I am 27. I’m in a mansion in Kelowna they call Crescendo. We’re all sitting around a large table eating Thanksgiving dinner. This is the first real chance to get to know a lot of new people who would end up becoming our west coast friends. Most are from Newfoundland, and I’m already close with a couple of them.
I’d recently finished a second degree I never really wanted, and we just moved to Vancouver so that Kelly could go to school for interior design. We drove across the country to get here after packing up our lives in a duct-taped 2001 Kia Spectra on its last wheels. We took over her ex-boyfriend’s apartment, and there are still pictures of his family on the walls when we arrive.
Somebody pours me another glass of red wine as Louie makes a wordless toast. Glitter is everywhere and will never not be. Even Todd Glass would approve of the lighting. The indoor-outdoor hot tub is always on the table. Fortunately, these lost weekends occur regularly, on houseboats and beyond, until everyone moves away.
Several months later, a similar place in Revelstoke is rented, and for an unknown reason I do not go. It its place, I suffer from Crescendo Blues.