My Near-Death Experience
Bry’s Blog / April 13, 2015
Just had a near-death experience. I was strolling up your driveway when an old pickup rattled down the hill toward me. My only hope was to cannonball into the second growth. Blue Dodge, crumpled fender, peace decal: I told myself to remember these specifics if I survived.
But it was only your house-checker. Ingrid something. An entrepreneur, home security. I gleaned that information from this rangy, leggy lady as she helped me out of a tangle of salal. I shakily lit a cigarette and introduced myself as, essentially, your brother (showing that old photo of us), and she said, “Unreal,” and I said I write for the movies and I’m here doing a script, and she said, “Awesome,” and I asked her to thank you for letting me use your studio, and she said, “Whatever.” Rather pointedly, she didn’t ask me to move down to the house.
Would Ingrid be able to confirm that the her employer was either (a) on a research trip to the bordellos of Hamburg, (b) on a reading tour of Baffin Island, or (c) on a week-long drunk in Lower Nowhere? She managed a shrug. I finally pried from her that you had gone off “somewhere for a holiday, not sure where but I think he said Costco Rico or maybe Porto Rico.” You had promised to phone, but hadn’t.
Ingrid’s vacant look somehow complements her sex appeal, and I asked if I could buy her a drink at the bar tonight. “Not,” she said. I’m starting to get used to the curt rebuffs. Modern women seem to have lost the art of the gentle letdown, the art of masking one’s aversion with a lie (“I would love to, but…”)
Ingrid got into her truck without even a glance back to apprise what she might be missing out on. Okay, I’m sliding past middle age, but I hold my years well. Maybe it was my overpowering manly odour that turned Ingrid off. I will heat some water, clean up. I’ll go to the bar alone tonight. Ingrid can stay at home with whatever unreal or awesome things that occupy her. Reality TV. Bible studies. Whatever.
Posted by Bry Pomerantz, April 13, 2015
The Blog / April 13 (Cont’d)
After I blogged off I immediately felt the need to blog in again. I’m beginning to understand the compulsion to share with the world every thought one burps out, every fleeting mood, every meaningless observation about one’s so-called life. Won’t be long before Bloggermania shows up in the Diagnostic Manual.
For me, the addiction is cathartic. I feel an almost explosive release in talking publicly about my fucked-up life. I have no secrets. I have wandered from the paths of righteousness, but most of the laws I have broken (Narcotic Control Act, driving over .08, obscene and disgusting performance) are statute-barred.
I’m feely edgy, I’m running out of Captagon, and must find another substance to abuse. Captagon, by the way, is a pharmaceutical banned in the First World for the usual reason (it makes people happy), but available behind the counters of certain Mexican farmacias. My supply of these little pills is fast diminishing, and I am otherwise bereft of banned substances, and feeling it, and thus smoking too much.
I have to assume you’ve sworn off weed, because I can’t even find a damn roach in here. I presume this island is not without its merchants of happiness, and I shall make a connection at the bar tonight. Browning, they call it. After the poet, I assume. Any nose may ravage with impunity a rose…
Posted by Bry Pomerantz on April 13, 2015