Raparian Station

By Jan Tailor

Riparian Station is an acid trip away from a universe ordered by God into the recesses of nihilism finding a surf film, good fishing, and meaning in being a one of in a chaotic universe rather than a step in a cycle. Stream of consciousness does not adequately describe this narrative, unless the stream is the Love Canal - toxic and flammable. Australia and LSD provide the landscape for the pointless journey. A Ford Falcon, surf board and ravishing mind are the transportation for this ride. Fishing, sex, and love are the washboard for this road. The philosophy of Riparian Station can best be summed up by Sophia's (a main character) view on sex, "Sex should be like Special Olympics, everyone involved makes screwed up faces and strange noises and everyone is a winner in the end."

Warning:

Riparian Station is the best thing the author has written but it maybe unreadable. All art is perfect but can be hard to look at. Hopefully, it is unreadable in the way that Finnegan’s Wake is reported to be but likely not.

Riparian Station’s proses are unapologetically ugly and truthful to the dyslexia of the author's ability. They have not been made artful or acceptable to grammar Nazi’s and bibliophiles. The author was more concerned with parts of writing that matter, the Ideas. Do not read Riparian Station if you cannot accept bad writing concealing beautiful ideas.

Riparian Station proves God does not exist.

Riparian Station points out the major flaw with Ernest Hemingway’s, The Old Man and the Sea but it is a long way through the book.

Famous Canadian writer Dennis E. Bolen when confronted with Riparian Station mused:

"Existentialism served hot and blistered under an Australian sun...dry and straight like a road through the outback."

"Not so much a novel as a non-stop mono-stream of fishing, drugs, travel, sex, science, rock and roll, surfing, philosophy, impaired driving, escape, mental incarceration, masturbation and love."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jan Tailor
• Release date: Jan 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9780988080775

Jan Tailor

Jan Tailor is a recluse living in the bowels of Shaughnessy an affluent neighbourhood of Vancouver where the Crème del Crème live therefore there is no need for public transit to run through Shaughnessy.Jan is certain that there has already been a zombie apocalypse because zombies are creatures that do not think and eat the brains of those that do. To Jan it is very apparent this has been happening in society since Bush II’s first term. Since the Orange Troll Revolution, Jan has observed a mutation in the zombies. The zombies now have negative meta intelligence (they don’t know anything but believe they are super intelligent) a trait most concerning. Jan tries to avoid society.Jan believes that society could be helped if it took some mushrooms but Jan has never been able to grow enough – Jan is a bit of a pig, rarely having enough for anyone else. Of course, Jan’s addictions counselor tries to tell Jan perspectives and behaviors can be change without psychedelics. Jan thinks that approach takes too long, even if it is the only “sensible” option.So Jan tries to defend consciousness by writing. It has been said by a fool that the pen is mightier than the sword, Jan is a fool. The act of writing has nearly caused Jan to lose the plot and kill an editor. Jan’s insanity stems from dyslexia, the inability to incorporate English’s irrationalism from thought into writing. Jan believes there is some symmetry in being a dyslexic writer and being a Canucks fan.Happiness comes from acceptance; Jan’s addictions counselor assures. Jan is following this by accepting that dyslexics will not have prefect grammar and spelling. You can expect that Jan did the best job of proofing Jan could do but that will include some errors (if you are a reasonably priced proofreader who likes Jan’s work send a message). Dyslexic’s writing promotes diversity, a thing Jan thinks is good.The sentence Jan lives by is: Searching for the strong argument in the instant of instinct.Jan is supported by George Soros, that is why the works are free. Many readers noticed the story Just Another Prepper was funded by Soros and gave it 1 star reviews. Lookup Just Another Prepper on itunes to read all the great reviews. A feather in Jan’s cap?Over the next few months or years Jan is writing the Salmon Sex and Violence series of stories. All will have technology as a catalyst like Creeper. Will the next in the series, Direct Democracy, be done in the fall or in 2047? Place your bets.Jan’s hobby is fishing and one of the few things Jan will rise during the day for.Jan’s photo is of an orca off of Spanish Bank in Vancouver Harbour. The whales (87 of them) spoiled the fishing that day but reminded Jan people are natural too.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I picked up the stapled pages put deliberately upside down, at the end of my coffee table. A flip of the paper revealed lines of black text with red underlining words frequent enough to suggest it was a passing lain on a highway. In the top corner was the mark 55%, that meant I was now on academic probation.

I flipped to the back to read the comments, ‘Your topic is not one of the given topics, nor did you seek approval, therefore (therefore was three dots in a triangle as per philosophy prof’s short hand) I have to take off 2 marks. Your argument appears to be strong – if controversial - but rest on interdisciplinary connections and theories that I am not well acquainted with. 1 mark is taken off for poor reference material – there are better sources than TV shows like Nova. The structure and logic of the argument is flawless, which is the goal of this course. Your paper is littered with grammatic mistakes, I doubt you proof read it. You have the intellect to achieve at this level, however, the quality of the writing is not at university level or, what I believe to be the case, you didn’t care to proof read it, therefore (three dots again) I have to deduct the marks as per the papers outline in the syllabus. 1.5 marks off. 5.5/10.’

I thought, ‘I met the objective of the course, writing a logical, structured argument and just pass, how is that possible? I did proof read the paper and the computer spell checked it, why all the read ink? Maybe I didn’t save it after the spell check was done?’ I new at least one hit of White Clinical acid was needed tonight. A square was put on my tough before I went to my computer.

The file on my computer was not marked with squiggly red lines marking mistakes. I re-checked it, the only mistake was my last name. It was copied and pasted to a new file so the possibility the spell check had been turned off could be ruled out. Again, my last name was the only mistake. Something did not compute.

Back to the paper I went. The second square was taken. On the first page was the answer. My professor had corrected the first few mistakes, with out was one word, their was changed to there, write was changed to right, seen was changed to scene. I should have known, I was let down by my broken brain. ‘Was this as far as I could get with a brain that knows four ways to spell any word?’ I thought as the third hit was place on my tough, ‘I don’t understand how can I stay hear if can never adhere to the order I’m forced follow. The university is a crystalline in structure, completely ordered, and the point of it is to shape you into its order. Is their a place hear for me if I cannot mimic there order?’

I rolled a joint and was taking the first toke as the phone rang, FFFF…Uhhhhhh, hello.

A serious female voice replied, It is constable Jane… Mary Jane. You are in violation of law 420 – smoking a joint with out me.

I took another toke over the phone, What ever.

Hey, I still want to go out and get some weed… you up for it?

Yeah.

I’ll be by in a couple hours.

I mite go to the park.

The one behind your place?

Yeah.

See you in a bit.

I finished the joint and looked at the paper again. "Critical fuck thinking… how to make a logical, ordered argument… but English is not logical. I can read this to a crowd and no one in it will here any of these mistakes. Professor how can that be? You don’t know? Could it be that the words surrounding there or their are the words that make it won or the other? They do. So those different spelling don’t matter because the words around them tell witch it should be – context. So there is no logical reason why we have there instead their, just tradition. A mind as astute as yours could not see from the context of the word what it’s meaning is? Or are you so indoctrinated by your crystal church that you have to see the each letter in the word as integral to the argument although those differences in the words are so illogical the prefect logic of a computer can’t be trained to pick them out when checking the spelling. Do you teach a class in critical thinking or are you Pavlov teaching a dogmatic mode of thought to the young?

"If you were really a thinker and not filter to sift out those with aberrant ideas you would have given me a chance… asked me what is the problem. And I would have answered sheepishly, ‘Well you see the idea it just came to me the night before the paper was due, and I proof read it myself, normally I get someone else to read it… see that is the problem, I am dyslexic. I have learnt to right but sometimes I don’t see the mistakes. Had you been enlightened, you would have let me get a friend to read it and taken a half mark off for being late and I would not be on AP.

"You fucked me… no I fucked me because I new the rules, they are not hard to see. Or would you have found another reason to shoot down my paper? Would you have used the fact the argument was using other disciplines to prove a philosophical idea wrong? Would you stone it for attacking truths we don’t dare to question? Would you treat it the way all sophistry is when encountered by a Platonist? But that is what you did you use the most base problem to ridicule it - it’s language. Just as you would teach a class that a sophist says to you it is black when we all can clearly see it is white. ‘Yes clearly this is not valid the language is child like,’ that is what you used to refute me because the higher argument was too solid. And if my prose were perfect you would find another stone to throw because my argument is heresy and your class is filled with Christians, believers… oh, the three agnostics and me. Isn’t funny that the order of philosophy has many argument to prove the existence of something that is unknowable according to the bible?

The structures of knowledge have done more to hinder thought than to help it. There are things that cannot be questioned, like Newton before Einstein but how many had ideas parallel Einstein that were never given the chance? Today knowledge is molded to fit under the cloaks of greatness… but how much of that is reverence to ideas that many not be relevant anymore? Fuck if I know, there are better places to go. And I got up to find what I would need to go out side.

Chapter 2

A woman with straight long black hair, brown eyes and tawny skin walk down the snowy path into a roughly circular park with a playground, field and basketball court all covered in snow. In the blue-black winter a man (6’5" 280lb) with a red goatee and glasses was casting flies to non-existent fish in river of fantasy. The woman smiled and snickered to herself as she came to the level bottom of the park. She stopped to watch him cast to nothing.

I was the one fishing that night although if you were to ask me at that time I would not have known who I was… just that I was.

I only knew that I was going to lose as is everything else.

I had the urge to lie down and I did. The cold of the snow comforted me, I felt a part of the ground. The dome of the sky switched with the flat Earth and my extremities stretched to the horizons. For a time that was infinite but not, wisps of clouds blew across the flat sky. But no wind was felt in the hollow of the bowl. The hallucination past. Again I was left with no knowledge of who I was.

Not knowing who I was did not worry me because with no knowledge about myself I had no reason to worry. I did want to find out who I was, so I took stock of what I had. I had a fly rod I, must fish. I stood up and tried to cast a few casts. I could cast quite well. There was a flask in my pocket. I opened it. The flask smelled like my breath so I took a swig, Southern Comfort. Then I continued to cast my fly in the dark to nothing.

Hey, Hugo! in the cold (-18 C) the woman’s voice was closer and clearer than it should be from her distance. What are you doing?

Fishing.

For what?

My mind told me to say, For assholes… I think I got one. I stopped casting and reeled in my line while the woman walked up to me.

Let’s go smoke some weed inside it’s too cold out.

She was shivering, so I gave her my parka, I have weed?

She reached up and grabbed a half concealed joint from my toque. She lit the joint. I wondered if I should ask her who I was; she seemed to know me. I did not ask her who I was it was a question I knew I should know the answer to.

We walked, to where? I did not know. I wonder aloud, Hey, what is the name of this place? I thought that the name might trigger a thought that might lead to more.

The park?

No, the depression, I want to say that it was a drumlin but a drumlin is an oblong hill, like Conaught Hill or that other one with the water tower on it. It’s a glacial formation, though. I switched to thinking quietly about spruce trees on the edge of the bowl. We got to the street tinted orange by the streetlights, Man, that park is so great, houses all around, a few inconspicuous trails in, no obvious signs, hidden in plain view. I paused, Hey, how did you find me?

You said you might practice fly fishing in the park when I called you, remember? She said, handing the joint to me.

I wanted to say, ‘No way, I didn’t know my name until you told me but you say I called you.’ I said nothing, there was no need to chance destabilizing the world by give her the impression I needed a straitjacket. Even if all indications said she was a good person able to relate to my situation. Being an experienced LSD user I knew in time I would know what was lost to me now so I kept on keeping on. I mean the world was too grand to care if I were a tree or me.

Instinct guided my hand to the right key for the lock. We walked up the stairs to an apartment, again instinct took over and I opened the door. Inside the girl made her self at home and I felt at home, it was my kind of place. Reason came to the conclusion it was my place. I looked around for clues that would point to whom I was. Jodie, – yeah that was her name – got a beer from the fridge and asked if I wanted one.

Do I?

Yes, you need a beer. How much acid did you take?

I can’t tell but defiantly enough.

You got that weed I asked for?

It’s somewhere… I’ll go look for it, and with that I went looking but not for the weed – I knew where it was.

Flotsam and jetsam, artifacts and detritus washed up onto my beach of consciousness. A beachcomber sifted through the debris and with each pieces touched a memory welled up from the depths of the mind detached as if seen from the outside looking in.

An ashtray filled with cashed bowls (ashes from a pot pipe) and a stereo sat on night table with porno magazines covering the floor sparked the memories of many nights in bed smoking pot listening to the Dead and jerking off.

A pot pipe next to my bed filled my head with the faces of the two people – Richey and Elita - who made the green femmo masterpiece. On the right night the pipe would take on the appearance of an astral chew chew train. Smoke and glowing ember coming from the pipe’s bole looked like the smoke stack of a steam train while a hand pushed it through the air to Casey Jones by the Grateful Dead – Drivin’ that train high on cocaine, Casey Jones you better watch your speed.

Amongst the porno on the floor were an equal number of fishing magazines, a couple of empty cough syrup bottles and a photo album. Fish dominated the photo album, and with each fish a day of fishing or snorkeling was recalled. University books and papers were in orbit far from the bed, safely out of the reach of hands that might stray from the preferred reading. The texts caused flashes of stoned morning in dimly lit classes with fingers of blinding light from sunny winter mornings beckoning through the blinds. The essays brought thoughts of hoops to jump through so the contemptible goal of becoming a manager of nature could be achieved.

A paper sat a part, one that’s form evoked every word of it in my mind. It was an extra credit paper given by a strange professor to me, a student in trouble. A C- in his class would put me on academic probation though a C would not. Two percent separated a C- from a C and that was what the extra credit paper could get me. The topic was why you are studying fisheries biology. In short I said I love to fish and the more knowledge I have the better fisher I am. I related the knowledge learned in entomology and other biology classes to fishing. The professor, an entomologist said, ‘if your purpose is fishing there are better places to find pertinent knowledge then a class room’ or that is what I believe he said. I remember the substance of that comment because he said something even stranger for an entomologist and fly fisher in my eyes it gave him great credibility. He said when fishing for trout just two flies are needed, a doc spratly and a royal coachman (one is a general nymph and the other is a general dry fly), if those two flies do not catch fish the lake is over fished. For the past two summers I worked surveying streams. Streams that had not been fished had the most easily caught trout and the right sized doc spratly or royal coachman would work – though I am far from an expert. I got the extra two percent to keep me off academic probation for a semester.

The question of purpose circled in my head. It seemed the most important factor in defining who I was – or anyone. Was my purpose to fish? Was there a higher purpose? Does the fact I gave respect to a professor because of the fishing lore he imparted to me and not for his doctorate shed light on my purpose? Could it be that I make my purpose? Or am I a puppet to the whims of unseen things? I tried to stop thinking but the acid kept on with questions I could not answer well enough to be sure of anything. I lay back watching the ceiling ripple as surface of the ocean does when seen from below.

Hey, what’s taking you so long… are you jerking off? Jodie yelled to me from the other room.

Jodie’s voice reminded me of the one true purpose of life, nature and the Universe which is to continue in whatever way possible, infinitely. I knew the pull all to well. I am one of the failures in this procession toward the infinite as everything of order is but my failure is much more acute then others.

In twenty four year, I have fallen in love definitely twice, possibly a few more time. The first time was with a girl who told me never to assume anything. Since reality is based on perception, which is an assumption of what is, I was confused – I mean the Sun coming up is an assumption even if no won would bet against it. So I did not call her because I believed the assumption I had made was that we had a relationship deeper then friendship. But I was wrong she meant that I should never assume she would be at the bar… no I should call her before hand and arrange a more formal date – apparently our dating lacked structure. I found that out rather late when after a few days, forlorn and love sick, I finally got up the nerve to talk to her. By that time it was over, at least for her. I was a mess for a long time, though I did not cut off my ear or anything.

Then there is the second love; Jodie is sitting in the living room. She knows we are best friends but in April of last year the inevitable happened I fell for her. But being a best friend of hers made it was difficult to change her into a lover. So I loved her at arms length. I tried to be great and do great things in front of her hoping she would notice and realize what was true to me. My timid tack was as bold as I would be. There was no way I would risk losing the friendship we had.

So there I was with the fish of my dreams hooked and close to the boat but my tackle is to light and I have not the never to tighten the drag because the line could break losing the fish and the time with the fish. I hoped somehow fortune would woo the fish for me or she would tire but she does not tire. And I will not risk putting on more drag. She circles the boat just feet out of reach. I watched stunned, giddy and afraid unable to find a way to land her with out risk of losing her.

The orange red glow coming from the window above my bed captured my mind. Inside the room was a cool blue. Could it be the outside was warm? A minute ago it was winter. I arched my head back to get a better look at the upside down outside. Icicles on the eves and snow blowing from the trees told me no strange shift in reality had occurred.

Another shard of memory assailed me. Jodie up side down surprised face half obscured by a blowing curtain looking in with the trees in spring green behind her and me lying in my bed listening to the Dead, smoking weed, dick in hand. I was embarrassed to say the least. Worse was my recovery. At the moment I could have said something witty, like, ‘little help please’ or ‘just a minute I am coming.’ Of course I could not say either but how many people could make a witticism at a time like that? I should at least have given off the air of, ‘hey, everyone does this but you’re the person who bent over the rail of the balcony to look in my room.’ But I could not, nor could I act normally. We went to Denny’s to cure our hangovers from the previous night. I swear that every good Christian that Sunday morning could tell by my demeanor that I was drug addled pervert and gave me an appropriate look. My conversations with Jodie were forced that day. For two days I could not look her in the eye. And still in the closet of my mind there is a skeleton with that moment for its name.

Thankfully the downward spiral of my introspection was stopped by the terror of the phone.

‘Who could it be?’ I thought staring dumbly at the phone, ‘was it my parents? But I called them earlier today, a preemptive strike to make sure they would not call tonight. Something bad must have happened.’ The phone rang for the second time and I tried to collect myself, ‘Keep calm the only way they will know you aren’t yourself is if you tell them.’ The phone rang a third time, ‘Ok pick it up.’ The fourth ring shocked me and I recoiled but the silence caused my hand to stab out.

Hello.

Hi, is this the homemaker of the house hold? A sweet but coached voice said.

Relieved I said, Ah… No. A smile crossed my lips and I continued, She is very busy right now being barefoot and pregnant and doesn’t have time to chat on the phone. Have a good day. And I hung up the phone.

Chapter 3

A giddy, happy me, centered in the now and knowing we know nothing took over. I was not in control he was. He zipped up his pants before swimming out of his cavern and through a dark passage to his living cavern bright with blue green light.

Kelp dripped from baskets on the top of the caverns down to the bottom. The picture of a merman with wild hair and a guitar was on the wall, Hendrix was his name. Another picture had a lucky fisherman being dragged into the depths by a siren.

He swam to the fridge and got a beer because he had lost the other one. Then he beached himself on the chesterfield next to Jodie but at a distance that said friends. With a deft move he revealed the weed previously hidden in his palm and said, Madam’s marijuana, pronouncing the j as a j.

Thank. Hey, aren’t the Simpson’s on?

Yeah, channel 22.

As soon as Homer’s face graced the television screen Hugo erupted in laugher that would not stop until the show did. Jodie laughed as well but it was nothing compared to Hugo acid aided guffaws. Hugo had no control of this manic laughter.

Hugo rubbed his teary eyes and held his breath with the hope of stopping his hiccupping. The subsidence of the laughter allowed a sense of control to creep back to him. The he became me. And I got up to get a couple beers while Jodie rolled another joint.

Chapter 4

We left my place for a night club, one most of the locals in Prince George thought was a gay bar since it catered mostly to the out of towners from the University.

Prince George, 700km west to ocean, 700km east to Edmonton, 700km southeast to Calgary, and 700km southwest to Vancouver. It is the biggest smoke Northern BC where the Nechako and Fraser Rivers meet. Mr. PG, a giant wooden logger, is its mascot greeting travelers driving north on Highway 97. Mr. PG was once made of spruce but after being burnt to the ground several times, he is now made of metal with a septic tank for a head. Many of the 70, 000 residents are like there mascot but many more are good people even if they live past Hixon and Stoner – for some reason the signs making Stoner have been stolen.

We walk out to Jodie car and drove to her house on side streets. Driving drunk did not worry her, Prince George has a whole different perception of drunk and driving on three beer and two joints is not it. But her Honda Civic only had one head light, and students do not have the money to pay tickets - no, it is needed for beer and drugs. We got to Jodie’s house where she popped in and got a coat. I stood in the driveway looking at the stars, beautiful as always. Then we walked the few blocks to the bar.

We avoided paying cover at the Underworld. Then I went to the bar to get us beer while Jodie put our names up to play pool. It was the middle of exams so the bar was empty.

I finished my exams today. Jodie had a day between now and her next. She is smart enough to know only so much studying can be done and she gets A’s and B’s with out worry. I am smart enough to know I am talented and thus I hardly study, worry much and get D’s for degree.

Jodie mingled and I sat full of energy wanting to be tapped but I was too self-conscious to dance in public. So I sat trying to be part of the couch tapping the table releasing some of the pent up power. My beat is not to the music. It is not a rhythm. It is discord but happier. More like rain with no end to create the order rhythm is. It is the bleep, chirps, thumps, pulses, buzz and static of the cosmos and its infinite electromagnetic cacophony, chaotic and beautiful. We find order in it but not in the whole.

Our turn to challenge the table came up, I racked the balls then a guy with a mullet broke them. Mullet head put one in off the brake and a solid after.

Now being as high as I was, one may expect me to be happy to watch the pretty balls smash into each other. And that is what I wanted our opponents to think. On my shot I missed an easy shot and said, Man, how could I do that! But I left our stripped blocking the pocket and the queue in a position where the easiest shot was a combo. My purpose was to frustrate the guy with the Chevron ball cap – skater chic – and his hot hand. Jodie would do most of the shooting.

Ball cap was easily frustrated and Jodie cleaned up while I continued to play the fool. If ball cap could see my purpose was to cause him to play badly, he could change the way he played or at least see his bad play not as his fault thus not lose confidence and staying in the game. We won that game and two more then both of us got disinterested or a better pair beat us.

I was not sure… I was in a different place.

I was looking at people dancing people they all had a purpose. There was a shark of a guy looking for prey, his only purpose to get laid. And the girl with him looking for a husband, a provider.

A different girl smiled at another guy. She was looking for a free drink, he got her that drink. He is looking for someone to love. They both get what they want with more they never bargained for or wanted.

A chubby girl sat in a corner looking jealously at her love dancing with a waif; she loves him, he loves the waif, the waif loves herself and money but not her tiny waist, which could be tinier. The chubby girl will go home alone and angry. Her love will go home with the waif. The waif will kick him out for a guy with more money. And the chubby girl will get her love when he realizes it is better to be love then used.

Each person is a sprocket needing a chain to connecting them to the other or a clutch to bring different gears to right speed so they wheel as one. ‘Cupid is there no pure love.’ I thought, ‘No gears with the right rpm that mesh with out a clutch.’

Cupid died with Jupiter and now they are all in the Heaven with Mar, Venus, Neptune, and the others… but where, oh where are Christ or Buddha or Mohammed or Moses… not in the Heavens of today.

The professor in my head spoke up. ‘We live in nature where few things come together with out work. There are only two ways love is created and neither is pure: 1. Circumstance: for some reason two people find themselves wanting something the other has – money, power, potential, a nice ass, intellect, morality, immorality – then in time love supplants lower initial reasons. 2. Pursuit, a person finds love and pursues that love until the love is worn-down or changes the pursuer into a lover and a state of love occurs between them.’

A student in the professor’s class asked, ‘But what of true love, like in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet?’

‘It is good story but an exception with very low probability... not something to bet on.’ The professor answered.

How true the professor is but how wrong. Should love be based on an initial subterfuge? How much molding, posturing, preening, pandering, and rhetoric are it ok in the game of love? Because changing someone’s mind can be done with calculation and cajolery. Maybe Jodie does love me and I do use a few of the trick from the book of love to help her find out? If I fail using such devices would my attempt to woo her put a wedged between us forcing the end of a friendship? Could I live with being fool? Is love created as opposed to discovered?

Uses of such tactics in love is like my pool game, it can work well or embarrass badly and is an ignoble way of playing. I learned how bad it looks to have a hidden purpose found out. I was nineteen hitching from down town Vancouver to Kitsilano. A guy picked me up. He was 40ish and recently separated from his wife. I asked if he had any weed because I did not and most people in the restaurant industry smoke. He said he did but it was at his house, though, he would not mind smoking a joint with me. Now I was a bit drunk and in a great mood. I thought nothing of smoking a joint him. It was a bit odd that he seemed to like everything I did and would compliment me at ever chance. I thought, ‘People in the service industry are always gracious hosts.’

But when he poured me a Long Island Ice Tea with double the prescribed amount of liquor I became suspicious of his motive. I was in a scientific mood and decided on test my hypothesis instead of drinking up and excusing myself. I started to ask him question. Loaded question, first I would give him my opinion then I would ask him his. Then a few questions later I would ask a question along the same lines as an earlier one but with the opposite opinion. Invariably his answer would mirror my already stated opinion even for those question designed to be contrary to previous question.

Finally he started on his coup de grace, the story about how he left his wife - who he still loved - because he was beginning to be attracted to boys. He was not sure if boys were his thing and had never been with one and feared – get this – a more aggressive man might force him to go too far. He wanted a more gentle introduction, an innocent I will show you mine if you show yours inching toward physical intimacy slowly with ever chance to back away if either of us felt uncomfortable.

I was slightly curious; free smoke, booze and blowjob then ‘sorry I don’t feel right take me home.’ But it was to tempting and too easy. The possibility of ending up using strange old men to by me drinks and drugs all the while showering me with compliments then giving me head just before I say I am uncomfortable and leave worried me. At the time I only had two other partners and one was my left hand. I was concerned I might give up women for free stuff and hand jobs from hairy old guys in small cars. No, I had not had enough of women to try men… maybe when I have had as much experience as Keith Richards, Mick Jagger, or George Michaels then I might try men. I told him I was not up for his experimentation and ask him to give me a ride home. He did and I gave him a kiss good night – no tough.

And thanks to my gay friend I have this problem with salesmanship when it comes to matters of the heart – I can’t sell cars either. So I endlessly hope it will just happen but it has not and I do not get laid that often either.

‘Hey asshole!’ a belligerent city voice yelled at me from in my head. ‘You always say human are as natural as anything, not some special spawn chosen by the all mighty. The ways of society are the ways of nature so follow them… if your purpose is to bed Jodie talk nice, give her things and get her drunk. But no you want her to love you well it just doesn’t happen… make it happen. A buck doesn’t get a harem if he doesn’t fight. A bird doesn’t get a mate if he doesn’t sing. Coral doesn’t get… well bad example. It is all in your biology books. The work and percentage play is what nature favors. Movies, stories and magic spotlight the exception but the rule is nature and its society.’

The DJ put on Loser by Beck. It is my song so I had to dance. And I did.

So I ----- ----- in the ----… I am a loser baby… so why don’t you kill me. Was as much of the choirs I could decipher. Or is it, Soiled old panty hoes… I am a loser baby… so why don’t you kill me. Or maybe it is, Whore walk in the door… I am a loser baby… so why don’t you kill me. But clear as day the real words (or real words to me) came to me, So I don’t walk in the door… I am a loser baby… so why don’t you kill. Like the Buddhist proverb, ‘I can show you the door but you have to walk through it.’

Jodie moved up beside me and shouts, Bust a move baby! And I feel the warm of her presents.

We finished our beer, get our coats and go.

Chapter 5

It was so cold nostril hairs froze with every inhalation and the snow crunched like dry fine sand. I put on my toque, flipped up my collar and look into the sky as a seer may a crystal ball. The tumultuous sky had no signs in it tonight only the same stars getting covered and uncovered by semi translucent wisps of cloud going east. Without a sign I did not act. I did not turn to Jodie and with belly full of butterflies and mouth full of hope say, ‘Jodie, you are the best person I know. And I would hate to go through life without letting you know or asking if you felt the same?’

I continued the dream that something would fall in place or a sign would be seen and all would change.

Come on, let’s go. Jodie three steps ahead of me said.

I walked on looking for a sign. Jodie talked and I listened half hearing, adding agreement, consolation, disgust, or what ever seemed to fit right.

The Boston Pizza only had a closed sign. There were sign marking the streets. The school park had a sign of the many things that cannot be done there. None of the graffiti on the side of the school had our initial miraculously scribble on the wall with a heart drawn around them. And my glances at sky were as regular as they were regular. ‘No signs yet and but a block before Jodie’s house.’ I thought.

I stared at the stars longer and harder this time and with my mind tried to force a piece of the Universe in a position favorable to mine. And as I walked curving with the crescent towards Jodie house, looking towards the clouds Jodie’s voice stopped me. Hey, we are going this way. I turn and saw she was standing on the street to my place. I turned round with a gleam in my eye and jump in my step and caught up to her.

A few second of silence follow. Then Jodie spoke. I was caught in the rapture of her words. I listened for what I thought must follow, Didn’t I tell you I’m going to Derrick’s tonight.

I said nothing but my jaunty gate changed to prisoners shuffle. My feet became more interesting then the sky. I walked a stride behind Jodie mind reeling from the truth that she had had enough of my mind and needed another’s body. And I went from husky but hansom or having a keg in stead of a six pack or a bear of a man to plain fat the ugliest thing in America’s fast food culture.

There was hope, though, I may not be the body Jodie was sleeping with but at least I was the mind she was thinking with – but what of the soul where did it stand or who was it in bed with?

After a few minutes I began to talk to keep from thinking. You know one of these days I am going to just take off… And go somewhere warm with good fishing and beaches. Maybe somewhere in the South Pacific with very few people and live on fish, lobsters, and coconuts. I paused kicking the snow, thinking it sand and start again, I wonder how hard a giant trevally fight, or any fish in the warm ocean. Trout from cold water fight well but fish in water 25 C are almost warm blooded… they have to fight harder.

Probably, Jodie said.

Then I continued to talk, expounding on fish and places I had never been from Bom Bom off Africa to Vanuatu on the North edge of the Coral Sea. ‘Places as far away as Jodie’s heart,’ I thought. Jodie’s only interruptions were topical question or comments and the rant continued until I stopped it.

Jodie this is your stop, isn’t it? I said, just doors away from Derrick’s house.

Jodie looked at me, What is stopping you?

I thought, ‘From acting like Bogart and kissing you as you look into my eyes wide with love and acid. Or is your question about taking off and going fishing?’ Foolishly, I put forward a question to clarify hers, From what?

From going traveling and fishing.

School, but really it was her.

Finish school and go… and when you get to a good spot call me.

Sure.

I’ll call you tomorrow… a hug. And she held her arms wide in the international sign of the hug.

I forced myself to hug her knowing her warmth would only spark regret from action not taken. Her whole hearted squeeze was warm, glad, and great but mine was the fumbling of Frankenstein’s monster – unable to express the passion felt. As we released our embrace I saw her old and young at the same time and with all the emotion in between. LSD has a tendency of showing people of great significance to you in this light, to some it is disturbing to me it is the sign of love. Have fun, I said as we turn to go our separate ways.

I walk home mind buzzing with loud static, thinking of all and nothing but I was in no mood to find wonder in it. It was a good thing I did not drink too much, at this time in the trip the drink can hit hard causing disharmony between a quick if not focused mind and a body too drunk to follow the directions given. That is a place where a bad trip can spring from.

But the mirth of the situation renewed by the roar and pricing light came from a side street I walked past. For a moment I thought front end loader was a robot killing machine from a future gone wrong. Terrified I crossed the street quickly glancing back to see if the machine was after me. With out the glaring light to shroud the ominous black thing behind, I could see the yellow of the earth mover and the man driving it. I smiled to myself and continued to play out the hallucination in my head as fantasy.

My eternal hippie, the soul, enlightened me as I fantasized, ‘Man all you have to remember is it’s about perception. We know Jodie is the one but have we ever showed her that? No. She love us as a friend which good… better then if we were the one she is sleeping with tonight – it is harder to be friends with someone then to screw them, trust me. We have done the hard work now we have to let her see you in a different light – a light you have been hiding – like you did to see the loader as a loader and not a as a mechanical killbot. Now I think we should smoke some weed.’

Chapter 6

At my apartment I rolled a joint and turned on the tube. The choices were limited at two in the morning to: stand up comics, bad movies, Canadian Parks, tele-evangelists or The Tick followed by Capt. Star. The choice was obvious; The Tick and Capt. Star. But soon those were over and the early morning children’s cartoons started and