A Return

There was no way I was going to live in Cambrian College Residence again, so my parents rook me on a road trip to Sudbury early in the summer to help me search for a place to live. We found a list of potential rooms to let at the college, phone numbers and addresses, and began to visit them in turn. We didn’t visit many. We found one that was only a couple blocks from the college, on the corner of Woodbine and Holland. It was perfect, mere blocks from the college, two malls a few minutes away on Lasalle, beer store, ATMs, groceries, and only a couple blocks from transit stops in either direction. Who could ask for more?

There were two bedrooms in the basement, I’d be given more or less free range of the house, use of the family kitchen, free use of cable TV, and a pool table in the basement. There was a pool in the back yard that I was welcome to use, as well, but given the months I’d be in Sudbury, I didn’t think I’d get much use of it. Smoking was permitted (it was still the ‘80s, an ashtray in every room). Done. We were invited to chat, so we had a few drinks poolside so both my parents and I could get to know Pat and Stan a little, and them me. Pat and Stan were very welcoming. I think they liked the idea that I was a more “mature” student. I saw no need to correct them on that point. We signed on the dotted line and went home.

Living there was good for me. It was quiet. I could concentrate. To be honest, I didn’t study any more or any less than I had the prior years. Despite that, my marks improved. I still went out to bars and clubs on the weekend, but I never once drank during the week. Okay, I rarely drank during the week. There was no cannabis present, no one doing knives beside me while I was cooking supper, no one offering me a beer or a joint every time I sat down with them to talk, no one having sex in the shower stall next to me in the morning. My cigarettes had even grown milder over the years. I ceased smoking Export A’s in Res. Both Evan and Deb had smoked Players Regular, and owing to how often we traded off smokes, I inevitably began to smoke the same brand as them.

I updated my look, a look that would become my signature winter skin for years to come. The HSM leather jacket was getting a little snug, what with my growing into a man. My shoulders and chest had broadened from years of summer labour. I may have even gained a pound or two from all that beer I drank; not many, I walked everywhere. Browsing men’s fashion at the New Sudbury Centre, I spotted a totally ‘80s overcoat I just had to have, a near ankle length Donegal tweed, bought roomy enough to fit a bulky sweater and jean jacket beneath. Pockets galore. I blame John Hughes, but I loved it. It was the cat’s ass!

I bought a new suit, too. Black blazer with peacock undertones (not Ducky, far more Mickey Rourke in Diner, but very ‘80s), black trousers, a few shirts, and two ties, one leather, the other a knit black silk. Doc Martin brogues. I had to invest in the upgrade; a new club named City Lights had opened that year in Sudbury, one that required a top end dress code. There was a cover charge to get in, more if there was a booked band, to keep the riff-raff out. I suppose they thought that if we were in suits and the girls in little black dresses we’d behave ourselves. We did, for the most part, although there were still fights that spilled out into the street as the nights wore on. I had to be there. It was the most popular club in town. They had a long line of pool tables, they had a disc jockey, they had a house band, they brought in New Wave from Toronto.

Stan set me down early on after seeing my stumble in at all hours on the weekend. He told me that if I ever found myself short on cash, or ever in trouble, that I was to call him right away, any time, no matter when. I may have been 20, but Stan knew what it was like to be young, and maybe what it was like to be heartbroken and adrift, too. I never did call, but it was comforting to think I had someone to fall back on. Truth is, I could never remember his number, so it wouldn’t have mattered had I needed him. So, I kept a ten tucked away in my wallet when I went out, with a promise to self to never touch it. It was always meant to be emergency cab fare. It also stayed tucked away the whole year through. Maybe I was learning. Maybe I was finally beginning to grow up.

I knew a few guys that year, those who were in 1^st year mining and in Res when I’d been there last, James Parisi, Dan Dumas, a few others. Sinclair (Sync), Brain, the Stu Unit. A few others in other courses. But for the most part, my “3^rd” year was a blank slate. Psycho remained, thanks to Jim Parisi. I think he loved that nickname, even if he probably never knew how it came to be. He still calls me that, if you can believe it, to this day, regardless how rarely we may see one another.

Girlfriends? Not a one. Dates? None of those, either. Probably a good thing, considering. That doesn’t mean I didn’t look. I did go out, after all. But I suspect I must have had a sign around my neck, one that said, KEEP AWAY, or ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK.

One day…night, I’d begun a night’s prowl at City Lights. There was no booked band, just the house band and DJ. The music was alright. I played some pool, asked a few girls to dance. But there was no one there that I knew, so I left and slummed the rest of the night in Whiskey Jacks with the bikers, me in a suit, they in jeans and leather vests, then at the Colson, listening to some Scorpion cover band. I was lonely. I drank more than I should have, especially when slumming alone. I was eyed by some, the only guy present in an ‘80s peacock suit and leather tie, but I was left alone. I must also have a worn a “c’mon, do something,” aura, because I was always surprised to note that my spot against a pole near the stage was never once occupied when I came back from bio breaks. The last song rang my ears, the lights came on and blinded us, illuminated the seediness, and I staggered off to catch the bus to New Sudbury. The seats were all taken at the bus depot, so I leaned back into the Plexiglas and slumped down on my haunches.

A girl passing by gave me a long, hard look. She was not unattractive. Blonde. Her hair teased up. She reminded me of Debbie. “You need to get laid,” she said. Not kindly.

I thought on that for a moment, and then said, “Without a doubt.”