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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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Finally, a couple of months later I make the call. Kevin, who'd tracked me down on Facebook, an old, old friend from back in the day.
40 years ago, to be precise. He'd contacted me, curious as to what's become of me.
And I'd - not avoided, but - well, being half sober that late at night is not my strong point.
Kevin, he was a fellow busboy when I was 17 in University, he moved on to bar, I just moved on to a different restaurant. Earl's, the first one ever, on the Calgary Trail in Edmonton.
We hung out, a little, like co-workers do. My memories of him, primarily the time when he tried to introduce me to smoking pot, only he went to meet his dealer and they were out of pot so he took a bunch of magic mushrooms instead.
I'd never tried these either, and so we sat up late into the night eating a bag of mushrooms. To what we thought was no effect, laughing, laughing louder at how were swindled out of our last 20$ for what were basically placebos, laughing, seeing him off, out the front door...
And for the next 3 days whenever I shut my eyes I'd be assailed by the muppets from hell, like that scene from "Labyrinth" wherein the muppets are waiting for the girl to complete the spell for the goblin king...
Then, another time, drunk and driving my old Ford Granada - purchased from "Rent a Wreck" and my mother would often joke "Bought a Wreck" which was funny because it was true, but being young I often acted under the bad advice of my father...
I knew nothing about cars. Apparently he didn't either, but that's another story.
So we somehow conceived the idea of visiting West Edmonton Mall, portions of which were still under construction, and poorly flagged, so we drove to the bottom of what would later be the lake - middle of the night, getting out to look around, Kevin taking a leak on what would become the underwater aquarium, and then getting busted by security, one of whom I knew from University, we shared a computing science class, "Mr. C" he called me for my false bravado walking into exams I wasn't even slightly prepared for...
And so we were given the tour and then urged politely to leave the property...
Light, considering, but that was the era, no need to police every little infraction and indiscretion of youth.
***
We catch up, an hour maybe on the phone, half-litre of Vodka, his life, mine, he seems to think I'm living the life.
I suppose, after a fashion, there's no reason I shouldn't be...
His own, filled with middle-aged regrets, nothing having worked out as planned, but - as often the case, there wasn't a plan, none, at least, that was explicitly stated and so all the fallen-throughs and disappointments, they're a bit crushing.
And his, well, I'm suspicious of this, my own death-bed dreams, are these people calling to catch up, say hello, goodbye, farewell, is it them that's leaving or me?
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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Parasite. My review. Then the reality.
These are cars that you bought if you sold drugs or won the lottery. There was a regular for a while - the Merry Widow - middle aged, buried 2 husbands, Carl knew her because he sold her a car...on husband #....insurance $$....No one who worked for a living bought these cars. The expense was unjustifiable. These were not real-world cars.
he'll have his moment, it'll be when his girlfriend/wife suggests that he be on top... a short post to reddit or facebook, then he'll top himself...
effeminate, scented hands, the limp/stagger of the slenderman, beautiful women a prop, an accessory to his brand, aren't they flattered? And - his child, the product of a turkey-baster or brother, it's not polite to ask, who the fuck knows,
thumb drive full of nude little boys
Eric - he knows, but it's that quiet when someone realizes they got something for free, and in time, if you charged him, it would be a complaint...his child, the other Eric,
Food, ordered but untouched, scraped directly into the garbage...
Congratulations! You caught the golden Snitch!
I didn't post this out of respect that they might read this, but - i thought about it again. They clearly can't/don't read. So here goes.
The lie of the self made man - art of concealing your generally shady or family sponsors...
The Roadkill Cafe
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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Owen, he's got it all and how I don't know.
A friend/acquaintance, who moved to Australia to pursue a doomed romance. I haven't had the heart to tell him. It doesn't matter, we all do what we gotta do and there's no talking (me at least) anyone out of a bad idea.
He's visiting a girlfriend.
But while he's there...
And he has the same interest in gems, minerals, prospecting, that I do, only wants the experience. And he's landed in Shepperton, North of Melbourne, maybe 30-40 miles from Ballarat.
And looking for advice.
So I go looking on maps and searching what's out there, this has been a dream of mine for quite some while.
He is the hand, I am the brain.
SO I get to googling and there's everything. Diamonds, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, zircons, topaz, gold....
I could go on. It's everywhere. All in the state of Victoria. All within an hours drive. And this is in Australia, where if you stub your toe on an oversized gold nugget you call the council to remove it.
So I spend a few hours sending him links, looking at maps, warning him of hazards (don't stub your toe on that giant nugget ....) and I'm thinking....well, fucking bloody hell you know what I'm thinking....
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And I hear from Mr. Tickles, who's been wintering in Ymir and whom I haven't heard of nor seen in the long wintry 6 months since we parted in October.
He's doing well, as well as can be expected, on his way back from Balfour to Ymir, his car, parked at the Superette all winter now driven across the highway to be fixed since last years accident, and we catch up.
He'd dropped by the restaurant to say hi, they offered him his job back, he could live in the basement, Sean's old apartment, no thanks. He hasn't got work. Ymir - well, he's refrained from meeting the locals, hasn't gotten work, although he got a few months more EI than I had available, largely due to the fact that he'd worked a couple of months at the local dive bar before being fired for being too white.
It happens. East Indians would prefer to work with East Indians, and our government only recognizes discrimination by white people, not against them.
Ymir, not even 250 people, 30 KM SE of Nelson, not much going on in Ymir. So a long winter for him. He's never left all winter. We reminisce about old times, about all the grief I used to give him and all his little trainees, the young 14, 15, 16 year old girls and boys who's first job happened to be that cesspool of a ...
He misses working with me and knowing that wherever he finds work next it's not going to be anywhere near as amusing...
We talk, about how the old restaurant, the new chef got cancer and quit within 2 weeks. A coincidence? I don't think so.
And about old servers and kitchen staff we knew, news, where available, and asking of a few of the more infamous locals, he has news on one, the crackhead who contacted me to borrow money last fall, set up a go-fund-me to get to Calgary, she's got an Only Fans, and I'm like...?? Her and a few others I know, apparently.
And he's met the new waiter, thought I'd be back there, looked for my puppets behind the bar, no puppets, no Rod, and he was perhaps as surprised I wasn't back as I am that he isn't going back.
We're both overdue for employ, but not at that price.
And we chat the other restaurant, the dive bar, run by a MAGA couple, "managed" you might say only there's nothing approaching management, just the village idiot and his wife calling the shots, him, from a pint of beer at the end of the bar (which entitles him to an equal share in the tips, because somehow he feels he's doing "equal work"), and his wife, who just installed a new camera/microphone/speaker system behind the bar, so she can "manage remotely" and I've heard from staff that her voice will appear out of nowhere, she's on her phone at the Wal-Mart or Dairy Queen checking the cameras, and you know that not only that this is creepy as fuck it's also a big sign that neither of them knows what the fuck they are doing.
Camera's, technology, surveillance, all this technology enables people, restaurants, that are bad at their job to be even worse at their jobs. Who ever heard of "remotely managing" a restaurant? Oh, and she's as well doing "equal work" and claiming her share of the tips, despite weeks going by without a single employee seeing her face. We're both Alumni of Unspeakable Trauma, and despite coming from one of the poorest run joints on the planet there's always competition by those who manage to do it worse.
So, this catches me up with Mr. Tickles, Cathy now is back from California and I'm due to catch up with her, soon, and I'll write about that when it happens...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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In a weak moment, outside, I spot the neighbor on the landing above and ask to buy a cigarette. She lives in the apartment directly above me. Petite blonde woman who by some miracle or coincidence is exactly my age. I was introduced by the building manager.
So she's chatty and this is the price you have to pay when you want a cigarette. Personally, I'd like to just buy a cigarette and leave it at that but I don't want to seem unneighborly.
Chat chat chat and glancing through her open door I pause to admire her apartment. Exactly the same layout as mine, only...
Well, god-damn if she hasn't done a bang-up job of furnishing the place. And the place is packed with stuff - book-cases, night-tables, chairs, shelves, pictures on every ledge, of family, "art" of the sort that I'm not a fan of, but her taste is pretty much the same as every other woman of her/my age, and - she's run with it, done great things, the place, cozy, clean, filled to the brim with both possessions and room to move.
She's not trying to come on to me. She wants to see my place, which is out of the question, the "studio" is in complete disarray, paints, pastels, acrylic, oil, watercolor, stacks of tarot cards and books teetering on the desk, the 20 or so candlesticks handy to my situation everywhere, more sand on the floor than on the beach, it's out of the question....
What's going on down there? She's asking, are you getting laid?, you sure make a lot of noise. This can be put down to my drunken staggering about in the wee hours knocking over every precipitously stacked picture frame, book, extraneous pieces of shit I set in the way of progress and getting lucky, a diabolical obstacle course of mine own devising, a pile of shoes at the door, laundry in the bedroom, but these aren't particularly better things to confess to so I simply sidestep the question.
She's insistent. She's not trying to get lucky, no, but it's been sooo long and damn, who's that woman I keep seeing you outside with? And I have to think, and it clicks, another volunteer from the charity shop, and laugh, nope, nope, nope.
I'm living in the land of nope.
Finally I manage to escape, go downstairs, smoke my cigarette, save the spare.
***
The night, rainy, pouring, thunder and lightning. Wake up at 3:30, restless, unable to sleep. I still have the spare cigarette.
***
Lie in bed, trying to fall back asleep. It's her turn now to make noise, the wheels of luggage on the floor above, furniture being shuffled, I'm lying there quiet as a mouse, doesn't she sleep?
There's a knocking, a scritching at the door. Damn. Apparently not.
Answer the door and she's apologetic, she's restless, can't sleep, she wants to look around my place, walks in and seats herself while I get dressed. A horrified look around convinces her of the veracity of my statement, my housekeeping is abysmal. We go for a cigarette. It's now about 4:30. Back inside, now to her place, the reasonable choice, on her sofa. She's straddling my lap fixing my collar, no, she's not trying to get lucky. She's splayed out with her painted toenails hanging over my lap. She's not trying to get lucky but damn I'm tall and handsome. A real fixer-upper. She's lifting her shirt, showing me imaginary bruises.
Now she's on her phone, wants to show me some pictures, artists she likes, "Oooops, I really should delete those..."
I avert my eyes.
And she tells me, it's a secret, I can tell nobody, her sister, the building manager....
***
We're going to be best of friends and I'm committed to taking her out sometime, someplace, a proper date, committed to helping her get lucky, I can be her wingman, what do I think of her chances?
***
And finally, finally, she heads upstairs. On her own. And this, a new best friend who doesn't want to get lucky but is going to be scratching on my door every night in the wee hours, and what can I do? I'm suddenly open to the idea of a night shift, if only this town had a Denny's or 24 hour waffle house, and I'm thinking, fucking hell, how many times have I been in this position since moving out here, and maybe I need to start wearing a clerical collar, shave my head, don the monastic robes, remove myself from every woman's list of possibilities...