An Incinerator and a Big Smoke Stack
So I was walking home from a party at Andre’s, and JP gave me a second cigarello to smoke along the way. I’m not one to turn down free anything, so I took one and started walking from Checker’s Pizza to my place. I ran into a problem around O’Byrns; I realized that my smoke was going to last far longer than the block. So I walked an extra block, down around the Chapter’s bookstore, and into the parking lot that defines the space behind it. There’s a large empty building just down the street from there that I love (and occasionally daydream about filling with various wonders) but I skip past it, through the dark ally and onto the Avenue to my house.
As I walk, I come across a person in a hoodie standing in the middle of the sidewalk. It seems to be like that person might be contemplating something that only the well and truly drunk can appreciate. Living in Edmonton for as long as I have, and having had two complete strangers offer to display my innards to me, I walk with a heavy step, not wanting to startle the person. As I come to pass her, I say “Excuse me,” from a distance. She apologizes, and this seems unnecessary. I say so.
In front of her, and near my apartment, I hear her sigh. This is followed by a series of sniffles. I’m drunk and curious, so I ask her “Are you ok?”
“I’m fine,” she says. I give her my best you’re-a-bullshitter look. “It’s just some stupid drama.”
“I love drama,” I say, which is entirely true. I could live off of water and drama for the rest of my life.
“It’s just, my friends. And my boyfriend is stupid,” she says.
“Maybe you should find a boy that isn’t?” I say.
“Heh, probably.”
“What are you doing right now?” I ask her.
“Walking home,” she says in a voice that implies that this is some sort of travesty.
“Come out for coffee with me instead.” I don’t actually know any good places to go for coffee this late, but I’m sure there’s something. It’s a Friday night on Whyte Ave.
She’s going to walk home. We haggle for a bit. I have a piece of paper but no writing stick. She offers to remember my phone number, but I don’t trust a drunk girl’s memory. We settle on Facebook. Facebook is amazing,
I take her by the hands and tell her “I am going to try and give you some of my energy right now. We’re going to jump up and down and scream like excited high school girls. Ready?” So we do. She hugs me and tells me that I’m pretty awesome.
I’ll accept that.
I am pretty awesome.
