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Midnight at the pump.
It was late, and everything was quiet. I stopped here for a bite to eat. But I had to admire the glow.
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I met him in the hotel lobby. Eyes wider than the moon, teeth brighter than light.
“Okay,” he exuberantly declared. “Let’s make a deal. Something amicable.”
“Yeah,” I said right back. “I want to close this.”
He smiled. “But first, before we sign everything—will I get you a beer?”
“Yeah,” I answered. “That’d be all right. I’ll take a Coors.”
His voice thumped back at me. “Fuck that shit. Colt 45.”
“Colt 45?” I repeated.
“Yeah, drink it up,” he said. “This’ll make you a man. Put some hair on your chest. Maybe get you some pull with the ladies.”
He laughed, cracking one open. The bottle clunked against the marble countertop as he pushed it into my hand.
I looked at him, gritting my teeth. Colt 45. I fucking hate Colt 45, I thought, but I wouldn’t tell him that. Tastes like stale ass baking in the sun for a few hours, just ripe. What’s he trying to say here?
But I took it. Stared back at him. Took a swig. It tasted exactly as I thought it would—rank, bitter, and right at home in this crumbling lobby where everything looks like it’s falling apart. My taste buds were just following suit.
Still, I swallowed it. Stared at him.
“All right,” I said. “Let’s get this done. Let’s get this show on the road. We’re here to do a job. Give me the documents—I want to make this legal right now.”
He grinned. “That Colt 45 tastes real good, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I lied. “This is the stuff.”
“Okay,” he said, pulling out the papers. “You’re about to sign your life away.”
“A deal is a deal,” I said.
I got out my pen, spread the papers out on the counter, gave them a quick once-over—everything looked kosher. Nothing changed. Everything we had discussed was in there. Just a stupid real estate deal—a land assembly—over a residential lot that had eaten half a year of my life.
And right as I uncapped my pen, that grinning asshole looked at me and said, “Hey, you sure you want that Colt 45?”
“Sure.”
“Because if you changed your mind, there’s still some Coors.”
I don’t know what came over me. I should’ve just nodded, kept drinking, let that ass-water go down smooth. But instead, I told him, “Yeah. I’ll take you up on the offer. I guess I’ll have some Coors. Why not? More variety.”
He smiled, big white teeth flashing. “All right. Have your Coors.” He opened one and handed it over.
“But that means,” he said, “you lied about the Colt 45.”
I shrugged. “Everybody lies about Colt 45. No one likes it. You don’t like it.”
He ripped the papers from my hands. “I like Colt 45. Colt 45 means something to me. You don’t like it?” He stared at me, eyes burning. “This Colt 45 is about my family. All of us—we drink Colt 45. My dad used to bottle it at the brewery. When we have family gatherings, it’s only Colt 45. Everyone in the neighbourhood—it’s Colt 45. I met my wife drinking Colt 45, we were in the park and she asked for a sip. My father, my mother, even my dead brother, it’s Colt 45 and only Colt 45. So Colt 45, it might mean nothing to you—it’s my life, everything that means anything to me. Apologize.”
He jabbed the bottle at me.
“Better yet—apologize to the Colt 45.”
“No,” I said. “I’m not apologizing to a warm bottle of beer you forced into my hands when I clearly said I wanted a Coors. A nice, cold Coors—at least that was stored in a fridge for a few hours. That was something I was looking forward to.”
“No, no, no,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “You don’t get Coors. Coors means you don’t have balls. Coors means you’re a slimy, basic little worm who won’t drink real beer—the beer of the people. And that’s Colt 45.”
He grabbed my bottle of Coors, smashed the bottle against the marble countertop, cutting his hand, blood smeared across the stone.
“Drink the Colt 45,” he thundered.
I looked at him. Looked at the bottle. Came to my senses. Because what’s one more sip of rank, ripe ass-juice?
I took a long swig. Gulped it. Let it burn through my throat.
Then I turned to him, and said, “Cheers.”
He handed me back the documents. I signed them. Took another sip of that Colt 45 for good measure.
We exchanged copies.
As I turned to leave, I picked up the bottle, looked him dead in the eye, and told him—
“Colt 45 stinks.”
Photo credit: Gregory Crewdson
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The thick.
Everything growing wild. The weeds growing long. Everything slightly damp.
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A corner for lovers.
An inviting spot where we can canoodle
and stare at each other.
Perhaps say nothing
because what is plainly said is unsaid.
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First cherry blossoms.
Probably my favourite time of the year. Sakura is so beautiful. And I love how the petals fall from the tree once they mature.
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The first daisy.
Incredibly small. But the first one I’ve seen this year. Here it is poking out from the grass.
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Jewel.
Something unique I found in a mall. But not just the jewellery, but the hand that holds it. What an inhuman way to hold something, but also kind of symbolic.
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I don’t know.
I really don’t know how I got here. Or even where this is. Or why I took this picture. I’m baffled.
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Remnant of an evergreen.
Just a little speck from a tree that I found on concrete while out on a walk at night. That one little piece of a tree, tiny.
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Two apartment buildings.
More are coming. Towers of glass. Because that’s what Vancouver does.
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Life from dirt.
That’s always been the amazing thing about plants. They just need dirt, sun, and water.
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Paint on a tree.
I think this was here for some construction marking. But it also made good abstract art.
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Divergence.
A view between two tree trunks which, in turn, is a view of an overpass.
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It’s pouring.
In Vancouver, it’s a typical February night. Not only is it wet, even if you carry an umbrella, the moisture chills you to the bone. More poor kid got drenched walking from the parking lot lot to a restaurant.
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Access.
Someone punched a hole in the wall, wrecking the aesthetics, because they needed power—and now all my attention gets drawn to that power outlet embedded inside.
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Treasures in the attic.
You ever arrive in an old storage space, open up a box, only to discover something magnificent?
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Keep telling myself to pick up my guitar.
It just sits there, looking at me, asking why I don’t blare a power chord. And it’s been years since I gave it an attempt.
I do, though, have an acoustic bass right by my bed. Sometimes I play a few licks. And that’s fun.
But I really should start writing songs again.
Photo credit: artist unknown
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The past is the past, and we can't have it back.
More to the point, however you feel about the present -- whether good or bad -- we wouldn't have what we have now without the past. Whatever else you might say, the past is the reason we are here.
I know the past was far from perfect. The so-called "good old days" were not good. And yet, I mourn what we lost.
I was there, at my friend's house, playing his Super Nintendo on a TV -- what we called a TV, because back then, we didn't call them CRTs. And those cartridges, those 16-bit cartridges -- at the time, they felt like the future. We didn't think about the broader world, its consequences, or what might come later. We were full of optimism, convinced that things could only get better from here.
It's not that time itself that I miss. Truth be told, my life back then was pretty miserable.
But what I do miss are the visions of a radiant future.
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We’ve seen better days.
Overripe banana I found at a grocery store about to be put out to pasture. This is the end.
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Leaves & Wood.
I spotted these sprouting leaves peeking from behind a fence.
