TO NIGHTS I CAN’T REMEMBER

by BRYAN SHELMON

“Where dem gyal at! Dutty wine! Bruk off ya back!” blared from the speakers as an emcee with a thick Caribbean accent orchestrated the sea of costumed revelers. “Welcome to Caribana, the largest Caribbean Carnival celebration in North America, attended by over a million people, with beautiful people, nonstop parties … and it’s all right here in Toronto!”

The sweet taste of pineapple deliciously contrasted with over-poured Peach Ciroc in our indiscreet souvenir cups. And rhythmic reggae drums provided the soundtrack to a paradise of sequined-bikini-clad Caribbean goddesses, who confirmed James’s hypothesis that the most beautiful women come from the islands.

It had been a few years since I’d seen John and James. Since taking my postgrad talents to New York City, my “adulting” side had frowned on the concept of a guys trip. Weren’t we too grown up for that sort of irresponsible fun? It was John’s description that sold me. How could I pass on such an epic reunion?

John, James, and I met at band camp back in Detroit and bonded over our love for music. They were the musician buddies I would spend hours with, making unheard classics in my makeshift basement recording studio. They were the concert buddies always down to shove our way to the front row to fist-bump our favorite artists at underground rap concerts. Now we were embarking on a new adventure, laying down new tracks on top of the old.

“Bro, you won’t believe what happened at the border! ... Just left the duty-free, we’re all set for the weekend! ... I think I just saw my future wife! ... Just checked in, text when you get here!”

My phone lit up nonstop on my trip from New York to Toronto. Losing cell service gave me an excuse to take a nap I would be grateful for later. I did as instructed and texted after connecting to wi-fi in the hotel lobby, which was buzzing with seasoned Caribana-goers dressed in their finest club outfits.

The aroma of coconut rum and sweet, island-fresh perfume filled the elevator as I rode up to the ninth floor. I figured it was no coincidence that the room number sign pointed toward a muffled rumble that got louder with every step

closer to the door at the end of the hall. Standing there, I could hear Drake’s lyrics foreshadowing the weekend to come—“I live for the nights that I can’t remember, with the people that I won’t forget.”

When the door flung open, I was greeted by a mirage of flashing lights and familiar faces. A halfway spilling shot of Grey Goose was placed in my left hand as our right hands intuitively performed our boyhood handshake. We were back.

Friday night during Caribana felt more like a meal than an appetizer. There were lavish nightclub parties with celebrity guest appearances and VIP tables going for thousands of dollars. Out on Lake Ontario, yacht parties pumped against the backdrop of the Toronto skyline. Caribbean Night at the local bar featured underground dee-jays spinning Soca hits that got our feet moving.

In the middle of it all, three of us trying to recap our lives since we had last been together, I glanced at my watch and interrupted with, “We’re late!” Feeling nostalgic, I had signed us up for a music showcase as a tribute to our high school dreams of becoming rap superstars. John and James had had just enough to drink to agree wholeheartedly with the idea. After a few more courage-inducing shots, we set off for the venue.

The Silver Dollar Room was a grungy place filled with Caribana misfits and we’d gotten there just in time. As we squeezed in through the crowd, the host announced our names. Five minutes of fame was plenty of time. It was a blur of slurred lyrics written years ago and a reenactment of moves from our favorite rap videos.

The next morning, I woke up in a daze to a screen full of missed texts. “Y’all killed the performance last night!” “Hope to see ya’ tomorrow!” Then, a pre-set alarm rang, as if to punish us for returning to the hotel just a couple of hours before. John was already up, ironing a crisp new tee and collaborating with James in an attempt to piece together the story of the previous night. But with the official Caribana parade starting in less than two hours, we barely had time to celebrate our wins.

Instead of the hotel breakfast, we opted for granola bars and rum punch. Then scurried to meet a surprisingly patient Uber driver. As we rode to the starting route on Lakeshore Boulevard, we reminisced about preparing for a Thanksgiving parade during our band days. But those high-stepping school days had done little to prepare us for the Caribbean Carnival parade.

Released to the street, our steps quickly picked up the rhythm of the steel drums. We fell in line behind a float that was surrounded, moat-like, with cheerful women who seemed to be guarding the emcee who was directing the chaos. Suddenly, like clockwork, “Stop!” the floats all came to a halt

to allow for a song or two of rumpshaking dancing to Reggaeton music, then continued on.

“Hold me up!” John and James said in unison. The last thing I thought I’d be doing on this guys’ trip was acting as a human kickstand, but seeing how happy they were dancing made me gladly oblige. We spent hours in the sweltering Toronto summer sun going from float to float, dancing like teenagers.

At one point, I paused to re-organize my awkwardly shifted clothing. My once-white tee had been transformed into a canvas of body glitter, feather residue, and make-up stains. I was certain I had sweated out every drop of the alcohol in my now-empty souvenir cup. When the parade ended, it only took one word for the three of us to nod in unison, “Crazy.” That night – in the dark of an obscure Jamaican-themed house party that had been suggested by a shady promoter we met in Dundas Square – felt like a victory celebration. The Caribbean goddesses – decked out in exotic Carnival costumes the day before – had transformed into beautiful mortals in skinny jeans and crop tops, ready to dance the night away.

Slamming together red cups filled with sweet rum punch, we drank to friendship. We had done it. We had come through a guys’ trip unscathed. “Let’s show ‘em how we do it in America!” James roared over the music, sounding like a quote at the end of a movie with an obvious sequel.

Until the sequel, this would be our last dance. The last time out with my friends before returning to our regular lives. Lives in which we will savor the memories of rum-soaked nights we can’t quite recall, and friends we’ll never forget.

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