Sourced from my umpteen photo files & albums throughout the years...
1
Mancy was the Rasta version of Keith Richards, born with a spliff in hand, not a day under 200. We were off-the-beaten-path in a jungle cottage. Mancy and four of his Rasta buddies were packing gigantic spliffs. With each toke the air filled with the fragrance of high.
BOW, was shouted by one of the Rasta’s as he slammed a domino onto a table; breaking it in two.
Wayne suggested: I had ties to Satan. Wayne would then point at me →
Bumba clot, ras clot, we believe in da power of Rastafari, Hailie Sallase. G’wan boi. The devil has no place here. We will git—a Rastafarian chanted.
2
Slick has told me he has a long line of crazy uncles. The first one I met was Leo. Leo was a salvage baron and a hoarder. On one occasion, Leo suggested: we should hook up for beers. When Slick and I were about to depart his company, he handed me his business card. On the card there was only a single word, nothing more.
LEO
3
Carla paid our driver. We hopped out of the cab at the back of a nondescript white warehouse. Carla tapped an elaborate code on the back door—after three minutes passed the door finally cracked open—a bearded man sporting white overalls emerged from the darkness. He spoke with a strong accent’ – which later, I was informed—was Russian.
While I waited patiently for Carla to negotiate our admittance, a cab rolled up to us in the laneway. Three men in clown suits jumped out.
4
Thoughts swirled into a deep crevice in my brain. Kissing strangers seemed reasonable. Friends came and went in a POOF!
I found this to be infinitely better than under the covers with a flashlight.
My need for sex(uality) oozed.
In the heart of the club, I found a rhythm. The chemicals transformed me into a great dancer. I’d step three times—shake my ass—step three more—shake again. Occasionally, I would flip my water bottle in the air.
I ripped my shirt off. I permitted myself to be groped and kissed. Lips felt like heaven. I found Samantha dancing next to me. I began licking her arm.
She covered her arms.
5
Round and round we spun. Much like dancers in an awful music video, we continued the circular motion to the rhythm of the pulsing music. We were locked in a passionate kiss. Fireworks exploded. Chills shot down my spine. Electricity fired through my veins. The lips of this smashing young vixen were full and supple. Her kisses melted me.
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6
One year later, I ran into the owner of the company at the airport. He told me he lost everything: his wife, business, health; everything. He then said he's bouncing back—working for a company out of Dallas. He thought I’d be a perfect fit. He said if interested, he would highly recommend me.
I reminded him of the day he and Ryan fired me.
I made a mistake he said timidly.
7
Trish is Chinese; yet, somehow, not Asian.
She earned a psychology degree from the U of A.
She was an FA (Flight Attendant) with Air Canada.
She also worked with autistic children.
Her family disowned her, but for some reason, they still paid all of her bills.
She made a killer first impression, perhaps, because she made it while everyone was high.
She was a seven-year veteran of the party culture.
She was only 25.
I wasn’t 25.
8
I started a new job as a bartender at the Fireside Pub in the backwards community of New Westminster—at least the Pub was backwards, the Fireside belongs in the seventies.
The walls were velour. Patrons wore shirts emblazoned with beer logos. Solo musicians playing Van Morrison were part of the nightly entertainment. The clientele consisted of heavy-set blue-collar men sitting at the bar reliving past glory, avoiding home.
The nightly activities included: talking about the big game, reciting sport jersey numbers—and intimidating newcomers.
Many regulars snorted cocaine with the bitchy unionised female servers who were out of their league: as if cocaine snorting negligent single mothers play in an elite league?
I wore shirts with collars, an invitation to be taunted.
How's it going, tonight, fag—what’s it like being a fag—fag--
After seven days and fifteen thousand variations, it grew tiresome.
9
I began stumbling home. I took a breather on a bus bench at the halfway mark. A 75-year-old-man sat beside me. Together we watched people pass by while we discussed the world around us. He was pleasant, bearded, wearing a winter jacket; sort of Santa meets the streets. To my surprise, he was homed—not homeless. His pension left him scrambling for survival.
Can you buy me a coffee, he asked.
I offered $2, only if he promised not to spend it on drugs.
He laughed and said: Drugs don’t allow you to play to my age.
I asked him: What do you think matters most in life?
Stoically, he said, while pointing to the passers-by: That's simple. People matter. Sadly, I believe that we've lost sight of that.
10
Distraught didn't do my emotional state justice. Being hit by a bus might have been a blessing.
At work that night, the bar was robbed.
A past-shady character walked in and calmly announced he was a robber.
In a deadpan fashion, I replied: You’re a robber? What is it you want? Is it the cash drawer? I have an idea: how about you sit back and relax while I make you a drink. Of course, since you are robbing the joint, you will not have to pay, nor will I phone the police. When you finish your drink, I'll hand over the cash—sending you on your merry way. How does that sound?
He looked at me in baffled manner and said: My name is Robert. There is a meal set aside for me.
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