A Taste of Possibility

Did I escape that barstool at Casey’s? What do you think? I live in Northern Ontario. I had no girlfriend, and few ways to meet women. Those friends I did have were either married, with married friends, or hooked up, shacked up, or engaged and either not inclined to introducing me to anyone, or I didn’t cross their minds. I was not a priority for any of my friends. I received few to no phone calls, and fewer invitations. I am not exaggerating. I phoned others to make plans. Were I not to, I would never be included. I know this for a fact because I tested that theory.

I had a long-standing habit that was carried over from my days at the Empire: I would arrive at about 8 pm. To arrive after 9 pm meant a lengthy wait outside. There was no such requirement at Casey’s. Casey’s was enormous by comparison. Were I to walk in through the door at 10:30 pm, I’d still get a table or a seat at the bar. But, as no one ever called me to make plans, I’d preen myself and walk there, arriving at 8 pm. I’ve always been a stickler for routine and punctuality. It must be the miner in me. Not true. I’ve always been that way.

Arriving that early had its perks. I knew the staff by name and they knew me. That made getting service quick and easy. And arriving at 8 pm promptly meant that I had a cold beer waiting for me at my usual seat, where I was in short order met by other sad lonely young men, living out their lives in the same manner that I was. Let’s be clear; I was not/am not an alcoholic, and never have been an alcoholic. I’ve never once craved a drink of any kind. Working underground, I certainly never drank during the week.
I made that mistake once. Hangovers are a gruesome, noisome affair underground. The atmosphere is only about 19% oxygen down there, so any ill effects of drinking are felt ten-fold. This is not to say that there are no alcoholics working underground. I’ve a theory that every crew had/has at least 2 functioning alcoholics. How they endure that environment is anyone’s guess, but anyone who hasn’t fallen down that slippery slope will tell you the same thing: you only make the mistake of going underground hungover once. I experienced my misery when I was a student and have never made that mistake again.

Those early Casey’s mates were of a similar sort, in their 30s or 40s and never married. A couple may have been divorced. They had no kids. They worked for a living and lived for work. They remembered their party years fondly, eager to tell me their tales of the 1970s and early 1980s as though they were only yesterday. They spoke on what happened to them at work, usually bitter tales of wrongs done them, and bosses too stupid for description. But that’s where their tales ended. They had no stories of girlfriends, of trips taken. I suspected they were gay, although they would never have admitted to it. I don’t judge, but Timmins was not what I’d call enlightened in the ‘90s. After a time, they bored me. And soon after that I was looking for other younger friends and wingmen. If I were to meet girls, I decided that I had better not hang out with potentially gay men, ten or so years older than me, who never spoke of or to women.

One day Manon began chatting me up. She was a waitress, French, a few years older, but not so old as to turn me off. She was cute, too. But very French. She did not understand English like a native speaker; indeed, she spoke English like it was a foreign language. But she was showing an interest in me, surprising as that was to me; that, in itself, bought her more than a few brownie points. I’d tried breaking the ice with a few of the girls working at Casey’s but none had been that interested in me or my views beyond what I was drinking and how often, as quick service meant more tips. I’d heard myself called hun, but those girls who called guys hun call everyone hun, invariably in what I’ve always referred to as the “secretary voice.” You know what I mean, that fake interest and enthusiasm of someone who really couldn’t give a shit about you or what you’d like. I’d also seen my fair share of the “service smile,” that paste that reaches up to and never includes the eyes. You know, a smile devoid of humour.

Manon had none of these. Manon was actually interested. Manon made a point of sitting with me on her breaks, her smile reaching up to and including her eyes.

But Manon was also a troubled girl. She told me about how she’d grown up on a farm, of how simple her mother was. She told me how she hadn’t been exposed to much growing up, and how that had made her simple too.

I told her not to sell herself short. She had, after all, learned to speak English, however haltingly, a feat that had outstripped my ability to speak French. Once I said that, she took it upon herself to teach me; not an easy task, giving how little time we had to speak to one another and my being belly to a bar.
Unfortunately, I worked weeks and Manon worked weekends. And Manon worked until all hours, never wrapping up until 3 am or 4 am. I’d long since staggered home by that hour. On Saturday nights I’d taken to going home earlier once I discovered the Twilight Zone was playing. I loved the Twilight Zone. I still do. It’s not like I was doing anything at Casey’s, other than drowning my sorrows, anyway.
One day Manon asked me out for coffee. I accepted, despite how difficult our conversations could be. We met, spent an hour or so together, and she walked most of the way home with me, despite it being out of her way. We even kissed.

She didn’t show up for work that weekend. I asked after her, but all I was told was that she was sick.
She was at Casey’s the next, so I asked her how she was feeling. She seemed a little perplexed. Realization lit her eyes after a moment. She told me than that she’d had a spell and was admitted to the psych ward for observation for taking a fistful of pills. She told me that she was supposed to take her pills every day, but she didn’t like the way they made her feel, so she didn’t take them. Then she had her spell, she said, and took too many. It was nothing, really, she said.

I didn’t know what to say. She became concerned. I tried to set her at ease, but I was having difficulty processing what she’d said. I don’t think my reaction to her assertion that it was all alright set her at ease. She had to go back to work just then, so she asked if we could talk again later. I agreed, but we never did.

In fact, we never spoke again.

I learned that Manon had another relapse. I not sure about the details, but I think she cut herself and had been hospitalized again. She stayed the minimally mandated time required for a psychiatric evaluation and was again released. Repeat customers learn what to say to the expected questions. I was sad. I tried to hurt myself. I’m okay now. I feel better. I don’t want to hurt myself, anymore. It’s not like they could commit her, could they? Maybe they could, but they didn’t.
They should have.

She committed suicide a couple days later.

I still cry when I think of her.