Not Entirely Unscathed

We made a few trips to Manitoulin while our finances recovered. Bev and I are both savers, for the most part, so it wasn’t long before we were out from under what we thought was financial destitution. The mine did not close, despite the endless predictions of doom and gloom. I was making more money, I was climbing the ranks, I was looking forward to what the future brought.

It brought Hunter.

We returned to Manitoulin a couple more times, driving round and round, discovering back roads and short cuts, checking out souvenir shops and craft stores, and checking out the Island’s natural beauty. Bridal Veil Falls, Providence Bay, the North Shore. We enjoyed ice cream in Little Current. We ate fish and chips while watching the Chi-Cheemaun come in at South Baymouth. I say we, but I mean me. Bev had already experienced these things from years of her own circle tours and nosing around.

Hunter loved it there. We taught her to swim (that sounds silly, but she had to learn in stages). She could be free and run with abandon. She ran and swam so much that she fell asleep sitting up, her eyes inching closed, her head stiffly upright.

One day a bat made its way into the camp bedroom. It flew round and round, banking inches from my face. Hunter lay on the floor next to me, her nose tracking the bat’s circuits. I thought about what my chances of knocking the bat down were, then decided that they weren’t good, so I slipped of bed, crawling on all fours to the back door. I felt the bat’s draft waft across my scalp while I did. The bat must have done ten more circuits before I got there. I opened it, hoping that other bats wouldn’t join him while it gapped open. He finally found his way out, Hunter still watching him, having never moved once during the whole affair.

“A lot of help you were,” I told her when I slid back in bed.

She wagged her tail and flopped her head back onto the floor.

The next day we heard more bats in the walls, so we hunted down and closed as many holes in the walls as possible.

And in time, the future brought a car accident. Yes, another one.

I hadn’t slept well in years. Shiftwork can do that to people. I’d have a hard time falling asleep and then I had a hard time staying asleep. Lawnmowers and snowblowers blared at all hours during the day. Sun found its way into my bedroom despite the room darkening blinds. Birds chirped and cawed. Dogs barked. Neighbours called out to one another over distances. And there were errands to do. I’d get up early to do them. And when they were done, I’d be awake for the duration whether I tried to nap or not. I’m not a napper. Whatever the reasons, I was averaging five hours a “night.” Transitions from Days to Nights and then Nights to Days were worse, with my being awake for twenty-four or even thirty-six hours at a time.

So it comes as no surprise that I fell asleep at the wheel driving home after my final Night shift, only five blocks from home, drifting into the snowbank at speed. What speed? I don’t know; I was asleep. But it was fast enough because when I woke it was to a loud and hollow rumble and a dark rush of white cascading over my windshield. The snowbank slowed my speed, thank god. It almost kicked me back out onto the road, but sadly, it did not. The telephone pole did. I saw a dark shape resolve in the rushing snow, and then when I crashed into it, I saw it flung and spun as it whirled into the sky. The passenger headlight shattered, the chrome bumper collapsed and the Jimmy’s rear end swung wide, back out into the street. It continued that arc, sliding wide and around, the rear bumper plunging back into the snowbank again, far forward of where I’d cleaved off the pole.

I remained in the vehicle for a moment, a little stunned, yet remarkably unhurt. I looked around, saw the gouge that I’d left in the snowbank far to the left of me, back where I’d come from.

What I did next was stupid. I opened the door and got out. I had no idea if there were powerlines over my vehicle. I could have been electrocuted. Once I was out, I saw them scattered and overlapping one another across the street, but until that time, I was oblivious to their existence, let alone their potential danger.

A car approached. The driver asked if I wanted him to call the police. I thought it a stupid question, but what he was really asking was if I’d already called them. Cell phones were everywhere by then.
The cop arrived, asked me what happened and I stupidly admitted to falling asleep at the wheel. That automatically landed me a Careless Driving charge. He did not cut me a break. He wanted to charge me with speeding too, but he probably thought that he couldn’t make it stick.

When he asked me how fast I was going? I said, “How do I know? I was asleep.”

“How fast were you going before you went asleep?”

“I don’t know. I was falling asleep.”

Long story short, I was fined, I had to buy a new car, I had to pay for the Hydro pole, and my insurance went through the roof for years to come.

That was an expensive snooze.

Chronic

I was happy to be back in Oreflow, but I was angry. I’d just spent eight months in Hell, never having been so ill-treated in my whole life. I’d almost quit. But I didn’t. And I was back.

I was also injured. I was in a lot of pain. I was taking pills to get through the day. And since the accident I’d done nothing but go to work and lie on the couch at home, unable to do much more than that. Even sleeping was agony: any pressure on my lower back burned; it also raised the urge to pee, waking me, making me toss and turn before I fell back asleep, if I did at all. I couldn’t walk the length of the Timmins Square (a quarter mile) without having to sit at least twice. Standing on concrete killed me. After standing or walking on concrete for twenty minutes I’d inevitably be laid up on the couch for two hours of more, my back burning and throbbing, my legs numb. I hid that fact at work, always telling myself that I was getting better, and popping a couple T3s and anti-inflammatories to prove it.

Luckily, the work was light, well, light-ish, and so long as I worked upright, I was fine. Should I have to bend forward slightly, I had about twenty minutes of work in me before I was useless. I probably should have gone to the appointment with the surgeon my GP had made for me, but I didn’t; I ignored it, telling myself that spinal surgeons rarely did anything for chronic pain sufferers and that spinal surgery risked even greater pain, or a fused spine. So, I did nothing. I lay on my back and wished the pain away. Light work was okay. I found that continuous light work strengthened my spine and the chronic pain receded. So too light exercise. All I did for the first year was man the 3 Mine cage and operate the slurry plant. Both jobs required some pre-starts and a little clean-up, but for the most part, both jobs required sitting. I was okay with sitting.

This went on for the better part of two years. And still I wasn’t getting any better.

Nothing changed until we got Hunter. Hunter was part Lab, part hound (maybe boxer). She loved to run, and if she didn’t get enough exercise, she’d get bored and get in trouble, chewing up shoes, digging up strands of carpet fiber, clawing at furniture. I had to do something about that, regardless how painful walking might be. I began to walk the nature trail behind my street, the one that crossed McLean and wound its way around rock and creek and beaver dam until rising up behind Timmins District Hospital and crossing Ross to connect with the Gillies Lake circuit.

One day I took her out on leash until we gained the trail. I detached her and gestured for her to run. She looked at me with disbelief or misunderstanding, but after a few more sweeping gestures and a few more meters gained, she got the picture and took off like the wind. I followed at a meager pace, pleased at how soft my footfalls were on the granular “A” bed, even more so when walking on duff.

I’d call out to her on occasion and she’s return as far as the next bend in the trail, her tail and ears high and at the ready, her eyes bright with excitement. Once she spied me, she’d either disappear up the trail again or bound towards me, leaping high like a gazelle as she passed.

Those first walks were short, no more than a third of the trail’s length before I stopped, rested, and waited for Hunter’s return. Luckily, the Mattagami Conservation Society placed picnic tables along the trail. Then we’d head back and I’d attach the leash when we were getting closer to McLean. I’d have to bear the pain on some walks, sitting at each stop, my gait slowing to a crawl when all I wanted to do was get on all fours and do just that. The walks got longer as the summer progressed, extending into the fall, and then into the winter as I noted that the trail remained open and accessible, fully packed down by passage of MRC sleds and hundreds of footfalls. My back loosened up. The pain lessoning with each and every month. And soon, within the year, I was walking the full length of the trail, at least as far as topping the hill just behind TDH.

And before I knew it, I could actually jog down that hill and not feel like someone was impaling me with a red-hot poker. I was still on the pills, though.

Hunter and I kept up those walks even after I decided to take a gym membership. I did so with a degree of trepidation. Pumping iron was not what I’d call light work. Running on a treadmill seemed tedious at best. But I took it slow. I was assessed by a fitness employee, I raised my concern about my back, taking care to be clear about my injury and my level of pain. He started me on light weight, instructing me to never lift more than I was comfortable with, and how often and in what increments to increase the weight I was working with. He also showed me proper stretching techniques and ways to support my back while exercising.

And in time my back began to get better. I say that, but that’s not true. I feel the pain still, even all these years after, but my body has adjusted to it. My spine has strengthened because it had to. It supports the ruptured disk. And I did not feel pain in my spine the same way. I am desensitized to it. I can experience pain that would probably drop you to the floor.

Because it used to drop me.

The Uncle

Do I have many stories about my nephews? Some, a lot, and not many. There’s the usual: their birth, Christmases, birthdays, sleepovers while my parents babysat.

I was young when they entered my life, just twenty when Jeff was born, twenty-two when Brad was, in ‘86 and ‘88 if I recall properly. I was at school much of that time, only around on holidays and during the summer, and I worked shiftwork then, and far more interested in spending time with my friends than hanging out with my sister and her babies. So, I saw them Sunday dinners, more often than not, and not much more than that. That said, they had a profound, if not direct impact on my life. I am Godfather to the elder, but not the younger. That’s pretty light work. That sounds horrible, but it’s true. I loved them, love them still, but they’re not my children. I was not the babysitter; they had my mother for that. I’m peripheral.

I suppose I was the cool uncle. I bought video games and taught them how to play them. I bought them more gifts than was ever required of me, instructional at first while still preschoolers, whole Lego sets where I could get my hands on them later. We’d sit together for hours putting them together. I bought them bats and balls and baseball mitts, footballs, basketballs, whatever my mind could imagine was fun. I bought every Disney animated feature, and those others I thought as good, An American Tail, and All Dogs Go To Heaven, and the like. And I was there for them, were they ever to need me. I don’t suppose they ever did.

There were moments when I was of some use, I suppose. One Sunday, unbeknownst to us, Jeff had been playing with a three-ring binder in the living room while we had tea in the dining room, and it clamped shut on his belly. He screamed. I was the first to respond, releasing him from its jaws, but Mom and Grandma were there less than a moment later, and we all want Mom to make it better; that’s her job, after all. No need to break that belief too early. Mothers have power. Mothers are protectors. Uncles are peripheral.

Another weekend, years later, my sister had need to go get diapers on some summer day. For some reason my mother went with her. No sooner had they left, Brad had a mistake. I didn’t believe that someone could small that bad, but there you have it. There was a bit of a breeze flowing through the house, so I placed him as close to the exhaust as possible. That helped a little, not a lot. I looked high and low for a diaper, not knowing that there were none to be had. Had I some parental skills I should have stripped him down, cleaned him up and rinsed out his soiled clothes, but as I said, I was lacking in parental skills. Luckily for Brad, he didn’t have to wait too long for proper parental care to return, because I was at a loss. I can’t say I wasn’t relieved when my mother and sister were back within a half hour. I’m sure Brad felt the same.

So, yeah, I wasn’t much of a caregiver. I hadn’t had much practice. I’d never been a babysitter. That wasn’t a guy thing then. And I’d been away during the baby years, too. Karen had married during my college years and divorced soon after I’d returned. Andy, my future brother-in-law had entered the picture, and I found that if I wasn’t actually required before, I wasn’t needed afterwards, either. I was peripheral.

Probably a good thing. I was suffering arrested development, failure to launch, a number of other clichés. I’ve covered this before, so here are the Coles Notes: More than a few people had filled my head with imminent disaster, that the market had crashed, that inflation was rampant, that interest rates were so high that I’d never be able to buy a house, that just then was the very worst time to graduate from school. There were layoffs hinted at. Indeed, six months after I’d been hired, there was a hiring freeze, not just at Kidd, but just about everywhere in the mining industry. That freeze only lasted for seventeen years; not worthy of mentioning, really. Then the axe fell on 250 employees two years after I’d been hired. We were informed as much beforehand, invited to take an early severance if we’d a mind to. As I’d only been working for about two years, that severance would have been a pittance, so I elected to take my chances. The only thing that saved me was my payroll number. Someone in Human Resources had not taken note of start dates, only payroll numbers, never imagining that an employee kept the same payroll they might have had during an earlier employment. Long story short, there were people with more seniority than me who lost their jobs. Rumours of further layoffs were never far off. Copper slipped to 67 cents, zinc to 34. We expected to close. I grew no roots.

The kids grew up, becoming pre-teens and then teens. Jeff and Brad stayed over more often as Karen and Andy worked night shifts. They were thrilled. More time to play Uncle D’s games.

I suggested what I thought were better movies, doing my best to steer them away from Happy Gilmore and Dude, Where’s My Car, and the like. Jeff liked them, then. I didn’t, and tried to convince him otherwise. Jeff wasn’t convinced, not then, anyways. I didn’t argue with him, sure his tastes would develop with time. I probably watched a ton of crap when I was his age, too.

When my parents moved from Hart Street to Victoria, I thought it was high time for me to move out. After years of uninterrupted and unrealized predictions of doom, I’d become to desensitized to it, and had begun to think that it was just talk and that I ought to get my own place. My parents convinced me otherwise. Dad had been out of work for a while, only recently finding new employment, and my mother convinced me that having me around, paying room and board was the difference between making ends meet and not. So, I stayed. Big mistake. I ought to have spread my wings. But I didn’t.
Once we’d moved to Victoria, I began visiting my sister, just once a week, for a chat and a coffee; she only lived a few blocks away, so I thought this was a good opportunity to bond with her after my being away for so many years. Sometimes it was just her and I; sometimes I’d help Jeff and Brad put together their Legos. On occasion, Andy joined us. So, until then, I think I was a constant presence in my nephew’s lives, more or less, certainly more of a presence than my uncles had been in my life.
Then one day I was not.

Maybe something was lost in translation, maybe the message was somehow misunderstood, but one day my mother told me that my sister had called and had told her to tell me not to come over anymore. Just that. Don’t come over anymore.

It was like getting hit in the gut, like being slapped across the face. I was floored. I was confused. I was hurt more by that than by anything before.

I was never offered a reason or explanation; in fact, it was never brought up again. Ever. Not by me, not by my mother, not by my sister. I doubt they even remember it.

I’ve never actually been close with my sister since. We meet on holidays, on special events; I’ve always been there when asked. And I suppose, so has she.

But I’ve always kept my distance, from that moment on. Emotionally.

 

World’s End

Remember Y2K? It was supposed to be the end of the world despite its predicted imminent Mayan demise twelve years in the future. There always seems to be some reason why the world was/is coming to an end. I’ve been living in the end of days my whole life, it seems. My Great Aunt once showed me some prediction written back in the 1700s that the world was going to end in 1986. It didn’t. Obviously. Nostradamus became all the rage and there was abundant proof that Hissler was Hitler and that the apocalypse was nigh. Was Reagan supposed to be the Antichrist? I don’t know. But the Nostradamus specials were on TV for years and probably still are.

Y2K was only the next and most recent (then) prediction of doom. The computers were going to fail and the bombs would launch and we were all going to die. The sky was falling. Cats living with dogs. Mass hysteria!

Total pandemonium!

Corporations and governments spent billions looking into the possibility of failure and what that might mean. They spent billions on patches and upgrades and new systems. Were the banks going to collapse? Were savings safe? What was to become of all those financial records? We were told not to worry, everything was going to be fine. That set people to worrying even more.

The moment was fast approaching and the world braced itself for the end of days. I prepared to go out to a party. Andrew Marks had rented the Moneta Rec, a little private men’s club, to throw an End of the World Party, and if that failed to happen, then just a New Year’s Party.

I woke on the 31^st and turned on the TV. I watched footage of Auckland taking in the New Year, then Sydney. And Tokyo. Nothing seemed amiss. When Beijing brought in the New Year, I was convinced that mothing was going to happen. The world was not coming to an end. Everything was business as usual. When Moscow failed to cease to exist and launch its missiles, I knew we were safe. If all of the Pacific and the East could weather Y2K without a hitch, we, the West, who’d spent far more on preparing for the inevitable would be fine.

That did not stop Hydro from sending operators out to each and every power plant, just to be on the safe side.

The night fell, I put on my coat, and I walked over to Dawson and Lena’s house to share a cab to the Moneta Rec. It was cold. New Years was always cold. The temperature always plunged from fifteen below to thirty below between Christmas and New Year’s. I flipped my collar, put on my ear muffs and pressed my gloved fists deep into my pockets. The pre-party was in full swing when I arrived. It can be a challenge to decide just when to call for a cab when people are drinking. No one drinks at the same pace. Some open another bottle when they discover that the person beside them still has half a beer before them. God forbid someone should forgo drinking for thirty minutes. When we finally got everyone mobile, the gathered piled into the waiting cabs and before long we were plunging into the heat and music escaping for the Moneta Rec’s atrium.

“Coats downstairs,” Andrew told us, directing us to the stairs right next to us. “The bar is downstairs. No drinks upstairs,” he said, duty bound to inform us of the rules of the club. We all ignored them, taking our drinks with us wherever we went, taking care not to spill like teenagers.

The Rec is small, just a small house no more than 1000 square feet. Hardwood floors on ground floor, aged tile in the basement where the bar is. Paneling gave it a warm, homey, 1980s feel. We piled our coats atop the others, got our drinks from the cooler bar set up before the actual bar and made our way upstairs with beverages in hand. I didn’t dance much. I didn’t have a date. Bev and I had only just begun to see one another and we were still early days, so to speak. She had already made plans, and so had I. But I was not lonely. I had most of my friends and acquaintances around me. Drinks flowed. Stories were told. We set one another at ease, telling tales of the survival of Auckland and Sydney and Moscow, telling tales of trips and hopes and dreams and parties past. I didn’t know it then, but that would be the last rowdy New Year’s Eve party I’d ever attend.

Champagne made its rounds before the time. We held them ready. The music stopped. Andrew told us all to be quiet. He said that there was less than a minute to go until it was the year 2000. Did we all have champagne? We did. Those who didn’t rushed to get theirs. Couples drew close, some getting a head start on their kisses.

Someone cried out “Ten!” We picked up the count from there. Nine. Eight. Seven. Insert crowd noises, people talking, people laughing, people crying out, “Six!” Five. Four. Three. Two. One. “Z…..”
The lights went out. It was pitch black. There was a pause as ZERO became a faltering zed, drifting into the eerie silence.

And then we laughed.

The lights came back on. The music began again, the volume rising. Guy Lombardo’s orchestra played their time-honoured “Auld Lang Syne.”

There were kisses and hugs and slow dancing. And the collective voice of the crowd resumed its undulating gaggle.

Bev was celebration across the downtown core at Amigos with her friend Barb.

Their countdown was as enthusiastic as ours. But when they reached the count of zero, the bright lights above the raised dancefloor declared the coming year: 200. The final zero had refused to light, itself a big fat zero.

Trail Blazing

I resolved to use the internet for something other than playing computer games. I decided that if no one was going to introduce me to women, and if only creeps were found in bars, I’d search the electronic personals, instead. It may be common practice now, but it was largely uncharted territory at the time; it was for me. Then again, all dating was uncharted territory for me. I discovered that not all people are as forthcoming as they appear to be, that not all people are as they present themselves to be. I wondered why so many people thought that the personals were less creepy way to meet people than meeting someone face to face in a bar. I thought they ought to have their head examined. At least in a bar you met the person. And what made them creepy when they were in a bar, but not when introduced by friends who really had no clue what they were like in private? Those doubts and questions aside, there I was, my credit card in hand, signing up for internet dating sites.

What can I say? I was desperately lonely at the time.

I learned that meeting for coffee was the way to go. It was a public space, just shallow enough for a meet and greet, just long enough to feel out whether there might be any chemistry, and it was short enough to afford either party a quick escape if need be. Dinner was too much of an investment, first off; a movie didn’t afford an opportunity to talk.

I had two dates of note, neither that close together. Both began in much the same way. I found the other on “Friend finder,” I reached out and we messaged a few times. When it seemed we had enough of a rapport to warrant exchanging ICQ or email addresses, we did, and we took it from there. Yes, this is going back some. But that’s what memories are, going back some.

The first was tall, dark, black haired and a little older. I suspect that her hair had a little help. Hair needs that later on, or so girls tend to believe. She was divorced. She had a child, not a baby, a child. Coffee was good. Conversation was easy. I suggested another coffee date. She suggested a movie. She suggested we go back to her place after the movie.

I recall her paying the babysitter. I recall her daughter peering down from the stairs. I recall a drink, a few passionate moments on the couch. I recall her daughter calling down to her in the midst of it, necessitating a hasty, rather red-faced retreat. The mood cooled somewhat afterwards. We sipped our wine. My eyes swept over her living space. She had a decorator’s eye. She admitted as much, speaking on how she loved to choose paint colours and sometimes painted twice a year, experimenting with hue and texture. I thought that a lot of work. I noticed that she owned a lot of stuff, none of it cheap. We kissed again, the coals stoked, the fires rekindled, and at the white hot heat of it, she backed away, calling for a stop, long before buttons were popped or snaps unfastened, long before hands might have slipped beneath clothing, at least by me, but not before my shirttails were pulled free.

I stopped. My heart was racing, but I stopped. Panting, I collected myself, re-tucked and straightened. Now I was never often in the thick of it, most certainly never driven to the brink and then told to stop. That was new. And I wondered why; I thought it might have been because it was too much, too fast, too quick; but I hadn’t set the pace. Then again, I hadn’t weathered a marriage and divorce, either, so I could only imagine what subtext she might be bringing to the table or failing to bury.

I also wondered how soon I was supposed to call, knowing that it would be at least a week, what with my starting Afternoons that week. I decided to split the middle, messaging her Wednesday, typing out what I thought was the usual and expected. I had a nice time. I’d like to see you again. I hope we can go out again soon. I’m free this Saturday, if you’ve a mind to.

She took her sweet time responding. Thanks, but no thanks, she messaged back. I was a little surprised. I was a little shocked. I had no idea what to make of it all. I messaged her back, asking what I had done wrong, but I received no answer. Looking back, I wonder still; but I also can’t help but think that I ought to thank my lucky stars. Had I dodged a bullet? Had I been spared a high maintenance drama queen? Or had I actually done something wrong. I don’t know. Indeed, I’ll never know. And as time passed, I ceased to care

I met Beverly in the same manner. Friend finder, ICQ, coffee. I was 35, weeks before turning 36. It was just before Christmas, just before I was due to go to Egypt, just before I had finally quit smoking.
That deserves description. I’d been smoking for about sixteen years and like most smokers, I’d tried to quit a few times, but I’d lacked the resolve. It was the same story, time and again: I’d quit, I’d smell someone’s smoke and I’d break down, bumming one; I’d feel guilty straight off the first drag, but I’d be back to a pack a day within the month, just the same.

But this time was different, this time I’d given myself a scare. I was walking home after a night out at Casey’s. I was following my old route, for nostalgia’s sake, despite its adding some time to my trek to Victoria. It wasn’t cold; a gentle, early winter snow was cascading about me. I lit a smoke. I never felt better. Then I didn’t.

A hot poker stabbed me in the chest. I bent double, then crouched low, thinking that I was having a heart attack. It can’t be, I thought. I’m too young! But that sharp stab said otherwise, and what I thought didn’t matter, not in the least. I remained crouched, half expecting that I’d flop over on my side, enveloped in pain, half expecting that’s where they’d find my frozen corpse the next morning.
“There you go, you stupid cocksucker,” I thought, “you went and killed yourself.”

I hadn’t. The pain subsided, given time. But the ghost of it lingered there, a dire warning of what might come were I not to heed the warning.

What was it? Acid reflux. My doctor congratulated me on my decision to quit and gave me pills to ease the acid in my gut while my esophagus healed.

I would quit, too; but not before I’d gone to Egypt, a trip planned and paid for, a land where the boy child has a cigarette shoved in his mouth at the moment of birth; were I to quit before then, I was sure to fail. So I didn’t, not just then.

Shortly after my scare, I met Beverly.

Mere months afterwards, I quit.

I’m surprised she didn’t run for the hills.

Jezebel

Time was growing short. I was in my early mid-thirties, with little to show for it. I’d attained an unused education, I’d gone on some trips, I’d saved some money. I’d watched my friends slip away, with few replacing them. I’d also become what I’d fear the most when still a sad, lonely young man: a sad, lonely older young man. My track record with the opposite sex was dismal, at best. Dates were few, growing fewer, scant to scarce. I’m likely to blame for that.

My confidence continued to wane with each and every rejection. I don’t recommend balding in a big hair age. A woman once reached out and lifted my ball cap, dismissing me out of hand when she spied what wasn’t there. Things like that make one reticent to put oneself out there. That reads false with time’s perspective; I’d done alright when on holiday, not every time, true, but love is a rare and many splendored thing, never to be passed up when it rears its face. Granted, even those moments took a little time, even with such small groups sequestered together for albeit limited time. Things have to happen quickly if they’re going to happen at all. Strike while the iron is hot, and all that. That begs the question: was it love? I’ll err on the side of the romantics and say yes. Love hits you in an instant, even if you’d known the object of that instant for years. To believe otherwise invites cynicism, a perilous path, if you’ve ever been on it.

Sadly, I was cynical. I was lonely. I was angry. I prowled my city by night by myself, a shadow of my former self. Smiling Dave, as someone had once mocked me years before, had died the death of a thousand barbs, brush-offs and rejections. I had no love for the community I’d fallen into. That’s not specifically Timmins. And it is. I’d grown to hate where I lived, who I worked with, anyone I bumped into. I dreamed of escape, a dream that would overwhelm me over the years, if it hadn’t already.
I’d grown a hard, bitter, brittle shell.

I’d all but abandoned Casey’s (there was hardly anyone there past 9 pm most nights), opting for The Welcome, until that felt less than welcoming, trying Mendez’ on for size. Dirty Dave’s closed its doors, 147 ceased drawing bands. I found a small crowd at Mendez’ for a few years until Mike and Jan Gautier married and moved to Alberta, effectively breaking up that little cadre. Mendez closed its doors once Manny bought and renovated the Victory theatre, and Amigos and The Attic were born. I moved in, although I can’t say that the music was to my taste, but that’s where the girls were, and I’d yet to completely abandon hope. Women my age were beginning to divorce the loves of their lives, and I was hoping that they might see the light and notice someone like me for a change. They didn’t. They found much the same they had before. Like I said, cynical, angry.

I returned home from South Africa and Elizabeth with newfound hope. I always found newfound hope. I was playing pool with acquaintances in Amigos, sounding off about my trip when one of the women in attendance perked up.

“I know Elizabeth,” she said after extracting a few more details from me. She’d gone to school with her back in England. She was still in touch with her, despite having moved to Canada.

“She’s getting married,” she said. That was a punch in the chest. It ought not to have been; it was only a fling, after all. I wasn’t moving to England, she wasn’t moving to Canada. We knew that. And we’d said our good-byes. But hearing that had hurt me, tarnishing a wondrous memory in a flash by an unexpected and uncalled-for feeling of loss and betrayal. I swallowed it.

Despite that quick pain, I enjoyed how easily we’d struck up a conversation. She smiled at me a lot. I was encouraged, so I gave her more than a second glance. Tall, brunette, graceful. Bright brown eyes. I neglected my game, focusing on her instead, ultimately losing for having done so, and not really caring, although Dawson might have.

That hope died a quick death. She was married. She was just a happy girl making conversation with someone who knew someone she did.

I was going out weekends alone more and more. Dawson had grown distant after our Leafs road trip. We had a minor accident at the end of it. He was driving. He lost control of my Jimmy a block away from his house, smashing up my grill and bumper. I insisted he pay half the damage. He insisted I go through my insurance. But I had no desire to take the hit for something I didn’t do. He ultimately paid, not quite half, but he did pay. And our friendship cooled after that.

I found myself imposing on those I knew and met up with, hanging about, whether welcome or not. So, one weekend, when I spotted Gabber from work at Amigos, I struck up a conversation and when he kept up his end of it I stuck around. There were girls in attendance. Why wouldn’t I stick around? Hope abounds.

One of those girls took interest in me. Hope more than abounds when the opposite sex takes an interest. We began to talk. We flirted. We danced. And before too long we were necking, oblivious to the presence of everyone around us.

“Do you want to get out of here?” she whispered in my ear.

I answered her with a kiss. And we left.

“You work fast,” Gabber said later that week.

“Yeah,” I said, leaving it at that. Of course I do, I thought. I was accustomed to finding love while on vacation. With just a week or two at my disposal, if I were to take it slow I’d never have experienced what limited comfort I had.

“Your place or mine?” she’d asked. Either, I thought, not really caring.

We stepped out into the night, too early for cabs to be in attendance yet. But I knew where they harboured until the hour of need, so I steered her in that direction.

It was slow going. We stopped to neck often.

Then she said it. She whispered, “I’m married.”

I inhaled sharply. My exhale shuddered. I bit back the livid tears that were welling up. I pressed her into a cab, handing the cabbie the first bill I pulled from my wallet, a five. That ought to be enough, I thought; cabs were cheaper then.

I confessed the whole affair to Neil the next weekend. He was in town, enjoying a much-needed break from fighting bush fires.

“Fuck it,” I said, “I don’t give a shit, anymore. They’re all married; or all the ones I meet are. If none of them want me for anything other than a one-night stand, who am I to care if their marriage is on the rocks.

Neil was having none of that.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” he said. “Someone will come around. Get out of Timmins, if you have to.”
He left for Toronto with Sharon soon after.

I resolved to give Timmins one for year, and then I was getting the fuck out of this hellhole.

Payner

I prowled the night alone for more than a few years, more a ghost of my prior self than an active participant. I’d arrive, slide up to the bar and engage whomever in conversation if they were open to it, moving on if they weren’t. I was rarely content doing it, preferring to hang with a crowd, but my crowd had left, my crowd was moving on, becoming couples, getting married, buying houses and cottages and beginning to pump out kids. I wandered in here and there, looking for people I might know. I rarely found anyone, no one I wanted to find, anyways. Sometimes it was.

Sometimes that person was Dave Payne. Payner.

Payner was always fun. He was loud. He had a ready laugh. He was always surrounded by a lot of people. Everyone wanted to be his friend. And he always seemed genuinely pleased to see me.

I’ve known Payner a lot of years. He was a bartender at Casey’s during its heyday. He was bartender at one or two other places too, after that. He always talked with me. He even lent me money to get home one night when I stupidly fell in love with a girl who took me for all I had on me. He began scuba diving about the same time I did, as well, although he and I never dove together.

Once or twice I spotted him in the Standard Tavern as I ducked my head in wondering what the big deal about the place was, always amused how the floor warped and twisted this way and that, making the uninitiated stagger like they were drunk when headed to and from the head. I approached him amid his friends and attendees, asking him how he was and asking if I might join him for a beer. He always said yes, gesturing to those around him to make room for me. Like I said, he always seemed genuinely pleased to see me, but he’s likely like that with everyone. Everyone loves Payner. Payner has a big and generous personality.

One weekend in the dog days of some summer, I crossed paths with Payner in the eleventh hour of the night. We shared a beer. We shared two beers. Then he declared that he was off to some party out at Kamaskotia. He asked me if I’d like to come.

“I don’t have any beer,’ I said.

“No problem,” he said, “I got shitloads of beer.” One of the Casey’s waitresses was going too—not Louise, Payner’s girlfriend, I had no idea where she was just then—but another, and she too required beer.

We piled into Payner’s van and were off. I did not have a seat, just a tumble of crushed boxes in the back to sit on. I tried crouching up near the front for a while, clutching the seats to keep stable, but I cramped up and settled back down in the back. I slid here and there when we took corners, however gently we swung through them. It was all great fun.

We arrived and made our way to the enormous bonfire that threw embers up into the stars. Led Zeppelin rose up with them, Jimmy Page’s hard driven blues rolling out across the yard and the lake. The beer was warm having sat out in the back of the van all night. I sipped at it, but I’d had enough. The ride out had spun my head and I was feeling queasy. The smoke followed me wherever I went, drawn to me like moths to a flame, hot, acrid, the embers stinging my jeans.

We mingled. Payner seemed to know everybody. I didn’t know a soul. One beer followed another and the night passed faster than I imagined. Before too long I was drunk, my head spinning with beer and smoke. My gut was unsettled. I’d begun to reject the warm beer I sipped, just wetting my lips and not actually able to swallow it. What can I say? I’ve drank, but I’ve never really been a drinker.
I should never have come. I’d had my fill even before coming across Payner, but invitations had grown few and far between.

The eastern horizon had begun to resolve into a pale grey as we made our way back to the van. I slid in the back, falling into the crushed boxes, and before long we were bouncing along back to the highway. When we burst out onto it, the van began to slide. Payner began to correct but before completing the move he began to enjoy the sensation. He howled and laughed and stepped on the gas and the van went round and round. I hung on for dear life. It was fun. It was nauseating.

“Dave,” I said, dragging myself back between the seats, “pull over.”

“What?” he said over the racing engine.

The world went round and round.

“Pull over,’ I said, in what I hoped was a calm and reasonable voice, “I got to puke.”

Our donut came to an abrupt halt. I ripped open the side door and hung my head our over the highway.
“Sorry,” I said once I had finished, still waiting for the world to slow down and my gut to settle.

“No,” he said. “I ought to be the one to say he’s sorry.” Then he laughed. “I’ll take it easy from here on. I’ll give you a smooth ride.”

Musical Chairs

There was an abundance of routine between holidays. Work, rest, weekends, repeat. Work weeks were largely spent alone, weekends with friends…maybe I should say close acquaintances.

Even weekends were routine. I’d begin my night at Casey’s. If there were friends about, I’d stay. If there weren’t, I’d migrate to Dirty Dave’s, and then for a time to Club 147 on Algonquin, a pool hall that brought in Bands for a time. Usually up-and-comers that weren’t too expensive.

We were all surprised when they announced that they’d booked The Barstool Prophets. The Prophets had CDs. They had videos being played on Much Music. And they weren’t that expensive, only $20 a head. More expensive than cover bands, to be sure, but not as expensive as we’d have expected for a band that had two CDs and played in festivals across Canada. The fact is, they would play anywhere by then. Napster was killing them. They had to tour relentlessly to just make ends meet.

Just about everyone I knew was there, making that night one of the best in years. It was also the beginning of the end, in more ways than one. Peter would move away soon, opting to teach in Japan since he couldn’t get into teachers’ college, no matter what he did to help beef up his resume. And over the next few years, just about everyone else moved or drifted away. Jeff O’Reilly left for Ottawa, Terry Laraman for Barrie. Fran and Mike would eventually leave too, landing in Alberta. Then Cathy. The list goes on.

I was hanging out almost exclusively with Dawson and Lena by then. When there were bands in town, we spent the night there. When there weren’t, we invariably settled in at Casey’s. New faces joined theirs, younger ones. Tom and Roz Gauthier, Scott Sargalis, Monica Willcott, others whose names are lost to the depths.

Monika stood out more than most. She was from Newfoundland. She was a teacher. She was living at Dawson and Lena’s. She was loud. She was brash. She spoke her mind. Should she meet another Newfie, her accent rushed back, and thickened as her speech sped up, until she was speaking so quickly, in such a dialect that none of us could make head or tails of what she and he were saying. She was attractive, too. Short curly hair, teeth that crossed ever so slightly. Yes, I had a crush on her. Why else would I remember her so vividly?

But as years passed, I saw Dawson and Lena less as they opted for other, younger faces than mine. Joel and Denise. And friends of those new friends.

My phone stopped ringing. My “crowd” met me later at night. And when they did, I somehow became the guy who watched over their coats and purses while they all raced for the dancefloor, or spotted someone else they had to talk to.

I was not pleased. A fog settled over my spirit, growing thickening with time, growing blacker with each empty night. There were days it became a rage, red hot and black with the smoke that surely radiated from me in ever widening circles.

One night at Casey’s, I was again left to guard the coats. I was pissed. I was left alone again.
I scanned the bar and saw Neil Petersen and friends over by the Galaxia machine. I was thrilled to see him, so I grabbed my leather jacket and left to go join him and them. “Fuck ‘em,” I thought as I left. “Serves them right if their shit gets ripped off.”

I spent an hour with Neil before returning to the table. They were leaving to go to the Welcome for last call and I meant to join them. I decided I should tell Dawson and the others I was leaving. They’d begun calling me Disappearing Dave for my leaving unannounced; then again, they took their time noticing that I was gone, too. For the record, I always told someone I was leaving. They just never bothered telling anyone else. So, I began to announce my leavings with great fanfare.

The table was a-dither with panic. They were shifting coats left and then right.

“Where’d you go,” they asked.

I gestured back towards Neil.

“Have you seen my coat,” Joel asked.

“No,” I said. “I haven’t been here. You can’t find it?” It was a stupid question. They were shifting the coats again as we spoke.

No, Joel said, before deciding to trawl the bar for his missing, and presumably stolen, coat.

I helped for a few moments, not expecting to find anything. I didn’t take too long, though; I wanted to be gone.

Then someone called out to the table. “Come quick! Joel found the guy who stole his coat!”

I was up with the rest, throwing on my coat, following the others to the front entrance. There was a crowd gathered there in the atrium and we had to elbow our way through them. Once through, I saw Joel manhandling a guy wearing a motorcycle jacket remarkably like his own.

“Those are my bugs!” Joel was screaming at him. The coat had been spattered with them.

Joel and the guy shifted and shuffled, and they went down to the pavement.

Someone else sucker-punched Joel. Jim broke free and tackled the guy who did the sucker-punching.
Another guy grabbed Joel in a headlock.

I saw red. Rage boiled up in me. But I was also oddly, deathly calm, too. Maybe it was the three-on-one I walked in on, maybe it was anger at my friends for abandoning me, but still expecting me to help in their hour of need, but I wanted to mess up that fucker’s face.

I ran forward and slammed into the guy who had Joel in a headlock, landing on top of him. I heard the breath driven from him. I rose to my knees. I gripped his shirt. I prepared to drive my fist into his face. My arm pumped up.

And I was hit from behind. Shoved hard.

I flew off the guy, I rolled and came quickly to my feet, expecting that whoever had hit me from behind to follow through and tackle me and hit me. Whatever. No blow came.

Back on my feet, I looked back into the melee and saw Brian Reid pulling people apart. Mike Reid was right beside him, glaring at me.

“Hello, Mike,” I said.

Mike gave me a look that said step away.

I did, my hands up, making space.

Someone punched Brian from behind, and Mike flew into a rage. “You punched my brother,” he screamed, driving his fist into the idiot that punched Brian.

I heard sirens.

I watched five cop cars race up the entry, bouncing hard over the cracked asphalt.

I stepped further back, turned and walked a ways, digging my smokes out and lighting one.

I watched the cops dive into the fray and start hauling people into the cruisers.

I wondered if Neil had gotten away before the shit began to fly.

More than likely, he was still inside.

Settling In

Routine is a hard habit to break. Inertia exerted its pressure and I settled back into my weekly cycle. And why wouldn’t I? Reprieves from the barstool were not the usual, they were holidays, and holidays were breaks from the routine, and Casey’s was fun. A lot of people went to Casey’s on the weekends, not all of them regulars. We drank, we danced, we flirted. We did what all people in their 20s did. We tried to find our way in an indifferent world.

I was always astonished how many new faces arrived each weekend, never to be seen again. What did they do weekends, I wondered. Camping? Cottages? I had my doubts that they were their own. Who could afford a house, let alone a cottage, at 12% interest? My guess was they crashed at their parent’s camps.

Thankfully there were regulars, familiar faces who I could count on to arrive each weekend at the same time, like clockwork. One such was Louise. Lou was an Asian woman, manager at Thrifties in the Square. One weekend I asked Lou to dance. The next I asked again, asking her to stick around for the slow dance that followed. Small talk followed. I loved the way her eyes crinkled up when she smiled, the way her cheeks glowed when she laughed. I found myself watching the door for her to arrive. I’d gather myself to approach her. I was encouraged when she was genuinely happy to see me. We had a lot in common, old movies, new music, a sense of humour that slid precariously to the edge of the gutter after a few drinks. She loved to travel. Even her mention of trips to Toronto to visit family and cruise Spadina for deals lit up her eyes. I began to wonder if I’d found “the one.”

But I was slow, lingered too long, pondered her having a daughter for too long before discovering that she’d begun seeing someone. He knew what I was straight off upon introduction, competition. That much was clear by his composure. Did Lou know that I was smitten with her? I don’t know. Had she known, I wish she’d have given that sad lonely soul a little time, or a little nudge in the right direction. Personally, I wish she’d have taken the bull by the horns and made the first move had she been interested. She must have known; I browsed endlessly in her store, bought shirts I did not need, found every opportunity to talk with her. More likely she wasn’t interested. The winner of that short sprint was tall, blond, broader in the chest. I thought him a dullard. But I was jealous, so I suppose he wasn’t. And before too long Lou was gone.

I sat at the bar, ball cap pulled low and brooded for a time. Until Lena Malley sat beside me one day and asked me what was wrong. She was waiting for her husband who was working afternoons at the college and due to arrive later. She’d seen that sad lonely boy at the bar a few times and took it upon herself to see what made him tick.

Dawson and Lena became a fixture in my life for a while. And through them, others entered my sphere. They introduced me to Jim Mikelait and Geri-Anne Spaza.

Jim and Geri were fringe. Jim was punk, decked out in long hair, muscle-shirts, and shredded jeans long before they were fashionable. He played in a band, a post-punk metal affair with Darrell Pilon. He had a recording studio in his basement.

Geri had a touch of Goth about her, favouring a wraith-like white base, edged in black. I liked them, straight off. They were artsy. They prescribed to views the techy set never dreamed of.
Who else floated past my sphere?

A hard drinking, carefree sort who took life with a dash of laissez-faire. Some had dreams and ambition, most, like me were making our way from day to day, camping out on a road to nowhere, digging out from debt (not me thankfully), making scratch, groping for a future, pontificating about the death of postmodernism, the collapse of Communism, and the unsustainability of unfettered capitalism. We railed against the rape of the environment, discussed an emerging Canada, and if we Gen-X had a place in it. Here we are; entertain us! We were all terribly interesting.

We wore black and plaid, Doc Martins, jean jackets, leather, and tweed, long overcoats. Serengeti, Ray Bans, ball caps (I’d taken to wearing a Tigers ball cap, by then (D for David, and all that), once I’d discovered my tender scalp could burn in the summer and freeze in the winter through that increasingly thin net of hair). There was a lot of denim. We smoked too much.

Who were we?

Kevin Kool, Brian Polk.

Dave Payne, Andrew Warren, Terry Laraman, Jeff O’Reilly and Walter Hohman.

Janice Kaufman, Cathy Walli, Fran Cassidy.

The Casey’s crowd, most bartenders, disk-jockeys.

Most were educated. I mean post-secondary. Most dabbled in the same brush with intellectualism as I was, mainly literature. I’d begun to read less crap, immersing myself in the “I am Canadian” movement that was sweeping our age-set then. We were all about embracing our Canadian heritage, reading Atwood, Cohen, and Ondaatje, immersing ourselves in our homegrown bands: Lowest of the Low, Moist, The Weakerthans. The Hip, the Tea Party, Our Lady Peace.

The Blue Jays got better and better, sweeping the nation.

Janice left to become a cop.

Fran began seeing Mike Reid.

My sister began dating Andy Leblanc.

My nephews were just beginning their own journeys.

The Jays won the pennant, the Jays won the World Series, the Jays won another.

Where was I?

I was happy. I was miserable. I was busy. I was stagnant. My weeks were spent alone in a dark hole none of them would ever know. 1 Mine Backfill and 2 Mine Backfill became one. I spent more and more time deeper and deeper. I chased the carrot of advancement, gaining more and more licenses until I had more than those two codes above me, with still little to put on a resume. Years had passed and I was still code 4.

I was straddling disparate worlds, wondering where I fit it, and finding myself failing at fitting in anywhere at all. I was younger than anyone I worked with. They were married. I was not. They were French. I was not. I worked alone most of the time, and thus hadn’t spent years bonding with my crewmates, or anyone else for that matter. I worked shiftwork. My friends and acquaintances did not. That made it impossible for me to hang out two out of three weeks at a time, excluding weekends.

Sometimes they showed up. Sometimes they didn’t. When they didn’t I never knew why. I suspect they didn’t contact me because they didn’t know when I was working, expecting that I might be asleep. For whatever their reasons, they didn’t call me, always leaving that task to me, oblivious to how that felt about that, how I was always the one who had to contact them, to see what was going on. So, if I didn’t call them, I never heard from them, ever. They never dropped by. And in time, they began making plans without me.

A black rage was seething within me. It was beginning to boil up. I was looking at my friends who shared my weekend nights, but not my weeks. I loved them. I hated them. I wanted to scream FUCK YOU to them and to the world as a whole.

I wanted to buy a backpack and discover the world.

I wanted to leave it all behind.

I wanted to run away.

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.