Berri-UQAM

Laced with Pity

When I got back to my hotel I posted on one of the pot-head forums about my successful quest for bud. After I typed out a quick summary of my quest, I sat on my bed, laid down and relaxed. I packed a bowl and smoked to the tune of "Sypmathique" by Pink Martini. As the song ended, I received an email notifying me that someone responded to my post. "LOL I bet you that was laced with something. You can't trust homeless people," the post read. I ignored the bourgeois appeal to only buy from dealers with a residence. Perhaps, it was laced. I'll tell you though, it wasn't laced with any drug. It was laced with pity. Pity for Bozo.

The next night, I got baked, went to the club and drank heavily. I met a dude and we danced. He was everything I could want in a man. He was muscular, tall, Quebecois and a nurse. It was the first time I ever danced with a dude at the club. I wasn't one to find success at clubs. Things were going great. He was buying us both drinks. The more drinks I drank the more slurred, but confident, my French got. He told me I was cute, he swooned me. When the club closed, I went home with him and we hooked up en francais. After we screwed, we smoked and cuddled. We sat in our boxers as Tele-Quebec played on the TV. He was the little spoon and I was the big one. As he slept, my brain filled with hopes of a shared future together. It seemed almost logical. When you catch a big fish, you definitely want to reel it in. You can already taste it cooked on your tongue. He was the one, no one had ever done that with me before. It was all so perfect. Perhaps, too perfect. I couldn't help but remember Bozo. I wouldn't be another Bozo. I couldn't afford to stay in Montreal waiting for him to come to me and he may never come. I decided I wouldn't let my heart hurt like that. We never exchanged numbers or names. As he slept, I just snuck out the back door, walked to a Tim Hortons and called a uber back to my hotel.