there?"

"I'm pretty sure I would have remembered something if it was me – it's not like I get laid that often. It's been, like, seven years. I would have remembered something."

"So I'm a liar?!"

"No. I don't know. I've got to call Trevor. I didn't have any condoms with me... unless there were some on the boat. But I'm sure there weren't."

"A guy that doesn't have condoms on him? Sure."

"I don't. I'm not that lucky... You don't remember anything?" "All I know is I found a condom in me and I didn't put it there. And I'm not on the pill. I'm late."

"Do you still have it?"

"NO! I flushed it."

"Fuck, doesn't everyone watch CSI?"

"What the fuck happened?"

"I don't know... someone... well." I couldn't say the four-letter word. "Did what they did."

"So you had no condoms on you?"

"No. I had none 'til you called the other day."

"Why would you think you'd need them then?"

"I don't know... a girl you like calls out of the blue to say she's coming over."

I got an evil look. "Sure. What about your boyfriend... Trevor?"

"I don't know – I have to call him."

"So call him!"

I started to pace up-and-down and say subconsciously but loudly: "Why is the happening?! What did I do to deserve this?!" The more rings that went unanswered the more I paced and the more rationality left. Janette's evil eye and smoking at me didn't help. I became more emotionally unhinged each time I tried the number. My pitiful litany grew louder, too.

"He's not answering... I'll kill that fucker, he said he'd be around!"

"What are you going to do about it?!"

"I don't know!" I said. "I wish this had never happened! I wish I'd never met you!"

"So now I'm not worth knowing?! Fuck you! You're a fucking asshole and your friend is a sadist! Fuck you! You think I want this?!" She threw her cigarette butt in my direction.

Solomon's voice boomed over the heat of our argument. "If you two don't quieten down the bar is going to call the cops! Shut up!"

We stopped and looked at Solomon for a second. I spoke first. "I don't mean that... but this is too fucked up for me. I—"

The 'I' should have been followed by a 'love you' but I couldn't say that. "...care for you as much as anyone I know. I don't want to see you hurt and I'll get whoever did this. I just don't know what happened." I went to touch her arm in reassurance.

"DON'T TOUCH ME!" She moved three steps away. "Trevor won't answer you, but you still want to talk to him? Funny. You say you care about me?!

I dropped to a squatting position and hid the tears in my eyes. "Yes, I care about you!"

With a sarcastic smile Janette spat: "Great way to show you care... fucking me when I've passed out and leaving the condom in me!"

The door to The Peel opened and the bouncer yelled: "Take it somewhere else or I'll shut you up!"

Janette took the cue and left immediately pulling her hoody hood over her head. I stood up, extremely puffed up like an angry frog. I heard the doorman tell me to 'take care' from somewhere in my shadow. Solomon got me a cab as I manically called Trevor's number and oscillated from anger to tears on the way to my house.

A drink to calm me down was all that was clear as static emotion fried the circuits in my mind. Every electric crackle and pop was a painful needle of emotional craziness, brought on by wild thoughts of: Trevor doing it; Did I do it blindly after too much drink? Janette doing this to hurt me; Trevor doing this to hurt me; Where was Trevor? Why was he not answering? Were the cops on their way to my door? Why had the cops not come to my door? Was this to drive a wedge between me and Trevor? Why didn't Janette say something sooner? Was it all a hallucination of mine or Janette's? I do a lot of drugs and so does she; the sea sickness drug is a mega-dissociative – and she took some; maybe many. The two biggest and hardest possibilities to deal with were: Did Trevor rape Janette or did I date-rape her? Either way, I was guilty for allowing that to happen on my boat.

Drink doused the emotional fire enough to move me beyond robotically dialling and redialling Trevor's number. As I couldn't get Trevor, I thought I'd try Seth instead – I knew I could rely on him to answer. Before he'd met Lisa, I'd answered many of these urgent after-hours calls, so he kind of felt he owed me.

"It's two in the fucking morn! What!?"

"Seth, sorry to call you so late (or early) but everything is so fucked up. Janette is saying me or Trevor fucked her on the boat after she'd passed out. Trevor's not answering and... I don't know!?" I started to weep. "Sorry for calling so late."

"No problem. Let me walk to the other room." The phone was silent for moment.

"What's going on?" I told him the story. "Have you heard from the cops?"

"No... but—"

I was cut off. "But what... if she's not going to the cops then nothing happened, end of story. Let it go."

"I can't, I'm in love with her. I wish this had never happened. She probably didn't go to the cops because she thinks maybe it was me and she was OK with it at the time."

"She's fucking with you. If she thought you and her had fucked but she couldn't remember, don't you think she'd approach it by saying something like: 'Remember last night?' You answer: 'Not well.' She replies: 'I think we slept together, I found a condom in me.' Wouldn't that make more sense? That kind of thing happens more often then you think. That's how I got together with Lisa."

"Yeah, I can see that."

"Instead, she springs a fucking trap on you, making you guilty no matter what."

"True, but she's got some really good reasons to not trust assholes like me. She has a fucked-up background."

"Obviously she's a stripper, so you don't take that on without a few fucked-up things happening."

"But why can't I get hold of Trevor? We were at least going to call each other after going to the show – and then he doesn't answer. He hates her, too. You can tell he's got some weird crush on me and has had forever."

"Do you really believe Trevor did this? One: He's gay. Two: He can't stand her. He told me he didn't get hard during a lap-dance with her and he usually gets a hard-on looking at the Sears catalogue. Three: He wouldn't do that because he's in love with you. Four: Why would he use a condom if he did? Generally, a rapist isn't going to use a condom. Most of all, he wouldn't do anything to hurt you."

"He can be pretty jealous and he's unpredictable. Maybe she thought he was me. And the fact he's not turned on by her could be a reason she found the condom in her. He really hates her."

"Seriously..." the anger was escalating in Seth's voice now. "You really think it could be Trevor, your best friend? I'm happy I'm not at his place. Truly, what do you think the worse thing Trevor could do is?"

"When he's blind drunk? Seriously, I think he could have stuck a condom in her."

I broke into tears for a minute. "I just want to hear it from him, but I can't get through to him!"

"Listen, something strange is going on here. Let's go through it. You had no condoms and don't remember doing anything more than making out on the boat."

"Plus, even when drunk, I'm a light sleeper on the boat. I've got to be ready if shit happens as the captain."

"Janette only told you about it tonight and just said she found a condom in her. That was it. She doesn't remember much more."

"She called to ask to come to my place on Thursday, but never made it. And she'd only asked for my address."

"So nothing about going to the hospital, doctors, cops or anything?"

"Not that she told me. But she probably talked to Ocean or Alison. I don't know about the others, she didn't tell me. And I was too stupid to ask. But she was worried about being pregnant."

"We don't know anything from Trevor yet. Things don't add up right now and we don't have anything more to go on. But you're sure it wasn't you and we're both sure it wasn't Trevor?"

"Unless I was sleepwalking, I'm sure it wasn't me. And Trevor... I'm as sure about as I can be, I guess. It's just too fucked up."

"I'm going to bed, since we can't figure anything more out today. Unless you want to talk some more?"

"No, I'm getting drunk and soon won't care."

"Talk to you tomorrow."

I hung up the phone and drank until I either had no more booze or passed out, sure of nothing.

Morning birds did nothing to make me feel better as I lay in purgatory, caught between impending sobriety; the reality it would bring; the days of pain getting there; having to deal with reality and ending it; staying drunk; letting it all pass by while in oblivion; or hiding from time, reality and people. I mustered up the energy to find another drink at least – knew there must be one. I found a special bottle of homemade wine and the bottoms of some bottles of rum. Together they helped make one stiff rum and coke. I was slightly worried about the quality of the wine; it was probably vinegar by now. I couldn't be downwind of the rum and coke without beginning to wretch. However, I needed one. I thought, 'Rum and coke it is.'

However, the touch of the strong drink on my tongue tore my guts out and I rushed to a sink to puke; or 'dry heave' would be a better way to describe it.

"I can't even drink!" I sobbed, as I washed out my mouth and gulped down water. "Fuck! But maybe Trevor is up."

Glass of water in hand, I sat on my couch and dialled Trevor's number. At the end of each string of numbers a voice told me to leave a message, without even giving the phone a chance to ring. "He's definitely turned his phone off now."

All of last night washed over me, knowing Trevor was now avoiding me. I curled up on the couch and seriously started planning my suicide. Would it be dragged to the ocean's depths by a bag of rocks? A pipe from the exhaust of my car to window somewhere secluded but with a good view? In a warm bath tub drunk? Full of pills; Wrists cut? Off of one of Vancouver's many bridges? With a gun from Tony? An overdose of brick wall taken with a car at speed? Or suicide by pointing a toy gun at a cop? The choices were too many to choose from and my computer's printer was out of ink. As my handwriting also sucked, I was kept from going forward for a time. A note was also a necessity, so those I wanted to hurt would be.

Looking through the numbers on my phone kept me from my thoughts. But I could find no way of calling someone or a place and getting hold of Trevor. At 6:30 in the morning there was no-one on this phone I could call. I took another scroll through the list of people who couldn't help me or I didn't want help from. This time, Alison's (or Ocean's) number stood out; we did have pact about suicide or something similar – so at least I could use her as my note.

It took more than a few tries to actually hit send on the phone. The action was finally accomplished when I tried to take a swig of the rum and coke, then used the concentration from the act of phoning to supersede the retching my autonomic nervous system wanted me to engage in. The phone rang twice and a sleepy voice answered. "Hello?"

My voice cracked as I spoke, "Hi Alison, it's Damian. Sorry for calling so early, but I didn't know who else to call."

I heard a muffled drama hating sigh. "What's wrong Damian?"

"I'm only calling you because Trevor won't talk to me and I've bugged Seth too much tonight. I'm at the end of my rope... I want to end it." There was quite on the line for a few seconds. "Did Janette tell you what happened?"

"She said she found a condom in her when sailing or something?"

"Yeah, but I'm sure I didn't sleep with her. I didn't even have any condoms with me. I don't know about Trevor. I haven't been able to reach him. But he hates her and I'm pretty sure he's gay. Janette won't talk to me. I don't want to be here anymore." I began to sob.

"You shouldn't be thinking about killing yourself over this. Really, it's not that bad. So, she might be pregnant. But most people face something like this and live."

"I don't think you get it. Janette is not saying we had drunken black-out sex and that she might be pregnant. She's saying that either Trevor or I fucked her without consent while she was passed out. That's date rape, if you want to use the nice term. In reality, it's rape. It really doesn't matter if Trevor did it and not me – because I would have let it happen and therefore be just as guilty."

"I don't think you have to worry about that."

"Even if I don't, I'm in love with her and now this has happened." Again I started to sob.

"Oh Damian, it's not that bad. Let it be and it'll blow over."

"I can't. Something really fucked-up happened and I want to help her – but she won't let me. If she'd said, 'Remember we slept together and the condom slipped off or I shot off too soon, fine; I'd do everything I could to help her. But she's accusing me of that! And she won't speak to me rationally."

The phone was silent for a second. "Even if she saved the fucking condom, we could at least find out if it was one of us. If it was me, I'd go to jail if she wanted – and if it was Trevor, I'd turn him in. But I don't know what happened. I remember everything about the sailing trip, except when we were asleep. I love her; why would I do that. I only want the best for her. Hell, I didn't want to go out with her for a while because I thought I was bad for her, being a drunk and all."

"You are a kind guy – not like most guys I know. Most wouldn't care at all. What do you think happened?"

"I don't know."

My mouth was extremely dry and I instinctively took a sip of the rum and coke. It slipped down easily.

"It did look like she was out all night before we went sailing and I think she said she was at lingerie show. She does drink a lot and who knows what else, when working – and it's not the safest job in the world—especially if she was drunk or something. She also lives with her ex. I don't know, maybe they screwed around that night and she blacked out."

"That all sounds plausible."

I took another drink. "But I can't talk to her to find out!"

"She hasn't said much to me, except she's late."

"Have you seen her doing anything strange lately, like using drugs?" This was a stupid question; Alison would have a hard time telling a joint from a cigarette.

"No, but I don't talk with her that much."

"I'm sure something fucked-up happened. But I also know I wasn't a part of it – and I know I want to help... but I don't know how!"

I took a drink and slammed the glass on the table while wincing at the strength of the rum at the bottom of the glass.

Ocean used her most nagging voice. "Are you drinking Damian?"

"Yes, but only to calm down. I'm literally going mad. I need to talk to Trevor, who I can usually always reach. But he's not there! I need to help Janette; she certainly needs help. But she hates me! I wish I could leave."

"I don't think drinking will help you. You should go to one of your friend's houses and stay with them. I'm going to have to leave for work soon. I don't want you to do anything stupid. Promise me that?"

"I promise I won't do anything stupid. But I'm still going to get drunk. Listen, I was just thinking, I gotta few people I can talk to and count on – so you don't need to worry. But I'm not sure Janette has. Can you be her friend if she needs it? It would mean a lot to me. You are a great person, Alison. And if you're that friend to Janette, don't be on my side; be in her corner. I won't bug you anymore."

"You're not bugging me – I've just got to go to work. I'll try to be there for Janette. You should take it easy. You're making way too big a deal out of this. Go and be with one of your buddies and don't do anything stupid or to hurt anyone; especially yourself. I'll talk to you later."

"Thank you, Alison."

I hung up the phone and immediately found the homemade bottle of wine and cork screw. It opened with a pop and tasted like crap. I diluted it with pop and drank it while I made bacon and eggs. It kept me buzzing until nine o'clock, when I went for a beer run – not caring that I was too drunk to drive. The cops never suspect a drunk driver at nine in the morning. Beer, liquor and coolers. I bought some of each, then stopped at the grocery store for a mix and food; lots of fatty, sugary, bad food.

I cracked open a beer for the drive home and listened to something from Nine Inch Nails that suited my mood. Half-way home I realized I was just blocks from Trevor's place. I immediately headed in that direction, even though the traffic around me was not so amiable to my change of direction. I gave them the bird.

Trevor's place is a basement suite, with the entrance hidden by an overgrown laurel hedge that almost camouflages the gate to a ten-foot by ten-foot lawn. I opened the gate and surprised Trevor, who was catching the morning sun with a book and a beer.

"Dude, what's the occasion?" I guessed Trevor had a hard time telling I was pissed when I had a case of beer in hand.

"I've been calling you all night! Some crazy shit went down between me and Janette and I needed to talk to you. But you didn't answer your phone."

"I put my phone in my bag during the movie last night and forgot about it. It ran out of batteries. I just put it on the charger."

He got up to get it. I sat at the top of the four steps down to his half-sunken suite and opened a beer to calm my nerves.

"Twenty one missed calls from you. What the fuck, Dude?"

"As you know, I went to The Peel last night to see Janette. She says she found a condom in her while sailing and is accusing us. I know it wasn't me, 'cause I didn't have any condoms. What about you?"

"I didn't fuck around with her. I do have two condoms in my bag, but I always carry some."

"So you're certain?"

"Of course. Has she called the cops or anything?"

"No. Can I look in your bag?"

"Sure."

I went inside and found his bag. Inside were the two condoms, but no empty packages. Fuck, what was I looking for? I went back outside, where Trevor had sat back on the lawn chair and helped himself to one of my beers.

"How come you seem so unfazed?"

"Dude, I know what I did and didn't do. I also know she's a freak and probably fucking with you. You were wondering that night if your thing with her was anything more than fun and figured it meant little to her. Maybe she heard that and wants to get what she can from you before you leave. Maybe she was tripping on drugs."

"Trevor, you know I love you but I find the fact that you wouldn't pick up your phone all night – and the fact you're now so nonchalant – somewhat suspicious. I want to believe you, but part of me doesn't. I'm only saying this because I'm being honest. If I didn't like you as much I'd lie."

There was a long pause. "Do you remember everything from that night?"

"I remember us talking late into the night, then going to bed. I got up to take a piss at some point."

"So you actually remember going to bed that night?"

He thought for a moment. "Not really. But I also don't remember storming into Janette's cabin and fucking her."

"But you may have?"

He looked at me with a scowl. "Dude, if I don't remember it, you don't remember it and she doesn't remember it – did it really happen?"

"I guess the answer's no."

"You guess?! Dude, you've got pussy blinders on. Something may have happened, but we were not a part of it. And you should cut her loose. I know you love her and I pretty much feel the opposite way, but try to be sensible. She was making out with you at the end of the night, so why would it benefit her to accuse us if she was willing to make out with you?"

There was a long spell of silence during which I refused to let any of Trevor's words sink in to my psyche. "She's trying to scare us. I'm not going to give it the time of day."

"I see what you're saying," I said, as my mind did its best to purge any of his logic. "Listen Trevor, this shit has got me bent out of shape. I want to know what happened. I'm sure something happened and that we're not involved – but until I find out exactly what, I'll still have some doubts about you – as I do about myself. Please do your best not to take it personally."

"OK Dude, I won't. Wanna play some hockey while you're here?"

"I got some Jaeger to shoot when we win."

We played like demons, destroying every team the computer could throw at us; in fact, rarely even letting the other team score. However, at the strangest times I'd blurt out accusatory remarks like: "You stuck a condom in her just so I wouldn't go out with her. Right?"

"No, nothing happened," was always Trevor's answer. Sometime after the umpteenth time I accused him – when we were both drunk – Trevor said: "Look, you think I'm lying... torture me. And you can see I'm not."

"What, do you want me to kick you in the nuts or something to see if you're lying?"

"Dude, if it helps you feel better, why not? I'd rather not get kicked in the nuts, but—."

"It might make me feel better. Are you serious?"

"Totally."

"Give me a cigarette and lighter." He did. I lit the cigarette. "Give me your arm." He obliged. "You're totally serious?"

"Would I have my arm out if I wasn't."

I held his arm. "Did you fuck around with Janette that night? I'll burn you."

"No."

I pushed the cigarette up against his skin for a second. Trevor winced.

"This time, tell me the truth or I'll let it burn longer. Did you fuck around with Janette that night?"

"No!" I didn't care what his answer was and pushed the cigarette up against his arm, hard enough to burn but not put it out. This time I didn't take it away. A sizzle was heard and more smoke came from the cigarette.

"NO! I didn't fuck her!" He tried to pull away but I was too strong. "Fuck, STOP! I didn't fuck her, STOP!"

I took the cigarette away. "Go put that under cold water."

"Give me the smoke and bring the Jaeger."

I gave him the smoke and followed him to the sink with the bottle of Jaeger. He stuck his arm under the cold water and took a swig of the Jaeger. He could only hold it under the water for half a minute or so. He took it out of the water and I had a good look at my work for the first time. The first burn was nothing spectacular, but the second was the width of a dime and had produced an inch-long hole which had burnt though his skin. You see the flesh below.

"I should wrap that up, but we'll need some sterile non-stick gauze. I'm sure you don't have any." I felt bad, but had a fitting solution. "We'll get some after you do me."

"What?"

"I know you didn't do it, but what about me? It's only fair."

"OK Dude."

"I want to be sitting down."

We went back to the other room, sat down and I extended my arm out to Trevor.

"Did you fuck around with Janette on the boat?"

"No."

He put the cigarette close, but not on my skin to begin with – but then moved it on to the underside of my forearm, where it burnt like a hot lighter when lighting a pipe. "Are you sure?"

"No." He pushed the smoke into my arm and held my arm as I tried to answer.

"I mean, YES... I'M SURE NOTHING HAPPENED!" My leg kicked the floor as if commanded by the pain. "STOP!"

Trevor did and I looked at the burn which was similar to hiss. It was excruciating, but I still felt I needed more to see if my unconscious might divulge anything. "The Jaeger, please."

"Dude, water will feel so much better." He handed me the Jaeger and I stood to go over to the sink.

I needed to see if the pain would reveal any hidden secrets. I poured the Jaeger on my burn and screamed in pain. Nothing. I got up and joined Trevor at the sink.

After almost an hour taking turns soaking our arms under the sink's tap and taking drinks of water, I felt I could go to a pharmacy to buy the needed First Aid supply and leave without having them call the cops on me. I did and an hour later clinked beers with Trevor on his piece of grass. We sported matching large bandages around our right forearm/wrist area, looking like we'd tried to kill ourselves.

"I'm going to get going, Trevor. Thanks for today. I know it's been tough – and I'm going a bit crazy. I wish I could take it like you. Don't take it personally if I don't hang with you as much for a while or I insist on asking stupid questions for the thousandth time."

"Dude, I won't. She's fucking with you."

We both gulped back the bottom of the beer and I drove home, taking side-streets only. I went via a liquor store, as there was no way I was going to find myself dry during a crisis like this.

At home I e-mailed Cassandra, asking her to call me, even if it was collect. Then I drank while watching Jerry Springer, thinking I'd been hooked by its reality. I even called the number on-screen, as they needed guests for the next Who's the Daddy episode. However, the number was off-line.

I opened my wound to give it some air, as it throbbed. Only hours after doing the same thing to my best friend – my family – its pain did not help me believe wholeheartedly that Trevor did nothing that night. I couldn't account for when I was unconscious. I couldn't believe in the philosophy that the absence of evidence for something proved it didn't happen or exist. Which was ironic, as I did believe that the blindness of drunkenness would help me out of this. In reality, though, the static hum from my obsessed mind was too loud to allow the drink to pull me fully into an alcoholic coma. So I stayed in a catatonic purgatory. My mind flailed and flared at the unknown of the scenario. I returned to reality with the muffled ring of my phone and the pain of a dropping blood alcohol level.

As I searched for the phone and a drink, a fragment cast from the blast of alcoholic delirium embedded itself in my mind. When I blinked or my thoughts rested, a paranoia lit up my nervous system. It was the reason no cop had knocked at my door. I found my phone and the paranoia had its prints on my phone; a number I didn't know.

I freshened the drink on the table and felt the unknown number for what it was, without listening to the messages. Nyet would not call the cops. She'd deal with this in a more personal manner. I was sure, as I finished the drink and got up the nerve to listen to the message, the one from the unknown number would be from some biker – they own The Peel – out to fuck me up. I could go easy or hard; either way, a boot would be up my ass.

29.

The feared message was not from a biker. Sherry the Filipino attendant at my mother's care home had called to see why I'd missed my mother's birthday. I scolded myself for forgetting and even went so far as to put an alarm on my phone to make sure I saw my mom tomorrow. There was a second message from Seth, who wanted me to meet him at Sausies. I had a drink mix with an energy drink, tidied myself up and put on a long sleeve shirt to hide my burn – then left. My paranoia hadn't left, so I equipped myself with an ASP (an extendable metal bar with a knob to crack skulls on one end. With a flick it goes from 6 inches to 18 in length) and a tiny bottle of mace – things all security guards have but aren't allow to use.

On the walk down to Sausies, I was ready to smash out the teeth of the first person that looked at me funnily – but none of the yuppies and students returned my manic gaze.

Sausies was dead and Lisa greeted me with a beer as soon as I stepped up to the bar. "Here you go and Seth is in the back room."

"Hey Lisa, I gotta favour to ask you?"

"Sure?"

"I missed my mom's birthday because of all this shit. I was wondering if I could borrow Clover tomorrow and take her to my mom's care home. She loves dogs?"

She bluntly answered. "How drunk will you be?"

"Not too drunk to drive."

"I'll drive you."

"Thanks. Mom will be so happy." I walked through the door into the smoking room. Seth and I were the only ones there.

"How are you doing. You were really fucked up last night. Today?"

I brought Seth up to speed.

"You'd better not kill yourself over a stripper – that would be to trite."

My quick chuckle turned to a sob the more I spoke.

"I know, but this shit is totally fucking with me. I love Janette and she's the one accusing me or Trevor – who I also love. I even think that, because the cops have not talked to me, she's going to get vengeance by sticking an evil biker on me to boot-fuck me. If there was only some way of telling her I'd help with money or do anything just to rationally figure this out. But it's too late. Especially when I lay shit on people, like I did to Alison."

"I just think you've got to keep out of it – even if you love her. People that love each other don't do shit like she's done to you." I didn't listen to Seth. My parents loved each other and they took every chance they could to hurt each other. It was an expression of love.

We drank more and talked about the economy, the war, and the insanity of the GOP. My thoughts, though, were still centred on my situation. A situation I had as much control over as I did the economy, war or the insanity of the GOP. But still I tried to have reign over it.

There was one action I could take, knowing for certain that some biker fucker must be after me and that, in my new role as law enforcer, I'd be impotent without a gun. Sure, I may never use it, but why take it for granted now that I was in one of the country's most dangerous jobs. I'd need a good defence if I was to continue my work catching thieves and hanging out in their territory – The Cambie – and other bars in the Downtown Eastside. And it would certainly give me an easy out if I ever needed one.

Seth called an end to his drinking early. He had to work and I didn't want to hang around with Lisa. We left before eight, which gave me a chance to call Tony and set up a meeting tomorrow afternoon at the yacht club.

Laying on my couch semi-comatose and flicking through the channels, I was assured of one thing: guns were the answer. The protagonist in most movies was a gun – Dirty Harry a .44 Magnum; Magnum PI a .45ACP; Lethal Weapon a 9mm Beretta and .375 Magnum; and James Bond a Walther PPK. Bogart always had a gun, as did Bachall. How could that be? It was because none of the actors could act as they did without a gun. I was falling in love with the thought of a warm gun. I wouldn't have to lay petrified at every gust of wind taping branches onto the walls of a house or the crack of a closing car door if I had my gun. I was an expectant father dreaming of my gun.

This morning I made it to seven thirty before real melancholy and a lack of booze dunked me in a tank of self-hatred. Again, I was the centre of this mess. I did it, whatever it was, and should pay the piper. However, today I felt more ready to face my state. I'd ridden it out once before, sinking all the shame. I looked on my phone for the number of someone who I could lance this boil with. Mike from work, he'd be off – and I hadn't talked to him since I left. I punched the keys.

"Hey Damian, I didn't expect you to call."

"I'm just keeping in touch with my peeps. How's life at the office?"

"Not the same now that you're gone. It's no fun anymore; the prick they got to replace you is a clone of the other two nitwits. You've become kind of a folk hero – Steve had to take sensitivity training and apologize."

I smiled truly for the first time in days.

"That's good to hear. My new gig is good. Lots of running around pretending to be cops – chasing people is really fun."

"Don't let it go to your head. An LP (loss prevention) guy at the store I worked at before was stabbed. It was only a little knife, but it got infected really fast. He totally didn't expect it; from a young girl of all people. So you fucking that stripper yet?"

"Maybe. It's a funny story." I filled him in on the details. There was a long pause after I finished.

"She's fucking with you. No doubt about that. She got a sniff that you were going to stop giving her money or taking her places. Either that or she got a real boyfriend or something and she's cashing you out. Trust me, it's happened to me before." His agitation was visible even over the phone.

"But she hasn't hit me up for money."

"Yet. She wants to make you feel as if the money doesn't matter. She's probably telling you she thinks she's pregnant. The next time you talk to her she will be pregnant. She'll want money for the baby or to make this go away. Don't fall for it. If she hasn't called the cops she a lying bi—"

I cut him off. "She's not the kind to call the cops and she'd settle it some other way – like arranging to get the shit kicked out of me. Plus we were friends, at least."

"No! You were friendly to her. Any bitch that accuses you like that and doesn't go to the cops is either trying to get paid – or so fucked up you should never see her again. If she gets someone to fuck you up she's definitely playing a money game; no thug would give a shit about her honour. He'd be in it for the money. Give your head a shake. She obviously wants money and you look rich to her. Who else do you think she knows that has a wicked sail boat? No-one."

"I don't know."

"You believe what you will. But I'll tell you this: if she asks you for money, she's fucking with you. That's all I can say or I'll get too angry to get to sleep."

We chatted for a short time more, but not long enough to get me to the time the liquor store opened. And smoking weed didn't calm me. The idea she was using me for money dissolved all the other theories.

I called her number. No answer. I tried again. No answer. I didn't expect one, but my mind moved from the unbearable feelings of detoxing to a hatred of Nyet and fear she'd phone back. My discomfort was mitigated by Southern Comfort thirty minutes later. I'd also bought some flowers and a frame for a new picture for mom.

At ten I called Lisa, who was waiting for me to call and she came to pick me up. We talked little on the drive to the care home, as Lisa was preoccupied making sure Clover was OK. I was obsessing over my problem but didn't want Lisa's opinion – I knew it already. Lisa kindly said she'd wait in the car. I carried Clover into the care home, as she was too exuberant to try and lead in.

Sherry walked straight over to see me and pet Clover. "How are you Damian? And who's this? I love lab puppies – especially black ones."

"This is Clover."

She petted Clover and must have caught a whiff of the booze on my breath. "Have you been drinking?"

"It's been a long few days – that's why I forgot mom's birthday. I was out late last night. Thanks for reminding me about mom."

"You know drink doesn't make anything easier? It lies like the Devil."

Sherry knocked on the door. "Good morning. Your son is here with a puppy."

I put Clover on the floor and she immediately ran up to mom and tried to jump up on the recliner with her. "Oh, aren't you a lovely puppy!" She reached down to pick Clover up. She gave a quick look my way. "Who is this?"

"Clover," I answered and mom continued to pet Clover and talk with the dog.

Sherry turned to me. "I've got to go, but I'll bring some cake in twenty minutes and you can have it with her."

"Thank you." Sherry left and I stood there watching as mom played with Clover. After ten minutes or so the puppy was tuckered out and fell asleep on mom's lap.

Mom turned to me. "Thank you for bringing such a lovely puppy."

"Thanks mom."

"You're not my son. That's him – with his shirt not tucked in to hide his belly. It's a designer shirt, so it should be tucked in. How the photographer let him have his shirt untucked like that I don't know."

I started to sob and needed to sit. I sat on the bed and blocked the photo on the nightstand with the flowers I'd bought for mom. "How come you're crying? You've got a lovely puppy to cheer you up."

"It's nothing." I intentionally didn't say mom as that would have make things worse. At the same time, I wanted to tell her she was my mother.

"You're either allergic to the flowers or something is wrong?"

I told her what had happened between Janette and I – but not that I was her son.

Mom sat quietly petting Clover for minute. "When I was young I didn't know what love was. I did believe I loved my husband, but I was never sure he loved me. Neither of us were ever taught how to love – marriage was love, but it was as much a contract. In my day, money and love were intermixed, so we all fell in love with the richest... and we all knew that love was tainted by the riches.

"The first thing I did when I found out my husband was screwing around on me was stop using birth control. I said it was because it made me put on weight – but I really wanted a baby. I knew that that would bring us back together. And if it didn't, my boy Damian would love me as much as I loved him. It worked. My husband was a family man for a while. More importantly, I had my Damian. I spoiled him so much; he doesn't even come to see me now." This made me cry, but she was too focused on stroking a sleeping Clover to notice. "I got that kid everything he wanted – too much, in fact. He'd eat and eat and I'd buy it for him. It's my fault he became a fat kid.

"Anyhow, I only tell you this because I think the girl in your story is in much the same position as I was. She wants love. You say you love her but are too shy to show it – men these days; my Damian is just as timid. She doesn't want to wait around forever for you to – pardon me for the lack of a better phrase – grow a set of balls – which is why she says she might be pregnant. She just wants someone to love her – her kid will be that person."

I sat shocked and then asked: "What should I do?"

"Let her go. She's got a lot to learn about love. I think you have, too."

Clover came back to life and our conversation was complete. However, the seed of thought that this situation was society's fault was planted. If it weren't for Diamonds being a girl's best friend, and movies like Pretty Woman, this wouldn't have happened to me. If I hadn't met Janette at The Peel; if money had never been part of our relationship, this would have never happened. I loved Janette, but did she love me? Or did Nyet love my money?

My thoughts and mom's, playing with Clover, were interrupted by Sherry bringing in three pieces of cake and singing Happy Birthday. I joined in and we ate cake. Afterwards, Sherry and mom played with Clover some more, while I put up a new picture of me. I was twenty in this one – and at my fattest. Then we said goodbye to mom.

As we drove, Lisa asked: "Was Clover a good girl?"

"She was great. Mom and Sherry – her care-giver – couldn't get enough of Clover." My voice was flat. I was still stunned at my mother's words.

Lisa looked at me. "Are you still pining for that stripper?"

"Sort of. I told my mom about it and she basically told me that, although I may be in love with Janette, she's not in love with me. She only wants a kid and I should let it go and move on. I wasn't expecting her to say that – or anything, in fact."

"Take your mother's advice; it's good."

"You don't get it." I intentionally stared at something out through the window.

"I'll tell you what I'd do, Damian. You should listen, because I'm a friend who's willing to lend her puppy to you and drive you around when you're being a drunken idiot."

I turned to listen. "I've heard everything from Seth and I'll tell you this. Neither you nor Trevor has an evil, disrespectful streak in you – even when stinking drunk – to do what she said. I should know—I'm your bartender for God's sake. I've seen both of you at your worst, when even you didn't see yourself. What she's saying is just not in either of your make-ups. I know you'd never sleep with her unless she signed a paper allowing you to. Trevor is gay. He likes men – even if you and Seth and Trevor try to deny it. I've never seen him, however drunk, try to go home with anyone but straight men – and there are many times when he's been at Sausies when you or Seth weren't there and has tried to pick up straight men. She's fucking with you!"

"Lisa, I'm pretty certain Trevor and I had nothing to do with it. The worst possibility is that Trevor shoved a condom in her because he didn't want me seeing her anymore. But that's very farfetched. I think something happened to Janette and this was the only way she knew how to react." I said this as anger, towards a situation that could cause Janette to react this way, grew.

"You know the reason I didn't get along with her on that trip?" I shook my head, knowing if I said what I thought 'because you're a bitch,' I'd get smacked. "It's because I've met many girls like that working at restaurants; girls out to use men. I knew that something would happen and it would end up like this. She'd have a crisis and, whether or not you were in the middle of it, she'd put you the middle of it because you're the easiest to control. If she were to lay that cap on some asshole at the strip bar, she'd get slapped and never be allowed back. However, she's got you. You're nice and take her to places she's never been before. And you give her money for dances. So when it looks like you're getting tired – Seth told me you talked with Trevor on the boat about giving up the chase – she has a crisis; one too big for you to handle rationally. Or she gets knocked up by some guy who kicks her to the curb. But you are there and you love her and will believe her bullshit. She knows if she actually slept with you, you'd use a condom or remember if it stayed on or not, so she lays this shit on you." I sat feeling angry as she was making too much sense. Like Mike had said: 'I'll know if she asks for money.'

"I'm not trying to be a bitch, but I hate to see a friend of mine being screwed around."

"Yeah, that makes sense. I'm just not there yet. I still want to talk to her." Rage engulfed me. I was extremely happy I was meeting Tony today to take my mind off things.

30.

I had a few hours until I was due to meet Tony at the yacht club. I thought I'd wile it away looking at porn on the computer. However, traditional porn reminded me of Nyet, so I broadened my horizons. Guns, pistols, rifles, assault rifles, submachine guns, machine guns, were the porno for this morning. My fantasy was fuelled by the not knowing what I would be getting or shown by Tony. Giddiness filled me; it felt just like the wait before an escort arrives – you never know what you're going to get. Perusing weapons online was not only a pornographic undertaking; I educated myself, too.

My viewing of guns took longer than watching pussy and it didn't have the same calming effect. I would have to postpone the search of the boat for evidence until after meeting with Tony. I left for the yacht club to have a few drinks and calm my nerves. On my fourth drink Tony stepped onto the deck of the club, overdressed for an early summer's day, in black shirt and slacks and a large leather jacket. As soon as he saw me he greet me with his traditional: "WHATZZZUUUUPPP!" I got up and extended a hand to him. He shook it with a crushing grip.

"What did you do to your wrist?"

I raised my bandaged arm. "Oh that, caught my wrist in the barbecue flipping burgers. It's nasty, but I was too drunk to feel it. Sit down for few. Have a drink."

"Now, this is a classy place. I'm disappointed you haven't brought me here before." He spun around the bottle of vodka that was sweating heavily on the table. "Grey Goose? Nice. And you can have it on the table." I bought the bottle to impress.

"Yeah, it's good. They let you keep bottles in a locker. Have some. There's some OJ, too, if you want it."

"No, this is great." He cheers me with a shotfull in a high-ball glass. "What an awesome view." He scanned the horizon from east to west, taking in the waterfront view of Vancouver, the North Shore mountains and English Bay, of course. "It must be one of the best in town."

"Oh, I forgot to tell you – they don't allow you to talk on cell phones on the deck. It's a no-business area. Want some food?"

"I'd be a bad guest if I didn't." We drank – or I drank – while Tony sipped on his screwdriver and we caught up. He was happy to be here.

After lunch we walked down to the boat, where we talked business. I told him about my new job and the shit that happened between me and Nyet.

"Oh, before I forget, I've got some mushrooms for Bobby." I gave Tony the bag.

"Thanks – he loved the last ones." Tony looked at me seriously. "You're looking for some protection. What type of price range?"

"I got around a thousand. I'm looking for something automatic with a large clip and an extra clip. I'm easy, as long as it's not a Saturday Night Special or smaller than a .38 short. I want it to scare people – but if it comes to brass tacks, I don't want a pea shooter if I ever have the need to go Trench Coat Mafia over something."

"Trench Coat Mafia?" Tony looked puzzled.

"That's what those kids at Columbine (High School) called themselves – the Trench Coat Mafia."

Tony fished around in his jacket pocket and pulled out a boxy, chunky pistol that had an all-business look. "How about this? A Glock 19" He pulled the receiver back and visually checked that the breach was empty and that there was no clip in it. Then he handed it to me.

With trembling hands and a nervous mind I took the gun. The slide was still open and I couldn't find the catch to release the slide. Tony reached over and showed me. I flipped it and the hand gun went from its contorted form without a bullet in the breach, to looking like a gun. Tony showed me the other safety features.

"It feels good... and looks mean. How many rounds does it hold?"

"15 rounds of 9mm in the Glock 19. Two less than the Glock 17, but it's more compact, so easier to conceal. You can squeeze 16 rounds in if you keep one in the breach, but that's not too safe. You're never going to need more than 10 rounds. This gun is a pre-set action – which means, once a round is chambered, the pull of the trigger fully sets the firing pin. If the bullet doesn't shoot, off-cock the gun and eject the unspent bullet. These guns never jam unless you use a ton of cheap ammo in them."

"What's the recoil like? How accurate is it?"

"Shooting a 9mm is like jerking off; anyone can do it. The gun is accurate to around 50 feet – but really you want be within around 10 feet to be certain. Most people miss because they're scared of the sound from the bullet going off or pull the trigger too hard. Pull but don't jerk the trigger. If you dry-fire the gun like that, you should get used to the trigger pull."

I held the gun. It felt right. "What's the damage?"

"It's a grand – including 50 rounds and two clips. I don't have any holsters, but you can get those at any gun store. Remember to say it's for a replica. And if you need more ammo, come to me. You can't get it at stores without an FAC (fire arms acquisition certificate) and they'll wonder why you're trying to buy pistol rounds. If you take it to the bush to shoot it, pick up the shells. I can recharge them and you don't need the possible heat."

Half listening, I pointed the gun at fantasy victims, took aim and clicked the trigger. The haze in my mind was thick.

To celebrate, I got a bottle from the hidden liquor hold in the table and grudgingly put the gun down to pour two shots into high-ball glasses.

"I'll take it. A drink to seal the deal?" We drank the whiskey shots in one gulp and I shook hands with Tony. I thought, 'I could never remember all that shit.' But I'd not have to. I only needed it one night. I handed over the money and Tony placed the goods on the table. "OK Tony, give me all the money," I joked, though not seriously as the gun was still on the table.

Tony got up, bent over and levelled a small but evil-looking gun at me. "Mine is loaded. Don't ever joke like that. jokers end up dead." He put away his gun, neither of us laughed. Tony left. I followed shortly after, wanting to get my treasure home.

In the privacy of my house I practiced pulling the trigger at photos, reflections in the mirror and other items that looked vaguely human. Then I sat with a drink and loaded the magazines – which was harder than I'd imagined, due to the strength of the spring in the clip. That mattered little; they'd only be loaded once. My thumbs finished up bruised and throbbed – but I didn't need them to pull the trigger. The drink eventually caught up to me; which was fine, as I doubted I could handle the wait.

At around 6 in the afternoon I roused from my sleep feeling shitty. But that was fine. There was no reason to feel good; not with what I was going to do. I made a drink and found a couple of MDA pills – using one to wash down the other. I took a shower, then looked for the right clothes to wear. It was a hot day. Nothing seasonal looked big or bulky enough to conceal a piece that size. I decided I'd put it in the computer pouch in my backpack. If they checked my back – which they never did – they'd not look in the computer pouch. Plus, I could access it well looking like I was handing over the bag. No martial art can stop a bullet.

I sat vibrating and made a large drink. I thought that I should have written a note. My mind quickly jumped from that thought to the fact I didn't have time enough to write anything worthwhile. I couldn't write a note, but famous last words were still possible. Thoughts of poignant, topical words that would shed light on Nyet's situation were given up for cult pop culture. I filled a litre bottle of Coke three quarters full with rum, practicing my last word. "I'm here to kick ass and chew bubble gum – and I'm all out of bubble gum." I filled my iPod with Nine Inch Nails tracks and left to catch the bus – repeating my last words under my breath like a person reciting the Rosary.

The closer I got the less there was left in the bottle and the drier my mouth got. The bus I took would take me closer than the one I'd normally take. Today there was no stop at The Cambie.

The line from the Nine Inch Nails song Only became my mantra on the bus. "I just made you up to hurt myself." I stepped off the bus and crossed the street to the beat. I stop for a second and looked around, especially in the direction I'd just come. Two buildings stood out; the courthouse, with armed bailiffs, and the police station behind it. I thought, 'This was it. The shots ring out. I'm fucked.' I smiled and said aloud: "I just made you up to hurt myself."

I swung the door open like I owned the place, but there was no cover yet and no-one at the door. The place wasn't busy; three or four tables had people at them and sniffers' alley had two or three guys sitting 'in' it. Two lap dancers I didn't know were sitting at the largest table with four guys. I couldn't see into the smoking room. I headed straight for the bar. One of the bouncers saw me and I was sure he was coming at me to kick me out. But he was at the far end of the club and I ordered a shot of Jaeger. The bartender filled the shot glass. "How's your day, buddy?"

I didn't answer. Instead, I patted my pants like I was looking for my wallet and then put my hand into my bag, grasping the grip of the gun. I answered in a voice loud enough for anyone close by to hear. "I'm here to kick ass and chew bubble gum and I'm all out of bubble gum."

I took the safeties off as I levelled the gun at the bartender and pulled the trigger. "Click." I automatically knew the problem; I'd not chambered a round. The bartender dropped behind the bar and I worked the slide chambering a round. I pointed the gun at the bouncer I knew would be approaching me from behind and fired. The noise scared the shit out of me. I had no idea if I hit anything. The people in The Peel began to scream and hide. Tables and chairs went flying. There was no going back. I forgot about the Jaeger. I rounded the bar, firing at the bartender the second I saw him. Three shots exploded out of the gun more easily than Tony had described, one more then I wanted – the trigger was that soft. The bartender was going nowhere, unless he believed in the afterlife. I looked into the centre of the bar and shot another bullet off to keep them from moving. My next target was the DJ booth. DJs are a dime a dozen. Two shots took care of that. Again, I put a shot over the heads of those in the bar and started walking down the main aisle where I saw the bouncer. I took three shots at two people trying to hide by hugging the edge of gynaecology row. There was no way I could have missed, but I didn't see confirmation I'd hit. The bouncer had made a run for a fire door, but it was chained shut so only paying customers could get in. The big biker begged me to not shoot him with his eyes, but couldn't say anything. Before pulling the trigger I said: "That's a safety violation – someone could get killed because of that." I shot three or so times. The flashing lights, tables, multi-levels and loud music made it hard to pick out targets. I walked over to the smoking room and opened the door. There on the ground cowering was Nyet. I yelled: "Get up!" for reasons not known to me. I pointed the gun's barrel at her which made her move. "Have a smoke... it'll be your last one." Nyet did as I said. Her mascara ran as she cried.

"Please don't shoot me!" her voice was cracking.

"No... I'd never do anything to hurt you. But that's not a two-way street." I put the gun to my head.

"Damian, what are you going to do with the gun?" a familiar male voice said.

'Shoot myself.' I wasn't sure if I'd said that or just thought it.

'Don't shoot yourself, Damian!' Similarly, I wasn't sure if Janette's words were figments of my imagination or not.

I felt a strong shake. "You OK, Damian? You just blanked out there for a minute." I open my eyes and Tony was leaning over the galley's table shaking me.

"Just a bit light-headed."

"You freaked me out. You put the gun on the table and just kind of stopped, staring at me. Then your head drooped down."

"I'm really tired and have had a bit too much sun and booze. I've been up all night worrying about this crap with the stripper."

"What are you going to do with the gun?"

"I just need it for some protection."

"I'm sure you want it to go shoot up The Peel. I'm not selling it to you." He picked the piece up and put it in his coat.

"Come on Tony. So what if I use the gun... you must sell them to other fuckers that use them."

"I sell them to other gangsters that shoot at gangsters. If I sold you this gun and you shot up The Peel, killing innocent people, I'd have a different kind of heat on me. I'd be tracked down. I'm not selling you a gun. But I can help you with your stripper problem. What do you want done?"

"What can you do?"

"It all depends on how much you want to spend. But, for a few hundred, I can have her threatened or beaten up. I know the people at The Peel and, for the right price – five hundred or so – I could have her banned from working there. For a grand or two, I could have her threatened, banned and beaten or raped, if she talks about this shit again to anyone. Five grand gets a hit put on her head."

"Damn, that's fucked and cheap too."

"Damian, you can pay as much or as little as you want, but a desperate crack head can beat the fuck out of an unsuspecting person just as well as any goon – and they're not credible witnesses. However, these are ball-park figures. If she's friends with the people that own the club it may cost more."

"Should I worry if she has biker friends?"

"No. It might cost more to get to her. And you can always settle shit with women with money – they're civilized that way. She'll know enough from working at the club not to go to the cop for any shit like this."

"I need a drink, you want one?" Tony nodded and I poured the whiskey, wondering if there was anything I wanted done. The fact I could get something done comforted me. I took a sip of my drink.

"I feel like I've led you on a bit, Tony. I don't think I need any of your services right now. I hope I've not wasted your time."

"Damian, it was not a waste of time. I got a good lunch and few drinks at a spectacular setting. How can I complain? Now I've seen your boat, you'll have to take me out."

"No problem. If I need you I'll call."

We drank the whiskey and Tony then excused himself. I stayed on the boat to look for evidence.

I started looking for the obvious; a condom wrapper. I couldn't find one. Next, I checked the head; it wasn't plugged. No condoms were in it and the head was open to the ocean not the holding tank – so if a condom had been flushed it was long gone. The sheet was inspected inch by inch with a UV light for semen stain which, as CSI has taught us, glows under black light. Stains were found, but only on my bedding in my cabin; exactly where they were expected. Finally, I looked through the medicine cabinet. No condoms were found, but seven sea-sickness pills had been removed from a pack I knew was full before the trip. Just taking two of these pills can give a person some seriously fucked-up dreams. Seven can give a person a fucked up reality. Gravol is a strong dissociative drug.

"Ahoy there." The boat dipped.

"Lloyd, come down and have a drink."

"Certainly my boy."

"I've got no ice for the whiskey."

"That's fine. It looks like it's going to be slow night of racing... this will help." We tapped glasses and I got serious.

I told Lloyd everything that had happened but lied when questioned about the burn to my arm. "Cooking accident. Drunk... just for a change." He needed another drink before I finished.

"Shit happens, my boy. Women are fucked. Next time something like this happens, call me straight away. You're certain you didn't do anything with her?"

"Unless I had blacked out. There's nothing on the boat to suggest anything happened."

"From now on you'll always be sure nothing happened. None of this 'maybe I was blacked out' shit can get out. Though it doesn't look like it, this could be serious. You haven't heard from the cops?"

"No. And I'm certain she'd never go to them. Lloyd, I was just talking with a guy who could solve this under-the-table if things went pear-shaped."

"You won't do any of that. You'll not talk with her again or to any friends you'd consider both of yours. She's fucking with you and, from what you tell me, not very well. You'll be fine if you stay away from her. Hang up her calls and don't see her – there are other strip clubs – and don't give her any money. If everything is as you say it is, she's got nothing. And you'll only help her by getting involved."

"I'll do my best Lloyd." We talked for two more drinks about my new job, where to find girls that aren't strippers and dad's new business, which was going to keep him from using the boat this summer.

30.

I drove home without running off the road. To celebrate, I stopped at the liquor store for more beer, wine and liquor. There are so many bad drivers – people that literally bought their licences – driving during the day in this town that a drunk is easily camouflaged.

Having roused myself from an early afternoon power pass-out I sat on my deck having a drink, smoking a joint and waiting for Cassandra's call. She'd e-mailed me to say she'd call this evening. I felt as good as I could, as I sat in the sun getting drunk for the third time today, when the phone rang.

"Hello Cassy."

"What do you want?"

"Janette?"

"What do you want? You called this morning."

"Err... nothing. I must have called accidentally." There was a long silence. "Janette?"

"Yes."

"I want you to know I want to help."

"Help, but you don't think anything happened."

"No, I know something did... I... I... I just don't think I had anything to do with it – and I'm pretty sure Trevor didn't either."

"So I'm some dirty slut with problems you want to help with?"

"No, it's not like that. I just don't know."

"What am I going to do? I'm pretty sure I'm pregnant. How am I going to pay for what I need?"

The silence was too long. "I can help you with some money but I don't have much."

"Two hundred?'

"Yeah."

"Fine. Where should I meet you?"

"Call me at the stop before you get to MacDonald Street on the B-line. I'll meet you at the MacDonald Street stop."

"I'll be there around 8pm." She hung up the phone so I didn't have to struggle with ending the conversation.

It took a few minutes for the rage to amalgamate itself into my glass of emotion. It floated to the surface, blotting out all the other emotions; however, good or strong. I drank the bottom of my drink. "She's in it for the money!"

I shot the glass across the room into a mocking mirror. I paced, trying to keep the things I wanted to do to Nyet as just passing thoughts; not dwelt upon. Drink was the only thing keeping my psychopathic thoughts dulled. So I drank more, meandering between lucidity and delirium.

During a stint in lucidity I set my alarm. When the alarm went off I was certain, even taking into consideration the emotion of the situation, I might pass out. I went to my drugs box and found a tiny bit of coke, a half-pill of ecstasy and some MDA. I swallowed the MDA pill and crushed up the E with coke; producing two chunky lines that were snorted for an instant pick-me-up.

I was perhaps walking to the last meeting between Janette and me, so decided to clean myself up a bit. I took a shower, put on the cleanest clothes I had, grabbed my small bottle of mace, ASP and poured myself a drink for the road in a litre bottle. My mind quickened with the drugs. The ice that was anger cracked, letting two sick thoughts seep in. One: Nyet was just pulling my leg in a way all dominatrixes do – something unbeknown to me. Two: Nyet had found out what really happened (something involving her ex, perhaps) and wanted to go home with me. But the rage took over when the phone rang.

I picked up only to hear Janette's deadpan voice. "I'm at the stop before MacDonald. You'd better have the money."

I went totally into darkness from there. I considered not giving her the money, but I'd already promised it. Lloyd's voice was telling me to cover my ass, write something to say the money was money for a friend in need and not any admission of guilt. But I had no time. 'My phone, I can use it to record, saying that to Nyet,' I thought. I immediately started practicing using the recorder and what I would say as I left the house.

Walking quickly down the busy street I felt a drip from my nose. I wiped it. It was blood. I grabbed the bridge of my nose, stopping the flow, and looked for a restaurant to use the washroom. A fast food place was close by. I made for it. It took a few minutes to stem the flow of blood and clean up my face. I wouldn't have time to go to the bank first.

Within a block of MacDonald Street I got a call. "Where are you?!"

"Two minutes," I replied. "I still have to go to the bank." A minute later I could see Janette and whatever part of my heart that had melted quickly froze from the smoking scowl on Nyet's face. Hands in my pocket, grasping the ASP in one and the mace in another, I scanned the area for any bikers. There were no bikers and she was alone. No pleasantries were exchanged.

"I gotta go to my bank." There was no communication on the way to the bank, solidifying the hatred. 'Get it over with,' repeated in my head. It took two tries to punch in my code on the bank machine. The drumming of Nyet's fingers didn't help. I pushed the buttons on my phone to start the recording.

"Three hundred dollars. I want you to know that this money is money for a friend in need and not an admission of guilt or culpability or responsibility for any alleged wrongdoing."

Nyet took the money and, fumbling, put it in her purse. I took a drink, waiting for her to go. Janette looked at me in a stupid expectant kind of way, like a dog when you're holding its toy. "That's it?"

"Yup."

"You got nothing else to say?"

"Nope."

"I heard you were going to kill yourself?"

"No, I'm over that." Janette stared at my bandaged wrist in the bright light of the bank vestibule.

"That's not what I heard. WHAT IS THAT?!" Janette pointed to my wrist with her cigarette hand.

I almost smiled. "Burnt myself cooking."

"Burns don't bleed."

I looked at the bandage, bloody on the inside of the wrist from my bloody nose. Something hateful in me saw vulnerability. "What do you expect when you, the person I feel is third closest to me, accuse me and my friend – family, because he's all I got – of that?" There was silence as I wiped tears from my eyes but why were they there? I walked out.

Ten steps away I felt a tug on my coat. "Stop!" I obliged.

"You're not going to do it!"

"What's stopping me? Everything I care about is gone. I can't trust Trevor. He's family. I can't trust you; you just want money. And you're up there with Trevor. I also can't trust myself. But I can trust this." I took swig from the litre bottle.

"Just calm down."

There was a crowd watching, all the better for the theatrical, "Calm down." With the quickness of practice I pulled the ASP from my pocket, extended it and swung at the nearest object. I put a large dent in the newspaper box next to me. With a motion I'd practiced to perfection, I retracted it and put it in my pocket.

"How can I calm down when I have to accuse Trevor – my brother – of rape? Calm down when you won't talk with me rationally? Trevor is out of my life and you are too... and I'm supposta find a way to move on? I have nothing to live for." I walked away again.

"You're not going to do it?"

"We will see."

"Call someone."

"I have no one to call."

I walked as fast as I could, running from a paranoia that someone in the crowd may have alerted mental health. The greater the distance between me and her the more I felt guilty for what I'd just said. At the same time, a demon laughed inside, happy I'd hurt her, too.

31.

As I drank my first of many last drinks to Janette or Nyet – which was witch? – Cassandra's call came through.

"Thank you for calling, Cassandra, but your woman's intuition is no longer needed. I fucked it up and I'm never going after another witch again."

"Huh, what are you talking about?"

"Oh, I haven't told you." It took me a drink-and-a-half to tell the story to Cassandra. "It's all over now. I'd better get on with what I said."

"Damian, you're not going to do that! Stop being a fool. I need a minute to think. Something's not right."

"No shit, Sherlock."

"She only said she found a condom in her?"

"That's what she said."

"And she looked like she hadn't changed from being out the night before? She lives with her ex-boyfriend? Went to the same place before and after, a therapeutic massage parlour? Any family stuff? Did she have any bruises or cuts? Does she do drugs?"

"Yes. Yes. Yes. She gives money to her sister and mom and always needs more. She had bruises on her thighs, but they're from giving lap dances to guys with keys in their pockets. No other marks that I know of. Drinks like a fish; smokes pot sometimes; has done meth in the past; and I've seen her getting into a black Acura to pick something up. Oh, and a whole bunch of Gravol – seasickness pills – were taken on that trip... by who, I don't know."

"You should check out that massage parlour. Could be a Doctor's office there. Maybe she went before and after for something like a pregnancy test. The Gravol could be for morning sickness."

"Cassy that really doesn't matter anymore. I'm sure she hates me for killing myself—"

I was cut off. "You're not killing yourself."

"OK... she hates me even more for threatening to kill myself. Why the hell would she ever want to hear from me?"

"What if she's pregnant and the father is some rich guy at The Peel who offered her more than she could refuse for one night. Or she was too pissed or high to fight; or she was blacked out and screwed around with her ex; or passed out and her ex screwed around with her. She's not going to want to say, 'Damian, I need some money 'cause I might be pregnant with some guy's baby. Look, something fucked up happened and you've got to find out what it is if you want to help her. You do want to help her, don't you?"

"I do – though don't think that's a possibility now. At least knowing what happened would do some good." I made another drink.

"Damian, I'm not your mother but you should stop drinking so much."

Cassandra's request caught me off-guard and the drink I was taking went down the wrong tube. I coughed uncontrollably for a few seconds. "I'm not drinking," I said between hacks.

"You're a liar."

"OK, I'll cut down."

"This is totally high school, but give me Janette's number and I'll call her – try to figure out what's going on. You should find out if there's a doctor's office in the building with the massage parlour."

"I'll check it out tomorrow. Here's Janette's number."

"I'm going to try to call her tonight. Stay positive, and don't do anything stupid. I'll talk to you soon. Take care."

"Bye Cassy and Precious."

I ended the call, finished my drink and filled up another. I tried to drink as much of the booze around the house as possible, so I could sober up some tomorrow.

I woke up in bed early the next morning with suicide on my mind again. It was getting old, especially when I knew I was never going to act on it in any short-term way – and that this morning's low was as much to do with the amount of booze in my blood. Dope would have helped, but I couldn't find any. While on the front balcony looking for roaches, I heard the downstairs door open and someone walking on the porch. They would have dope. I went downstairs.

Holly was sitting on the couch on the porch with a joint in her hand. "Daim, how are you doing?"

"Not too good. Can I share a toke or two with you?"

"Sure. What's got you going?" I told Holly the story. "Sounds fucked up... but totally a story you would tell me. Any guy I know would have kicked her out the moment she told them that crap."

"So I'm an idiot?"

"Better to be a good idiot than a general asshole." She took a long toke. "Daim, you gotta ask yourself a whole bunch of questions about shit. Half are the could this shit be possible? type like: Who? What? Where? How? And you gotta focus on the shit that doesn't add up. Like, if I were trying to take you for money I wouldn't settle for $300. And what's with finding a condom in her? It's almost worthless evidence – especially if you flush it. As far as I know, in Canada – if she needs to, God forbid, deal with the baby – healthcare will take care of that. Add in the other shit, like her seeming to have been up all night, no cops, living with her ex, going to a massage parlour and shit... really, you don't have to be Columbo to see that that shit doesn't add up. But you know all that already. Aren't you a detective or something?

I passed the joint back to her and she continued.

"I bet you all that you can figure out about this situation is that you can't figure it out. Unfortunately, you really do love her. Since you do, you'd better ask yourself these questions. They're more important: Should I care for someone who won't come to me with the truth or something like it? She's obviously sunk to going after the weakest person in whatever has happened – is she always going to go for your balls? If you were to work something out, could you ever trust her again? I mean, if you feed this craziness and help her out of a jam that was impossible for her to deal with before, what's to stop it from happening again? Basically, I'm saying you've treated her well – I know that from knowing you for years. We've been here for like five or six years and you always try and do the best for everyone. If she respected that, she'd have approached you that first time from a reasonable place, like saying 'hey, did we fuck around,' instead of accusing you and your buddy with, 'I found a condom in me.' She doesn't care for you enough to do that and, whatever her reasons are for that mistrust, can you really carry that for her?

Holly took the last puff of the roach and stubbed it out.

"I know you want to make this into something good, but you've really got to ask yourself if that's even possible. I love you, but man... you got some problems. And this girl has a few of her own. I think mixing the two together would be trouble. I don't think either of you are good for each other."

I was starting to sweat and my ears felt as if they were really burning. I could tell they were flaming red.

"I see what you're saying and it's all good, but I feel like I gotta try to help her once more – or at least extend a hand." I started to laugh to myself.

"What's funny."

"Mom and dad got together after some big crisis between them."

"How did that work out?" I began to sob. "I'm sorry Daim – I didn't mean anything by it."

I sucked up my tears. "It's me... I've been drinking for a week straight and only stopped last night. I got the DTs bad."

"You should never cold turkey on booze. That'll give you seizures and shit. I'll get you some Valium. It'll help – lessens the chance of having any seizures, too." She got up to get the drugs.

"Thanks Holly. Now I need to get back to bed."

"Here are two. Take them with a drink but stop after that."

I took the pills with water and drank two more glasses. I knew one drink would lead to another. A crazy detective dream assaulted my drugged-up mind, but it was better than not being drugged up.

Sweaty, hot and unable to feign sleep, I got up and pretended to be a detective. I drove to the building where I'd dropped Janette off before and after going sailing. I felt I needed to keep a low profile as I surveyed the area, so it took me a few passes in the car to get the area straight in my head while negotiating the afternoon rush-hour traffic. The building in question was a government office and, in one corner, was a therapeutic massage parlour – or that's what the English lettering said. The Chinese or Cantonese characters could have said cheap whores for all I knew. Aside from the parlour being in a building with a government office, it looked as if it was an AMP (Asian Massage Parlour). I was too scared of finding Nyet in there to check it out. Across the street was a union hall. The two other corners had low-end housing. No medical clinic could be found for more than four blocks around – a distance I was sure she couldn't travel in the time I waited in the car.

I had to find out if the massage parlour was giving happy endings. At first, I thought I'd get a buddy to go in undercover, continuing the slightly pleasing gumshoe fantasy. But that was not to be.

The computer was my best way to find information. After stroking the right keys and getting myself a membership to the NWERB website, I had all I needed to know about AMPs. The parlour in question was an AMP that had been reviewed by another member:

For a long time, I walked past this massage parlour without thinking it would interest me. It looks wrong. Most of the building is a government office and the entrance is shared. One day, a friend of mine asked me why I go all the way downtown when this one is only blocks away? The camouflage worked; I thought it was what it said on the window: 'Therapeutic Massage'. My friend assured me it was a good place for a massage and more. The girl I saw there did a very good massage and I got a vigorous HJ at the flip. They offer FS and more, but I'm an old man and that was all I needed. The total was four green for 40 min massage and HJ. I don't recall the price for FS. The girl at the counter spoke English, Mandarin and Cantonese. There were three girls; one Chinese, a Malayan and one white girl dressed to look oriental. I got the Chinese. She was in her late 20s, or that's what this old man thinks. I never give a rating – all the girls look good to me.

'A white girl dressed to look like an oriental?! Who else could it be?' My mind screamed. Fire exploded from every synapse in my mind and I felt sick. The sickness forced me to find a drink while I thought of surprising Nyet at the parlour and saving whatever we had with a teary-eyed moment – followed by paying off her debts to the establishment and sealed by a romantic retreat on the boat. Confronting her in the flesh or over the phone with this was not on the cards. The coward in me had a logical argument that, if I brought this up with her in person, she'd feel it to be an attack she'd have to defend herself against – with something like: 'I only started a week ago because I needed the money from the shit with you,' or 'how can you accuse me of that?'

With the drink I'd found, I sat on my balcony feeling finished. Or at least done with this whole episode. There was no more wanting of facts. I didn't care anymore. I just wanted to feel numb. I poured another drink.

Then the muffled ringing of my cellphone snapped me out of my malaise. I found it stuffed in the cushions of the couch, long after it had stopped ringing. There was a message from Janette. She said she'd try again later.

Uncertain of how to respond, following the events of the day, I called Seth.

"Damian, how are you doing?"

"I'm frustrated." I told Seth what I'd found out today. "One part of me totally wants to confront her. The other wants to run and hide. And the question, can anything good really come from this? continues to circle."

"What are you willing to do to help?"

"I'd be willing to help with whatever she needs if pregnant; whatever the choices are. There's the off-chance that if Trevor or I blacked out and did something, one of us could be the father."

"If she's pregnant, couldn't the paternity of the baby be tested?"

"Seth, you're a genius. And to think I was watching Jerry Springer earlier and didn't think of that. I'll tell her I'll help her in any way if she gets a paternity test."

"Call me after you talk to her."

I freshened my drink and waited for Janette to call back. At around 8pm she did.

"You're alive?"

"Yes."

"I had a dream you weren't."

I had the feeling she was going to hang up.

"Wait, Janette." I had to swallow before continuing. "I'm sorry I laid that shit on you about suicide – that was wrong."

"It was a total asshole move."

"Are you pregnant?"

"I'm not sure."

"If you are, I'll help with whatever you need – money, rides, support – whatever your choices are. But on one condition: you have a paternity test. I want to know what happened. If it was Trevor or me you should do what you have do – press charges or whatever." There was a long silence. "Janette?"

"You mean test what they take out of me?! Can they do that?"

"I'm sure they can. Does that sound reasonable?"

"I err... err... I gotta go."

"I'm sorry things turned out like this."

"I'll call you when I find out. Bye."

'Was that an answer? Were we absolved? Was that a possibility? Or was being a part of the story an admission of guilt?' I stifled my thoughts by finishing my drink and fixed another.

32.

The addict I was watching had not concealed anything yet, but the story was already told – and he soon would.

Those with glazed eyes, an off-balance swagger, and who looked everywhere only seeing one thing, were designed to steal and were easily caught. Why? Did they want to be? They always try to run.

"Selection – blue jeans." I thumbed through the shirts in front of me, watching the addict by the jeans rack. "Looks like he's putting them in his bag."

Danny radioed: "Two, that's concealment. I've got a great angle."

"Four, he's good to go! Making a beeline for the exit."

The addict walked out the door.

"GO! GO!" I caught up to the addict, grabbed his arm and identified myself.

Danny caught up to me outside. "You're getting good at this. You've got a great eye for the addicts. Two arrests in six days' work? I'm the only person I know with a first week that good."

"I got good training."

Danny called the cops and started the reports. In the office I read the guy his rights, gave him some water, literature on addiction counselling and another pamphlet with a map to soup kitchens and shelters. The addict dropped the papers on the floor.

"This shit ain't for me. They brainwash people. I got chronic pain from falling off a roof – I was a roofer. The WCB doctor won't treat me with the right drugs. I only do this," he made the hand gesture for a syringe going in his arm, "for the pain from the injury. WCB government assholes just take your money. Why shouldn't I? I can't work."

I picked up the pamphlets. "Fine... someone else may want them."

"I don't think any of our customers will want those pamphlets," Danny said later.

"Want some water, Danny?" I got a bottle out and drank it as I was feeling dehydrated. "Hey, do I have to finish my part of the Crown report today?" He shook his head. I was relieved, as my hands were shaky and I felt a sweat coming on.

After my shift ended, I walked straight to the closest liquor store. Bottle in hand, focusing was easy. My ringing phone didn't cause me to spill as I poured the mickey into a half-full pop bottle. I put the cap on the mickey, placed it in my bag and answered the call.

"Hello?"

It was Ocean. "Hi, how are you?" she asked.

"Still not good, but I'll survive. Thanks for being there." I took a swig.

"Janette kind of told me to tell you she's not pregnant."

"That's good. How's she doing?" I took another swig.

"I can't really tell."

"I really loved that girl." I took the largest pull yet.

"Well, that's about it."

"Hey... seriously, thanks for being a friend. And continue to be one to Janette. If we don't bump into each other again, it was good to know you. Cheers." I drank to that.

"Take care, Damian."

The line went dead. I put the phone in my pocket. And smiled. The bottle was now empty enough to refill with the rest of the mickey.

