Chapter 1
The cold, fresh air slaps me in the face. It wakes me up and reminds me that I am alive. It’s murky and it’s damp. The city rests, quiet and dim, patiently awaiting daybreak. I hit play on my Discman and David Bowie starts singing into my ears. A dull hangover hugs me like an old friend. All is calm, for I feel the most content in the darkest of mornings.
Dressed in a pair of old khaki shorts, tight underwear and new running shoes; I head towards the ocean. Traveling at a slow pace, letting my muscles warm up, gradually increasing my tempo as I journey along Bute Street to Pacific Avenue. I’m headed towards Stanley Park and its thousand acres of Eden. The Seawall, a path that encompasses the park along the Pacific Ocean, is perhaps the greatest 10 kilometers on this earth.
This is the city of the lost sun, Vancouver, Canada. Summer has just ended and we have eight months of rain to look forward to. Famous painters may have convinced you that the sky is blue, but I know it to be grey. It is dreary and depressing to foreigners. I still very much prefer it over the land of my birth, Montreal. The summers in Montreal are hotter than Dante’s inferno, and the winters are so cold that you might consider cannibalism over going out and getting something to eat. It's far better in the west.
The year is 1999. The great prophet, the artist formerly known as Prince, predicted that the world would soon end and that we should be partying. My friends and I have heeded his warning and have been living a life of excess in preparation for the dawn of a new age. The future is unclear, the past is a blur. I jog in an attempt to focus my mind and meditate on my current state of affairs.
I search for omens, signs that may help us to understand what is to come.
I find a flock of water-logged ducks. They un-tuck their heads from under their wings and stare at me with menacing eyes, as to say, “Why have you woken us?”
"Cheer up," I tell them. "Your brothers may be warm and toasty, but they are hanging in a window in Chinatown."
Put in perspective, the rain isn't that bad. The ducks retreat back into slumber and I continue my trek, feeling comforted in my superior wisdom.
There are barely any cars on the street yet; it’s too early for most people to be going to work. Most are still nestled under their comforters, but a handful are out with me, starting their day with a brisk run. We do not hide from bad weather, we overcome it, and it makes us stronger. We Canadians take pride in the fact that we are tough; it’s why we make the best hockey players.
I wonder how many of my fellow joggers are running with a hangover, or maybe they are still stoned. I’m passed by a cute girl as she runs by me at a pace much faster than my own. I watch her toned backside packed tight into her yoga pants. I widen my stride in an attempt to keep her in view, but I can’t maintain it for long. She is soon gone.
I slow back down to my comfortable speed as I pass by the Sylvia Hotel and all its history. It’s a Vancouver landmark that stands in English Bay and serves as an entrance to Stanley Park. Conspiracy enthusiasts believe Errol Flynn drank himself to death in the Sylvia and the night manager dragged his corpse to a nearby apartment, in order to avoid a controversy. Errol Flynn was fifty years old when he died, his girlfriend was seventeen. I have a romantic notion that I will meet my end in a similar manner. He was a womanizing alcoholic, and a natural role model for me. He had it all, regardless of his vices.
I drag my mind away from lost eras and focus my thoughts towards more recent events. Last night is scarcely a memory. Everything is so foggy. I have so many questions: What was Derek up to last night? Did I alienate any of my friends? Did I make the spirit of Errol Flynn proud?
Forget it, it’s all gone. Alcohol has robbed me of my memories again.
I am alone with my cadence.
The day’s first ray of sunlight sears through the dark clouds just as I hit First Beach. It is a perfect moment, pure in its simplicity. There is no one to share it with, but there seldom ever is. I see myself as a social person, but I am most comfortable when I am alone. I slow down to a leisurely pace. Savor the moment. Smell everything that is real and wholesome. Be free.
I refocus on last night, but it is still mostly blank. That’s rarely good. It doesn’t matter now. Life is great. Life is pure. Everything is unimportant. Live in the now, forget the past.
My ankles are the first area to hurt. Muscles being pushed, needing more energy, slowly receiving power from converted carbs. Run through pain. It is as inconsequential as last night. Put it behind me. Keep going forward.
My mantra in life is the same as my mantra in running. Live through the pain, until you find your groove. And then, most importantly, stay within that groove and coast through everything. Recognize potential pitfalls, and veer from them before they bear risk. Just coast, when running and when living.
I’m sorry, here I am telling you my story, without first introducing myself. Eric D, Age: 26.
I live in a 600 square foot apartment on the second floor of an old, neglected building. It is always noisy as it is located on a busy intersection, in the heart of the Gay Village. Regardless of the shabbiness of my abode, rent is half of my total income after taxes. I share my home with the love of my life, my future wife, Jung Lee S. We met in Montreal, during the autumn of 1993. That winter the temperature fell to below -30C. We both agreed that it was too cold and within months we left our families and relocated in the warmest part of Canada. That was almost six years ago.
More about me, let me think: I live by a strict code of conduct. My morals surpass my common sense. But my morals are my own, and not that of others. I live in my head, more than in reality.
I am polite at all costs.
I am a functioning alcoholic, yet obsessed with living a long life. Thus the jogging with the throbbing hangover.
I have been often accused to having no ambition. This is not true. I aspire to be happy. It is my only quest. The first step to happiness is deciding what actually makes you happy. I have a handful of really good friends. I always have enough money to buy more beer and to place a minor wager. I have the love of a great girlfriend. I live in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Video games just keep getting better and better. David Bowie recently put out a new album. All these people and things make me happy. I pursued them and now I have them. I will want more, when more becomes available, but that’s just human nature. I accomplish my goals, and I am ambitious in my pursuits. They may not be for the things that other people strive for, but this does not diminish their worth to me. I am happy, and that is all that I need to be.
As a Christian, I believe in suffering and in sin. Okay, I’m not really a good Christian, I haven’t set foot in a church for over a decade, but the obsession with suffering and sin seems to be engrained upon my psyche. I have learnt to embrace and embellish my Christian traits. They are fodder for my creativity.
I have no pride. I have always considered pride to be the worst of all the deadly sins (it was Lucifer’s reason for betraying God). As a person who is on the constant pursuit of happiness, pride is the number one obstacle to overcome. Once you can bury your pride, you can be happy. Until then you will be a slave to the opinions of others. I believe this with all my soul.
Let’s think, what else do you need to know? I mentioned that I have a many friends, and friends are family that you get to choose. In doing so, I believe that it is very important to choose wisely when selecting whom will remain close to me. I am heavily influenced by my friends and loved ones. A symbiotic bond is formed. I become them, and over time I may start to influence them. They enter my circle and they journey along with me down this slippery slope. We choose a life of responsible hedonism. Like children on a waterslide, we smile as we descend. We travel through excess; we dive over the speed bumps and discover ourselves. Just don’t come crying to me if you get hurt. I am not one for tears. I’m a good time boy. It’s all I know. And I guess that’s all you need to know about me.
I once again pick up speed on sight of a
pretty jogger running in the opposite direction. I watch her breasts bounce, trying hard not to be too obvious. It’s a fine line between admiration of a firm, fit body and creepy ogling. I pass her and keep my fast pace until I am certain that she can no longer see me. Only darkness surrounds me, I am alone again.
I think about yesterday. There must be something left of it.
I remember speaking to a girl at work. I had been gawking at her for several months. Her name is Mila. She has elbow-length red hair, and wears almost exclusively tight, black sweaters. She is Goth meets 1950’s cinema star. Although my current fashion trend is 80’s prep with a hint of 60’s mod, I can appreciate her style. She had first caught my eye five months ago, when she was paraded around the call centre as a member of the new hires.
Maybe it would be best if I pause for a moment and give a quick description of PH Communications, my employer. I forget what the PH really is an abbreviation for, but to many of its 200 employees it stands for Pure Hell. All call centres are a special kind of torture. If you’ve ever worked in one you’ll know what I mean. You’ve made call after call to people who hate you for interrupting their lives in order to sell them something that they don’t really need. I once met a stripper who told me that my job must really