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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
- Hits: 2650
The nephew wants to go out...
This is the beginning of every bad night out in the world. Tonight, Bespoke, a new (ish) club down on tenth ave...he has friends, they know the owners, they'll get us in.
There's a line up, long, a thirty-something crowd, girls in club dress, inadequate to the weather, it's -20 outside, any wait in this is too long, but the nephew pulls me in from a side door...
Inside, a wide variety of fit and attractive partiers in their mid 30's, all fashionably dressed, the dance floor is full...there are leather booths above it where the VIP's have little encampments, buckets of Corona on ice, Grey Goose, their own private waitresses to serve them...it's amazing, I haven't been to a regular club for quite some time, this place, it's impressive, and watching the money change hands in the leather booths, hundreds of dollars at a time, look at the very mixed ethnicity of the crowd and you realize it's a bit of a UN for drug dealers, I didn't know Calgary had this many but there's no explaining - legitimate explaining - the flow of money over the bar, through the booths...
It's one of those places that John Wick would have a field day in, just by being here you're pretty much guilty of something...
We grab a couple of drinks, cigarettes, pop outside, the nephew, he's already drunk and talkative, we speak with a couple of Bangladeshi men with English accents, well dressed, ties, they like us, invite us back to their booth, we go along, it's all marvelous, they pay, hundreds of dollars, buckets of Corona, bottles of Grey Goose, then leave us to wander off on their own errands...
...the Nephew, expansively waving his arms, "Happy Birthday, buddy...you want to go to Nelson? Lassie come home! What have you got in Nelson? A laptop full of porn, a box of masks...." then sets to work on the bar, drinking 3 beer at a time, trying to finish the liquor before the waitress takes it all away, last call, he's on a mission for sure, it's terrific, but I'll never afford this, even if I could just keep up with this conspicuous excess it would kill me...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
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It's a bit surreal, this, after a few nights couch surfing to end up here.
The owner's girlfriend, her father just died...74...unexpected, out of the blue, last week...the house, it's unoccupied, in the NE corner of the city, last 'burb before Stoney Trail, a bad hood filled with the tiny boxes that would forever inspire one against home ownership...
It's bleak. The fridge is full, packed with foods that will never be eaten. He wasn't expecting it either. A lunchbox, packed for the no-tomorrow. A bologna sandwich that slowly turns green over my extended weeks. The basement, he was a proper doomsday prepper, there are stacks of toilet paper, canned goods, potato chips, every imaginable supply to get you comfortably through the first months after a nuclear holocaust. Think "Cloverfield Lane". And there's the liquor, fully stocked as well, multiple bottles of all the bar standards, Vodka, Gin, Rum, Dark Rum...other, stranger liquors, "You'd be doing me a favour..." she tells me, "watching the house and all, and seeing that the walks are shoveled and it looks lived in...",... "Never mind I'll take it" I tell her.
There's no internet here, and I've recourse only to the liquor in the basement and the few books I've packed along and a few more I find along the way...
Not that there's that much time. I'm mostly at work, 12 hours a day, it's not worth the returning home between shifts, traffic, the 20 KM drive, better to stay at work, really, it's just a place to sleep.
But I need more than that. 5 weeks here, staring down the kittens and the merry monks, it's making me mad...
There are cabinets filled with the knick-knacks and collectibles of yesteryear...
Every bathroom is filled with crocheted cozies, to hide the toilet paper, to catch the splashes from the sink, the shower, every bathroom is a living bacteriological mat...
The indecency of toilet paper, discreetly concealed beneath a fashionable red crocheted top hat...
I know, my grandparents had their place similarly done, it was an era, for sure, the make-work and home-improvements done by the dutiful housewife...
There are the innumerable stuffed animals, the kind you won at fairs a long time ago, stuffed with sawdust, and there are the trophies (bowling, other), old family photos, there are the "collector plates" painted with kittens and statues of princesses and kittens all mounted upon the shelves and ledges...
...and even a rather competent oil pastel of a kitten in the bedroom...
I hate it, but I have to grudgingly admit the artist clearly knew their kittens.
The house, it's haunted, finish you're 12 hour shift, come home, avoid touching anything, doing anything, sit at the little encampment you've set up at the kitchen table and drink. Make your notes as you descend even further into the underworld. Read, if you've postponed the drinking, your book, because there's no internet here, no diversion from intelligent thought, realize how far you've fallen, the internet, the sum of all knowledge in - at best - 10 page paragraphs,, it's a different sort of knowledge, knowledge of many superficial things, mostly regarding science and politics, but nothing of depth...
...and without it's distraction, with only the book in front of me and the percolating recollections of notes I used to write, things that used to interest me, and it slowly dawns that I'm becoming shallow...
And it's haunted. When I moved in I closed all the doors to the rooms I would not be entering, the closet door in the master bedroom, did not want to be responsible for cleaning when I left. But a few mornings, a few shifts when I return home from work, the closet door is slid wide open, there's no explanation, there's nothing in there that I need, it doesn't open without considerable force, have to pull it, remount it on it's hinge, before I can coax it into opening, nothing in here at all, the dead man's clothes, but I go to bed it's closed, wake up and it's open, and this is curious.
5, almost 6 weeks. More than I can stand. Not my house, I throw away the food that's obviously turning in the fridge, clean up after myself, time to go. This is madness.
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
- Hits: 2494
It's not really about Bill Gates, I've heard it about others before, but it's possessed of a certain dark humour that I rather appreciate and so I'll repeat it here...
Bill Gates is in the airport and is recognized by an old classmate of his...introducing himself: "Bill, don't you remember...it's me, Bob, I was a year behind you...we had the same math teacher..." and poor Bill, he doesn't remember either him or any of the stories he's telling but he doesn't want to appear rude...
Bob continues..."Say, Bill, I'm going on vacation with this girl, just been dating her a bit, and you know, wouldn't it be swell if you came up and said hi when we're talking? I mean, you've done well and all and she'd be impressed..." and Bill, ever the sport, agrees, and Bob goes back to his guest.
After a short amount of time Bill approaches the couple, they're deep in conversation, Bill waits a moment and then interrupts..."Bob? Bob? Is that you? I can hardly believe it..." to which Bob turns and curtly responds "Fuck off Bill! Can't you see I'm talking to someone?"
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
- Hits: 2677
...at the restaurant, the owner calls me, out the back door, there's something going wrong at the mall next door...
A man, older, late 40's, early 50's, staggering, falling against the wall, attempting to open the door of the dollar shop, failing, can't stand...
"Is he on drugs?" the owner laughs, but he's concerned, and I reassure him probably not, I'm the willfully blind, don't want to see what is clear, I excuse it, he's handicapped, don't want to be too quick to judge, maybe cerebral palsy, something else, but he's trying, trying again to get into the dollar store, to stand, to fall, he's not succeeding.
We go over to check it out. The Nephew and I. He's standing, lurching, teetering, toppling, eyes rolled back in his head, only the whites, jumping, shouting, unintelligible, nonsense in cave-man speak, jump, fall, recover, repeat...
The owner of the shop, he's called 911, they're giving him the gears...
...meanwhile, the nephew and I look for a friend, we find him, around the corner, short, portly bald man in a track suit, head to toe in bad tattoos, "Is that your friend...?" we ask, he comes round the corner, looks aghast at his mate, "Somebody must have spiked his drink.." he tells us, then yells at his buddy "Snap out of it mate! Snap out of it!".
"Should we call an ambulance?" we ask, we already have, he says no, he's clutching his own drink in a McDonald's cup, won't let it go, he's fumbling with his phone, tells us he's gonna call a cab...
The owner of the dollar shop is having no luck with the 911 operator, it's 5:00 on a Friday night, cars are backed up Center Street, there are no cops in sight, the liquor store parking lot is full, he puts me on with the 911 operator. "Can I get a description of the suspects..?" she begins, I comply, but there's no danger either of these guys are going anywhere, the first one now is lying on the snow in the parking lot, spit and vomit around his mouth, eyes rolled back in his head, breathing shallow, snoring loudly, his mate, his has just kicked in, he's still trying to pick up his phone, he's made it to the bus shelter and dropped his phone and despite numerous attempts just can't seem to pick it up, reaching, missing, reaching, missing, he's clumsy as all fuck but for some reason is clinging to the McDonald's cup, won't let it go, the 911 operator is clarifying lots of irrelevant information, she's unable to deviate from the script, it's an OD, probably Naxalone would be a good idea, she's wanting more information, in case they up and leave, nothing important, merely the keep the caller on the line until the police arrive...
The police, one officer, short, pulls up in the parking lot, probably a 10 minute response time, brushes us off, the owners of the dollar shop are trying to make the man down comfortable with a blanket, I wave them off, he's too far gone, won't notice a thing, the police officer gets on his phone, shares no information about what he suspects the OD to be, merely ignores everyone, when they offer to assist him he tells us to keep an eye on buddy, buddy in the bus shelter still trying to pick up his phone, buddy isn't going anywhere, even if he could pick it up, dial a cab, no one would give him a ride, he's OD'ing as well...
Another police car, an ambulance, buddy on the ground takes an hour in the ambulance to be stabilized, the police load up after a long persuasion buddy in the bus shelter, no feedback for the callers, the owners of the dollar store or myself, merely cops being cops...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
- Hits: 2035
Back, a long 5 weeks in Calgary, minimal earnings, less expenditures, child support, rent, winter tires, etc. it's nearly a break even venture.
And long, the drive, winding roads covered with sand and snow, the windows and headlights covered in that blinding winter slurry...
But, finally, not home, but perhaps becoming...
