The Courtship

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

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

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

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

I left. I returned. I was smoke free.

Mostly.

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

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

In time we introduced each other to our parents.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not asking your father,” I said.

“I can’t,” she said.

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

Did I go to Ecuador?

You bet your ass I did.

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.

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.

 

Barstool Prophets

I spent the remainder of my 20s adrift, carried by listless currents that were more eddies than tides. Years passed with little to show for them. I worked, I spent weekends in bars, on the pretense that I was looking for someone. That’s the lie I told myself, that I was looking for someone. I suppose I was, if you can call being visible and available and waiting for some other soul’s current to bump them into mine. None did.

I began to wonder what it was all about, this listlessness. I began to wonder how aging singles actually met one another outside of school, without the luxury of been matched up by friends. I browsed the want ads in the paper. I browsed wallboards in what community spaces I found them in. I found no succor there.

I asked those few single souls I knew and brushed shoulders with at Casey’s, both before and behind the bar. The attractive ones looked at me like I was an idiot. Potential lovers resolved out of thin air in their world; all they had to do was flirt with those desperate supplicants drawn in by their presumably irresistible magnetism. It helped that they worked in a public space. No help there.

The others lived in a cliquey co-ed world. They didn’t have to look too far to meet the opposite sex. They worked with them, and barring that, met their co-workers friends through them

Relegated to hangers-on status, I found no help there, either.

We were customers, not clique members. We were kept at a bar’s width from admission.

The question, as one of our sad and lonely number raised, was how to break the ice with a single woman when she was invariably protected by a phalanx of critical peers. Did we, single men, approach individually and brave their collective scrutiny, in hopes that the one we’d set our eyes on would take a chance and allow herself to be even momentarily separated from her pack? That was unlikely. In our experience, girls did not abandon their friends. But what did we know? Our level of experience had left of marooned at a bar.

And nice girls didn’t meet nice boys in bars. If that were so, what the hell were they doing there, then? Wasn’t I a nice boy? Those who knew me seemed to think so. But by that inscrutable logic, I was anything but while met in the bar, yet miraculously worthy were I to be introduced by a mutual friend. The rules of courtship were dizzying in their complexity.

We sad lonely hearts declared those rules utter bullshit. We were not so daft as to not realize that they were iron clad and we had to play by them, regardless what we thought of them. But how to get beyond them?

One day, one of our sad lonely number resolved to do something about our sad lonely state. He declared that we should wake up and change the course of our lives. We would meet a couple girls that night. How hard could it be? He asked me if I was in. Of course I was in. But how were we to go about it, I asked, waiting. We’d been down this road of deliberation before.

Girls travelled in packs of two or more, he declared. I agreed. Thus, he and I would venture out together once we spied a suitable pair of females, that way neither girl would feel that her chatting up one of us was a betrayal of her friend. That was reasonable logic, in my view.

We ought not to wait too long, either, he reasoned. To wait too long invited others to sneak in ahead of us. To wait too long would only invite inebriation, too. Girls do not like drooping drunks

I couldn’t argue with either point. But as there were few people in attendance as yet, I did not see the need to rush, either.

We panned the room. We critiqued what pairs we did see. And finally settled on a pair that we both found attractive. It all seemed too quick and easy, in my reckoning. But he was adamant. We would strike out. I shrugged, and gestured, after you.

We grabbed our beers, slid off our barstools, and crossed the room. We introduced ourselves.

I could see right off that we were on a fool’s errand. The girls were polite, but not particularly welcoming. Their response to our attempts at breaking the ice were terse, at best. Not once did either of them smile. I felt stupid. In my limited experience, men did not approach women unless they received signals. Smiles cast across the room. A head toss that set her mane in motion, reeling our undivided attention in. A twirl, a dance. The siren’s call. Come her, big boy! We hadn’t received any of those signals from these girls prior to our invasion. In fact, they hadn’t noticed us at all, hidden behind the bar, as we were. No wonder they brushed our attentions aside. Had we introduced ourselves from afar first, say with drinks sent their way, giving them time to look us over for a moment or two, things might have been different. But we hadn’t. They weren’t.

My friend kept up a brave face. He persisted. I did not. I nudged him, trying to gather his intention. It’s no good, my eyes screamed at him. Either he didn’t understand what I was trying to project or he chose to ignore my psychic insistence. He turned away, his attention back on the girl of his choosing.
I nudged him again. Now, he too brushed me off.

“Jesus,” I said, rolling my head in exasperation. “This is pointless.” I leaned closer to the ladies and apologized for our intrusion. And left.

My friend persisted a few moments more before beating his own retreat.

“You abandon me,” he said, once he was back on his stool, somewhat red of face.

“Only because a good general knows when to cut his losses,” I said. “We never stood a chance.”

I didn’t venture too far off that stool again until I met Manon.

End Run

It was an eventful year. I had become a good student. Attentive. Retentive. I’d found subjects I liked, courses that interested me. But I wasn’t sure where following that road would lead me, except as a teacher. I never really liked being an instructor at the pool. I wasn’t sure I had the knack for it.

There was also an age thing. I was 22, going on 23, and I was losing my hair, making me look older than I was, I suppose. I tried meeting other students, other people in my classes, those people I habitually ran into, but nothing really took.

Matt Hait and I went to a few parties, but there were a lot of Frats and Sororities in attendance. It would have been easier to breach a phalanx than break through those closed ranks, boys and girls alike. This is not to say that I didn’t try. There was a cute blonde at one, and I did make a whole-hearted attempt to get her name, to break the ice, and hopefully get her number; but she begged off, tossed off some feeble excuse about needed to go grocery shopping, and fled with her girlfriends. I wanted to leave. Matt wanted to stay.

“Seriously, man,” I said, “what IS the point? You’re not doing any better than I am.”

He had to agree. We polished off our beers, went downtown, double-fisted Souvlaki street meat, and prowled attic punk bars.

I’d made a feeble attempt at wooing Sharon Martin, Garry’s sister. I’d always thought she was cute, and as we were both in London, I thought I might give her a shot. I asked her out a few times, and though she always accepted, it always turned into a “group” date. It turned out that her friend had a crush on me. I was less attracted to her friend than I was to her.

I made a similar tentative attempt with Alison Tilly, a former Pinecrest classmate. I asked her out a few times, but she kept saying that she was dating a guy in Timmins. I reminded her that we were not in Timmins. We continued to “chum” around, and once or twice I believed myself encouraged. Once, she agreed to come up to my room, she sat on my bed with me, leafing through the LPs I’d brought down with me; and although I did lean in once or twice, gazing intently at her lips, her seating stance was enough to ward me off. I gave up. I moved on. There just wasn’t anywhere to move on to. I was beginning to discover that it was easy to find girls when in a large group, not so easy when one was trawling alone.

Needless to say, there weren’t many girls in my life. I did get a blast from some other David Leonard’s conquests, from time to time. Every so often some girl would call in the late hours to give him shit for not calling. I’d direct them to the UWO phone book listings, and there he was, his name and number right under mine. Some apologised, others hung up in a huff. One was insistent that I was lying. I told her that if she didn’t believe me, she could meet me in the pub, tomorrow after my classes. I went so far as to describe what I would wear. She thought I was blowing her off. I looked at my clock. 11:30 pm. I asked her if she was pretty. She said I ought to know. I told her that if she was that insistent, I’d meet her in the pub in 30 minutes. She paused. I asked, “Well? Are you going to meet me or not?” She was hesitant, then. “Look,” I said, “if you’re not going to meet me, I’m going back to bed.” I repeated the other David’s phone number, and said if it didn’t work out, I’d be in the pub at 3:00 pm, the next day. I was. I brought a book. She didn’t show. If she did, she didn’t grace me with her presence at my table. I mused on how Chris Cooper had suffered the same experience the year before. I, at least, was able to get some sleep.

There was a promising friendship with one of Jamie’s “friends.” He was the very embodiment of urban cool to a Northern hick from the sticks. He was gregarious. He owned porkpie hats, so maybe he’s where I got that from. He didn’t own a car, but he rented one every couple weekends, citing that renting was far cheaper than owning, admitting that he really couldn’t afford one, anyways. One weekend, we were on a beer run. We were stopped at a red light, windows down, Glass Tiger’s “Don’t Forget Me (When I’m Gone)” vibrating the panels. We were singing along. Jamie’s friend spotted a couple of girls in the car across the intersection, and began serenading them, chair dancing, pointing directly at them. He nudged me, so I accompanied him, lagging a little behind his dance moves. The girls noticed, pointed towards us, and laughed, loving the show. I couldn’t keep it up; I tried to, but I melted with laughter. The light turned green, and as we crossed, they waved, they called out to us, and we waved back. He called out to them too as we passed by, “Don’t you forget about us, you hear?” Sadly, that friendship didn’t last long. Jamie screwed him over, borrowed money, didn’t pay it back, slept with a girl he liked. He and Jamie had a row. They exchanged blows. “You use people,” he bellowed at Jamie when it was over. “You don’t give a shit about anybody but yourself!”

“See ya, kid,” he said to me as he left (stupid really; we were the same age). But I never did see him again, and that was that.

So, no girlfriend, not many friends but my housemates, Jeff and Walter, I took to myself most days. This is not to say that I didn’t have acquaintances. I did. Chris Loreto, for one (an O’Gorman friend who was studying medicine at UWO); a fellow in my Economics class; a few others; but not many. I hung out at the Wave, the cafeteria; at the Spoke, the pub; and at the bars with them on occasion. But as I said, I took to myself most days. Sometimes I hung out at the Spoke, sometimes at the Wave. Sometimes I hung out at the Encore café in Talbot Hall. It was a sleepy lounge, facing west, the afternoon sun cooking all in it. I liked it there. It was hot, cozy and quiet, so many days I’d crash there with a book.

So, I was especially pleased when Garry Martin called in the early spring, announcing his intention to visit. He was officially visiting his sister, but she lived in an all-girl dorm, so he asked to stay at my place. I was thrilled. I made tentative plans, and we did go out, once with Sharon, once Stag. Garry was open to anything, so we hung out for a long time talking before hitting a dance club. Surprisingly, Garry didn’t dance much; I suppose he didn’t want to leave me at the bannister by myself. We left early, and spent the rest of the night catching up.

Exams loomed. The house grew deathly quiet. But unlike college, there could be some time between finals. There was one final outing with Matt and his classmates.

One gent, a few years older than me, began to roughhouse with another of Matt’s buddies, to impress a girl. It did not go well. He was easily bested. The other guy even took care not to hurt him. That made it worse. His wrestling became more than just roughhousing, but he did no better; that made his feeble fight even more frantic. He was losing face, and he knew it. The other guy told him to stop it, that he’d had enough of his bullshit. He didn’t, and the bested boy was laid flat. Exhausted, he turned away. He may have cried. He saw what little hope he’d had with his unrequited love die a quick, painful death.
I felt sorry for him. We all did, even the guy who’d laid him out. He saw our sympathy in all of our eyes. I saw humiliation in his.

He need not have been. Even though he had failed, he had at least fought for his love, hopeless though it was.

I had seen mine slip through my fingers.

A Niche Found

University was very much an extension of college. Not of Haileybury; that had been like an extension of high school. More like Cambrian. Western treated their students like adults. It’s your education, they said. Make of it what you will. Study, or not; show up, or not; it’s up to you. It’s not our job to hold your hand. I was far more comfortable in that environment than I had been in Haileybury’s strict regimen. But I was older then than I was, an emerging adult.

I stacked all my classes in the morning, leaving my afternoons free for research and homework and study. Having to get up in the morning forced me to go to bed at night. I reviewed my notes daily. I actually liked my chosen subjects. That was a surprise. I’d never enjoyed the subject matter of my classes. This was something different, something I could sink my teeth into.

Granted, I was not in Engineering; I was in Social Sciences, taking Classical History, Sociology, Economics and Archaeology. It was a breath of fresh air. I loved ancient history, myths, cultural studies, and the rediscovery and unravelling of long-forgotten, buried secrets, and had for years. Sound like D&D? You bet your ass it does. D&D opened up a world of interests and mystery to me, much as it did from most people I’ve talked to who played it. Not one of them had any interest in joining a cult, conducting Satan rituals, hiding out in sewers stalking imaginary monsters (thanks Mazes and Monsters); they all became well-read, most attending higher education, some even becoming engineers.

I did dabble with computer programming but dropped it after a few classes. Those classes were all about learning to use an abacus and how to “program” Kraft Dinner in 25 lines or less. I thought it was ridiculous at the time, but I see now what they were getting at. Had I stuck it out, I might have been a millionaire. The timing was right. It was the mid-80s and computer programming was in its infancy. I doubt that I would have, though. I had no passion for it. Code and algorithms rang cold. I probably would have ended up hating it and failing had I stuck with it. Mind you, I did predict the future as I watched it unfold. I wondered why we needed VCRs when TVs were motherboards. I wondered why we needed cable subscriptions when anyone could reach out into the Ethernet to retrieve “whatever,” so why couldn’t anyone watch whatever they wanted whenever they wanted. These ideas of mine hadn’t arrived yet then, but they evolved over time. There was connection speed and data issues to work out, something I’d have never been able to do, but the ideas sparked within me. I suppose those same ideas sparked in a lot of heads, not just mine. But I was more interested in social science and books and movies and the arts and women than I was in code.

There was a pretty blonde sitting next to me in Classical History. There was Sharron Martin, sister of Garry Martin. There was Alison Tilly. I ventured forth tentatively. I asked them if they’d like to go for coffee. I asked them if they’d like to meet at the pub for a drink, sometime. Either I was too subtle, or they just weren’t interested. Most girls I knew then were younger than me, and I was beginning to lose my hair (it was a big hair era, for both men and women, don’t forget), and that had begun to sap my self-confidence, despite Doug’s advice to me about a woman’s worth (see earlier memories). I was not an athlete. I was a bit introverted. I was bookish. Altogether, I lacked confidence, especially when it came to women.

And I likely spent too much time in the university pub and in the bars weekends. I smoked, but a lot of people still smoked then. I was drinking far less than I had, already sick of hangovers. But a good habit is hard to break, and as I’ve said before, I’d long ago begun to associate booze and bars with fun with friends. A stupid mistake. It was the friends that made it fun. Without them, being in bars was dull, fraught with loneliness and depression.

Luckily, I had friends. I always seemed to have friends then. There was Matt Hait and Jak Yassar Nino in my house, there was Jeff Chevrier and Walter Hohman at Fanshaw. There were a couple others I met in classes.

My first friend in London was Matt, that is to say he was the first person I met in London, aside from Jamie, but enough about Jamie for now. Matt and I played chess. Matt convinced me to get a membership at the gym. He gave me the guided tour of London’s best dives and its emerging underground. Matt was not one for dance bars. And he took me to Toronto a couple times when we had his sister’s wreck at our disposal, to Kensington and to Yonge, to College and Bathurst, to Queen St W, to the Horseshoe, to Sneaky Dees, to God knows where else. It was all a blur of backbeat and bass, of mods and mosh pits.

You knew this would ultimately become a tale about alcohol, didn’t you? Of course you did.

He was especially eager to show me the Ceeps (the CPR Tavern), his favourite bar in London. It could be the oldest tavern in London. Opened in 1890, it had long since become a university watering hole by the time I arrived. No one ever went there for the ambiance, there was never any entertainment aside from MTV, but it was the only bar I’d ever been in that encouraged its patrons to etch their names, hometown, and the date into the aged wooden tabletops. The Ceeps led to seedy little basement and attic bars that hosted some of the best and worst punk bands I’d ever seen. Those seedy little bars inevitably led to the raves, little after-hours parties in basements and in loading bays. But not before street meat, souvlaki on a bun.

My favourite was the FIRE STOP. It was a small bar, black as night and decorated in all manner of red. Chicago blues men graced the stage. Old men. Grey haired and fat and by far the best players I’ve ever heard. The FIRE STOP also had the hottest wings I’d ever had the misfortune to order. They came with a free first pitcher. Because they knew you’d be ordering more.

Future Endeavors

 

Art by Roy Lichtenstein

My Mining Tech education coming to an end, I had to think about what I’d accomplished, and what I might do with it. I can’t say that I ever liked what I was studying. It was boring. It was tedious. It was baffling that I hadn’t bailed on it after my first year. But my marks had always been in the toilet, I’d lacked confidence in my ability to succeed at anything, and to be honest, I still had no clue what I’d like to do with my life. What I liked and loved was staring me in the face every day, but I was too blind to see that. So, I persevered, and I was on my way to graduating with honours. Honours? I couldn’t believe my eyes or ears.

Graduating with a high GPA changed my perspective on everything. I discussed the prospect of university with my parents. I thought I might like to try my hand at an MBA. I thought it would be a good mix. I could work in the business end of mining; and if that didn’t work out, I still had two mining diplomas to fall back on. My parents ought to be proud. I was always thinking of a practical, marketable application. My parents agreed. The only problem, as I see it, is that I’ve never been motivated by money. And just like engineering, I didn’t give a shit about business. Long story short, my parents agreed.

Budgeting was as much a problem that year as any other. I took to staying in on Saturday nights again, watching Spencer for Hire, and Saturday Night at the Movies with Elwy Yost. I bought pop and chips instead of beer and pretzels. I actually payed closer attention in school. Studied more scientifically. Passed better. One advantage of Cambrian was that their final exams, any exams, did not carry the same weight as they had in Haileybury. In Haileybury, exams were a make or break phenomena, making up such a high percentage of one’s GPA as to stagger the senses, to invoke a level of panic unparalleled. Not so Cambrian. Exams were obviously worth more than any single test, but to not do well on any given exam did not necessitate failure. I did well on my exams, notwithstanding. I was a better student, a more methodical, calculating student.

I applied to a number of universities, Western among them. I was accepted, pending my final GPA. 3.01. Honours. Glory be. I was in.

But one did not just slide into Western’s MBA program. And although Western gave me credit for many of my mining courses, enough that I didn’t require any more 1^st year classes to move on to 2^nd year university (in engineering), I was enrolled in Social Sciences, and engineering credits didn’t count towards a Soc. Sci. degree, and there were Business 101, and 201 to take before anyone was let in to those hallowed ivy league halls.

There was a girl those last couple months. I’d met her through some guys I’d somehow met. I don’t know how we met, just that we did, and for a very short time I played a couple sessions of D&D with them. It didn’t last long. I was not that interested. I’d come to realize that my love of D&D was actually tied to and fused with my love for my friends. These guys were okay, they were as good and kind and welcoming as any others, but I suppose I was feeling nostalgic for those earlier best friends. She was a friend of one of them. She pursued me. She was rather pretty, too. Dark hair, almost black, bedroom eyes, ample curves. Actually being the target of such a girl was novel. Her friend asked me to tread lightly, to be gentle and kind, that she’d been mistreated by the last couple of guys she seen. She asked me if I’d like to accompany her to a wedding as her date. I thought about it, but I declined, telling her that I was leaving in a couple weeks for good, that she ought to set her sights on someone she could grow with. My mining friends told me I was an idiot.

All that said, registration was still months ahead, and money had to be made. Kidd Creek’s woes were temporarily behind them. I was accepted as a summer student again. And I landed work in the load-out again. That was alright. Why spend the summer underground when I could turn my face into the sun on my breaks.

Most of my high school friends weren’t really my friends anymore. There was still Garry Martin, and Chris Cooper, but most had begun to graduate and get on with their lives by then. Garry had begun to call me “Old Man,” citing that for six days a year I was actually two years older than he was, numerically. I couldn’t argue with such tenuous logic, and “Old Man” was better than “Psycho,” despite its esoteric appeal; but as you might imagine, Psycho was a tall order to live up to. There were still some friends at/from the pool, Jodie Russell, Jeff Chevrier (MIRV, nicknamed after RED ALERT, a video game at Top Hats that he could never defeat), and now there was Neil Petersen. Neil was younger, so I wasn’t sure what Garry saw in him then, but Neil played D&D, so he was in.

Were we growing up? Yes. Were we maturing? Somewhat. Not entirely.

Aubrey Bergin had about completed a correspondence course on Aircraft maintenance. He was finding it difficult finding future employment owing to his lack of hands-on experience. Go figure. He was seriously considering the military, the only employer who’d give him an apprenticeship. But until then, Aubrey and I were still lining up on the dancefloor bannister, girl watching, Aubrey still rolling the occasional beer bottle amidst the dancers.

Another night, Jodie and I were meeting others at the Victory Tavern. One block away, Jodie crossed on a Red, where I, noticing a cop lazing up the block, stopped cold. “Jodie,” I said, but Jodie was already halfway across. When he gained the far side, he noticed he was alone, and looked back to see why. There I was, on the corner, standing next to a bear of a cop. I waved. The cop hooked a finger at Jodie, who, after glancing at the still red light, and then the lack of any traffic, re-crossed, again on the Red.

“Never cross on a red light,” the cop said.

I could scarcely believe what he said, after his ordering Jodie to do just that.

More importantly, I saw Deb before I left Sudbury. It turns out that she was in Sudbury the whole time. I’d looked for her. I was always looking for her. But I never saw her. Then one weekend in Timmins I met up with one of my old Res friends. I asked after her, and he not only told me that she was still in Sudbury, he told me where she worked, a Camera shop, right downtown. I found it, and went there. I asked for her, and the guy manning the counter said she was downstairs and would be up shortly. I browsed the cameras they had on hand, and heard her stumble up the stairs. My heart raced. When she topped the stairs, she saw me. Her jaw dropped. She almost fell flat on her face in her rush to embrace me. Any doubts I had whether she loved me or not were dispelled at that moment. I knew then that she loved me when we were together, and I believed then that she loved me still. We embraced hard, we kissed. Tears rushed to my eyes. We kissed again. God, I missed her.

I asked her to join me for coffee. She said she was working. I said, “After.”

I asked her when she was working till, and when she said 9 pm, I said, “Come for a coffee,” again. “maybe I drink. I’ll wait.” I told her I’d do whatever she’d like. I told her where I was going to be, hour by hour. She was noncommittal.

I remembered that guy I’d seen once or twice in those last couple months while still in Res; and I wondered. I should have asked her for her number, but I was terrified that she’d refuse me, that she would actually tell me that she was still with that other guy, with any guy.

I waited for her. I watched the door. With each hour, my hopes slipped, my heart fell. I was crushed. Again. I wanted to leave, but I kept up that futile hope.

I never saw Debbie again. Not once.

Harmonic Disquiet

Living alone does not necessitate a life of pastoral listlessness. But living alone can allow one to choose when one will find solace from the fray. I needed it that year. Doug had told me I did, but I’d brushed him off. I know now that I ought to have paid closer attention to the wisdom of my elders. I’d have had a smoother ride.

Life away from Residence had a certain rhythm. Rise, bathe, breakfast, dress, school, classes, lunch, more classes, return, do homework, cook, eat, watch TV, play pool, read, sleep. Repeat. I hadn’t had such rhythm since leaving high school. It allowed me to concentrate, even though I ought to have applied myself more. But playing pool with my roommate, reading, watching TV seemed far more interesting. That said, I was developing an understanding of my chosen curriculum. Time does that, time and persistence. All I needed was a year away from distractions to centre myself, just like Doug said I did.

I rekindled an old friendship that year. Chris Cooper was studying pre-med at Laurentian, and he and I stumbled across one another one day, got to talking, and discovered how we’d missed one another, so we exchanged phone numbers. We decided to meet up for coffee one day, then for a couple beers one night, then we were beginning to hang out in earnest. Not during the week, and not every weekend, either. Chris had his sights on being a doctor, so his workload was fairly intense, his study hours long. But he would call me when he needed to blow off some steam, when there was a pub at Laurentian worth going to, and I did him the same courtesy.

He invited me to go see David Wilcox. I was thrilled. Wilcox was all over the radio that year. Wilcox was great, but we all thought he was SO old; we also thought he was SO high on coke. His eyes were wild and vacant, never fixing on any given point. He never treated the crowd with his attention once. I’d discover later that Wilcox was/is legally blind. That explained the vacant eyes, the lack of interest in his audience. We must have seemed a blur to the man.

Chris kept to himself most days, struggling with his studies. He called me up one day and asked me out for a coffee, or two. We met and told me how exhausted he was, owing to some crazy girl who kept calling him all night, yelling at him to put her boyfriend on the line. He tried to tell her that he lived alone, that he had no guest, that he had no clue who her boyfriend was, let alone who she was. But she was insistent. He hung up. She called back, and kept calling back, never letting up throughout the night, until she finally discovered near dawn that she’d been calling the wrong number. She hung up on him. No apologies necessary, lady, Chris told me that day.

He would call me up and tell me that he was going home for the weekend, on a Friday night, at one in the morning, and ask me if I wanted to go. I did, once or twice, but by then I’d grown accustomed to staying “home.” There were more things to do in Sudbury, even when there was nothing to do.

One week we were carted off to Mine Rescue training by the College, no exceptions. We were livid. Octoberfest was Thursday night; our test was Friday. Did we go? You bet your ass we went. But we brought our crib notes with us and quizzed each other between eying girls, chatting up girls, and hoisting our less than tankard sized beers. I stayed till 11 pm, was in bed by midnight, and was up again by 6. All but one of us passed. The Stu Unit failed. The Stu Unit didn’t even show up for the final day.
October was as eventful. We all went out pub crawling on Halloween, too (when I say we, I mean the Mining Tech crowd). All but one passed on dressing up. We had no clue where to rent costumes, and were adamant that we wouldn’t waste money on cheap K-mart costumes either; that would have been a waste of money better spent on beer. The Stu Unit did dress up, though. The Stu Unit dressed up in a Wehrmacht uniform. Our jaws dropped. “What the FUCK are you doing dressed up like a Nazi,” we asked.

“It’s not a Nazi uniform,” he said, “it’s Wehrmacht!”

We begged to differ. So did the cops when the Stu Unit decided to tap dance on top of their cruiser. Stu had no idea it was a cop car. Probably because he was too drunk to see straight. The cops stepped out of their cruiser, warned us off with a glance, and hauled Stu back down. They cuffed him, tossed him in back, and drove away. The next time we saw Stu, he was battered and bruised. The cops had beat the shit out of him, he said.

Serves you right for dressing up like a Nazi, we said.

I began a dangerous precedent. I began to go out alone. I asked about at school, but I lived alone (I had a roommate, but he was young, and inclined to go home a lot, much as I did when I was his age, and I really didn’t want to hang out with him much, anyway; we were too different), so it wasn’t like I could just walk down the hall to see who wanted to go. Sometimes the boys from class came out, sometimes they did not. I usually met up with people I knew, and if I didn’t, I had an uncanny ability to meet and strike up conversations with strangers (maybe all young people do, but it’s been remarked on, then, and now), but there were evenings when I didn’t as well. I still went out, though; I’d begun to associate pubs and bars and alcohol with friends and good times. Because they had always been those last few years. So, when someone suggested that we go out, I was usually up for it.

Jim Parisi had some time on his hands one day. He wanted to go see some strippers. The bar was almost empty when we arrived. The bar was almost empty when we left. It was the afternoon, after all. We sat in the front row to watch the show. The girls did their usual thing, an act so old and tired, even they looked bored. Jim and I got to talking. I’d glance up from time to time, but I was looking at Jim throughout most of our conversation. I noticed Jim’s expression change. He began to look amused, his eyes bouncing back and forth from me to the stage. So I glanced back at the stage, just in time to see the stripper take a dive down on my crotch, laying a big red mouthful of lipstick on my faded 501s. I looked from her, back down to my crotch in disbelief.

You bitch, I thought.

Jim thought it hilarious.

You could have warned me, I said.

He laughed. “What, and miss that look on your face? Not a chance.”