From N’shaytkin. Published by battery opera books in 2019.

Oh, how he hated writing grants. The endless monotony of speaking a foreign language was one thing, but his Nlaka’pamuxstin tongue withered to dust while he tried to grasp, grunt, and speak the foreign language of grants. He thought of it as Sophisticated Begging, because you needed to come up with the right programming, workshops, performances and exhibitions to channel the money toward you. Buzzwords like “artist development,” “community engagement,” “elder and youth” and “lasting community legacy” were things funding bodies liked to hear. But they would only last a year or two before new buzzwords would take over and he’d have to learn the language all over again.

He knew from the start that he could never make his so-called success last, because when he was riding that high wave as an artist, he was an idiot. He drank too much, celebrated a little harder and longer than most, and started becoming “that guy” at the function. The drunk no one wanted to be around. He was drowning in his own pain and loss, pushing everyone away because he was not sure how to deal with the success and the survivor’s guilt from everything in his life thus far. That was okay at first, because he was starting to burn out anyway. The phoniness of the scene began to sicken him. The enablers too, feeding like parasites along for the ride until the next big thing blew in through the doors. But he didn’t realize how big the toll would be on his so-called career.

What started out as actual fun and celebration, slowly spiraled into a rolling wave of disaster after disaster until he lost track of why he was doing it in the first place—getting out of that small town and onto the national stage.

It felt like unbelievable luck, and it was, at the beginning. It was amazing, and he noticed that everyone at that level partied because it was so fun to be able to make a living doing what you loved. Plus, deep down there was definitely some satisfaction at doing it on his own terms, despite being told for years he would go nowhere and only ever be good for nothing. But the price was being away from his family, his children.

An incredible run of fun events and adventures became a series of dark benders and blackouts. His girlfriend left him, took the kids and moved out while he was on tour in Ontario a week before Christmas. The phone that for years never seemed to stop ringing with good news and opportunities eventually fell silent, the flood of emails became a trickle.

He got out of the shower.

At that point in his life, off the road, out of opportunities and living in Kamloops, he felt stranded in the small town he thought he had escaped. What on earth could he do?

Seriously, what else could he do?

What was he good at besides art and creating things? After not having a real job in nearly ten years and the money running out, he started splashing around, throwing out one-page resumes like someone tossing chum into the ocean.

Someone surrounded by sharks. Except he was the chum, and the sharks wouldn’t bite. Nothing. Finally, he snagged up against a rusty old hook drifting close to shore. He was reeled in for an interview.

It was for a job selling booze. He got it. Of course.