memories

O. was apparently married this past Christmas. Good for her. I Googled her name one day for the fun of it, and saw her engagement photo. She looked happy (and thin). (And if you're wondering, yes, I've probably Googled your name at some point too. But don't worry. I must not have come up with anything too incriminating, otherwise it would have been posted on this blog.) I don't know that O. was happy in high school; I doubt that she was. I wasn't. And even though we could never be considered close enough friends for me to firmly establish that fact, I think we had a connection: I'm a bit sad, trying to be happy, shall we hang out once in a while? And so we did. We did the Brewster's trivia thing on Monday nights. My code name was Zyma. I don't remember what hers was. We both drank Wheat Beer and had the obligatory order of 10 cent wings.

That's where we decided that we would go to BC for a week before class started up again in September. We pinky swore, O., J. and I. It'll never happen, I thought. I'm not even really friends with these people. But it happened. An hour or so outside Regina they asked, "Do you really have to smoke?" and I said, "My van; I'll smoke if I want." So I did. And that was just the confirmation I needed to prove that I didn't know these people, and they didn't know me - and they surely to God didn't know smokers. That's why we offer to drive. That's why we'll host you at our house instead of asking to mess up yours. It's so we can smoke when we want, as much as we want, without feeling guilty or stinky - it's that simple.

Despite my best intentions, I actually enjoyed my week with O. and J. We met up with J.'s artistically tormented cousin on the Island for a couple days (or at least that's how I liked to think of him), and spent a night off-roading somewhere-only-God-knows, only to set up camp on a pristine beach in the middle of nowhere, drinking beer and placing bets on whose crayfish would make it back down to the water first (Irving lost; he died before becoming the true champion I know he was in my heart). I don't know whose house it was, but another black void was enjoyed on the patio of a 1500-sq foot house overlooking the Pacific (the only ocean I can claim to be mine, despite that I'm a prairie girl - - I miss you Auntie Denise!).

I remember the clean, crisp freshwater air while eating a sandwich in front of Lake Louise. The blue burned into my brain. I remember the chill of the campground of Salmon Arm when the conservation officer pulled up to tell us to put our fire out (stupid girls!), we weren't allowed to have one in the dead of summer. I remember the grogginess after waking up to O. putting on her runners for an early morning sprint through the streets of Victoria ("Crazy," I thought, laying my hung-over head back down for another hour of sleep (Need. Greasy. Sausages, I thought, but now I wish I'd have went with her).

And I remember the slime on the crayfish that gave his life to me, so that one day I would have the memory, the memory I share with you today. It was cold, and felt the same way on my fingers as when I'm sick and blow my nose too hard. You know. When it goes through the tissue.

Thanks, Irving. Thanks for the memory.