From an old website, Alien in Montreal
Have you ever seen that film, Memento? Well, if I drink spirits, then my life becomes like that.
I sit here, today, with unexplained bruises, an empty wallet, and a sore head. What the hell happened last night?
It begins in the London Bar, where I was soundly ripped off and spent every penny I had in a terrible drinking game, designed, I think, to make the newcomer pay for everything.
And then I leave the bar, with my $60 bill, and stagger into the street. Still lucid at this point, and consider my options.
I'm in a bar. I don't know it, it must be new to me. I'm standing between a booth by the window, and the bar itself. It is busy. I don't know if I have a beer here or not. I wonder if I should sit at the table. Then...
I'm crouching in front of a car. What am I doing here? I'm hiding, obviously. From what? I'm not sure. The street is typical east end Montreal. It is quiet, I have the feeling that I've escaped my pursuer for now. But why am I hiding? I think back...
I'm in a bank. It is late at night and I'm clutching my cash-card, which I'm staring at. I'm not sure if I have just withdrawn cash, or am about to. I have the feeling that I'm deciding something important. A taxi waits for me outside...
I'm staggering along. It is dark, very dark. There is an old train to my right. The ground is uneven and stony. I stumble a great deal. What am I doing here? I don't know. I walk on, unsure of my destination. I'm tired now. The empty trains around me seem as tempting as a warm bed. But I resist, I feel that I have to keep on going. To my left is a steep slope and I worry about falling down it. I walk across tracks. There are no moving trains. Empty warehouses pass me by on my right hand side...
'Do you have any ID?'
'Any ID sir?'
'Sure, I have some.'
I fumble in my pocket, extract my wallet, and take out a few cards. I stare at them. They all mean nothing. I realise that I'm drunk. I offer them all and the police officer takes my driving license from amongst them.
'Where do you live?'
This must be a trick question, as it's written on my license, I think. But I decide to tell him anyway, I'm feeling miserable and want to make friends with the police.
'That's it! I live there!' I'm excited as I leave the police car, thanking my saviours, and make my way home, at 3am.