On holding ones tongue

at the planetarium of hickeys

There is a difference dear reader, between being friends with someone and being friendly.

There are people who we know and those with whom we are familiar.

You have people like this in your life.

You don’t really know that person who makes your coffee each day but to you they are familiar.

Sure, you might share a friendly word or two but that certainly does not make you friends.

That leaves the question dear reader, how far do you take your interactions with these folks?

What kinds of questions and conversations are permitted and which are forbidden?

Ricky and I take lunch each day in the same place - Glooscap Landing. There’s a gas station and a Tim Hortons. It’s badly laid out and the washrooms are filthy.

If I could give it zero stars and a lower recommendation, I would but on Google Maps, the worst review you can give is one star. And given how filthy that shit hole is, one star feels like all the reparations that rat hole deserves.

There are some staff there with whom Ricky and I are familiar and friendly with.

One is the old guy with the nicotine stains on his moustache. He’s nice and after only four weeks of daily ordering, he knows I want an extra large tea with two sugar and one milk.

I get extra large partially because I need the fluid and partially because they make the best cups for pissing in.

This begs the question, dear reader: do I share this information with him? Do I tell him he’s not just a beverage technician… he’s also a key supplier in my emergency roadside urination program?

How might he react? Maybe he’d double cup me with an extra lid, a wink and a smile as though to say you’re one of us meow, like I was now a member of some select and stinky secret society.

Or maybe he’d get revolted and tell me that I’m giving him too much information.

Given that we’re there every day, I’ve held my tongue about my piss cup problems.

There was a day that I just couldn’t hold my tongue though.

And based on what I noticed, someone else couldn’t either.

You see dear reader, there is a young man, an old boy in his late teens who works at the Tims there who came to work one day entirely covered with hickeys.

I mean he was COVERED.

I tried to look away, but each successive hickey was like a solar eclipse. One part of me was screaming DON’T LOOK AT IT DIRECTLY!

But I couldn’t help it dear reader. It as worse than bouncy cleavage. I couldn’t help myself. I stared.

His neck, exposed parts of his chest, parts of his arms and even parts of his jaw had round hickey marks all over them.

He looked like a clown wearing a skin suit made by a serial killer.

It was like he was in art school and attempted to transfer Van Gogh’s Starry Night onto his body using some girl’s mouth as a paintbrush.

One thing’s for certain - those hickeys were no accident. It’s not like he rolled out of bed after sleeping with a Dyson, looked at himself in the mirror then said oh fuck what happened to me!

No dear reader, something else was up. Those were markings of possession. Some young lady decided that he was hers and she wanted to let the world know.

And he wanted?

Well, he’s a teenage boy. WE ALL KNOW WHAT HE WANTED.

Self respect and dignity.

And to glide through life without attracting any unwanted attention.

Or perhaps not…

Because he could have worn long sleeves. The building is always way too cold. No one would question a turtle neck.

But instead?

He comes into work looking like all of the constellations at a planetarium. The constellation I could see on him? The Seven Sisters. This isn’t surprising. When it comes to love in this part of the world, folks have been known to keep it in the family…

When Ricky came in his eyes were transfixed on the multiple neck nipples. Those hickeys were throat titties. His jaw hit the floor and just as quickly he barked out his surprise.

Holy shit Jimmy, would you get a load of this guy! He looks like one of those connect the dots things the kids get in the activity books.

Some would have found that mortifying. I perked right up.

I know Ricky! He looks like a paint by numbers gone all wrong!

Perhaps we should have lowered our voices.

We spoke as though we were razzing an old friend.

Instead?

This was someone merely familiar.

And since then?

A lot less friendly.

Ah well, I guess that this kid had to learn that when you go looking for attention, you can’t control what you get.

Poor kid. Next time he’s attacked by leeches, perhaps he’ll use a little salt.

Stay salty dear reader!