Dinner on July 23, 2010

I opened the freezer and examined the contents: French fries, pergoies, half a beer, yoghurt with chopsticks in it (my roommate likes yoghurtsicles), the frozen peas I use to ice soccer injuries, two nearly empty containers of strawberries left by a previous tenant, a box of chicken nuggets (seven in total), a sirloin steak with an expire date from last year, a chicken thigh wrapped in a Pharmasave bag, ice cubes, and a package of what appeared to be hamburger patties. None of these items were mine- though, I could make a case for the ice cubes.

I grabbed the package of what appeared to be hamburger patties. It was surrounded by ice. I opened the package and started chiseling away with a butter knife. I felt my schooling in Archaeology was being applied well. Turns out they were hamburger patties, three in total. I smashed up a few ice cubes to pack around the remaining two patties. This replaced the ice that melted during the process of exhuming protein for dinner.

I put some butter in a frying pan. The butter was mine. The frying pan was not. I defrosted the patty for ten minutes, nearly cooking it completely. I think it lost half its weight.

I pulled out two pieces of the rye bread my mother bought me the other day from Bond Bond’s. This is good bread and currently my most prized food possession. It’s actually my only food possession.

I put the bread in the toaster.

I started frying the patty on low heat.

I grabbed my roommate’s mozzarella cheese and hacked off two thin slices. I noticed when I opened the package he’d last used the cheese on a grater. My clean knife marks left evidence of unauthorized cheese borrowing. So, I got the grater and grated some cheese. Then I ate the grated cheese. When I removed the cheese from the fridge, I made a mental note on how the saran wrap had been folded and the position of the cheese on the shelf. This assured that when I put the cheese back in the fridge it appeared untouched.

I grabbed the jug of fruit punch from the fridge and poured about fifty milliliters into a glass. I added water to the glass. This created purple flavoured water. I added about fifty milliliters of water to the jug of fruit punch to cover my tracks in case my roommate had made an invisible “remaining juice indicator line.”

I spread Miracle Whip on the toast. The Miracle Whip was mine. I’ve been sold on this product every since those commercials during the hockey playoffs that insinuated the using of Miracle Whip would lead to eventful and raucous parties where beautiful people wear shorts and barbeque on the rooftops of old brick buildings.

I covered the toast in ketchup. Ketchup is one of those items that someone buys and it gets used. I don’t feel guilty for borrowing some. It’s kind of like toilet paper and dish soap that way.

I placed the patty on the toast, topping it with the slices of mozzarella cheese. The patty didn’t cover much of the toast.

I sat down and ate the toast around the edges of the patty. If I’m going to eat toast with Miracle Whip and ketchup on it, I’m going to eat it as an appetizer, not as the last bites of a mediocre meal. What was left was something that looked like an Oreo cookie that had gone all wrong.

The improvised sandwich actually wasn’t too bad.

I washed the cheese grater, juice glass, knife, and pan. I removed the stray bits of grated mozzarella cheese from the counter and washed them down the sink- putting them in the garbage might have raised suspicion later on.

On Monday, when I get paid, I’ll buy my roommate a six-pack of beer. He’ll think I did it for no reason, that I’m a really nice guy. And I am. But this is my way of paying him back for eating his food without asking and elaborately covering it up so he wouldn’t notice. I call this an act of Passive Aggressive Reciprocity.

Youtube Channel

This is unrelated to writing but I don't care. This is my blog thingy and I can do whatever I want.

My Interpretive dance partner (La Kat) and I have started a Youtube channel. We have been performing mind blowing dance creations to the wonderful sounds of eighties/nineties sitcom theme songs. Our elaborate budgets and cutting edge choreography should not be missed. The first one is up now, the Facts of Life. And to come shortly are our interpretations of Saved by the Bell and Jem and the Holograms.

We appreciate your support and urge you to follow us as our careers as internet sensations blossom.

http://www.youtube.com/user/BroomheadProductions

The Cure

“Yeah, that’s right, two dozen, please,” I say. “I’m at the community pool. How long do think it’ll be?”

I stand out front and wait. It’s raining slightly.

A teenager arrives in a car. He gets out, meets me on the curb. “That’ll be $14.35 with tax,” he says. I give him fifteen.

“Keep the change,” I say.

I’m a pretty generous guy.

I take my hot wings into the change-room. I take off my clothes and place the hot wings on a bench. I put on my trunks and walk to the shower. You’re supposed to have a rinse before you go in. So I have one. I hold the hot wings above my head so they won’t get wet.

I head out to the pool. There’s loud music playing, something from the fifties. Old people sit quietly in the hot tub. Children scream from all directions. I walk past a pile of life jackets and beach balls. I see a guy shoot out from the water slide. He makes a large splash. Then he swims over to the other side of the pool and starts doing lengths, front crawl.

I enter the sauna and sit near the back. I start eating my hot wings. They’re really good.

A woman is in here. She pours water on the rocks. She looks at me wide-eyed, mouth open. She doesn’t say anything. She’s about forty-five.

I have sauce all over my face. I’m starting to heat up. Moisture is coming out of every pore in my body. I’m losing weight right before my eyes. I can’t feel my tongue. Breathing is difficult.

I try to engage the woman in conversation.

The woman leaves.

I think I’m approaching cardiac arrest.

I have five hot wings left. I haven’t even used the blue cheese dip yet.

A young couple enters. The guy whispers to the girl, “Well, looks like we have an Upper Paleolithic Cro-Magnon here.” The girl says, “That man is fucking gross, Jerry.” The couple leaves immediately.

I realize that I can’t see anymore.

My knees are shaking. I have one hot wing to go. It’s a drumstick. My favourite.

I finish the last hot wing. With the box full of bones in my hand I crawl towards the door. I can’t open it. A lifeguard arrives and helps me up. I can tell it’s a male lifeguard because of his grip. I would have preferred a female one. But you can’t always get your way.

The lifeguard puts the box of bones in a trashcan and escorts me to the change-rooms. I hear a parent say to a child, “Daddy’s here, Honey. You don’t have to look.”

The lifeguard says to me, “I’d better not see you here again, asshole.”

I take a long, cold shower. It’s great.

Then, my eyesight returns.

I towel off and put my clothes back on.

I leave the pool.

I feel much better now, thank you.

The Smoking Section

The Smoking Section


The ship is sinking but we don’t care. We are the smoking section. We are better than disasters.

There are twelve of us. We are a diverse bunch, standing in groups of three. And then there is Stan, the chief steward. He’s in the middle. There are no women.

We are on the top deck, port side, near the bow.

Alarms are sounding. The non-smokers are running. They are in disarray, lost. The ship is listing but not enough for concern- our concern, that is.

We continue smoking. We lean back against the white walls. We converse. “Might rain tonight,” we say. “Where you heading?” That sort of thing.

We hear a significant crash. A lifeboat has fallen. A man hangs on, screaming. We look half-heartedly and ash our cigarettes.

We are veterans, ready under pressure. Though, we feel none. When the time comes we’ll know what to do. We decide to have another cigarette. I light my Lucky Strike. I help John light his. He says, “Thank you.”

An announcement gives orders. It’s a little too panicked for us. It hurts our ears. People are in the water now. Most are poor swimmers. A fire breaks out on a lower deck. It’s electrical we decide.

Stan looks at his watch, pushes his long hair over his shoulder. He takes a deep breath. He looks bothered. And so he should. The sinking ship is ruining our day.

Without saying a word we follow Stan to the nearest lifeboat. He releases the lines. We help ease the lifeboat down. Then we get in one by one. There is no pushing, no shoving. It’s orderly. We are considerate of each other. Stan gets in last and lowers us the rest of the way.

We hit the water and function like an organism: six per side, stroke for stroke. Stan sits at the head, like a coxswain, except he has no need to yell.

The ship is partially submerged. Non-smokers keep hurling themselves over the railings. The fire has spread. The ship’s funnel has fallen into the water. It’s not looking good.

We row. Our blue plumes of exhaust are evidence of our efforts.

We approach an island and bring the lifeboat ashore. We pull it onto to the beach like we are pallbearers. We are solemn. But that’s because we are inconvenienced.

We sit on a grass covered point and light cigarettes. We sit twelve abreast, Stan behind us, like a father.

“It’s a real shame, bout the ship and all,” Thomas says. “She was a real thing of beauty.” We nod because we agree.

The ship is pretty much under by now. There’s a lot of debris floating on the surface. There are no signs of struggle. It’s gotten real quiet over there. We’re certain no one has survived but us.

Philip says, “The disaster was rather biblical don’t you think?”
James says, “Yeah, it was beyond belief.”

The ship is completely gone. It’s silent, save for the seagulls that hover above the wreckage. The sun burns through the clouds.

Stan opens a fresh package of cigarettes, passes some out. We get up to leave. We walk towards the mountain single file, smokes in hand. Stan will know what to do next.