Montreal Self Destruct Sequence – Charlie Zacks

March 18, 2025

I think I’ve gotta leave this city, I think as I think about getting up off this damn couch. I roll off the couch. On the floor. It’s a “Chesterfield.” At least that’s what the guy called it. The guy I bought it from. The couch. He was Lebanese. Moving back to London. “You can smoke in bars there.” I don’t even think that’s true.

I’m hungover, but I didn’t even drink last night which I guess means I’m just sick. Something in the air. Going round. Shit like that. I think, I’ve gotta leave this city. Sell all my shit on the side of the road. America is calling my name. Whole world spinning round my head. Staring up at the ceiling. TV playing static like its QVC. That’s the show where they sell you shit, if you remember. Whole world spinning round my head, yeah, and I’m thinking, At the end of the day, it’s just me. And I’m right. It’s just me.

TV turns on. There’s a guy telling me to leave this city. He says it in French, so I only kind of understand. It’s got something to do with that, the reason I’ve gotta leave. When I first moved here for college they tried to stomp the Southern accent out of me, but when I’m drunk (often) it still comes out. I’m the son of a son of a son of a dress maker. Sitting pretty is in my bloodstream. I tie my tie and iron my shirts just the way Pops taught me. I say “please” and “thank you,” “yes sir” and “yes ma’am.” I wear stripes with plaid. I wear plaid with plaid. They will never win.

This city’s been a series of goodbyes. It’s a lot like adolescence. My friend said, “everyone’s gonna leave this place” and he’s right. My head’s all swelled up with ideas and shit. It’s an easy place to convince yourself you’re bigger than you are. Pink sunset. Pink snow. Just enough high rises. Long, lonely winters. Heavenly summers.

I buzz someone in with a package. Call hangs up. There’s no one here. No package. My place got robbed on Christmas Eve. I guess I didn’t just buzz someone in. It was the detective. I missed her call. I’ve been missing calls. They stole my winter coat, but it’s got a tracker in it. App on my phone says the guy’s getting dumplings. I bet he’s nice and warm in that coat. I’m calling random numbers in my phone. They took my bluetooth speaker, so I can’t sit on the shower floor listening to Lucinda Williams anymore. It’s just the shower now. The cars. Bathroom filled with steam. Traffic lights red and green through the window.

This city’s become a part of me. What I’m doing these days is what therapists call “narrativizing.” I’m making a life out of a life. And I’m terrified by the future. I’m not afraid to tell you I’m scared to die. Céline said, “to be alone is to train for death.” So I’m alone. In this city covered in snow. Training for death.

There’s a hole at the center of this place. The kind that hums.