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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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"Kit-Kat" he says, and does a Vulcan Salute. He's talking to the hostess. I'm eavesdropping and puzzled.
- "Kit-Kat?"
"Kit-Kat. 2 in the pink, 2 in the stink. Just call me four-fingered Frankie...."
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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We're staying late, waiting for the last tables to leave, and he starts to talk. He's quit smoking, 2 weeks now, never felt better, doesn't even miss it, and this might in part explain it.
They're out to get him, the people at the shelter.
He thought that maybe the mob had gotten to them, was figuring the other people at the shelter we're being paid $5, maybe $10 grand to keep an eye on him, but someone at the shelter told him that it could be done for only a couple of hundred dollars.
I'm pretty sure no one's out to get him and I'm starting to get uncomfortably close to a diagnosis. Before I'd given him the benefit of the doubt, it could be any number of things, it still could, but right now there's one symptom that's glaringly obvious.
No, no, we don't understand, they can't get him and he's just trying to protect us all from the enemy and now he reaches for his bible, he's going to prove to us that he's the chosen one, he'll just flip it open and God will speak to him through it as often he does...
It's the "Reach Out" bible, cloth-bound with peoples images visible in the psychedelic 70's lettering. He closes his eyes and selects a verse:
"Observe the month of Abib, and keep the passover unto the LORD thy God: for in the month of Abib the LORD thy God brought thee forth out of Egypt by night."
-"Well, that's not right, but he usually gives me the insights I'm looking for" he apologizes, then begins another rant.
He's completely gone. We're all going to hell and he has the chosen mark upon him and has been sent to save us. Not just hell, either, there are people ...
I challenge his believe that everyone's out to get him, that his world is made of enemies, but he won't hear it. The people at the shelter, they know things about him they couldn't possibly know, unless the Doctor at the Rockyview told them...
The other church he belonged to, it was a scam, they were trying to get at him, he's lucky he escaped; he's going to have to figure it all out by himself, you can't trust anyone...
Uh-huh.
He found a diamond in his duffel bag, it's a small one, but he digs it out of his pocket to show us, he found it or it was sent by God and he's going to have it made into a promise ring for the girl at the dry cleaners who smiled at him today...
And he holds up his take-away coffee mug, stainless steel with the word "Dynamite" written round the top, it makes him childishly happy, "Dynamite Dave", he doesn't need to say it, I know.
The tables, eventually they leave, late, but I've finished my assessment.
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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He's got this list of goals and aspirations that he shares with me. Ive seen it before, I just like to see if it's changed any...
He wants to be a musician, a painter and artist, a writer of books, an evangelist, he's just got to work on some personal issues first...
Maybe that's why I like him so much. We have a lot in common....
He tells me that he wants to become a police officer. That takes me by surprise, the last time we spoke he wanted to become a Chef like his father...
I ask him, "Why do you want to become a police officer?"
"I've got my reasons" he tells me meaningfully.
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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He means well. The staff never warned me, but watching them and him interact you figure it out.
He's apologized, it's not Alfred Hitchcock I remind him of, it's Alfred the butler to Batman, he was a bit confused but I seem like the guy who would organize and rule over the gadgets department. And he's sorry he misread me, he thought when I started that for some reason I, like him, was deeply spiritual, but if I'm not that's OK too, and I assure him that I'm not in the least and that it's OK with me.
Tonight he's taking notes.
He's grabbed a pad of paper from the waiter's station, glances at me every few minutes, then scribbles on a piece of paper and puts it in his pocket.
Secretive.
And I think to myself what a great idea this is and so I grab a pad of paper as well and begin my scribblings too....
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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My friend, JN, wanted me to meet him.
We were 16. It was at the now defunct Heritage Mall in South Edmonton.
"He is so coool." he tells me. "His name is Weedeater...."
So I go along and meet him. And as the name might imply, he was a heavy stoner. Wearing a flannel lumberjack jacket, small, slender, perhaps mid 20's with a 5 day growth of beard on his face, greasy blondish hair. crazy eyes. He was a nut. But my friend, JN, liked him, he'd met him at the mall and been ever so impressed.....
When you're 15 you're easily impressed.
Weedeater was going to get us some weapons. Stilettos, switchblades, nunchuks, he had them all.
God knows what we needed weapons for, but the thought of weapons, illegal weapons, somehow excited us...
Weedeater was enjoying his new-found celebrity. So what if we were a couple of 15 year old idiots? Someone appreciated him. He smiled as he peeled the burger off my friends bun, licked the mayonnaise from it and swallowed it whole....
"Didja see that?" JN said later... "He just peeled the burger and ate it ... like he didn't care...."
I wasn't so impressed by that. But I was impressed by the inventory of goods that Weedeater, or "Weed" for short, professed to be able to get. We could start our own gang....
Weedeater arranged to meet us at the arcade in the mall the following week. He'd bring a bag full of Stilettos. $25.00 apiece, they'd cut through a 2X4 at the push of a button...
We met as promised, Weed showed, but there weren't any weapons. There'd been a problem. He'd need some money up front. Maybe $100.00. Trouble at the border. Complications, he didn't want to talk, didn't want to implicate us any more than he had to....
JN was in. "Weed" was his new best friend. Who knows, if we started with the stilettos, we could end up with better stuff...AK47's. hand grenades....
Weedeater nodded knowingly. he could get this stuff too....but he'd need the money up front...
$100.00 was a lot of money when you're working in a mall earning $3.45 an hour. But we were in. We met Weedeater, or "Weed" as JN now called him, outside the arcade in the mall, gave him the money, arranged to meet the following week ....
And that was the last we ever saw of him.