Douche on the Street #_: I've Lost Count

I haven't written one of these in a while as I've tried to focus on the more positive things in life. But some douchebags need to be immortalized in word and burned in effigy.

Douche on the Street #_: I've Lost Count

I don't much like large groups of people. Call it anxiety or agoraphobia, I don't know. But tonight I skipped out early from work and decided to treat myself to a free concert in the park on this lovely evening. As I walked across the foot bridge toward the park, minding my own business, a smile on my face, hands in my pockets, I passed a large group of teenagers but paid them no mind. That is - until one of them decided to whip his plastic cup of water at my feet. Disgusted at not only his lack of respect for complete stranger such as I was, not to mention his lack of respect for the environment, I gave him a "What the fuck?" look over my shoulder as I kept walking. One of the girls behind him said "It wasn't me!" as the group walked on. But before I could reassure her that I knew it wasn't her, the trailing member of the gang decided he needed to step up and show me how big his tiny balls were, shouting "WHAT?!" like a miniature thug, a chihuahua bouncing around a bulldog, defensively threatening.  I stopped dead in my tracks and turned to look at him as he walked backward a few steps. "Are you stupid? Look how many of us there are."

"Are YOU stupid?" I asked. Because I clearly had 90 pounds on the dipshit that felt it was necessary to defend his douchebag friend's honour. If he wanted a fight, I was ready to give it to him. Honestly, I'm not a violent person by any means but hours later I'm still fantasizing about crushing his jaw with my foot.

Still, I had to acknowledge he was right. There were about ten of these 15 year old fucks. Even if the female half didn't engage - which I wouldn't bet on, I was no match for five on one. I stood there, ready to defend myself if I needed to but the kid bounced back feeling he'd won a great victory. I turned to go, followed by ephithets designed to question my masculinity.

But you see, it wasn't the first douchebag that bothered me that much. I was ready to let that slide, knocking it up to another case sociopathy. But this little shit was so ready to defend his shitty personality that I immediately wanted to throw him off the bridge. Because I did nothing to him and he attacked me - verbally if not physically - he is a douchebag. And I hope the young ladies associating with these obnoxious ads for not doing crack while pregnant realize just what kind of dog shit they've stepped in and throw away their shoes. Nothing strikes me as a bigger pussy than someone who threatens ten against one. I try to calm myself and realize that he probably has daddy issues because his momma fucked every crackhead in town and the poor bastard doesn't know which one is his. I tell myself that if I'm a "little pussy" for walking away, he must be the gaping king pussy for hiding behind his gang. If we'd been a little closer to the park, I would have just had the police arrest them for assault.

I'm tired of the almost daily onslaught of douchebaggery. In a world seemingly filled with hate and starting to overflow, in a world of Trumps and Fords, in a world of riots and killing sprees, in a world of human rights violations and drive-by eggings, my faith in humanity is hanging by the proverbial thread. I sit here boiling, roiling with impotent rage. So tell me what you did for humanity today? I don't care how small it is, I want to hear that there is still some good in the world because the undouches on the streets are being overwhelmed by the douches.

I carried on to the park and stood tense with anxiety and rage in the crowd of sweaty people that brushed by. I tried to enjoy myself but it was hard. It took an hour or more of music to soothe this savage beast. And when the frontman announced it was his birthday week (apparently birthday weeks are a thing now) the crowd of 15,000 or so spontaneously burst into a half-hearted version of Happy Birthday (for which no royalties were paid) faltering amusingly at the line "happy birthday, dear we'renotsurewhatyournameis." So that was something.

The Most Powerful Thing I Have Ever Written

And when she left,
She took everything with her,
Except the mattress,
Which I could no longer sleep on.

Dream #32 - Late Show with John Goodman

The camera flew in low over the heads of the backstage crew through the dark, here and there the flicker of a blue from monitors and switchboards, the outline of a head and shoulder reflecting the stage lights. "I've always wanted to see the Ed Sullivan Theatre," the announcer remarked over the sound system. I noticed him sitting at his podium off stage and wondered that he never saw the place he was sitting in. Only now in the waking hours do I think perhaps he was blind.

"And now, all the way from New York City, John Goodman, ladies and gentlemen!" The camera pulls up close to John Goodman in a tuxedo, slimmer and young looking despite his years leaning casually against a desk. He holds a statuette in his hands - an Oscar it seems, until I look closer. It is instead some grotesque, deformed Oscar with a wicked snarl and curling horns. "All the way from New Hampshire, actually," he says quietly, almost wistfully,  while stroking the statue. [Apparently he's actually from Missouri]. He gives his big, loveable smile as the camera zooms out to show the huge red curtains of the stage on which John and his desk are the only ornaments. The stage lights glare into view along with the gold wrapped balconies on either side.

The camera pans up to the blue-black painted dome with it's pin-pick painted stars as fireworks start to explode right there in the theatre. I wonder if the place is really big enough to be setting them off in here and question whether this folly is wholly someone else's or partially my own for being there. I hear screaming from the mezzanine above me [I don't often get to use the word mezzanine and it brings me a little thrill to do so]. A cloud of smoke plumes from the heights as I crane my neck to look. The crowds above begin to shuffle and push and panic as they fight though the marble columns and red velvet seats for the exit. I cast around for a fire extinguisher and spot one by the door on my level. I grab it quickly, aware of vaguely of leaving some companion on their own as I pull the pin and leap the seats and end up on the balcony in some kind of lobby. I'm a little disappointed to find some lobby attendant in a bellboy hat with an extinguisher in hand already putting out the flames. Indeed, they are almost all out already. I point my nozzle at a few meandering flames by one of the pink and brown marble columns and give it a blast of white foam. There are large clear glass jugs scattered around on tables and bar tops with little tea light candles burning in them. I start to shoot them from a distance to prove my hose slinger skills. If I can't be the hero, I might as well look good, figure. The usher joins me and we have a good laugh competing to see who is the better shot.

A scream from behind causes us both to turn and look. "Where's the gold?" someone shouts. My mind briefly flashes. Gold? What gold? Was there a card table there laden with gold bricks earlier or am I just imagining that now? Was the smoke show just a smoke screen for the gold heist? Alarm bells started ringing.

I hit the snooze button and rolled over to face 5am through bleary eyes.

[Also somewhere in that night]: Chris Rock turns to me in the locker room - beige walls and snot green lockers - and says, "Most of us in LA look like this now." He's referring to colour of his skin which is more of a sandy brown than the black guy you tend to think of Chris rock as being. Maybe it wasn't Chris Rock at all, but it was his voice. "We're not all turning white one eyeball at a time, you know." I'm not clear what this is supposed to mean so I focus my attention on the 1950's travel poster on the door - an art deco gleaming grey DC-10  in a sky blue sky hovering over a palm tree. It wasn't clear where this was supposed to be or what company is was with but it did offer 50% off in large yellow type.

Dream #31 - A New Mind Prison

There is no method to getting there. I am simply transported inside the room. It's dark and cold. The light is ambient, coming from nothing. I can see myself but nothing else like in a heavy fog. Or perhaps it's not dark at all but the room is painted black. It's another dome, approximately 15 meters tall and maybe twenty meters across. But there isn't an object of any kind in the room. Near the top of the dome are a line of irregular windows, grey and smeared as though painted on. A tall thin one, followed by two short wide ones and a tall and a wide one again. As I spin to try to take in the other side of the room, the windows turn with me, not allowing me to see anything. I notice a dark line about half way up the wall; it's a seam, I realize, that allows for the spinning of the top of the dome. There is no door and no way to climb up to the windows even if they weren't painted on. I can hear my shuffling footsteps echoing around the room, coming back at me from all sides and realize the walls are soundproof. No light, no sound and nobody and can escape. The concrete floor sends a chill up through my feet. This must be what prison is like.

Dream #30 - Nightmare on Reid St

We sat at a table by the window of a restaurant. Outside the cars were lined up around a grassy yard waiting for their turn at the drive thru. The four of us chatted idly around the tinkling of dinnerwear over a red tablecloth. Lily cavorted in the yard outside. Another dog barked from one of the cars and Lily came running to check it out. Alarmed, I called her off through the window, telling her to stop and pointing in the opposite direction. She stopped for a moment but apparently was excited to see me and came barrelling toward me. I was at once charmed by her eager face and alarmed by the danger posed by the cars. She came up close under the window where I could see her no more and a blue truck quickly passed in the same spot. I darted through a door at the side of the white sided building with a set of red painted stairs leading up to the second floor. "Don't look!" shouted someone laying lazily in the opposite corner of the yard. I was perturbed by their lack of action. I spotted Lily laying in the path of cars and ran to her. The line of cars honked and drove around us, showing no concern for the drama unfolding. I ran to her and thought maybe she was ok. There was no blood that I could see. Nothing out of the ordinary. I slid and came down face to face with her and called her name. Her eyes were bright and alert. I reached out to her and she lifted her head and for a moment I thought it would be ok. But as she lifted her head, her paw moved in an unnatural manner and her jaw dropped in a grotesque death mask. I think maybe the vet can fix her but... no. It's a hopeless cause. She smiles at me as the light goes from her eyes. Tears start to drip from my eyes and a wail escapes my lips. Why does everything I love get taken away from me? Why does no one seem to care? My sadness and fear turns to anger. The anger turns to rage. I suddenly want to kill everyone, to deconstruct the world with my own two, vengeful hands, atom by atom. For the first time in my life, I wanted to see the world burn.

Dream #29 - California Dreamin'

We were barrelling south on Route 1 along the California coastline with the cerulean skies and azure ocean to our right and rising cliffs of roan red covered in moss and scrub to the left. It was a Peterborough dump truck in white with a green stripe that we were driving. Suddenly the driver slowed down and I jumped out. I released the gate on the back of the truck and allowed the butterscotch pudding to flow out, waving my hand back and forth through the stream to promote even distribution. I gestured to the driver to weave the truck back and forth across the road in case our pursuers decided to bypass the butterscotch slick by swerving into oncoming traffic.

Dream #28 - If I Can Make It There

We were driving along a dark highway with the lights of oncoming cars whizzing by. It was a boys' road trip. I spotted a place with neon signs says "NUDES" and stylized women in suggestive poses. "Let's stop at the rippers!" I say. But Curt says no. I wonder what has happened over the years that makes him uninterested in naked women flaunting their bits and pieces at him. Instead we ended up at a diner, blue and yellow with big windows facing a parking lot light by more yellow neon signs. Curt eats pancakes with gravy and my stomach churns a little in disgust.

 

I step outside for a walk in the night air. I turn around the back end of a red Dodge Caliber and put my head down close to the ground where there is a pile of dog turds.

 

Back in the car, Bobby [I don't know Bobby] requests we make a quick stop over the border for a little errand. We agree and drive into New York City. We drive down a street of red brick houses, none of which are in a good state of repair. In a basement apartment flooded in no natural light Bobby is followed through a kitchen straight out of 1976 by two men and I follow them. Bobby turns around the fridge through a doorway and disappears from sight. I have the sense that something bad is about to happen. "It's not worth it!" shouts one of the men but there is no conviction in his tone. It's just part of his cover story. I see him pull something tucked into in his belt and the shot echoes through the kitchen. A small glass vial tinkles to the ground and rolls toward me along with a number of bluish shards of something I don't recognize. I stoop and grab the vial along with a few of the shards and tuck them inside and plug it with my finger. I move to hide it behind my back, thinking if I just keep my mouth shut it should be worth a few bucks. But one of the men has seen me and stands straight and intimidatingly in front of me. "Go! Take it and go!" He says in a deep sonorous voice with a hint of a accent from somewhere tropical.

 

I run outside and through the streets. I think to myself that of all the times I've been to New York [0], I've never been to Central Park. And so I find myself there. It's nothing like I expected. There's an overpass running through it. An oil drum burns with a homeless man drinking from a clear square bottle nearby. The struts of the overpass are covered in red and yellow graffiti. A few black teenagers play basketball in the paved park. There isn't much worth seeing here and I've been just as well off not having seen it all these years.

 

I run from the house onto the porch where my brother [I don't have a brother] and little sister [not my sister but an actress who plays her in my dreams] meet me. I show them the vial and poor it out its contents onto a stone balustrade. "I've always wanted to..." but I don't finish the sentence. The blue shards have turned into pink rocks speckled with black like a candy from my childhood. I have the sudden urge to smash them. My brother grabs the rocks and forms them in his hands into something resembling an ashtray a six year old might make out of clay. He puts a lighter under it and it begins to smoke. He runs away with thin wisps of smoke trailing behind him. My sister and I chase after him down the street of middle class brick homes, dodging trees and shrubs. I try to inhale the smoke but don't feel like it is affecting me at all even after the smoke becomes a wavy rainbow set with stars and glitter. I feel happy but not high. My brother runs up an embankment on someone's lawn and I follow but spot and older man start to follow us. I take the lead and make a sharp turn around a spherical bush. I jump down off the embankment onto a walkway and through a white screen door. Lily charges in past me and bolts down a short flight of steps and through a hallway. Two women are there in the hallway. I apologize for running through the house and for Lily, my head hanging in shame as I mumble the words. "It's ok," says the older one on the left. She opens a door and Lily leaps through. "She probably wants water," I offer in way of excuse.

 

I descend a flight of stairs into the basement but stop near the bottom where the other woman is standing. "What is it you want, Tony?" she asks me, turning toward me, hand stretched out on the railing, breasts protruding toward me. "Or is it Foxx? Thomas? I can never keep it straight. Have you ever been a Donald?" I find this last question odd as it causes some dissonance in my thoughts. I feel like I've been asked this before by Sam in real life and that suggests I'm dreaming. She says something and I realize she's insinuating that she'd like me to give her a baby. I look her up and down and decide she is attractive if a little on the butch side, with broad shoulders and hips, large breasts and a stance like a cowboy. But her features are soft and her hair is blonde, tumbling in waves around her shoulders. She wears a white blouse and faded blue jeans. I place a hand on her wrist.

 

[I can't remember where this section fits in].

 

I run outside into the darkness of night. The streetlights and stars burn like suns in my dilated pupils. Everything else is black. There is a car parked on the street in front of me and I notice the most adorable grey kitten lying on the hood by the windshield. I mean unrealistically adorable like eyes the size of golf balls, shiny and black - anime eyes. It lies there and stretches it's paws, scratching the paint off the car and it suddenly becomes a little less adorable. But in my excitement I feel I need to take a picture. I fumble with my phone and when I look up there is a little teddy bear there leaning on the kitten and it's heartbreakingly adorable now. My heart beats like a motor. The flash from my camera lights up the lawn behind the car where a few people are milling around a line of picnic tables underneath some patio lanterns. They turn to look at me and I apologize for disturbing them. "It's ok. She's adorable, isn't she?" They wave to me to come join them.  

Dream #27 - Fragments

I watched the two women run down the long hallway. One of them looked over her shoulder in terror at their pursuer. The hallway was wrapped in plastic sheets taped together. The maniac threw a switch and a vacuum began to pump the air out of the hallway in an attempt to shrink-wrap the women. The plastic fluttered inward as the women approached the end where the plastic came together blocking their path. "This is absurd," I thought. "They could just poke through the plastic and keep running. And so one of them did, digging her French nails into the sheets and tearing a larger hole.

I looked at myself in the mirror. I'd grown noticeably older and like I'd been living on a desert island. I'd grown a long, scraggly beard with what might be little bits of dried leaves tangled in it. My hair, too, was long and grown wavy. My face had hardened, pitted with dirt and browned by the sun. The little bit of fat had faded away leaving tighter lines along my cheeks and jaw but a few wrinkles. In a way I felt more handsome. My skin was lived in and had a story to tell even if I couldn't remember it. I picked up a bulbous green breastplate and began to strap it to my chest.

Undouche #6 - It's Been Awhile

I'm sitting on my couch watching Netflix - that bane of productivity - with the window open. I can hear my neighbour on the front porch talking with someone I assume has just taken over his apartment but I'm not listening in. A man approaches from the side of the house and starts talking to them. I assume he's one of the building's maintenance men as I hear her questioning him about the paint he's going to use. He's closer to the window so I can more clearly hear what he says. "It's a pretty good building here. You've got good neighbours. "This one here," I imagine him pointing at my apartment as he isn't likely to be pointing at the upstairs apartments or the one who's sitting out there with him, "is a really nice guy." He mumbles something. "You probably won't see much of him." Now I'm curious why it is that people won't see much of me and, hell, maybe he's not even talking about me. Certainly I've had limited interaction with the repair guys. But I'll take a genuine compliment. Because you offer kind words behind someone's back - even if it might turn out it isn't mine - instead of biting commentary, you sir, are an undouche. Unlike me.

Dream #26 - Tidbits

I walk into the wheelchair store. The room is square, painted a sickly shade of orange as though the owners never wanted their customers to get better and lined with people sitting idly flipping through glossy magazines with less nutritional content than celery. I walk up to a man who seems to work there and tell him I need to buy a wheelchair. He tells me they only have one left and points to a now deserted spot on the side wall. The wheelchair itself is invisible and is comprised solely of two parallel free-standing, waist high, oblong wheels. Spokeless and wide, they somewhat resemble tank tracks. My creepy neighbour, Pat, stands there in his omnipresent khakis, brown suspenders and blue shirt smoking a cigarette. He nods in approval.

 

I walk down the narrow aisle of stainless steel food and beverage equipment and into the slightly more spacious drive thru. I feel like I am narrating the events as they happen and this bothers me as it feels like I am a character in something someone else is writing and I have no control over myself. It's a curious feeling; dictating to myself and hating the fact of it. Mike greets me there by the sliding window, the only other person there. He says something and I'm bored by it. I lean out the window and let the sun spank me in the face. Turning around I adjust my bust in my slightly sun stained bra. I look down and notice I am naked and shoeless but for a pair of granny panties and the bra. I find it odd that I should be wearing that and think to myself, no, this isn't right. But I shrug it off and walk back down the aisle giving a wink and point to the few customers who turn their eyes to me. I get a few hoots and whistles. Hey, if you've got it, flaunt it.

 

I watch myself approach the bar of the Queens Hotel. It's pine top is scratched and sticky; rings of forgotten condensation spot it here and there. The walls are a deep shade of red, which I'm sure inspired a number of romantic liasons over the years. There's a tall, blonde kid working the bar to the left of the taps. He's good looking, I suppose, but gangly and unsure of himself. I soon realize why. I order my customary rye and Coke - get rum and Pepsi with a twist - and hand him a twenty. He gives me back two Toonies, a Loonie and four fives. I look at him with my hand out, the money in my palm. He stares at me blankly. I roll my eyes and blink away all the faults of the education system, the failings of a feel good instant pleasure society, wrap my fingers around the money and walk away. A line of people stands against the wall  as I walk between them and a large black speaker cabinet. Someone is belting out "1,2, 3, 4." I look up at the sixty inch black TV hanging on the wall with the numbers in white, realizing it's karaoke night. I walk up to Olivia who's holding the mic and pat her on the shoulder. "Thank you, Olivia. That was beautiful," and meant it. She looks at me skeptically at first - like everyone else she's never really sure if I'm being sarcastic. But then she smiles in thanks.

 

I walk down a lonely dark country road and into the light of a Shell station. There's Chris Fuller gassing up his Buick. He's dressed as a paramedic. I haven't seen him in twenty years - barely even knew him - and here he is now as a paramedic. Who knew? He says something to someone else. I get closer and say "thank you! I've been asking that for twenty years! It's nice that someone finally has an answer."