In this part of town, abandoned buildings are unremarkably common, and so, there was nothing exceptional about this one. It sat, unassuming and tired, on it’s corner a stones throw from the Nestle chocolate factory in another one of Toronto’s latest West End neighbourhoods on the brink of gentri-coolification.
While this was true on the surface, behind the boarded-up windows — Many had experienced the uncanny impression that there were revellers vibrating to an unheard soundtrack, cheering, shouting and stomping in silence. Similar to that inexplicable feeling when you know someone is staring at you from across the room? Like that, but also like imagining a sea of fish eyes beneath the surface of a lake staring at you, unseen. And so walking by the old Sterling building made you feel like that but also like you were missing out on something incredible but you can’t quite put your finger on it. The only thing you can put your metaphorical finger on — literally came from this hypothetically empty space on the other side of these boarded-up windows and doors. Behind the weathered plywood graffiti, and padlocks, encompassing an imagined space within were eyes that watched as you passed by and didn’t fail to notice your step quicken slightly.
Although, Telos (who is for all intents and purposes our hero, although he doesn’t know it yet) is unfazed as he passes the shuttered building. He is distracted by the heightened adrenalin levels beginning to pump through his veins. He is headed downtown, it is a work night and he is on his way to a club. As it turns out, Telos is a nameless, faceless re-up contact. A bag man who delivers drugs, money, or anything else from point A-B. Technically that is what he does. Tonight however he is responding to a message from a front-line club dealer who works the entertainment district’s bars and clubs. It is because Telos is seemingly so unremarkable that bouncers never game him a second glance. If anyone noticed him they could clearly tell he was trouble, but of course, no one did notice him, and so he was as invisible as faith or the homeless.
In his line of work the parties actually never end, this much was accurate and horrible he soon came to realize. Never go into any profession you love, he remembers his vodka-in-a-coffee-cup drinking guidance counselor telling him, you’ll only be disappointed by the minutia of it all. Not that he ever bought what Mr. Destiné was always going on about, but the be careful-what-you-wish-for truism is a truism for a reason. You’re either working the party or at the party and there’s a line between the two. Either you’re a party reveler, losing yourself in the moment oblivious and enthralled in the music, friends, good times and substances or having to maintain a constant razor-sharp edge of awareness, of your surroundings and every individual in it, at all times. Because as unseen as Telos was entering a club, he became highly visible once inside. Visible to the customers, the dealers, the tricks, the marks, the players, the hustlers — everyone. They not only saw him but were drawn to him. It was the same opposing polarities but switched to attraction. This duality made him the perfect bag man and it was because of these specific talents that allowed him to walk past security with a black duffle bag full of what could be anything — drugs, guns, body parts, stuffed animals (actually it was too heavy to be filled with stuffed animals) destined for the satellite crew he was here to meet. His handlers never gave him any details and he never asked any questions and because of this discretion, he was known throughout the city as being the most reliable bagman bar none. Not an achievement he was particularly proud of but he, like everyone else, had to make a living, and after all, a compliment was a compliment.
No video or movie Telos has ever seen accurately lifts the veil on what it’s like. A little too dramatized and forced. There is a distinct high that comes from being in a crowd while holding a bag filled with what can only be a bunch of highly illegal you-don’t-want-to-know. It was actually Telos’ preferred drug of choice. Being on the edge, blood running noticeably cooler in his veins. Sharp hyper-awareness switches on as he moves through the crowd, everyone moving around him in slow motion in rhythm to the music and sweaty pulsating bodies. Tonight, however, his flow would be abruptly cut short as he feels a hand on his shoulder, sobering him up, and cutting through his hyper-awareness like a knife. A female voice in his ear, dark, warm and wet like the breath of a jungle cat, “Trust me, this scene ends bloody, mostly yours, you need to come with me. Not a question or a suggestion. Trust me, I’ve been here before.” All of Telos’ hairs stand up and he visibly shutters as the voice knocks him back to reality. Who the fuck was she and how the hell did she sneak up on him? let alone get close enough to touch him? He was better than this (apparently the best in the city some had mentioned). These thoughts, quickly absorbed by his ego as he inexplicably knows she is telling the truth. Compelled to do what she says without hesitation. He not only does not resist but notices he cannot when he tries. Stepping back to see who this voice belongs to, he is caught in the slicing gaze of a dark-skinned woman with darker hair, full of curls. The subtle scent of fresh jasmine all at once overpowering, intoxicating, and all around him. She is curvy and strong looking — obviously not trying to hide it either, her cut off jean shorts and a white tank top with “Invisible Army” written across her stomach in what looks like sharpie? A black inverted triangle pendant hangs around her neck pointing downwards, drawing his eyes directly into her cleavage. He feels a pang of guilt as he quickly looks up to be caught by her intense gaze again.
“Good boy, follow me Telos.” She grabs his hand and parts the crowd with urgent and graceful movements.
“Wait how did you…” His voice, drowns out as they weave past the speakers heading towards a dark hallway leading behind the stage.
She kicks the bar on the door of the emergency exit setting off the alarm. Blaring high pitched waves wrap around the heavy bass as they spill out into the alleyway beside the club. The sidewalk is filling with club fitted women, out of place huddled together on the sidewalk outside of the club habitat. The mystery woman walks past the crowd leading Telos by the hand. It feels like he trips but the sensation is actually reminiscent of flipping through a collection of social media posts, scroll, blur, stop on an image for a second, scroll, blur, repeat. This stutter strobe effect enveloping his reality is disorienting as he experiences one location after another, seemingly feet or miles apart, with nothing in between but motion-blurred backdrops and whooshing sounds. He tries to protest, “Excuse me, why does it feel like I’m stuck in a drunk loop… but also like I’m being shot out of a canon?” But no sound comes out as his voice seems to be eaten up by the air rushing past.
“We’re here.” She lets go of his hand and smiles, “whatever you do, don’t…” Her words are cut off as she dissolves into the solid brick wall in front of him. Telos tries to grasp what just happened, stepping back, he soaks in his surroundings. A boarded-up building. No the same boarded-up building. The same building he passes night after night on his way downtown. A 15 minute walk from his home. The absence of physics and logic tear at his brain as he tries to understand how he got here so fast. It’s almost a 40 minute drive from the club. He stares at the brick wall in front of him, an inverted black triangle spray-painted on it, sloppy and forgettable. More visual noise on a wall in a city filled with ads and graffiti. He realizes he’s unconsciously seen it for months but never fully registering it until now. Above it he the word “Enter” in that bland city-worker-stencil font.
Telos, shrugs, to himself, standing in front of a brick wall and griped his mystery-drop-duffle-bag a little tighter, “Let’s see where this leads.” He whispers, and steps into the wall.
. . . . . . .