Jezebel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I answered her with a kiss. And we left.

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

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

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

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

It was slow going. We stopped to neck often.

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

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

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

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

Neil was having none of that.

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

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