Meeting People is [Unlikely]

Continuing on the freeform stream of thought from last time, I've decided to illustrate my overarching point about the decline of human relations and society in general by elaborating on a single topic: relationships.

Ask your average young, nondescript, non-Gino/black male today about meeting girls today and their personality shifts. They get a steely look in their eyes, hinting at past embarrassments and failed attempts. Their voice and temperament changes. The tonal impression of their words becomes steady, direct, hard. They begin to talk seriously, as if discussing how to kick a drug habit or a personal tragedy. And unless they have a girl at the time, they'll invariably express vehement disdain, personal anguish and outright disgust at the state of the relationship marketplace and even at women in general.

What is happening to the young people of today and why has it become so complicated, if you'll allow me to talk street for a moment, to get some pussy? Preemptively, I approach this touchy subject by eliminating my own personal experiences and beliefs from the discussion. Instead, I'll discuss the way others see the marketplace, or 'dating scene' if you prefer, as well as some current phenomena that are taking place amongst my generation.

The way things work nowadays is like this: if your average guy wants to get laid, he grabs his buddies and heads out to the local watering hole or nightclub, stands around for a while getting drunk, spots an attractive girl who doesn't seem to be fat or out of his league, builds up the courage to talk to her, and then makes the approach.

After that, all bets are off. It's up to the guy's delivery, the girl's mood and the mutual level of intoxication and "vibe" to determine what happens next. Possibilities are numerous. She could smile at some of his jokes and stories, they'll dance for a while, engage in some playful touching, share a kiss, exchange numbers and begin a long-lasting and fulfilling relationship.

Or they could really hit it off. It just could so happen that both could be mutually interested and willing that night. The attractive girl sees our average guy as exactly her type. She returns his attention with long gazes, tossing of her hair, suggestive humour and well-timed laughter. Then he leads her to the dancefloor where the right song comes on, preferably one with a strong, pulsing bassline. They establish an immediate physical chemistry, both enjoying one another's natural rhythms and pheromones. The dance is cut short. She takes him to a secluded corner and they further their physical relationship. It's been no more than half an hour since first meeting, the girl can't even remember what this dude who's got his hands in her jeans' name is. Alas, this makeout session is also cut short and the delirious couple fumbles their way into a taxi and back to his place to consummate their primal, surging desires.

But fuck all that. That shit doesn't happen, and you and I know it.

The way things happen in those dens of mookism and sleaze referred to as clubs is that our average guy waits in line for 15 minutes, pays 10$ for cover then proceeds to get bad looks from everyone: the bouncers, the coat check people, the guys who actually like to hang out there, looking like they were born and bred in cheap Parasuco distressed denim and Gucci sunglasses. He drops anywhere between 20-500$ on alcohol he could've bought from the SAQ for a 1/10th of the price. He endures listening to music that is mainly marketed to crunked-out Southern black men who drive trucks with 22inch rims and pre-pubescent 12-year olds who trick themselves into thinking they are hot, horny and ready for "it," even though if they ever saw a real cock, they'd probably be so traumatized they'd never look at their dad the same way again.

Half the time, the guy has to go smoke a cigarette on the overcrowded and freezing terrace, dodging people spilling beer all over the place and giant 7 foot tall white guys from Vermont who have trouble looking down because their neck is too thick. After about three hours of standing around, wobbling awkwardly to songs that have z-e-r-o rhythm, enduring continuous bad looks and vainly yelling into girls' ears, he goes home.

Is this how it is? Is this how we're supposed to function? This is how average guys are supposed to find their girlfriends who will cook them brownies on a Sunday afternoon while wearing boyshorts and an apron and watch old Ninja Turtles cartoons with them?

Yes, society tells us. Yes, advertising tells us. Yes, Jay-Z and every rapper and R&B singer says. This is how it is and always was.

Can't get any? They say 'don't be a hater." "Get rich or die tryin.' " If you'd only drop a few thousand on Grey Goose bottle service, rented Cayenne SUVs, coke and Versace sunglasses, all those women will come dancing into your lap.

Oh, and while you're at it, why not a couple thousand more on surgery for a bigger dick?

No folks, sorry. Mankind hasn't spent 10000 years mating and procreating to get to this point. I refuse to believe that we have to buy into this fucked-up, hedonistic, self-destructive, misogynistic, over-priced game of dress-up and pretend-to-be-a-celebrity to find a girl.

What other options are young men left with these days? The Internet? What are we, 42 year-old virgins who wear Star Trek t-shirts, eat Doritos for breakfast and stay up till 4AM watching Family Matters reruns? No. The Internet scene is a joke, and shouldn't even be necessary for young males.

School? Where every girl is "too busy studying" or so tightly wound-up and sexless that if you took her to the beach, she'd melt like an icicle? No. Girls at school are incredibly gorgeous, well-dressed and a lot of them are even quite smart. Unfortunately, once you go down that road, you will inevitably run into what is the biggest obstacle to normal social courtship: the Game.

If you don't know about the Game, or how to play, you are and will remain a virgin. It's just that strict.

Basically, the Game is just a way of communicating that's designed to make hooking up as least embarrassing and nice as possible for the two people flirting with each other. It has no purpose in and of itself. For girls, it ensures that the socially inept, the empty nice-guys and the total freaks and zeros are filtered out. For guys, it helps to build dependence and submissiveness in your partner.

But what it really ends up doing is complicating things to a point that most normal guys (yes, most), the ones that girls always find themselves complaining about how they can't find any, are left totally clueless.

It doesn't matter if both of you listen to Nirvana and like watching Aladdin and Revenge of the Nerds or playing Mario Kart 64 on multiplayer in Extra mode. Inevitably, one of you will react to the other's direct and sincere attempt to communicate with tactics culled from the Game.

The reasonable guy thinks this how hooking up with a girl goes:

Guy: "Hey."
Girl: "Hey."
Guy: "You know, that outfit is pretty cute."
Girl: "Oh, this? Wow, thanks, that's really sweet of you."
Guy: "What are you doing tonight?"
Girl: "Umm, nothing really."
Guy: "You wanna come over to my place to bang?"

OKOK, maybe not "come over so we can bang." But you know what I mean, more like "Can I take you out for dinner or a coffee?"

And then she says "yeah, why not" and we're on our way.

Of course, that's never how it goes, because the Game demands that both parties disguise their overt feelings towards each other. Expressing this already apparent feeling that "oh wow, you actually LIKE A GIRL!?!??" is considered within the context of the Game 1. gay (as in weak) 2. sleazy 3. creepy 4. awkward 5. inherently loser-like and desperate.

Who thinks like this? No-one that I know really. It's the Game that made this rule. For what purpose? I don't know.

The direct result of this and other rules is that both sides, girls and guys, must begin their relationship on false or dishonest terms. And that's considering that both parties can survive this phase of the Game and begin the actual relationship. Of course, there are all too many relationships that already operate within the Game's rules and both sides just continue to lie and put on fake personalities and characters for each other. Heck, I know of some marriages that function like this.

But people, this is not how it's supposed to be. Evolution cannot function like this. Human beings weren't meant to hide their honest, biological emotions under blankets of fake smiles, expensive gifts and public displays of chauvinism and "attitude". The possibility of love only ends up being distorted, corrupted, obliterated before it can even begin to take root.

In the past, things were different. They were simpler, people were more honest with themselves, and with each other, and everyone was better off for it. Though certainly mating rituals and some form of the "Game" have always existed, my point is that things have gone too far and that the basic way of life and human interaction is being encroached upon and destroyed by evil forces. Things must change, and fast, or this ship is gonna sink.

And that's all I have to say about that.

=//Turnquest

p.s. - please go out with me.

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