Deb

Debbie Wursluk is indelibly entwined with my memories of my first year at Cambrian College. I could no more disentangle her from that year than I could cut out my heart. That year, they were one and the same. Does that sound too extreme? Not to me, it doesn’t. She was, without a doubt, the first woman I was ever in love with, and I fell hard. I was not aware how hard, not on that first night, not for some time to come, but she suffused me, and her presence became a daily affair from the first.

Both on the first floor, we moved in the same day, and as striking as she was, I could not help but notice her right away. I was drawn to her. That first day and that first night, she and Evan Macdonald and I became fast friends, and then as that night progressed, she very quickly became the focus of my world. I was not actually aware of that, then; how I was not baffles me, but it’s not that much of a mystery either, as naïve as I know myself to have been. Remember, I’d been shy with girls in high school, and had cloistered myself in a predominately and almost exclusively male school my first year of college. Then there was Roxanne. So, I was not what one might call worldly. I was unaware how completely one can become entranced by another person, or how completely that person can occupy one’s every thought. Yes, I’d thought about women before…a lot; I had just never thought so exclusively about the same woman. And yes, there had been Roxanne. But this was different. Not to say Deb was the only thing on my mind. There were classes; there were other friends; there were parties and new experiences, and the humdrum of homework. And, no, Deb and I did not spend every waking hour together; but, when I came home from school, she was invariably the first person I sought out. Evan Macdonald, too, he being housed midway between my and Deb’s rooms. As I said, we’d become fast friends, the three of us. But seeing how hard I fell that first night, Deb and I became rather inseparable quickly. We had quiet conversations where we felt each other out, seeking everything there was to learn. She openly discussed her sex life (she was way more experienced than I was, intimidatingly so), she talked about her family, her adoration for her openly gay brother. He was self-assured. He was courageous. He was her hero. We talked about so many things: parents, home life, death, her want and need to escape her life as she knew it. She loved her mother, but she wanted better.

We spent a lot of time getting to know one another, as well, by design, by circumstance. Within our first week in residence, we had our first lengthy, uninterrupted time together. We’d been downtown, and having walked there already, decided to walk back. Only we were not paying close attention to where we were going, and were not particularly familiar with Sudbury yet, either, so we, lost in conversation, took a wrong turn. We walked up the adjacent street to the one we’d intended, and almost immediately found ourselves lost. We’d come face to face with rail spur lines, a site neither of us had seen before. We could have retraced our steps, but we decided that was just a waste of time, so we crossed the rail yard and carried on. We felt sure that we’d stumble across our proper path soon enough. But we didn’t. Where we ought to have been angling southwest, we were in fact following roads that headed due south. Deb began to show concern, but I glanced around, sighted the Superstack, and remembered how the stack looked from downtown and from Residence. I told her not to worry, that I knew exactly where we were, not exactly the truth, but close enough that it didn’t make a difference in my mind. I actually had no clue whether the road we were following would actually take us back to residence, but I did know where we were from a largely bird’s eye view perspective. We found our path somewhat erratic, but so long as I kept sight of the stack, I thought we were alright; then I saw Bell Park, and realizing that if we’d kept on as we were going, we’d be walking as far as the Four Corners, quite a hike, before doubling back, so I took a chance, and turned up York Street. “Is this the way,” Deb asked. “Without a doubt,” I said, filled with doubt. I lucked out. York crossed Regent, and as luck would have it, when we gained Regent, we could see the Res. She was elated! I looked like a hero! Well, in my eyes I did. That said, we were both a little footsore when we climbed the front steps. But, we’d shared an adventure together. More importantly, in my eyes, we’d spent an hour wandering about chatting, without anyone to disturb us.

Shortly after that, the Res was out together at the Ramada Hotel, the hottest bar in town, the room so crowded we had to inch through the press to get to the washrooms or the dance floor. I was playing it cool for Deb, sporting a stiff new jean jacket and knock-off Wayfarers (all I could afford, then). I could hardly see, but Deb thought both were the apex of cool so I brought them, and wore them that night; I was all about impressing Deb by this point. We found every opportunity to dance together, our focus on the slow ones. The night skipped past in a heartbeat. Last Call. Lights on. And Res spilled out into the night, looking for cabs. There was at least 30 of us, so there was a lot of hailing to be done. Sudbury’s big yellow ‘50s checkered cabs rolled in and out, and then we of 1^st floor pressed forward. Deb and a girl from Cochrane ducked into the front, and Evan and I and another guy from our circle piled into the back. The girls made short small talk with the driver and then turned back to face us, hanging over the seat. “Kiss us,” Deb demanded, and we did, each in turn, necking with each of the girls for easily 15 to 20 seconds per. There was a short awkward pause, and we all laughed, the driver too. “Is that it?” Deb asked. No one moved, I looked to the other guys who were glancing about, mainly at me. Apparently, everyone had been given crib notes for the evening, everyone but me. All I knew was that I’d rather have me kissing Deb than them, so I leaned in, effectively cutting the other two off from her. They shifted somewhat while I did. Like I said, things may have been discussed during my washroom breaks. “Is that it? Not a chance,” I said, and cupping the back of her head, I drew her to me. That kiss may have lasted slightly longer than the last. By however long.
We arrived, departed, climbed the front steps, rode the elevator down. There were further awkward moments, mainly carried on by me. I kept looking at her lips, feeling her heat. We somehow ended up in my room, beers in hand, myself and Deb on the bed, the others arranged around.
And then I woke up, fully dressed and rumpled under the covers, wondering how I came to be in that state. I must have nodded off, and I’ll assume Deb tucked me in. I guess you weren’t expecting that after such a lengthy lead up. I would not have been either. Imagine my surprise, imagine my disappointment.
We did eventually find ourselves alone in bed the following weekend. Similar circumstances. Everyone jostling for a cab, what with a bus strike in full swing. There was a running bet on as to how many people could be piled into those enormous cabs. We managed twenty-five, jammed in and stacked like cord wood in the back. I ended up on the floor, pressed flat by hips and elbows and the weight of my floor above me. I arrived numb and had to be pealed out of the cab. Deb waited for me to regain feeling in my legs, and escorted me back to my room. She went to the bathroom, and when she returned, I’d kicked off my jeans and settled under the covers. Unabashed by my altered state, she leapt over me, nestled between wall and me. She peeked under the covers.
“You don’t have much on under there,” she said. Not entirely true, but accurate enough, for that moment, anyway.
Deb was strong. Deb was confident. Deb was self-assured. Deb was my world just then. Deb was also in need of comfort, understanding, a strong shoulder, someone to take her as she was, and to raise her up from her own demons and doubts and uncertainties. She was as in need of those things as much as I was.
I only wish that I had not been such the neurotic mess I was then, as she was too.
I wish I had been able rise to the occasion.

The Summer Student

When I returned home from school for the summer, I did so with less than twenty dollars in the bank. It was the same every year, so it’s no surprise that my first was no exception. My working at Kidd Creek during the summer made no difference, either. No matter how much money I made, I was always in need of a loan from my parents come March, and upon arriving home for the summer. I always paid them back, usually with my income tax return, but sometimes with a portion of my first couple pays, as well. You’d think I’d have learned restraint in the following years, but back then I can’t say I was much of a long-term planner.
That first summer back from college was a big one for me. There was money to be made (my first well-paying job), savings to be stowed for the coming year, Roxanne to exorcise from my soul, my sister’s wedding, and my near fatal car accident (see prior early memories if you haven’t been keeping abreast of these ongoing missives).
I arrived home, having already made up my mind to leave Haileybury and continue my scholastic career in Sudbury at Cambrian. I’d applied and was accepted. Now, all I needed to do was make and save some money. I didn’t even need to make arrangements for a car pool. My neighbor, George Miller, asked around and set me up. But first, I had to celebrate my homecoming…not that I’d actually ever really left. Like I said, I wasn’t much of a long-term planner back then.
My first day of work, I was out on my curb waiting for my ride. The car pool pulled up, the Econoline’s side panel slid open, and I was ushered in by a van full of strangers. Shy at first, I kept to myself, observing these grown men I would be travelling to work with for the coming months. They were a grizzled bunch, not one of them taking the time to shave that morning. They were gruff, loud, eager to make the smallest of talk. Half an hour later, I spilled out with the rest of them, and made my way to training, following the arrows penned on sheets of paper taped to the wall to guide me. I sat through induction, was given a locker, a payroll number, sheets to sign. I was introduced to my Captain (General Foreman) and my Shifter (Front Line Foreman). And then I was told that I’d be working in the field, away from my crew for a week, scaling and bolting the back (the ceiling) of a newly fired round on 40-1. Too much mining talk? Confused? So was I.
The next morning, suited up in coveralls, boots, belt and hard hat, we were taught how to collect the cap lamps allotted us, and where to wait for the cage. New to this, we were herded together like the inexperienced sheep we were. The pager squawked inexplicable instructions (I, personally, could not make out a word that was said), and those in the know stood up and headed to the shaft. We waited like sensible sheep for our turn. And when it came, we too inched our way to the shaft, onto the cage, jammed in as tight as can be, lunch pails held tightly between our legs. The door crashed down, bells were rung to the hoistman, and we descended into the black depths. Silence descended too, quiet mutterings here and there. Over those, the cage rattled and scraped the guides. Our breath steamed from us, illuminated by already affixed headlamps, their beams sweeping about. Never in another’s eyes; to do so risked having the lamp rapped and smashed by an irate wrench. The cold of the upper mine escaped the cracks, replaced with a heavy heat as each level rushed past in a piston pressed cushion of air. The cage shuddered and shook with each passing, then slowed, then inched, then stopped as the cagetender indicated: one bell, stop, then three, men in motion.
2 Mine was hot; deeply humid, not as well ventilated as 1 Mine. The heading was quiet, stifling. At least until the scaling and bolting began. Then, rocks crashed to our feet after prying, drills blared the loudest roar I’d ever heard. The air smelled of oil and nitrates and resin and sweat. And cigarettes. Fog enveloped us, we each silhouetted in backlight. Eerie. Beautiful. You’d have to see it to understand.
I joined my crew the next week. Bob Semour, Charlie Trampanier, Rod Skinner, Brian Wilson, among others. I was to man the picking belt for the summer, part of the crusher crew. But I was also to work with the construction gang on occasion, when needed. Building walls, pumping cement. On the belts, there was shoveling to do, every day there was shoveling, scrap to be picked up, and dumped in rail cars, and pushed by hand to the station. Lean into it, shove hard to get it going, pick up speed or we’d never get it through the S turn and it would grind to a halt, and we’d have to pry it on, or push it halfway back to try again. I learned important lessons. You fucked it, you fix it, being the most important. Always wear your safety glasses when the boss is around. Sit on your gloves or you’ll get piles. Lift this way. Watch out, that’s dangerous. Don’t touch that. I learned the thrill of setting off a blast. The boredom of guarding. Always bring a book.
And I learned that you can earn the nickname Crash when you’ve been in a car accident that caused you to miss a week’s work. And how happy they are to see you after that accident too, if stiff and limping. And how your boss says, you’re light duty this week, Crash. I want you to drive that pick-up. I was terrified at the prospect, but he said, better get back on that horse, or it’ll scare you the rest of your life. I did. It didn’t.
Paychecks, parties.
And that summer I started smoking. At 19. What was I thinking? I wasn’t. Idiot! You’d think I’d have been immune to beginning after 19 years of having not. You’ll note a theme that runs through these early years, these early memories. Thinking was not foremost in my mind, then. I was at the Empire Hotel, in early enough that the sunlight still found its way into its narrow smoky twilight. I found Astra and Alma Senkus already there. They called me over. They had a couple beers before them, smokes lit. I watched. I wondered what it would be like to take a drag, to inhale and blow that long steam of smoke across the table. And I wanted to impress the twins. Secretly, I wondered what it would be like to lose my virginity to twins. So, I asked for one. They were reticent, joked with me about how addictive smoking was. But I was a man, under the spell of wanting to impress attractive women. I insisted. They gave me one. I inhaled, coughed as expected, inhaled again, coughed less. And grew somewhat lightheaded. On my second beer, I asked for another.
As you can imagine, this was another one of those worst decisions of my life.
And in case you’re wondering, no, I did not lose my virginity to the Senkus twins that night.