Disgruntled, I snorted. I was never able to navigate traffic the way my friend was. Whichever way I chose—that was the slowest route. If I tried to squeeze in as the last car on an advanced green, I wound up blocking the intersection and making everybody mad at me.
Which I didn’t want to do.
I was sensitive that way.
If I drove up Granville Street, I was guaranteed to catch every red light.
Creed could make the same drive and hit every green.
I tried to see if our speeds were different, but I couldn’t tell. He was bold, yet cautious. I was forceful, yet disastrous. Somehow, I’d only gotten into two fender-benders. Neither my fault. I stopped. The guys behind me didn’t. They hit me. More frustrations dealing with the insurance company and repair shops.
“Smile, Malik. You avoided a clusterfuck. Hey!” Creed exclaimed the word after his mother whacked him on the shoulder. “I’m just being honest.”
“Don’t use that language around your mother.” She met my gaze in the rearview mirror.
I noted she didn’t say not to use that languageat all. She knew her son.
She knew me.
Twenty minutes later, Creed parked his car in front of his family’s home in the Champlain Heights district in Killarney—the most southeastern part of Vancouver. During rush hour, the drive was almost twice as long because this was as far from the cop shop as pretty much any two places could be in the city.
Mama Murthi was the first out, and she hustled up the walkway.
I was slower to get out of the car. “You need a bigger ride.”
Creed grinned. “I’m just fine—in the driver’s seat. Your ride still at your house?”
“Yep. Figured it would be safest there.” At the house I inherited upon my parents’ death in the tonier and more affluent Arbutus Ridge. More house than a single man needed, but I couldn’t bear to part with my legacy. Plus, one of the very few owned by a Black family in that neighborhood—something I never forgot.
“You know she’s going to make you pay for this clusterfuck.”
I rolled my eyes. He was right. Of everyone in the world, his mother most had the ability to make me pay for things. Because disappointing Mama wasn’t just hard on my heart, it was bad for my health. I only ate junk food at home. Here, in the Murthi household, I got fresh fruits, vegetables, and other healthy fare. “She’s not really that pissed, is she?”
He snickered. “She’s feeding you…so I’d say you’ll eventually be forgiven.” He sobered. “She’s right about the States. You want to follow in Grindstone’s footsteps, right?”
“At least two years at Rocktoberfest? You bet.”
“Well, getting arrested will bar you from visiting the States. No Nevada. No Black Rock. No Rocktoberfest.” He slammed his car door. “Look, I get where you’re coming from. The pipelines across tribal lands are—”
“Immoral? Inhumane? Cruel?”
He closed one eye—a guarantee he was deep in thought. “I was going to saywrongbut sure, let’s place even more significance on the actions than they deserve.”
“More?” I sputtered. “Pristine wilderness destroyed. Water polluted forever. Animals forced from their homes. Treaties violated.” I stopped to take a breath.
My friend merely stood there.
“I get it. They aren’t even my lands. These aren’t my disputes. I’m just some city-dwelling guy who doesn’t have a bone in this fight.”
“All that is very true. But you’re allowed to be passionate—just not at the risk of getting arrested. What will you do if you can’t tour in the States? How will we get a good record deal?”
“Lots of bands are avoiding the States these days. Traveling is just dangerous.”
He pursed his lips. “Sixty percent of our sales come from the US. Sure, we’ve got a big following in Canada. As well as in Europe—Latvia in particular. Can you explain that to me?”
As he well knew, I could not explain why Latvians loved our sound so much. Who could explain anything these days? Things felt perpetually out of kilter. Like nothing made sense. Much of that had to do with losing my parents. A lot of it, though, had to do with geopolitical unrest around the world. The experts might claim we were living in the most peaceful time in all of human history—but it sure didn’t feel like it. “Samosas?”
Creed rolled his eyes. “You bet. I’ll even make that yogurt dessert you like so much.”
