Had a...well, the politest way to phrase it would be to say, I've had a difficult 2019. So far. Emotionally. Personally. Psychologically. Professionally. Um...contextually? All of it. One day, I'll probably write all about it, because I learned a lot from it, but right now, I don't want to hurt, or be hurt, and while no one else seems to be concerned with that, I very much am. BUT! That said, it's been really great for my writing. So I'm going to post my, uh, more oblique poems here, every so often. Part of me is intrigued by this collection, and that part insists on posting them chronologically, because I'm curious to see how injury, healing, and recovery can be charted through art, and though I wasn't as consistent in writing as I wanted to be (I meant to write a poem every day, but...some days...most days, it was too hard), I still think the resulting work does demonstrate the arc I was hoping to capture. Blah, blah, blah, here're the first few poems. Then, there was this one: You called me very late, well after two. You said, "I owe you an apology; I ended things with her, but not with you." Let's now go over the pathology Of our relationship. You said some things, I didn't say enough. I didn't ask For anything, and you decide to string Me out another week. It was my task To use that time to figure out my heart. A possibility I couldn't name Grew in my mind, but through your careless art It's dead. As for that phone call, now you claim You've plum forgot. But I'm still stuck on it, So I'm reminding you with this sonnet. Then, because I thought I was feeling better - and I was feeling a little more grounded - I wrote this epic:
You know, I think you'd really like The me that's really me. It's just I've got this weird idea Of who I ought to be. The kind of girl that can seduce A man with just a look. Her lips are red, her bra is lace, Her fingernails are hooks. And to that I end I once set out Deliberately to give A strong impression to you I'm Sexually aggressive Right from the start I did my best To play the saucy minx. Seducing you with just a look Was harder than you'd think. So when we finally hooked up I felt like I was caught - You must imagine me one way, So that's the me you got. I went for bold, and cavalier, And overly enthused. I texted you all of the things I thought would help my ruse. Just so you know, I've never been A girl to send nude pics, It's more I naturally assumed All men think with their dicks. In fairness to myself, I'll note, Before I then confess, That this is what you said to me You thought would suit you best. Don't get attached, don't start to care, Don't think that it's for long. And if we both agree to this Then nothing can go wrong. Imagine my confusion when You tried to draw me near, I had to pull away because The rules were very clear. I hem and haw when you've brought up The subject of a hike, But honestly, a quiet walk Through woods I'd rather like. I also like when you and I Talk books, and art, but thought, That that's not quite the pillow-talk Most guys find super hot. A couple times, when it's just us You've offered up discreetly The feelings that you have for me And phrased them very sweetly. But every time you've ventured forth To postulate that theory, I bluntly stated that I felt no - thing for you so sincerely. And every time I've left your house You've put your hand in mine, And though I'm not opposed at all, I throw back a peace sign. I know it doesn't make much sense But look at it like this I thought you'd like me better if I wanted just a kiss. And maybe I am wrong again But maybe you did try To tell me it was me you liked. But then maybe you lied. So now I'm all confused, and torn, Cause this girl I drafted Isn't real, and possibly both You and I got shafted. Which means the lesson I have learned - Though I thought I couldn't - Is that I actually can seduce. But I prob'ly shouldn't. But then, about a day after this, things spectacularly went even more to hell. And I stopped writing. For one hot, messy, sad minute. Anyway, I've written two or three more major ones since then, and they are a) better, and b) more grounded still - you can very much see healing! Buuuuuut they also pretty much explicitly identify different parties, so. That's gonna stay quiet, for now. Until everyone's freaking over it, because judging by this past week, THAT IS NOT THE CASE. Although, remarkably, I feel great! Which is not what I predicted. I told my mother - actually, everyone - that I was scheduled to be stupid about this whole thing until June. But unfortunately, there are other cute boys, and I am apparently eager to be an idiot all over again!
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Since this is my very first blog entry, and one I expect to receive no particular attention, I'm going to use it to tell the greatest story I've ever been a part of.
My Night with the Tragically Hip. Every once in a while, you get lucky. Really, really lucky. Something extraordinary happens, and it lifts you up. And the moment passes, and you congratulate yourself on being uniquely skilled, or perfectly situated to take advantage of that luck, until you begin to feel that it wasn't luck, but fate; that it was only inevitable it all should have happened to you. And then, sometimes, you're hit with pure, dumb, unadulterated luck. There's no reason, no explanation, and even though you want to rationalise it, you know it's impossible. You don't deserve it, you haven't orchestrated it, and the only thing you have in you to earn that experience comes in the wake of its demise, as gratitude greets the morning. (This happens with bad things, too. You'll learn that in a couple years – Future Hannah) That's the kind of luck this was. It was a Saturday – July 23rd, 2016 if we're being exact, and we are, because it's the details I want to keep sharp. So it was this particular Saturday, of this particular summer, a cold, wet summer up to now. We'd been months without proper heat, and it was strange to me, having spent the previous year sweltering from June to September. But this Saturday, finally, was beautiful. I was alone on the floor, Taela having been sent home by Ricki only about an hour before everything changed. First, it was two tables of older tourists. Americans. They're always somewhat fascinated by Canadians in the same way cousins meet cousins – not strangers, but not siblings either. They're a lot of work. They want to know tourist hot spots, the best places for sashimi, how to get to Gastown, and what you think of Vancouver. What are you doing here? They want meals. They want to try all the beer. They want to split bills crossways, and don't understand how to use the portable debit machine. So they were there. And so was a table of young boys – under 25 – both wanting steaks, and lasagne. Both orderig craft beer like they were Stellas. And between them, all along the booths were the others: couples, and individual men leeching the free wifi, or coming in for a break from the sun. Then, the long tables, islanded down the centre of the room. One closest to the street, was packed with an amateur hockey team. They'd stickered their stat charts to the table with flowers, and Kylo Ren, the captain admitting he stole them from his kids while I chastised him for the theft. “They've got plenty of stickers, don't worry,” he vowed, and I smiled as I delivered lager after lager after lager to their table. At the window, open to the slight breeze, were a few scattered pairs. A man and woman in their late 30s. A guy who just wanted to drink the special – Noble. And another one, at the other end, closest to the door, who cheerfully perused the double sided menu, and smiled broadly when I finally made it to him. “How's life over here? Can I grab you something to drink?” “Yeah,” he pondered. “Have you got any ambers?” “For sure,” I assured him. “Race Rocks.” “Race Rocks,” he repeated. “Sounds good.” So off I went to punch it again, before collecting another two, or three, or five lagers to drop with the guys. It was busy for just me, especially when all my tables wanted stories, either shared by them, or petitioned from myself. “Don't worry,” Ricki, my manager, said. “I'll be here to help you.” And in my periphery I could see her, flitting from table to table, punching in minor orders, balancing waters with lemon, and checking in with our guests. She'd charm this table, then the next, and they'd want more. Thank goodness. There were tables cropping up everywhere, and the rhythm of them only emerging with reluctance. I only noticed the man at the window next, when he caught my eye moving to the long table at the very back of the bar. As he sat, the large, black guy across from him waved to gain my attention. He smiled, and flashed the sole menu at their table. I smiled back, and nodded: Yes, I'll grab you another menu. Dropping off the drink I still carried, I resisted the pull of conversation at another table, and swiped a few menus from the service station. “Remember me?” asked the guy with the beer. He'd finally taken his sunglasses off, his long, shaggy hair glinting in the broad rays of sunlight filtering through the windows, as he shook it out, absently. “I'm just moving to join my friends.” “I've got you.” I passed out the menus, all warped plastic over immaculate paper. My lap around the table complete, I landed myself between the guy who'd waved me down, and another, slimmer, white guy in a ball cap on the second stool. “I think we know what we want,” he said. “I know. You guys?” There was quiet, uncertain assent that I took as confirmation. I surveyed them, pen out, and notepad raised. “I'm Ricky,” the waving man began. He took the attention back. He seemed in charge. I wasn't paying close attention, yet. “What's your name?” “I'm Hannah,” I said, careful to enunciate the opening 'H', as always. “Hannah,” he replied, enjoying the vowels, looking for an in, like Obi-Wan hearing his own name again. “Hannah Banana.” I hesitated, my pen frozen in place, and my neck cricked over it. Do I, or do I not let it slide? I hate 'Hannah Banana', (Meh, there are exceptions. Plus, you'll be called worse) but this is just a table of guys who want to flirt, and tease, and have fun, and I'll never see them again. Do I protest? “Eh,” I began. I twisted my neck to relax it, but instead, wrung out a sound of obvious displeasure. “Uh oh,” said the guy to my right. “You've not endeared yourself, there,” said the quiet guy across the table. He was dressed like the guy to my right, and looked similar. White, in a white t-shirt, a hat, and (I swear, Ricki), sunglasses. The long haired guy laughed, and the final, most peripheral friend, smiled. “Uh oh,” echoed Ricky. “You don't like Hannah Banana?” “The only person who gets away with it is my dad.” “Really?” “Yeah, but you know what? I'll make an exception. Just for you guys.” “Aw,” Ricky grinned across the table. “Feeling food?” “And drinks!” was the reply. I punched in their orders, dropped off their drinks, set them up with cutlery, and then doubled back around the room, making my circuits. I gave due diligence to the Americans, silently served the couples more interested in each other than their water glasses, and nipped beers in front of the people gazing out the garage window into the boring-ass street, bleak with construction, and asphalt. A good several minutes later, after going to rinse my hands of Sambucca, which is stickier than any liqueur ought to be, especially one that smells of liquorice, I was back with the group to check on their food, and make sure it hadn't been poisoned. “How's everything treating you, over here?” I asked. “Good?” They nodded. They ate, they chatted, and eventually, they asked for their bill. “Do you wanna do that all together, or separate?” “Together,” he confirmed. “Sounds good.” I printed off their bill, scrawled a quick 'Thank you!' across the top, and slipped the bill-fold onto the table. “Do you need the machine?” “Yes, please.” Back to the POS. Back to the table. I set the device up. “You guys having a good weekend?” “Yeah,” said the guy, tucking his chin, and looking down the machine to compensate. “Pretty good.” “You visiting,” I probed, “Or are you from here?” “Oh, we're just here for a couple days,” the guy said. Weird. This conversation stalled at every prompting, when usually, people love to expound on their life, after food. “Nice,” I said. “Are you -” But the man's attention was pulled away by the guy to his left, and he leaned in to catch his low murmur. The man handed the machine back to me. “Would you like your receipt?” “Please. “And, can I just grab your signature?” “Sure,” he said. I passed him my pen to use. “Thank you.” He reached out to shake my hand, and I took it, returning his grip with equal strength. “Thank you,” I replied. Collecting the machine, the empty bill-fold, and my pen, I returned to the POS station to sort my stuff out. Behind me, I caught a glimpse of Ricki back at their table, empty tray held aloft, laughing, smiling, and charming them. But my job was done. Back to the hockey players, then the bar. Ricki was at the door, walking the table out when they stopped short of the entrance. Ricki was stood before them, as they all huddled closer, in what I assumed was farewell, and thanks. At least, I couldn't think of anything I'd done to warrant a complaint. I turned back down the aisle to pick up more drinks when suddenly, Ricki was behind me. Her voice was strained, and she was sort of half crouched, reaching out to me. “Hannah,” she said. “Hannah, come here.” I followed her as she raced down the pass-through. “A pen,” she said. “I need a pen. Quick.” I gave her the only one I had, my seven-year pen, coveting it even as I gave it away. “I want it back,” I warned, but she was already gone. “Come with me,” she called back, and so I raced after her. Halfway up the bar, she turned. “No, don't run. Don't run!” She was running. So I let her go, to take care of the rest of my tables. Until Ricki was back. She approached me at the bar, and grabbed my hands. “Oh, my God,” she said. “Oh, my God. You have no idea what's happened to us. Do you know who that was?” “No,” I said. I tried to picture my table, but I didn't recognise any of them. “That was The Tragically Hip,” she stated, breathless, the words coming out like life's breath. “What? Oh, my God!” My own reaction was instinctive. I threw my hand over my mouth, then clapped it back over our still joined ones. My knees bent to absorb the shock. “Are you serious?” “They just gave us backstage passes to their show.” “What?” No, they didn't. “We're going to see The Tragically Hip.” “Both of us?” “Yes,” she nodded, all teeth. “They said you were excellent, then I kissed him – look!” She showed me her arm. In black pen, a name, and number ran black across her skin. “Are you serious?” “Yes.” “That's – one sec,” I said. “I just have to drop these drinks off.” I turned to the window, and with all joyous composure, deposited each drink, thankful that none of them wanted food. Ricki was at the hockey table, telling all the guys what I'd just learned myself. “No!” I heard them exclaim. “Are you serious?” It seemed the refrain was pretty consistent. “She cried,” I confirmed. “No, I didn't,” Ricki deflected. Then, “I did.” “But we're still the best table, right? I mean, I don't know how I feel -” The guys slipped into defences of their own merits. “We're way cooler, right?” “I mean, we're a hockey team!” “I feel a little bit intimidated, guys, I don't know if we can top that.” “No,” I said, coming between them with more drinks. “Don't worry, guys. They weren't that much cooler. You're much more...masculine.” “More masculine than rock stars?” “I'm trying, for your sake.” They laughed, ordering another round of celebratory shots. The rest of my shift passed. Other things happened, but none of it that interesting, until Kaitlin came in to relieve me, maybe ten or fifteen minutes later. “Ricki just told me what happened. No way!” “Yes.” I grinned at her. “Hannah,” she started, then stopped. “I – I can't even.” “I know.” “Hannah,” every word was a struggle. She shook her head, and gripped my forearm with both hands. “You don't understand. They are. My life.” Ricki joined us. “I told her,” she said. She picked up a menu and wiped it. And kept wiping. “I heard,” I replied. “I have to come with you,” Kaitlin insisted. “I have to. Do you think they'll let me?” “Oh, definitely,” Ricki said, still wiping the menu. I smiled at her. “You working hard there, Ricki? I think it's about as clean as it's gonna get.” She smiled back, the three of us already smug and conspiratorial. “I am trying really hard to get through the rest of this shift without hyperventilating.” “She cried,” I told Kaitlin. “Hannah! Don't tell her – you don't have to tell everybody that,” she laughed, turning to Kaitlin. “I did. I cried. And I kissed him.” Who? In retrospect, I assume Gord, but I never asked. “You kissed him?” Ricki nodded. “I have to come with you guys.” Then, other stuff happened that, while unique and beautiful, I think can be sacrificed to the obscurity of faulty memory in favour of the rest of this particular adventure. The next day began as the day before, but with a few key differences. The first being that I'd downloaded The Hip's setlist from Victoria, and determined to play it on loop all day. The secret thing I'd not confessed was that I was not, in fact, a fan of The Hip. I respected them as a cornerstone of Canadian identity. I knew them, as much as any Canadian, but I was not a fan. I mean, I knew the lyrics to at least five of their songs, but that was just part of our country's citizenship requirements. Every child born in this country within the last thirty years came into the world serenaded by their music. But I wasn't a fan. I had about five hours to learn to be. And this setlist mum had sent me – most of it was unrecognisable to me. And my reaction was just as unanticipated. I liked it. All of it. A lot. At 6:30, I texted Kaitlin. 'You at Ricki's?' Her reply: 'Just heading over now. I don't know what to wear.' 'Ricki said “rockstar chic”. Have you met me?' She lived further away, and was walking, so I figured I had a good half hour. A half hour?! Zero to sixty. Suddenly frantic, I rushed around the apartment, putting myself together. I showered, and curled my hair, fixing it into a high, half-pony, admiring the similarity to Lieutenant Uhura. Resigned to geek-mode, I slipped into the Star Wars dress my mum had made me, a fifties swing style, covered in blue schematics of the ships, and stitched together with Rebel orange thread. Is that Rock Star Chic? Still, paired with my gold studded smoking slippers, I thought I looked sweet. Maybe rockstar chic for 1957. I grabbed an alternate outfit, just in case, jabbed some contacts into my eyes, and slicked my lips with the same Canadian Maple red I'd worn serving them the day before. Then I was out the door, and down the street, feeling far too done up for 7pm, but with my chin high, because I was going to The Tragically Hip, as their guest. At Ricki's, we tried to be calm. We drank mimosa's. We contemplated the evening with enthusiasm, finishing one drink, and starting another. In the living room, he husband worked on his editing. Finally, we elected to call a cab, and slip on our shoes. Downing boozy dregs, we fled into the street, and bustled ourselves into a cab. I can't remember our instructions, but they were not very definitive. “We're going to the stadium – to Rogers Arena.” “We're going to the concert.” And when we arrived: “You can just drop us off here – or right up there -” “Here's fine.” “Right here.” “Do you need change?” “Who's got five?” “Just three back, please.” Free of the cab, I was anxious to get our tickets. We crossed the street, and milled through the swam of people. “They said they'd be at will call.” Over the heads of everyone else, I spotted the kiosk. “Will call.” I pointed. We hustled across the yard. “This is insane,” I commented. It was about the crowds. About our tickets. About what we were doing, what we were mentally preparing for. It was also 8:15, and we needed to be inside. “Remember, no in and outs,” Ricki cautioned. We weren't even in yet. The line for will call wasn't long, but it wasn't non-existent, and patience was not in good regulation at this time. Already, my shoes were giving me blisters (what you get after wearing them without socks after a Toronto winter), and there were scalpers milling around, counting down the time to the show. We reached the window, and handed over our IDs. “Are the tickets under your names?” The young man behind the counter seemed comfortable, and practiced, but we were about to test him. “Yes,” Ricki affirmed. He disappeared, and we waited. “Sorry,” he apologised. “Can I just confirm your names? It'll just be one more minute,” he said, jotting our names down. We looked at each other. I could tell Kaitlin was nervous, but for some reason, I was utterly confident. Which is rare, for me. I glanced at the people behind us. They had no idea. The kid was back at the window. He released a chagrined huff of laughter. “Sorry,” he said again. “Could they possibly be under another name?” “Yeah,” Ricki began. She paused, as though not sure how to reveal who exactly we were depending upon. “Downie?” “Oh. Oh!” the kid laughed again. “Yeah, you know, that does sound familiar. Do you mind waiting one more minute?” We did. The people behind us weren't that mutinous. Then, the kid was back again, this time with a white envelope tucked in his fist. We exclaimed in relief, and delight. “Here you go,” he said, his voice falling comfortingly. “These were the tickets you wanted.” “Yes, definitely,” Ricki said. “Yes, thank you!” Kaitlin seconded. “Thank you!” We had them. And when we opened the envelope, we had after show passes, too. Stepping into the area, we were plunged into darkness. I couldn't see Kaitlin beside me, let alone read the labels for each row, and each seat. Someone, maybe Kait, turned on their phone flashlight, and the three empty chairs in row fourteen waited for us to stand in front of them. The party was mid-stride, and it was a party. The area was packed. All the sections were open, even behind the stage, and not a single person was sitting down. “I've never seen so many white people in Vancouver!” Ricki shouted, across Kaitlin. I laughed. And then, as they launched into the third song, I cried. It was impossible to watch this, and not be moved. Their singer, their leader, he was so alive, so vital. There was immediacy in the emotion sung, there was a strange rasp, or unsteady waver, or peculiar timbre. In this moment, people loved him, people were moved by him, and he felt. This man existed, and it was impossible to suggest that soon, he would not. Quietly, and to myself, at first, I cried, but I turned to see Kaitlin, and Ricki looking at me. “No!” Kaitlin shouted. “Pull yourself together!” “You'll ruin your makeup!” Ricki added. I grinned. I giggled. There was so much joy here. More than anything else, and it was a simple thing to laugh myself back into jubilance. Every song had people screaming. Every song had people singing. I watched the band, and tried to reconcile them with the people I'd served the day before. It was bizarre. “Paul Langlois likes amber ales!” I enthused over the guitar. Ricki nodded, giving the motion extra emphasis to be noted above her dancing. She clutched my hand, and grinned. “And Gord Downie drank cranberry-soda! Woo!” “Woo!” Kaitlin screamed. I tried to match her tone. Ricki nudged Kaitlin, who poked at me. “The man in front of us is so into it!” I looked, and there he was, two rows down, bopping, and swaying, embracing the woman beside him with all enthusiasm and no grace. It was adorable. The man in the row between us caught Ricki's gaze. “Do you mind if I smoke?” “What?” “I'm gonna smoke! Do you mind?” He asked, taking out a blunt. “Go for it!” Gord writhed and pranced in a dazzling aquamarine suit, the jacket having been discarded before we entered. A white, plumed hat, a white t-shirt, and a white handkerchief acted to gild him, while his bandmates serenely grooved out around him. A smile, a nod, a little leaning in – they all gravitated to him, and he orbited them as we once imagined the sun did us. Later, there was a silver suit, and then a gold suit, and a pink one. Perfection. I'm pretty certain that if I showed up to work in such an outfit, Ricki wouldn't even send me home. The mic fell, and Gord attempted to flip it back up to his hands with more coordination than I could envision anyone having. Well, there goes that mic, I thought, after the fourth attempt. Who cared! It was Gord Downie! Then, later, he whipped out his handkerchief to scrub at something, real or imagined, on the mic stand. “Did you see that?” I gasped. “Did you see that?” Kaitlin and Ricki were in too deep. I loved it though. It was pure showmanship. Like a magician's trick, the large, bright cloth used to perform such a small task focused the view of the audience. It was so acute an action, and so organic that in the midst of the highly stylised attitude Gord was otherwise exuding, it acted like the crosshairs of a rifle. Did you even see that? “Your 'woos' are so random!” Kaitlin exclaimed, and Ricki laughed maniacally behind her. “I just 'woo' when it hits me!” I shouted back, delighted with myself, delighted with Kaitlin, and Ricki. We were all of us delighted by everything, then. But the show was wrapping up. “Wheat Kings!” Kaitlin cried, her nails digging into my arm again. “I need them to play Wheat Kings!” “They'll play 'We Kings',” I replied. I didn't know that song. It wasn't on my list, and I hadn't downloaded it, but I'd read a mislabelled article from Victoria listing it. “They'll play it.” And then they left the stage. “It's not even over,” I yelled. “It's not over! There's two encores.” “Woo!” We all screamed. Everyone. The lights were still dark, and I switched on the flashlight of my phone. Around me, thousands of other lights blinked and swayed in clenched, upraised fists. I don't know how long we cheered, but there was no flagging in the crowd. No one was sated. No one wanted to believe it was the end. Of course, it's never the end. They pranced back on stage, and launched into another set of three or four songs. The second one began, and Kaitlin's knees quit. “I told you!” I yelled. “I told you!” The opening strains of Wheat Kings reverberated through the space. Kaitlin's eyes shone with tears, and adoration. “Sundown in the Paris of the prairies,” she sang with them. Ricki and I laughed, and held her hands. “No,” I teased. “You'll ruin your makeup.” Kaitlin just swayed her head, and her feet, and kept singing, breaking away only to remind us that, “I'm from there! That's where I'm from! My dad -” Then she was back in the music. I looked around. The room was a sea of people, of happy, joyous, people all in one single, shared moment. That's the importance of art. That's the change. Then they left the stage, and the lights came out – one star at a time. “There's another one,” I said. “One more.” It wasn't as thunderously loud, this time, the interim, but it was more confident. One more set. One more song. The last request. And they granted it. And when it was over, Gord Downie stood alone on stage, clasping his hands in thanks, then reaching out, and out, and out. The crowd, all his people, everyone cheered for him, and deafened mortality for just as long as their voices held out. “Woo!” We screamed. The rest of the band came on, and each of them embraced in turn. “That was incredible,” one of us, or all of us expounded to each other. Gord, and his band departed the stage. The main lights came up. And without the anonymity of darkness, or the divine luminescence of stage lights, everyone came back to themselves. We trudged up the concrete stadium steps, wedged against each other, and the rest of the surging tide. “Can we go to the bathroom?” someone asked, and we all filed into the nearest one. Shockingly, there were no lines, and we took our turns easily, rinsing our hands, and running them through our hair. We checked our makeup, and reapplied our lipstick. We reexamined our treasures, and talked about things in a breathless, giddy, racing course of speech. “I've gotta have a smoke,” said Ricki, as we picked our way out of the streaming people to regroup. “No ins, and outs!” I reminded her, slightly frantic. “They won't let you back in.” “I'll ask, I'll ask,” she assured me. We were all jittery, our fingers shaking, and our excitement spilling over. She approached the nearest guard at the door. “We just want to go out for a smoke. Can we come back in after?” He hesitated. “We've got Aftershow passes,” she explained, and his shoulders dropped toward her, and he was close to relenting. She saw it. “We'll be really quick.” “Really quick,” Kaitlin affirmed. “If you're quick,” he allowed. We shot out the door, dodging people, feeling like big fish navigating a school of minnows – or at least like very shiny minnows. A concrete ledge overlooking the street below offered a small, clear section, and we stationed ourselves there. Who knows what was said, but it wasn't much, because we were sliding back through the doors before the guard who'd let us out had so much as shifted position. “We've got to get to the Captain's Room,” said Ricki. “Mhm,” I agreed. “This is so stupid. We're going to the Captain's Lounge.” “Wait,” said Kaitlin. “Do we even know – where is the Captain's Lounge?” “I don't know,” said Ricki. She sure was walking like she knew. “I'll just ask this person – excuse me!” I suppose talking to people is easy, and it's easier when you know you're supposed to be somewhere, and even easier after two ciders, and then some, but she was so confident and direct that we had clear instructions in seconds. No one questioned our destination. And so we rounded a corner, slipping into a secluded stairwell, climbed a short flight of steps, and cam face to face with two security officers. “Have you got your passes?” “Right here,” Ricki said, pointing at the green patch plastered along her ribcage – these were not designed to compliment stylish cuts of fabric. “And mine,” Kaitlin said, holding hers up. “Can you put it on for me?” the man suggested. Kaitlin juggled her bags, as I frantically picked at the backing of my own sticker. “Really?” Kaitlin asked. “I wanted to keep it.” “Really,” the man said. Mine had already lifted up at one corner, losing come of its stick that I compensated for by pressing it and smoothing it over and over, over my own ribs. Over the left corner, the red of my lipstick stained the fabric of the pass where I'd kissed it before the show. Our passes applied, we skipped through the door into a wide, open room appointed in a lot of grey. Grey carpets, muted tables, and dusky, upholstered chairs filled the space, while a few supporting concrete pillars upheld the roof. There were, perhaps, fifty people in the room, and everyone in their own little cliques, at their own private table. We selected a table of our own, to the left of the room. Behind us, sat an older couple, and in front, two younger guys drank in the shadows. The swag, which only we carried, was secreted away under the table. “You guys, you guys,” Kaitlin said, “We've got to be cool.” “We're cool,” I said, sounding and looking the least cool of any of us. “You guys,” said Kaitlin, sitting to my right. “We're at the after show.” “Cheers, to us!” proclaimed Ricki, and we clinked our glasses, while she sat, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “'What the fuck are you doing here?'” I laughed. “Well, what the fuck are we doing here?” And on that note, the older couple from behind us decided to introduce themselves. “Hello,” the woman said, addressing Ricki. “Hello,” Ricki nodded, the only thing elevating her reply from 'polite' to 'invitational' being the freakin' grin taking over her whole face. The couple edged closer. “Did you enjoy the show?” “Yes,” we said. “Very much so. Yeah. Did you?” And that was the opening she needed. “Oh, absolutely!” she said. “You know, these boys, we've seen them once before in Seattle – my husband – oh, well, you know Johnny?” A moment's pause. No? “Yes.” “Well, Johnny's aunt, I'm her friend, and, well, -” Or maybe she was his aunt? Or his cousin? Or maybe she used to babysit him? It was all very convoluted, and I was not with it enough to follow. “Hello,” we politely chorused. “And what are your names?” “I'm Ricki.” “Hannah.” “I'm Kaitlin,” she said, furthest away. “What?” “Kaitlin?” she repeated, lilting upwards, even though I'm pretty sure she knew her own name, even then. “Who are you related to?” I don't know about everyone else, but I panicked. Friends and family, people! We were neither! We were servers. We brought them extra onion rings, that Don had to cook twice, and we supervised their citrus. We got these tickets because Ricki was hot, and I didn't completely fuck up. I guess that makes us friends? “Oh, we're with the Downies,” said Ricki. “You're related?” she pressed. “Yes,” Ricki confirmed. “We're second cousins.” OH. MY. GOD. 'This is getting out of control' I texted Kaitlin. Inside, I thought, what the fuck. Not distant enough! “Really?” A gleam in her eye. “All of you?” She turned to me, now. “No,” I conceded. “My aunt, and uncle are family friends.” That was true. I hoped. “Oh,” she said, disappointed, and immediately uninterested. I wasn't nearly so well connected as Ricki, and she pushed for more details. “Well, Johnny's mother was saying-” Something, something, something. “- And do you know how the twins are?” Ricki was so fucking deep into this, now. “They're great,” she said. “The two boys, right?” “Oh, yes!” “Last I heard, they were great.” Luckily, her performance was cut short by Patrick's miraculous entrance. On the other hand, fuck. We were rustled. He hesitated on the threshold only long enough to locate us, then strode over to embrace Ricki, and kiss her welcome. Behind them, the woman had a Moment, and two thoughts flashed across her face:
I stood to shake Patrick's hand, and Kaitlin kept her seat between us to do the same. The formation of a wonky triangle above her chair was awkward, so I moved to stand behind her, and closer to Patrick. This ameliorated the awkwardness not at all. Great. “Oh,” I exclaimed. “My aunt and uncle say 'hello'? They said you know them.” Patrick looked at me with about as much disbelief as I felt. But, he's Canadian, so he politely inquired after them. “What a small country it can be, eh?” he said. “Listen, we'll be going to the hotel. We'll be at the hotel, probably in half an hour, if you wanted to come?” “Sure!” I chirped. Yes. Duh. Yes. “Yeah,” Ricki said. “We can probably do that. What time is it?” She checked her watch. “Well, hopefully we'll see you later,” Patrick said. He stepped forward, hugged us all. “Thanks, so much, Patrick,” I said. “We'll see you later. Thanks. Then he was gone. “What...the...fuck.” Ricki lunged forward over the table. “He just invited us to the hotel party. To the hotel.” “I know,” Kaitlin said, her voice sharp, and solid. “Hannah, get Ricki's bags. Ricki, you are not carrying swag. Alright? Hannah, she is not carrying the swag out of here.” “Absolutely not,” I said. The two of us scrambled for the bags and boxes underneath the table, our short nails scraping against each others' hands, the excitement palpable in the rushed contact. I grabbed two boxes, and Kaitlin the bags, and her own poster, and we flounced out of the room, the only 'friends and family' to be toting merch. In the tiny lobby, security greeted us. “Out this way, ladies,” said the man who'd made us plaster on our passes. “On to the elevator.” We walked – well, not so much like we knew where we were going, as much as we didn't care. We were going to the hotel. “But what are we going to do with all this stuff?” Kaitlin asked. “We cannot, cannot take this to their hotel. Ricki.” “We could always just drop it off at work,” I suggested. Ricki checked her watch. “It'll be closed.” “We can just walk in, and shove everything through the cage.” “We need a cab,” Kaitlin said. Ricki flicked her butt onto the ground. “Okay, let's get into a cab.” All of this happened so fast, so smoothly. Did we walk a block? Did we get a cab right at the arena? What happened between the stairs and the street? I don't know, but soon enough, we were in a van, giving curt, and decisive instructions to take us to Malone's. Of course, each direction was interspersed with various exclamations of nonplussed delight, and the cabbie seemed to catch our mood even in the midst of our attempts to remain cool, and controlled. “Did you enjoy the show?” “Yes.” Finally, we arrived outside our work. Racing each other, but still fighting to maintain the calm we didn't at all feel, we dashed around the side of the building. I saw the steel trap in the pavement, and thought briefly of how I'd slipped and fallen before, but then we were past. The hostel door was unlocked, and without even seeing the hostel lobby, I was looking down the stairs, ducking through the alcove, and headed up the pass-through. One of us, maybe Kaitlin, had stayed at the front door, and had finally been let in by Kris, and we reconvened somewhere in the kitchen. “Just shove it in, throw it in!” We threaded bags, and square tubes of posters through the diamond wires of the cage. At first launch, I aimed for the swivel chair, but Kaitlin was more logical, less wildly enthusiastic, and she slipped them in near the bottom. I reached an arm through to help shuffle our purchases further under the desk, appreciating Kaitlin's plan. “That's it,” she said. “Okay, let's go, let's go!” The three of us broke our totem positions, and headed back down the stairs, hitting the pass, and marking a straight, quick-marching line to the front exit. “Goodbye! Goodbye! Good night, everyone!” “Have fun,” Melissa said, standing by 26. I hadn't even realised she was there. Without stopping, I half-turned back, and waved. “Goodnight!” I said. “Melissa, you're beautiful, and perfect, and I love you! Goodnight!” The crash bar, always a little stiff at first, cracked into place, and the heavy door swung wide. We escaped into the night, and the door slammed without reverberation behind us. It wasn't until we hit the light at Granville that I stopped. “Wait, wait – do we even know what hotel we're going to?” “We do.” “We do?” “Yeah,” said Ricki. “It's four minutes away, walking.” “Are we going the right way?” Kaitlin, again. “Yep!” Then, as though we'd not even stopped, we continued with the same confidence you'd have beating a regular path home. Except the walk was more fun, and more fleeting, and we laughed, chastising each other to keep cool as the Metropolitan loomed. One of their bodyguards, the quiet one, sat in the golden cream lobby, lounging on the tiled half wall that doubled as a planter. We pulled on the glass door, and filed in with straight faces. “Hey, girls.” He nodded at us, as though we were old friends. As though he expected us. They expected us. “Hey.” We paused. The bar was just beyond him, through another narrow door, but it was dark inside. Was that ambiance, or absence? He knew our question, though our leading glances probably gave us away. “They're all inside.” I couldn't even think what that meant. The door was open, and the dim lighting disguised our entrance. Ricky stood just inside the door. “Hannah Banana!” he exclaimed, pulling me in for a hug. I laughed. “Only you.” “How was the concert, girls? You enjoy the show?” “Oh, it was amazing!” “It was awesome.” I don't think Kaitlin could even muster a cogent expression of delight. “Good tickets?” “Amazing!” Ricki was eyeing the room. Everyone else was tucked toward the back of the lower level, the bar floor sunken beneath a larger dining room. “Should we grab a seat?” I was nervous, and Kaitlin was distracted. She moved to a pile of cushioned arm chairs tucked tight against the three open sides of a small, square coffee table. We artlessly wrestled with them. I didn't want to leave Ricky – he was the only one I knew. He knew me. My confidence could only carry me so far. But Ricki dropped her bag, and looked further. “We tried looking for you, but we couldn't spot you.” “At the concert?” I asked, finally deciding to salvage a little bit of dignity by just flopping into the chair, instead of pulling it out. “How could you even find us? There were so many people.” “Let's go sit over there,” Ricki said. She picked up her bag, the strap not having left her finger. “Oh, okay.” Kaitlin and I struggled out of the chairs. “Have fun, ladies,” Ricky said, encouraging us onwards. Ricki selected the biggest table at the fringes of the main crowd. I couldn't see anyone I knew, but the bar sheltered us, and again, Ricki took charge by standing for drinks. A glass of wine was placed in front of me, and another in front of Kaitlin. Ricki slid in beside Kait, across from me. We looked at each other, and where we were, and lifted our glasses in a toast. We laughed, and our glasses laughed with us. From out of the crowd, I didn't see it, but Patrick stepped forward, and Ricki saw him first. “Hey,” he said. Ricki stood, and they embraced again. “I see you've all got drinks. You guys like the show?” “Yes!” we enthused. It was such a little reply for what the show had been, but what could we say? How could we say it? To Patrick? To anyone in that room? “It was incredible. It was so, so good.” “Yeah? And the tickets were okay?” “Yes!!!” I was firm, I was so, so sure. “They were great.” We all agreed. “Good,” he said. Patrick was low-key, dressed in denim, thick-rimmed glasses, like those kids who sit at the back of the class in high school, and slip out between periods to smoke. He was pleased, but he was also composed. His excitement only displayed by his shifting, and regular sweep for Ricki's gaze. “Good. I'm going to grab a drink.” He stood, and turned to the bar, which was only a step away behind him. Almost immediately, his chair was taken by another guy. “Hey,” he said. “You enjoy the show?” Fortunately, we weren't tired of repeating ourselves. I don't think we'll ever be. “I'm Patrick,” he said, stretching out his hand to me. It was probably just because I was closest, but he gave me his complete attention, his shoulders toward me, and leaning close to get my name. “Hannah,” he repeated. “Kaitlin, and Ricki.” Patrick returned. “Hey, Patrick,” Patrick said. This was going to be confusing. Everyone was named Patrick. “Did I take your seat?” “Yeah,” first Patrick acknowledged. “Oh, man,” second Patrick lamented. “I'm not gonna move, though.” “No, don't worry about it.” “So, are you Patrick's guests?” “My only guests!” Patrick crowed. Ricki cocked her head at him, shining and charming in her throne. “We're your only guests?” “The only Downie guests,” the second Patrick laughed, his smile almost as wide as Ricki's, and just as honest. “How do you guys know each other?” This time, I leapt in before any second cousins present could speak. “We're servers!” I said, as proudly as I could for such a ridiculous announcement. “Servers?” “We served them.” Kaitlin was nodding, grinning. Ricki leaned over the table. “I'm their boss!” The second Patrick followed her, our own buzz recycling words and phrases, rejoicing to hear them amplified and repeated by anyone else. “You're their boss?” “Yeah!” she nodded. “Is she a good boss?” he asked us. “The best,” I said. There was some chatter over our heads. Other men came over to say hi, to the Patricks, of course, and oddly, to us. Kaitlin and I could barely look at each other for laughing. Ricki just sat and held court. A Queen Bee in her hive. It was kind of incredible. I was, and am, impressed. Paul had meandered over, standing to my left, as Patrick and Patrick greeted him. Bernie stood too. Maybe, to get a drink. I think, at this point, we'd all finished ours. Someone offered to get another. And then Kait, I think, mentioned a smoke. “I'm going out for a smoke. Any joiners?” asked Paul. Kait volunteered, and suddenly, I was all about going outside to smoke. “I'll come,” I said, as though I wasn't. We stood, and rearranged ourselves, dodging tables and chairs, picking up drinks – another glass of red wine. Ricki was in front of me, heading out alone the plush floor, and through another glass door directly onto the street. So a small group of us, maybe five, flooded out onto the street. My knees were fuzzy, and I went straight to the cement rising that bordered off a little, decorative garden. Kaitlin sat next to me, and then, there was Paul. Ricki kept her legs, and stood, conferring with Patrick who was beside her. There was a light, and three drags later, the joint was passed to me. Yeah, I'm just smoking weed with Paul Langlois, I thought, bringing the filter to my lips. I pulled once, and once again, holding my breath for the moment, and passing it off to Kaitlin, trying to inhale, instead of just mouthing the smoke. The crackle of fumes spread across the tops of my lungs, like popping kindling in a young fire. The joint went round, and round again, the second time making a longer stop with Paul, as he picked at the little roll, digging at it until he'd exhumed a smaller piece of paper. “Paul, man, did you just rip off the filter?” “I hate those things,” he said. “There's no point. What's the point?” The joint carried on, bedraggled, and filter-less. “So, you girls enjoyed the show?” The Question, but oddly, not tired, or yet insincere, so we were happy to have to chance to enthuse over the night, and Patrick, grinning, was happy to hear it. “Honestly,” I said, “It was incredible. It was amazing, and I may have quoted Shakespeare to myself, during it, out loud.” “You what?” asked Patrick, incredulous and amused. “You did!” Ricki shouted, tuning in to us for a moment. “I saw you mouthing something, but I just let you do it. You always do it, at work.” “I do,” I acknowledged. “Okay,” Patrick allowed. “Why Shakespeare? What is it that made you think 'Shakespeare'?” I shrugged, taking a sip or two of wine while I tried to come up with some way of expressing how I was compelled into quoting the balcony monologue during 'Tired as Fuck', and other songs. There was something vital, and so visceral in watching Gord on stage; something so extant, and so inherently alive that only the immediacy of poetry allowed me the ability to articulate the connection I made. And Romeo and Juliet was perfect for that, with all the urgent verdure of passionate, and thoughtless love. I think I told Patrick something like that. Then, he turned to Kaitlin. “What do you think of when you listen to the music?” Kaitlin shrugged, too, but with ease, not dismissal. “I think of driving down the highway, smoking a joint with my Dad.” “There you go!” Patrick laughed. “That's what it's all about.” “I'm just saying!” I defended myself, burying my face into my right hand, but I was laughing, too. “Look, that's just – I just felt like Shakespeare, okay?” “Hey, to each their own,” he teased, grinning. Paul passed around another joint, and the guys conferred quietly. “Where's Gord?” “I just saw him. He's still inside.” “Is he okay?” “He's fine, he's fine.” And then, he was there. Gord came out, flanked by security, and perhaps a couple others. He passed by to speak to someone else, but Paul pulled him into our circle on his way back. The smoke was still going around. “Hey, man, you doing okay?” “Yeah, it's fine,” Gord replied. He was as soft-spoken as ever, but even I could hear the muffled frustration in his voice. He shrugged his shoulders, as though to physically dislodge the mental discomfort that lingered. “I just got trapped inside.” “Doing what?” Someone asked. It must've been one of us, and I suspect Ricki was the only one brave enough to venture. “Just talking. Talking to the money people.” “Oh, man,” Paul sympathised, taking a pull. “You okay?” “Yeah, it's the same, it's just those guys, you know? The money people. They all want to touch you just to prove they've got one more million than the next guy.” “That's okay, Gord,” I busted out, leaning forward wine glass in one hand, my other waving in teasing dismissal, and falling just short of an empathetic smack. “When you work in the service industry, everyone has more money than you!” There was a dead silence. He looked at me and I felt the weight of his examination. But then, Gord laughed, everyone else followed, and beside me, Kaitlin let out a brief, “Banana!” in, I thought, definite agreement. I am so fucking funny. “Will we see you girls again on Tuesday?” Paul went fishing, as the laughter tailed off. “You know, Paul,” I drawled, my inebriation pulling on my words like taffy. “If you ask us, we'll come.” “You guys wanna come?” “Hey, man, you set us up with tickets, and we'll come.” “Alright,” he said. “I'll hold you to that.” Then he looked at Gord. “You gonna stay down for a drink?” “Nah, no, I think I'm just gonna go up,” Gord replied. Then, Paul's low voice sounded beside me, to Kaitlin, and I could hear him say: “So, if you girls want, we're gonna go upstairs for a drink. Up for that?” “Sure,” one of us agreed. Or all of us. So, as the rest of the guests cleared out, almost instantly drifting away beyond my focus, Ricki, Kaitlin, and I followed Paul through the bar, into the lobby, past the front desk host, and onto the elevator. I don't remember any conversation. Maybe a sentence or two. Kaitlin was so relaxed, and I was studying the buttons for each floor. Ricki's arms were rigid. We all made fleeting eye-contact, feeling the pressure to be extremely interesting. On the fourteenth floor, we removed ourselves, and trailed after Paul into a large, but surprisingly sparse hotel room. I guess it made sense – he was only staying for one or two nights – but the room was mostly empty. The deep, green carpet stretched out across the floor. A single couch, two lounge chairs, a desk, a fridge, and a coffee table covered in the most ridiculous magazines were all that furnished the sitting room. Directly across from the couch, the door to the bedroom was left gaping, and behind one chair, a glass door opened onto the tiniest balcony I'd ever seen. Ricki grabbed a chair. I sat on the couch, as though at ease, and Kaitlin bunkered down beside me. A beat. Then: “Are these really the magazines they give you?” I asked. Vancouver! called to me, and I lifted the title up between my thumb and index, like I was cataloguing disturbing evidence at a crime scene. “Oh, yeah,” said Paul. “Can I get you girls a drink?” “I'll get them!” Ricki was quick to volunteer, and Paul, after a brief protest, allowed it. “Hey, I'm a server,” Ricki said. “Let me serve. I know how to do this.” She quickly returned with spoils from the open cooler on the floor by the fridge. “I could only find three glasses, so this is for you, Paul,” she handed him a wine glass. “And Kaitlin.” She passed out another. “This one's for me, and Hannah, you get the coffee mug.” “Love it.” In the midst of this, Paul had managed to get out his phone, and was speaking to someone unseen. “Gord's coming back down,” he announced, casually. And in a moment, the room was filled again. Paul, and Patrick, Ricky, and Gord. And us. My earlier formality of greeting had been got rid of by alcohol, so I just watched from where I'd lounged on the couch as the boys met each other once more. Until Gord bypassed the empty chair, to take a seat on the couch. Beside me. And then moved closer to offer space to Patrick. Suddenly, I had to sit upright – but not too upright, because I knew I had to be cool, as though nothing surprised me. And Kaitlin was still on my other side, so I couldn't go anywhere else. My right arm pressed against his left, and I could feel the heat of him through the denim jacket he wore. He was hot, and couldn't be wearing more than a t-shirt underneath for me to be able to know that. Legs against legs, the springs of the couch sagging to bring all four of its occupants together as easily as family. “Do you want some wine, Gord?” Paul asked. “I've got it!” Ricki was up again, rummaging again, and returning again with another mug, for Gord. “I like this style,” he said. “Agreed.” Nodding, I took another sip. “It makes me feel less guilty about how much I've had, cause no one can tell it's not coffee.” Beside me, I heard a soft chuckle, and I looked over to confirm I hadn't misheard. He wasn't looking at me, but the faded remnants of mirth still curved his lips. Conversation picked up, lead by Ricky, Ricki, and Patrick, who still followed Ricki wherever she lead. I leaned back to be just behind the rest, pressing against the cushions and hiding in the peripheral, to study. I wanted to study Gord Downie, because I had never done so before. I'd never cared before. And apparently, I'd missed something integral to a lot of people. His skin was smooth, but there were fine lines around his eyes. Crows feet, yes, but also the narrowest, and most shallow of outlines beneath his orbits, still smile lines, but not so cliché or obvious in their exhibition. His lips were thin, and curled downward as though in perpetual contemplation, but his attention was fixed, and fully occupied by whoever held the floor. He was pale. He was a little scruffy, and he looked delicate, but not brittle. Thin, yes, and exhausted, but there was something inherently poetic in his appearance. Something like Byron, or Shelley, or Keats. Only wrapped in a Canadian tuxedo. Because, obviously. “So, I hear you're going to Whistler tomorrow?” I asked. “Well,” Paul hesitated, looking to Gord. “We're not sure. We're thinking about it, we're thinking about it.” “You should go to Shannon Falls,” I declared. “What?” “You should go to Shannon Falls.” “You think we should go on a hike?” “Well, it's easier than The Chief.” They all looked at me, incredulous. “Hey, I'm just saying.” “What are you saying?” Gord was laughing now. “It's a national landmark! It's really beautiful! And it's basically the only thing I know up there, so that's my suggestion.” “Okay,” Paul grinned. “We'll keep it in mind.” “I don't know,” I shook my head at them, teasing right back, but self-deprecation colouring my words. “I don't know what you'd be doing otherwise in Whistler, so it's my suggestion, okay?” “Alright.” “So then after Whistler, where are you going?” Paul had another drink of his wine, then offered, “Next stop is Calgary.” “Calgary!” I repeated. “And then, you're going to end in Ontario?” “That's the plan,” Gord nodded. “So, are you gonna fly from here to Calgary?” “The bus,” said Paul. “Oh, you've got, like, a tour bus?” I was so excited. They were such a band. They had tour buses. The oracles and movies had spoken true. “Two of them,” said Paul. “So you don't all pile in one -” “Nah,” said Patrick. “Gord and I share one, and the rest of the guys are in the other.” “Fancy,” I grinned. “So, why don't you guys just fly? Wouldn't it be faster?” Gord exhaled in brief laughter, and crooked his neck to look at me, just barely, and sharing the joke with everyone else as an understatement. “No,” he said. “You see, rock stars don't have a very good track record with planes.” “Oh...OH!” I replied, my mouth open in astonishment. “You raise a very good point. Definitely, better to drive, then.” “But we will fly from Winnipeg.” “After we see Shannon Falls,” Paul teased. “Hey – the beauty of nature.” “I guess so.” “These magazines are really awful. But that book is good. Not that I've read it.” “Is that yours, Paul?” Gord queried. Kaitlin came back in, the phone now silent, and she passed it back to Ricki. “It's about world war two, right?” she asked. “Or takes place then?” “Yep,” Paul confirmed. I leapt into the silence, blindly. “World War One is my favourite war, though apparently, you can't really have a favourite war-” “What? What are you talking about?” “I don't know,” one of the guys, maybe Ricky, chimed in. “World War Two was pretty great.” “Are you kidding?” I asked. “World War One. It was so anachronistic. You had tanks vs. horses. You had cavalry charges, and swords!” Then, Kaitlin broke in, shifting her focus to Ricky, sitting in the other chair beside her. “How long have you been with the band?” she asked. “Oh, almost what, twenty-five years? More?” “Yeah, that sounds about right,” came Gord's affirmation, quietly. “Met these guys out of school -” “It was at a concert, wasn't it?” “Yeah, yeah.” “Some guys were climbing up on stage, and Ricky jumped up, and started throwing them back off. Didn't ask, didn't need direction, just cleared it.” “Wow,” responded Kait. “So just totally perfect, made for the job.” “Pretty much,” laughed Ricky. “Long time ago, now,” Gord smiled, and I tuned back in to Ricki just in time to hear her spout some wisdom gained since her last interaction with the group. “Now that I'm in my thirties,” she began. “Now that I'm in my thirties, it's different.” “How old are you?” pressed Patrick. “Sh, none of your business,” she said. “But now that I'm in my thirties, I think it's good you don't remember then.” “Was it terrible?” “No,” she continued. “No! It was fine.” “But this time's better, right?” I asked. “Of course!” She enthused. Her tone jumped up a notch, as she hit on a new topic, “You know what else? Now that I'm in my thirties -" Everyone laughed, the phrase cycling around and around but saying nothing. “Ricki,” I teased, “Now that you're in your thirties, you don't have to preface every sentence with that.” “Well, how old are you, Hannah?” Gord locked his gaze onto mine, though his tone was light, and mocking. “Well,” I drawled, leaning forward to retrieve my wine mug from the table. “Now that I'm in my twenty-sixes, I feel very comfortable...” I trailed off, as I threw back a good mouthful of liquid, while Gord froze, and his jaw dropped. “You're twenty-six?” I nodded. “And Kaitlin, how old are you?” “Twenty-six,” she said. She clenched her jaw, and nodded firmly. “Wow,” he said. Then, eventually, Paul: “Do you even know who we are?” Kaitlin and I were instantly incensed. “Of course! Yes! Oh my God, yes!” We protested with all due vehemence. “And the show was so good,” Kaitlin said. “Amazing,” I agreed. “Just incredible.” “Your clothes -” Kaitlin pushed, leaning across me to address Gord. “Oh, yeah?” He brightened. “Did you like them?” “Loved them,” I enthused. “They were awesome,” Kaitlin said. “The blue – I want those pants.” “The silver, the gold,” I enumerated. “They just looked incredible on stage. So cool.” “My dad,” Kaitlin went on, “I was raised on you guys. Your record was the first record my dad played for my step-mum.” “And where are you girls from?” “Ontario,” I said. “Toronto.” “Toronto,” Gord repeated. “And Kaitlin?” “Saskatoon,” she said. There was delight in her eyes. Gord leaned forward, to get a clearer view, to make sure he saw her, fully. “Saskatoon?” he searched her. “Yeah,” she nodded, grinning at his hardly voiced inquiry. “The Paris of the prairies, am I right?” She chucked her arm like the engineer of a train, and turned beet red as her brain caught up with her mouth. Let's just quote Gord Downie to Gord Downie. But he giggled, softly, and sat back. Something about me caught his eye, again. “Are you wearing a Star Wars dress?” He gestured to the fabric of my outfit. Oh, God. I'm a nerd. “I am,” I admitted, only a bit mortified. “It was about as 'rocker chic' as I get.” But then I straightened, realising, he'd recognised it, and so inspired in my own exploration. “They're ships schematics,” I continued. “This is the Slave I, and this is a speeder-bike, and a snow speeder, and -” “Oh, I know all the ships,” Gord said, seriously. “I love that stuff.” “Yeah!” I said. My mum made it.” “It's really cool.” “Thanks!” We all talked a little more, or, at least, it only felt like a very little more, but then Paul glanced at his watch, and everyone else followed suit. We stood. We hugged, and kissed our farewells, as old friends. “You're coming on Tuesday, right?” asked Paul. This was his third request. “I told you, Paul,” I said. “Set us up.” “Well, you let me know, and I will.” “Okay,” I said, less doubtful of his sincerity after so much repetition. Then, I turned to Gord at last. He gripped me by the arms, and I leaned in before remembering I meant to tell him something. “Oh!” I started. “My aunt and uncle say hi. My aunt especially. She says she has your dad's carrot cake recipe.” “Great! And are you anything like your aunt?” He repeated. “Oh, no!” I replied, astonished, and bemused, not convinced she'd welcome any association with me after I might have just shamed Canada's National Treasure. “No, she's much more together, and collected.” I leaned in for a hug and a kiss – he kissed all his friends, and as I pulled back, he said, “Well, you're very intelligent, and funny.” Shock. I was shocked. “Thank you,” I said, with more sincerity than I'd ever felt, but with less awareness. Then I repeated it, proving to be neither intelligent, nor funny in that moment. “Thank you. Thank you.” He smiled. “Thank you,” he replied. And at that, we had to laugh We were all in the hallway, and the elevators were called. I was still staring. One chimed, the arrow pointing up. “Well, we're getting on this one,” said Ricky. “We're going up.” “And we're going down,” Ricki said. “It was nice to meet you.” Gord smiled, and waved. Ricky grinned. “Thank you.” “Thank you!” And with one, final, grateful bob, I repeated it. “Thank you so much.” I waved, I may have involuntarily dropped into a half-curtsey. Kaitlin, and Ricki smiled, and waved. The doors closed. And we all collapsed in a heap, leaning against the metal doors of the other car in a way I'd always been taught to refrain from. I'm not sure much was said beyond squeals of joy, and peals of insane laughter, but we somehow made it to our feet again. “Oh, my God. Oh my, God,” was repeated. “What the fuck.” “That was so stupid,” I said. I looked over to see a pair of sunglasses on the little table in the hallway. “Sh, sh, shh! Also, these.” I slipped them over my eyes. They were rose-tinted. “Those are so cool, Banana. Oh, my God.” Everything was rosy. |
In brief.Well, I may ramble on a bit, but I mean well. Archives |