Gentle Neon Under Absent Starlight

I scroll through the touchscreen until I find Patrick's name, and push the telephone icon on the interface and the intercom starts ringing a second later. The telephone icon looks like one of those old classic rotary phones that people born after 1990 haven't ever used. I think about this as the line picks up, Patrick says "Hello," I say "It's Matt," and he does whatever he has to do to unlock the door and let me in.

Patrick is my coworker and by virtue of the fact that he sat next to me doing completely unrelated work at our high tech job that I was restructured out of, I was invited here, along with a few other friends from old-work, and some of his "outside" friends.

Patrick lives in one of the many 'new' condominium buildings that I never thought I would ever set foot in. He rents his one bedroom from an owner who he had never met and pays a numbered corporation that doesn't have a name, and didn't ask too many questions.

The building itself is trés moderne, and uses repurposed frontage from the buildings. These buildings were kitty-corner from my trés boheme apartment. Once the structures were erected, they featured ground floor commercial which was trés pratique, at the end of the day.

Walking through the three-quarter lit lobby, I head towards the elevators, which open with a pleasant tone, which is only slightly less pleasant than the tone made by the floor selection buttons. I arrive at Patrick's door, and snicker at the oversized numbers eight seven and three emblazoned across his apartment door. Each number a slightly different earth tone, the eight atop a seven, and an off-center three in a slightly darker than the eight, but lighter than the seven. The foot high letters were an attempt to match the need for door numbers with the modern, chic design of the interior that absolutely, of course, matches the exterior.

"Jeez, this place," I say to myself as I knock.

Seconds later, Hank opens the door to my surprise. Hank and I, while we worked together for a while, didn't really know each other well, and I didn't realize he'd be at Patrick's, but after some initial greetings, I wave "Hey" to Patrick and Geoff who are sitting on Pat's couch, turning to look at me.

"Happy birthday man," I say, "Okay if I put these in the fridge?"

"Thanks man, yeah. We took like two hits of acid."

"What?"

"Yeah man we took like two hits of acid. Hank has some."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

I assess the concrete interior of the place, with the laminate floor. I see the glass wall leading to the balcony, and look at the complicated wheel system that mounted the walls of the "one bedroom" to the ceiling. In lieu of a proper door, it was kind of like a hanging panel system, where one wall wasn't really a wall as it was a construction approximating a wall mounted to the ceiling with about an inch or two clearance on all sides except where it was suspended from the ceiling. The doorway was a two-panel affair that matched the "wall", and worked kind of like a closet door.

"Huh," I look over at Hank, and back over at Pat and Geoff and realize their eyes are rolling out of their heads. I stick my Red Stars in the fridge, peeing one out of the cardboard. I snatch my BlueApps lanyard from my pocket and get my ShopLabs bottle opener from my chain, open the Red Star and say, "Hey do you have a phone charger?"

"Yeah man! It's over on the table by the door." I spot it, and see it's one of those three way things, and I plug mine into the Android socket.

"Happy birthday," I say again to Patrick.

"Thanks man. Yeah. Hey you want some weed? Go ahead!"

We make our way outside and see Patrick's elaborate multi-chamber bong beside a good sized mason jar of weed, with a grinder, lighter, and what looks like a spool of twine. I make small-talk as I grind weed and pack the bong, and go to light up with the Bic lighter.

"Ah nah, man," he says, and I stop. "Use this, man," he says holding up the twine.

I stare at him in silence.

"You light this, right, then you use this to light that! It's like a cleaner way to smoke. It's the best way man."

"Oh, yeah?" I say, feigning interest in this preposterous proposition,

"Like this," Pat says. He takes the lighter, and unspools a bit of the twine. "It's waxed, so it burns clean."

Right.

He lights the waxed twine and uses it to light the bong for me as I take a hit. He waves out the twine, as I remove the stem and finish the toke. Exhaling a huge smoke cloud, I am not convinced of the superiority of the twine, but regardless say "oh yeah" and "smooth" or something to that effect and Pat looks happy, albeit glassy eyed as hell.

We return inside and I see it's just Hank, Pat, Geoff, and I. We stand in awkward silence for a few minutes as I sip a beer and Hank twirled his phone.

"So, acid..." I say, starting some kind of conversation as more of a "what" and "why" rather than a "may I", but it is interpreted as the latter by Patrick.

"Yeah, Hank's got some! Do you want some?"

To add a bit more clarity to the situation, while Pat and I got along well, and Geoff and I were friendly acquaintances at the old job, Hank and I did not really get along while we worked together and did not typically encounter each other in our personal lives. I get the immediate sense that Patrick has put Hank in an awkward position, on which I am invited to capitalize.

Pat picks up his phone to let someone in, and a few moments later there is a knock at the door as I finish swallowing the remainder of my Red Star.

"Hey Paul Oak!"

It's Paul Oak. Thank God.

Paul Oak and I also go back before we worked for the company– he was dating a friend of a friend, and also used to sell me weed. He is a bit taller than me, and a die hard Arsenal fan. In addition to being referred to by his first and last name, Paul Oak and I are also really good friends, and was one of the first friends of mine to reach out after my layoff. We'd hung out pretty regularly since he and Pat worked together and at the end of the row we all sat at, he was also invited.

Paul Oak and I both exclaim at the sight of each other and he approaches me to give me a hug.

He says, "Good to see you bro!"

I say "Pauuuulo," using his alternative name as I enjoy the warmth of his fraternal love and the feel of his large beard against my skin,"Fantastic to see you!"

We release each other and he turns to Patrick.

"Hey do you have a phone charger?"

"Yeah man! It's over on the table by the door."

I walk over with him and I unplug my android as Paul Oak plugs in his iPhone.

Patrick's phone buzzes again, and he answers to let some more people in. I open a second Red Star and a third for Paul Oak as we walk back over to the glass wall, near where Pat and Geoff are sitting.

Pat twiddles his iPhone and music starts playing from somewhere in the apartment, echoing off of the concrete and exposed pipe on the ceiling and back down to the floor, bathing us in sound.

I can hear a bit of a tinny high end which I try not to let bother me too much as I greet the newer attendees I know with hugs or fistbumps depending on the level of familiarity as more attendees buzz in from Pat's phone.

Paul Oak and I stand out on the balcony, performing the twine ritual as the sun sets. More attendees enter the party, including Ryan C. (Not to be confused with Ryan W.) and his new girlfriend who neither Paulo or I had seen. We'd heard word, but little else.

I'm not someone who's really hung up on looks, but perhaps it was her severe black hairdo, perhaps her angular black leather jacket, but she stood atop two legs that seemed to be no more than six inches in circumferences at their thickest point. She looked absolutely corvid.

Paul has seen her too through the balcony glass, and we both exchange a look.

"Hey Paulo?"

"Yeah bro?"

"Stand over here will you?"

He arranges himself so that Pat, while occupied with other attendees and negotiating his psychedelics that were definitely taking hold of him at this point, would be unable to see me forego his waxed twine and touch lighter to bowl edge.

"Jesus Christ, bro" says Paul Oak, "That string I dunno, it's--"

"Bullshit is what it is. What's up with Ryan C.'s bird-woman, eh?"

He chuckles as we reload and pass over to him, exchanging position to provide cover for each other from Patrick, blasting butane into the bowl.

Looking back through the glass, I see Hank, keeping to the side of the party and holding a brown drink in a tumbler with a lime wedge, keep glancing over at Pat and Geoff, who were, while physically present, clearly becoming more and more mentally absent as time.

Heading back in and sufficiently faded, and still only half done my Red Star, I walk to the couch where Hank has approached Geoff and Pat.

Hank: "You guys okay?"

Pat: "Uh..."

Hank: "Do you guys want to go get some air? Maybe a walk? If people buzz, you can let them in on your phone. Nobody will notice."

Hank was right. The party seems to be largely on autopilot. The small apartment was busy with several groups having their own conversations, and within seconds, the addled Geoff and Patrick are at the door putting their shoes on.

Paul Oak and I stand around looking at the other attendees. Feeling the heat of the apartment from all of the bodies, we retreat back out to the safety of the balcony. Ryan C. and the bird woman follow us out. She pulls out a cigarette, lighting exhaling, and exhaling smoke over her clea cocktails in a high ball glass and Ryan C.'s Caribou Lager.

Paul Oak and I are at the opposite balcony edge, doing a butane body block swap with him for another toke. I gaze out at the now darkened street level, traffic crawling up McLeod merging on to Bank. Groups of younger adults heading to pubs in anticipation. Cabs and Ubers dropping people off seemingly anywhere along the street

Further west, towards my place, the city dissolves into a black shadow, revealing the bare minimum of detail, intermittently punctuated by street lights breaking through the canopy of treetops that line the streets throughout Ottawa's downtown core. I look towards Somerset and see the Royal Gate off in the distance. I see the light pollution further north create a halo, bleaching out the starlight. I think about the walk ahead of me back home.

Pat's disembodied playlist continued from within the apartment entering a particularly bland gulf of banjo rock alternating with loud quiet loud pop rock of the late 90s. I've had enough.

Finishing the last couple sips of my second Red Star, I turn to Paul Oak, "Hey, I think I'm gonna take off. I'm pretty tired."

"That's cool bro, I get that. Are you working?"

"Yeah man, I have a contract out in Kanata at a startup."

"Right on! I hope it works out."

"I don't. I can't wait until I'm on to the next thing, to be honest."

"Right on, man, right on."

We embrace again as I invite him to enjoy the remaining three Red Stars. He seems to need them more than me if he's going to continue braving himself against what has become quite the party, despite the host's absence.

I slip out as Paul Oak bids me adieu while he integrates with a group of his coworkers, and let the door close behind me. The elevator opens with its pleasant tone and after a short ride to the ground floor, I spill out into to the night air of late summer.

I disappear up McLeod to cut down a quieter back street to avoid the foot traffic of Bank. Under the cover of the canopy and through the alleyways between buildings, I walk in the full fluorescent and sodium lighting keeping the side street well lit.

Passing one of the streetlights I had seen from the balcony, I smell fried food and begin to hear bass thumps from a passing Honda Civic with a body kit. The car passes by and turns right up Somerset as I cross the street and head left.

Passing under the Chinatown Gate. Further and further west, I descend downhill. I meditate on the evening as I walk. I think again about Geoff, Patrick, and Hank, and the acid. I think about the awkward situation Patrick put Hank in and I chuckle again.

I see the neon lights of Wei's Noodle House. I see the slow crawl of an LED sign advertising some kind of special. Finally I see the humming lights of the Pho Bo Ga La King, and the seemingly endless beauty of its gentle neon under absent starlight.

Vegetarian food.

Pho.

Take Out.

Ice Cream.

Bubble Tea.

Each individual sign combining to create a kaleidoscopic multitude of glory, transfixing me beneath the streetlight for a moment, I finally turn around and ascend into my final alleyway of the evening, and to my front door.