Purple People Eater – Death Stopped By
Around 1:30 a.m., the need to piss arrives before full consciousness.
The bathroom has been occupied for more than ten minutes.
Long enough to notice.
Long enough to become irritating.
The fluorescent panels have been off since eleven.
Emergency lighting softens the warehouse into shadows and outlines.
Industrial floor fans continue moving air through the room.
Outside the office, the white-noise generator produces its steady rushing sound.
One clock reads a few minutes ahead of another.
Close.
Not exact.
The room itself is comfortable.
Neither hot nor cold.
Occupied beds conceal what lies beneath layers of donations accumulated over time.
Different comforters.
Different blankets.
Different sheets.
Patterns beside solids.
Martha Stewart beside generic brands.
Everything softened by repeated industrial laundry cycles.
The empty beds tell another story.
Blue mattresses.
Fluid-proof.
Bedbug-proof.
Black steel frames.
Silver support pillars rise toward the ceiling.
Near the ceiling tiles, a dreamcatcher hangs tied high against one of them.
Staff with clipboards appear.
Then disappear.
Later, they appear again.
No announcement.
Just part of the rhythm of the room.
Frustration becomes decision.
Nicotine wins.
Outside, darkness settles over sidewalk and curb.
The previous day’s heat had approached thirty degrees.
The overnight air feels different afterward.
Two black shapes interrupt the geometry of concrete.
At first they are shapes.
Then people.
Attempts are made to wake them.
Hands gripping shoulders.
Sternal rubs.
Waiting.
More attempts.
Waiting again.
Voices drift through the darkness.
Half audible.
Echoing.
Emergency responders arrive.
Equipment appears.
Gloves.
Flashlights.
Movement replacing stillness.
More voices.
Half-heard.
Fragments carried away before meaning fully forms.
More waiting.
One man remains motionless.
Another shifts.
Sternal rubs again.
Time stretches.
People stand nearby.
Watching.
Waiting.
Eventually, the emergency responders leave.
The sidewalk remains.
The curb remains.
Darkness settles back into the spaces between people.
Later, the two men stumble away beneath their own power.
Unsteady.
Alive.
By ten o’clock, the smoke pit has warmed.
Corrugated metal walls frame open sky overhead.
Tobacco has embedded itself deep within jackets and hoodies.
Sweet vape drifts through cigarette smoke.
The two substances cover and uncover one another before moving apart again.
Almost like satellites crossing paths overhead.
Conversations overlap.
Housing.
Appointments.
Stories.
Weather.
Rumours.
Laughter.
People arrive.
People leave.
Subjects shift before reaching conclusions.
No single conversation survives for long.
A young man moves through the smoke pit.
Part Eric Clapton lookalike.
Part cat.
Eyes scanning concrete with practiced concentration.
Searching for smokable butts.
Small discoveries.
Brief disappearances.
The ritual repeats.
Lighters appear.
Lighters disappear.
Someone borrows one.
Someone pockets one absentmindedly.
Someone searches the table.
Someone checks every pocket again.
Someone mutters:
“Fuck, where did my lighter go?”
Another lighter materializes.
Flame.
Smoke.
Conversation resumes.
Inside again, the room continues as though it had never stopped.
Fans moving air.
White noise beyond the office.
Clipboards appearing and disappearing.
The dreamcatcher hanging high near the ceiling tiles.
A resident strikes the silver pillar each time he passes.
Sometimes with a ring.
Sometimes with something held in hand.
The exact object remains uncertain.
The sound does not.
The ringing travels upward through warehouse trusses.
Metal through open space.
Familiar.
Ritualistic.
Not unwelcome.
It happens again.
And later.
Again.
The shower provides temporary relief.
Soap.
Shampoo.
Warm water.
Summer sweat disappearing down the drain.
Clean skin reclaimed by heat within minutes of drying.
Dinner is insufficient.
There will be no leftovers.
The Dollarama bag contains a borrowed urinal, Dollarama cutlery, a plastic container, and half-wrapped chocolate softening against itself inside the wrapper.
Whenever the bag moves, all of it moves.
Plastic against plastic.
Metal against metal.
The contents dance together.
They clang together.
They tick together.
A small inventory announcing itself with every lift, every shift, every step before settling briefly back into place.
The Dollarama cutlery had been rinsed after contact with whatever sanitizer products had been available in the bathroom.
Hopefully enough.
Hopefully safe enough to be washed clean again later for cold chili retrieved from the lockers.
The chocolate offers slight resistance before yielding completely.
The Diet Pepsi has spent enough time in the locker to feel cool by comparison.
Not cold.
Not even close to cold.
But against room temperature, against the warmth that settles over everything by evening, it feels cold.
It is consumed anyway.
Sweetness first.
Then carbonation.
Then the familiar artificial cola finish.
Later, back in the smoke pit, conversations drift toward changing drug potency.
People tell stories.
People compare observations.
People search for explanations.
Someone refers to the purple substance as Purple People Eater.
The phrase remains.
It resurfaces.
Then disappears beneath unrelated topics.
Then returns again.
No heroes.
No villains.
Only conversation.
Evening settles back inside.
Industrial floor fans continue moving air.
The white-noise generator continues outside the office.
Clipboards continue appearing and disappearing.
The dreamcatcher remains near the ceiling tiles.
The pillar rings again.
One clock insists upon one time.
Another disagrees by several minutes.
Close.
Not exact.
Ice cream sounds wonderful.
The anticipation becomes detailed enough to almost exist.
Cold sweetness imagined vividly.
There will be no ice cream.
Warm chocolate becomes dessert instead.
The fans continue.
The white noise continues.
The pillar rings again.
The clocks remain close.
Not exact.
Support Personal Dispatches
If you found value in this story, you can learn more about supporting Personal Dispatches here: