Feigling

2422 Main St., Pulpfiction Books, established in 2000, Vancouver

The longest night of the year marks the time, according to her culture’s superstitions, their typical group mind (feigling whether ordinary or special) when they must return to Ontario. It’s been good — they smack hands together, rousing flour dust — but it’s time to get back.

How do I know?

It started one week and one day previously exactly, on last Sunday. Katiya, the smiling Russian from Moscow State University, in Journalism, came to invite me to brunch even though I was scheduled for lunch with two chicks the day after.

But she was alone. The rule is come with a friend, so to speak.

Her beaming smile said she had a secret to keep. It was like I had forgotten something important. But can you forget anything as important as S * E * X ever? One wonders.

The Little Minx — excuse me, Katiya — led me down the steps. We went to the first crepe place — “pancakes” she called them — and it had closed down. But the new crepe place, its replacement, was just down the street.

She was obsessed enough by me that she took a picture of me eating peach cobbler crepe toward the end of our little “date”. Would sex with me or would a date with me matter more to this little Minx? Equally so?

I turned left on Robson to go to the library. She wouldn’t . . . cum . . . with me.

Next day, Monday, Marcia and another chick came to take me out to eat. No three-way there, alas.

I had a lamb platter because, again, the restaurant had shuttered its doors for reasons unknown. We — I, that is — ate at the Mr. Greek outfit.

The construction worker in burly fashion got up and gave his solitary-occupied foursome table to us. Toward the end of my meal the girls compared stories — shady stories — about working in the restaurateur business. It was blahsome, as I downed my meal with Vanilla Coke. I might be back for the coke.

Where was the Jealous One at this point? I believe that was the point the takedown happened in another place and way. Monday was as far as she got. That was why Sunday was possible. Because all the girls knew the boss was down for the count on both knees and grimacing, eyes shut. They really should account for the revenge factor when they do these sorts of things. Really should.

On Tuesday, two workers were on the sidewalk and Paul, a homeless guy I know, raced past me with a grocery cart he was pushing onward. I waved to the workers I knew.

Later I mused, what were the odds of two workers I knew and a homeless guy I knew being in the exact same area at the exact same time?

On Wednesday, all day, my appointment wasn’t upheld. That was strange.

At night, I went to A&W and a girl seemed excited to see me, saying hello how ya doin’?

This city hasn’t seen much appreciation for the X-one. That’ll change soon.

Thursday it was raining. I was still crashing at my place, zonked out. Day after day after day.

I was on my way to the pharmacy or something and then my eyes swerved as if magnetically pulled and I connected with an employee I knew. She said Lazar was planning to visit me (how’d he know I was there? guess he just . . . guessed).

This is the last sub-post I’ll put in this X-piece.

I saw beaming, jolly Lazar † and he asked two questions: how I’d like Compliments and if I preferred to talk or listen more. Strange questions. The second either/or question being hard to remember.

Hard to remember. Eight days ago. 12 years with this crowd . . . They’ll be gone in their private jet according to the hint I drop. I wait for the jet to zoom over my apartment building due East, due to Ontario.

† I’ve seen robots from the “uncanny valley” workaround stage with more emotions than that fat chub. His constant grinning visage is creepy. I’d like to smack him on the back, till he slides on some Vancouver slippage from the winter rains and bonks his head on a BMW hood parked in one of the unusual pole-bracketed slots reserved on this street for some mysterious reason I cannot ken at the moment . . . cannot ken at the moment . . . *X puzzled, then the puzzlement fading away*

[edit 12/17/2019

I stayed up all night, courtesy of two MONSTER drinks (tip to readers: pass on the mango and stay with the straight and true of Punch-Land).

Chatted up Michelle, the recently appointed manager of the Regal. It really is a superb location I’ve got. There’s nothing that can beat it for the price in the entire city. The convenience is staggering. There’s at least 7 outlets I can go to, even if I don’t have cash (which I do) and which will serve me with speed, efficacy, and grand welcome.

(Or so I inject my emo-sphere with. Not heroin, you fool! Emotions! Emotions! What I live for!)

Emotions . . . I live for the highs and the lows, the speed and the slowness, the dripping of time, the rapid-flickering, the anger, the sexiness, the shrunken fury into amusement . . . all these things and more. I paint myself with a palette of emotions . . .]

Dear Reader,

Forgive the use of euphemisms. I sometimes have to work around private matters, matters that are none of your business. A later, complete version will be published like “The Secret Histories of the Mongols.” The second millennium’s rockers. *stroking my chin*

— X.

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