Gorilla consumerism would be the term I’d use, not theft––we did pay for it after all, just not during traditional store hours or with permission. Preordained would be another applicable term, because when we got to the mall’s dollar store and found its folding gate doors locked tight we deflated and kicked at the floor’s pixilated-vomit tile pattern in defeat––until we saw that the only shelf in the store close enough for us to reach through the gate also held what we’d travelled all of five-minutes from the park to find: a Frisbee.
It’s not often that I actually want to play with a Frisbee; its novelty wears off faster than I can throw it, but sometimes the mood, with the aid of beer, strikes just right. I tore a page from my notebook and wrote a receipt-of-explanation.
“Unfortunately we arrived after you had closed shop… but please understand that it’s gorgeous outside… Enclosed is $5.00––$1.00 more than the asking price. Again, we apologize, but we just really wanted a Frisbee.”
We folded the money into the note, slid them under the gate for the owners to find the next day and took the Frisbee. The big dopey smiley face on it a strange comfort as we sped walked out of the mall.
It was a move of passion––nearly instinctual. You were straddling me as we kissed on the couch and I stood up as you held on like a koala and slowly navigated us towards the bed; doing my best to avoid the coffee table, the chair and my clunky oversized bicycle on the way. I almost lost balance when I noticed a pair of my dirty underpants on the floor and casually tried to kick them out of sight.
Then came the sound. I squatted to lower you onto the bed and it was like a gunshot. A cannonball fired from a pirate ship oddly moored in my apartment. My pants had exploded from my scrotum to the soft patch of skin above my ass that acts as a foyer to the fleshy mound before it splits like an embryo into two hairy cheeks. I felt the breeze from the open patio door on my bottom. You held your composure as long as you could before crumbling into laughter. I didn’t think it was that funny. I really liked those pants.
How you could strut around the stage, gyrating and thrusting against the constraints of those purple leather pants as if they had no say in the matter was almost as impressive as the show itself. To me you were Prince, not just part of a tribute band playing a small Vancouver club, but an engaging and talented artist with jarring olive eyes and a puffy shirt that would make Seinfeld reach a nasally new octave.
You leaned on my shoulder as we stood in a position befitting the poster of a buddy-cop movie while waiting for a photo to be taken after the show. Just moments before you’d made the crowd erupt in a final crescendo by humping the stage at the climax of your two-hour set. You bemoaned the fact that the club was only open until 1:30am and invited us to Portland the next night where “things don’t stop until 3:00am.” We thought about it, if only to see you push your crotch into the floor one more time.
The boardroom at the parks department was hot, humid and full of media and piles of us skateboarders who were filling the seats and every available space on the floor. We were waiting to speak in opposition of an asinine motion concerning the removal of a well-loved and utilized skatepark. But first there was another item on the docket––the proposed zipline at Queen Elizabeth park.
Yes, a zipline. Because it’s always best to have a quick exit readily available at popular tourists spots for when your relatives come to visit and your grandpa starts talking about “all of the damn Filipinos that are moving to town” again. The commission asked you general questions about your company’s proposal like “What does the zipline’s revenue model look like?” And “What will be the environmental impact?” Before lobbing you a softball. An easy homer. “Is it true that 1/10 people who ride the zipline are squealers?” Admittedly it was a strangely worded question but not as strange as your answer.
“I’m not sure about that statistic, I mean, this isn’t an episode of Deliverance.”
There were two fucked up things about your response. First, Deliverance was a movie starring a sans-mustache Burt Reynolds, not an episodic. Second, you just made a wildly tangential reference to one of the most infamous rape scenes in cinematic history at a public and televised parks board meeting. A few of us gasped. The board voted almost unanimously in favour of the zipline.