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.