After months of pandemic isolation, my friend Raquel and I made the safest, most straightforward plans we could. After work, I drove to her house to sit six feet apart in folding chairs, drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, and fussing over the rambunctious feral kittens she looked after. They cautiously scurried over for head scratches before darting off to play under Raquel’s car and hunt bugs in the grass. As we batted away mosquitoes, we discussed a variety of subjects—dating woes, the problems of academia, books, what our respective futures held in the face of so much pandemic and social uncertainty. In the post-COVID world, should it ever come, neither one of us will live in Louisiana.

But in that moment, even six feet apart, unable to go anywhere else, I felt the warmth of friendship. We connected on a dating app before realizing she’d been in the same PhD program as my ex-partner; even so, we knew, instinctively, that friendship was a better path for the both of us. Making friends in one’s late thirties is a challenge greater than any romantic wants, and I had a good one in Raquel.

**

The setup Raquel and I had was not much different from Letterkenny. The show normally opens with the characters—siblings Wayne and Katy, their friends Dary and Squirrely Dan—sitting in front of a vegetable stand that sees no customers, drinking beer, chain-smoking, and discussing a variety of topics that, even though hilariously written for a comedy show, have unexpected moments of philosophy, warmth, and a determination to see the world in a good way, even though it’s hidden in an “I call it like I see it” gruffness. The show follows the interactions, hijinks, arguments, and complex friendships of rural Canadian hicks, hockey players, skids, and Natives. Fistfights are common, insults are biting, and among the sects, mutual disdain is openly admitted.

However, there’s respect among everyone. Gail, the local bartender, is an openly sexual Black woman, and her sexuality isn’t laughed at out of derision, but rather her openness versus the others who wish they could be as free with their bodies. When Squirrely Dan broaches the subject of anal stimulation, the other men are quiet, with the unspoken understanding that they’ve experimented with it themselves. The squabbling sects come together against an influx of white supremacists. When discriminating language is used, the hicks analyze how their words are inappropriate, and look for solutions, not out of “wokeness,” but doing the right thing.

**

Take away the Canadian accents and references, and Letterkenny could easily take place in the American South. When I began watching it, I realized how it represented the kind of community I was looking for; yes, scripted and stylized, but I wanted meandering discussions, beer, cigarettes, and an air of wonder. A world down South where people can be set in their ways, but also determined to let others be themselves; an area where people are close-knit, but open minded. Living in a heavily Republican town, I’ve found solace in finding native friends who have progressive mindsets, who represent the idealized version of Acadiana. I want it to be a space where we can be close, enjoy festivals, be set in our ways, but be fully welcoming to queer, trans, and BIPOC residents. These are not mutually exclusive traits.

**

After my previous relationship ended, I found myself living alone, and taking solace in TV shows. I found myself increasingly moved by depictions of adult friendships, and my emotions were tugged by unexpected sources.

I sobbed at the end of “Letterkenny Talent Show.” Not teary-eyed, but full, heaving sobs.

As with most episodes, there’s no deep explanation of the proceedings. A bad standup comedian bombs at the local bar, then insults the town when booed offstage. The residents  decide to host their own talent show, with a grand prize of a one hundred dollar bar tab. There’s no mention of one-upping the comedian, no discussion of a charity benefit, nothing more than the logical progression of “something to do.” As the residents consider their respective talents, it’s revealed that Dary comes from a family of respected line-dancers. Wayne and Katy hint that their friend should dance at the talent show. As soon as the idea is broached, Dary’s face falls. His “line-dancing lineage” is extensive, with his Aunt Doreen having made it to sectionals years before.

With Wayne and Katy as the judges, the town views various acts, including Gail reciting dialogue from a porn movie called Glad He Ate Her, observational comedy from Squirrely Dan, a heartfelt song gone wrong by the perpetually fuming local hockey coach, the evening ends with Dary’s line dancing.

He chugs a beer, slaps his own face to psych himself up, and takes the stage in slow motion, his anxiety palpable, his eyes wide and focused. To the tune of “Swamp Thing” by The Grid, he gets on stage, and immediately, something is wrong. His dance moves are jerky, out of sync with the music, and he gets visibly frustrated with himself. Wayne and Katy look at him, concerned, then at each other.

And this is where I lost it.

Instead of calling off the show, the siblings immediately join their friend on stage to help. As the three dance, more in sync, more members of the community join them. Soon, it’s a joyful line dance, set to a classic electronic beat, with no mention of who wins the talent show, no dialogue, just friends and loved ones helping Dary with his dancing.

I cried because it represented what’s so challenging to find in one’s late thirties—not just basic friendship, but true togetherness. A willingness to put one’s self on display for all to see, to tap into one’s own talent and uniqueness, despite the fear of failure. And when failure is inevitable, there are no grand proclamations of one’s goodness or worth, the failure doesn’t magically disappear before the credits roll, but rather, the people who love you quietly get up from their tables and join you in the dance.

James Yates received his MFA in Creative Writing from Roosevelt University in Chicago in 2015. His fiction and nonfiction have appeared in Necessary Fiction, Split Lip Magazine, SmokeLong Quarterly, Monkeybicyle, and other publications. He lives and writes in Lafayette, Louisiana.