I have two thoughts: one, where do you even buy a superman onesie? And two: red, white, and bright blue doesn’t look good on anyone, especially on three of the largest, hairiest, and drunkest men I’ve ever seen—and that’s saying a lot. And this scene of pirates, superheroes, and neon glow-in-the-dark Guy Fawkes masks doesn’t even come close to the strangest thing I’ve ever seen on our yearly houseboat league.
Symbol for colossal colour clash. Image used with permission from tomixmax.
There are lots of pool leagues around Calgary, but this is the only one I know of that goes houseboating together at the end of the year. We’ve got an awards ceremony, trophies, and 50/50 prizes; all of which are played against the dichotomy of an idyllic natural landscape and all of the excess of drugs, drinking, and reliving high school.
A few of us, leftovers from the awards ceremony speeches, are meandering drunkenly on the shore of tonight’s camp. Rock, looking unnaturally comfortable in his onesie, grabs my arm, looks me deep in the eyes, and says, “I love you man.” I tell him, “I love you too.”
The lie hangs in the air a little longer than usual, and I think it’s because I’m a lot more sober than I’m used to being. Mosquitoes are eating me dry; usually I can feel them, but right now they’re dining for free. Rock gives me a hug, pats me on the back, drops me, and hands me one of two unopened beers for us to shotgun together. This particular crowd has always been a little suspicious of me. I’ve never really fit in (probably jealous of my bitchin’ fruit platters), but when I shotgun the premium select pilsner twice as fast as the brobdingnagian superman, he laughs and relaxes a bit.
A platter of hyperbole
At this point, most of the crowd has dispersed from the beach. The quiet sandy air is intercut with the sounds of firework explosions; long screams following inevitable splashes; and a hodgepodge of Corb Lund, K’Naan, and–of course–Bob Dylan. Rock sits down on a cluster of driftwood by the fire. His face looks drained of its previous levity. He motions me to a chair with a bob of his massive chin. “What do you do anyways, Rock?” I ask.
“Don’t do that” he tells me.
“Don’t do what?”
“Just don’t” he repeats. “I love this trip, you know?”
I nod.
“It’s just nice to relax. Get out of Calgary.”
I’m great at hiding my disdain, and I wonder if Rock has any idea about how I really feel about him. Still, we sit and chat awhile as I don’t want to be rude. Silence and the mosquitoes are about the only things we share.
He falls asleep, half on the driftwood and half on the sand, and I walk into my houseboat to finally rest. The sounds have quieted now, and the only noise I hear before I fall asleep is the scuttling of spider legs against the corners of the window in my room.
In the morning I wake up to the sound of the generator lurching on. I crawl out of the covers, cook breakfast, pour a coffee, and step out on to the front deck. It’s pouring outside, which seems to stir Rock awake. He rolls off of the driftwood and wavers to his feet. His red, white, and bright blue onesie is covered in wet sand and ash.
“Hey” he shouts.
“Hi.”
“Good talk last night, man.”
“Right” I say.
Turning towards his houseboat, he walks away. I chuckle. His name is fitting.
My boat pulls out and begins to head home to the harbour. I pass the time playing guitar, sipping on whiskey, and pretending not to listen to the Jackson Browne that is crackling out of the speakers, but my head acquiesces to the rhythm. My brother knocks on the door.
“Come out and play cards, bro.”
“Yeah.”
I set my guitar on the bed, walk out of my room, and sit next to the already dealt cards. I offer Jack some of my whisky.
“You drank half that bottle today?”
“Yeah” I say. “Problem?”
“Nope. No problem.”
We play a few games in silence. We’ve played enough cards to create a language of hand gestures, head nods, and raised eyebrows. It’s the language of my father and my grandfather before that. I lose myself in the games and the bottle.
“Take it easy” Jack says.
“You know, bro, I’ve got a lot of respect for you” I slur.
“Don’t.”
“No, really. I mean I’ve a lot of love for you, Jack.”
Jack stands up and walks towards his room in the back.
“Go to bed” he whispers.
I awake in my chair to the thud of the boat docking. We begin unloading our belongings to the vehicles. On the gravel road, Rock, who has also just docked, spots me and waves. I twitch at the sudden itch in my arm. I make the mistake of lightly rubbing my left hand against my right wrist–the mild relief is tantalizing. Rock, with unbelievable coordination, walks towards me with his hand outstretched. I push my fingernails against my forearms scratching the irritated bites underneath my skin.
“Thanks, man.”
“For what?” I ask.
“Last night. The talk. Meant a lot to me.”
I reach my hand to shake his but pull back when I see the blood underneath my fingernails.
*All characters are fictional. All events, while based on real events, are also completely fictional.