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.
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.
