Enveloped in the nuclear winter of early August, the sun's light becomes pale and nostalgic, as if the evening is about to give way to the very last sunset. South Calgary is a maddening sprawl of industrial parks and commercial space, and their million tinted windows staring out at the crispy thoroughfares outside of them each develop bright white pupils in
their reflections with the time of day.
Inside, "Teenage Dirtbag" plays on the Blutooth of the Volkswagen Passat: another song for another moment to mean the world again. You remark to yourself how remarkably clean and nice this car is, at least compared the vehicles of everyone else you know, including your dad. You wonder if her dad's pissy attitude towards being sympathetic to socialism has anything to do with it. You remember how your dad lost faith in Volkswagen cars after the 2015 emissions scandal. You wonder if either of them know about that. You wonder if her lack of signaling gives you any idea.
The cars, especially on Highway 2, almost blend into nothing. As urbania thins out, canola and overcast take over your view. In the meantime, you yawn. You rub your face like you're tired, and you wonder about why you move like a bent-out-of-shape fortysomething at 21. Her very real neuroticism, which you saw starkly in the wild a few hours ago, has shriveled into just pain again. She says she sees it on her dad's face. You see it on her's now. The residue of eyeliner, black like soot, makes her constant jokes feel insincere. And it's darker outside now.
Inside, "Tonight, Tonight" plays on the mini-golf place radio. You laugh to insist it's somehow on-the-nose for the moment. You won't realize for almost another 12 hours how right you both were on that. I ask her if freedom is possible. None of our words feel as heavy as they are. Disco lights across her face promise the morning she's telling me will never come until her mom dies. You wonder if this should feel ethereal, you even try to move like it is, but it's not. It's not unpleasant, though. You don't know what you're supposed to feel. That's the very thing you two always bitch about.
The people, especially during the August long weekend, almost blend into nobody. There's hardly any families or older and/or ugly people at the mall. The kids all have tote bags and layer their jewelry. So does she. Her's is a New Yorker one. One time at work, you asked her if she knew anything about Joseph Mitchell, which she didn't. You notice it less than her shoes now. She crosses her arms a lot, especially when she's waiting for someone. She's waiting for you. Despite being in a different city, you woke up a few hours ago and haven't eaten anything, nor have the coffee you're now embarrassed about waking up with every morning. It's 1:30 in the afternoon. You're here to hype her up, and you do, but you keep running into the nagging fear you've been having with two particular female friends you feel weird about that you sound too dad-like doing it: too goofy, too wooden, too soft, too quaint. You wonder if it matters. She makes a joke about you playing "the long game" with her. You don't sit in that. It's 2:00.
Inside, "Somethingness" plays on a speaker meant for a stage, tucked under the bar in the dirt, complete with LED lights that glow indifferently to anyone connected to them. You're drunk now. It's just like the old times, and you're with the old friends. You tell everyone you love them. You leave not a beer can un-cheered and are emphatic about everything, especially things sucking and/or Jacques Derrida. You run around your buddy's girlfriend's property until you puke, then keep running, then do it again by some other tree. He later calls you his brother. She's texting you a ton, as per usual. It's about her dad and her mom and the guy from the Volcom store and the angst between all of them. You're always glad to hear this story over and over again. Everything almost blends into nothing. You don't know what you want, and the Earth is leading you somewhere.
