Cortez's Story: Part 6

That night, I waited for the eleven o’clock sleepover request. Cortez was predictable with that at least: every other night he would text me at eleven fifteen, sometimes eleven thirty and occasionally midnight, and we’d all but follow a script.

“Good evening, Madame,” he would write in a text, “would you care to come for a sleepover? Perhaps some hash to be followed with *winkwink* cardio?”

“Why yes, Monsieur,” I would invariably reply. “I do believe some cardio is much needed. But I’m very near to falling asleep, shall I head over now? Or you’ll have to wait until another evening.” I didn’t want him to think I had sat up, zoning out on TV shows I didn’t like, waiting for his invitation.

      While waiting for his “come on over” reply, I would doll myself up. First I would brush my teeth and give my hair a quick comb through, not wanting to waste too much energy getting pretty. After ten minutes with no texts, I’d put on my sexiest underwear, layered under a tight pair of jeans or a body hugging dress. When, twenty minutes later, Cortez still hadn’t replied I would put on my glasses. I’d pace around the living room, groaning intermittently in a mix of frustration and irritation, Isabella watching me with motherly concern from her perch on the sofa.

      “Are you staying at his house tonight?” She’d ask calmly, giving away her emotions by concealing them so well. “It’s kind of late, isn’t it? Is he going to meet you halfway? I know it’s just a four minute walk, but I don’t like you walking around downtown alone this late at night.”

      Just as I’d be taking off my shoes or pulling out my pajamas, my phone would vibrate loudly. Feeling sick to my stomach with anticipation, I’d ignore it for a good five minutes before coolly strolling over to read my lovers delayed reply. I asked him to meet me partway a few times, giving up after the fourth no-show. When I’d arrive at the Ivy, at least an hour since having been invited over, the door would be locked and the bar deserted. I’d stand outside, waiting and hoping that he’d be paying attention to his phone knowing that it took such a short time for me to get to his place from mine. Usually he would let me in before five minutes had passed, but a few times I stood outside shivering in my ‘cute clothes’ for a solid fifteen. I felt silly leaning against the wall and I certainly didn’t feel empowered and womanly like I had the first few times I spent the night.

Upstairs, the bong would be packed and waiting, and after a few bowls I wasn’t so mad at Cortez anymore. So what if he took forever to answer his phone? He was busy having deep and hilarious discussions with his interesting roommates. Did it matter that he was always conveniently “waiting for a buddy” and couldn’t come meet me, when the walk was so short? You’ve only been propositioned for sex once walking over here, my high brain reasoned, just relax and enjoy the attention he’s giving you now.

      The only variation that night was when I coyly asked him to put on a ‘raincoat.’

      “It even glows,” I giggled, tilting my head to peer up at him through my eyelashes. “We haven’t talked about what we’ll do if I get knocked up by accident. I’m pro-choice,” I said quickly, not liking the change in his face. “But I know I couldn’t have an abortion. Not after everything I just went through and knowing that I would love that ba- er, yeah...” The air in the room was thicker than a good beef stew. Cortez said back on his haunches, thoughtfully tugging at his goatee.

      “Well, Madame, I would try to convince you not to have it,” he said after a long pause. He coughed forcefully. “But uh, ultimately that’s your decision. You’re very young though, and I’d hate to see you alter your life so drastically.” I looked at him quizzically, feeling slightly repulsed.

What kind of statement is that, ‘I would try to talk you into something you don’t want to do but ultimately it’s all about you?’ I had hoped for, and really I had expected, a supportive reaction. “Okay Taylor,” I had wanted him to say. “Let’s use protection every time then, because I don’t want to put you in the position where you’d have to make that choice. And if we have an ‘oops’, don’t worry Madame, I will take care of you two.” It didn’t have to be true; it just needed to be said. I bit my lip and reached for the blanket, not wanting to be as exposed as I was. Cortez saw the change and before the disappointment in my belly worked its way to my tear ducts, he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around me.

      “So it glows, you say?” He whispered in my ear, goatee tickling my neck. A single tear rolled out of my eye, and I rubbed it into his curls before he could notice. I was suddenly aware of the fact that he was almost a decade older than me.

      “I’m not really in the mood, Monsieur. That killed it for me,” I tried to whisper too quietly for him to hear.

 I felt embarrassed that I’d let my emotions into the pre-arranged no-strings-attached, friends-with-benefits deal. I thought back to my excitement when Cortez came back from a weeklong rave on Bards Island and told me he hadn’t felt the desire to sleep with any of the girls there, not even the stripper who had flung herself at him constantly. A doubt crept into my mind, thinking about the times he’d called into the Trout, claiming to have witnessed a crime or that his house had been broken into when he wanted to lay in bed with me. I shoved it to the side when Cortez scooped me up and held me in his lap all night. I was woken up later by his erection, presumptuously wrapped in a condom, prodding the backs of my naked thighs. Bizarrely turned on, I rolled over and tangled my body in his.    

I felt a familiar disgust when I woke up in the morning, alone. There was no sign of the man who made me feel like a lady almost a month ago. I lifted my head groggily, yanking the sleeping bag-cum-blanket to cover my bare bum. I remembered him waking me up in the night and groaned. I certainly did not feel like a lady, and I wanted to not feel as terrible as I did in that moment. Dressing quickly, I packed the biggest bong rip that I could handle and chased it with three cigarettes. I figured Cortez owed me at that point, suppressing any feelings of guilt. He entered, hair wet and even scragglier looking than normal from the shower, as I was tugging on my boots.

      “Oh! Did you want to have a shower, Madame?” He closed the door, un-tucking the green towel from around his waist. He held it out to me, despite it being soaking wet. From the rank smell of it, it was still dirty from when we’d shared it two mornings ago. I shook my head slightly, puffing on another cigarette. He shrugged and re-wrapped his naked waist.

      “I want to shower at home,” I mumbled, looking towards the door. It was the first time I had woken up and Cortez’s legs weren’t wrapped around mine. It was too coincidental to have just happened by chance after the brief emergency baby plan discussion, and I’ve never been one to believe in coincidences.

      “Oh,” he drew in his breath sharply, surprised. “Okay, Madame. Are you upset with me?” There was an uncomfortably long space of dead air.

      “No—Yea, I guess… I’m starting to have feelings for you Cortez.” I glanced up to see his reaction. “I’m not in the same place as I was when we started… doing this. You’re too fucking busy to come meet me, but not busy enough to not have me run over here in the middle of the night. It doesn’t make me feel good; I feel like your personal hooker or sex doll or something. It makes me feel icky, and I don’t want this anymore.”

      “What is it that you want now, Taylor?” Cortez asked, solemn for once, lowering himself to sit on the edge of the bed next to me. I couldn’t help but notice the person-sized space between us.

      “I want… I want a boyfriend-girlfriend relationship, Cortez. I want to be your girlfriend and cuddle up and watch movies, bake cookies and lay in bed all day—just lay there and enjoy that. We’ve never hung out in the daytime except at work. I… I want to do things in the daylight with you.” I cringed at my awkward finish, but it fit perfectly. Cortez sighed reaching for the pack of cigarettes and lit one. He offered the pack to me and I took another, ignoring the churning in my empty stomach. The breakfast of scrambled eggs and home-grown veggies had apparently been a one-time deal.

      “Well…” he started, fiddling with a piece of hash and staring at the wall. “I just got out of a serious relationship, I told you—”

“I know,” I interrupted. “That’s why I don’t think we should do this anymore. You made it clear you don’t want anything more, and I didn’t either – in the beginning. Things in my life changed, and this isn’t working anymore. It doesn’t make me feel good.”

“I don’t want to make you feel bad, Madame,” he sighed. “I too crave the closeness from the bond of a relationship. Right now I can’t commit to that, though I would love to take you out for a hike at Walakak Park. And I’d love to bake with you, and watch movies and you know I love to cuddle.” He pulled me gently down onto the bed and held me. I stared up at him, looking for clues in his eyes.

“I’m confused, Monsieur,” I whispered, feeling frustratingly young. I wondered if the age difference was too much. Older guys know the right things to say, I reminded myself, whether they mean to or not. “I want the distinction of girlfriend. You say you don’t want a relationship, but what you just said contradicts that.” I waited for his explanation, but he dropped his face in to nuzzle my chest. “No, Cortez, be serious. I’m not going to keep sleeping over here if you aren’t interested in a relationship. This is hurting me.” His face still pressed against my chest, he sighed heavily before looking up at me.

“Compromise? We’ll not be in a relationship, but how about we make our friendship,” he smiled coyly, “exclusive? Though I haven’t felt the need for anyone else with you around, rrrraaawwr!” He didn’t wait for an answer before biting my neck. “Deal, Madame?” He drawled lustily, looking into my eyes.

“Okay,” I agreed hesitantly. “Exclusive… friendship.” I forced a smile and kissed his nose. A strange expression crossed his face, like the kiss was an offensive pleasure. He quickly covered it with a hungry grin, growling and rolling quickly so that I was laying on top of him. My hand reached down to pull off his towel, and he had me undressed in record time.

Another three weeks later, and we’d yet to go for a hike. The plans had been made several times, but it wasn’t Cortez’s style to set a time. I would rush to finish everything that needed doing for the day early in the morning. The first time we were supposed to go, I woke up at six thirty so I could be ready at the drop of a dime. I was hoping that our daylight activity would bring back the tenderness that had petered out of our relationship. My good-bye kiss privileges had been taken away ever since the discussion about babies and exclusive friendship, and I wanted them back.

 “We’ll go early tomorrow afternoon,” he promised, breathing heavily as he took in my naked body, contrasted sharply against the Mexican blankets. “God, you’re delicious,” he breathed.

But I had no texts the next morning, and by eleven forty five, I knew we weren’t going to Walakak Park. To be completely honest, I had known when he’d first said it. I had just hoped that he would give me the simple hike that I wanted, since he always got what he wanted. When I called him out on it, he turned it on me, saying “Well Madame, you didn’t text me either.”

“No, I didn’t,” I shot back, “because I was sitting around, fucking waiting for you. I didn’t want to be “clingy” or “needy” or -- FUCK! -- “girlfriendy” and then you’d be mad about that. I didn’t think I’d have to remind you to do something you claim to want to do with me. It’s literally the only thing I’ve ever asked of you.” I scooted backwards on the bed, pressing my back, clothed for once, against the cool wall.

“I guess we both flaked out, Madame,” he said, a warning tone in his voice. “I’m sorry you feel so upset about it.”

Cortez's Story: Part 5

It was a beautiful summer night. I clearly remember looking up at the constellations in awe. The light from the full moon hid the smaller stars, but seemed to stir up some kind of emotion in the larger ones. The stars of Orion’s Belt twinkled and flickered, trying to communicate their Universal wisdom to me. I smiled at the sky, stretched my arms wide and spun in circles on the sidewalk. After three rotations my smile had grown to a grin that hurt my cheek muscles. I felt free and in charge of my life. I sent Cortez a text to let him know I’d be there in about twenty minutes, and asked him to meet me outside of the Trout. He agreed, saying he would put on his shoes and head out the door to meet me halfway.

Two separate men had offered me a ride downtown in their mud splattered and rusting trucks on the increasingly spooky walk to downtown, which I had politely declined. My texts to Cortez were going unanswered, and a phone call had gone straight to a voicemail box that was no longer accepting messages. I stood in front of the Laughing Trout, waiting, for ten minutes without a sign of my new friend. I wondered if I’d missed him somewhere along the route, concerned as I was with avoiding eye contact with the few people I’d passed. I walked the perimeter of the pub, thinking maybe he’d misunderstood me. Forty minutes later and I was still sighing in disappointed frustration. I wondered if it would be better to try to get back into the house or wake up David and Isabella two blocks over.

Just as I was turning to leave, I saw Cortez’s thick goatee shining red in the moonlight as he sauntered towards me. He was as completely relaxed as always, showing no sign of being late or having received any of my attempts to get a hold of him. I was momentarily annoyed before hearing his voice whisper in my head, “Relax. The dishes aren’t going anywhere.” I’m not on a schedule, I reminded myself. I didn’t have to be at work until six in the evening. I shook it off and started walking towards the man, smiling so sweetly I forgot what my issue had been in the first place. Had he really said he’d meet me, or did I just dream that up somewhere between the third and eight bowls?

“How’s it going?” I asked coolly. In a state of denied puppy-love, I was terrified to say anything negative, critical or otherwise uncool for fear he’d label me as immature or judgemental and vanish from my life. I felt more whole than I had in a long time since we had become friends, and I didn’t want to lose that. I plastered an unassuming smile on my face.

“Great! Have you seen the moon? She’s gorgeous tonight,” he said brightly, throwing back his head to howl at the luminous sphere. I continued to smile politely as we walked through the deserted downtown streets. We made very slow progress with Cortez setting the pace, stopping to inspect this flower or admire that tree. “Sorry I was so late,” he said finally, “I was waiting on buddy to come get his paawt.”

“No worries,” I heard myself say, my voice high pitched and girly. I forgot wanting to ask why he didn’t text or call me, why he didn’t mention waiting for someone when he was supposedly going out the door. We had stopped in front of The Ivy, a popular bar and music hotspot. I didn’t have enough fingers to count how many times I had wished to go in there just to listen to big artists like K-OS or K’naan. “Uh, you know I’m not nineteen right?” I asked playfully, poking his taut stomach.

“Of course, Madame,” he smiled mischievously, giving my long hair a short tug. “I guess I forgot to tell you… I moved! Got away from the roommate from hell just in time.” He unlocked the heavy wooden door, chuckling quietly to himself.

“Won’t I get…? I don’t know, thrown out or something?” The naïve words hung in the empty air and I wished I could snatch them back. Cortez just grinned, showing the broken tooth. He waved me inside and I didn’t hesitate again. I ran up the steep stairs leading to the second floor feeling like a VIP.

Cortez’s new ‘pad’ was a three-bedroom apartment occupying half of the third floor. It smelled unmistakably of fresh weed and stale cigarette smoke. There was something else too, that half-clean smell from being inhabited solely by males. That being said, the place didn’t look particularly bad. Sure, the kitchen was a disaster zone overtaken by stacks of dirty dishes and the surface of the coffee tables were a mystery, but I knew I sure as hell didn’t want to wash dishes after having done that for eight hours at work. There were ashtrays on either of the tables and one in the kitchen, keeping two very grimy bongs company. Books on Norse mythology, gardening, conspiracy theories and the Simpsons covered the living room table, distracting the eye from the stacks of books on window sills and the ignored dinosaur TV. Countless hand-drawn maps, tattoos, cartoons and pot leaf doodles spread across the dining room table, inching their way towards the chairs. I inspected a support beam between the dining and living area, coated in stickers. The place had a welcoming, lived-in feel.  

I followed Cortez into the first room off of the black-light lit entrance hallway. It wasn’t much, but at least it had real walls. My perma-smile grew at the pile of clothes occupying almost half of the room. I noticed with delight that the bed was still simply a queen sized mattress on the floor. A stereo surround system huddled off to the side at the head of the bed and a long, rectangular table sat between the mattress and the wall.

“I love it!” I gushed, tossing my backpack beside the door and rolling heavily on to the bed. I had mistaken the brightly coloured Mexican blankets for sheets and they were rough against my skin.

“It’s a cozy little cubbyhole,” he sighed, bent backwards in a standing back bend. I loved that he was into yoga and his ‘om’ symbol wrist tattoos. “Shall we have bowl, Madame?” Cortez gestured grandly to the branches hanging above a National Geographic poster at the head of the bed. “Some pretty good stuff from the last harvest. Oh, and some hashish too; check out this stuff.” He hopped over a pile of t-shirts, scooping up a mould-coloured chunk from the top of the stereo. He inspected it with pride before handing it to me. Practiced in stoner etiquette from the yearlong haze with Erica, I followed protocol: hold it close to your eye, sniff, inspect it, turn and inspect the other side, the top, and bottom; sniff again, drop your hand to give it back, sniff, inspect and take a deep inhale of the smell once more.

“Wow, I can’t wait to try it,” I said lamely, placing it delicately into his large palm. I didn’t know anything about hash, or about pot really, except how to smoke it and how it made me feel. I didn’t want to make an attempt at a compliment and expose my lack of knowledge or expertise.

I fiddled with the stereo while Cortez heated the nug with a lighter. When it was sufficiently pliable, he broke off a couple granules and mixed them with half of a bud straight off of the branch. I was practically bursting with a feeling of ‘cool’. Here I was, in an older, very smart young man’s bedroom above the town’s most popular bar, about to smoke as much free pot/hash as I could handle. I thought of the days with Erica, when a pot dealer or grower was who you not-so-secretly aspired to date. I think the reason is fairly obvious: endless supply. I guess there is the ‘cool factor’ too, though I’ve long since lost sight of why I ever thought dealers were cool.

A few hours went by, during which I told Cortez all about my experiences using chemical drugs. We talked about how to recover from the loss of dignity and self-respect that resulted from sleeping with whomever caught my eye at the time. I surprised myself by telling him how I was scared to have sex now, feeling like I wouldn’t be able to enjoy it sober, if at all. He reassured me that over time I would move past the disgust I felt for most guys. It was a few hours later when Cortez wrapped up his own tales of teenage promiscuity and drug abuse. So high I could hardly see in the dim room, my eyelids felt as heavy as sandbags. I had had two more tokes after saying I was too high, not wanting to be rude and refuse the ever-full bowl.

“What time is it?” I asked slowly, the words stretching out like taffy. Unable to understand most of what Cortez was saying anymore, I needed to sleep.

“Uhh, let me see…” He leaned over me to pick up his phone, plugged into the stereo. “It is … four-forty-three.”

“Seriously! I’ve gotta sleep.”

At my request, Cortez had brought in an unzipped sleeping bag for me to use. I placed my glasses on top of the stereo and burrowed into the blanket. The thin sarong with a big pot leaf in the middle wasn’t thick enough to keep me warm.

“Yea, I’ve got to hit the hay too. Gotta work to pay the bills right? We start at the same time tomorrow—or today I should say.” He shrugged, yawned and pulled off his t-shirt. He had the lean muscles and golden tan of a roofer, and it was all I could do to not touch his sexy stomach. He slid the ever present dirty bandana off his head, placing it on the rectangular table beside him. “Oh, and I should warn you that I’m a cuddle-er. Don’t be surprised if I’m spooning you in the morning.” He smiled innocently and batted his eyelashes, igniting an excited feeling in my stomach, like a kid who knows Santa is coming very soon.

“No worries,” I laughed lazily. “I love to cuddle! I’m a great little spoon.” We shared a long look, grinning at each other.

“How would you like your eggs for breakfast?”

“I get breakfast?” I gasped in mock shock. I flashed back to a list of pick-up lines and funny responses I’d read online, bored and in the peak of insomniac nights. “Unfertilized” was one of the replies, and for a split second, I thought I would say it. “If you’re making me food, I’m happy with pretty much anything. So long as the yolk’s not runny!”

 “Well then, scrambled it is.” Cortez lifted the edge of the sleeping bag, shimmying over to cup his body against mine. I could feel his attraction to me through his worn flannel pajama bottoms. I blushed, feeling complimented rather than cheap; I trusted Cortez and felt he wasn’t just another horny boy out for a bedpost notch. Previously sluggish and slow, I suddenly felt wide awake like I’d been injected with caffeine. “Sorry about that,” he said, embarrassed. “What can I say, you’re a beautiful girl.”

“I thought you just saw me as an irritating little seventeen year old,” I whispered, turning my head to look at him. I realized I’d been wrong to pick vibrant blue or green eyes as my favourite, noticing the swirls of green and gold in his gentle eyes. “You’d be my mentor or something.”

“You don’t need a mentor, Taylor,” he whispered, his quiet voice dropping even lower. I could hardly hear him and I leaned closer to not miss a word, unlike during our philosophical discussions when I often just got the gist of what he was saying. “You’re a very smart girl – young lady actually. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, and I can see very good things happening because of that in your future.” He smiled softly, pausing before leaning down to kiss me ever so gently. He pulled back quickly, looking at me quizzically, no doubt wondering if I was going to take off in a panic. My mouth curved into an innocent smile by way of answer and I pulled his face back down to mine. The back side of my body melted purposefully against his front.

It was one of the best nights of my life. Sensitive and experienced, Cortez was incredibly gentle, and I felt I understood the term “making love” for the first time. He took it slow and was unbelievably attentive to my needs, ignoring himself. Unfortunately I can remember only a few key highlights, being stoned so far out of my tree I could touch the stars, but it felt just as special as when David and I had lost our virginity to each other. In the morning I woke to him nuzzling my neck, our sticky bodies still tangled together. He was a complete gentleman, letting me use the only clean bath-towel first to dry myself.  

“How many sugar and milk would you like, Madame? And would you care for me to add a square of pot butter?” He asked in a haughty French accent, stirring a pot of coffee. I laid curled up on the living room futon sharing bong rips and cigarettes with his two roommates while my hunky hippy cooked a colourful organic omelet. The four of us lazed the day away discussing gardening, pot, high school and what the world was coming to. No one asked how old I was or if my parents knew where I was.

Cortez reproduced the same feeling of safety and comfort during our sleepovers every other night, during which we slept little. We would wake up around noon, have one last round of ‘cardio’, cuddles and tokes before I went home to get ready for work. I’d smile to myself all evening, brightening when Cortez was nearby. It was just a friends-with-benefits arrangement and I was okay with that; I didn’t want a boyfriend then.

Still I couldn’t wait to tell Jacky, my one remaining female friend, about the evolving friendship with Cortez. She was ecstatic for me after I recounted every detail of “the best I’ve ever had,” and hopeful that it would blossom into a relationship.

“It’s high time you had another boyfriend,” she said, sucking so hard on a cigarette she was practically eating it. “I love David, and it’s so great that you guys are best friends, but you deserve to be in love again.”

“But Cortez doesn’t want a girlfriend, and I don’t think I really want a boyfriend either,” I kicked her playfully under the table. I knew I wasn’t exactly being honest, but I’d been lying to myself about craving the theoretically safe confines of a relationship for a long time. I wasn’t going to stop now. “He was with this thirty-six year old for like, six years. They just split up in February. He helped take care of her kids and refers to her as his ex-partner. He’s not interested in being in a monogamous relationship for a looong time. Hey, you’ve smoked half of that thing. Sharing is caring!” I held out my hand, pretending to be mad though the half-full pack was well within reach.

“Mmkay, so is he sleeping with other chicks?” asked Jacky, making a show of passing on the cancer stick. “Or is this an exclusive friends-with-benefits type of deal?” She watched me intensely.

“Uh, well, we agreed that if we meet someone we want to sleep with or whatever, we can, but we’d let each other know that was happening.” I watched her smile droop.

“Hmm,” she said thoughtfully, lighting another cigarette. I quickly finished the shared one and sparked another. It occurred to me that I was never a half-pack a day girl until I started sleeping with Cortez in my worst smoking days, but didn’t discourage me. I felt very grown up as bohemian Jacky and I refused soup, opting instead for an iced-tea and cigarette lunch. After we’d each finished, she stood up and wrapped me in a big hug. Her bony shoulders jabbed my neck. “I don’t want to see you get hurt, so be careful okay? Are you guys being safe?”

My insides squirmed and I felt nauseated. It wasn’t something that had intentionally happened, but Cortez and I had used protection maybe once in the past two weeks. Reflexively I started counting days in my head, wondering if I’d be saddled with a baby after having miraculously made it out of the raving year without so much as a scare. The look on my face told my friend all she needed to know. She smiled knowingly and started digging through her purse.

“Here,” she said, dropping a handful of neon-coloured condom packages on my empty plate. “These ones glow. Oh Taylor, you look like you’re going to cry. It’s okay hon, we’ve all been there. Anyone who says it feels the same is a liar.” She laughed lightly, brushing my arm comfortingly.

“How do I… ask him to use them now? I don’t even know how to put one on right.” My cheeks were burning. An old lady walking by gave us a mean look and I scooped the condoms into my purse.

“C’mon, you’ve never had to ‘remind’ a guy to use protection? Just be like, ‘hey I don’t want to have your babay, put this on or you don’t get none.’” She laughed, snapping her fingers and wagging her head all over the place. “Trust me, once you mention the b-word, they’re more than happy to put these one of these puppies on. And if not, run as fast as you fucking can, girl.”

Cortez's Story: Part 4

Isabella has a great piece of wisdom regarding relationships. She likes to say that you can be spending time with two people and though you like them equally, the person with whom you spend the most time is the one you’re more likely to develop feelings for. It makes sense right?  You get to know them, and if they mesh with your life, you keep them around. If they don’t, you’re not apt to maintain the relationship long enough to get to a bonding point.

David, with whom I spent the majority of my free time, walked down at three am to meet me that first night after hanging out with Cortez. He was leaning against the brick wall out front of the Laughing Trout, waiting for me to float over. My head was in the clouds as I processed everything Cortez had told Eric and I about his lifestyle, past experiences and spirituality-inspired tattoos. Knowing how nervous I was about the new job and forming relationships there, David was curious to hear how staff bonding went. At home I gave him the rundown as best as I could remember it while he packed a bowl in our bazooka-shaped bong. My closing statement a half hour later was, “Cortez is interesting, but I wouldn’t want to be friends with him.”

As I spent more time with Cortez, at work and late night blaze sessions, it turned out he had a lot of wisdom nuggets as thought provoking as the dish comment. Through after work ‘safety meetings’ he taught me to relax about time and fielded questions about raising parents. We talked about the possibility that thousands of years ago we destroyed the Earth-like environment of Mars before flying to this planet and somewhere between being interesting and being the man I wanted as my boyfriend, I started to ask him every question I could think of. At first I asked personal questions: where was he from, did he ever plan to finish high-school, where did he learn all of the things he knew. Slowly they evolved to be about space, chakras and vibes, things former party pals had mentioned but never explained formally. It was like going to the school of life for eight hours a day and getting paid to do so! I didn’t agree with all of Cortez’s philosophies, but I immediately implemented the ones that resonated with me. Probably the most important thing that I learned was that things in our life, whether they are material, emotional or mental, have only so much meaning as we give them.

 Halfway through my short stint at the pub, a guy left me his number after seeing me back in the dish pit. Feeling adventurous, I agreed to meet him for coffee, and later we went four-by-four-ing up the local mountain. It was going unbelievably well until the jeep broke down. A few weeks ago, I would’ve been making myself sick with worry. I’d be convinced I was fired as I made the hour long trek back to cell coverage, with only a half an hour to get to my shift.

“Is it fixable?” I asked my date. He shook his head slowly, looking like a dog with his tail between his legs.

“I am so, so, so sorry.”

“It’s fine, really,” I smiled on the third repetition. “It’s a beautiful day, and I’m going to enjoy the walk until I can get a hold of Chef. Seriously, don’t worry about it!” I practically skipped down the gravel road, knowing that I was doing everything in my power at that moment to fulfill my responsibility to be at work. If Chef fired me – well, that would suck, but I couldn’t do any more than I was already doing. I had quite the story when I rushed in the Trout’s back door, and enjoyed being the kitchen entertainment for the evening.

“Hello Madame, how are you this evening?” asked a thick French accent during the unofficial break-time. Cortez sidled up to me, holding a small cup of coffee and a cigarette. It was the first chance we had had to talk about non-work related things that night. Wednesday Wings was our busiest night by far, and this one had been at least double the usual volume. “I heard you had quite the adventure.” He bared his stained teeth in an oddly charming smile.

“Did I ever,” I giggled, clapping my soapy hands. “It was fantastic Cortez, I only stressed for a second after the jeep broke down. I remembered what you said about the dishes not going anywhere. The situation was out of my control!” I felt like a groupie meeting her hero and wanting to impress him by knowing every detail of his past.

“Would you care to have a cigarette and tell me about it?” He opened his large hand to reveal a second cancer stick. I glanced around the kitchen quickly, taking in the lack of dirty dishes and activity. The kitchen was all but dead. “C’mon, they’ll be fine for five minutes.”

“Okay. Thank you!” I chirped, hopping a few inches in the air. I wasn’t yet at the point where I’d buy a pack, but the cravings had begun. I walked a few steps behind and to the side of him, looking up in growing admiration as he ranted about police and the New World Order.

“The bible,” I blurted as we settled on the smoking bench behind the dumpsters. I edged an inch closer to him so that we were sitting a hands width apart. He stroked his bushy ginger goatee while I took my turn lighting my cigarette.

“Hmm...” He took a drag and blew an O with the smoke. “The bible… is open to interpretation. Some men on a big fucking high horse interpreted it as a rule book to control people, but I say God is a metaphor for the power that you have within you. Just a big fucking metaphor; there’s no guy sitting on a cloud, judging us. That’s just crazy.”

“Like when you pray; you find that strength in yourself, because you believe God is taking care of everything for you.” I took another drag, feeling a head rush coming on.

“Exactly!” Cortez grinned, a tooth split clean in half. The colour of wet cement, it looked like it hurt.

“Not all brawns and no brain,” I smiled playfully. The cigarette was making me feel light and happy.

“No, you’re definitely more than just a pretty face,” he replied slowly, scrutinizing my tan face. I stared back openly. I stifled a giggle as the thought that his facial hair reminded me of pubic hair floated into my consciousness.

Underneath the long whiskers, his skin was thin and aged prematurely from a pack-a-day habit. Ten years of playing around with hard drugs didn’t help either, and I wondered if that had anything to do with his teeth. Thinning blonde hair framed his face in an exaggerated widow’s peak, curled just past his shoulders and punctuated by scraggly dreadlocks. The signature paisley bandana hid the near-bald spot on top of his head that I later learned was a genetic gift from his father. He looked thin but upon inspection had great muscle definition from years of manual labour. He was far from my usual definition of attractive, but there was something about his eyes, his smile and demeanor that put me at ease. I was under a spell of comforting relaxation and almost obnoxious honesty around him.

“Look, an eagle!” He hissed, putting his arm around me to point up to the branches of a lone oak tree. I wondered if he could read my mind, the way his arm had wrapped around me just as I was thinking about what it might be like to kiss him. Turning my head away from the bird, I inspected his face up close.

“He really isn’t that attractive,” the snarky voice of reason chimed, “and he’s way too old for you.” The want for love and the feeling that I was enough, with no make-up and sweaty from work, quickly silenced it.

 “Taylor,” Cortez started, his eyes softening as they seemed to read mine. “You have beautiful eyes.”

“At my old job, customers used to stop mid-sentence to compliment them,” I breathed, neither of us moving. “’Oh, they’re so blue! Look at her eyes, Minerva,’” I mimicked in a falsetto. His arm was still around me, making me feel small and protected. I leaned ever so slightly into his chest, picturing myself as light as a feather.

“There you are, c’mon, let’s go lovebirds,” grumbled Chef, appearing from in front of the dumpsters.

“We’re not—” I tried to explain.

“Nobody is. I don’t give a shit, just get yer butts back inside and get scrubbing!” He laughed, gently kicking my behind and spurring me to trot quickly towards the rotting backdoor. Cortez whirled around, prompting a mock karate fight.

My mom picked me up after work that night with the plan being that I was coming back home. I was excited to sleep in my own bed again, but of course the natural high I was riding was ruined when we got into a screaming match. It was my own fault for having a cigarette while I waited for her to arrive. I was counting on her habit of always being fifteen minutes behind schedule whenever it involved me, and was enjoying the last of my cigarette when the purple Honda pulled up. It didn’t matter that I was seventeen and had been allowed to smoke when I was only fifteen. Logic is not Mom’s strong suit.

I sat in the basement after the fight, spitefully smoking bowl after bowl from my miniature pipe. I was so mad I didn’t care if I got caught, and hadn’t bothered to crack a window. My feet resting on the computer desk, I packed one last bowl before I made an attempt at sleep. Cortez suddenly popped up as online on my favourite social networking site, and immediately started chatting to me. He invited me down to his apartment, a forty minute walk from my mom’s place, to smoke some hash and listen to local independent radio. Feeling special, I agreed right away. I thought about putting on fresh makeup and doing something with my knotted hair before swatting the air to send the self-consciousness away.

He’s twenty-six, Taylor, I told myself. He’s not interested in you like that; if anything, he’d be your mentor.

 I made little effort to be quiet as I climbed the creaky stairs, layered sweatpants under jeans, and packed my backpack. There was no way Mom didn’t hear the stairs groan loudly on the return trip to the basement. Fredrick and I used to joke that she would wake up from a moth flapping in the other end of the house, but I didn’t hear the tell-tale footsteps for which I waited, frozen in ninja-stance. I opened the window slowly before tossing my backpack onto the lawn, suddenly cautious. I took a long look around the basement, shocked at the ease of it all. I was not a good mid-night escape artist; the few times I’d tried climbing out the basement window, I’d been caught and picked up on the one occasion I actually made it off of our street. I eased the window closed from the outside and ran through the sleeping neighbourhood like I was being chased by flaming Dobermans.

Cortez's Story: Part 3

Confused? Read Part 1 HERE  and  Part 2 HERE

My first day at the Trout, I was paralyzed with fear. I froze up under pressure, becoming temporarily blind, deaf, and dumb. When I was sent out to find a box of chicken strips in the middle of what I thought was a dinner rush, I couldn’t see the coffin-sized box at my feet. I just about burst into tears and quit on the spot, not wanting to come back empty handed to the red faced Chef. I was terrified at having any kitchen snarkiness directed at me, fearing it would mean I’d be fired in the probationary first few shifts. Luckily I figured out early that the majority of spats in the cramped kitchen were due to the pressure from obnoxiously drunk customers and not personal

On my second shift I insisted on being the one to wash because the other dishwashers, all young guys, did a consistently half ass job. They chose to ignore the fact that a sanitizer doesn’t actually wash the dishes, but blasts them with water near its boiling point. I knew from experience working with grease-saturated burger holding-trays that it was best to soak the dishes in soapy water, give them a scrub and blast them with the high pressure nozzle before sanitizing. I took pride in being fast and efficient. The seasoned staff noticed my attention to detail and joked that I should train the other dishwashers.

I started to feel sick with stress on my fifth night. It was by far the busiest, a massive rush that broke down all attempts at organization. I was scrubbing dishes like a madman, sweat coursing down my temples while the appetizer cook spun around wildly, tossing ingredients at four large plates of nachos. The mountain of dirty dishes kept growing but I was too anxious to wonder where they were all coming from, sure I would be fired if Chef had to holler for ramekins one more time. Cortez, my dishwashing partner for most evenings, was the only one not on the verge of exhaustion or mental breakdown. He sauntered still through the walk-in cooler to do a pan-pickup from the line, the third time in ten minutes. Craning my neck, not wanting to lose even a millisecond of time in the battle against the leaning tower of plates, I wiped sweat on the shoulder of my kitchen whites. The sink was full of battered frying pans, fresh off the line and covered in sizzling grease which couldn’t be mixed with regular dishes. I was feeling the pressure to keep up both with cooking and serving gear.

“Have some water,” my partner said, noticing the state I was in. I thought about how gross I must smell, swimming in the heavy coat, thick pajama pants and Donald Duck ball cap. I must look disgusting, I thought, feeling self-conscious before my snarkier voice of reason put in that it wasn’t like Cortez could fairly say anything about it. The stained paisley bandana holding scraggly blond hair out of his face was damp with sweat and he’d had a musky over-incensed smell to begin with, a mixture of patchouli and heavy smoking.

“I don’t have time!” I protested hurriedly as he tried to hand me my water. The plastic cup had been sitting ignored on a nearby shelf as the evening went on. Cortez studied me curiously and after a second his girlish lips tipped into a soft smile.

“Relax. The dishes aren’t going anywhere,” he said in his low, quiet voice. It was at best a whisper, matching his laid-back demeanour and odd moon-bounce strut.  My head snapped to the right to stare at him, mouth gaping. To be honest I hadn’t expected anything intelligent to come out of the twenty-five year old drop-outs’ mouth. He shrugged and moseyed off to fetch salad greens for the line.

The best part of being a dishwasher was how much time I had to think relatively uninterrupted. Washing dishes isn’t particularly hard, and by my second week I looked forward to going on to autopilot. An eight hour shift passed in what seemed like three, probably aided by my peaking addiction to painkillers. Already back in the habit of coming to work stoned, I wasn’t confident enough to fetch ingredients for the line for fear of screwing up. Thankfully Cortez was more than happy to be the gopher while I remained planted in front of the stainless steel double sinks, not moving save to empty my bladder. That is, once I relaxed enough to drink water during my shifts.

There was time to grieve for the loss of Erika, who had left my life suddenly after a fight over a guy, of all things. I had time to think about The Energy of Life, a mind-blowing new book that put forth some interesting theories about modern society and its internal motivations that had me questioning everything I had been taught. My whole life was changing, yet again, and I was suppressing growing anxiety and fear about the future. I still hadn’t got my head around all that had happened in the last year, and I just really wanted to feel safe and taken care of. More than anything I wanted to be able to be comforted by my mom. Since the betrayal with the journals, I had been repulsed by her to the point that I would literally gag when she tried to touch me. Who can comfort you and make you feel safe if your own mother can’t? The realization that I was emotionally on my own only intensified my vulnerability.

I thought about Cortez’s comment for the rest of my shift, and my day off the next day. “The dishes aren’t going anywhere,” I mused, sprawled on the balcony to restock my Vitamin D levels. It was true: the dishes would sit there, dirty, until I washed them. Chef, with his comically tiny head, could call for plates as much as he wanted, but if the dishwasher was full and there was another tray waiting to go in – what? Nothing! There’s nothing to be done until there’s room for plates in the dishwasher, no reason to stress or beat myself up thinking it would change things.  It was so simple that I couldn’t see it.

My second week, Cortez invited Eric and I to smoke a joint after work at his apartment. Natalie, the only female cook, politely declined, shooting me a concerned smile when she saw that I was going with them. I shrugged it off, fingering the cellphone in my pocket. If worst came to worst, I figured I could gouge Cortez or Eric’s eyes out with my keys. Along the leisurely walk, we found out that Cortez was a medical marijuana grower, albeit unlicensed. He did the work for an elderly fellow with a license who wasn’t quite up to cultivating in recent years. Because Cortez wasn’t legally entitled to a pay cut, his licensed friend instead gave him a hefty fifty percent of each harvest. 

It was cozy in the quiet dealer’s dingy basement suite, where his bedroom was just a corner of the room cordoned off by thin blankets. A “temporary settlement”, it was a cluttered bachelor pad run rampant. The gray linoleum was peeling up around the edges and the beige walls had a grey tinge from the quantities of smoke to which they were exposed daily. It screamed cool to me at the time; I guess what my parents would mean when they called something ‘hip’ or rock and roll. Nuggets of sweet-smelling weed taken for granted dotted the worn carpet and several branches were hanging from the ceiling to dry.

Cortez loved pot, and especially hash, the way some guys love their mothers. His hazel eyes lit up with a passionate, fiery orange light when he talked about making it, smoking it, selling and trading it. Eric and I listened to him, captivated by his experimentations with salvia, ecstasy, heroin and just about every other drug available in Canada. He talked non-stop as his calloused fingers deftly plucked crumbs off a sugar cube sized chunk of hash. Cortez flicked each piece at a driver’s manual on Eric’s lap while the nacho master lit a cigarette. At first I hesitated when he held the pack out to me, not wanting to rekindle my habit before clumsily accepting. Cortez tossed me a pink lighter. It was all smoothed and practiced, as if we had always smoked together. A smile from the feeling of acceptance was creeping across my face.

“I went there with the clothes on my back and a bag of rice. And of course some hashish,” Cortez rasped, sucking on his own cigarette as he told us about his adventures on Bards Island. He packed a huge bowl of tab that I was sure was meant to go around. I cringed, thinking: you can’t share a bowl of weed and tobacco; the smoke will be acrid enough to make the second or – ugh -- third person vomit. “Met some cool people, and oh man, these Turkish guys! Traded them some hash for a camping stove. I lived off rice and fish that I caught using a paperclip for a hook.” He paused, bending over the medium sized bong. I watched in amazement as he inhaled the contents of the whole bowl, holding it in for a solid twenty seconds. “And I’ve never had so much luck fishing,” he finished, exhaling the remains of the monster toke with ease.

“You know, if anyone else was telling me this, I’d say they’re full of shit,” I blurted, feeling brave from the nicotine. “But you don’t seem like – oh, thank you – you don’t seem like you’re lying.” Cortez passed the dirty bong to me, skipping Eric in poor stoner etiquette. I quickly took my toke and passed it back, not wanting the witty cook dislike me.

Every cell of my skin startled to tingle and burn. It spread until it became a cold, wet sand feeling in my legs as the rush of tab hit me hard. The room around me was spinning in circles that shimmied up and down, and the paisley patterns on the make-shift walls danced like feathers in the wind. I felt like I was sitting on a high speed Lazy Susan rather than a lumpy mattress. I had to lie down, suddenly hyper-aware of gravity. The embarrassment I would’ve felt with anyone else was blissfully absent as I squirmed in Cortez’s blankets. I felt uncharacteristically flirtatious and sexy noticing the way my coworkers were looking at me. I hadn’t felt desired like this since the raving days, when I’d take a ‘boyfriend’ for the night.

“You okay there, darlin’?” asked Eric sweetly. I had squeezed my eyes shut and a painfully large grin was spreading across the lower half of my face. I waited for the vertigo-meets-the-Spins to fade away.

“Ohhhhhhh, yeeaa, I’m just dandy,” I slurred, giggling. “I can feel gravity working really well tonight!”

“She’s just peachy!” Cortez laughed, a hungry look flashing briefly in his eye.

Cortez's Story: Part 2

Happy to have these parts just waiting to be released! The roommate and I were up until the wee hours with chocolate cravings. We decided to settle for donuts, Tim Ho's being the only 24 hour place around, but it was pissing down rain all night... Coffee to start the engine makes more  a smooth morning but a hell of an anxious afternoon. 
Confused? Read Part 1 HERE

After May twenty third of the year before I met Cortez, I was working as hard as I could every day to move past the haze of the drug phase. I started experiencing panic attacks because no one could get past who I had been to see who I was now. My mother especially clung on to the ‘poor-me’ identity, perfectly content in a twisted way to define me as a hopeless, dirty “druggie.” Any attempt to convince her otherwise was smacked down to earth like a meteorite. When I started getting acne for the first time there was “no way” I wasn’t using and she started reading my journals. She sent me texts quoting them word-for-word. She mocked and punished me for going to parties after openly wishing that I would be normal and go out with friends to ‘dance parties’. She screamed at me that I was a slut, a whore, easy, and I should be ashamed of myself after seeing me hugging two of my male friends. I was scarred for a long time, afraid to touch anyone by accident or reveal any part of myself for fear it would be used against me

I wanted desperately to move out. I mean, what teenager doesn’t? At some point everyone’s mom is a horrible, incomprehensible, ill-willed bitch who can’t possibly understand you. The catch is good moms are trying to understand you; they want to help you be the best you can be, to be the happiest you can be, and they only want the best for you. They tell you about similar situations they were in with the hope that it will be helpful in some way, and if nothing else will be good for bonding and a laugh. When you’re a few years out of high-school, you look back and see all that the ‘psycho’ stuff was actually quite logical and she did it out of altruistic love. But my mother guarded her past like Fort Knox. What did she have to hide? Was she embarrassed because I was following in her footsteps, without knowing it? And if that was true, why wouldn’t she share wisdom or advice when I needed it, let alone when I asked? It seemed awfully self-centered to me that she quit trying to understand me. She happily decided I fit the bill as the problem child who’s every embarrassing sign of existence had  be hidden lest someone give her a sympathetic look that she was convinced meant, “Oh Linda, you terrible mother. You sure screwed up with this one, you colossal failure.”

God, she was obsessed with that role of single mother, and all the piteous attention she received from it. I think that’s why she always looked for something to be wrong with me, and made me believe that she was right.

I tried to improve my attendance after I quit using any drug other than pot. It was impossible though to ignore the whispers and smug looks whenever I showed up, and my panic attacks worsened until one day I was bawling on the short walk to school.

“I can’t do it,” I sobbed to myself before collapsing into a heap on the sidewalk. I lay there for a very long time, no longer caring about what so-and-so would say. I had to leave or I would lose myself in the murky depression I was wading ever deeper in. It wasn’t the same womb that cushioned me and kept me safe in grade seven. If I went back into this new, unfamiliar dark place, I felt I couldn’t come back out.

The next semester I tried to go back to the high school for one class, convinced I couldn’t pass math without a live teacher. Erika, my only friend at the time besides David, told me that many people were eagerly anticipating my return. She put it in much nicer terms, but everyone was waiting to see if I looked as messed up as my former friends, partying hard as rave season picked up. One of them, Josh, had started coming to school high on coke and kept a water bottle full of vodka. He often wore the same clothes for a few days straight, and it was common knowledge that he was living in a tent since getting caught with drugs.

I was already cutting class a week in. I felt like a fat seal awkwardly trying to make it through a flaming hoop, all the while wondering why I couldn’t just chase fish and do flips for fun in the sea. Erika and I would leave after the days lesson to roll a joint at the park near my house. We’d promise to work on our homework together after, knowing it was a lie meant to justify our lack of commitment. We’d get high and listen to the birds, talking about the people we knew, the drugs I had done and she was now experimenting with, the way things were and how we thought they should be. She’d be texting furiously on her phone while I took toke after toke, and before I knew it we’d be headed off to one of her many older guy friends’ basement suites for bong rips. When I hadn’t been to my one and only class for a week straight, I met with a counselor to get set up in full time homeschool. I remember he kept asking why, why couldn’t I make it work, what was so wrong at school that I got panic attacks. I couldn’t make him understand because somewhere in his life, he felt like he belonged.

They say you’re a stoner when you smoke pot alone, and maybe that’s why it felt so indescribably good to have the house to myself five days a week. I swear pot was the driving force that got me through the horrible highs and lows of chemical withdrawal. It toned down the manic phases when I couldn’t sleep, and helped me to accept the longer depressive ones. In the beginning, Erika and I smoked pot in the house without shame, and alone I would hang out of my bedroom window. Whether it was allowed or not was fuzzy in my mind. Mom’s standpoint on the matter wavered, as has every other decision she’s ever made.

I’ll never forget the first time Erika and I hot-boxed the basement washroom, sealing the gap between the door and the floor with a towel to keep breathing in the smoke. We febreezed the whole house but couldn’t wipe the guilt off our faces or the glaze from our bloodshot eyes. When Mom came home, she put her hands on her hips and very seriously said we were never to do it again.

“I like you better stoned,” she laughed, concluding the brief ‘Respect’ lecture. She asked politely that we not smoke in the house and we moved to the storage room outdoors. It came out much later that this wasn’t allowed, nor was the shed or backyard, for fear that the neighbours would smell; however, it was okay when her work friends wanted to get high back there. Somewhere along the way, Erika and I won the back deck. Furnished with comfortable chairs and excellent view of neighbourhood birds, it was a prime spot to blaze. It became THE spot.

“Taylor,” my mom sighed after coming home late one day. “Stop smoking dope in my house. I’m not stupid you know. I know what it smells like.” She dropped her purse heavily onto the counter, giving me the Why-do-you-make-me-do-this face.

“You asked me not to, and I stopped,” I replied, my internal drawbridge rising. I sat up properly on the couch. “I did it a couple times after you asked me to stop. But I understand now that this is your house and it’s a reasonable rule. The porch is a much nicer place, and besides I don’t want to fight with you anymore. You hear when I come outside at night instead of leaning out my window. You asked me not to, and I respect that. I realize that I can’t demand your respect when I don’t give it.”  But my honesty seemed to make her even madder.  I was breaking the unwritten rule that we never openly talk about my pot use like it was no big deal. Indirect comments and innuendos were okay, welcomed even, but it should never be spoken about unless accompanied by negative sentiment.

Around this time the debilitating headaches that I had experienced for a few months in grade nine came roaring back. The doctors could find no explanation for the nearly chronic headache and dull, burning aches in my back and arms. After almost a year and several misdiagnoses later, they found that the small curve in my spine wasn’t causing my pain but rather an incurable chronic pain syndrome. This came after I had already used up all of the insurance money allotted to physiotherapy, something Mom delighted in reminding me of every single day. She acted like I was going on weekly shopping sprees like her rather than trying to manage a seven-month-strong headache.

Fights with Mom got especially heated, and I knew once the blood was pounding in my eyeballs and blurring out the edges of my vision that I needed to get space. A side effect of the constant overload of pain-related information going to my brain, I get overwhelmed very easily. I’d try to explain it to her but these episodes are difficult to explain to the most understanding of people, like a bad dream you can only remember the emotions of. It didn’t matter that she herself was on medication for chronic pain. I was just a big faker making excuses.

“I need … space. Just leave me alone for a little bit. Okay? I just need to breathe,” I would say, exasperated. The blood in my head was hot, burning my eyes but not my cool muscles, clenched so tightly no fresh blood could get in. “Mom! Fuck, just let’s just take a time out! I. Can’t. Think!”

 I completely lost respect for her when she started the habit of blocking the doorway, boxing me into a fight. Stretching her five foot four frame to fill the doorway, her eyes filled with hatred. I felt rage boiling in the pit of my stomach, wondering what was going through her head. It was everything I could do in those moments not to haul off and punch her square in the face. Mom needed to see me explode, to hear me scream ‘fuck’ in frustration and pull my hair; maybe sweep my arm across my dresser to put something between us because when I blew up, she ‘won.’ When she blew up, it was my fault for provoking her, and again she was victor over my immaturity. Countless times I tried to make her understand that all I wanted was to cool off before coming back to the subject when we were both more level headed. It became painfully clear to me that she was regressing as I progressed along the path to growing up. She didn’t deserve the respect given to adults when she was acting like a pubescent girl.

“I’m NOT FUCKING SMOKING WEED IN YOUR HOUSE!” I screeched a few months after the first accusation, hysterical and near to passing out. “Pot has a different smell when it’s burnt than sitting in the bag, and YOU KNOW THAT! YOU USED TO SMOKE IT! I AM NOT SMOKING IN YOUR FUCKING HOUSE! You asked me not to, so I’m not! Why can’t you UNDERSTAND that I’m a person, learning and growing up! You want me to respect your rules, and I AM! FUCK!” We were in the open living room, and I was able to shove past her star-shaped form to find a safe place to calm down. She grabbed at my arm, spinning me around. I growled, ripping my arm away so forcefully something in my shoulder slid loudly out of place. I shoved her backwards, away from me. Knowing I hadn’t gotten the point through I came whirling back a few seconds later. “You see the fucking ashtray. You know EXACTLY where Erika and I smoke! Smell my room! It doesn’t smell like smoke or burnt pot. If it smells like weed, like fresh, unburned bud, it’s because the bag isn’t sealed properly. ” 

Despite the freedom from homeschool and my disposable income, I had a hard time adjusting to my new life. I think it was because I knew I had outgrown a very brief stage in the process of self-discovery, and I would never be able to go back in time. I thought about how much of my childhood I had been made to feel bad, worthless and loved conditionally. I was drowning in a sea of every imaginable pain, and my muscles ached from the fight. Eight months clean from hard drugs, I had to get a prescription for synthetic opiate painkillers to manage the chronic back pain. They were great for relieving the pain that four or more extra-strength Advil couldn’t, but they are highly addictive. It didn’t take long before I was popping them like candy to avoid confrontations with Mom, on top of smoking upwards of fifty dollars of pot a week.

I concocted an ambitious plan to move out, though it wasn’t really a plan as much as a rebellious dream. There was no way I could afford an apartment with multiple roommates on minimum wage, and if I could I’d still need to eat, buy medication and graduate. I was not lovin’ the burger and fry chain where I worked and there was no way in hell I would risk having to work there for the rest of my life in order to move out. Sure, the guys that used fake accents in the drive-through spiced it up, and it was nice to be within walking distance of work. But a job as a dishwasher in a pub had a certain mature appeal, and it offered something fast food didn’t: tips! I would be challenged so that I was unable to come to work stoned out of my tree, and still do a better job than half of the people there. As scared as I was of putting myself out there, it was the next step in the search and rescue mission for my confidence, and a step further away from Mom. I started June 26th.

Being the stand-up guy that he is, David helped me to get through feeling like I was losing my mind during the worst of the withdrawals and we became best friends again. Over the year of recovery, I worked my way back into Isabella’s heart, and was soon a member of the family again. She knew what my mom was like after years of watching David put me back together after a blow-out, and was happy to help me escape Mom’s elaborate fantasy world. It wasn’t the first time I was ‘coming home’ from my house, since Mom had needed breaks from parenting me, and never Fredrick, a few times since the divorce. It just happened to work out that their apartment was two streets down from The Laughing Trout. After I found out I got the job, I contacted Isabella, David’s mother, about staying at their small townhouse for the summer. I would pay rent, buy my own food and pitch in around the house, I promised. How bowling with bumpers is still bowling, the summer was to be practice for moving out.

What is...?

           Another angsty piece, from that hurting time in the fall.

What is seventeen? What is different between a one and a six, compared to a one and seven? The much-touted feature of birthdays is that in one day, you suddenly change because - oh my! – it’s official, a whole year has gone by. That we still allow young children to believe that overnight we become wiser, more mature and capable of better navigating the world, breaks my heart. It’s a lie.
          I could lie and say that growing up was not a shock. First, let me define growing up: to me that meant my sixteenth birthday.How could I not arrive at that conclusion? The sweet 16 is a cultural and personal milestone; you can now do the second most adult thing (next to drinking): drive, albeit with a licensed adult over 25 (That right there should be your first clue that we never really grow up – we just grow older, and whoever is eldest is “more adult” than you by default.). Suddenly it was expected that I would want to drink alcohol and go to parties every other weekend. At sixteen, a teenager is in grade 10, the year that attendance and grades “actually start to count” because post-secondary schools and possible future employers. They will see this time period full of changes and exploration as a reflection of YOU.
            Does this seem unrealistic to you as well? Sure you are given fifteen years and three hundred and sixty four days to prepare, but as I quickly learned, preparation is only half the battle; not to mention at sixteen, you really can't understand yet how to play the game of Life. Overnight your responsibilities increase dramatically with little reward. Again at seventeen, you must now behave even more so like an adult; sixteen was the practice year, and god knows it was a hell of a learning curve, but now you have stepped into Reality, where mistakes are tolerated on a 3 strike system. The reward had increased, for me at least, being seventeen: I had a later curfew, could be left home alone for a night, and depending on my mothers mood, can have open and very “adult” conversations. Since moving out, the rewards have made it to about par with the responsibilities: I can come and go as I please, but only I will feel exhausted if I stay out all night. I can have whatever kind of food I’d like, whenever I’d like, budget depending. The down shot is if I don’t feel like cooking, then only I go hungry. If I run out of clean underwear, then perhaps I should’ve been doing laundry instead of watching TV last night. Sometimes however, it seems to be a lose-lose : I ignored my schoolwork to clean the home, and must now ignore the home to catch up on school, so the pendulum effect zaps every free moment. I understand why my mom was so frustrated coming home to a dirty house.
               These teenage years, the best years of my life I’ve been promised, are shocking like an ice bath. While they have been invaluable for teaching me- or rather unteaching-, I must admit I look forward to my 40's, which it seems are the new 20's. I can speak only for myself: I was taught the world was one way, this incredible place my mother was undoubtedly preparing me for, only to arrive there, arms flung wide to receive all of that which was promised to me, owed to me, only to be violently knocked to the ground and have everything of value on my person taken and smashed to dust, material and otherwise. I have been lied to, put in a fantasy world by the one who gave me life and so should have had enough respect for the life she co-created to instill in me skills, values and a deep connection to reality to avoid this pain. I never expected to have my life simply handed to me; thank god I at least was taught that something worth having is worth the hard work it’s apt to require.
By creating this false reality, which would be absolutely lovely if it was true, or even possible, my community, my society, truly my entire family (through marriage, blood and evolution) has lied to me and set me up for failure in the real world. I can't blame them; they raised me in the same fashion as worked for generations before, and they could not know that I would so easily be able to see through the strict system of make-believe.