Member-only story
Pete
A short story
Sometimes I wonder why certain people are together, you know? It’s like my friend Pete and me. Pete lived on an ait. When I tell people that, they say “A what?” and I say “An ait,” again, and they say something like, “What the hell is an ait?” and I tell them that ‘ait’ is British for river island. Valentino says, “Fuck off” because that’s Valentino. If he hasn’t heard of something, he thinks it doesn’t exist. That’s how stupid Valentino is. Anyway, I want to tell you that, for some reason, knowing the word ‘ait’ without people knowing it makes me feel different.
Before Pete who lived on an ait died, he used to phone me on Saturday mornings and say, “Let’s go.”
I’d meet him by False Creek by that crumbling fenced-off parking lot. That parking lot made me feel sad looking at it, I don’t know why. But later when I saw the colorful houseboats on the water, I’d be okay. I can get pretty moody. My life is controlled by moods that don’t even have names. And sometimes I think there is a Day Zeke and a Night Zeke and they are two different people.
Jeez, you see Pete coming towards you from a distance you think a mini storm front is moving down the sidewalk! Then he gets closer and you see him smile and you think, No, this is the Sun! And he’s all smirks and clouds of cigarette smoke and never says, “Hi” just launches right into what’s on his…
