“C’mon! C’mon!”
She’s yelling at me.
I can’t. It’s awkward.
I want to ask something terrible, but I can’t. “C’mon!” “It’s hard when you’re yelling at me.”
She’s not appreciating this.
This is a favour.
A miserable, lonely favour.
What the hell is she thinking?
What the hell am I thinking?
I make some sound.
Like a happy, deep sound.
She stares at me. She knows
I’m a liar. “So great,” I say. “Hmm” she says, and coughs
into her palm.
I sat myself down in the stranger’s apartment,
asked for a light, was passed it.
He told me he had a guy living upstairs,
something of a “Sex Slave.”
Originally, he’d been taken there
against his will and imprisoned screaming like
an animal. That was years ago now.
He’d grown to quite like it up there —
New found simplicity. Quiet routine.
“It’s easy for him,” the stranger said,
as he sloshed half his beer across the
kitchen floor.
“What’s he got to worry about up there?
I’ve got to work, I’ve got bills,
I’ve got family problems!” I nodded gently,
hoping to impress. I looked to the ceiling,
swigging -– “He ever see the light of day?”
Someone else came in, sat down, took the light
from the table. She blew smoke out of her nostrils
and said “Hi, I’m Paula.”
I didn’t respond. I could hear the slave
stomping around upstairs and
hoped he was happy. I finished my beer and said
“Is it not, sort of, immoral –-
to have a man locked upstairs indefinitely?”
I read his expression — offended.
“He likes it! God, you’re so conservative,” he said.
I was far gone. I thought I’d go meet the sex slave
but second guessed myself and left.
Later that night, alone in bed,
I dreamt of my own gatekeeper, dreamt
of what I could achieve with free time like that.
ZEN NOVEMBER 