It’s Christ-like, he thinks. The way he moves over the pavement, gliding up and down hills without expending any energy, just like Jesus did over that lake or whatever. Jesus never exerted himself when going anywhere and neither should he, he thought. All made in his image, right? Well, Jesus did have the whole crucifixion thing, which was obviously pretty tiring, so maybe it’s the Holy Ghost he was thinking of, or maybe just ghosts in general. Either way, it felt Christ-like. The flow of traffic at his command. Commandments. Ten Commandments. There it was, another Jesus-ish tie-in. This was an obvious sign.
No one passes him. No one dares. They respect his power. His movement. His powerful movement up the Dunsmuir bike lane, hands on hips, sunglasses on, Hoverboard™ roaring, parting the spandex cyclist sea. Crossing the viaduct he looks at the Vancouver skyline and takes in its beauty. The penthouse condo near Science World that he Hovers™ past every day on his commute is still there waiting for him. It is patient. It will be his. When it is he’ll have lavish rooftop parties and only people who truly respect him will be invited. Except for Topher from Registration, Topher can come and be humbled by the wealth he will have amassed by then. Then when Topher can no longer handle his success and will have undoubtedly drunk himself stupid from envy, he’ll get Topher a cab and watch him go, speaking softly into his ear before helping him in, and the party-goers will be in awe of his compassion for all people, even those that don’t respect him. Just like Jesus would. Traffic breaks and car horns blare beside him. Fuck you Topher, he whispers into the future’s ear.
There’s a moment where I’m sitting in the bathroom, doing my thing, and I think that it isn’t going to happen this time. That through some act of magical thought transference the entire floor now gets it, finally gets it after months of having to declare that yes, I exist and I am in here taking a crud, please stop trying open door. Then that moment is gone as fast as I managed to conjure it as the handle shakes and someone on the other side attempts to force themselves into the room. The handle rattles in bursts of threes, three times; each burst increasing in vigour as if the person is initially confused that this door that has opened for them before is no longer doing so and that confusion gradually shifts into rage that things are not as they once were. This is all total mongoloid shoot first, Q&A after logic. If they had just knocked they would’ve known I was mid-crud. What if I’d forgot to lock it and they barged right in on my butt-business? I feel stupid for even having to say “occupied.” I should ask Mrs. K. if she can send out a floor-wide memo about this or something.
“Occupied.” Obviously it’s occupied. It’s always fuckin’ occupied. Nearly everyday I gotta crawl onto my counter and take a leak out the kitchen window while the little Asian guy in the next building stares at my pissing prick because it’s “occupied.” What is this floundering fuckhole doing in there? Farmin’ hemorrhoids? I hope to god we get the Robertson contract so I can afford to live in a place with its own goddamn bathroom. Is there a legal amount of time a person is allowed to dump in a shared pisser for? I should ask Mrs. K.
There he is again. He is defiant in his actions. He looks into my eyes as he relieves himself, challenging me. I am not upset by what he does but I will not back down and look away. He kneels in the sink as his member draws yellow arcs in the night air. He bumps the faucet as he shakes it dry, turning it on, soaking himself.
We were having a fine time at the beach. The sun was hot as it ever was, the waves moved up and down like they were giving the sand a prolonged deep tissue massage, and we lay on old blankets talking in incredulous tones about actors or musicians or politicians that had publicly transgressed in a tabloid media type of way. “How about that one congressman or senator or some other type of governmental representative type that keeps getting caught eating toothpaste before parliamentary sessions? How weird is that? It’s pretty weird.” It was a little weird, especially considering that the tabloids somehow kept getting photos of the congressman/senator/some other type of governmental representative alone at the desk in their office, eating toothpaste, from an angle that one could easily surmise was taken from the camera built into a laptop that would usually be sitting in that sort of position on a desk like that.
“Don’t you think it’s strange that we know more about the type of toothpaste the congressman/senator/some other type of governmental representative eats before parliamentary sessions than we do about what exactly the congressman/senator/some other type of governmental representative is doing in those parliamentary sessions?” Someone asked. It was silent until the waves started moving up and down again. “Yeah, but they eat, like, half the tube, and it’s Arm and Hammer! Who uses, never mind eats, Arm and Hammer toothpaste! That’s so weird!”