Vigésimo Sexto26

Meet my new agent

It's telling in the mentioning to people that you are a writer - but really a bartender (or vice versa, for that matter).  It's bad enough with the self-doubt and wondering whether the world is trying to tell you something, and that maybe ... maybe you should just pull the plug on "making a career of it."

Then the someone, either friend or just met, comes along and has to explain to you exactly how everything works: that if you would only change it and go a little more mainstream with the spelling of the story; or that nobody follows Twitter ... let alone that the life source of blogging and its readers is lonely, fat people living with their parents.

Quite honestly, there are days of goodly hits on this site, and times of naught.  The 'Comment' section is a grave yard; and - according to this someone I know - apparently, it is  so very relatively easy to get a literary agent.

So, in the vernacular of Henry - sorry.  (Insert me breathing into brown bag here).

 

Chapter 25:  Ottawa.  Near End of Jesus Year.   


I proceeded to cooked myself a modest dinner, used various of those forgotten of flavourings that X and I brought back from tiny Grenada over two years ago; the Island of Spice that was discovered by Spaniards and named after their southern city of Granada because they appeared similar to the approaching eye; the country that changed hands over the many decades, was presumably saved from communism in the early 80’s by the Americans rescuing some of their medical students studying just down the hill from the motel we would use to smooch and stare out at the mix of blues and greens representing the Caribbean Sea’s near last stop before South America.  Sorry.

In a woven basket secured by me in the divorce rests the tiny plastic bags twisted and knotted to preserve taste and scent: the bits of graded cinnamon to dust the whip cream on specialty coffee, the strings of mace stolen from their embrace of nutmeg, chocolate that I never knew came from a bean hidden inside of a shell growing on the shade of a small tree.  So, some curry to season a breast of chicken; a little bit of adventure thanks to the added dash of saffron worth its weight in gold.  To bachelor-sized oven set to 350 degrees Fahrenheit for close to an hour; a touch of soy for steamed rice and then I had eaten, felt the bite of the mix of many different spices that be curry; the reminder of yellow saffron on my tongue that was a galleon no longer needed to transport goods or religious words on paper.

I am now to take a shower to clean myself up on this day off; wash with aloe soap and a shampoo that smells of honey, shave with a razor that at times draws a drop of blood red from my scrotum.  All this to walk my way through the snow to have me a cigarette and some beer, to get all dirty again.  This be the way in the twilight of my annus horribilis, the near end of my Jesus Years, the approach of the birthday that scares and excites with its lack of nothing beyond its ability to mark time moderately better than the hoarding of used Q-tips.

Soon I will make a decision with respect to fire and smoke alarms, the prying eyes of neighbours eyeing me on the snowy balcony of my small apartment with the lighter in my hand held either to a shoebox full of hygiene aftermath or a McCain’s chocolate cake resplendent in candles.

And this only a guess or a sense one begins to plow into a self-fulfilling prophecy just for giggles.

My choice now is whether to embrace 'Earl Mindell’s New Herb Bible' quietly sitting on my mantle, the dog-eared pages that remind that echinacea is nature’s wonder drug when it comes to boosting the immune system, that the essential oil from jasmine can certainly be sexually stimulating when rubbed on the body.  My thought is to disregard the fact that this particular book doesn’t even really belong to me, was merely tagged along in the move from our one-bedroom to my tiny bachelor. 

St. John’s Wort relieves stress, the corner of its page also bent into small triangle for her to remember.  This thought to You, a sorry too late for her.

I am now to brush my teeth and get them ready to receive nicotine and all other manner of carcinogenic yellowers.  Wonderful this lovely habit I continue to employ in the process of thought that is beyond feel of vacation or small trip taken without leaving the farm.  I smoke with the reality of placing phone calls to friends on my days off, my times after work when the city’s stages await the retinue that was our gang before the gradual closing of the fourth wall for Ef at our very own theatre, High School Bar and Grill.

Yes.  He had seen it coming, watched Acts unfold into final Scene, saw me do and disciplined me right there on the spot, in front of the audience.  He then sat off stage and avoided, waiting until after the show to inform me that he would be leaving the production, show biz.  And I was quiet as he walked me out the back door and then clicked the lock, shut off the lights.  I left him to his space.

And I step from the shower still debating whether I have finally lost that coin toss, succeeded in sending my friend back out into the world.  At very least the man deserves to have a beer bought for him.

Short Barney is to make his way from downtown when his shift at The Keg is over.

Big and large Fred has graciously agreed to tempt the sleeping hours of the banking community and come out during the week, a beg on my part that is almost pathetic if not for my many days spent slinging propane 7- or 8-to-5, Mon.-to-Fri.

I begin to dress myself for the night now that I be washed and minty fresh, flush with the knowledge that the turmeric within composition curry will promote good liver function, lower my bad cholesterol.  There be a sprig of parsley stuffed in my coat pocket, just in case I care to purge my smoker’s breath at some point.  The book goes back on the mantle with the same pages still folded, and I am out the door and into the snow of Cooper Street.

“Wasn’t one of us supposed to bring a salad?”  Fred gives me a bear hug and smacks me on the back; I remember the smell of my father’s cologne and his importance placed on greeting people most exuberantly.  There’s an open stool and I sit down, watch Fonzie do that infinitesimal shake of his head when he is working a girl into his eyes.

Yes, I respond to big and large Fred, Ef really has agreed to leave the premises.  The why’s and what the hell’s I shall discuss with him in front of the rest of the troupe.  We call over the fair-haired bartender and proceed to ply him with our wit and views on the different audiences on and off the Broadway stage.

“Drunks with varying degree of jobs,” be the final say of Fonzie, and myself wondering the proper manner with which to top off a Guinness - the drawing of a clover leaf, maybe drip of one strong dot to display the integrity of the creamy head.  Myth tells that a dime can actually stay at rest and not sink if laid quietly on top, but this I remain to myself as I accept the funny face that points towards Fonzie entering his cubist period of pour.

Barney walks through the Oak door and You’ll know some of the rest once he is finished brushing the snow out of his ponytail.  Fred does his thing and up and wraps his arms around him, asks if he has brought the salad while I implore Barney to let his damn hair out before we get beat up.  He smiles and obliges my facetiousness.  Great, I give him, responding a Yes to his take on asking me the Ef question.  All in good time, is added to the details.  We share this fabulous moment in front of the death plaques riveted behind the bar; we stand ten feet, no three metres away from a chalkboard drawing of something that probably means nothing to You but makes me laugh because I live in Centretown and know exactly what Andy Green meant when he sketched two bums squeegeeing the front windows of this very Royal Oak with broken hockey sticks, banging on the glass for a handout. 

We lean on the wood and shoot the shit and make up stuff about the service industry, the life that has us talking at the Oak and waiting for a friend out walking in the uncertain world of nexts; the Ef that is in high enough spirits when he flings open the Oak door to waltz himself in without so much as a sneer for me.  His eyes bulge from the Fred hug and I silent pray for the safety of his piercing: left or right, I motion him with a flick towards my nipples for I cannot remember which side.

He glares and offers us this: “Henry is telling this guy that the customer is not necessarily always right; I believe that he even worked the caste system into the explanation.”  I snicker and dig the rosemary out of my left molar.  “And all that this guy wants is for Hen to sell him a virgin margarita, which he absolutely refuses to do.”  Soft words were exchanged at the time, and then I had been obligated to engage with the crowd after this here patron of the arts had informed me of his propensity for largesse; Fred and Barney nod their heads, share our hate of such evil sayings.  “Obviously, I have to do something.  I need to spank Henry but good.”

“You are manager,” I say.

“Yeah, you’re right, Hen; I was manager right up until last night.”

Margarita: tequila (pick of quality, the darker the better), splash of Triple Sec, all brought up to speed with variety of lime juice, maybe egg whites.  Mixed and poured over ice (traditional), or stuck in a blender and crushed (frozen).  For a tip of panache, an added taste of Grand Marnier.

I had walked out into the audience with an ad-lib, and left Ef no choice but recognize it.  “Gentlemen, Ef has thus fallen on his sword for me.  And now it’s just little old me left to stand against the hairy Armenian.”  I could lie and say that I am not scared, or even make stab to convince that Keyser Söze doesn’t really exist within the Kevin Spacey character of The Usual Suspects, but let’s suppose that I shan't.

And instead listen to this from short Barney: “You’re quitting because you had to shut dear Henry up?”

“Exactly.”  The ghost of stuck Jimmy I do kiss and watch rear its ugly hair into a change of scenery for Ef.

“He doesn’t love me,” I say to all, “he’s just finally won the coin toss.  Ef, I hereby grant you safe passage back out into the real world.”  He thanks me very much, actually tells me to Take a flying leap off the Interprovincial Bridge; I pause, remembering if that part of the Ottawa River is frozen over, taking time to try and qualify this event beyond yet one more part of myself being another’s last straw.  And then I continue with this: “This is my second fuck up in a year.”  I leave out the part about the Jesus Years, let my excuse dangle in the dead air as I walk outside to have me a cigarette and a good think under a crisp night sky made devoid of the stars that form Aquarius by a modern city’s grand design on seeing reading driving in the dark.

There be the ring of smokers in front of an oak door in the middle of winter, a pile of used ciggies imitating the entrance to a government building.  I stand outside and puff and plead forgiveness; my hope is that I be done with final straws, that things mustn’t always come in those three’s of superstition that lead to stares up into the atmosphere, guesses at why oh why.

These my cigarette-thoughts.  Cold tips of fingers that take on the shade of filters.

“Fucking cigarettes - give us one, Hen.”  Ef bums one off and pulls up a spot of concrete with a lovely view of Bank Street in the final stages of January; people from across the way standing and doing the similar in front of their chosen watering hole, style of music, sexual persuasion.  Smokers the wonderful block of us.

He wants to hear that it was an accident or a slip of the tongue.  Perhaps more than the straight smile I fed him before huffing and walking back behind my bar and squirting some lime juice into a salt-rimmed glass with a cactus-shaped stem.  “Did you really lick Betty in the bathroom.”  I tell him that it was a bit lower than that and refrain from calling it by its proper name of God sandwich.  He wants to hear that it wasn’t on purpose, but is not jealous enough to sniff my fingers.

“I didn’t fall on my sword, Hen.”  And this, despite being definitely unaware that I have been unable to turn my television to On for quite the while now.

“How long has it been between at-bats for you?”  He tells me that he’s thinking about heading out to Vancouver to see his brother, getting away from the scourge that plaques most Canadians this time of year, fingers the colour of winter.  “I mean, that last taste that you had of the funk, does it remain with you to this day?”  He has been in Ottawa long enough to pay his dues, feels no shame in slinking off to the warmth of the West Coast.

“I’m sorry,” and I cannot lie to him, “for taking that dive.”  And he had been receptive to letting X enter the fold; as far as I know they are still friends if encountering one another when he is out with Betty and the affection that he has for her blue dress; but sorry, me and the shelf life of gossip.

“My brother has a two-bedroom in Maple Ridge with his girlfriend.”  Is that the burbs, and he says me, “Kinda.”  I ask of him a solemn vow to steer clear of the biz and he blows me something that I can only aspire to: a nice, tight smoke ring that almost survives a spiral down to Bank Street.  Fair enough, I give him, and mash my ciggie into a sidewalk buried beneath snow.  An oak door swings to Open and the two of us haven’t really settled much of an anything - but beautiful genuine smiles, nonetheless.

Number 11 or 12 on my Thank you List of idiots encountered at the Royal Oak breezes past me without so much as a whisper.  I remember his average face and eyes that be too close together, grab for his arm but he is leaving and then gone up the street.  Doesn’t seem to recall what it was that made my girlfriend stop talking to me that one night.  Ef is standing between worlds beneath the archway, waiting and aware of the stories that abound of this place, me.  Everything be fine, is the What I show him and stumble back in to forget a stare held for too long, my father simply remembering through me the way he once looked with hair.

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On a lighter note: A word from the greatest purveyor of storytelling.