The Ecclesiastical Siege

I earn the nickname Psycho. Again.

There are times when kindness backfires. In the depth of winter in my second year at Haileybury, I did one such kindness. I don’t regret the act; I do resent their taking advantage.

Our house had been out the night before, out till all hours. We partook of our time-honoured tradition of 2 am spaghetti dinner and hit the sack at about 3:00. I slept as only the truly self-medicated can, in a coma, rising as expected, awarded with the near-death experience hangover any reasonable human-being would expect given my overindulgence, my head splitting and my guts in knots, unbearably nauseous.
I shuffled to the bathroom, and fully intended to sleep the day away if that were possible, when I heard a knock at the door. I turned and faced it. Who the hell could that be, I thought. Wind buffeted the house. I could hear pellets of snow driven against the windows. There was so much frost on the door’s window that it was impossible to see who could possibly be visiting us at that time, in such weather. What time was it? I had no idea.

I threw open the door and was met with a rush of misery. It had to be -40*. Icy wind blew past and through my robe. Two obviously freezing young men hunched on our stoop. Even in my state, I knew exactly what they were. Jehovah’s. There to save my soul, and to get their quota of converts, so they might bask in the glory of their savior, forevermore.

“Good morning,” they said, far too chipper for my state, far to chipper for the weather.

“Morning,” I croaked, unwilling to commit to good or any other adjective. All I was willing to commit to was my unwillingness to stand in an open doorway, in my bathrobe, subjected to the fullest fury of winter. “Jesus,” I said, not caring a whit what they thought of my language. “You look frozen.” Fuck ‘em if they couldn’t take a joke. I then made my mistake of kindness. “Come on in for a couple minutes to warm up,” I said.

They did, unwilling just then to venture much further than the entry into our obviously tattered and tumbledown den of student’s debauchery. I had, after all, met them at the door in my bathrobe, clearly still in the throes of last night’s excess. I must have seemed quite a catch, someone clearly in need of saving.

I was, just not by them

“Cold out,” I said, shuffling into the kitchen, “isn’t it.”

They agreed. They introduced themselves

I asked them if they’d like some coffee to help thaw their bones. “It’s instant,” I said. Forewarned is forearmed.

They accepted, then began their spiel. Had I heard the Good News? Did I know our Savior?
Not personally, I said.

I mentioned that I was a practicing Catholic, and that I was not interested. Contradictory? Yes. But that’s what my mother always said at the door when they came to call and it always seemed to work for her.

The kettle boiled, I poured us each a cup. I sat down at the fixed picnic table that served as our dining room table. They remained standing. I offered them a seat. Another mistake, but I was taught to be polite.

I asked if they wouldn’t mind if I put some clothes on. I did. I also threw back a couple extra-strength Tylenols and about a litre of water for good measure. I lit a smoke, unmindful of my headache, addictions being what they are.

They set in on me when I returned, bringing out a battery of pamphlets, enlightening me on how Catholicism had got it all wrong, pointing out just how, and in increasing detail. I was well armed for such a debate, my mother having taken me in hand every Saturday night for Mass, and although I always brought a novel to read while waiting for Mass to commence, she always insisted I put it aside and pay attention. I did. I listened then, and I listened now, so, as far as I was concerned, the Jehovah’s had just taken the Catholic scripture, ignoring whatever bits they didn’t like, and reinventing it as they saw fit. It was all a mess as far as I could see. Jesus had brothers and sisters, whose names were conveniently the same as the apostles and disciples, etc. I always loved a good debate, so I perked up, pointed out those facts as I remembered them, and in time, thanked them for their time, informing them that I was hungry, and needed a shower.

They thanked me for the coffee, and gave me further reading material. Hard covers, this time. I begged off, tried to return them, but they insisted. Then they told me that they’d be back with one of their elders next week, just to introduce him. So we could all get to know one another better.

Crap! I thought. Idiot.

I saw them out. And promptly chucked their reading material in the trash without giving it a glance. I thought about giving the books back, but they’d pissed me off, intruding on my hangover as they had. I had enough confusion and uncertainty in my life; the last thing I needed was a bunch of bible-thumpers at my door, showing me the way to enlightenment and salvation.

Just as the books hit the bin, I heard every occupied door on my floor open. Jeff, and Joe Clark, and Neil and John all spilled out from their hiding to confront me and laugh at my good fortune.
“You idiot,” they said. “Now we’d have every Holy Roller in town at our door.”

“I fix,” I said.

And I did.

I made signs for our kitchen window. I made my own pamphlets for distribution. And I made a folder in which said pamphlets could rest until needed. Next Friday night, before collapsing into bed, I put them up.

JESUS SUCKS, declared the kitchen window signs. Were that not to deter them, I’d set the folder filled with pamphlets jammed in the front door, the pages easy to get at.

I was not awakened early that Saturday. I suppose they thought it better that they visit later in the day.
That sunny afternoon, I saw the two return, this time led by a middle-aged man. They took no note of the kitchen window papers. Perhaps they did not see them. They climbed the stairs. Paused for a moment at the door, then descended again.

Perhaps they took offence at my own ecclesiastical message.

An erect penis glared up from the cover of each folded pamphlet. Inside was the same penis, this time ejaculating. Above and below it was written: Jesus took the bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to his disciples, saying, “Take this and eat it; this is my body.”

We were never bothered by them again.

Yes, I was an irreverent asshole. But as I said, I was pissed that they’d taken advantage of my kindness. And I did earn my nickname anew that day. Word gets around.

Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.

Thanks be to God! Amen!

Limbo, and Beyond

So there I was, back in Haileybury, repeating 2^nd year, even though I’d passed it in Cambrian. It was like 2^nd grade, all over again. I’ll be fair; there were differences in the curriculums. Cambrian was more class-oriented, fewer field trips, with more mechanical and statistical overlaps, while HSM was a more “practical,” hands on, technical course load. Way more surveying, something I was never particularly fond of, having to do circle checks out back in the freezing cold. HSM covered milling, Cambrian did not.

Psycho followed me. For Christ’s sake, is about all I can say about that. James Parisi spread the nickname around when we returned for summer employment, and the Haileybury guys we knew picked up on it. My stereo followed that year, too. The purple palace had oodles more room than did the porch perch I’d had prior, and I’d always been jealous of those guys who’d had the luxury of their own music, so I was not to be outdone that year.

I met Greg early on, and after discovering we both played D&D, he told me that he wanted to get a game started, that he’d already lined up a few players, and asked me if I wanted to play, but only after consulting whether the others were okay with adding yet another player. I spoke to a few of them prior, displaying some enthusiasm, and was shocked and amused when Greg told me they were unsure, saying that they thought I wanted to want to play in a darkened room with black candles or some such nonsense. I burst out laughing, wondering where they got that idea. I asked Greg if I could stick the candles in beer bottles, then asked him where I could buy candles. We played, off and on, then the group split in two after a while. I was somewhat dissatisfied with some of their play, generally goody-two-shoes, one big happy family, let’s all stick together, hack and slash stuff. If you’ve ever played, maybe you understand what I’m getting at. My splinter group (Greg was involved in both) was a grittier affair, more focused on city adventures, politics, roleplaying, and vendettas and the like. I was asked to sit in with the other group on occasion when someone couldn’t make the session, but I didn’t make a point of it. It irritated me how poorly they played.

I’d met another friend in that first month, an older married guy (mid-late-30s) who was on what we used to refer to as the walking wounded program (workman’s comp. was paying his way). I knew Doug’s wife too; she worked at the cafeteria to help make ends meet. Doug heard about our game, wanted to try, and before I knew it, he and his wife were inviting me over for dinner once a month, maybe to get me out of the bars and fatten me up some. What I remember most about those dinners was kicking back to Doug’s album collection afterwards, the beers we shared, the conversations we had. He told me that he knew that my thinning hair was dragging my confidence down, and removing his own cap even though I already knew he was as bald as can be, exposed his own shining scalp. “Bald is beautiful,” he said, his expansive grin brightening his feral beard, “and any woman who doesn’t love your big beautiful bald head is no woman worth your time of day.” To prove his point, his wife bent over to kiss the top of his own, perfectly big beautiful bald head. They dragged Roxanne and Debbie out of me, told me neither disaster was my fault and that I’d get my feet back under me and find another woman when I was ready; I just needed some time to find my centre again. I laughed at that, then, pointing out that the School of Mines was only one step above a monastery. I believe now that they loved me and wanted to fix me, sure that I’d slake off drinking and self-deprecation when I pulled myself together. Had Doug’s goal been to get me back on the road to weekend sobriety (which it wasn’t, considering his love of hops and rye and cokes), he wouldn’t have fed me so many beers that I suffered some of the worst hangovers of my life.

The School of Mines was not really a monastery, despite its overwhelmingly male student body. There were a few females in attendance, if you were willing to join the queue. There were other women about, too, the locals, if you were into high school students, married women, or clingy girls looking for an escape route from the Tri-towns. There were those guys who preyed upon them. I remember a couple of my roommates picking up girls for a romp, only to trade them off amongst themselves mid-night, water them from a pot and not a glass, and send them on their way in the morning, joking about how skanks didn’t deserve a glass. Another roommate dated and sometimes bedded the grade 13 girls. I serenaded their romantic endeavors with the volume control on my stereo. Earplugs were a necessity.

For those of us on the rebound and less inclined to those sorts of romantic pitfalls, there were other distractions aside from D&D. There was the archery club, there were the bands that came to town, there were school bonspiels. I signed up for one, but as the teams were already set, I accepted a spare slot, subbing in whenever someone didn’t show. I had reservations. I’d never curled, and I thought it would be dull, arriving each night only to sit in the observation pub by myself, but one guy never showed, not once, so I curled each and every week. We were the worst! We sucked, but unless we were playing against a team set on qualifying for the Briar, we always had fun. Not one of us had ever curled before, so when consulting our skip (a dapper goateed fellow about my age who affected the country gentleman, replete with tweed and pipe) as to where we thought we should place a rock, the answer was invariably, “I’m thinkin’ anywhere within these coloured circles,” he’d say, pointing with the stem of his pipe. Not that we ever expected that we’d pull off even that lofty goal. We did win one glorious end, not the game, although we had won the occasional end throughout the tournament. We had just one glorious end. There were about six rocks in house (some of them closest to the button ours…a minor miracle), and on the final rock, one of their sweepers slipped, flailed about, and wiped out, somehow causing all of their rocks to be banished from the house, leaving only our three remaining! We celebrated like we’d just won gold.

Haileybury, The Scene of the Crime

Why did I return to Haileybury? I suppose I’d forgotten how miserable I’d been there. I may have thought it a symptom of homesickness, which it was in part. I suppose it was mainly my putting distance between Deb and I. Either way, my return was imminent. Where Cambrian took my year at Haileybury into account and afforded me credit, Haileybury was arrogant enough to believe that no other school could meet its high standards, so I was to “repeat” 2^nd year. Like I said, I wasn’t thinking too clearly when I decided to return to the Old Boy. But before I did, I needed to make some money.

I returned home, with the usual twenty dollars to my name, took a loan from my parents to tide me over, and went back to work at Kidd. There was a slight change from the prior year. I spent the summer on surface, not underground, working in the load-out. The load-out is where the muck (ore) is loaded onto the met site train. It was a quiet summer at work. There were sunny days, a few moments of tanning on breaks, tons of clean-up, and one minor accident. I fell from a ladder into a bin of scrap metal, no more than three for four feet, but far enough to earn some scrapes, some bruises. Within the hour I was relatively pain free, so I didn’t report it. Was that stupid? Maybe. Probably. But, it was more a blow to my pride than my body.

I met Aubrey Bergin in the Empire Hotel, that summer, Charlie’s specifically (although we’d spend time in both Charlie’s and Bogie’s; those were the two sides, dance and live music, respectively). A couple years older, he was as adrift as I was, so we hit it off right away. New friends, love to meet people! Of course, I hung out with my old friends too, returning from their first year of university. Most were slipping through my fingers, by then, soon to be just faces recognized in the mall. They, at least, seemed on the road to wherever they were going. True, they were only just finishing their first year, with loads of time to regret their decisions, but those are their stories to tell. There was Garry Martin, and Jodie Russell, still at the pool, and Chris Cooper, John Lavric, and Danny Loreto still out and about, seen mainly on weekends. D&D with Garry and Jodie on weekend afternoons, with Jeff Chevrier and Sharron Martin by then. And then the summer was over. Uneventful? Not really. Vague in my memory? Yes. Who remembers uneventful routine? I was settling in to a routine of work, and weekend indulgence, one that I coasted on until it was time to return to school.

Haileybury was exactly as I remembered it, no surprise there. I even stayed at Shirley’s rooming house again, although that year I upgraded to Marc’s old room, hereby known as the purple palace. Purple wall-to-wall carpet, violet wallpaper. It was by far the largest of all the rooms, and as I was already in the know, I reserved it. But this time, there was a whole new bunch of tenants, guys far more amiable than those I’d slummed with last time. Two of whom were to be classmates, owing to my year’s absence, Brian and Jeff. Brian was quiet, studious, travelled home often to see his girlfriend. Jeff had a Hog. There was a young guy there, Neil (not to be mistaken with Neil Petersen, who’s live large in further memories), one with a guitar. And a native, John Star. A few others.

What was different? I did not return home weekends like I had last time I was there. I’d grown accustomed to my freedom and independence at Cambrian, and was learning to spread my wings a little. I didn’t fly far. We wasted our weekends at the Matabanick Hotel, and at another (an un-named strip club; unnamed because I can’t remember what it was called), down by the Curling Hall (gone now, owing to the new lakeside development throughout), but mainly at a new bar on the corner of Ferguson and Broadway, Roy’s Restaurant (what I remembered as the old defunct theatre). The Matabanick still got the occasional band, but the focus had shifted to Roy’s, because Roy was determined to gain ad keep the college business. Which he did. He certainly gained mine, and my friends, Jeff, and Joe Clark, and Ronald MacDonald.

Yes, those were their names. I am not making that up. Most people wouldn’t believe it, either, at first. Not even the QPP. One weekend we were all headed out to Notre Dame du Nord to drink and meet French women, Jeff and I in one vehicle, Joe and Ronald in another. They were running late, promising to catch us up. Joe and Ronald didn’t make it. The cops pulled them over, asked them what their names were and when they replied, the cops thought they were just being smart-assed Anglaise students making fun of them, so they arrested them. Joe and Ronald tried to show their IDs, but the cops didn’t bother looking at them, they told them to get out of the car, cuffed them and threw them in jail. They released them in the morning when they finally got around to looking at their photo IDs and driver’s licenses, but the night was lost.

I had an experience while waiting for them to arrive. I bought a litre beer from a corner store, and drank it out on the street, talking with an old Quebecoise who sat with me and Jeff while we waited for the bar to open (he was probably the ripe old age of 54, looking back). It was so weird. I’d never met an old guy like him before; pony tail, sideburns, pencil moustaches, gold teeth, grizzled countenance. All decked out in denim and cowboy boots, he looked like something that stepped out of the ‘60s. All the men I ever met that were his age looked like my father, blazers, dress shoes, dress shirts. How’d Jeff and I do, you ask? We drank on Ontario time, meaning we were a couple sheets to the wind by midnight when all the Quebecoise came out. We had no idea bars were open till 3 am in Quebec. We gave up and went home.

But it was D&D that made that year bearable. I met a quiet guy early on in the cafeteria. He was smart, a little terse and condescending most of the time to most of the guys myself included, so he was usually in there alone, lounging in the alcoves along the long wall of windows that overlooked Lake Temiskaming, basking in the heat with a book. I usually ignored him, but I was always curious about what people were reading, even then. One day I sat beside him and asked what he was reading. He angled the cover my way without responding. It was a fantasy book I’d burned through that summer. “Not bad,” I said, not meaning it (I thought it was dull and poorly written, actually; I remember that, not what the book was), “have you read…” That got us to talking, mainly about the books we liked, which turned out to be too long a list, many of which overlapped. D&D was referenced, we discovered we both played, and then like little kids, we were best friends. Not best friends forever, though. My friendship with Greg lasted the year, no more. We’ve never crossed paths since. But I recall him vividly: short, a bit on the stalky side, red hair, receding hairline, and sporting a Van Dyke with a chin strap. I’m horrific with names, always have been.

Thus began my return to the scene of the crime, the crime being the beginning of my life in mining.