Piss smacked the asphalt in his wake as we skated into a stretch of the bike path moonlight and streetlights couldn’t reach. A thud and “fuck!” came from the darkness ahead; someone had made an abrupt introduction with the ground. His pee-trail jumped and drew wet jagged peaks as he belly laughed at our friend, the source of the thud, writhing and cursing in front of us. He continued to laugh until his wheels hit the same watering hose snaking across the path our friends had, pitching him into air, dick in hand, urine scrawling jumbled cursive cries into the night.
There I was. Right where I wanted. All eyes on me. Except for the guy in the back. Was he looking at his phone? Fucker. Whatever. Couldn’t blame him, my jokes weren’t landing. The pity laughs felt okay. Probably not something one should feel okay about. “You seem like a nice guy.” Those laughs said. Despite the fact that I was holding on by the courtesy of the crowd I felt good. Fluid. Present. Aware that the words I were saying weren’t resonating. The biggest laughs came from my acknowledgement of their general absence. I was in control in a sense that wasn’t visible to the audience. I didn’t have a grip on them but I had my own reigns tight. I wasn’t nervous, stuttering, or blanking––I just wasn’t funny. Baby steps.
“Good luck.” It’s always “good luck.” Never has there been a wink and a “see you soon.” I get that would probably be collusion or some shit, but how often do I have to come in here and buy stale potato chips and a $7.00 quick pick before “good luck” becomes “good job?”
Someone in Alberta is always winning. A $50 mil ticket was sold there this goddamn week––the CBC’s website made sure to rub that news in my face. I would do great things with my winnings. I’d rescue a shelter cat, neuter it (not myself, but with my winnings I could go to vet school and learn to neuter.), buy it a really nice scratching post with three-to-four different levels for it to explore, then buy a house for myself so the cat doesn’t have to be trapped with me in my sweaty little bachelor suite with its three-to-four level scratching post blocking the way to the bathroom. I’d definitely put its litter box in the bathroom too. It’d be real cute to take a simultaneous shit with your cat.
Of course I’d donate to things if I won. Food banks. Hungry drives. My cousin’s app he’s working on that detects early onset halitosis. It wouldn’t be all about me. Sure, obviously some of it would. The authentic (and autographed) Bonnie “Prince” Billy face cast would cost a few pennies. The discovery and tapping of the aquifer on my new property would cost a few more. But winning the lottery for me is really a selfless act. Think of the cat, the hungry people, and my cousin. Deshi, come on.
How she could be with someone like him he still couldn’t understand. He was so bland, like a tall, muscular cone of vanilla ice cream. Sure, the part of the cone with the ice cream (presumably the face) was handsome, maybe even more handsome than himself, but it was boring. It had no character. He on the other hand had character. He was like mint chocolate chip ice cream and not just because of his moles, but personality wise too. You weren’t going to lick all the way through him and fall asleep because you just licked through an entire human head made of vanilla ice cream. There would be the mint ice cream part and then every once in a while you’d get a chocolate chip! Everyone loves chocolate chips. And sure, he guessed she could call the placement of those chocolate chips “erratic” or “unbalanced,” like she had referred to his non-ice cream self before, but who the fuck liked plain vanilla anyways? Idiots! She was an idiot! A goddamn idiot! Why was everyone looking at him like that? Why was vanilla cone standing in front of her, like shielding her? Had he been yelling again?