Shirtless, leathery and over-tanned,
shiny found objects hung from cords around his neck,
brushed his nipples and grazed his ribs.
His pants, skintight and zebra print,
I’m charming, a recovering junkie and an alcoholic. I’m 56, and I shouldn’t be alive.
A chipped Christmas ball dangled from his earlobe.
Thirty years ago, he had a dream he was a character on Hornby, so he quit his diving gig and left North Van.
I’m a talker. I just hung around long enough until someone eventually gave me a job.
His Pomeranian is pink,
I think she might be a little disabled.
He grows weed and free dives.
The cops just leave me alone.
He asked me who I was with and told me I looked like I’d seen some shit.
When my cat died, he brought me a black garbage bag full of weed.
