Writer of fiction, poetry, etc - based in Vancouver BC
Cali has come down from her fire tower in Alberta, where she spent the summer watching for fires, and has returned to Vancouver. This was late Sunday night. Today, we met up and west to a comedy show.
Said goodbye to her last, I think it was June? Had a dinner with her and a couple of others at a Serbian restaurant on Royal Oak in Burnaby, place nobody had ever heard of before in a strip mall that spoiled us with meats and breads and good Serbian wine, and then she went away on her bicycle and disappeared to the wilderness from which she would send me occasional videos of deer and hailstorms. She showed me the different clouds she was learning to tell apart, and how diverse the sky really is. It felt like she’d be gone for an immense span of time, when I gave her a hug and watched her ride away. Now she’s back.
Met her inside International Village, near the Starbucks. It was busier there than I remember it, which isn’t saying much. A long time since I’d spend much time inside of there: still mostly empty. A miraculous thing that it exists: funky, distinctly dated circa-2000 chic decor. Cali tells me they had another one just like it in Edmonton, but they’re tearing it down for the LRT. A shame; some kind of progress. We went up to the food court, (where that eternal Taco Time existed still surrounded by a selection of Asian options), and settled on the Thai place that most of the people seemed to be lined up at. Very spice beef stir-fry with rice and an egg, spring roll and a little soup. Delicious. She showed me her manuscript, just printed out, and I showed her the last copy of Cafe Noir Poems that I have on my person—Mark’s copy, actually, but he hasn’t claimed it yet. Her launch is on the 15th, when she’s reading at the downtown library. I said I’d be there. I’m looking forward to holding it in my hands and devouring it.
The show wasn’t far, on Hastings just east of Victory Square. We walked there through a suggestion of rain. I do like waking through this past of the city—it feels like a city. It feels like it has a soul to it, wounded as it sometimes is. I got off a stop too late when I arrived, at Cordova and Carral, and walked back through it. I felt like I was in a proper city. I passed Pigeon Park and reflected on what about it had died. People dining in fancy restaurants, ones I’ve wanted to try. And I briefly imagined myself sitting at a table with somebody I never have and never will meet. Some fantastical evening over glasses of red, and words opening and closing in a conversation that never was defined because I had walked on from the fleeting image of it before I had time to give it any soul. Anyway, I like the energy. When we arrive, the doors aren’t open, so we hang out by the bar on the main floor bar and play connect four. Cali wins best two out of three.
I am sipping at an Italian gin with hints of sage to it. Engine, it’s called, and it’s in a tin can that looks all the world like an oil canister. That’s the gimmick—but it’s a good one. I sip at it as I write this. I missed this, writing like this. I’ve been consumed by the stuff of applications and bacchanalia for too long.
Basement setting of the show was pounding with music as we filed in and were given the seat directly facing the microphone. Rez Comedy: native-hosted comedy night, not all native performers. But the sentiment. A group from Ottawa files in and takes up one entire side of the joint—they are well dressed and order wine. They take a selfie. They are engaged with by the performers several times, but getting their exact identity out of them is like pulling teeth. They dodge questions. What we learn: they are from Ottawa; they are here for a conference; they had just been in Whitehorse (this is how they answer the question of “so what is the conference about?”). Streisand effect engages, and their reticence becomes the major running joke of the night. Are they party staffers? CSIS? What are they hiding?
But a good show. My main take away: straight guys are weird. Nobody who has ever been to a comedy night needs further clarification, and it’s too late in the night for me to want to provide any.
Filed out for the show beginning about two minutes after ours ended. Walked back out into the night. Went up to Pender and followed Cali for a bit in the direction of the Canada Line, which she would take back to Richmond. I stopped at the bus stop at about Seymour, waved her goodbye and said I looked forward to the fifteen. Then my bus came and I rode home reading Tess of the D’Ubervilles, which I am finally getting back into—haven’t really been reading much lately. But I like Hardy.
Got home. Sat with my mom and grandpa. Talked about some practical things. And now here I sit. Up in five and a half hours for an early one.