(Wattpad is being a pain in my fucking ass right now, so pretend the next sentence is italicized)
Bohemian Like You
1.
Downtown Edmonton. The bank-sponsored evening skyline fades into night. Below, the city's twentysomething metrosexuals hunch together over picnic tables in the backyard of one of its lone DIY art spaces, drinking IPAs, smoking prerolls. Everyone seems to know each other. Two dudes under a white canopy - one presumably older than the median age of the crowd (approximately 26 years old), the other deceptively short - take turns on the decks, spinning Detroit techno hits to some brave, solitary voguing on the concrete dance floor. GGGG and I are tucked behind some bushes on a stray picnic table we affectionately name "the Kids' Table." For most of the night, it's just us two there, despite occasionally being joined by this guy NNNN and interrupted by other partygoers. Eye contact between us is sparse, and there's a subdued but still somewhat impermeable awkwardness we sift through. At least to me, we seem to be constantly changing our minds about what we're supposed to be to each other. All of this in tandem leaves me extremely on edge, although it's not impossible for me to relax. The sound of 909s pump through the back alleys.
GGGG and I are at what has been advertised to us through some Photoshop-Xeroxed posters as a "DJ set + natural wine party" - the ladder of which I'm sure conjures up horrific images of hipsterdom. Though not entirely inaccurate, it feels more like a barbecue than anything else. Sure, everyone looks like sexy douchebags, but the vibe never fully veers into self-congratulation. Everyone is actually really nice. We're here because GGGG likes and is chummy with one of the DJs, the aforementioned deceptively short one, a.k.a. Khotin. I think to myself that he looks like someone I went to high school with as we sit in the back and decide not to talk to him at the Kids' Table. The venue we're in the backyard of is called CO*LAB, which is situated on this block of other non-profits in what is otherwise a gentrifying shithole. Our mutual, AAAA, volunteers giving out harm reduction supplies the next door over.
The beer here is probably like $10. I avoid the bathrooms for fear of interrupting the cocaine use I completely just assume is going on. Needless to say, it's a super lefty scene.
We're visited by a pair of somewhat granola partygoers, one skinny and white, and the other heavyset and presumably Indian. Neither of them outdid themselves with their outfits tonight, but they're not un-stylish. Nightlife-casual, if you will. The skinny one is in one of those fuzzy Patagonia quarter zip, the other in a pale pink top and loose-fitting grey going-out bottoms. The skinny one has shockingly pronounced bags under his eyes, so much so it makes me a little uncomfortable, because obviously I'm thinking What is this guy on? The other stumbles and slouches around, clearly drunk, offering business cards she never actually gives us. We exchange drug routines ("I'm off about 30 mg of Vyvanse, some Addy, hits of yay"), praise of ice baths ("It's like a poop for the soul!"), and disdain for the surrounding neighbourhoods ("Fuck Sherwood Park!"). I'm secretly terrified they're trying to fuck us, so I try to keep my cool in attempt to divert any suspicion that I might be afraid they're trying to fuck us away from me. Obviously, this isn't true. The only one here to actually fuck is that Indian woman, who tells us the woman she's here for is sitting a table over from us. GGGG, the skinny guy, and I shout at her to "shoot [her] shot." She gets up from the Kids' Table, hobbles across the patchy grass away from view, as the three of us remaining refuse to turn our heads. The skinny guy then peaces out, in search of his buddy who just got here.
-
I'm going to attempt to write a new post every Friday. When the school year ramps up, expect one probably every other Friday. Regardless, expect these consistently. I've garnered an international notoriety for broken promises, so my word isn't worth a whole lot. I'm writing this as a reminder to myself.
I apologize if this post seemed self-aggrandizing at all. It did not even come close to addressing the herd of elephants in the room of our lives, chief among them the fact we don't talk as much as we used to. That bothers me every day. The Little Dark Age we just went through deserves a proper, bleeding-heart apology from me in the form of writing. This post was not that, but I just want to get that out there because it would be incredibly rude of me to not address it at all in one of my famous Ben-hangs-out-with-cool-people-in-cool-places stories. That leads me to another thing which has also bothered me daily: you are one of my people. I know I used to say some bullshit whenever you mentioned wanting friends that liked the same music you do, like "If I could find my people, so can you." You are one of them. You're not distinct from them or a predecessor to the real thing, you are as much a part of the real thing as anyone else I mention. If anything, you're the first. And I'm going to do whatever I can to make sure we stay together. I love you, man.
