i was hoping to crawl into a tree and wind my way backwards to where minds don’t fiend for extra toppings and animal spirits can be seen or felt under t-shirts and square human jaws, but the curtains open on today instead.
i’m walking to a montreal survival store loaded with beer, cigarettes, lottery ticks, a row of canned tuna, glass case of jamaican meat patties.
a man is speaking creole and the chinese cashier doesn’t understand his patois lilt and neither do i. the cashier thinks it’s related to the zippo he’s holding; the one shaped like a little gun and apparently in need of lighter fluid. the cashier is right.
and i’m wrong. i offer the creole man a suggestion. “you can get bb bullets at canadian tire,” i say in my heavily accented french. “there’s bb’s in the sporting good section.”
we’re worse off than before. i’ve confused his zippo for a BB gun. i just assumed this guy was like me and he gets tired of the animal being sucked out of us from red tape and bureaucracy. no one really wants to be a stuffed diplomat. you rape the land and chew vegetables without offering thanks, you’re a thief. a bb won’t kill you. just wake you up.
that creole man got wind of where my mind was at and he laughed a belly laugh and out came his closed fist and out came mine, a soft crashing of souls in spontaneous celebration; brothers of the struggle.