There’s a dirty diaper pressed against my nostril. I inhale.
The coffee’s full of snails. I drink.
For a brief glimmering moment, the computer tells me that Le Clown has posted something new. Scratch head. Must think of a clever comment to impress him. End up writing “yeah fuck yeah!” Clown does not seem impressed. Weebles, however, dances with glee and espouses about my mediocre brilliance. My morning is made.
On the way to work, I rap at the top of my lungs. An itch that has some weird venereal connotation almost runs me off the road. I stop the car. I get out. I scraaaatch. The fog is lifting off Canada-land. Home of the beavers. Home of Trent P. Lewin. That’s right, bitches. Trent P. Lewin. This is my hood, and I’m a mean motherfucking rapper yo.
At the Starbucks, I consider the nefarious practice of product placement as I pull up to the drive-through speaker and order a coffee. “Would you like some breakfast with that? A muffin? A pulled pork sandwich? A full cow roasted in a wizard’s bonfire?” No thanks I tell Janine, the smiling waif behind the window. Just the coffee ma’am. It tastes like shit but the caffeine gets right into some intestinal tract and starts making its way into my bloodstream. Oh yeah Trent. Fuck yeah.
On the radio, there is a war going on in Syria, a coup in Egypt, and some guy got caught masturbating on a motorcycle in Montreal. Hmmm. Le Clown? We meet again. I think of something clever to blog about. Nothing comes to mind. More war talk. Something is happening in Lululibya, a place that never existed, that never was, except there is a conflict there, and I am here.
At work, there are no parking spaces left. I urinate on a Subaru. “Must have rained last night,” I tell the student inside, as he gets out the passenger side door. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ll fire you, student. I’ll fire you.”
Inside, I take a drink. Bad scotch tastes like good scotch when you drink it in the morning. Someone comes in and asks me a question; I imagine Data from Star Trek, what his sex life must have been like, having a whole starship all to himself. Oh the orifices he must have known! I close the door. Get on the desk. “Come here, little computer screen. Come here.” It’s not proper to undress at work. Unless your door is closed. Grinding with a computer screen before 10 am is awkward, I realize.
Tap on the computer. Hello WordPress. Oh look, generic poet has written something. It doesn’t rhyme. It doesn’t say anything. It doesn’t go anywhere. Doesn’t come from anything. Has no heart. Has no soul. Just today’s reflection, this time about… paper clips. It’s a poem about paper clips. It’s nothing. It truly is. But it has 485 Likes in the last 18 minutes, and 200 adoring comments. I grit my teeth as I write: “Dear generic poet. Suck it.” And oh look, here’s Art from Pouring my Fart Out, he’s got another cool interactive exercise for us today, plus some hybrid mutant photos of him as a 9/11 terrorist boarding a plane. “Hello Art. Please and kindly. Suck it.” I play with him for a while because he never lies about what he wants. He wants fame. He wants success as a writer. I would give it to him, but it would be wrapped in vomit and smacked around by a dildo, so I’m not sure it would do him any good.
The phone rings. It’s Umba from Strasburg. “What you doing, little Trenty?” “Nothing, go away.” “No no Trenty. Umba want to know what you are doing right now. In Strasburg, it’s late in the day. I high on something.” I pull out a revolver. It’s the gun that Tuco used in the three-way gunfight in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. “Revolver,” I tell Umba. “I’m going for it, Umba. Goddam.”
My aim is not good, but I take out the students first. They look like they know it’s coming, like they deserve it. I hack down the administrative staff next. The ones who made the rules about the dress code, that Quebec-inspired Charter of Values shit declaring that I, Trent P. Lewin, cannot wear a hijab to work. “I will wear a hijab,” I announce in the lunch room. I always hated the water cooler, because who uses ice cream cone-shaped paper cups anymore? I mean, this is wasteful for the environment, no? I shoot it. There’s a hole. Not a big one. Not a proud one. Just a hole leaking water. Ah Data. Ah android/cyborg/robot. Please proceed with penis insertion. Adjust vigorously. Apply uniform pressure. If the phallus becomes lodged, remove with great care. What kind of suction does a broken water cooler develop when the water is sneaking past your foreskin, I wonder? I will find out. Look into my eyes.
Back at the desk, I am finishing the story of my fantasy. “Very interesting Trenty,” says Umba. “I suggest you get new job or become that thing you always wanted.” “What the fuck does that mean?” But he hangs up, because foreigners are unreliable you know, and are to be feared and shunted out of your country by any means necessary, even if that involves subtle legislative tactics and rude glares rising from behind rose bushes.
These are the days. This is the way. Every day is repeated. Every day is a car and exhaust, and in summers it’s fresh asphalt and cut grass. I bleed twice a month and have band-aids to take care of it; I have a headache every fortnight and have a bottle of pills that makes it go away. These are the days, Trent P. Lewin. All soft and philosophical, all writerly and putrid, all demented and entirely misunderstood because there is nothing, in the end, to understand. There was nothing there, nothing more than a mirage and a pull string leading to a burned-out lightbulb. This is lunch, which is a box of scarabs and another drink, and outside a joint while leaning against the siding of a funeral home. The phone rings and it’s a woman who wants something; then it’s a man who gives and gives and gives; and then it’s the decision-maker who holds your life in his hand, your life and the life of your family, your life and the life that is your reputation, your life and the comfort that you crave, the continuity and upwards progression to which you feel you are entitled. This is you, Trent P. Lewin, as you shiver with the lights off and wonder how you got here or what insane delivery man keeps bringing you flowers that you use to wipe your ass. These are days of immortality and immorality, and the mixture is a mixed drink in your hand as four o’clock rolls around and you’ve accomplished nothing at all. Nothing beyond wondering why you are here and where you got off the highway – that newly-clad road that once had a sun as bright as a nuclear bomb at the end of it.
I go to the bathroom and shit in the urinal. I piss on the mirror. I call up my blog on my phone and flush the fucking thing down the toilet. I get in my car, drunk and high, and I head to the donut shop where I buy a pizza and eat it while I’m driving. I run down a Boy Scout. I ram a Mormon. I stop at a store and buy a light bulb, a pack of cigarettes, a new cordless phone, a tube of industrial grease.
I check my blog. I check your blog. I check the news. I scribble something on the driveway and build a mound of dirt that is full of ants; and they, just like me, are wondering if this is where I am meant to be. In the end, is there where I am supposed to be? Is this my life, Trent P. Lewin, or is this someone else’s? Whose creation am I, exactly? My own? Yours? God’s? None of the above? Repeat, delete, repeat, delete, repeat, delete – it’s up to you what you do with these words, and also what you do with your own. Repeat! Delete! Answer the question, folks. Answer it well.
I go to my bed a day closer to an ending I dread or to a grand truth I crave. They follow me together into my dreams. This is the dream of Trent P. Lewin. This is his day, not nearly as good as yours. This is his electronic existence, a parody of life, a tiny mote that contributes to a ministry of the e-insane. Dear brothers and sisters. Let us hold hands. Let us find fellowship. Let us beg and wallow, and defecate our dreams in favour of a plain, unaccomplished life. Let us struggle and scream and be drunk on a beach once a year, feeling that here, yes, here is the truth and here is what I want and here is what I was meant for, this is the now , this is the paradise under stars I have never seen before, under a moon that I have never witnessed, before planets that will never feel my footsteps. Let us come together in a spiritual orgy of fine wine and filtered smoke, brothers and sisters. Let us be whores and proud of it. Let us be monsters and not hide it. Let us embrace our inner madness in hopes of surcease, in expectation that there is in our souls a touch of truth swimming in the punch bowl we have just made of our stomachs.
And, brothers and sisters, more than anything – let us pray.