quiet riot (cum on feel the…poise?)

 

From VANCOUVER,

June 19th, 2011

 

I’m the first to admit…things got a little out of control.

The game had just ended and we were angry and shocked and upset. The atmosphere in Sarah Cobb’s West End apartment was tense and just ready to blow.

We heard a crash from the kitchen. Ashley, washing wine glasses in a frenzy of rage, had broken one.

Stacie threw a napkin on the floor.

Nick uttered the word “fuck” several times in rapid succession.

Jacquie was so mad she wasn’t even there.

The other women suddenly banded together and, in a case of classic mob mentality, began looting the apartment, raiding a box of clothes that Sarah was getting rid of with a savage ferocity.

Shaughnessy, who had flown all the way from Toronto for this, was turning a dangerous shade of red. “Man, if I had a hockey stick I would bust some shit right now. Luckily, I just have this pencil.”

Toby grabbed the pencil from Shaughnessy’s hand. “Hey man - did you have this pencil here the whole game?! This is a Sanford Number One, asshole! Don’t you realize that this pencil is painted the exact same shade as Bruin yellow? And that the Sanford Pencil Company was founded in Massachusetts?! How DARE you bring that pencil into this city, let alone this house?” He threw the offending utensil on the floor and grabbed Shaughnessy by the collar of his threadbare Canucks t-shirt, shaking him back and forth. The other men backed away to the hors d’oeuvre table, trying to avoid this sudden outburst by munching on some delicious charcuterie.

A roar came from the Designated Looting Area in the other room as the ladies discovered a one-shouldered summer dress and proceeded to tear it to pieces.

Shaughnessy scrambled to defend himself. “Sanford’s now a subsidiary of Newell Rubbermaid and based in Oak Brook, Illinois!” Toby’s right fist was cocked and ready to throw a punch but now he hesitated. “This pencil was manufactured in their Mississauga, Ontario factory by proud Canadians!” The grip of Toby’s left hand on Shaughnessy’s collar loosened slightly. “This shade of yellow also matches that of the old Vancouver “flying skate” logo, used from ‘78-‘97, as evidenced by the faded but still sufficiently clear t-shirt I am wearing go Canucks!”

Toby let him go. They hugged. The women shredded a pair of navy blue capris.

“That’s it,” said Mike, who had sat silent all this time, his post-game pout looking more and more menacing with every passing minute, his rage increasing as he checked Facebook on his iPhone and read the taunts of his asshole Ontario friends saying horrible things like “Nah nah na-na nahhh” and “Maybe next time”. He now made a sudden and threatening move up out of the leather armchair. “I’m gonna go downtown and throw an egg at the bank of Montreal.”

“Hey now, whoa, let’s not get carried away,” said the others. John handed him a slice of prosciutto and one of those squishy stress balls. “Here. This should help.”

“Thanks, guys,” said Mike, sitting back down. “Wow, I was really out of control for a second there. Thanks for talking me down.”

                       BEFORE THINGS TURNED UGLY

But the calm would not last long. After smoking an unhappy cigarette, and an even angrier joint on the pretty balcony overlooking the ocean, we were all raring to go. We girls had each scored a garbage bag full of clothing, but now Sarah was telling us we couldn’t have her dishcloths and fridge magnets. The men had eaten all the brie and oven roasted tomatoes. Clearly, we needed an outlet.

Out we poured from the apartment building, spilling drunkenly, rowdily onto the mean streets of English Bay, wielding bottles of Heineken and pinot grigio at threatening angles. I looked around for someone to pick a fight with and settled on a Chihuahua being walked in the park across the street. “What are YOU barking at, motherfucker? I will fuck you up!” The dog and the old man walking it hurried away. “That’s RIGHT, you BETTER run!”

We stumbled across the street and onto the beach, all ten or so of us, and sat down on some comfortable-looking logs in an intimidating manner, where we would continue to wreak our havoc on the City of Vancouver for the rest of the night. We savagely kicked the sand, utterly destroyed some innocent twigs and then, in a burst of violence unprecedented thus far, gathered rocks and started throwing them viciously at the ocean. “Take THAT, Pacific!”

The savage beast inside each one of us had taken over and there was no turning back, not that night. We were monsters.

I was so ashamed of myself the next day. I headed back to Sarah’s apartment to apologize. To her credit, she let me in and accepted my offer to help clean up. The place was in a sorry state, still the wreck we had left it. Crumbs everywhere. Empties on the counter. For the love of God, a kalamata olive on the floor. It was hard to look at, especially knowing that I was partly to blame.

Then, as I was sweeping up, the others started to arrive, with brooms and offers of help. We swept and scrubbed and spent several hours reassembling a large jigsaw puzzle that had been savagely knocked to the floor. Soon, a spirit of love and cooperation spread throughout the rooms, a spirit stronger and more true than any of the ugliness of the night before. This was The Real Us. The Real Vancouver.

I picked up a Sharpie from the coffee table. (Also manufactured by Newell Rubbermaid, if you were wondering.) Standing on the couch, I wrote upon the wall in three foot high letters: I ♥ VANCOUVER.

And you know what, Dear Reader? It wasn’t long before everyone else joined me. We passed the Sharpie from hand to hand to hand, each person writing a heartfelt message about his or her true feelings of pride and love for this city, of contrition for rash actions the night before, of hope for the future and togetherness in this beautiful moment.

The living room walls were now covered. We stood back, arms linked, tears in our eyes. Sarah walked into the room and, while she’d been in the kitchen and had missed out on the actual ritual, you could tell from her face that she was as moved by the result as the rest of us were.

She just stood there staring, absolutely speechless.

__________________________________________________________

* Now: this is not for the faint of heart, and some of it is difficult to watch…but here, if you must, is video evidence of our riot on Sunset Beach. Note particularly Jaimie and Jenny’s flagrant insolence toward the photographer and Josh’s terrifying ferocity.

(Not suitable for children.)