‘The Bubble’

I really hate my car. I've had it for five years now and it's only gotten progressively junkier. It's too old, it's too plain, and it's too ugly. I really don't like it. I don't like the boring gray paint job. I don't like the bulky old-man-sedan feel it gives when I take those necessary extra wide turns. The old rust bucket angles worse than a beaten up school bus filled to the brim with screaming children and is just about as noisy. I hate it. I really, really hate it.

I’m ungrateful; most people don’t even have cars, what the hell am I complaining about? Gas prices have taken a dip recently. The talking heads are saying that it could be devastating for the economy. I think of it as more of a blessing to morons still driving v-6 sedans.

It’s snowing tonight, and the bar I’m headed to is in The Plateau near Ontario street, which is about a twenty to thirty minute drive from the east end suburbs where I live with my mother. The snow is coming down in heaps though, and it looks as though the ground will be thickly covered in white by morning. I’m twenty-two years old, it is January 20--, and Montreal has always been my home.

The radio waves are cluttered with bad music tonight. All this commercial stuff sounds the same. Manufactured for the masses, shaved of any real intellectual depth, to be ingested like candy. I really don’t like Lady Gaga. Though maybe I should give her more of a chance; I mean people seem to like her. Girls really seem to like her. Some of her songs are catchy. Disco stick did initially strike me as a clever metaphor for a penis. But then, people are stupid. Why would I want to follow what people do?

I can really use a drink.

I tune the radio to 97.7, Montreal’s classic rock station, and lean back in appreciation of the change from Lady Gaga to the Beatles. What’s the difference between the two really? Why do I like the older stuff so much better? I mean, the Beatles are basically the Lady Gaga of the 60’s aren’t they? Maybe their sexual innuendo is a little subtler. Okay, a lot subtler. I guess it’s just a universal principle that art, or whatever Lady Gaga makes, appreciates with time.

As the song ends, the radio DJ brings in the next:

“That was The Beatles with ‘All You Need is Love’ from 1969’s Yellow Submarine. Great track, always puts things in perspective for me. Alright, we’ll hook you up with another thirty-minute rock ride just after this.”

I push the radio button off, just as the ads are about to begin. I try my best to avoid ads.

I hit a red light by an underpass of the metropolitan highway, and unsurprisingly a hobo comes up to my car. Normally I don’t even acknowledge beggars’ existence. It’s not that I don’t sympathize with their plight, it’s just that, frankly, I like to repress things that don’t make me happy. Thinking about negative things slows me down, and I don’t want to be slowed down. I have places to go, I need to make something of myself. I’m going to be graduating soon. At the very least I’m aware of my hypocrisy. The awareness is soothing, in its own way.

Something about this particular hobo’s dirty face and sunken look, or maybe the fact that I am pissed off at society, or maybe the fact that it is snowing pretty hard and the chump is in tatters, I don’t know, something pulls on my heart strings and I open up the window and hand him a few dollars from the pile of change in my cup holder. “God bless you”, he says, jingling the coins in his plastic cup. I roll up the window without replying or looking too long, and laugh maniacally.

‘God bless you’, that one really cracks me up.

I turn up De Lorimier Street, deciding to avoid the highway intersection the next street over. I can’t help wondering if I’m still subconsciously drawn to the street.

The drive up De Lorimier, admittedly, still makes me think about Bella. We broke up three long months ago, but I still can’t shake certain memories from my mind. I still have these moments of vague lingering desire that I can’t quite rationalize yet. I guess it takes more than three months to get over a relationship with that level of intimacy, but it’s so frustrating that I can’t just wipe things clean. No matter how I may try, certain things linger longer than others. Her smell still envelops me from time to time, and her giggle still resonates in my inner ear. She used to wear this green Nirvana tank top that was really cute. She had really pretty hazel eyes that I’d lose myself in… until one day there was nothing left behind them but a reflection of myself.

I finally get to the bar about ten minutes later, and from the outside it looks to be a hipster spot in the mile-end. My windshield wipers are on at the highest level. The snow is coming down in thick fluffy flakes, creating a soft white blanket on the ground. It is the beautiful kind of snow that falls only in the early winter, before the Montreal landscape becomes drier, colder, and blunt.

I followed my phone’s GPS, but had neglected to do any preliminary research about the bar. I guess I don’t really care. I’ve been preoccupied with too much lately. From the outside, the place looks pretty laidback, like an informal college bar. The brick wall façade holds no sign. A lit up ‘Stella Artois’ neon juts out from above a black door.

As I get out of the car, I light a cigarette and check my watch. I was supposed to meet my date at the bar an hour ago.

I’m hoping she’s by now a little drunk, or this may get awkward. No, no, put on your game face Marcus and stop being a baby. It’s about ten o’clock and the sky is a white-speckled purpled gloom bordered by black.

I parked right across the street from the place in a metered parking spot on Ontario Street. The snow is still coming down heavily. I smoke half my cigarette and run across the street, worrying that the snow might ruin the intricate gel-work in my hair. I spent about half an hour in front of the mirror placing every strand, working up the confidence to go through with this.

If I remember correctly, her name is Marie, or was it Martine? Marie-Anne?

The towering bouncer greets me in a black overcoat and holds the door for me. The coat-check girl smiles. The place is dim, with a chintzy black and gold color scheme. The glow of candlelight illuminates the tables, and dimmed spherical lanterns hang low from the ceiling.

The coat check girl's breasts are the clear focal point of her outfit, accentuated by the ol’ open-buttons-and-push-up-bra combo, and when she turns, I notice her thin leggings also expertly highlight the contours of her shapely derrière. Her body language suggests I can leave with her tonight after her shift. But then, it may just be part of the whole coat check racket. Her leggings are black, and topped with a red plaid blouse opened at three buttons, exposing a black bra. I bet she’s a dirty girl. I tip her a few dollars. She probably lives nearby.

Shut up and focus.

I turn away from the coat check, and walk nervously to the bar to order a gin tonic. The place is surprisingly full for a Thursday night. It seems to me to be a mostly French-Canadian crowd. Most of the guys are dressed in jeans and clean simple blazers. I feel as though I stick out like a sore thumb, dressed in tight burgundy corduroys and a gray wool sweater. I thought the place would be more of a hip student bar. I scope the place out while I wait for the barmaid to bring me my drink. The crowd is a lot more posh than I thought it would be, and seems to be a spot for young professionals. Most of the cut-jaw men stand in groups, staring at the scantily dressed barmaids and smiling arrogantly. The gin tonic arrives and the barmaid tells me, with the help of her fingers, that it is fifteen dollars.

The music is a sort of upbeat electronic ambient, playing fairly loud. There’s a girl right next to me at the bar in a tight red cocktail dress. I start chatting her up to rid myself of the unwanted nerves. I throw a few lame premixed lines at her and smile before the blank look on her face leads me to the conclusion that she doesn’t speak English. I figure I just set a new personal best, a strikeout clocked in at fourteen seconds flat. That’s probably not true. I’ve had girls reject me with their eyes. At least I spoke to this one. It’s okay, she’s cute and she smiled at me- I can feed off of that.

I look around the place again. The layout is very nice: high ceilings, urban décor, dimmed lights, bar smack in the middle of the place, tables out to the sides.

I notice a girl in the far corner staring at me with both hands wrapped around her drink, sipping shyly on a straw. She's a brunette with frizzy hair and glasses, which perfectly fits the profile. We met on a dating application and chatted a little while. It seemed understood that this would be a casual encounter. Her pictures had revealed the brown frizzy hair, the glasses, and the tight body. But more importantly, her bio assured me that she ‘loves to have fun'. There was a pucker-up graphic by the description so I'd know it was legitimate.

She looks even better than she did on screen. But then, it is dark, and I am as starved for flesh as I’ve ever been.

I walk over to her casually. She’s wearing a thin white blouse open at several buttons, and a tight black skirt. The red bra pops against the white, underscoring the anticipated passion.

“Martine?”

She smiles revealing great pearly-whites

“Marie-Eve. You must be Marcus. You don’t know how to keep the time.”

She offers me her hand with her nose up and I shake it with a sheepish smile.

“Sorry. I am Marcus, and it is lovely to meet you. Say, has anyone ever told you that you should work for Colgate?”

I smile at her, hoping for a laugh to ease the tension, but she stares at me stone-faced.

"Okay, I guess you're not a fan of my humor. I hate to have to reveal it this early, but I don't think I bring too much more to the table."

She leans into me, the arm holding her drink wraps around my neck, the other ever so lightly brushes my groin:

“I don’t speak English very good. Parlez-moi en français.”

I guess the noise of the place masked it, but in close her heavy accent becomes audible. I’ve always had a thing for French accents, and her breath on my ear and strategically placed hands are only adding to the excitement.