Chapter Twenty-Two
I was still bunking in with the Main Street Project by the time New Year’s Eve came along, that frivolous day that encourages those with feathers for brains to do almost anything they want to in the name of fun. Admittedly I was not much different, except that I didn’t need a day approved by society to encourage me to behave badly. One day was as good as any other, though I did have an excuse; I had a doctor’s note that said it was quite possible that even in the best of times I didn’t have any idea as to what I was doing
It was a big day to a lot of people. Vows would be made, promises to one’s self and others, but, in the end it seemed to me it was mostly about letting loose and applying booze until your inhibitions fled, until you were kissing your neighbor’s wife at midnight while everywhere people were busy tuning out the energy crisis, illiteracy and the U.S. hostages in Iran.
We would be entering a new decade with the passage of one more day. On that last day that the seventies would know, several of my fellow partakers of woe, seemed somehow transformed. They’d traded in their usual languor for a feverish excitement. Either they were party bound or they had found some cheap drugs somewhere and were just starting to trip.
Three hundred and sixty-four days of the year we could be mole-people, living in the dark, damp and musty warehouse where the only things that thrived were mould and misery. It seemed possible, judging by the behavior of those I suffered with, that there was one day of the year when even we were free to grab a party whistle and be happy, as long as we didn’t get too close to anyone.
People get a little strange it seems, on the party day most widely recognized as such around the world. Whether you had two nickels to rub together or not, whether you were preaching the end of the world, trying to save it, or getting blindly drunk, alone, in a little hole in the wall, December 31 was the day anyone who wanted to, could cut loose. If the party atmosphere can invade the Main Street Project, it can live anywhere.
I didn’t indulge many thoughts of a cheerful sort on New Year’s Eve 1979. I did have the decency to feel like a wet blanket though and so, instead of upsetting the people I lived with, I left the warehouse and went out walking without direction or destination. It seemed everyone was happy, with a bounce in their step and a smile and quip for a stranger. Why aren’t they like that all the time, I wondered, and I felt unlike them.
All too soon the voices started up. “What’s the matter, lonely boy?”“Fun is for them.”
The hallucinations always had remarks like that at the ready, cruel, sarcastic, all the more deflating because I couldn’t strike back. Those spokespersons for all that was rotten, stirred up everything; delusions, paranoia, confusion, it all grew worse. Those voices were making me more of a screwball than I’d ever believed possible. When I thought I couldn’t listen anymore, they would get louder.
While I was pinned and maligned by declarations whose cruel source I didn’t know, I felt the eyes of multitudes looking on. As I was humiliated I understood in a flash that I was a captive and always would be. I wanted to lash out at this injustice, but I was trapped, immobilized, and there was not a thing I could do. I believed that other people sometimes heard what was being directed at me from thin air, and, to my mortification, not one soul offered to help, no one seemed to think anything much was out of order. Of course, I’d think bitterly, it was only me that was being toyed with.
I kept walking and though I was tired and burdened, I walked some more. I must have gone a long ways and indulged in some type of soul searching for the day passed quickly, and seemed to say as it bowed out, what are you complaining about, look at me, here today, gone tomorrow.
That was fine with me, I almost always felt better when the sun was elsewhere. To my relief I sensed that the dark night would soon cover us like a tight fitting lid. I could feel the blackness eagerly waiting. The town of Winnipeg or Universe City, (depending on whether you were me or not), would soon be in the darkness.
I neared the Project. There was more traffic on the streets than usual. Nice looking, well dressed women walked here and there with their upscale boyfriends whose chests stuck out and heads were high, belligerent men and snobbish women. I guessed that women went for that type of thing, the aggressive type. Even in my state though, I knew that if you wanted to call them honey you had to have something that rhymed with the endearment.
A tall, thin man with leathery skin came up to me. I had never seen him before.
“How are you doing?” he asked, adding that I looked like I could use a little ‘cheering up’. “Here,” he said, “Get yourself a cold one on me,” and he gave me two bucks.
I made my way to a tavern I had in mind – a little shabby, but the beer was cheap and their license to sell it was still intact. At first, after waiting awhile, I thought they hadn’t seen me come in and so, I started to clear my throat. This escalated into a coughing fit that I didn’t know I had in me. When, as a means to getting noticed, I’d exhausted showing off all that smoking had done for me, I dug in my heels, determined to outwait whoever it was that wanted me to leave. I was familiar with not being noticed and could play the waiting game.
If I had some money and went for a coffee or something to eat or a drink, I might be served or I might not. In all my disheveled glory I would get the server’s attention sooner or later. Usually, it was later. Other patrons would stare as I ate my food. Those who didn’t stare averted their eyes. I became used to being slighted. It didn’t upset me in the least when people who came into an establishment well after I had, were served ahead of me. I understood, without really knowing why, that what was desirous to the manager of the pub or restaurant I was taking up space in was that I leave and do so without making a scene. If I were particularly stubborn they would feed me. If they could ignore me until I left, so much the better for them. There was little doubt that they wanted me to think twice about giving them my business again.
Admittedly, I was a mess - dirty clothing, cracked, broken and filthy nails, greasy hair and a dirty beard. On top of that I would talk to myself at times and laugh, if I’d told myself something especially humorous. I was bad for business and I can’t blame the restaurants and bars that wouldn’t serve me for the stance they took.
But the tavern I was sitting in had no right being so condescending. It was seedier than a really bad orange. No one went there when they had money; they only skulked in when they needed a cheap drink. They were often so strapped for customers you’d think they would roll out the red carpet for a guy like me or any other tramp off the street for that matter. They should have welcomed me like a long lost friend, even though I only had two lonely bucks in my pocket. It was the type of place that should have welcomed one-celled organisms and plied them with liquor until they could be sweet talked into dividing. It was about the only way they’d ever get a full house.
When the bouncer, a gargantuan, hairy, monster of a man who was suited to his vocation, came to my table with a tray, he said to me, “The boss says this is first and last call for you, so what’ll it be.”
“Wait a minute, hold on,” I said, to my credit, “do you mean to say that I’m being thrown out before I’ve even had a drink”
“That’s about it,” he replied and he looked at me squarely. “Listen,” that big man relented and smiled a tired smile, “you get yourself cleaned up, you know, shower, shave, clean clothes, you’ll be welcome anytime, okay?”
“Okay,” I replied, “thanks, I guess. Give me two dollars worth of draft,” and I handed him my money.
He didn’t come back right away and I was grateful for the wait, thankful to have enough time to shake off the sad feelings that had me by the scruff.
Mr. Big put seven glasses of beer on the little round, red table in front of me and handed me twenty cents change. “The boss threw one in, on the house,” he said, “and wishes you all the best in the New Year.”
Humbled, I smiled crookedly. “Here’s to the boss,” I said.
“To the boss.”
When next I thought about Mr. Muscle, he was not in my field of vision. I had left the skid row bar, where I wasn’t welcome. I walked the streets. Going past the Salvation Army I hurled curses at the building and punched the words someone had written on the wall, “Salvation Army Niggers”. I almost went in and made a scene but I thought better of it.
A blue car went by with two more in tow, followed by an orange VW Microbus, that drove by cautiously, as though its navigator was lost. My husband, no doubt, I thought. Her and her entourage, scaled down, with a van thrown in for appearance’s sake.
“Where are we going for our honeymoon? Don’t you want to meet face to face, one on one? Come on, Baaaby!”
I was half in the bag. I hadn’t hastily tipped back seven glasses of beer in a while. My father came around the street corner in another car, this one black. Beside him a woman used a vanity mirror while she applied makeup. That’s her, I thought, that’s the one I’m supposed to have married.
I knew then that I was a pawn and that was sulphurous knowledge to try to keep down. I had a helpless feeling when I realized that I was entirely without value in their eyes, those people with cars, money and quite possibly influence. My dad, if anyone asked, would say that he was with his boy’s spouse. I was an alibi for my already married father.
Strangely enough, considering the chaotic day I’d endured, I slept soundly through the last night of the seventies right through to the first light of the eighties. I woke refreshed, ready to take on the world, fueled by my particular brand of energy that was equal parts excitation and delirium. This highly charged state would shortly prove to be my undoing. Not knowing this I cheerfully stopped to salute the staff and bum a smoke on my way out of the dull warehouse.
My morning strolls had become a bit of a ritual. I would walk and scan the ground frequently, hoping to find a pack of cigarettes though I’d settle for a juicy butt in a pinch. Every now and then I would look slyly, left and right, making sure no one was watching me. Mine was an altogether harmless morning occupation; a type of scavenging that relaxed me.
As usual the hallucinations were geared up for another day. I found myself pretending I couldn’t hear them. When the voices became frenzied with anger because I wasn’t listening, I laughed until the tears rolled down my cheeks. I had a scored a point, they weren’t getting to me.
“You’ll get yours, just wait and see.” Unfortunately that prediction was about to come true.
It was cold but the sun was shining. I’d lost my gloves but I had found some damp mittens. I had a warm toque and I’d soon be home where maybe I’d bum a coffee from the staff.
I was in a good mood. I skipped up the five front stairs. When I opened the door I saw a resident arguing with a male staff member at the top of another set of stairs, which led into the repository. Being in an effusive mood, I believed I could solve the problem and walked up to them briskly. I started talking nonsensically and was told to kindly shut up by the man on duty. I did so for about as long as I could, ten second or so, and then started into round two of mediation. This earned me a fist in the face that sent me tumbling down the stairs. My assailant, the social worker, opened the door to the big bad world and lifted me to my feet. Giving me a shove he kicked me in the ass. I landed awkwardly on the snowy sidewalk.
“Don’t,” he said, shaking his finger at me, “I repeat, don’t come back. I’m sick and tired of looking at you.” He slammed the door shut. I looked across the street at a woman who had witnessed my degradation. I felt guilty for being the disgrace I had become and for not being able to do anything about it. It was a momentary feeling that mercifully, didn’t linger.