In 43 days I will be 30
I am writing a trashy novella in honour of my upcoming show in the Toronto Fringe Festival: The Queen’s Eulogy (it’s a play performed in a pile of trash). Enjoy.
Fifth Part: His phone and my hand become one
I turn and re-enter the bathroom.
There is no Noble Man in the stall.
The bar is packed with more people now. The night has darkened.
I approach the Blonde Boy. His beard is the exact same beard. His nose. His long, crusty face. This is the Noble Man. This is the same person. I nearly shout at him,
“What are you doing here?”
He is halfway through a beer.
“What are you doing here and how did you get out of the bathroom ahead of me and give me some kind of answer, I need some kind of answer.”
“Do I know you?”
“Obviously you know me, you just fucked me in the bathroom.”
“What?”
The old man bartender sees me with his wrinkled stale fucking gaze of a man who has seen way too many people do way too many things they shouldn’t be doing, the gaze of an old man who happens to have to deal with me tonight. I find my purse by Blonde Boy’s feet. I bend down to pick it up and he stands, completely afraid of me.
My eyes shut with friction, burning, tightening for the sake of waking, I mumble,
“I’m just getting my purse, I just need my purse ok, I’m sorry.”
“I think you think I’m someone else,” he says.
“Clearly,” I agree but only because I worship the laws of agreement: Once you agree, He lets you leave. I add, quietly, “I just need my bag.” I have become quiet because I do not like live negative attention.
The blonde is staring as if he can’t seem to decide whether I am a farm animal or his crack addicted sister or perhaps, I must be, an Ex-She.
“I just miss the internet.” My eyes fill with cold, salty reasons.
“You need the internet?” He offers. He shows me his phone as if I have never seen a phone before and I take it because this is a joke, this whole night, this whole day is a dream is a joke is a corrupt, failed lesson in Listening.
I open The Internet. The Internet stares at me. The phone heats up in my hand. I extend my arm, offering it back to the Blonde Boy.
He shakes his head and he says, “No, no, do what you need to do.”
He is a hero. He is a saint. I am Hellfire. This phone is collecting my skin. I cannot help but look at Google, my thumb reaching to type something but it is stiffened by something burning.
The phone melts in my hand, fuses to my skin and I scream.
Rachel Ganz 