The Courtship

Bev and I began our courtship as I was quitting smoking. I’m surprised to this day that she didn’t run for the hills. I thought I was coping rather nicely; she tells me that I was a bear for the first three months. You’ll have to ask her why she stuck around.

Our first date was for coffee at a sub place downtown. It was a cold day, windy, the air still carrying the icy bite of early winter. I was early, killing time at Buc’s before the appointed hour. I kept note of the time, leaving five minutes before we were to meet, recognizing her from her picture as she ran past me, her eyes pressed narrow by the blown snow, her brightly coloured scarf wrapped tightly around her neck and held down against her black wool coat. I smiled, prepared to make our acquaintance, but she rushed past. I think she recognized me, but I wouldn’t swear an oath to it.

I ordered a coffee, found a chair facing the entrance and waited. Our first meeting was short, maybe about a half hour. Conversation was easy, and she carried none of the excitability of the last brief fling I’d had. I expected there would be no games like the last time, so we made a promise to contact one another again.

Over the next couple months we met off and on. She endured my smoking. I raised my intention to quit, explaining about my upcoming Egyptian excursion, the smoking there, and the likelihood that I’d fail in my attempt if I quit earlier. I brought her to all the best places, the coffee shop, the show, the Welcome. I don’t know what she thought of the Welcome, it being the ultimate dive, but I wanted her to see me in my element, bad habits and all. I wanted to see what sort of girl she was. Did she like bars? Did she like music? Live music? Did we see eye-to-eye? Were we compatible? What was her politics? Did she like the same things as me? Did she like the Welcome? Probably not; her last boyfriend had a drinking problem and she very likely disproved of bars and pissing the night away in one, but she didn’t say anything. Early days. She still stuck by me, just the same. I suppose I showed promise.

I left. I returned. I was smoke free.

Mostly.

She saw me puffing on a cheroot at Finn McCool’s when she and I were out with friends. There was shock. There was a touch of anger. I saw it in her eyes and brushed it off, smiled at her and shrugged.
“I haven’t inhaled,” I called out to her, raising the cheroot higher, as if that gesture explained my intent.
“She’s mad,” Dawson said, seeing the look in her eyes.

“She’ll get over it,” I said. I needed a puff just then, the cigarettes around me testing my fortitude, and thinking that puffing on a cigar would help me through the temptation. I did quit cigars too, shortly afterwards, but I was not to be dictated to just then. I’d been a bachelor for decades and accustomed to doing what I wanted, when I wanted. And I was anxious. No one had ever dated me for long. I was adrift in uncharted waters. And I was quitting smoking. I needed a little relief.

In time we introduced each other to our parents.

I had no clue what to expect. I’d never been introduced to parents before. What I didn’t expect was to be largely ignored. Bev’s father Albert was engrossed in fixing a broken lamp with a piece of PVC pipe. Alma was busy in the kitchen. Bev’s brother Greg and sister-in-law Laurie was engaged in conversation with Albert and Alma respectively. No one talked to me. Nobody seemed to be aware that I was even there.

Albert did ask me what I thought of his lamp fix, obviously proud of the prospect of having saved the cost of a lamp. It was warped. The blacks did not match. The textures did not match. I thought it was ugly as sin. It was broken. I wondered why he didn’t just throw it out. I shrugged and asked, “Does it work?"

It did. Albert was pleased. I don’t remember if it was ever put in use, though. It disappeared after a time.

I was engaged once or twice during supper. I’d answer the question, then the conversation drifted away from me again.

Time passed. I began looking forward to my next vacation. I wanted to do something different. That’s not saying much. I wanted to do something different every year. I asked myself, “What have you not struck off your bucket list?” I wanted go to the Galapagos Islands. I wanted to go to the Amazon. I wanted to go to lots of places, but when I researched my vacation options and realized that both options were to be had in Ecuador, potentially two trips in one, I was sold. I planned on doing the Islands one week and the jungle the next. I watched travel guides on TV. I read travel guides.

I asked Bev if she’d like to go. If she wanted to really get to know me, I reasoned, she ought to see me doing what I liked best, travelling. That way she could see me away from Timmins. I didn’t drink much while on vacation. (Or so I told myself. It all depends on the vacation.) There was too much to do, too much to see. Besides, I wanted to share my life with someone; I wanted to experience things with someone. I wanted to find my elusive soulmate, not sure if that person actually existed.

She declined. It was too early for us to go away together, she said. “What would my father say?” she asked, knowing full well what her father would say.

“I’m not asking your father,” I said.

“I can’t,” she said.

Did she expect me to stay? Probably not. I certainly wasn’t going to stay on her say so, either. My parents had never holidayed much and I’d never been much of anywhere until finally bursting forth on my own. I toiled year-round underground. I didn’t have many friends, as far as I could see. I deserved a little joy in my life, and no one was going to deny me that.

Did I go to Ecuador?

You bet your ass I did.