Where's Da G's

Where's Da G's (Ft. Bun B, Pimp C) – Dizzee Rascal (listen in new tab)

For a moment she is back in Paris. Her mind wanders down the streets. Fresh, clean, unmarred by what came next. And then she crashes through the cobbles stones. She’s back in Toronto, remember

Shannon thought coming home would help, that she could wrap herself up in the warm familiarity of what K and she had had. But lies thrive through mitosis, accumulate, and expand. She feels them in her stomach now, slowly growing so that one day they would push out through her skin.

The music drones. It punches her in chest, but she doesn’t hear it. She watches K. He’s staying close to Claire. She’s known him for years. She knows he knows that she’s hurting, and lost, and coming apart. He has been bending over backwards to help, trying to mend the distance she brought home with her.

K comes over. His breath smells like whiskey. He’s drunk. “You want to go?” He wants to leave so that he can put to bed one more episode and lie awake hoping he can think of something better tomorrow. His eyes plead with her.

She is tired. The party is thick around them. More people come and it closes in. She feels like she takes up more and more space. She likes to think they could all push hard enough to crush her. Forget about her.

Shannon: “No, I’m fine.”

K: “Want anything?”

Shannon: “No.”

K: “Listen. I’m sorry.” She barely hears him. It doesn’t matter. She’s jealous that he can say it and angry that he says it too much; that he says it for the both of them to the point where the words are pallid.

Claire comes. “Shannon, c’mon. I’m sure it was nothing. You know how K can be when he drinks. Guys are shameless. You see that girl that’s been all over G.T.”

Claire’s drunk, too. Shannon wants to be drunk like that. Drunker. It’s one more thing she lacks the courage to do. “I don’t care about that.”

Claire: “You’re too hard on him.”

Shannon won’t look at her, just the floor. “I know.” Her stomach churns. She’s been sick so much lately. “I need to go outside.”


They’re out on the back porch. She exhales the warm humid air of the party. The cold air shocks her lungs as she inhales. It settles her stomach.

A thin layer of snow covers the yard. The music, muffled by the walls, rattles through the windows. Laughing. Yelling. A thick chatter. All the noises fall numb in the cold November night air. What must have been a doghouse rests grey and fallen.

Inside, the party goes on. It’s 2:00 AM and it continues to gather steam. They watch the kitchen through the sliding door. They’re silent for a long time, leaning on the railing. Shannon would be silent forever, if she could.

People come out to smoke and go back in.

Shannon: “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Claire: “I know.”

Shannon looks at her feet, makes piles of snow with the toes of her shoes, revealing the stained wood.

Claire: “I don’t know what it is. I think I know, but, you have to talk to him. He knows you’re lying. You owe him more than this.” She says it slowly. No rush, no crisis, no fear at all in her voice. Thank god for Claire.

Shannon wants to cry, to bury herself into Claire’s chest, to feel the warm, whiskey breath on the back of her neck. But she doesn’t. It won’t come out of her that way. It feels too big for her mouth.

G.T. and K appear in the kitchen. They check the rows of liquor bottles, looking for something to make a drink. They don’t see the two outside watching them.

A short blonde woman runs up to G.T., practically knocking him over. He catches himself. They kiss full on the mouth. K looks uncomfortable. Claire lets out a sound of disgust.

Shannon: “That her?”

Claire: “He could do better.”

Shannon: “I dunno. I mean, it’s G.T.”

Claire: “Ugh. She’s all over him.”

Another woman comes into. Shannon stands up straight.

Maura hugs K., leaning up on the tip of her toes to speak into his ear. She lowers herself down, but stays close. He’d shoved his hands into his pocket at first, and now one came out around her waist. Goddamn his awe-shucks charm.

Claire: “Shannon. Wait.”

Shannon is through the door before K sees her. His face melts in panic. Maura turns, her face painted with confusion. G.T. pulls Brae out of the way. Claire following on Shannon’s heels, gives him a dirty look.

Shannon pushes Maura off of K. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Maura, drunk and threatened, moves to retaliate. K stops her.

K: “Shannon. Listen.”

Shannon: “No. No!”

Maura struggling against K’s arm: “I don’t know who you think you are, you crazy–”

Claire, now holding Shannon back: “Whao.”

Shannon: “You shut up. You stay away from my fucking boyfriend.”

Maura stops struggling: “K?”

Brae: “What the fuck, Gregory?”

K stands in shock. He lets Shannon’s rage wash over him, he always does. It’s too much for her. Escaping Claire’s grip, Shannon shoves K hard into the counter. He almost falls over and grabs onto an onlooker to steady himself.

Shannon: “Why are you such a fucking idiot?” It is not a question for him, but she wants to push it through his chest.

Everyone in the kitchen is silent. Then K asks the only question left between them. The noise of it is deafening when it comes. It wants to shatter the light bulbs, to rain sparks and sharp shards of frosted glass into their eyes.

“Why are you even here?”