Chapter 29:  Ottawa.  Her Birthday.
 
 
Towards the countdown to her birthday, Q-tips left my ears and were disposed of in a highly normal fashion.  Tattoos were slowly integrated into the body whole, accepted as real; phantom limbs were let go of and dreams of the weird subsided into the look of her hazel, the memory of her hands holding back auburn for the placement of a scrunchy soaked in tears.  Within a February of snow on Somerset, yellowed piles on Bank, were the endings one can never truly know beyond crystal balls or charlatans coming to town in wooden wagons, peddling the snake oil presently served up all proper by a Royal Oak pub. 

Time outside the Jesus Years became beyond X leaning over and giving her final decision on the matter, that it was a done deal.  “Sorry,” she had added, to the rest that I have trouble in recalling after that previous 20th of February, white orchids on a birthday.  A trip to Spain, together but apart.

But a Monday night, the slow of the week, and a 1-9-6-9 fingered into an alarm panel by the me, loser of a coin toss.  Ef somewhere amongst the streets of the Lower Mainland and their quality weed, most likely warm and away from the white nature slushy beneath my Nikes.

Away from watching me on a Tuesday night, walking the behind of my bar and actually forgetting my lines, now that I knew them.  Pausing in near-suburbia.  No longer an actor, just fixed up by a breath of naked air, a fresh membership in the Parliament Club.  A simper through the food window from one Prince Holmwood, and a rejoinder from my facial, dancing with the notion that one of the last things Robert F. Kennedy did just before entwining with my current lack of TV viewing was reach over and shake hands with a busboy from that fateful Los Angeles hotel.  Cameras of the campaign there, filming the subsequent flash from a gun.  Impediment to hope, and of course, a sorry thought from me to You.

In true Centretown fashion she would have kinda maybe strolled in straight past our teenage hostess - perhaps on a Wednesday of all nights - displaying a smile fully encompassing her 5’9” frame, shade of hair left in natural of curl, definite lack of underwear and slightly impaired right nipple that You never did hear of from me.  Just a thought on the other end of receiving the seventh offering of thanks from Gerry for my word of Hello to the Mediterranean on his behalf; him working his regular circuit of the neighbourhood theme bars in Ottawa’s East End - my flick of a switch and the blend of ice, strawberries, Lamb’s white rum.  Splash of lime juice.  Sniff of Triple Sec if one is being most polite.

Within those days before the celebration of her birthday without me, I gave this Gerry a “pretty please” and proceeded to bum a ciggie off him.  He owed me, was the manner I put it to his lean and light of said du Maurier just outside back door.  Cigarette-thought warmed the temporal lobes, fire walked towards my left index, middle swear.  This Gerry, with no job no family no specific attire courtesy me, worked a part of his middle-aged throat into a gulp, made the puff leave him in the shape of a ring, some white floating before my eyes.  “I’ll give you a million bucks to teach me that.”  And no word of a lie; and You know me enough by this now to believe that if appearance or clothes mattered I would quite possibly elaborate him in the more.

To the neck, to his hand working its way up my throat.  To my proper impression of a goldfish, correct usage of the tongue.  To the 4 to 6 minutes that my bar be flying by its very self.  To a long, hard suck of cigarette and the production of something nearing a fat circle pushed free in the third week of this here February.  Gerry said it was because I truly wanted it, used a simile I absolutely refuse to repeat beyond what I chose to indulge in out the back door of the High School Bar and Grill, one night in the not so long ago.

And this: making a way down the back hall of my restaurant - after rest time and stupid talk standing in the shiver of winter and promises of free Rickard’s Red for the man that once had the pleasure of seeing Led Zeppelin perform live in Ottawa, 1969.  “I almost remember that one,” I smiled Gerry.

“Jackass!”  And all of that yelling directed towards me after up and fixing the Prince of his principle curse in the world.  “Must be nice to be a slacker, hey?” 

“Fuck you; the devil no longer inhabits any part of the land of Holmwood - hear me!  You are fixed,” this all I mouthed him.  The two-way kitchen door swung and Gerry walked his way first - within my manners and re-entry back into the reality of high-top tables that surround the wood of my sit bar.

An eventual 1-9-6-9 punched into an alarm panel on that certain Wednesday hump of the work week.  A ride taken on the peasant limo back towards the lights of downtown, home.  More proof in the existence of the pain within mankind available and just waiting for the flick of a remote to spring on me the return to familiar sight and sound despite the lack of any cable TV in my apartment - a French station, a local CBC affiliate maybe, and the buzz that would have been the scatter of a million annoying dots.  But the click of Off that was not to be needed, a change of clothes and the opening of my apartment, a step back out into the snow - for Fonzie was working that night.  I was off to his late night show to steal a move or two, watch and learn and forget my craft.  A heavy oak door opened; he called me Bitch and every first room person turned around to see a regular that had taken years to get to know them.  He presented me a Smithwick's of slightly sweet ale and left out the part about needing to call my mother even more or making an effort to get back together with that brother of mine that I had slugged in the fairly long ago, second room.  I could lie and impart some grand conversation from the night in question, that girls who can parallel park turn me on, but the truth is that I sat down on a stool and proceeded to have to justify absolutely nothing; I bored no one - for I was by myself, merely amongst the other lone gunmen on the wood.

A waitress with a sneaking suspicion of pseudonyms walked on by, and ever since Spain I have been an assman.

The bar named Oak remained of one sound, constructed of satellite radio and many people in discussions of two’s and three’s.  Some of them aware of what I look like wearing nothing but me Nikes, others having witnessed me throw a straight punch at some tall guy with really big hands.

Timbo waited his schizophrenia in the soft corner, sipping on a coffee he most probably would not pay for.

Tommy read on the quiet, continued through the yellowed transparency of his quick fix.

And this be the part where something really spectacular should have happened: a group of drunks in Elvis outfits but did not just walk on in; and for all I know, Betty blue dress still stayed in for the evening, only maybe perhapsed a jaunt out for tasty martinis with girl branded with an X by me.

And within this exciting moment of thought came need for a warm beach, a climate and geography to allow for it in the dead of a winter, in the middle of Ottawa, in the middle of a pub.  To match a drink always endless, a soliloquy never heard nor answered to in the voice that be the living with a lover long enough to develop an inner language.  Between two.

When I opened my eyes, my head was supporting the lean of my body into the left urinal, washroom at the Royal Oak, Bank Street.  Bits and pieces of the Prince’s chicken quesadilla mixed in with what was the greatest day of my entire life.

As I came to, Duardo was lifting me from my knees, whispering the Jesus Years in my right ear: apparently everything was Ok.  He even stroked my hair in a non-sexual manner.  Led me to the sink mirror and a standing 8 count taken; to an actual pause and squint by me to check up on the fresh smut limericked onto the side walls.  To the door, to the silent stroll through the third room - empty but for the hairy Spaniard on my right or left arm … the proper details fuzzy enough to prevent a lie.  But what does strike and stay in this now was the supported stumble into the second of them rooms with a view of a snowy street named Bank - my Spanish saviour staring out the window with me before our subsequent sack race towards explanation that could only ever be construed by me into a love letter.  A sorry after the fact.

“Sorry, Fonz.”  And it was Ok with him, despite the very note that he was a serious Stones fan and I be of the Zeppelin vein of mystery.

“For what, Bitch?”  And I’ve left many things out from that night but here be his casual laugh and then display of nicotine permanently seared upon teeth, and them wonderfully green eyes that are the erasure of all else except one in the any room: a simple Wednesday in that city of ours.  Me the last one out - but still, a trusted imaginary friend beyond the Fonz to walk me home in the cold dark just before the chirp chirp that up and tucked my hearing ear beneath the every day pillow.

Time outside the Jesus Years awoke with a mild headache and a new start towards the next greatest day in my life, replete with vague memories of double-kissing Duardo for enduring the winter walk he had accompanied me on before disappearing to rejoin his family in that warm country called Spain.  ‘Twas a Thursday of all them new days flipped to on the calendar, and I just went ahead and assumed that it was most probably cold enough to not turn on the weather channel and risk ruining my downtime from work with warning screens of red telling me to stay indoors, avoid driving the car that I did not own.  I stood up and reminded myself that I was without basic cable, walked naked with the knowledge that I was one step below rabbit ears.  To the shower, the shave of the above and the below.  To the yellow banana that must be peeled and eaten every single day to prevent something seriously bad from inflicting itself upon my body.

At the corner of Cooper and Elgin, it was considered whether or not X and I should have just been fuck buddies, instead of friends that no longer talked.

In the window of Mags and Fags sat the latest issue of Mother Jones’ view behind the American lens peering out, wondering in.  I would buy later, but it seemed that I should eventual a say towards a girl in a permanently blue dress, occasional pearls around the cartoon neck of my making.

Somerset, and its splash of me by cars driven in the cold with necessary winter tires.  The MacLaren Street sign sincerely insisted that I place my nose up into the clouds of a February within eastern North America, follow the scent of a brunch served until 2-in-that-early-P.M.  Within the right of my step was the opening and closing of the door to Maxwell’s, the shaking off of fallen snow and removal of my pea coat in them days beyond the Jesus Years.  Being my day off and all, I ordered up two Blame it on Francescas - one for me, one for a day bartender that wishes to remain nameless beyond being aware that a former employee of theirs now resides in Torrent, Spain: a Broken Down Golf Cart renamed in her honour, shot by us two. 

When the eggs Beni did arrive.  When she reached over and ground fresh pepper over top my hollandaise.  When the second Stella lager started to taste really good.  When I looked out the split window locked and weatherstrip sealed for the winter and fell in love with the eye candy of the Elgin Street stroll all over again.  When I thought of Fred and Barney still within the phone book of my cell’s scroll.  As I sat on a stool in Maxwell’s and re-acquainted myself with not having to serve another human being for at least another day.

When the afternoon did wend its way into the early evening.  After I had paid my bill with the necessarily inflated tip.  As the restaurant began to build upon the lack of available sun.  As I stepped my Nikes back out onto a busy street I present to You as being the truth of what really took place within the give-or-take span of a year of my choosing: beyond the excitement, and within the reality of walking a way down that Elgin and pondering a left turn towards Bank Street lined in white dropped from that above that I’ll leave open to touch and taste.

And Fonzie smiled.

As I passed under that arch, into that first room, and You’ll know some of the rest just as soon enough as I decide how to properly convey experience within the greatest day of my life up to that point: a certain Thursday of the week that was the countdown to her birthday, or just quite possibly me staring off into the space occupied by the other lone gunmen relaxing on the wood within the dates of a calendar Bailey’s brown, Kahlúa black.

But Fonzie nodded.

As I passed back under an arch and opened a heavy oak door.  Left to go.

When the evening did make itself into the end of a day.  After I had confronted Cooper Street with a set of shaky keys told not to legally duplicate themselves.  When a cactus was opened upon as silhouette in the dark corner of my apartment.  As I fumbled for a remote control at the bottom of a drawer.

With the way that she said my Henry, or called me Hun.

With the manner of still biting her nails into her early thirties presenting me beneath her teenage bed, listening to what had happened - the reasoning why of beginning the nervous rub of eyebrow with the left of her hands.

As I stared at a TV still set to Off.  With the excuse that I could always be better, maybe drink a little less in the end.  As I eyed a freshly-wiped television screen, followed a power cord into its nearby socket.

With the What of her that had grabbed me in the first place, a beautiful stage show and a million days before being within the Year of that Jesus guy.  The initial, and then the beginning, the series of firsts leading to an apartment in a nice part of town.  And I could very well lie and imply that it took her hours to orgasm, or that she craved fries that tasted potatoey, but this might very well lend You reason to not take other hairy doomsayers at their word, doubt what the black marker be prognosticating onto their cardboard sign.

As the last of all her kisses sits up with me at night, prevents me from hitting an On button.  Cripples me within the stupidity of a suburban bumper sticker: strength, and No sense of Fear whatsoever.

When I pour a double Crown-and-Coke for a customer, her voice whispering Wife Beater in my ear with all the purr of a country girl who now knows the city spelled Ottawa.

With the truth behind it all handwritten onto her note left amongst our final moving day.

As the thumb of my left hand rubbed a simple button, blessed with the knowledge that it “wasn’t all bad.”  In her words that was, for the few times of this entire me to You.

With my need to describe the overwatering of a cactus with specific names.  With the secret behind her scrambled eggs being Montreal Steak Spice; with her inability to pee amongst silence; with her enticing coo from our shared bedroom every once the while just to reinforce the love in this Sorry set of French postcards.

Towards the countdown to her birthday pushed a bear-trap futon down into the flat position, comporting itself with the wishes of deep sleep.  As I kept a certain thumb from pulling the trigger on a modern TV previously enjoyed by the person in Your ear.

With the reach and touch to turn the silence at the end of night into The White Album or Zep 3.  With the comfort music combining with that little man working the brain’s wondrous projector.  With the REM that was the time not spent behind a bar, within a bar.

As I struggled in the manner of proper pronunciation of truth.

With the hidden box of laxatives that I never got around to asking her about.  With the way she infused every saying of “cigarette” with a phonetic ‘w’ for the ‘r.’

When her day of birth awoke me to a room not quite right, slightly to the left of centre.  A cartoon in a blue dress worked her pearls across the bare of my chest, made overtures with respect to my morning activities.  And then this Sorry, on behalf of all men, as I continued with the dirty of the talk that makes for them stories of interest within the realm of my ex-girlfriend being reduced to a letter in the alphabet, friends hidden behind aliases, life treated as dough.

As nature took its course and wrapped me in warmth for the eventual 20-minute bus ride to work.  Hung my pea coat in the closet and let the world have its way with me, ripe with the knowing of a security code corresponding to a second-generation Armenian’s marriage anniversary, the precise ability to slam a door securely shut and walk off into the moonset of East Ottawa.  Another day, simply of responsibility and kitchen staff in need of serious psychiatric help.  A day of the every week, someone somewhere walking the streets of my Ottawa with absolutely no underwear beneath pants, skirt.

With the reasons behind adding up to a whole lot of making sense of her love of smooth peanut butter, denial of long walks along the seasonal beaches of our Ottawa.  With her inner labia still firmly within my grasp, taste on my memory lips.  Sorry.

As the wet towel hung itself on the rack outside the Jesus Years.  When it occurred to me that it was never ever gonna happen outside of a miracle of pinball eyes promising things that were never to be.

As Betty slipped back into my creation of blue dress of sex.  As imagination, or the porn that feeds it.  As the white string of pearls that were never there, despite the reality of Betty’s existence as her best friend.

With X’s perfectly lined up toes, and the birthmark that even I will never ever point out beyond the specific sense of leaving a little something to the thoughts that be an array of crayons staring out a window and basking in the glow that is a cheap space heater propped up on the bar, Royal Oak, certain area of Bank Street.  Winter.  February 20-something in the city of my Ottawa.

As her birthday came and went just as any other.  As the Q-tips continued a way into the garbage that was another Fallas not so far away into the calendar.