A white party pump screams across the room. Having narrowly missed Hoek, the shoe clangs the door behind him and comes to rest on the dusty parquet floor mere inches from where his head too comes to land, in what feels like obscene slow motion. Unharmed yet astonished, Hoek considers his circumstances—laid out on the floor of the apartment belonging to his No. 1 Lady, a single step inside the front door when … what direction did that shoe come from? Wait—! From the air continues to fall the pastry box he’d been carrying when he’d waltzed in here, nonchalant at the time, unsuspecting, whistling to himself and looking forward to seeing Shasta, his No. 1 Gal Pal. Shasta? Flop, the pastry box lands next to Hoek's other ear. He takes time to blink. Slow it down— 

Here’s the scene: Shasta’s bachelor apt. Three story walkup. Nothing more than a fridge, kitchenette, desk and chair, armoire, bed. A large window. It’s her apartment alright. But where’s Shasta? The place looks ransacked. Busted coffeetable. Overturned shelves. Clothes everywhere … something stirs on the bed. He spots her—! Shasta sits up and tucks her baggy T-shirt between her legs. And moving out from behind her is … a man? Burglar! Burglar in the apartment! Fast Shasta, away! Away—! from that strange broad-shouldered dude, fully nude dear god, perfectly tanned with a foamy mane of dark hair and coming into view like an iron poker, glowing red, veined and dripping some form of…

Oh,

“Get out!” Shasta shrieks and tosses the bed’s only remaining blanket over her head. No need to tell him twice, Hoek breaks for the window. But so does the other guy—his phallus pointing the way, and… shit—they’re in a race! Hoek’s in the lead, just barely, when Shasta leaps out of bed and strikes like a cat across his face. 

“Ow!” 

“How dare you!” 

Her eyes are drained. Someone didn’t get much sleep last night. Whiffing her sweat and looking down into her kohl-painted eyes that shined like dark marbles, Hoek's heart pangs. Damn, Shasta. 

But a detail—the busted coffee table has a clear imprint steamed onto the glass: the indisputable heart shape of a recumbent rump. Fuck. Love is complicated.  

Hoek brushes Shasta aside, considers the pastry box. Nata tarts he’d planned on eating in bed with her while smoking her cigarettes. Should he take the nata? Leave the nata? Yes, no. Take them? Seconds later he’s vaulting the window ledge onto the landing, pastry box in hand. The fire escape rattles like chains. Three floors up. There! He spots Mr. Burglar, Mr. Hardon, Mr. Studd, his muscular buttocks making waves up the ladder. Ok—! Hoek leaps in hot pursuit, two stairs at a time. 

How’d it come to this, Shasta? Picture eyes open onto black. Unplucked eyebrows. She said shaved armpits cost a woman her sexual powers. Women’s lib kind of sexpot. The first person he met in this city. She lit his cigarette outside the bus terminal, Dundas Street, big eyes, big teeth. Big curiosity. "Shasta," she'd offered, as if he'd asked. Smile rimmed with gold. They went their separate ways but the following week, engaged in her community activism slinging mud pies at SUVs, Shasta missed the mayor’s famous black Escalade and struck Hoek square in the face. Wrong place, right time. Kismet. The rest is history. Was. She warned him not to love her. But the first time they had sex she held intense eye contact while smoking her cigarette down to the filter. What’s a boy to do?

Hoek stumbles. Reality sets in as he realizes he’s wearing cowboy boots on a sloped roof. Jeepers … he can see the whole city from here. Sun’s breaking prismatic through downtown skyscrapers black and ominous, golden hales and aspects spotlight off of high windows and through powerlines, scaffolding, sheens off the blacktop. Above, the clouds are toxic swirls of lambent energy. Vibey morning. Against a chimney leans a cracked mirror. Mistakenly, Hoek catches a glimpse of himself. Could be seven years of bad sex. Careful now—it’d be all too easy to disappear down a seam between buildings. Empty shafts. Hoek steals his breath and clears a four-foot parapet. As he travels through the air he forces, involuntarily, a whistle through gritted teeth. It’s earsplitting, like a falcon’s ware. And there it is—his confidence returning.  Mr. Studd looks back like “you gotta be kidding”—None of this is happening.

But it is happening. Two men running full tilt across the rooftops of Kensington Market. Gables, cupolas, patios, spinning clotheslines as they go. And why? Hoek realizes now, as he bounds from one roof to another, that it’s not quite jealousy he feels. Mr. Studd looks fine enough. An envious specimen to be sure. All glutes and quads. He’s parkouring in a way that looks … à l’aise. Currently Studd slides bare-assed down a slope of shingles. Ouch—! his right side comes up rashed, throbbing red through his tanned skin. Damn, he could be Italian, this guy. Mr. Studd looks back. Maybe it’s just the sun needling in sidewise, but Hoek swears he sees Studd wink. A Mona Lisa wink.

Hoek feels faintly horny. Broken clouds. 

Focus. A little bit of comic cinema, cosmic synergy, his life. Keep pace. Don’t let up. Try not to look down. Yeah, pay no mind to the people in the street, jeering, whistling. Hoek thinks, yells: “Stop that man!” It works—the crowd begins to bark. They’re mobilizing. Street’s filling up. Hoek’s gaining. This is when he realizes— Mr Studd keeps glancing back at intervals that seem equal. Hoek counts. One. Two. Three. And four—yeah exactly, there—Studd looks over his shoulder again. Hoek starts the count over. One. He slips his hand into the pastry box. Two. Three. He sails a nata through the air. Four. Studd glances back and … perfect shot! The thing paints Studd’s cheekbone. Stunned, he fumbles and stops. Hoek too thinks to catch his breath. He could use a cigarette. But Shasta was always the one with the cigarettes. Focus, man—! 

Hoek could stand to get off this roof. But wait—Mr. Studd has the same idea. Hoek looks on in awe as Studd scrambles down a drainpipe and lands on a balcony. He’s now halfway to the street. Going down. Look at this guy, repelling down a length of Baltic Ivy like he’s done it before, and his cock perfectly … “rock hard,” Hoek mutters under his breath. Good lord. People shriek and hurry out of the way. Shit, it’s conceivable he gets away. Hoek’s only hope is to outsmart him. He comes to a complete stop. He poses with his boot on a cornice. On the wall adjacent is a mural of Daffy Duck in a Luchador mask. Huh? Has Hoek not seen this mural before? Strange, he could swear it was within sight of … Shasta smoking on her fire escape. She watches the palps of her fingers as they stroke through the ends of her bob, then, looking up, she spots Hoek and backs undramatically into her apartment, leaving on the landing only her curtains ballooning soft on the morning breeze, and seconds later through the crease in the centre comes flying out her cigarette butt.

What a gutpunch of a morning. 

Breathing. What next?  

Profile: Unskilled itinerant worker, middle twenties

Only “serious” relationship by grace of older “men” and their “credit cards”

reviles sentimentality

Dislikes Toronto (strongly)

Daddy issues

Ideal candidate must:

Own/ride a bicycle

Be tolerant of Catholic upbringing

(and all related deviances)

Money: none. Paid rent early, why? No job, no prospect, no real friends. 

Ideal: Hit the road. Again? Get rid of apartment, get hands on money STAT. 

Problem: How to get back the rent money? Extort it from the roommate. Beat it out of the landlord. Rub down dogs’ heads for luck. Meet someone to take pity, to serve as sugar momma/daddy. Bingo.

Ambition: To get laid would sure take the edge off. 

Prospects: Zero. Zilch. Will take as offered, men, women, group gropes. Erection parties. 

Fitness: Takes his pills, immune system excellent. In fit form. Heart of an athlete. Penis of boy in sexual prime. 

Forecast: Humid summer air like a conduit of jealousies, overwrought, hypersexed society. Is anyone in charge here?

Outlook: Summer’s over.  

Bye-bye Shasta. Memories like fishhooks to his emotions. Sex is transactional, he reminds himself. Mesial communion. Small turnips. Have a peach. Hoek finds the Daffy Duck mural distracting. The eyes look alive. They appear to be following the erection. Art imitating life in this case.

Feeling stoned by the sounds the city makes, Hoek launches another tart. He misses. Ain’t he a stinker. It smears itself on the sidewalk ahead of Mr. Studd. Wait—Studd steps in it and his feet go out from under. Bingo. “Stop that man!” Hoek shouts and scrambles down, ventriloquizes another falcon cry. Good measure. Think. He spots a utility pole with climbing cleats. He leaps for it. A gasp from below. Hoek catches the pole and hustles down the cleats. At street level, a crowd is converging on Mr. Studd. Some are berating him with insults. Others are trying to help him up. Mixed in is a gang of children with their arms crossed. Down to the last cleat, Hoek falls the rest of the way. Jams his landing. Darn boots. He’s running with a limp now.

Hoek makes for the centre of the crowd. Mr. Studd’s up again. Hoek was expecting as much: as soon as Studd’s face pokes out above the fray Hoek strikes him between the eyes with a flying nata. The kids burst out laughing and several older folk pitch backwards, appearing to faint. Mayhem ensues. “Stop that man!” Hoek reminds the unruly crowd, but half of them turn towards Hoek and try to upend  his path, this particular contingent giving off strong No-Homo vibes. It’s the boots and shorts combo. Perhaps too the act of chasing a naked man. “You don’t understand!” Hoek shouts to be heard above the din, “I caught that man … in bed with my GIRLfriend … emphasis on the GIRL?” That does the trick. The crowd finds its purpose. A stranger hefts Hoek onto his shoulders. 

“Where is he? Where is he?” they holler. 

Hoek: “There!” 

Mr. Studd banks the corner onto Baldwin Street, the gyre of his legs spitting pebbles. His pursuers coming on nearly invisible through the dust he's kicked up. Here they are now, all together making a wide turn onto Baldwin. 

Unsuspecting Baldwin, the whole street crowds under eaves. Merchants are setting out their stalls, shopkeepers open awnings. Smokehounds amble their uneasy way. A stray cat escorts a can rattling down the gutter. A man in a suit crosses towards Tom’s Place jingling his pocket. Power lines bombinate. Pigeons purl. A racoon picks its teeth. Is it just Hoek or are there kids everywhere now? Ragamuffin types. Their eyes keen, focused. A BMW, black, speeding the narrow length of road, threatens to careen through the whole scene. Some screams. A man in a black cowboy hat claps the skin of a djembe. Drumroll. It settles into a rhythm and Hoek starts running to the beat. The drum holds the whole scene to its frantic pace. It’s madness. Mr. Studd, possibly taking inspiration from our hero, starts to scale an electrical pole lumberjack style after snatching a belt clean off an old man. The old man’s trousers fall straight to the ground. But Studd, having reached the first bias and in an impressive show of athleticism hefts himself up with a chin-up. Shit—he’s headed back to the rooftops … At the top of the pole, Studd grabs a handful of electric wire and swings his legs forward, monkey-like, grabbing the wires with his feet. In the process, he thoroughly flashes the audience his gonads. Faces upturned, mouths agape. Studd inches along this way, across the wires. Smartphones are coming out. 

Hoek lifts another nata from the box. Cocks his arm. But a tiny voice can be heard saying “wait.” He looks down at a kid in a propeller cap tugging at his pant leg. Flashes a slingshot in his waistband. Now we’re talking. The kid climbs Hoek like a ladder, plunks down on his shoulders. This kid weighs a ton! Hoek hands him the ammunition. The kid slots it in, bends the band, takes aim. His ragamuffin friends yell “Pull!” and the kid lets the nata fly. Perfect release. Its trajectory is beautiful. Hardly a curve to it. And … direct hit—! It smacks Studd in the testes, forcing his prehensile toes to give, legs to drop. He cries out. The crowd squeals. Pigeons cower, displace, straighten up. Agitated, they fly a protest around Studd, their errant feathers clinging to his … wow. Still, Studd endeavours to keep his hands moving along the wires, his cock too persisting—crusty, feathered, but hard as ever. Who is this guy?

“Reload,” the kid orders Hoek. “Make it count.” Hoek puts the final nata into the child’s hand. The kid cranks the band so far back that his whole body shakes.

“Pull!”

The nata flies. Slow motion. 

The djembe man pounds the drum skin. 

The beautiful sight of the Portuguese Natash in flight. 

THE CUSTARD'S SONG

I’m uzed to makin’ people moan

Smack deir lipz, mumble & groan

I’m uzed to makin’ people wacko

In wayz more delicate

than wackin' their saco

Ooooooo the crowd reverberates the final sung note as the nata—flying crust first—glances off Mr. Studd's forehead, throws it back, and spalls like confetti across the audience. People leap with excitement. Mr. Studd’s grip starts to give, his hands slacken. The last of his fingers slip and … there he goes—

He bounces off an awning like a cat off a tarpaulin, lands in a street side stall of ripe bananas. Banana guts squirt everywhere. Seconds later the nata too falls, and, tracing the same trajectory (bouncing … lying …) lands custard-side down on the helm of Mr. Studd’s pecker. Looks like a miniature pillbox hat, its integrity intact despite a glob of custard streaking down the shaft, at the base of which the man’s pulse can be seen clearly ticking, easily measured by the naked eye. 

Seconds later and the kid’s down from Hoek’s shoulders, high-fiving his friends. He stops before Hoek to offer up a fist bump. “Zeek,” he says. He has something written in marker across his knuckles. G E N – 9 0. Couldn’t be a tattoo …

“Zeek?” Hoek says, “Thanks, Zeek. You’re a helluva shot.”

“You don’t need to thank us,” buds in another kid.

“Yeah fool,” says another.

Huh? Fool? What’s the bright idea? But Hoek doesn’t mind so much. It’s all part of the comedown. Hoek’s feeling … peaceful-like. Peaceful? Tired but in a good way. If only Shasta hadn’t thrown her damn shoe at him, they might have had a real chance to come together, she and him and Mr. Studd too. Fine lines. What the hell. He could have would have fucked them both. Open mouths. Fantastic vermilions, dry lips. Fingernails in scalps. Shasta in the foreground. Spraddled figure. Firehouse sexuality.

Oh Shasta—! She’d asked him if he’d be into opening their relationship. And here he was thinking he hadn’t yet given her an answer. How had he not seen the signs? Sure, there was the lost weekend with the lavender boy from Saint Tropez. Lavender slacks. Lavender suspenders. Lavender beret. Shasta got off on hearing them speak French together. No jealousies when no one’s left out. Maybe he wasn't gleaming the subtleties in their game of parley-voo. 

Hindsight. 

!—Sirens

And just like that, the kids scatter. So does the rest of the crowd. The djembe included, packs it in. 

Hoek walks up to Mr. Studd, somnambulant in the banana box. Stars and birdies fly round Studd’s head. The same in mini fly coronas round his phallus. Splendid erection. Duper Dong. Hoek stands over him for an enjoyable moment. Slowly, he reaches down and, careful to only touch the crust, plucks the gooey tart from the tip. It comes free with a suction sound, Slup—! Hoek eyes the thing closely then disappears it whole into his kisser. Waste not, want not. He swallows then, happy, satisfied, bends down and breathes into Studd’s ear, straightens a strand of displaced hair, tucking it gently behind his ear. Maybe, under different circumstances …

Sirens are descending. Hoek turns downstreet. He ducks into an ATM vestibule. By habit he removes his wallet and feeds his card into the machine. The thing spits out a statement of his balance. He has nothing. Damn fool he was for having paid rent early. He’s got no currency left in this town. Fuck this place. 

The seven stages of this city are: Shock / Denial / Anger / Bargaining / Depression / Violence / Lust. Disaffected youth, rife for revolution. Where to go now? 

Hoek’s remaining tethers to Shasta: his cellphone, the key to her apartment. His old life. He breaks his flip phone in half and shoves it down a sewer grate. The key follows. Falls soundless. Police plod on by. Hoek starts moving and he doesn’t look back.

Plan of action: Chin up

Thick skin

Go home and take a shit, gather select things. 

Check bank balance every hour on the hour in case of miracle. 

Make a plan, long weekend in the city

Meet nice person(s) to suck ‘n fuck

Life as a Funhouse

Baseline Freakshow

Beat the band

Fashion some integrity

Take a leap

Need a victory Need a victory

Bye-bye summer

Torch a copshop

Kill the mayor