TEXAS #1

So we left the house at 11AM and drove for about an hour and then about twenty minutes before the border Khalil realises he forgot his drivers' license back in Montreal. This kinda spoiled our plan to rent a car but no biggie. Mike's car was packed with 4 people, 2 guitars, a bass guitar, a keyboard, and a handful of suitcases backpacks and duffel bags. With this we approached our first hurdle, the U.S. border going into Vermont. The nice border guard guy asked only a handful of questions to which Mike responded expertly and let us go through without too much of a hitch.

Soon after entering Burlington we stopped for smokes and bathroom break. Camel Turkish Golds advertise themselves as smooth and mellow and this was the consensus. Combo cheese snacks were somewhat more pungent than anticipated.

We arrived at Burlington airport pretty early and checked-in, again with nary a hitch. The trip overall went smoother than I thought, though as we found out later, both of our planes would get delayed. A woman at the counter saw our instruments and figured out we were going to South by Southwest. She also said that her daughter worked for the fest. A good omen.

It was around this time that I parted ways with the others as they took off for security and their connecting flight to Cleveland. I went and checked myself for my flight to NYC/LGA and we took off a good 15 minutes early in cloudy, wet weather.

The flight was brief, uneventful but more importantly, my guitar was allowed to come with me into the plane where it was strapped in by a seat belt into an empty seat. Smooth sailin' all the way.

At LaGuardia, I rushed to my gate thinking that I only had an hour left to catch my flight. What I actually had to do was go to a different terminal and go through security again, because I ended up landing in the US Airways terminal and my flight to Houston left from the main terminal. My flight was technically a United Airways flight but it was co-operated with Contintental in a confusing mess but all was well until I arrived at the gate and found out we were delayed for 2 hours. I listened to CDs including the BCASA's album and read Jean Chretien's memoirs of his prime minister years while I waited and texted with the others in Cleveland and my brother in California.

I've travelled enough to know delays are part of the process and I've also been delayed long enough to not be pissed off at two measly hours. I finally took off from LGA at around 8:45pm and after another uneventful flight arrived in Houston 2 hours late but coincidentally the same time as the others for their flight too had been delayed an hour.

So everything worked out fine and we were picked up by James of FLA and his sister-in-law and now I'm typing this in his bedroom studio surrounded by an awesome collection of vinyl, a huge Apple monitor, a wall of Marshall amps, a Fender Jaguar and the same drum machine that Suicide used on their first album.

Tomorrow's a new day.

=//Turnquest

City of Miseries

City of Miseries

Montreal's Never-Ending Municipal Woes

This past week our long-time mayor Gerald Tremblay announced a surprise budgetary deficit of $150 million for the city. The implications of his announcement are that numerous city boroughs and municipal agencies have to patch up the difference. Bottom line: higher taxes for reduced services.

I don't about the rest of you, but I'm fed up with the horseshit being shoveled out of City Hall.

First of all, what's surprising about a deficit? Where was our guardian Tremblay when for the last 15 months everyone on Earth was shouting “recession?” Did we prepare any kind of a “rainy day” fund? No. Instead, we spent half a million dollars on a goofy crayon-coloured logo. The best-paid jobs in this city aren't construction worker or metro-booth lady; it's mayoral consultant.

Look, the way successful functional democracies are supposed to work is that the government's authority is to be kept in check by two mechanisms.

The first check is, of course, elections. Our electoral system here is already hopelessly flawed. The proof? According to a Leger Marketing study, Tremblay, our Bushian king, is polling at 32 per cent or 27 points above his closet rivals in the other municipal parties. So much for an informed public.

And who's fault is it that the public is so woefully complacent about the decline of our belle ville? The answer is the second of those asleep-at-the-wheel checks against abuse of power: the media.

Let's start with that flag-bearer of the English language, the Montreal Gazette. With its total obliviousness to reality, a dearth of investigate reporting and a weird, outdated obsession with sovereigntists, the Gazette has rendered itself more irrelevant than ever. The Journal de Montréal's writers are on strike. And our nightly newscasts are either kept to 22 minutes (with 15 of those minutes dedicated to sports, entertainment and the weather), or have simply been taken off the air (see: TQS).

On second thought, thank God our media is utterly inept because if we had any kind of decent news coverage, the entire world would learn the full extent of how far Montreal's fallen into a disgraceful rut.

The third-world quality streets, the bloated, corrupt bureaucracy, the ancient, collapsing infrastructure, 40-year old metros, the mind-numbing traffic, smog, fascist police who protect their own (even while killing 18-year-old kids), abject poverty in every part of the city except Westmount, TMR and Cote-St-Luc/Hampstead . . . I could go on and I'm sure you could to.

How about that “Quartier des Spectacles” Mr. Tremblay? Why can't the AMT trains run on time? Why isn't there a metro line anywhere west of Decarie? Is there any kind of functioning green policy? What's happening with that wasteland-cum-superhospital next to Vendôme metro? The Cinema V in N.D.G.? Will we ever have water mains that don't explode every time the temperature drops below zero, or snow-clearing operations that don't take three weeks to complete?

Personally, I'd be content with a simple extension of the metro system until four a.m. on Saturday nights. But that's just as unlikely as somebody defeating Tremblay in this November's election.

For what is supposed to be a cosmopolitan (a clichéd adjective for our city if there ever was one) North American city, we seem to not only tolerate all the shit shoved down our throats by our politicians and civil servants; we enjoy it.

It's so easy to lay the blame for the state we're in now on any number of declining institutions, socio-cultural factors or other levels of government, but the real target of our indignation has got to be primarily ourselves.

With complacency comes a lack of vigilance. And that, to misquote the old maxim, is the price of responsible government.

=//Turnquest

The Starbucksization of Montreal

This is gonna be a 3-piece, uh, piece written over three days. Being truly a native son of this beloved city, having both been born here and living most of my life here, including all of my formative coming-of-age years, Montreal a fairly personal subject. So prepare for long-winded, full-of-digression prose (including long-winded introductions and amusing anecdotes). But hey, if you read this blog, you're used to all that shit.

Including curt, droll segues.

Anyway.

1st part

This past May, once up-and-coming underground concert venue Black Dot, located on Rue St-Laurent, was shut down by the cops. Police officials and the venue's organizers declared that a fatal mix of complaints, lack of regulation and failure to meet irrelevant safety standards had conspired to bring about the demise of Black Dot.

Here is just one of a hundred stories that have been written in Montreal over the past five years. I chose this one because it strikes specifically at the issues and ideas that are imposing themselves on the city like a straightjacket on a mental patient. Black Dot was representative of a certain kind of lifestyle and subculture that thrives in Montreal. It was a symbol of the city's punk, metal, bohemian and Do-It-Yourself communities. While hardly the only venue for such kinds of music, it was unique in its unpretentious, all-ages-allowed way of business. It's this subculture that is under direct attack.

The closing of Black Dot illustrates the ongoing and time-tested conflict between a city's underground counterculture and its authourity figures. This is a battle that's been going on since the 1960s, when the shit really started. It, inevitably, will continue for the foreseeable future.

You can trace a direct link from the closing of Black Dot to the more abstract but just as relevant issue of gentrification. Black Dot wasn't one of the countless designer, brand-name, big-box and entirely corporate storefronts opening along the Main and other boulevards in the city. Therefore it had to go. The kinds of people who shop and solicit those kinds of establishments (naming names, Second Cup, H&M, Pizza Pizza) don't feel that public transit is something that meshes well with their socio-economic status. They'd rather drive cars.

This brings us to the the massive amounts of costly and mostly futile road construction plugging up the major thoroughfares throughout the island. Sure, blame winter all you want on our third-world, Cambodian countryside quality roads, but last I checked, winter is not a new phenomenon in Montreal. What is new though are the tens of thousands of new people moving to the city, having kids, and yes, adding their automobiles to the roads. The infrastructure we rely on today was meant for a different era with a different size population: the 1960s.

The other obvious side effect of more cars: less gas. Supply and demand decides that prices go up. People pay more. Disposable income goes down. And people are a lot more pissed off than usual. The energy and big oil companies know that we don't have another option. They know that the people will take being sodomized at the pump everyday, and ask for seconds because what are people going to do, stop driving? Yeeeahh.

Oh, global warming too. Another side effect.

Road construction is not the only kind of construction happening around town. All those Ontarians, MBAs, entry-level programmers, career chasers and leased-car, good-credit, white shirt young professionals need a place to live. They can't possibly be expected to take up a modestly-priced flat with hardwood floors and the kind of wonderful charm that a dwelling built in the 1950s has. No, they need condominiums.

All these issues and problems the city is facing offer insight into the deeper and more uniquely Montreal-specific war going on right this minute. What we're seeing is the direct consequence of the failure of the 60s counterculture movement against the forces of urban redevelopment, capitalist plutocracy, gentrification and yuppeism, red tape and bureaucracy, sinister marketing and advertising and the overall rise of the money-fueled culture. These forces have united into a single anomalous movement:

Starbucksization.

It's real, it's happening. And it has the power to kill Montreal. To kill the city we live in and that most of us grew up in.

We as citizens of this city are in the thick of this wave and therefore unable to really grasp the grand picture of what is going on. But make no mistake, we are most certainly in it and it is changing the way we live.

In the coming series of posts, I'll talk about Griffintown and its impending razing and destruction, the disgraceful roads, hospitals, police services and xenophobic/ethnically fractured culture that plague Montreal. I'll try and offer explanations, or at least some of the root causes of all the wack things around town, and offer two opposing visions for the city in say, ten years.

Stay tuned, fookpoppers.

=//Turnquest

Photo Art Gallery

=//Turnquest

What?

No updates? Huh? Dead blog? Shirt? What?

computer hope

Apologies for the nearly 4,000-word previous installment.

Final Chapter - These Things Happen


Okay girls & guys, before anything, I want you to play a song called "Temptation" by New Order. Download it if you don't have it already, and try to get the version from 1987, the 7 minute one. OKOK, fine, you're lazy so here's the link, whatever:

http://download.yousendit.com/5040B2C61A63EE96

Alright then, now that you have that playing in the background, I'll tell you my side of this tale.

My name is Faye Rossi, I'm 21 and a major in Business Administration at Concordia University. I have a minor in Sociology, but I might drop that and just concentrate on Business Admin. I mean, Sociology is interesting and all, but when you get down to it, it's not a real science. And the professors will admit that too. When scientists try to take surveys and analyze human behaviour and reasoning, any sort of scientific methods or control elements fly out the window and you end up with an estimated guess. Case in point, I had one professor who emphasized that you shouldn't trust the Census. She worked as a census survey person when she was young and she told us stories about how she and her co-workers made up all sorts of fake names, fake addresses because they got tired of going to sketchy apartments and crackhouses, like "Lucifer, residing in Hades, Alberta." Anyway, you all don't want to hear about this. I know when I talk too much, but fuck off, I'm a girl, that's what I do.

So yeah, the "rape". Well, most likely because Jacob was really high off his ass and being overdramatic, he sort of overwrote that part. Yeah, I read what he posts up here. It wasn't as bad as he made it seem. No honestly, I know, I'm the girl, I'm supposed to be all the victim and shit, but no. I've been exposed to enough Feminist ideas (go Camille Paglia & Gloria Steinem!) to not accept the poor, little rape victim stereotype.

I wouldn't even call it rape. We were a couple, boyfriend and girlfriend. He was intoxicated, I was sort of tipsy myself. I let him take me into that bedroom and was totally consenting. And he sort of freaked out, which, despite his harrowing description, I can understand. Yes, difficult to believe, but I know my Jake. He's no rapist. A stoner? Yeah. Bit anti-social and introverted? Check. Going nowhere fast? That too. But to throw him and Paul Bernardo and Tarquinius in the same batch of miscreants and scum? No. He's still a kid, he didn't mean it and I'm not traumatized.

What happened in that bedroom was things getting out of control, a mistake, a bad mix of drugs, horniness (sic) and adolescent stupidity. So yea. Don't get all self-righteous or outraged. These things happen.

How far's Temptation along? I want to finish before it's over.

I liked Jake from the beginning. I'd seen my brother Tony hang around with him for years and he'd always acted shy around me. Then at some point, he began to act all cool or indifferent. I would guess that's when he began to like me, or probably when he started to smoke. Jake is the sort of guy who's still figuring out who he is. I mean, he didn't work a lot, dropped out of college. Wasn't too charming or gallant or anything, but he was cute and as close to a bad boy as I had in my reach. The laptop was just the excuse to hang around together. Anyway, I'd had a few relationships before, but nothing serious. Dates, fooling around, but not like love or anything. Did I love Jake? Can't say. This might go down as just a summer fling. Then again, I'd never let a boy go as far as I let him. I liked him, a lot. Oh fuck it and this fear in modern society of using the word "love." Yeah, I loved him.

But will I forgive him? I don't know. Not that I hold a grudge or anything. If he comes and apologizes and asks me tomorrow for forgiveness, I believe I would. Forgiveness is as important as love on this Earth. Jesus, Muhammad, Joseph Smith, Jr, what have you, all stress over and over the nobleness, the sacredness of this most human of things.

But in terms of us getting back together...that is what I don't know. It'd be different now. I personally think I've had a bad influence on him. I want him to take some time off from me and get his bearings straight. As I told him numerous times, he's got to get his life together, he's got to move on and leave the aimlessness and volatility and transience of adolesence behind. Big words, yeah. So you just want a "yes" or "no" answer? Will we or won't we? The name of this story is Computer Hope after all, isn't it? I believe in hope, I like hope. Forever is a long time. Take that for what you will.

*The end*

* * *

Special thanks to all who've hung around and read this far, any and all comments and responses were considered, appreciated and inspiring. I took suggestions and made changes where reasonable and appropriate. This blog will return to its regular columns about politics soon. Until then, as ever...

=//Turnquest

C.H. VI

Before anything, R.I.P. and God's mercy be upon Porky, Ingmar Bergman & Michelangelo Antonioni.

*** Disclaimer: Despite many attempts to discern some kernel of truth or insight into this story, all characters are entirely fictitious, all experiences are fictitious and all references to acts, quotes and events are fictitious. Only the places and settings might be real, so don't kill yourself trying to find out if this is what happened or didn't, cuz it didn't. It's just a story. ***

Part VI - Overdrive


Alright alright, things were going sort of well between me and Faye. We had managed to keep things on the down-low. Faye's brother Tony wasn't aware of anything aside from that we were sharing the laptop (then again, Tony didn't really notice too much aside from when Sublime Directory updated). Our parents were being skillfully misdirected (Yea mom, I'm going to my friend Mike's house, I'll be back tomorrow morning.) And we had settled a lot of the important relationship issues that would've normally come back to bite us. No expectations on the bills at restaurants. No drama if one or the other is busy on a certain night. Yes, gifts are encouraged. No, nothing too expensive. No grudges against chilling with friends, etc. So yeah, things were going well.

I found myself reflecting on Faye from time to time and how she seemed to possess rather good but rare qualities in girls. Like for example, she had that good girl/bad-girl thing down pat. To elaborate, in public at any point, she was always extremely well-dressed and put together, but never flashy or exhibitionist. A totally respectable and proper, almost to the point of being intimidating, member of society. Subtle. But for those who got a closer look, all the exquisite details that elevate regular girls to true ethereal beauties were right there. The right contrasting colors in clothes; the minimum amounts of makeup that simply enhance rather than totally overhaul her look; a modern, well-taken care of cellphone; shoes that even laymen take notice of; soft hands, astonishing and almost tragic grey-hazel eyes; and that gliding-on-air grace that only the best can muster. Oh, an ass that wouldn't quit. Of course.

I was in way over my head.

Tony and I were driving on an August Friday evening on the 15 in my car which had finally been released from the mechanic. The ol' girl, a 1987 Ford Tempo, had a solid 276,000 KMs on it and constantly emitted grinding or whirring noises. I thought it was just the car's way of asking me to put it out if its misery.

Anyway, we were on our way to pick up Faye who was getting ready at her house. Tony's buddy Roy was having a get-together at his place cuz his parents had gone to the States for the weekend. Of course, as things would have it in the hokey, sheltered community of Montreal-West, every kid, mook, homo-thug, tween, stoner, jock and skank west of Atwater St. had heard about it. Though the sun had yet to set, we could tell from the amount of txts and phone calls circulating around that poor Roy's house was going to be swarming with hopped-up kids.

Us two had just come from burning a spliff on the mountain. I was switching the radio towards K103.7 when we got a blip of the hourly news reports.

***A car bombing in Sadr City, Baghdad killed 27...Chairman of the Joint Chiefs is making plans to delay any review of the Iraq mission until next year...Iran and Syria's leaders were meeting in Damascus against the wishes of Israel...U.S. to sell $20 billion of arms to Israel, Egypt and Saudi Arabia...***

I passed the news report, feeling sort of queasy and reached K103.7 where BuddaBlaze was spinning some old NaS. Rolling down the windows to let in the humid summer air, I caught a glance of the big giant orange near Jean-Talon.

Tony was aroused out of his weed stupor and couldn't help but comment on the report.

"Yo dog, what's up with all these bombings and shit?"
I paused for a minute, wondering how to answer his question properly and explain it in terms understandable to him.
"Man, that's just Middle East shit. Don't worry about it."
"Naw, but like mad people die like every day," he said.
"Yea...and?" "So like why can't they stop it?"
"Who, the Americans?" I asked.
"No...yea, the Americans or whoever else."
"Yo, it's complicated and shit."
"No man, like there's bombings and shit exploding in the streets like every day. That's not complicated. And fuckin' no-one's doing shit," he said sharply.
"Guy, this shit's been going on for a long time."
"Yea, but I don't here shit about car bombs or kidnappings in like Japan or Brazil or any of these other places"
"Yea, well Japan or Brazil weren't invaded and bombed to fuck by the U.S. Army for no good reason and had 160,000 troops occupying it...Well maybe Japan but that's another story."
Tony paused a second before replying. "So it's the Americans' fault? That's what everyone keeps sayin', like Bush this and Bush that."
"Well in a way, because before the Americans came, there was no such thing as suicide bombings in Iraq and people being kidnapped."
"Yea but they had Saddam Hussein naw? He was pretty fucked up."
"No, for sure, Saddam was a son-of-a-bitch but I mean, he was completely zero percent threat against the U.S. or anyone else. He was contained. And, I mean, if you're gonna start invading countries cuz they got dictators runnin' them, then they oughta start with North Korea or some shitty African country or Burma or somethin'." "Yea..." said Tony, seeming to agree. I tried to offer an analogy.
"Look, they can't stop it because they're the ones who started it. It's like telling a guy who committed assault to help his victim or the weed dealer to get his custies to quit doin' drugs. No-one takes the U.S. seriously, and no-one over there likes 'em."
"Yea but I hear if they pull out, then it's gonna be even worse and there'll be genocide or sumthin'."
"Yea, probably."
"But, look, I saw enough movies about Vietnam and shit, and they pulled out and nothing like that happened. If they get out, then somebody else is gonna take over and that's, y'know, the natural way of shit to happen."
"Good point," I said, sort of surprised.
"Pff, I dunno man, I'm just sayin' from what I remember watchin' movies."

We pulled off of Decarie on to Sherbrooke and followed De Maisonneuve with all its mechanics' shops and abandoned warehouses till we reached Tony and Faye's house on Melrose. A cellphone call later and Faye was walking towards the car carrying the laptop. A side note: you've gotta love punctual women. She squirmed into the backseat without even a glance in my direction. I pulled away from the curb.

Tony looked in the rear-view mirror, as typical of people who want to talk to those in the backseat.

"Hey Faye, what do you think about all this Middle East stuff?"
"Like what?" she said.
"Like what's going on in Iraq and everything."
She glanced out the window a little solemnly before replying.
"It's pretty sad."
"Yeah yeah, I know but I was asking this guy if he knew why it's happening."
"Well I mean Tony, it's a broad question. In terms of Iraq and the current civil war..." "So it's a civil war?" he interrupted.
Faye continued unfazed.
"Yes Tony, it's a civil war. Anyway, in terms of that, you can trace its roots back as far as the 80s when Reagan and the States supported Saddam against Iran, which had just gone through its Islamic Revolution and brought the Ayatollah to power. Or, if you want to get historical, you could trace it all the way back 1400 years to Islamic times and the death of the Prophet Muhammad and who amongst his companions had the right of succession. Then of course, there's the slaying of his grandson Husayn by the Caliph Yazid's forces at Karbala. That's essentially where the whole Sunni-Shia thing started."
"So fuck, like this has been goin' on for 1400 years?"
"No, not exactly, but that's where the roots of the secular violence began."

I couldn't keep quiet anymore.

"Fuck that, I read the Wikipedia articles.The Iraqis were pretty damn peaceful aside from the whole Iran War thing. It's the States that messed it all up. You want history? Go look up the Crusades or the British or French empires. The West never knows when to mind its own business."
"I did look it up, I took a course," Faye replied with a naive authority that made me want to lash out at her.
"Taught by some white dude, huh?"
"Yeah, Professor Higgins."
"Pff. And that's what this Higgins guy told you? That it's the Muslims fault?" "Well, not exactly... but he did say you can't trust Wikipedia."
"See, that's bullshit. Wikipedia is just as accurate as the Encyclopedia Britannica."
"No, because anybody can edit it."
"Yea, but if there's any inaccuracies, it gets corrected. Fuck, I'll prove it to you. Give me that laptop."

I pulled over to an apartment building on Sherbrooke and West Broadway. Starting up the laptop, I began looking for a network to log into. Faye inquired to what I was doing.
"I'm showing you it's accurate, hold on."
"You can't just log into other people's networks."
"Why the fuck not?"
"That's stealing!"
"Yeah, whatever."

I found an unprotected network called "Linksys" and logged in.

"Look, I don't care what your website says. Let's just go," said Faye, relenting.
"No, you want to see if it's right or not? We'll find out."

Tony couldn't take this anymore.

"Alright enough. Look, don't you people see this is how shit gets started over there? Bitching about history and Yazid and all these things that don't fuckin' matter one shit."

I paused halfway into typing the URL.

"So much stupid shit. Agree to disagree, whatever I don't give a shit, nobody cares. Let's go."

I shut the laptop's lid and we continued to the party in silence.

"Are there going to be any drugs at this party?" Faye asked.
"Most likely," I replied.
"Well I don't want neither of you to take anything stupid. I don't care about weed, but relax with the rest of the stuff," she said.

Tony and I feigned agreement with nods.

We parked on Connaught a couple blocks away from the house and walked over. It was about 10:30pm now. The sun was gone, the little old English-style street lamps had been turned on and the neighborhood was generally quiet, except for distant rumbles of bass coming from Roy's house. Little gaggles of girls in minis and tanktops were walking excitedly along on the sidewalk. The house came into view. The lights were on in every room. At least a dozen kids were hanging around on the porch already. Heading up to the place, we heard what sounded like Wolfmother and Cypress Hill blasting out of stereos inside. I looked back at brother and sister. Faye was sort of expressionless, which I took to be a sort of disapproval. Tony was already shouting out to one of the kids he knew. We had to cross through a thin fog of cigarette smoke to make it inside.

The main lobby of the house had a staircase going up to the second floor with teenagers sitting on the steps drinking beer out of clear plastic cups. The Wolfmother seemed to be coming from the den which was to the left of the stairway, while the familiar Cypress Hill basslines came from the basement door on the side of the stairway. Now if there's a rule-of-thumb you can say about house parties, it's that the real chilling always seems to take place in the basement. The potheads and couples making out always seem to find their way there. Or if the house doesn't have a basement or if it's an apartment, you figure the kitchen is where the centre of the action is.

Faye saw her friend Sarah and disappeared into a sideroom as Tony and I headed downstairs. In the basement we found a few couches, a computer playing 'How I Could Just Kill A Man' and like twenty kids of all races doing what can only be described as 'chilling'. Two black kids dressed in Roc-A-Fella were sitting on a couch stoned out of their heads, eyes red and barely open. They couldn't have been more than sixteen. A blonde girl with one of those belts lined with little metal pyramids was talking very closely with a kid with spiked hair and a red Canadiens shirt in the corner. Another kid sporting glasses and an acoustic guitar was looking behind a dresser for a cigarette he had dropped. Three girls, all obviously minors, were in a circle laughing hysterically about something they had just remembered, cigarettes and Dixie cups of alcohol in hand. Three white dudes with dreads wearing raggedy wool and plaid were sitting on the floor around the coffee table chopping up trees and chatting about "hip-hop in the 90s." We headed for these guys.

Smoke and the odour of alcohol floated in the air as we sat down next to them. After the customary greetings, I asked one guy where Roy was. He said he didn't know any Roy. Another one said to check upstairs. As I was about to go back up, Roy came barreling down without a shirt and giant fake Ray-Bans. He saw us and gave us hugs, thanking us for making it to the party. I asked him if it was okay to smoke in the house. He replied "Yeah it's fine, as long as you stay in the basement," before excusing himself to go yell at the kid who was messing with his guitar.

We sat back around the table and Tony dropped a 7s on the table. The three dreadlocked kids looked at the Ziploc bag, then at us and smiled.

* * *

It had to have been about 1 by the time I pulled myself away from the orgy of weed-smoking and make-out sessions happening in the basement. I had recalled that Faye was still somewhere about. Upstairs, I looked for her but instead found Roy who stopped me.

"Did you see Tony's sister?" I asked.
"Yo guy, you ever try speed?" Roy replied, casting aside the question.
"Yeah, a few years back. It didn't work on me, I just fell asleep."
"Oh fuck, yo, I can hook you up with real shit for like 10 a pill."
"What, like live?"
"Yeah dog, right now. You down?" I looked around the house, which had really begun to degenerate now into hedonism. I figured, why not? I expressed my approval to him.
"Okay, hold up, I'm gonna find the guy."

He vanished. I sat on the stairway. A lonely, introverted girl with glasses and a Weezer shirt sitting a couple steps up made eye-contact. She said in a bored voice,

"Didn't I see you at Trevor's show?"
"Naw, I don't know any Trevor."
"Oh."

She turned away, staring off into nothing.

Roy returned with his fist clenched around something, his sunglasses removed. As he handed me a triangular orange pill, I could see his eyes were almost totally black, the pupils fully dilated and glazed over, sparkling.

"Here, try it. It's Dexedrine, the real shit."

I looked around for something to down it with, then asked Weezer girl if I could borrow her cup for a second. She gave it to me and I swallowed the pill with a mouthful of lukewarm Molson Ex. Roy giggled and vanished before I could give him the 10 dollars. My mouth tasted like piss and I had to get outside to smoke a cigarette.

The gathering on the porch had spilled out on to the yard. Bass rumbles from inside echoed throughout the otherwise quiet neighborhood of upper middle-class Victorian and brick houses. I thought I heard a smattering of The Misfits now. As I took a drag on the cancer stick, I wondered how long before the police would break up the party. There was a cool breeze to give the weather a sort of perfection.

And then it hit.

It was, well the word used on Erowid and other drug-geek websites is "euphoria." This was the first thought that repeated itself in my head as I held on to the railings of the porch. An extraordinary, intense glowing feeling enveloped my body and mind. I continued to smoke, but I had wild urges to run, to talk, to explore, to feel. Then I started to feel my heartbeat. Normally, when you're in a very quiet environment, you can stop and hear your heartbeat if you specifically want to. This was different. I could physically feel my heart accelerating, the pulses causing a sort of rhythm to develop inside my chest. It wasn't painful. Pain had been forgotten, as had depression, anxiety or sadness. This was just pure hyperactive bliss. Like piloting a single-engine Cessna at takeoff or what Jimi Hendrix must've felt when he played 'The Star-Spangled Banner' at Woodstock.

I flicked the cigarette away and headed back inside, every footstep unleashing little tremors of joy and excitement. Entering the foyer again, I noticed as I turned my head the lights were leaving little streaks behind them. "Shit," I thought, "this shit is hitting faster than I thought." I saw Roy still walking around, his sunglasses now back on and draped in a bedsheet he was using as a cape. He saw me and hugged me and we both let out exclamations of awe and happiness. I staggered into the TV lounge where a few fat kids were playing some shooter game on an X-Box. On the dining table behingd them, I saw a two girls tapping a razor blade on a mirror. My mind reacted instantly, recalling what this meant. I walked over and from the reactions on their faces, I knew that they knew that I knew.

"Want a line?"
"Yes."

I clumsily rolled up a five-dollar bill they gave me and after watching them each do one, I knelt down and under their vacant gaze, snorted my first line of cocaine. Now, I won't go into what that instant felt like. It's like...torture and an orgasm. Or something. I blanked out and walked around, pushing my fingers through my hair and rubbing my eyes from the dazzling light. I found myself in the lobby again when I heard a voice.

"Hey Jim."

I looked up at the top of the stairway. Faye stood there with her black skirt and grey stockings and a torn t-shirt with a phrase I couldn't make out, looking down at me.

"What?"

"Whip it on me, Jim. Come on."

I paused, not breaking eye contact. She seemed to be emanating light or something, but I swore I could see circles or some kind of shimmering around her, the way fire can distort the air above it on a cool day. I had no choice. Every other voice and noise and thought fell away. I ran up the stairs, taking them two or three at a time until I was at her side, my arms around her hips. She looked at me, sort of bemused and letting slip a rare smile. She'd probably had a few drinks herself.

"Do you like this shirt? Amy gave it to me."

I looked down, trying not to stare too hard at her chest while reading the white-on-black text:

White Light/White Heat
1968

The now familiar aura of glee and euphoria rippled through me. My eyes went back to her grinning face. I noticed she had dimples.

"I thought you'd like it...Jeez, is it that nice? Why are you looking at me like that?"
"It's because I love you," I replied.
"What?"
"Come on."

I took her by the hand and led her off into one of the bedrooms upstairs. All were locked, save one; Roy's.

We had started kissing before I even managed to close the door. Freeing one of my hands, I managed to lock it from the inside as we began to embrace. The sounds of the party had dissipated now, the small room with its poster-lined walls filling with the sounds of breathing and lust. I couldn't even begin to describe how ecstatic and glorious it felt to have her in my arms and returning all that I was giving her. It felt like the first time all over again. Faye.

But every touch, every gesture was just pushing the speed rush further. My heart was pounding, visibly trembling my chest. I must've been at 200 beats per minute, at least. Blood was pulsating throughout my body, but she hadn't noticed yet.

I took her to the bed and laid her down. She complied, watching with a sort of curious fascination as I disrobed myself, then began to do same to her.

"Wait."

But I didn't hear. I continued, my limbs working of their own accord, her body sending her signals that I couldn't fight.

"Are you sure?"

Her skin was still smooth. My own was slick with sweat, beads dripping out of my hairline.

"I don't know about this..."

It was moving too fast, a freefall out of an airplane, a dive off of a cliff, a trip through hyperspace. She shivvered underneath me, her muscles beginning to clench.

"It hurts...I think you should slow down."

I was gone now, not even in the moment. My head was off watching the stars form from gases at the dawn of time, my body a machine stealing all it could from another, fueled by chemicals and hunger.

"Okay, stop it. Fuck, it hurts. You're hurting me."

The unmistakable sound of flesh slapping against other flesh resounded in the room. Suddenly, her hands were pushing at my shoulders with surprising force. I wanted to stop. God, how I wished I could've stopped. I could've let her push me away and we still could've made up, apologize. Anything, I was ready to pull away.

But I couldn't.

"STOP, get off me. STOP IT, WHAT THE FUCK'S THE MATTER WITH YOU!?"

She was hitting me with all her strength, punching me in the face, the nose, in the side of the head.

"HELP!"

The door burst open and two girls stood there. They immediately let out wails and began crying. I turned and in the moment of surprise, Faye shoved me off. She leapt away from the bed, draping her self in her t-shirt and being consoled by the girls. I sat on the floor naked, in a daze, unable to speak. Seconds after, two huge white guys I'd never seen before came into the room and turned on the light. I squinted, the light piercing my fully-dilated eyes. They saw her, saw me, and a look of malevolence and fury came into their eyes. This was about it for me. I leapt to my feet and dodged their meaty fists, barely able to grab my boxers. While running towards the stairway, I managed to slip them on and slid down the banister. No-one else seemed to take notice of this scene, the music still blaring away mindlessly. Everything was now a blur. I ran down into the basement and found Roy, who knew something was wrong. I tried to explain myself, but he himself wasn't in any condition to help. I turned and expecting to see the angry white guys, saw Tony.

My head shut down. The last image I remember was Roy's traumatized face, frozen in shock. A bang, a blast of pain in my cheekbone as it fractured and a final explosion of light as all went to black.

* * *

Birds chirped. My eyes were glued shut. I awoke on the floor, unsure where I was. My shirt was laying on my stomach. Somebody had put it there. I put it on automatically, still confused. It was the bright yellow light of dawn streaming from the basement window that had roused me from unconsciousness. There were only a handful of people left, all passed out. No Roy, no Faye, no Tony, no white guys. Total silence, except the birds. I walked out of the house, finding a bicycle left lying against the tree.

I rode home, towards the sun, with the birds singing, alone.

=//Turnquest

C.H.

Part V - Kissing After Dark or: I've Got a Bad Feeling About This

In the deserts of Tunisia, in a small village, a band of men stood
around looking out over the swath of destruction that lay before them.
Costumes lay strewn about the sands, props and faux-robots lay on their
side and meticuluously-built sets were little more than debris. Weeks
before, the area had seen the first rainfall in more than 50 years. By
day, temperatures easily hit 50 degrees...and above. Disaster seemed to
stalk the production of this little sci-fi film that seemingly no-one
cared for.

Upon returning to California, the writer-director, a man named George,
found his special effects company which he had started, ILM, had spent
half their budget on a mere 4 shots...none of which were acceptable.
The following night, he checked into the local hospital and was
diagnosed with hypertension and exhaustion.

Disaster had stalked this production, tension compellled it, countless people's
careers hung in the balance, most of all George's. And yet, by some strange, incalcuble wrinkle in the cultural fabric of America, this film succeeded.

It became:

Star Wars.

* * *

I whispered this into Faye's ear as we lay on the couch watching A New
Hope (Episode IV) on our laptop. She had seen Star Wars, as so many had, when
she was young, and not the whole thing. She barely remembered it, so I
had decided that tonight we were going to try and watch at least the
first one or two films and maybe the whole original trilogy. It took
some persuasion, but she gave in after I reminded her that I had read
Jane Eyre and also started on Wuthering Heights. Girls I was finding,
could be manipulated if needed.

In any case, there we were having not even gotten through the part
where Luke and Obi-Wan hustle Han into smuggling them off Tatooine, and
we were heavily making out.

After a while I had stopped telling the story, finding it difficult to
maintain continuity and memory. Instead, I just starting whispering
quotes in between kisses and exhalations.

"You just watch yourself. We're wanted men. I have the death sentence
on twelve systems."

or

"Jabba's through with you. He has no time for smugglers who drop their
shipments at the first sign of an Imperial cruiser."

I was without a shirt and the only light in the room came from the cool
blue glow of the screen or filtered in from the streetlamps outside. She
had dressed down to only her undergarments. The ceiling fan only pushed
more warm air upon us. The sheets were starting to feel damp from
perspiration. I opened my eyes and pulled my face away from her navel
long enough to see her face. Her eyes were closed tight. Her hands
clenched into fists, gripping my bedsheets. I stole a glance at the
television through tousled hair, the images of droids and Jedis blurry and out of
focus from the moisture in my eyes. A smile, more of a smirk or a leering
grin formed on my lips, a sort of expression I hadn't had in a long
time.

"Why did you stop?"

Her laboured voice returned me to the task at hand. Her eyes were open.
"You want me to turn off the movie?"


"Fucking keep going."

And I did.


=//Turnquest

Computer Hope cont.

A short note about politics. Don't trust anything (including supposedly accurate polls) about who will or won't be the Democratic or Republican candidates for President until the first Iowa caucuses are done (January 14, 2008). And even then, it's a tossup till New Hampshire (January 22) and at least some of the big states are done and through with (Super Tuesday, February 5).

Two or three stories you ought to be following instead are the entire "Lal Masjid" or Red Mosque fiasco in Islamabad, Pakistan, the Dubai-based airline Emirates planning on opening a "world hub" airport and the rise of Mexico's Carlos Slim Helu as the world's richest man. That last story, if properly researched, can lead you to understand the world-changing economics of globalization and emerging third-world industrialization. And in terms of the Middle East, well guess what folks, it's F.U.C.K.E.D. But you already knew that.

Back to shitty banal short stories for your personal entertainment.
* * *

Part IV - In the Aisles

I was in the back of a cab racing towards Concordia downtown at 9 in the morning. I was feeling some angst, as I usually do when aroused in the morning. I couldn't remember the last time I had been up this early; it may easily have been a year. Probably the same amount of time since taking a cab. I had received a call on my mobile from Faye about 15 minutes earlier, stating that she had forgotten her term paper or something on the computer. I told her I could e-mail it to her if she could get to a computer, but she countered that such a move would require her to divulge her password. Which of course, she wouldn't. I protested, saying that I didn't care about her stuff, she could change the password and other valid reasons, but well, she insisted. Finally, she offered to pay for the cab and hung up with a curt "Just get down here."

Bitches.

Sure enough, after dropping 25$ (23.50 plus a lousy tip) to the Iranian cabbie and racing to catch the elevator, I arrived on the 8th floor of the Library building. I looked around, and noticing the old-maid secrataries and stern, glasses-sporting men, quickly realized I had made a mistake. Back down the elevators, floor by floor, I ran out of the front doors, dodging a Chrysler 300 on de Maisonneuve and into the Hall building, where after battling those goddawful escalators indeed, I saw her. Without too much conversation, I handed her the laptop bag and she gave me the money. I was thinking of going back home to sleep when I realized it could easily have been another week before I saw this laptop again.

I asked her "How long was it going to be?"
She waited a minute, ignoring my question, then said, "All done, I e-mailed it to myself."
"Okay, can I have the laptop back?"
"Actually, could you stick around for a little while? I wanted to do some other stuff on it."
"Like what?"
"Nothing, nothing. Come downstairs, it'll only be a few minutes."
"Whatever."

I went with her downstairs to Java U, of all places. I refuse to describe such establishments in any detail.

We sat and before I could even adjust myself, she asked me.

"So why do you drugs?"

I could sense that she had been waiting for an opportunity to drop this one. I began to reply and the conversation unfolded rather similar to an instant message convo.

Me: Why?
Faye: Yea, I wanna know. What makes people do drugs.
Me: Cuz it's cool.
Faye: Shut up, don't be crass.
Me: Crass! A good word and a good band.
Faye: Dodging the question.
Me: Well this is a big question. First of all, I have my own theories as to why people do drugs. One thing that I've noticed in my dealings with friends and people is that there seems to exist two different strata in society.
One, is the regular 9 to 5ers, 2.3 kids sort of people. These people are the kind who have never taken drugs and study hard and work for their paycheques and watch TV, listen to the radio etc. Their idea of recreation is going to see a movie, going on a road trip to Toronto or taking a flight to Cuba. They are, on the surface, happy and content and normal but most of them deep down have extreme psychological distress and unhappiness and manifest these problems through depression and other symptoms.
The other class of people are the drug-users who immerse themselves in being high and experiment with reality-distortion.
Faye: What does this have to do with you?
Me: I'm getting to it. This 2nd group see the world through drug-tinted glasses and experience life in an almost completely different way. Either because they too are discontened with life and society or because they are hedonistic and want more sensory pleasure to make up for emotional or spiritual dissatisfaction, they'd rather be high than deal with regular life. Why be a peon for the economy when you can just chill and enjoy the simple pleasures of sensory enhancement? I subscribe to this 2nd group.
Faye: What do you mean reality distortion?
Me: I mean like, you, saying that most of the time you're not high, you sit on the bus and look out the window, and are bored. You look at a weirdo on the street and you are sort of disgusted. You watch a movie and laugh at the parts you're supposed to etc. Me, I sit on the bus and am looking at the other people, wondering if they know I'm high or not. I see the weirdo and I laugh at how such a person could exist in this society and where he or she came from. I watch a movie and laugh at things that are absolutely absurd or unrealistic in real life, but in the context of the movie are supposed to be normal. I mean, take Star Wars. Fuck the Ewoks, I laugh at the angry British men who run the Empire and am astounded at how grave and serious their speeches are.

Admiral Piett: Lord Vader, our ships have completed their scan of the area and found nothing. If the Millennium Falcon went into light-speed, it'll be on the other side of the galaxy by now.
"Darth Vader: Alert all commands. Calculate every possible destination along their last known trajectory. "

That shit is amazing.

Faye: Okay...but doesn't it cost a lot of money and time to be involved in this lifestyle?
Me: Sure, and that's a downside, but it beats having to be bored and useless. And there's also the benefit of breaking the law. Living a criminal lifestyle, even as lowly as a petty weed-smoker has its visceral thrills.
Faye: I see. So you smoke weed because it makes you feel like a criminal?
Me: No, you miss the point. I do it because I like to do it. That's what it all comes down to. It's a conscious choice.
Faye: What about your health?
Me: Marijuana has never killed a single person. More people die from meteor strikes than marijuana.
Faye: Whatever... you have a girlfriend?
Me: ...No.
Faye: Why not?
Me: This probably goes back to me being high all the time. But in any case, getting a girlfriend in this city means most likely meeting her through normal regular friends who have a normal social life. Friend of a friend, etc. Blind dates all that shit. Or, the more likely option for people, is to pick up girls. Where do we do that?
Faye: Bars and clubs I guess.
Me: Fuck that. Find me a bar and I'll show you a bunch of horribly ugly, boring people with nothing to say and no positive attributes. Guys who like soccer or girls who like Rihanna, sti. What else? School or work?
Faye: No, I know from experience those never really work. School is hard to meet up with people because A. there's so much work to do nowadays in college and no-one has anytime or B. there's no opportunity anyway. I mean, in class, we have to sit and be quiet. Outside class, everyone goes their seperate ways. Like, if a guy came up to me while I'm in the library, even if he was in my class and I knew his face, I wouldn't even begin to go down that road. I'd just brush him off.
Me: Yeah, the cold pick-up is rough.
Faye: Yeah, it's weird and awkward.
Me: Then again, all you people in college thinking you're going to make it in regular society are snob assholes anyway.
Faye: What the hell?
Me: It's true, come on.
Faye: No, I have lots of chill friends in class.
Me: Maybe, but from what I've seen, as soon as a girl goes to college, she immediately thinks she's something special and all it does is amplify the inherent feelings of girls to be arrogant princesses.
Faye: That's a horrible thing to say.
Me: Whatever, that's what I think.
Faye: We're not all arrogant princesses.
Me: Fine.
Faye: Oh come on, why don't we talk about guys? I could say you're all a bunch of losers who don't take showers and have no jobs or get paid minimum wage and smoke weed.
Me: And?
Faye: And that's as true as what you're saying. Most guys I see are exactly like that, and they have nothing to say and they just stare at my ass or don't have the balls to come up and say anything to me. And when they do, they get shy or they just want to have sex. Not once have I met a guy who talked to me out of common interests or genuine respect. It's all sex sex sex.
Me: Yea, well we're horny.
Faye: You can say that again.

There was one of those lulls.

Faye: So uh, look, I have to go to the library.
Me: Okay.
Faye: I have to go get some sources for an essay.
Me: Okay. Go then.

She got up and began to leave.

Faye: Look, if you're not busy, there's this book I want you to read, maybe then you won't feel like the way you do.
Me: I'm happy the way I am. Fuck, always women are trying to change guys.
Faye: Jesus, just come.
Me: For fuck's sake.

I got up and went with her.

After a maze of escalators, elevators, steps and discontented-looking men and women behind glasses and help desks, we found ourselves amongst the stacks in the Webster Library.

Faye seemed to know where she was going. I straggled behind until she reached a spot and stopped. She scanned the titles and picked one out and gave it to me.

"The Vagina Monologues," Eve Ensler.

"You've got to be shitting me."
She replied "Nono, just read it."
"I think I'll pass."
"Come on, it's sooo good. It has lots of stuff about vaginas."
"Fuuuuck that. Next book."

She moved on and we came to some of the older novels. She took out another book and showed me.

"Jane Eyre", Charlotte Bronte.

"Why do chicks always read these depressing sentimental shits?"
"It's not sentimental! It's a classic and you'll learn something about women."
"Do you really expect me to read this?"
"Look, if you read that, I'll read something you tell me to."

I grumbled and went to one of the abandoned computers on the floor and ran a search. After scribbling the call number, I found what I was looking for.

She looked at the cover with a confused, skeptical look.

"Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas?"
"By Mr. Hunter S. Thompson. You wanna learn about drugs? This is a good a place to start."
"I don't care about drugs. Show me something I'll like."

I re-did the process until we came to something else. The floor was virtually empty seeing as only the summer class kids were there, a mix of Asians reading about math, kids with their laptops open and MSNs on and a hawkish-looking WASPs with glasses reading accounting texts.

I showed her 1984.

"Read it."
"Really? And?"
"Pretty good, but I don't really remember it."
"Okay..."
"Is this the one about the babies in test tubes and stuff?"
"No, that was the Huxley book "Brave New World." This is something else. About the future and Big Brother and government."
"Okay, I'll check it out if you promise to read Jane Eyre."
"Yea sure."
"Now wait, I wanna get something else for myself since we're here."

She vanished down one of the aisles. I slouched after her and found her in another part of the fiction section. I watched her from a distance, loosely gripping the book she had given me.

She leaned forward, her eyes squinting slightly as she focused them. The tip of her index finger grazing along the spines of the books, stopping on one. There, she began to tap...tap...tap until she made the choice to pick up a book. A Farewell to Arms, Hemingway. She glanced at the cover, then the back. She set it back on the shelf and moved on.

Henry, Hoffman, Hubbard... she stopped and made a swift aboutface and headed back, back along the narrow passage towards the 'G' section. Eventually, she stopped and her face lit up just a little, as if it had caught a trace of ambient light. She reached and removed a novel with precision and determination, and finally, returned her attention to me.

"Have you read this?"she handed it to me. "The Diary of a Nobody." George & Weedon Grossmith. "It's sort of obscure, but fuck, it's funny and like, about a guy who's just this middle-class loser with a son who's trying to be hip in society and the guy's wife and they all want to move up in society. It's soo English and sad and funny at the same time."

I looked up at her from the old worn-out book and saw her face for what seemed like the first time. I had read this one a while back, and was sort of struck that she too had read it. I handed the book back to her, and she turned to look for other ones. I watched her as she leaned forward on her toes to the top shelf and stole a good look at the rest of her, from her calves and thighs covered in tights up to her hair which lay long enough to rest between her shoulder blades.

"Could you help me with this?," she whined as she struggled to return a book. I leaned forward behind her and placed it back on the shelf for her. We were a couple inches apart, her scent in my nose, invisible pheromones seeping into the pores on my face.

I went for it, without even knowing why or how.

Holding her by the side of her abdomen, above the hip bone but below the rib, I kissed her neck. Looking back, it was an absurd thing to do, risky, dangerous and in public nonetheless. She had never mentioned anything specifically or made any overt openings or invitations. I was flirting with the thin line between consent and non-consent. But in the moment, as we moved on each other, I had no thoughts. In the pulse, there's only pure sensory experience. Life breaks down to sights, smells, images, responses and instinct.

I remember old tomes falling off the shelves, pages fluttering in slow-motion around us. Dead authours' recorded thoughts. Unintended squeaks and moans. Sharp inhalations of breath.

We blacked out.

* * *

Next part. Politics & World History. Indifference. Bad sex.

=//Turnquest

Computer Hope

Part Three - Acquisition

We disembarked at Angrignon Metro into a brilliant sunny day. Multi-colored summer dresses and orange-white frocks whisked by on the sidewalk in front of us. A couple of malcontents hung out just outside of the metro doors, as they seem to do with every metro. Lineups of people of every conceivable persuasion stood passively in lines waiting for buses. Hip-hop minded teenagers, seniors with metal trolleys carrying their Provigo-bought goods, long-haired hipsters with golfing hats, girls in tank-tops and skirts talking on cellphones. All brought together to join in with the age-old ritual of Waiting For the Bus.

We thankfully had only a short distance to walk, towards the monstrous condominiums on the other side of the glass barrier where the Chateauguay buses queue up, and beyond the hill where I remembered a younger version of myself, sitting and watching the world go by.

I was wearing a black shirt, in a slight contrast to what most of these LaSalle types were wearing this mild day. But this wasn't downtown anyway. That sort of stuff matters less when you're outside the core. Fay (or was it Faye? I hadn't exactly asked for her business card) had anonymous earthtone tights and a green blouse. I thought I caught her casting hard glances at some of the more scantily-clad younger girls. Whether this was out of jealousy or disapproval, that is something only the Almighty perhaps can decipher, though I'm sure He too would have some difficulty unlocking the thoughts of women.

We didn't speak to each other as we walked, having little to say. We had planned our strategy beforehand. The negotiating would be left to her, while I was to inspect and approve the device.

A buzz on my cellphone and Paul was waiting for us in the lobby. He had a five o'clock shadow and a haircut where the middle of his head had a strip of hair longer than the sides. As if someone had put his hair in a vice. It was too short though to look especially punk. We made our introductions. After this, he produced the laptop bag he had latched around his chest and invited us to sit on a couch.

While I started it up and began running a few basic tests, Fay(e) kept Paul busy with small-talk. I interrupted occasionally to ask a question here and there. "When did you last format the hard drive?" "Is anything upgraded in it?" "Is the video card integrated?" "Has it ever experienced hardware failures or overheated?" (An especially pertinent question.)

He assured me enough technically. He assured Faye by giving his home phone # and a signed receipt guaranteeing against hardware failure for a week. Not exactly a Future Shop-worthy warranty but hell, it's better than anywhere else we could've found that summer day.

After sharing some covert nods, we told the guy that we had to discuss amongst ourselves and that if we were interested, we'd be back later in the day. I decided to go visit the old hill and look out over the lake that sits behind the bus shelters. It was still late afternoon, around 6. The sun doesn't set in Montreal during the summer till 8:30 or 9. I sat on one of the handful of rocks that sits at the top of the hill and proceeded to take out my Google Map printout and a small Ziploc I carry around with personal supplies.

Faye sat on another rock and watched me go about my business, the precise handiwork of self-destruction.

"I'm satisfied," I started, to preempt any drug talk, "we have the guarantee, you can try it out yourself if it works or not and it's a decent enough price."

She paused, still glancing at my hands and the Ziploc and the paper.

"Yeah, but we shouldn't just go for the first thing we see. What about waiting and seeing if we can get a better deal from somewhere else?"
"We could, but I'm saying that there's no point since there's nothing wrong with this deal."
"I don't know, the guy seems to be sort of sketch too."
"Why? You seemed like you were having a good time."
"What does that mean?"
"Nothing, you were getting on fine enough with him. He lives in a nice place."
"That doesn't mean anything, he could be moving tomorrow for all we know."
"Look, it's not like we're buying a hot Rolex from some crackhead in VSL."
"I wouldn't know about that. I don't deal with crackheads."

I paused a half-second in what I was doing, thinking through the intent of that last remark.

"Fuck it, if you don't wanna buy, don't. But I personally need a laptop as soon as possible and don't feel like waiting around a week or two for us to find somebody else who you do like. Too much arranging of schedules and shit."

I finished and lit the joint. We sat for a few moments in silence. I watched kids and families play around the edge of the lake, wisps of smoke flying off into the air. As I was taking another haul, she reached for my hand.

"You smoke?" I asked.
"Yea sometimes. Don't tell my brother though."

I left it at that as we smoked.

Six minutes later, we stood up, carefully.

"So?"
"Fine we'll get it. But I keep the reciept and I'm going to show it to my brother. If he says it's okay, we'll keep it."
"Ok then. So how exactly do we share the thing?"
"I get it for a few days, you get it for a few days. If you're going to need it for school or for anything important, let me know in advance. That's all."

That's how it was supposed to work. Sharing a computer. It became something else.