Street Act

Vancity Tribute

Street Act

Vancity Tribute

It’s my first time and we arrive without warning. One too many all-nighters along the road, but, heck, we made it.

Proper naïve wasting bear bangers in Banff, we drove and drove our last day on the road, and there we were, parked up a side street in front of a classy condo at a 10pm dusk in the middle of the city – oh summer nights how long you are, you smell different tonight, of salt and sea of shells and fish.

We had a cousin with a couch who worked at the local furniture shop, the poor bastard agreed to house us for a period of time.

The novelty of options in a west coast city never quite wears off when coming from land lock. I couldn’t think of anything worse than opting for high end shopping and feeling weird about it before meeting up with our brother who housed psychedelic drinks his fridge.

It was the mushrooms we were after and before long my puke changed colour and became the neon Mona Lisa. Let’s be fair it was a big day as I never imagined walking through pretentious stores after accidentally making eye contact with two hunched men shooting up in the boxwoods of what seemed like an otherwise respectable park.

Besides, my friend was the shopper; I needed weed and somewhere to smoke it. Nevertheless we found our rhythm, and ended up setting up shop in the dance club bathroom one night smoking menthols one deep chat at a time high on eckies. Tool was in town and I was scouting for a chance encounter.

Time only seems wasted when hungover in a hot, chic apartment and breakfast becomes a whole day affair. Regardless we had to make the most of it and rented bikes to go pedal around Stanley Park. Afterward we found ourselves at Rec Beach playing topless football. Before dusk we bought takeout sushi and sat at the shipyards with her bro and smoked cigarettes while watching the sunset against the enormity of an industrious skyline.

In the end we had burnt tits and a pile of unknown speeding tickets.

Years prior, I stood at the edge of the sky train facing the windowed doors that would open at different stops, we were crossing the bridge across the Fraser River and I dared look a hundred feet below me through the now seemingly flimsy glass wondering what could happen if they burst open. When I picked up my paycheque they gave me a can of beer. I cracked it on the curb, not even of legal age yet and smoked three cigarettes with it before catching the sky train back. From suburb to downtown to suburb; it was a long ride home.

At one point I lived in a hostel for two weeks. It had a shared kitchen and I was all rearranged from arriving back after two years abroad. The way I spoke English was a mix of kiwi slang with a bogan British accent, if that’s even a possibility.

More recently I ate sliced pizza on the back stairs of the Art Gallery overlooking the Japanese gardens. The rats scurried from shrub to shrub, up and down the far edge of the steps; opportunists at work gorging on overflowing trash cans. I could of sworn I heard the protesters chant “we are sheep, will repeat!” It was autumn and we rented electric scooters for the first time launching ourselves up and down square blocks gently navigating traffic. I felt the wind in my hair and tasted the crisp red leaves; at its ripest the earth filled my lungs amongst the concrete, steel and grime.

Vancouver Art Gallery, Vancouver Canada, October 2025