I woke up 200
kilometers away from where the night started, just before the
crack of dawn. The various
vermin birds were making guttural coo noises outside the old dirty windows. The cheap
rattan blinds stopped very little of the noise from the
highway. I had slept for 2 hours. It was now 5:30 am. Who the
fuck am I to do this? The first thought through my
head was exactly that. How in the world did I
consent to this?
Who am I today? Surely not the same person I started out the weekend as.
Time wears on a
person. That introduction of
chaos to order is the definition of time. As I aged, I moved from the city where I was
born, and I looked back fondly. Out of the
blue, years after I left, I got a
fateful call. Old high school friends. A party was being held, and I was invited. We talked for hours about
old exploits and brushes with
Death.
Toxic nostalgia coddled my poor brain. The
testosterone insanity of my youth had returned, and off home I drove.
8:30 am
Driving in Canada is a matter of
remaining focused. When you ask for directions, people don't give them in measurements of distance. Time is the
measure. 15 minutes to here, 3 hours to there. It is surprisingly
accurate. My task was a leisurely
6 hour drive along a two lane highway, through largely
hilly and
rocky terrain. Lots of time to
think. I reminisced about the time gone by, the
heartaches and headaches of school, the weekends and nights of
craziness. It all had the
fine sheen of perfect memory on it. Only problem is, it wasn't all perfect.
2:00 pm
Home sweet home, sort of. My parents, as most parents do when their kids leave home, had taken up other hobbies:
Camping to be precise. I was greeted at the end of my long trip with a note from Mom and some
tinfoil wrapped love in the fridge. Just as well. Shouldn't mix family and business. Cold plate and cold Coke in hand, I set about tracking down the
miscreants who had added
fuel to my inner teenage fire, an ember I thought extinguished. In short order, I had my mission. Off to the bars we went. I made the amateur mistake of offering to drive. My
rental was still cooling in the
driveway, the metal
pings clearly broadcast into the
dark garage.
6:00 pm
After several strange
reunions, we all sit in a downtown bar. The city has just passed a
no smoking bylaw, and our destination was famous for its
cigars. The walk in
humidor sits lonely and unlit, home to a few cases of empty
beer bottles. It just isn't the same. It has
given up the ghost. I am sure that the owner is going to close up shop soon, and our presence does an
anemic job of filling the
lonely space. It is
strangely appropriate. I stand with a group of
strangers. They were the lines and aged faces of people I used to know, but they have all changed. I'm sure I look as
alien to them. We confine our reminiscing to the
past, drink our
drinks hurriedly and smile insincerely. We all want to go
back. The quicker minds of the bunch leave, to keep their memories of
mad children howling at the moon intact. I
solider on, having little else to do. The crowd thins over time, with insincere good-byes and promises to
keep in touch that will expire at the door.
10:00 pm
Only the
core remains. We defy time, and struggle to
act like we used to. High school
fury drives us, this comical group of men, yearning to be boys. They drink
too much, they swear
too loud, they leer
too hard. I have resigned myself to be
Dante on this journey. This will be my seventh
Pepsi of the night. I feel the
caffeine burning on the back of my
eye sockets. Slowly, the
stimulants and
depressants have us all
in sync. The volume is turned to
eleven, and we head off to the
tabernacle of our teenage rebellion: the
stripbar on the edge of town, down near the
industrial park.
11:45 pm
Drunken foolishness
wears on me.
Sober, I see what is happening. They get more
boorish, more
arrogant, more
childish. The old
hen-pecking comes back, this time the
pissing contest is money. The same futile struggle for
dominance we played a million times in the halls of school between classes. The
gyrating ladies on stage smell the desperation.
Easy money. I see my salvation in the tired eyes of a
exotic dancer. Yes, I would love a private
dance, away from these fools. I will
gladly pay. The howls of approval and catcalls are met with my half smile. I have at least
preserved my long lost status as ladies man. I leave on a high note, resigning the boys to the past. I don't think I'll see them
again.
12:10 am
I must have looked
depressed. I'm sure she has seen it before, the look of
lost dreams and
ruined nostalgia. In the
rabble of strangers, I have faced my growing age. I have a past, long and filled with friendships that have
eroded to nothingness. I feel lonely for my old self and their old company. It's gone. I breathe deeply of the girls perfume. She is the
age I used to be. Lovely and unharried. Money keeps changing hands as I try in
vain to fill the
fresh hole in my
heart. We talk. I just want an old friend. She plays the
part. I know I am being played for a
fool, and she
slyly acknowledges what she is doing. We come to an
unspoken understanding. We are friends now, old trusting friends,
reunited after a long absence. We sit alone and talk like we know each
other. We
lie and
fill in the blanks. We never say each others names.
Shift end will see my friend in need of a ride home. It is worded in a manner of
assumed acceptance, and I don't
object. I don't go back to the
gaggle of fools. I sit with the
bikers waiting for their
girls, and
blow smoke at the
new signs.
2:45 am
On the road out of town for the second time since this morning. An hour and a half back up the same
highway. We trust each other to an
insane level. She could pull a
knife out and
slit my throat. I could drive up a
dark road and
rape her. We both sit in the silence and trust out of
pure simple human need. I understand how these girls can work the jobs they do. They
need. They need money. I am slowly figuring out why I am driving in the middle of the
black dark night. I
need. I need an old friend. She sleeps beside me, tracksuit over the
expensive underwear so recently on display. She asks if I need a place to
crash after yawning for the thousandth time. I agree to her
couch, not insulting us both with talk of
sex. That was to be sold to
strangers. We are
friends.
3:37 am
We walk from the car in that
early morning night, when only
strange things happen. The apartment building is old, and I have slept in
seedier places. It is not dirty, but
modest. The hallway is lined with pale wood grain doors and the walls shimmer with many
glossy coats of paint. Sounds of a
respirator and an orange warning pinned to a door tell of
oxygen use and
old age. She unlocks her door and takes me in to her
private place as though I have been in the same door a
million times. The
plaintive smile of thank you is all I can give. I am exhausted. Sheets and pillows are produced, a sofa bed is made, and I am tucked away, our forbidden
slumber party completed in record time. A call of goodnight from down the hall and talk of going for breakfast see me to sleep. Trust, pure and simple,
stupid and hopeful, sees us both to sleep.
5:45 am
I wake up. I question myself. She tells me her name is
Heidi. I leave. She is resigned to the
past, a
fresh stranger for the
pile.