Winter day at bus-stop hands in pockets puffing smoke thinking ‘bout a bike I had as a kid in this very neighborhood, retarded boy named Ken used to challenge me to race wobbling from side to side as he rode making car sounds on that old fucking thing basket in front, “rooom roooom” “come on retard boy, that all you got?” racing down Garwood Avenue that crazy loon flying right by me up to corner then back and forth laughing like the world is all right and it’s there just for us my mother on front porch shaking her fist at me “beep beep” goes Ken, I’m thinking about this at bus-stop mid-day streets alive with furious wanton music, young woman shows up out of the darkness “hello” lights cigarette, winter day gray and shady,
“So who are you?” she says as the lights go wiry,
“Uh-huh, oh yeah”
“I turned 23 yesterday”
Old lady walks by well-scrubbed pink tragic like the sun she smiles at us young woman beside me we’re talking high-speed ‘bout local bands booze on her breath I should be going home on call for work security guard at downtown high-rise she’s smiling big black hair we’re on the bus going through little Italy restaurants bars cafes go by in a blur I’m telling her I used to play guitar in a band her green eyes light up “should have known” she says,
“Why, cuz I got long hair?”
“Yes”
She pulls a mickey out of her knapsack takes a swig hands it to me I decline, think about it, then I take a sip bus racing through The Osborne Village artsy part of town funky shops black clothes mohawk kids begging for money guy with glasses throws up on corner,
“Where you goin’?” she says
I explain the work thing gotta sit by the phone in case they need me, got an hour to kill she’s looking for CD’s, likes That Petrol Emotion and The Violent Femmes, going to that second-hand music place downtown lady on bus starts singing Old Man River I laugh alive in love, my friend beside me laughs too applies deep red lip-stick snow piled high on the boulevard cruising down The Osborne Bridge sweating in our winter jackets bus cramped and tired nippin’ vodka between the sheets my friend looking brave and thinking, she’s reciting a Black Flag song whistling in the wind, howling at the septic tank says she used to live in Toronto hates it grew up on Indian Reserve called Pukatawagan says Winnipeg really works for her, really like The Peg she says, guy snoring behind us, bus-driver taking crazy turns announcing each corner with lame-ass joke crowd laughing like derelicts my friend looks at me crosses her eyes sticks her tongue out I feel my ass-cheeks rumble, damn...
“Ever been to The Canadian Shield?” she says,
“Oh yeah”
Gust of wind gives Cocker Spaniel on corner a mouth full of snow few guys on bus start laughing shiny hair suburban nightmares my friend comments on them doesn’t like that type big fucking deal I say do you listen to Brave new Waves? Sure thing she says, new band called The White Stripes pretty good love that three chord unorthodox rock and roll...similar to what The Pixies did I say,
“No one’s as good as The Pixies” she says
Approaching downtown the drunks come out middle of the afternoon stumbling through parking lots and construction sites she digs it says life is about this takes another sip of vodka I join her people on the bus take notice driver looking at us in mirror let’s get off I say...heel-toe-express down the downtown streets chinese guy parking car reminds me of something I can’t remember my friend exactly same height as me short parka with hood tight blue jeans beautiful winter I’m thinking breath comes out in clouds we live one step at a time caught in the shit of things stick and move monkey man on high wind tears out brain things as usual he says, business guy walking fast briefcase dangling I point to a mall then past it to a small bar hungover mohawk-kid in front wrapping his jacket around him lighting cigarette,
“Let’s go there” I say,
“Juicy” she says
Crossing the street people lined up like tombstones woman laughing alone in storefront, car slides on ice tilting to one side then regains focus me and young friend skip by whistling some pirate idiocy she grabs my jacket from behind we do the alternative-rock-hurly-burly, I’m thinking of this young guy I used to know at University, young writer had a chapbook published we talked the writing talk during English lectures and over coffee, I think of his beautiful green eyes and vague suburban looks, you never had it buddy, that’s all there is to it, door opens into smoky room smell of beer and maybe a touch of urine on Fort Street middle of the day,
“Two drafts” I say to the bartender old drinker
VLT’s making sounds people gambling for that one last thing, long narrow bar booths hugging the walls place full of drinking laughing end-of-the-line types, my friend talking to one of them waving her hands one leg leaning forward my eyes follow the line of the thigh in those tight denims, the ass-cheeks reaching for the sky like a basketball in mid-motion, I reach her point to a booth we sit and smile drink and talk rebel and curse I’m looking at my watch thinking about work gotta get home soon my friend keeps talking,
“I remember this bar in Toronto where all the alternative bands played”
“What kind of bands?”
“Bourbon Tabernacle Choir, King Apparatus, Bob’s Your Uncle, New Duncan Imperials...”
“Seen them all here at The Spectrum”
“Love The Spectrum...rock and roll isn’t as dead as people think”
I think about that with a cigarette in one hand and a draft in the other looking around blue smoke curling to the ceiling at every table,
“Do you realize next week smoking in bars is gonna be banned?” she says,
“All the charm in the world disappearing one chunk at a time”
“Bars with no cigarettes...”
“Seems a bit insane, doesn’t it?”
Having this sit-down with young broad from bus-stop full of electricity and territorial rock and roll obsessions chain-smoking in the gray dimness of an afternoon bar jaunt comparing guitar riffs from different records arguing at every turn I get lost in those deep red headlights without being pretentious, without any specific desire or belief, adrift in the cigarette butts and punk-rock ashtrays young fellow with shaved head asks for smoke I give him one as he walks away,
“See?” she says “you see?”
Sanctimonious little wench I’m thinking ‘bout the space between the table and her crotch, huge black hair making shadows I have her undivided attention waving my hands distant crazy talking like the devil in chinos, one cigarette goes out another is lit she listens as well as she talks rare species this Indian beauty cutting me off describing Northern Manitoba living on The Rez wild immaculate,
“Wait” I say “wait”
“Your turn Ziggy”...
