Vancouver’s summers rock. Long walks are almost a must in this immensely walkable city. Take that Los Angeles.
Yeah, take that.
Other than the damp cold of winter--
Lindsay, stay on topic, we’re in the middle of summer.
Back to walking, the only things that send me into a tizzy are the following:
These are the people on my long walks, on my long walks, on my long walks; these are the people in my neigbourhood, in my neighbourhood.
Yeah, take that.
Other than the damp cold of winter--
Lindsay, stay on topic, we’re in the middle of summer.
Back to walking, the only things that send me into a tizzy are the following:
- Cyclists on the sidewalk.
- Aggressive panhandlers (a rarity).
- Skateboarders, mostly because it is my dream to become a tatted-up boarder, tearing my skin from bone in my attempts to NGAF and become woke, no wait, lit, crap, I mean, frap—I fucking hate--
- Clipboard people.
These are the people on my long walks, on my long walks, on my long walks; these are the people in my neigbourhood, in my neighbourhood.
“Hey, I’m wearing a blue shirt. Your shirt is blue. The sky is blue.” Clippie spins in a circle three times. “Your shirt is buttoned-up like mine, we’re kindred, we should talk?”
Hmm, should I make Clippie number 28? I confess to nothing.
Hmm, should I make Clippie number 28? I confess to nothing.
“I like your hair. You shave it. What colour was it before you shaved it?” Spin. Dance. Smile. “I shaved once. We’re the same. Let’s chat.
“I butter my toast. Cars are on the road. Look, I’m smiling.” Spin. Spin. Spin. “You can’t avoid me. I know you’re not talking on your phone. I have a phone. We should talk.”
I must avoid. Screech. Sorry car driver. I can’t take it anymore. They’re everywhere. They even exiled the topless women throwing men wearing rugby pants off roofs of parking garages out of my dreams replacing them with, Hey, we should talk. Whew, street successfully froggered, jay-walked. Crap, there’s two more on this side. I duck through a parking lot, when I come out the other end, two more…they’re multiplying. I’m not insane.
You’re insane. Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah.
No, I will not put my tongue back in my mouth.
Finally, peace, a quick glance over my right shoulder—I’m in the clear. I turn back, and WHAM, on the curbside outside of London Drugs on Davie—a striking brunette pulls on her blue charity emblazoned vest. I thrust my phone to my ear. I ponder jay-walking. I pause for four seconds.
“Hey, I’m wearing a—”
For four seconds more my shoes melt into the concrete—my tongue twists—I remain dumbfoundedly silent—I walk on.
You’re insane. Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah.
No, I will not put my tongue back in my mouth.
Finally, peace, a quick glance over my right shoulder—I’m in the clear. I turn back, and WHAM, on the curbside outside of London Drugs on Davie—a striking brunette pulls on her blue charity emblazoned vest. I thrust my phone to my ear. I ponder jay-walking. I pause for four seconds.
“Hey, I’m wearing a—”
For four seconds more my shoes melt into the concrete—my tongue twists—I remain dumbfoundedly silent—I walk on.
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I’m panting. I’m locked in fear. I twitch. I keep swivelling my head from shoulder to shoulder gawking behind me to see if they’re following me, the CLIPBOARD PEOPLE and, the living dead, they’re not.
A thundering roar and a rolling of the sidewalk shook directly in front of me.
I’m dead. Crushed into the heated concrete by a rolled-up mass of—. I’m bleeding out. Life gushes from my veins staining this glorious summer day. I’m not insane.
Eight-seconds of distraction, four blocks earlier, saved the above from being my reality.
I gingerly pull back the corners of the rolled-up mass, “Beatrice?” — I don’t know anyone named Beatrice. I keep unrolling. Nobody.
I jay-walk to snatch a different perspective of what could have been.
I’m dead. Crushed into the heated concrete by a rolled-up mass of—. I’m bleeding out. Life gushes from my veins staining this glorious summer day. I’m not insane.
Eight-seconds of distraction, four blocks earlier, saved the above from being my reality.
I gingerly pull back the corners of the rolled-up mass, “Beatrice?” — I don’t know anyone named Beatrice. I keep unrolling. Nobody.
I jay-walk to snatch a different perspective of what could have been.
Eight-seconds saved my life from a violent ending.
Lindsay, seven-seconds--
Sorry, you seem to be bleeding. Oh, my, you’ve stopped breathing. Oh well, 27 CLIPBOARD PEOPLE, 1CIVILIAN. I’m not sorry.
Lindsay, seven-seconds--
Sorry, you seem to be bleeding. Oh, my, you’ve stopped breathing. Oh well, 27 CLIPBOARD PEOPLE, 1CIVILIAN. I’m not sorry.
I have a muscle spasm and shove a tree branch into the spokes of a cyclist riding by on the sidewalk. 2 CIVILIANS.
I stop at one of my favourite watering holes. I have a beer. Only five-blocks more to navigate until home. I have another beer. I begin meandering home.
I stop at one of my favourite watering holes. I have a beer. Only five-blocks more to navigate until home. I have another beer. I begin meandering home.
A panhandler is attempting to latch onto a pair of elderly female tourists(?)
“I need money. Give me money. I want some of your money. Give me.” Spit falls from his mouth spattering on the sidewalk.
“Excuse me.” Flies out of my mouth in a deep, ragged, beer-induced tone.
“What?”
“Leave these ladies alone.”
“What are you doing? Why are you following me?”
“Well, I’m following you to give you a dose of what you are doing to these fine ladies. I’ve seen you stalk people before. So, I’ve decided to follow you around for the rest of the day. Sort of like being an intern. I’m shadowing you.”
“Stop it.”
“No.”
“If you don’t stop, I will come back and kill everyone on this street.”
I go home.
If I was forced to put honesty to page: upon arriving home, I felt like an un-woke, un-lit, frappless ass for stalking someone who’s life cards have likely sucked in comparison to most of us. I claim to be empathetic. I claim that I try to understand. I claim--
But, after a few deep breaths of reflection, I realise all is not lost, after all: I typed the last paragraph.
“I need money. Give me money. I want some of your money. Give me.” Spit falls from his mouth spattering on the sidewalk.
“Excuse me.” Flies out of my mouth in a deep, ragged, beer-induced tone.
“What?”
“Leave these ladies alone.”
“What are you doing? Why are you following me?”
“Well, I’m following you to give you a dose of what you are doing to these fine ladies. I’ve seen you stalk people before. So, I’ve decided to follow you around for the rest of the day. Sort of like being an intern. I’m shadowing you.”
“Stop it.”
“No.”
“If you don’t stop, I will come back and kill everyone on this street.”
I go home.
If I was forced to put honesty to page: upon arriving home, I felt like an un-woke, un-lit, frappless ass for stalking someone who’s life cards have likely sucked in comparison to most of us. I claim to be empathetic. I claim that I try to understand. I claim--
But, after a few deep breaths of reflection, I realise all is not lost, after all: I typed the last paragraph.
revised version: february 16 - 2019
