Kyle's departure for Scotland was a direct slap to my face.
He said he was going to "conduct research" and to "fix the planet" but I know that he really just wanted to be away from me. It's obvious - he didn't invite me along.
At first I was upset and had trouble deciding how to behave around him. 'When he comes back,' I thought, 'should I tell him how angry I am? Should I resent him until he apologizes? Should I poop on his things?'. In the end, I decided on one thing.
Kyle came back as expected. I made a mess of the kitchen and exhausted the last of our household supplies. I even drained the water out of the plants so they shriveled and died. "Hi Kyle," I remember saying, "Where have you been?" Scotland. I know that, but I wanted to be a prick.
I had doubts about my plan at first. I thought it was too mean. It would take a lot of commitment and with winter coming I really just wanted to spend a lot of time on the zombie game. But when Kyle came back he had developed this Scottish accent that I was sure was fake. Like they say, one thing led to another and I was convinced. Kyle needed to pay. He had become an avid biker. I hate bikes; I fell off a bike once. A bike killed both my hamster and dog in one fell swoop once. Insufferable machines, and oh how he loved his.
He wanted me to bike with him too. It was far too late for that. I had already set a date: Christmas. I chose that date for the most effect. Jesus died on Christmas and so would our friendship.
For Christmas he blind folded me and led me outside to our neighbour's garage. We don't own a garage. I was terrified. He had bought a bike, a two seater with flame decals and a basket on the front that he had crammed full of puppies. Ah Kyle, it was too late. Even puppies couldn't save this friendship. I raged and spat out the dip in my lip, setting my plan into action. I packed my few things and moved out.
63 years later my plan was coming to a close. I had moved into a nursing home to complete my ruse and Kyle had contacted me hoping to catch up. Like a sneaky viper I led him into my trap.
"Hi Jamie," he said walking into my room. "Who are you?" I feigned. Pained, he explained our history and stuck around for a while. Even by looking at him I could tell I was still better than him at Mario Kart. "Where are my glasses, Kyle? Am I working from home? What's 'Pizza'?" I would ask. He grew more worried by the moment; my plan was working.
"Kyle, are we out of powerballs?"
He sighed, I could see it was getting to him. He couldn't stand seeing me in this state and I relished every moment of it. It was another Sunday afternoon and we were out for a walk. "Where's my dog, Kyle? Where's my dog Michael?" "He died Jamie... a long time ago..." A tear trickled down the lines of his face and I couldn't help but be reminded of the time I spilled milk on his thesis. His face looked sad and weathered now, shaken up like a towel.
One day I decided to bring my grand thing to a close. Using **COMPUTERS** I called and convinced him to come see me, under the pretense that I was about to die. We ordered pizza and I tried to convince Kyle that I had forgotten how to eat. He showed me, chomping down 2 slices.
And now we walk together outside. Kyle leads me around a corner and I see it, that bike. That same two seat monstrosity he bought so many moons ago. It is touching, I must admit.
Driving the final nail into the coffin of a now ancient Thing I ask: "Can we go for a ride?" Kyle's face, a mixture of anguish and arthritis, seemed to plead "No more." I wait for him to look at me and crack a smile. If I had use of telepathy I would send him a message saying "I got you." Telepathy isnt't necessary however and after a moment long starring contest Kyle sees the truth in my eyes. "A...thing?" he croaks out. "Yes," I reply before taking off my wig and makeup. Even more amazed than before, Kyle asks "You haven't aged?! How?". Of course I haven't aged, Kyle, I work at Telus.
29 October 2009
The Memory Machine
He’s slipping. Oh my fuck, he puzzles, where are my glasses?? I chuckle, thinking of how my grandmother used to wonder the same thing using fewer expletives: They’re on top of your head. He seems to have only a dimming notion of who I am, and I’m not even sure why I’m here. But here we sit, as he forgets. Like a broken record, he asks: Did we order pizza yet?
Me, I’m starting to remember. I remember him as my roommate all those years ago, when he got his first pair of glasses. I remember how his saggy face used to be boyish, how his crooked fingers used to play Mario Kart so nimbly, how his carious brain was once champion of the Memory Machine. I remember his favourite pizza toppings, and I remember when he could remember mine.
Most of all, I remember our falling out. I was a hotshot social scientist, on the brink of a major musicological breakthrough. My research led me to Scotland. It was just four months. I didn’t think he’d take it so hard.
When I got back, he was cold, distant. You’ve changed, he’d tell me. It took some time before I realized what he meant.
In Scotland, I’d gotten really into riding a bicycle and kept it up when I returned home. As a result, our friendship suffered. You know I can’t ride a bike, he’d snarl. I told him over and over: I can teach you.
Thing is, he didn’t want to learn: No way. It’s too dangerous, man. You’re gonna fall or get hit by a car or something -– either way, you’re gonna crack your skull. He was afraid of biking. I pushed him too hard, and it took its toll.
The last straw came on his birthday of that year. I blindfolded him and led him around back to our garage, where his present was waiting: a bicycle built for two. I thought it was a nice gesture. This way he didn’t have to learn to ride but could come biking with me. We’d be able to spend more time together.
He didn’t see it that way. He was afraid of biking and that was never going to change. Choking on fury and spit and tears he cursed me, packed up his stuff and left.
This morning when the nurse called about paying him a visit, I wasn’t exactly eager. How much time does he have left? Hard to say, she said. Not much. After a few pensive sips of tea, I decided I should see him. I got on my bike and headed over.
So here we sit, as I remember and he forgets. Eventually, the nurse pokes her head in the room: Visiting hours are over, Mr Devine. Can we go for a quick walk to work off some of this pizza? I ask. Sure. But make sure he does up his coat. I smirk: He never does up his coat, not even in the dead of winter.
Just as we step out the door, my old friend stops suddenly. He has this look in his eyes -– the kind of look a person gives when they recognize you but can’t quite place your face. My heart sinks. I know exactly what he is looking at. I’m speechless at my thoughtlessness. The bike that I rode to the nursing home, that I’d been riding everywhere for all those years, was that same bicycle built for two that ruined our friendship in the first place.
Is that your bike? he asks. Hesitantly, I answer –- Um, yes -– and begin preparing myself for the spate of rage and unimaginable hurt that will be unleashed as all his fears of biking and memories of my pushiness flood back into his corroded callosum.
Instead, with the strange beauty of his disease shining through, obliterating any notion that bittersweetness could ever be reduced to a mere cliché, Jamie asks: Can we go for a ride?
Me, I’m starting to remember. I remember him as my roommate all those years ago, when he got his first pair of glasses. I remember how his saggy face used to be boyish, how his crooked fingers used to play Mario Kart so nimbly, how his carious brain was once champion of the Memory Machine. I remember his favourite pizza toppings, and I remember when he could remember mine.
Most of all, I remember our falling out. I was a hotshot social scientist, on the brink of a major musicological breakthrough. My research led me to Scotland. It was just four months. I didn’t think he’d take it so hard.
When I got back, he was cold, distant. You’ve changed, he’d tell me. It took some time before I realized what he meant.
In Scotland, I’d gotten really into riding a bicycle and kept it up when I returned home. As a result, our friendship suffered. You know I can’t ride a bike, he’d snarl. I told him over and over: I can teach you.
Thing is, he didn’t want to learn: No way. It’s too dangerous, man. You’re gonna fall or get hit by a car or something -– either way, you’re gonna crack your skull. He was afraid of biking. I pushed him too hard, and it took its toll.
The last straw came on his birthday of that year. I blindfolded him and led him around back to our garage, where his present was waiting: a bicycle built for two. I thought it was a nice gesture. This way he didn’t have to learn to ride but could come biking with me. We’d be able to spend more time together.
He didn’t see it that way. He was afraid of biking and that was never going to change. Choking on fury and spit and tears he cursed me, packed up his stuff and left.
This morning when the nurse called about paying him a visit, I wasn’t exactly eager. How much time does he have left? Hard to say, she said. Not much. After a few pensive sips of tea, I decided I should see him. I got on my bike and headed over.
So here we sit, as I remember and he forgets. Eventually, the nurse pokes her head in the room: Visiting hours are over, Mr Devine. Can we go for a quick walk to work off some of this pizza? I ask. Sure. But make sure he does up his coat. I smirk: He never does up his coat, not even in the dead of winter.
Just as we step out the door, my old friend stops suddenly. He has this look in his eyes -– the kind of look a person gives when they recognize you but can’t quite place your face. My heart sinks. I know exactly what he is looking at. I’m speechless at my thoughtlessness. The bike that I rode to the nursing home, that I’d been riding everywhere for all those years, was that same bicycle built for two that ruined our friendship in the first place.
Is that your bike? he asks. Hesitantly, I answer –- Um, yes -– and begin preparing myself for the spate of rage and unimaginable hurt that will be unleashed as all his fears of biking and memories of my pushiness flood back into his corroded callosum.
Instead, with the strange beauty of his disease shining through, obliterating any notion that bittersweetness could ever be reduced to a mere cliché, Jamie asks: Can we go for a ride?
26 October 2009
Where The Wild Kyles Are:
A boy (Kyle) is seen flipping his shit and demolishing his prole parent's small home. The boy has no regard for his parents few possessions and seems hellbent on having a good time. A wall-clock explodes into a million pieces as young Kyle hurls rocks at it. He stores rocks in his pockets for occasions such as this. Far off in the future his guidance counselor can be seen sitting on a sofa, worried and exasperated with the still-young boy.
Kyle doesn't mean to destroy everything. He just has a passion for life that can only be satiated through screaming, rock throwing, and most any act involving wanton destruction. Kyle's parents are normally about as tolerable as parents can be - his mother bites her bottom lip and constantly reminds herself that 'boys will be boys'. She doesn't spit in his meals or turn on the sink while he's showering - blasting him with a jet of ice cold 'fuck you' water. His father is overseas for work or war or whatever.
Tonight Mama Kyle has had enough. She walks in expecting to see Kyle all nestled up in his musicology themed bed, sleeping and dreaming of fire. Instead she is immediately greeted with her treasured 14 carot gold wall clock that has been smashed to bits at the hands of one Kyle Devine. Devine Retribution indeed. Mama Kyle is red with bloodlust and storms into our young juggernaut's room where he is hard at work making a fort. She scolds him and finally, tired of yelling and screaming at a dervish that simply won't listen, sends him to Scotland post haste.
Our young howitzer arrives via mom-made boat on a beach populated by crabs and sand for the most part. This is Scotland. There are several rocks and small shrubs.
A boy (Kyle) is seen flipping his shit and demolishing his prole parent's small home. The boy has no regard for his parents few possessions and seems hellbent on having a good time. A wall-clock explodes into a million pieces as young Kyle hurls rocks at it. He stores rocks in his pockets for occasions such as this. Far off in the future his guidance counselor can be seen sitting on a sofa, worried and exasperated with the still-young boy.
Kyle doesn't mean to destroy everything. He just has a passion for life that can only be satiated through screaming, rock throwing, and most any act involving wanton destruction. Kyle's parents are normally about as tolerable as parents can be - his mother bites her bottom lip and constantly reminds herself that 'boys will be boys'. She doesn't spit in his meals or turn on the sink while he's showering - blasting him with a jet of ice cold 'fuck you' water. His father is overseas for work or war or whatever.
Tonight Mama Kyle has had enough. She walks in expecting to see Kyle all nestled up in his musicology themed bed, sleeping and dreaming of fire. Instead she is immediately greeted with her treasured 14 carot gold wall clock that has been smashed to bits at the hands of one Kyle Devine. Devine Retribution indeed. Mama Kyle is red with bloodlust and storms into our young juggernaut's room where he is hard at work making a fort. She scolds him and finally, tired of yelling and screaming at a dervish that simply won't listen, sends him to Scotland post haste.
Our young howitzer arrives via mom-made boat on a beach populated by crabs and sand for the most part. This is Scotland. There are several rocks and small shrubs.
20 October 2009
Best in Show
Polly is a huge bitch. I went to Paris to try and find her. Turns out she's not even there.
Worst. Thing. Ever.
Polly's atrocious Thing got me thinking about Jamie. Remember when he grew that dirtstache? Oh, how I miss that hispid teenage silhouette.
I held back tears of longing at the Musée d'Orsay when I saw a book called Dog Painting: A Social History of the Dog in Art. With every turned page a susurration to myself -- to Jamie: Look at that dog.
In the Social History of the Dog in Art that is my heart, Jamie is truly Best in Show.
Worst. Thing. Ever.
Polly's atrocious Thing got me thinking about Jamie. Remember when he grew that dirtstache? Oh, how I miss that hispid teenage silhouette.
I held back tears of longing at the Musée d'Orsay when I saw a book called Dog Painting: A Social History of the Dog in Art. With every turned page a susurration to myself -- to Jamie: Look at that dog.
In the Social History of the Dog in Art that is my heart, Jamie is truly Best in Show.
14 October 2009
Like dog poop before the first snowfall my life without Kyle sits idle. What is there to do? No one to play chess with or to throw hand fulls of money at. And isn't that what life is really all about?
On that note, have you ever seen a dog's master pass away, only to find that the dog maintains a steady vigil at it's best friend's grave? The dog waits day in and day out for his master's return, never smart enough to realize that his master is getting drunk every single day in Scotland and is likely never coming back.
Maybe I'll just get a dog, name it "Kyle Ditched Me" and hide Snicker's bars around it's neck.
On that note, have you ever seen a dog's master pass away, only to find that the dog maintains a steady vigil at it's best friend's grave? The dog waits day in and day out for his master's return, never smart enough to realize that his master is getting drunk every single day in Scotland and is likely never coming back.
Maybe I'll just get a dog, name it "Kyle Ditched Me" and hide Snicker's bars around it's neck.
06 October 2009
I'm in Scotland
Scotland's the bonniest. Bonnier than Canada, I'd say. Towels hang straighter here, somehow.
Last night my flatmate, Jimmy (aka Haggis: King of the Crops), was playing the zombie game. He smoked this Canadian no-hoper named Jellybones right off the roof so many times. Classic.
Sometimes I wonder about Jamie. I tell everyone in Scotland that "my roommate pretty much fucking runs Telus. He'll fix the shit out of your cellphone."
They don't have Telus over here, I don't think. And they refer to cells as "mobiles." Still, they can tell from the way I speak that this guy is big time. In Scotland, Jamie is a god. Radiant beauty.
Last night my flatmate, Jimmy (aka Haggis: King of the Crops), was playing the zombie game. He smoked this Canadian no-hoper named Jellybones right off the roof so many times. Classic.
Sometimes I wonder about Jamie. I tell everyone in Scotland that "my roommate pretty much fucking runs Telus. He'll fix the shit out of your cellphone."
They don't have Telus over here, I don't think. And they refer to cells as "mobiles." Still, they can tell from the way I speak that this guy is big time. In Scotland, Jamie is a god. Radiant beauty.
05 October 2009
Kyle's In Scotland
Today I woke up and Kyle continued to be in Scotland. This shit has been going on for over a month now.
I've taken consuming his consumables in an effort to coax him back over the Atlantic. A famous hunter - Hemingway maybe - was said to speed up the process of stalking an animal by stealing the animal's cubs. The mother would then come rumbling over into his waiting rifle. I am adopting a similar strategy with Kyle. By drinking his tea, smashing his guitars, and rubbing my balls all over his room, I hope to stir up a sense of urgency in him that will send him back into my life.
I've taken consuming his consumables in an effort to coax him back over the Atlantic. A famous hunter - Hemingway maybe - was said to speed up the process of stalking an animal by stealing the animal's cubs. The mother would then come rumbling over into his waiting rifle. I am adopting a similar strategy with Kyle. By drinking his tea, smashing his guitars, and rubbing my balls all over his room, I hope to stir up a sense of urgency in him that will send him back into my life.
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