Kelly Olynyk 21 Points Full Highlights (11/14/2014)

Kelly’s mind spun. His Rick Wakeman posters, his most prized possessions, including the one signed by the key-master himself, gone. His extensive 400-count collection of vinyl, spanning everything from First Nation tribal music to post-metal to jazzwave, gone. All gone, given the same treatment as an old pizza box, taken away to some dump to rot. His bedroom was now foreign to him, an unfurnished shell of what had once been a sanctuary dedicated to all manner of progressive, esoteric music.

“Mom, you shouldn’t have gotten rid of that stuff. It was important to me,” Kelly said, trying not to let his anger show through.

His mother finally looked up from her book of crossword puzzles. “You know what was important to me, Kelly? You. And you left anyway.”

This was the most emotional statement that Kelly had ever heard come from his mom’s mouth. Stunned, he responded, “I had to leave, Mom. I had to play basketball.”

“Oh, that silly game you play! Your father and I were so torn up. You could have stayed, we would have taken care of you.” Kelly saw the tears in her eyes, and it scared him, because he was sure that she had never cried in her life.

“I can’t deal with this,” Kelly muttered, turning towards the front door.

“Kelly, don’t leave us again!” his mom wailed. “We love you!”

Ignoring his mother’s pleas, Kelly opened the front door. “I’ll be back, mom. I promise this time,” he placated. Then, he left his childhood home and began to walk.
“Welcome to D’Ambrosio’s Pizza Parlor! Booth or table?” asked the cheery hostess, startling Kelly out of his reverie. He hadn’t even been aware where his feet had been taking him.

“Uh, booth, I guess,” Kelly answered, looking around the dimly lit, cornily decorated establishment where the birth of Starcubism had taken place. Once he had sat down, he once again found himself lost in thought. This place was the hangout of his youth; weekends had been whiled away plugging quarters into the pinball machine, spending dollars on greasy pizzas…

“Kelly, it’s you! Moonbeam said you’d be back eventually!” came a voice from in front of the booth. Looking up, Kelly gazed at the waiter in a daze. When he placed the face, he slumped forward. It was like the spirit of Kamloops was purposely ripping his soul apart.

“I am,” he said, sighing. “So, you work here now?”

Ferguson, the erstwhile guitarst of Starcubism, nodded. “Yeah, man.”

“But you were going to college, weren’t you?”

Ferguson frowned. “I was, but it wasn’t for me. I’ll grab us some sodas, put in an order for a large D’Ambrosio Classic, and we can talk.”

Coming back with two Mello Yellows, Ferguson joined his former bandmate in the booth. “Conrad’s going to be so pumped. Remember those T-Shirts we had printed over at the Shirt Shack? He still wears his ratty-ass one, like, every day. I can’t wait to get back to jamming.”

Kelly snorted. “I already ran into Conrad, and I already told him, I’m just here to tie up some loose ends. Starcubism is over.”

“Come on, man, don’t say that,” Ferguson said. “You know, we tried to keep going after you left. A new band, a new name, a new direction. ‘Crisystem’, we were called. But Kamloops doesn’t want Pantera-influenced groovy alt-metal. They want British Columbian Prog, the kind that only Starcubism can provide.”

“I came back to Kamloops to give Starcubism the proper burial it deserves. Not to disinter it from its shallow grave!” Kelly yelled, slamming his fist on the table and nearly causing his soda to spill.

Ferguson got up, clearly saddened. “Whatever, dude. You can deny it all you want, but you want Visions of Mars, a Cubistic Journey Part II just as bad as the rest of us.” Kelly sat silently, neither confirming nor denying this accusation. “We still jam down at Kamloops Mega Storage sometimes, just so you know.”

“I gotta get going,” Kelly said, slapping a ten-dollar bill on the table and getting up to leave.

“See you later,” Ferguson called as Kelly exited the restaurant. “Moog Man.”

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