I wish I was as creative as real life can be. Seriously, the true stories that get related often have the "you couldn't make this shit up" disclaimer attached to them. As you know, I am a huge fan of the story. I love the tangential thoughts, the serpentine way a story comes together and if there is a lesson to be learned, all the better. I'm not above making myself look like a moron and I truly appreciate that in others...be real I say. A comic such as Danny Bhoy is a joy to watch and laugh with because he spins a good yarn...just like Dave Allen before him. To that end I like that this blog has morphed into a venue for sharing stories in addition to ranting about whatever has managed to get my ire up on any given day. Today it will be the former...
My parents had decided to move again in 1986, from the confines of middle Etobicoke to the upper end of north Etobicoke, straight up Martin Grove road....moving on up! This move led to a decision to have a garage sale, of which I made it quite clear that I would not be participating in any way, shape or form. And under no circumstances will you sell any of my things that I haven't deemed expendable...I can be sentimental. Seemingly I can also be a bit of an elitist but that's for another day. Everyone clear on my duties and responsibilities? Which is to say none....great. I lugged a lot of crap to the garage leading up to that weekend...yes father....yes mother. Work managed to keep me away from the deal seekers so I guess all was not lost.
The Saturday evening was my typical Saturday night...a party of some form or other. Whether we were crashing someones house party, having our own get together or hitting a bar to see a band there was a bit of libation involved. How do I know this? Because I walked home drunk...wait!!!! I remember this night now. We had invaded a preppies house party, the gang and I still not being invited to many things at this point. We arrived at what looked like a southern plantation mansion with white columns and a large front lawn, knocked on the door and got the shoulder droop by whoever answered the door. Yes you fuck, we're here....where's the basement? Oh yes...I remember this night well now.
Our usual MO was to show up unannounced, and uninvited, head for the basement, the laundry room or whatever out of the way room we could find to begin our "book reading session." Usually with a couple of garbage bags full of ice and beer. We never caused trouble and we stayed away from the people we knew would end up causing it....hence the basement. We drank and joked and told stories and had epic arguments fuelled by beer and testosterone...it was always fun. After a short while the party would invariably start drifting towards us...at first others would join us in the basement and then bit by bit we would start flowing back into the main part of the house, joining the "cool" kids. We were fun to be with because we didn't take life too seriously and we knew how to drink, seriously.
The fact that we never looked for trouble didn't mean it didn't find us, preppies seemed to really have an issue with us and this party was at a preppies house filled with preppies....go figure. It didn't stop us from hitting on the preppy girls, which I guess actually explains why they didn't like us, the preppy guys taking issue with us hitting on their girls...whatever dude. The party moved outside and somewhere along the line one drunk or another said something wrong and words were exchanged...a fist or two flew and all blew over. Not by me of course, unless you slap someone I care for you're pretty much guaranteed to not suffer my wrath...I'm the lover, not the fighter.
As the night wound down we realized that our drive had left...I don't remember exactly who it was but I'm pretty sure we were abandoned by the girls in our group, left to find our own way home. So a cab was called for the last six of us at the party and can you believe the cab driver wouldn't take six drunk guys in his cab....he took only four people and I wasn't one of the them. Mother clucker!! Screw it, I'm walking home! "Yeah, me too" chimed in Steve...what could possibly happen?
Steve and I started the long trek home, and to be clear, mine was a lot longer than his. If we were at Royal York and Weston Road, he wound up at Kipling and Weston for his place and I still had another 45 minutes after that. All told I think it would have taken me an hour and a half to walk home. No biggie right. And the truth of the matter was that the damage that we caused was minimal to the city...and maybe one garden gnome. We had discovered that a well placed upward kick would knock the cover off the hydro boxes that dotted the lawns we passed at 2:00 in the morning. Not something I'm overly proud of but I told you I would be honest. We kicked a number of these boxes on our way home. Angry amped up teens that we were...of course we did.
Miraculously we didn't get arrested and or mugged on our trek home. Especially me when I made the last part of the journey home by myself. Funny how I never felt unsafe back then...even though I had been mugged I just never thought to be wary. Hmmmmmm. In any event, as I trudged along not kicking anything anymore, turning onto my long winding street I spied a figure walking ahead of me...also, quite obviously, drunk. Side bar here, if the zombie apocalypse happened, would you remain a drunk zombie if you were changed over while drunk? Anyhow, as I got closer to the fellow inebriate my amazing powers of deduction concluded that the person was a she, long hair and all, and she was favouring her right foot. Seems she had twisted her ankle a bit, what with the high heels and loads of gin she drank...go figure. I had lived on that street for four years and I had no clue who she was...she wasn't new to the street and lived maybe 15 houses away from me. My new found friend was named Karen and we struck up a conversation as we walked along. Did we discuss Socrates and James Joyce? No...probably Motley Crue and Iron Maiden...she was a fellow rocker after all. Which led to a discussion of leather jackets. Which led to her joining me in my garage because I was sure I had a leather jacket in there that my parents were trying to sell at the yard sale....it might fit her. Which led to...well, you know...a kiss or two. Until the garage door flew open with my dad standing there looking wild eyed in his pyjamas. Uhm...oh, hey dad! Seems I'm not ninja like in my stealth while drinking...Lucy!!! You have some splaining to do.
Hey, I was just showing Karen, it is Karen right?, Karen my leather jacket. Where is that thing anyway? You should have seen the look on his face....a mixture of surprise, pride and anger. He composed himself, smiled and lowered the door. The moment ruined Karen decided she should get home...but she left with my leather jacket after some routing around in the garage. And a promise to see each other again was made. Never saw her again. We moved a couple of weeks later so any moments we could have shared disappeared as the truck pulled away. What if? hahaha
Good times
D
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