HUMAN WRECKAGE
Closing Time (There Goes a Regular)
Monte sent me an email from the Lower Mainland. Our Calgary barfly friend Dave who had also relocated out that way was dead. Heart attack. I’m not sure how old Dave lived to be, but he likely had fifteen years on me. Monte’s message time warped me thirty years backward.
Hillhurst-Sunnyside is a walkable Calgary neighbourhood across the Bow River from downtown. There’s a C-Train platform behind the Safeway store on 10th Street. Nearly every diversionary attraction in town is easily reached by rail. Tenth boasted a record shop and a comprehensive newsstand, Sign of the Times. Kensington Road was the perpendicular, running parallel to the river. There was an art deco cinema, a book store and pubs. Many pubs, my favourites were an Irish joint called Hurley’s that billed itself as a roadhouse and beside it, a slightly lower rent place called Sam’s whose food menu featured delicatessen sandwiches to die for at a reasonable price (and exceptional potato salad). This was the neighbourhood where I chose to live after Canada Safeway transferred me from the Alberta Division advertising department to Calgary corporate.
Monte, a published author and Calgary Herald reporter at the time, was sort of the Nick Carraway of the whole scene, the observer. He liked barroom food but not the booze. He paid sober attention. Ultimately, he would edit and (with partners) publish my first two novels. They were utter stiffs, money losers that did not damage our friendship. Whether at the sticky bar of Hurley’s or Sam’s, Monte and I were well acquainted with the regulars.
Frank was a stockbroker by trade. He was the black sheep scion of a wealthy, well-known Calgary family. He’d seen the Stones perform in Amsterdam in 1970. He grasped the genius of Frank Zappa. He did not sip his Scotch. Had I a spare investment dime at the time, I would not have entrusted it to Frank. He was homeless at the time of his death, splitting time between his office and his car, a BMW. There’d been a cigarette fire in his condo.
Steve was something of a wraith, wispy hair, wispy man. He was in commercial real estate and would go on to form his own company, direct competition to his former employer. His new office digs were in the same complex of the ad agency where I worked. His best friend was Tom, an engineer who was as gruff and uncouth as Steve was refined. I once bumped into Tom at a nearby Husky, one of those gas stations with road trip amenities. His motorcycle was in the parking lot. I needed cigarettes. Tom needed hot dogs. He ate two in four bites as we chatted. I stood well back.
There were two Brians. “Bubble Boy” and “Picasso” as dubbed and differentiated by Dave. Bubble Boy was strictly dot.com, one of those near-autistic wizards; neuro-diverse today, I suppose. One fall he announced he’d secured a half-season’s worth of Calgary Flames tickets. He said, “I’m going to get into hockey this year the way Geoff’s into baseball.” That was the winter Tom hosted a pot-luck Super Bowl party for us barflies. Denver was in it. Bubble Boy brought a mound of chicken wings. I dislike eating chicken wings in public, you need the other end of the toothpick for your fingernails. Bubble Boy’s hot sauce was exquisite, rich and buttery. I said, “There’s something else in here, Brian. What’s your secret ingredient?” Bubble Boy said, “A cup of vodka.” Who needs water?
Picasso was a housepainter. He lived with his mother and in his white overalls. He was very well read. Picasso and I began an informal book exchange: trade and then pass on (excepting his hardcover collection of five Dashiell Hammett novels which I kept – and still have). Sunday morning brunch time at Sam’s, we’d sit like students in exams, sneaking peeks at each other’s grid. After I was out of that scene I risked hiring him for some work. I was relieved to learn Picasso was actually good at what he actually did. I admire that quality in a person.
And then there was Dave. A close-talking Brit whose conversation was often hilariously rude, complete with sound effects. He lived with Moppet his cat. Dave was a salesman. He could’ve sold anything provided sex didn’t arise in his patter. When I met him, he was selling dental materials, precious metals: gold for crowns, silver for fillings. Dave speculated in real estate. I wrote and arranged the production of a promotional brochure for a development he was scheming and dreaming about. It took a very long time for him to pay me. Another life lesson learned.
Dave once told me he’d served in the British military, including a stint with the elite special forces SAS regiment. Details were vague or unforthcoming after that reveal. Every barroom has a shaker of salt for good reason. But I did see him in action. His sexual innuendos had offended another patron sitting beside him at Sam’s bar. I sensed the tension barometer rising. I was paying close attention because I’d no intention of being an incidental casualty in a brawl. Dave stared at the fellow, maybe a nanosecond. Then the other fellow was laid out on the floor. I cannot tell you what I saw because it happened so fast; I’m guessing head-butt. Move along, nothing to see here.
No surprise that all these guys were single. I was the only married member of the group. Thing was, I didn’t want to go home to be alone either. I could empathize. And there’s the paradox of Happy Hour: are you aiding and abetting a failing marriage or planning your coping strategy for the inevitable? Cause and effect or vice-versa.
Monte moved to Vancouver a few years before I re-relocated to Edmonton. We’ve always kept in touch. When Dave left Calgary for the West Coast, the two of them renewed their friendship. A couple of years ago Monte informed me Dave wanted to speak with me, could I call him? I said, “Me? Why?” “He liked you.” “Oh.” “Also, he will probably ask you to lend him some money.” I said, “Oh.” I telephoned Dave anyway.
The frailty in his voice was not unfamiliar. I’d heard the same shaky timbre down the fibre-optic line in my father’s and my mother’s. Vocal c(h)ord wrinkles, there’s no disguising old age. We talked for quite some time, about the old times, about Frank, Steve, Tom and the Brians. Mercifully, the subject of money was not raised. It’s possible I deflected an angling introductory remark.
Dave my barfly friend is dead. Too many other deaths in my life have hit me a thousand, a million times harder. That Kensington Road period of my life ran overlong. Looking back, I confess to a lot of embarrassment, some shame and zero pride. We were a collective of inadequate men doing our best to prop up each other. I have regrets, too fuzzy to mention. Dave’s still in my address book. I will get around to erasing his contact details. Still, those eraser crumbs, past particles, will diminish me.
Dispatches from the Crooked 9 has been your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of everything since 2013. Sunset Oasis Confidential is with its publisher. Have a look at the jacket design at my companion site www.megeoff.com. Of Course You Did is still available.
