Life in a Northern Town

It’s not easy living in a cliquey town outside of one. Cliques are close knit. Cliques have stood the test of time. They close ranks. They do not accept new members. So, being friends with a member of one is like pitching a tent outside a walled city. You can hang out with them, but you’ll never be closer than arms-length.

I had yet to realize this, but upon returning home I’d lost my clique. Garry Martin had returned ever so briefly after graduating from math and accounting at Waterloo, only to discover that he hated accounting. He much preferred teaching, so he accepted a temp position doing just that in Moosonee and having done that was accepted into teaching college. He and his sister Sharon and I hung out for the duration, until they too found their way. Sharon found the love of her life and drifted away personally if not geographically. And then Garry too was gone. The next time he returned, he had an older woman in tow. He’d met her in teacher’s college. He was co-habituating. He was all but married. And then he was. And once married, he almost never returned. It seems she hated Timmins. Two visits were enough for her. So left the boy who’d been as much a brother to me as any. I’ve never seen him again.

Henri Guenette and Neil Petersen filled the void.

But Henri was busy much of the time. Henri worked weekends. Henri had little desire to remain a security guard after dropping out of college, and had strived for better, for more money, for what opportunities he could root out. He left security at Aquarius Mine for the mill, then underground, then the hoist. And before long, he left there for Redpath and even longer hours. In time, he too met the girl that was to be his wife, and he too began to slip away.

And soon that left only Neil. And Neil’s clique. And that’s when I realized that I could have friends that were not actually my friends but someone else’s friends.

I looked around at work. There’d been quite a few of us who’d been hired before the gates crashed down at Kidd. We were of a similar age, so I began to try to spend more time with some of them. But time passes quickly with the young; and if you’re not in through the gate early on, you might have not come at all. Those others were in production crews. They saw a lot of each other. I was sequestered behind vent doors bearing signs that read “Authorized Personnel Only.” When I did see them out, they were already a closed group, and my being a year or two older than them didn’t help much either. Nor my having spent 5 years in postsecondary. One’s personal view of the world can be remarkably different from those who’d gone straight to work after high school.

So, Neil and Neil’s friends were where I lingered for a time. Where I was definitely the old man in the midst. Four years older. Out of school. A miner. A Man. Hair noticeably thinning. I must have seemed quite a catch for the girls within their circle.

I shouldn’t complain. They were good years. Lots of new music. Some local bands, Babelfish, Authority, Skinny and the Beer Guts, among others. Large gatherings at Parello’s farm. Day in the Parking Lot at Casey’s. Some newer acquaintances met at Casey’s.

Generation X began to kick in, in earnest. I evolved from the pre-grunge punk Plaid-Lad kid, fading to black. Trainers were traded for Docs. They blended nicely with my Ray Bans, my Levi’s jacket and Donegal tweed. A cigarette hung from my lips most of the time. Self-conscious of my ever so shiny top, I took to ball caps. Detroit Tigers. Why? Shades of Joe Kools, and D for David. My subtext rose. The angry young man rose up with it. The ready smile I’d always worn fled. If most people didn’t want me, what did I care? Fuck ‘em, I thought. I might meet up with them at Casey’s, but I went out alone, most often. I could keep others at arm’s length, too.

That said, I was still very close to Neil and Henri. I spent a great deal of time with each of them. But never together.

Henri and I decided we were sick of smoking and that it was time to quit. We made a bet on it. There had to be a lot of trust between us since we weren’t hanging out a lot then. Henri was spending more and more time with Sylvie by then.

But not always. The bet was still on, we were bar hopping, talking a lot about smoking, and how hard it was to quit. We noticed every cigarette lit, our eyes instantly drawn to the flash of a lighter. We decided to put a pause on the quitting and the bet, for the span of one smoke. I approached two girls seated at the table next to us, both of which had just lit up.

“Excuse me,” I said. I told them our sad little tale about our quitting and how we were both craving it so bad that we were willing to put our bet on hold. The girls gave us each a smoke, and then slid over to join us.

We were a little drunk by then. Me, more so than Henri, I think. We bought a round to thank them for saving us. Then they bought us one. Then the girls had the idea of doing Sambuca shots. I decided to make mine a Flaming Sambuca. I lit it. But as it was a very tall and narrow shot glass I inhaled it through a straw. When I say inhaled, I mean inhaled. The liqueur disappeared from the glass, up the straw, the flame following it. I don’t actually think that the flame followed the booze up the straw, but the fire certainly did.

The Sambuca hit my stomach, and the colour drained from my face.

Henri asked, “Are you okay?”

I swallowed hard. But the nausea wouldn’t be kept down.

I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I’m leaving now.” I threw on my coat and was out the door.
I’d broken one of the important rules of drinking taught to me long years prior. Don’t drink shots and shooters; they’re only puke in a glass. When Henri had caught up with me I was power puking out on the street.

After I’d walked it off, Henri told me, “Too bad you took off like a bat out of hell; that girl wanted to rip you clothes off.”

No matter. I was not going back in there smelling of sick.