Shelby by Pete; McCormack Page A

will—perhaps even to initiate intimate interactions. In short, were we lovers?
    I got off the bus at Davie Street and walked northbound up Granville Street. The city had an electric quality, the most recent disco pop hits bellowing out of record stores, breezes of warm air floating head level and the lighting doing wonders for what was left of Vancouver’s pasty winter complexion. I stopped at a Muffin Break for a cup of coffee and gazed at the passers-by. Eventually my coffee made its way to my lap and the table had to be cleared. I was wearing brown corduroys and didn’t care. One of the staff, a Mediterranean woman in her late teens, smiled at me in an almost come-hither way. I declined, my returned smile indicating I was spoken for.
    By about nine o’clock the crowds began to thin out so I took a left on Robson and walked all the way down to the ocean. Then I wandered back. The breeze was starting to get colder. By ten it was dark out and the wind was blowing hard. I took a right off Robson and walked up Seymour Street. A dozen or more prostitutes were there taking advantage of the drier weather. One particularly buxom, platinum blond with an appealing face moved right into my path, our eyes smashing like a head-on car crash on a desolate highway. I blushed and she smiled—a warm, sad smile. Instantly I was overcome with the image of her staggering home as the sun comes up to stand for the thousandth time beneath the hot stream of a shower, pounding on mildewy tiled walls with tired fists, vowing to never again be used as a spittoon for semen. Words rolled from my quivering lips:
    â€œWould you care to share some pastries and coffee, my treat?”
    Again that lonely smile. “You got wheels?”
    â€œWheels? Uh … well … yes, but not here. I … I thought we could just go to little yonder bistro,” I said, pointing to a quaint cafe just up the street.
    She glanced at it and then back at me. “Fuck off,” she said.
    â€œWhat did I say?”
    â€œFuck you.”
    I left, the wind calling to me as never before. I crossed streets, noticing mannequins in windows, concert posters, construction sites and parking lots. Heading north up Homer Street I skipped in and out of shadows and talked to myself aloud, feeling less self-conscious with every word. I felt a few drops of rain on my hand as I turned right onto Hastings Street. I was slightly lost. A bus passed and in its wake of noise the rain became heavier. I pushed my pace into a trot and sprinted between awnings. Before long I was running in the eye of a North American monsoon. Another bus passed—the Fraser, my bus!—but I didn’t flag it down. I couldn’t. I was wet and I was cold but I kept moving, running into the rain like it was holy water, my mouth open and inviting, my heart beating into my throat, my lungs gasping for air, my eyes barely able to see where I was going. Every step became a lesson in trust and geography; at any moment I could have crashed into a telephone pole and broken my nose or smashed my reproductive organs on a parking meter. Still I didn’t wipe the water from my eyes. I didn’t even squint.
    I just ran.
    And then I stopped.
    Where Hastings Street crosses Cambie Street I stood staring into the face of Victory Square. The plaque read: “THEIR NAME LIVETH FOR EVERMORE”—a salute to the dead. I wiped the rain from my face and raked my fingers through my hair. There was a man lying down on a bench about twenty feet to my left, in as close to the fetal position as space would allow. The sky offered him no relief. I wondered if the heavens would. I sat down next to him and figured there should be a drunk memorial here, too, in remembrance of the contribution alcoholics make to road repair work and street cleaning via liquor taxes.
    Reading the plaque again I had a burst of literary inspiration but no pen to write down, Life is a horror show where everybody