I have a name. I “have” a “name.” I’m trying to make sense of this, to hold onto the shapes the world has given me.

 

What I remember is taking it, placing the little paper square on my tongue. Pushing it around my mouth as it slowly dissolved. How long ago? Two hours, maybe four. And somehow I can still feel its tiny fibers against my taste buds. And what now? I have something like six hours left until I return from my trip. I’m sitting on the grass, the dirt is cool, a little moist still from last night’s rain. I have been sitting here. I will sit here. 

 

Before all of this, late this morning, I placed a $20 bet on the Canucks game. Why? I was fuelled by ambition and a sense of impotence. I earn a salary. It is relatively small. Relatively. This only means that some people are richer than is considered profitable for me and the rest of the world. They hire other people to build glass towers. They sell them for ones and zeros. This is starting to make less sense to me. If the bet pays off I’ll get back $220. I will spend that money on alcohol, I’m sure. I will waste it. And of course I probably won’t win. The odds aren’t on my side. So why did I place the bet? I’m thirsty. Another way to answer the question is this:

 

On my way home from work, I walked past Rogers Arena. I spotted a pair of brown eyes, a smile that seemed warm and somehow naive. The boy was looking right at me, right into me, his hand outstretched. Was he in love with me? No, he was dispensing merchandise for promotional purposes. His fingers gripped a NÜTRL vodka soda. “Would you like one?” I was admittedly flustered. “Oh. Sure,” I think I said. And he: “Can I just see two pieces of ID?” No, he wasn’t in love with me at all. His eyes had changed, or I noticed something in them I hadn’t before. Still, a free drink was a free drink, so I showed him the cards. He thanked me. I glowed. I took the white can and I thanked him back. But he had already moved on, now homing in on the next passerby. I walked on as I examined the drink. It felt cold and wet in my palm. On its top was a round orange sticker: PLEASE ENJOY AT HOME. Taped to the side of the can was a white square of paper. I peeled it off and saw the familiar logo – the orca breaking free from a “C” made of ice. Briefly, very briefly, my heart swelled with pride. This was my team, my city. But no. I imagined my city in ruins – earthquakes, riots, cop cars upside-down, and a hungry, incessant burning. We were all waiting for the Big One or the Cup, and we weren’t sure which would come first. But it was the second round of the playoffs now and we had been holding our own. We? They. Those bearded men with their beautiful wives. I wondered if they’d prefer to be playing golf right now. With the security of a multi-million-dollar contract, what else could you want but time off?

 

I wanted more money too. I admit it, I’m human. Money is safe, it is filling. It can do what I need it to. Slipping the temporary tattoo into my pocket, I thought of the sports betting app on my phone, untouched since the fall. Then I thought of the rare minerals extracted from the earth and sealed behind that sleek glass, and the slave-wage miners whose lives I knew nothing about. And I brushed these thoughts away as if there were no other option. I peeled the sticker off the can, cracked the tab and took a sip. Then I pulled out my phone. Exactly $20 remained in my account after the losses I had suffered in October. I could make it all back plus a little extra for beers. Or I could lose $20. But as far as I was concerned that money was already lost. So, I decided, I was up $20, and it was burning a hole in some web server in Ontario.

 

I sat down on a bus stop bench. Tonight was game five against the Oilers. I opted for a single-game parlay – a Hail Mary play. And as I selected the legs of my bet I had a strange sense that I was deciding the future. This, I realized, was a common experience among gamblers. Everyone wants to believe that the universe is on their side. 

 

First Leg: Canucks to win.

Second Leg: Pettersson to score.

Third Leg: Under 6 total goals.

 

And there. I felt I was $200 richer. I walked home drinking my vodka soda. It was 1pm and I figured I’d chill at home before going out somewhere to watch the game. I felt a pang of anxiety incongruous with the sunlight warming my face, the birds chirping from the awnings of Powell Street. I watched as one dived down to peck at the crumbs of a discarded loaf of bread. I wasn’t worried about losing the money, I was worried about not winning. I tried to shake off the uncomfortable feeling as I crossed Main, dodging needles and broken glass. Then, catching my reflection in a shop window, I remembered the tab of acid in my underwear drawer. I don’t know why I had stashed it in there, but I guess it felt right at the time: the drugs with the undergarments, the things we’re supposed to keep hidden. It was funny – I decided not to think about it. I don’t usually act so much on impulse, but the reckless bet had put me in a certain frame of mind. In a way, I had changed myself. I was different from those other iterations that had lived out each minute of each day of my life. So at home I opened the little plastic baggy and I took out the little paper square and placed it on my tongue. Why? No reason. I felt like getting high. Then, almost without thought, I went into the kitchen, turned on the hot water faucet, took the temporary tattoo from my jeans pocket, peeled off its plastic cover and pressed it onto my right wrist. I grabbed a dish cloth and held it under the hot water, let it soak in, gave it a squeeze over the sink and pressed it against the paper square, feeling its heat and its dampness. I held it there against my wrist while I counted to 40, Pettersson’s jersey number. The killer whale was on my skin, the name of my city printed in an arc above it like a rainbow. What was its promise? Once it dried, I took a shower, touched myself and spaced out for a while. I stepped out of the tub, watched my foot lower onto the blue mat. There was something strange about the mat, but I couldn’t quite tell what it was. I stood there for a minute, one foot in the tub, one foot on the bathmat, tracing the outline of my toes with my eyes. The blue of the mat was a bit lighter than the Canucks’ jerseys, I noticed, but darker than the sky. “I really like this colour,” I heard myself whisper. That was when I realized the acid was starting to kick in. I towelled off and decided it was time to go back out into the world.

 

I have a name but it’s not something I believe in right now. I’m sitting on the grass in the park, a prescribed allotment of nature. I am sure these trees were planted in the last two decades. The park predates them. Who are they for? An ant crawls across my bare calf, small proud fellow citizen. I have a powerful urge to do something radical. A police car drives past and I hear a baby crying. I look around and see no one, but suddenly there is an immensity of brown, a cavernous surface, something that smiles at me. And there is an eye, and another; countless eyes. Bark. Dogwood. The dirt is damp, my shorts feel cool, my underwear. I think of the dresser drawer at home. A container made of dead organisms glued together. A German Shepherd pisses on the trunk of a distant tree. Of course. And I need to pee too but I’m not allowed to do what the dog does. This strikes me as ridiculous, that in this way he is freer than I am. But I stand up, my muscles softly aching, and I make my body walk. Look for a bush or a restaurant. So much feeling concentrated in my genitals now I wonder if I really need to go or if it’s just the drugs.

 

The game must be starting soon. Blue jerseys flock toward the arena, toward sports bars. The boys, I laugh. I look to the left, see my eyes in the window of a bubble tea shop. Too bizarre, a pit of uneasiness. I snap my head forward. Sudden awareness. My phone in my pocket. Parlay. Parlez. Want it gone. There is a great smear of shit on the pavement. Human, all too human. Long stride over top, my white shoe plants on a crack. Weeds growing, then weed smoke in my nostrils. Two sushi shops on this block. I cross the road, turn, wait, cross again toward Tsuki. Do they have a bathroom and what will I need to buy to piss? Oh God, can I even speak? I approach the shopfront, continue walking past the door, unsure why I don’t stop. The Pint ahead, a line out the door as I cross West Pender. I hesitate, averting my eyes as my body mingles with their bodies. There is no Red Sea parting, only warm smells, the roughness of arm hair and handbag buckles. I am out now, breathing in, wet cigarette butts grouped in the roots of a sad ornamental tree. Step over the feet of a man slumped over, glass pipe dangling from his blackened fingers. When I reach Hastings there are tears in my eyes, an unspeakable sadness. A dejected mass, brown and grey, the sidewalk market, anthill kicked by the foot of God. I wait at the curb for the white man across the stretch of road. Someone screams, a horn drones, a crow caws and divebombs a Tesla. The orange hand blinks in and out of existence, gives way to the human shape. I say thank you as I step onto the road, dodging oncoming pedestrians. In the alley to my left there is a lifelike rubber penis, then another. Three of them all lying there next to a brown puddle. I stop and stare in wonder. Who do these penises belong to? Where is their home? 

 

I have peed and ordered a beer. The Metropole. Yes. I am watching hockey among strangers I love. I love them, all of them, because they are here and I am here. We groan as a system of lungs. We deflate with the Oilers’ opening goal. The bet? We stare at the screens around the bar, a hundred-eyed shaman prophesying, offering small gestures to nameless gods. My shoulders hunch, a hand taps the bar to urge the play. Forecheck, shot on goal, a deflection. Everything is suspended. I don’t want the money, I want this. I am suddenly aware of the countdown clock. Three minutes left in the period. Vancouver in the offensive zone, puck goes stray, who’s there? 7. Scores! Eruption of voices. Soucy. Not Pettersson, but we’ve tied it. Strangers high five me, I feel warm, euphoric. I drink my beer. Play resumes. Time sinks away, seconds disappearing into a growing past I cannot comprehend because I am now and I wonder if I ever was then. Groans and boos, Edmonton has scored. I was watching the clock, I missed it. I finish my beer as the period ends. It flows down my throat, crystalline cereal. Plastic card tap, beep, delayed expletive muttered. The grand music plays and my stomach churns hot and cold. On the screens, a silver SUV floats slo-mo over a coastal highway. The voice-over makes no sense to me, words and numbers and sickness. The whole room turns. I know none of these people. Everything is bad here now and I need to leave.

 

Unsteady on my feet, my legs feel cool like peppermint. Look up and there is a cloud with my face laughing. I laugh and laugh. I can’t stop: I am free. Having passed through a great tribulation, there must be a reward. I hear music in the distance and it is for me so I follow. One step and another over rough asphalt, red cobblestones. Don’t recognize the instrument. I think a string, it wraps around my mind and gently squeezes, once, then twice, and again until my consciousness is a ball of yarn I’m chasing. Something like a voice, a ghost of a voice echoing over brick, a destination, a destiny. Is this music? What is music? I am walking toward the water. Sirens. Clatter, pigeon coo, pool of urine. Look up, sound licking my ears, my penis twitches, small penis, spent. The bet returns to my body as awareness. I laugh again but can’t hear it. A stranger looks me in the eye like he knows anything. I look away, focus on the lace-gold strumming and my thoughts dissolve.

 

There is a man with a name playing a nameless guitar. Some money falls from my hand as I gaze into the guitar case. Twenty dollars. I think to ask him the score, but how would he know? I’m prodigal tonight. Doesn’t mean I get lost. I can be prodigal because I may yet be rich. I’ll toss my earnings into the harbour as a tip to the world. God’ll swallow me with my mammon. But this feeling takes hold as I reach the peak of my summit (the sky has grown dark). Triumphs don’t last and there must be an attempt, and for an attempt a direction. I have heard the merman singing. I don’t think he was singing to me. I take Water Street down to… Name of this bar escapes me. Dark, a cool breeze. Alexander: another name. Alibi Room. I cross the street, pull open the black door. Can’t get drunk on acid, I’ll die. A face, angelic, tattoo below hairline. Can’t make out the shape, breasts. For one, yes. Her voice, God. Reeks of darts, brown stain on white shirt. I follow. Sit down. No TVs in this bar. Game over? Dining, talking, drinking, patronizing. Mouths and mouths and mouths. I’m up now. Summit. Too much. Descend to the bathroom, but I don’t have to go. Avoid the mirror and sit on plastic toilet seat. No words. No God. God…

“Water. Kolsch?” Stagger in my voice. She says something, leaves. Angel covered in eyes. Sinking rising into it. What was I wanting for? Items descend to table – two shadows, glasses: water, beer. “Thank you.” Flash of white from the next table. He checks the score. Can’t bear to pull the device, glance at the screen. Would break the spell. No, is the spell. Leaning over, “What’s the score?” My voice, God. “2-2. Five minutes left in the third.” I nod. “Did Petterson score?” Doesn’t hear me. I drink the beer because my life is a blind wish hazarded. I’ll stay here until it’s over. It’s nothing more than a children’s game now. I’ll eat the money. I’ll throw the glass at the window and climb out. We’re a wick slowly burning. It is not the money I renounce but its possibility. Nod. My card taps the table. Swig the dregs. Pay my bill and leave. I’m on the outside. I refuse to know. Crab Park just around the corner. I will end it. Throw this machine into the ocean. It is against my thigh like an unfaithful lover. I cross the road, unaware of the signals. Climb the stairs and walk along the overpass, watch the lights in the mountains across the harbour. Angels in the sky of a prophet, Jacob’s ladder. Step off the concrete onto the grass. A wind from the harbour blows through me. Over the sand, shivering, my leg steps over a washed-up log. Take off my shoes. The sand is so cold it makes ice in my stomach. Hold my phone so loosely, my hand a platter. What devises the brain of this severed head? Bile rising from stomach, sickly tickle at the back of my throat. I tighten my fingers around the thing and raise my clenched hand over my head. On the way up I see the tattoo, the whale and the ice. I stare out at the water. A duck dives below the dark surface and disappears.