Sumptuous

There are three big lessons life taught me when it was busy screwing me.

The first is that if I’m in a situation I don’t like, it will remain the same until I do something about it. I learned this lesson during my marriage. It is one of the few things I’m proud about doing. I didn’t lie to myself that it was going to get better, and I didn’t say that leaving a marriage is ‘not that easy’, because it is. If I never did something about it except hoped and pray it would get better, it wouldn’t. God never listened to me, I had to fuck it all up and then sometimes it got better. It often didn’t, but at least I tried.

The second is that you need to take a break every now and then and do something you really want to do. I broke this rule many times and I regret missing each wish because there are some things you only want to do for a certain period of time. If you don’t, the desire disappears and you miss out on an opportunity to be happy for some time. And being happy for some time is one of those things humans greatly undervalue.

The last one is the most embarrassing one. It’s more of a belief, or a hope, that most problems can be solved with love and kindness. It’s the one I believe in the least, but want it to be true the most.

It is important to say that these are the lessons I have learned but don’t necessarily live by. Really, I’ve only stuck to the first one and even that’s debatable considering that I hate my job. I want to do something about it, but, well, it’s not that easy.

However, a new recent event has pushed me to stick to these lessons more. Especially the second one.

This morning, an anonymous package laid on my doorstep. It was in the shape of a box, covered with brown paper. I stood in the open doorway while wind was blowing on the street, immediately sensing something was wrong. When I opened it, there was a gun inside. It didn’t take me long to realize who must’ve sent it – I’m no longer in contact with anyone from California, and nobody here would send me anything anonymously, much less a gun. It can’t be anyone else but the guy who shot Jim, and this is most likely the gun he was shot with.

I stood, looking at the gun and trying to think of what to do for quite a few minutes but no good ideas came to mind. Obviously, I can't go to cops nor anyone I know because I don't know anyone well enough to confide in them something like this. I had no idea what to do with the gun, because they are illegal in Canada. In the end, I wrapped it back, making sure not to touch it, and put it in the back of the closet to get rid of it later. Then I cried for ten minutes, asked myself what was it that I did to make God hate me so much, laughed about how fucked my life is, and in the end took a nap after kicking the shit out of my pillow.

I decided that the best thing I can do is arrange some serious self-defence lessons and get drunk, so I called Sasha. "I need a drink. Pretty bad. You in?"

Now, some people might consider going out drinking with all that's happening to me absurd, but I'm mentally tired and I really need a break. Besides, it's always been my coping mechanism. Whenever life got tough, I took some time to try to forget about the situation and then came back around to deal with it after the first wave of shock wore off and it didn't feel like I could screw it up as bad anymore. It's not the best technique, but it works for me.

I put on the tightest dress I could find, did my make-up, cried, did my make-up again, and kissed the mirror before leaving to meet Sasha in front of the most popular club in Vancouver, Twelve West, and just like any other stripper, she comes wearing translucent heels and a mini black dress, looking as trashy as a racoon, but stunning nevertheless.

“You ready?” she winks at me and gives me a hug.

I grin. “If not now, then never.”

We start the night off by menwatching – observing the men in the club, and trying to decide who has the most money. Sasha bets on the overweight baldie with gold chains on his neck, and I bet on the Russian mobster looking dude, wearing sweatpants.

“I think I actually saw him once at the club.” I say, smiling at the mobster, who stands up and starts to make his way towards me, pushing through the sea of half-naked and drunk people to get to me.

“Hello, gorgeous.” He says, and I can’t detect a hint of any Slavic language. It doesn’t matter – I don’t care. “What are you doing here, alone? Someone might snatch you up.”

I smirk. “Well, then you better watch out for me.”

Soon, the obese baldie comes to join Sasha. It becomes clearer and clearer that she was right, at least based on the drinks the guys were buying us, and on the cars they told us they owned.

“I gotta go pee.” I say, on my fifth drink, and stand up from the table, a little wobbly on my feet, but not too bad. Straightening up, I try to make my way to the Ladies’ room, when a hand grabs me. “Hello, beautiful.”

I squint my eyes to see the face of the person talking to me better in the dim and colourful lightning. He seems vaguely familiar. “Let me go, I need to pee.” I snatch my arm out of his grip, and make it to the bathroom, where I also reapply my lipstick.

When I come out of the bathroom, the same guy is leaning on the wall opposite the door. “What, are you stalking me?” I narrow my eyes and he shrugs.

“You do not remember me, do you?” he asks, a smile forming on his face.

“No, and I don’t care. Bye.”

He grabs my hand again, and this time it really annoys me. “What?”

“You’re absolutely plastered, aren’t you?”

I nod. “That I am. What do you want?”

He stammers. “Nothing,-“

“So let me go.”

He seems stunned, but lets me go anyway. I turn around and make it to my table, smiling at the Russian gangster and Sasha. “Here I am.”

“I see you’ve brought a friend.” Sasha smiles to someone behind me and I purse my lips when I turn around to see that the guy is still behind me. “Who is this?”

“I don’t know. He might be my new puppy, from the way he seems to follow me everywhere.” I answer, and Atlas grins at me.

“He’s a little big to be a puppy.” Vladimir says, ogling him in an untrustworthy manner. I sigh and make my way to sit next to him, when Atlas, once again, pulls me back by my hand.

“What!” I glare at him, but he doesn’t pay any attention to my sour mood.

“Who is this creepy dude you’re sitting next to?” he has the audacity to ask me.

I lift my brows. “Excuse me?”

“Why are you sitting next to this weird old dude? Do you know him?”

I snort. “I know him better than I know you. His name is Vladimir, he drives a red Ferrari and a white Porsche, all his ex-wives have betrayed him, and he likes scotch. Also he has a cute little black puppy Milanka. The only information I have about you is that your name is Atlas.”

“I am your hot boxing coach.”

“Mhm.”

“He’s kind of ugly.”

“Is he?”

“I don’t like him.”

“I don’t care. Go away.”

The atmosphere in the room has shifted from easy-going and light, to slightly more intense as I look into my coach's eyes. The way he is staring at me makes me swallow the sudden excess of saliva in my mouth. 

I want to smirk and tease him a little, but something stops me, and I have to force myself to look away.