“I love the WAG.” She blotted her eyes with a new sheet of tissue paper. “It’s so much better than the galleries here.”
“It’s an embarrassment to the art world,” he said. “It’s good that Vancouver has those mountains to look at.”
“The public art is embarrassing too, except for A-maze-ing Laughter.”
The 2009–2011 Vancouver Biennale curated a bronze sculpture of fourteen laughing men as part of its exhibition. Every time she walked past it, she marveled at its creativity.
“You’d think the city would have a better art program with all the money I pay in empty homes taxes,” he complained.
She wrinkled her brow. “What’s an empty homes tax?”
“It’s a vacancy tax. The City of Vancouver calculates the penalty as a percentage of the property’s assessed value, which in my case is expensive.”
“But you live here.” She scratched her head, not understanding what he meant.
“Not long enough for the city’s liking.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “How long are you supposed to live here?”
“Six months.” He paused before saying, “They invented the tax to penalize rich people, so we should get a say in how the money’s spent.”
“I bet they’re going to use it for bike lanes.”
“No kidding,” he said.
“Maybe the new mayor and city council will be better?”
“They couldn’t be any worse.”
In a city where it rained half the year, Vancouver had morphed into a bleak imitation of Amsterdam. The failure was apparent, yet city council doubled down, clinging to its Greenest City Action Plan. Not much help to those left homeless or dying from fentanyl.
“Hey, are you sure you’ll be okay?” Cary’s voice sounded strained.
She nodded. “There’s a game tonight.”
“The Jets are going to win the cup,” he predicted.
“Shh,” she hissed. “Don’t jinx it.”
Later that morning, Sebastien bellowed from his office. “Tyler! Get in here!”
Could this day get any worse? She wasn’t in the mood for his bullshit—not that she ever was.
She leaned in his doorway, arms crossed. “What?”
“Sit,” he barked, gesturing to the empty chairs.
“I’ll stand. What is it?”
“Your niece . . . Nada?”
“Nadie,” she said coolly. “What about her?”
“Nada, Nadie—whatever. She’s the anthem singer?”
“She is.”
“Why the fuck didn’t anyone tell me?” His jowls quivered like Jell-O as he snapped, “I asked you—”
