You walk around Vancouver, you enjoy the sun and refresh with a pint on a patio, you see the tourist-packed streets and the crane-filled skies, and you think: “This city is a perfect place for my excess capital!” Developments are springing up in even the most ramshackle neighborhoods, holidaymakers from Germany and Japan empty their wallets any chance they get. Everywhere one can see the telltale signs of a red-hot economy: smiling businessmen, grinning ad executives and red-eyed, sniffly investment bankers.

The summer is almost over, looking back on the miracle that it was, I’ve noticed something peculiar: almost everyone I hung out with during the past few months was –willfully- unemployed. Painters, graf writers, foosball enthusiasts, freelance aristocrats and tai-chi practitioners, all near penniless, out of work and loving it. Is this strange phenomenon unique to Vancouver, or do most youthful citizens of high-density metropolitan areas up and quit their job at the beginning of every July?

The following is a vague account of the “what the hell” attitude that typifies the dignified vagrancy of a certain class of Vancouverites.

It’s early in the mid-week afternoon and Yu has just put his pants on. What to do now? He calls up some friends and they’re over at his place within the hour, smoking cigarettes and hatching a plan. “How about Playland?” A few nod in accordance but then Yu asks “Oh, how much does that cost?” and the rest agree that a trip to the amusement park will certainly exceed their daily budget. A few cigarettes later and somebody is setting up the board game “Life”. The rest of the day is spent rolling dice, enjoying a few beers and building an imaginary career.

“Check out this wallride” says a scruffy cigar-smoking twenty-something, his friends relaxing in the background as he goes up and down the apartment’s makeshift mini-ramp. Spliffs are rolled and smoked, it’s a Thursday and a mutual friend is holding a rooftop barbecue later on, BYOB, so it’s off to the liquor store for supplies.

Friday night. Just some friends hanging out drinking scotch, talking about the club but first comes first and the bottle has to be empty before they put their shoes on. A knock at the door, more friends come by, more drinks are poured. I’m feeling the effects of the Glenlivet and my thoughts drift towards the esoteric imagery that surrounds my person, thinking about Rome at its empire’s peak and what it would be like to live there.

I line up my defense but her wrist snaps way before I even see the angle, 5-1, so goes another embarrassing loss. “It’s just like anything” she sips her pint and explains “intelligence and style, but most importantly…the ability to capitalize on opportunity”. The bowling alley we’re hanging out in is near empty, save for some stragglers smoking joints in the back. I insert another loonie and more balls come rolling, three games later and I’m finally managing to get a few shots past her tender.

Mid-to-late morning, Willem is up and has opened his can of imported green tea. After I’ve showered it’s off to the nearest café, espresso with two inches of steamed milk and the spectacle of Robson Street on a Sunday. We’re talking about Dostoevsky and how the majority of his characters are unemployed intellectuals with nothing better do than get in trouble, then Iraq, the missing weapons, and then eventually Vietnam.

“Just imagine,” He says “You’re cruising along in your state of the art Skyhawk, an archangel of technology, bringing nothing but pin-point destruction to the jungle underneath, and then you’re hit, on your way down, no choice but to eject”.

An unshaven, empty-eyed man walks up and mutters something about cigarettes, we shrug our shoulders and he’s off on his way.

“There you are floating down into a primitive landscape,; the antidotes of Western culture and everything you know. Gone is your futuristic rock & roll music and cruise speed of 295 miles per hour, you’ll fall to the jungle floor and be forced by gun-point to eat rice soup everyday for the next five years.”

Then Willem’s off to airport, as he’s got work coming up next week in the interior. Ah, there goes the sun behind that building, time to put on a sweatshirt. It was good while it lasted, but like always, it didn’t last long enough.

- Douglas Haddow