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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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One table all afternoon, a deuce, they arrived at 11:00, wanted to know when we closed, I gave them an emphatic "2:00!". And they respect that, drink hard and are wrapping things up at 1:30 when...
...I walk into the dining room and find J***. J***, the owner's best friend (not J*** the nephew's best friend), he owns a national company worth probably $150 Million gross per year. That's another story...he's standing in the middle of the dining room loudly talking on his cell-phone, he's inviting a friend for lunch...
...we close in 20 minutes...
FUCK! FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!
Still, be polite, seat them, as civil as possible, he's important, he's the one that cost G*** his job, he should really be assassinated or run over with a truck on a dimly lit night, the world would be a better place, but so it is with many of our customers...the arrogance of privilege...
A thin smile, wait while he dithers helplessly upon his phone, contacting dates, appointments, inwardly seething...
We're not closed even 5 minutes when his date shows up. They will be here all day, the 3 hour break we're closed over lunch, another 3 hours into the evening. Fuck them. They'll tip 20% and think themselves the best customers on earth, they'll get free bottles of wine, dinner for free (after paying for lunch), after dinner shots and drinks, it's ridiculous. I tip 20% and arrive, dine and leave while the restaurant is open. I get nothing for free. These people, the rich people, they expect everything for free, look surprised when they find a drink they ordered on their bill, somehow they thought it was all free...too often it is...
J***. We had a manager here once, Steph****, older blonde slapper, rumour had it that he offered her $1000 dollars to sleep with her...apparently she never accepted it...
...but slept with him nevertheless, when asked about him refrained about describing his skills as a lover, rather focusing on his soft skin...
...the skin of someone who'd never done a days work in his life. She wouldn't know this, to her it was remarkable, no callouses or corns, bruises, knotted muscles, merely 5'2" of milk-fed flab and flesh...no remarks about his prowess, nonexistent I would guess, people who pay for things, all things, expect that money is the answer, the final reward, of course it isn't, but they know no better, meet a few and see...
And he's confided a little too often about how people like him are the prey of younger women who wish to take his fortune for a ride, never wanting sex for sex, these are not the people you turn to, after all, and he's not appalled by this but rather impressed by it, all the sycophants and admirers that would be his for a few thousand of his hard earned dollars, we, the proletariat, who fuck to fuck, to live, as a skill, wouldn't understand this fuck-for-profit, for endless alimony, palimony....
He's right there. He's in a different world. I'm not impressed, but I feign the requisite sympathy..."Poor you" I tell him, and he finds me sincere...
He's spiritual, "Zen Buddhist" he tells his dates, I've overheard, the comfortable, complacent spirituality of someone who's done well, has no cause to question, he's wealthy, the ends have justified the means, the world is just, just accept it...
He's decided to run for premier, he'd be a good premier, right? Better than what we have, he could do it, what we need is a good businessman, politics is business, we'd all vote for him, wouldn't we? And we feign the requisite support....
fucker. Fuck that. Whatever cause he stands for I'm opposed, and there's not a single opinion he could opine that there wouldn't be a reasonable voice to oppose. But this is Alberta, fucked-up home of the ignorant, and in my job I can only just nod and agree...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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Out with the civilized A***** and J***, the nephew's old roommate. The Blues's Can, followed by Twisted. And A***** is down for mushrooms, and J*** agrees to try the Sassafrass with me.
It takes an hour or so to kick in, but when it does I'm fucked. Really fucked. Not driving home tonight fucked, which for me is pretty fucked up.
Amazing. All the love and empathy, ridiculous visuals *(the stage within the stage within the stage...).
We find a cab when it closes up and make our way to the Gay Bar. I don't remember this, and I'm not really drinking....
Twisted, dancing, a hot brunette, 6' tall, held on a leash by a 4'6" black woman, groups of hot women in the background, this is all I remember, and pleasantly brushing off the groups of Filipino and older/younger male admirers, happy, soooo happy. This is what it's all about...
Even J*** is impressed, never been that thrilled with MDMA but this time it's different, A*****, he's off on his own mushroom trip, totally fucked up, happy as well, we're all pretty thrilled to be alive...
...afterwards, to J***'s place, I ask for a drink, he cracks a bottle of prosecco..."50$ a bottle ..." he tells us, "I don't like it....". He repeats the price a number of times, as if $50.00 a bottle is beyond our comprehension. And he's lost his phone, left it in the cab, a "It's a $1000.00 dollar phone..." he tells us...
Everything has a price and he's too quick to let us know. He's alright, but I trust him as far as I can throw him. By 5:00 AM I'm sober enough to grab a cab for me and A*****, drop him off, recover the jeep, the next day I'm surprisingly well recovered...
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One of our regular customers, a Yosemite-Sam type character, retired millionaire philanthropist, long grey hair and mustache, is telling us about how he was walking through his neighborhood downtown when a homeless man popped his head out of a dumpster, took one look at him and said "Keep Away, This one's mine...". Which would have been my clue that it was time to get a haircut, but when you're rich you don't care...
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It's the owner's significant birthday, and there will be a party held at his estate in the country. On our day off, which is a bit cruel, but when else would it be held?
The owner's girlfriend, the latest, most legitimate heir to the remaining estate, she's invited us all. G*** declines, he's got a prior engagement with his girlfriends father. The soon to be father-in-law. So it's up to the new Italian waiter and I to shoulder the politic responsibility, it's a bit awkward, we're more the feudal serfs, the employees, but it would be political suicide to miss it, and so we grudgingly agree. An hour, two tops...
Sunday comes and we're both pretty hung over, the night before was Halloween. But I pick him up in the bone-jarring screeching wreck of an automobile, it's very last legs and this jaunt into the countryside isn't the least bit wise, not at all, but it's gotta be done...
We arrive late, as planned. Arrive late, leave early. There are perhaps 30, 40 other guests, all regular customers at the restaurant, adding them all up, net worth, anywhere from half a billion to a billion dollars...
There's J***, 100 million easy, G****, maybe 2 or 3 million, they don't get along, there's a variety of land barons and other characters, quickly do the math...
And there are a few, like the girlfriend and her children, who add up to debt, and there's the new Italian waiter and myself, he's worth a couple of grand easy, me, I'm another debit on the account...
I see J***, demand a glass of wine, it's nice, this hospitality role reversal, he gets it, laughs, obliges, gives me the name and grape. And for an hour or so we chat and socialize, some are cool, recognize me (but I don't them, we have a lot of customers, laugh, play along), some resent the bridging the gap, clearly we, the staff, are overstepping the boundaries by attending this party...the Owner, he's hospitable and charming, we admire his place, his palace, a castle of sorts in the wilds of Calgary, he's a trophy room filled with the kills he's made all over Alberta, the territories, a hundred different animals all stuffed and mounted, it's impressive, where's Alberta's wildlife? Why, it's all dead in *****'s kill room...
We pass the obligatory time, socialize according to our inclination, it's a bit like work, but less service and freer with the drinks and food. And when we're done we escape, politic goals achieved, it's a different world, and we're both glad to be returning...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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Paul, aka "Two Scoop" as he was nicknamed, (a reference to his shape, think Ice Cream Cone), a giant, 300 lbs of redheaded medieval fury, but in disposition docile, calm, 30 years old and like many of his generation living contentedly in his parent's basement.
In the olden days he would have been a blacksmith, capable of ridiculous feats of strength, hauling two gas filled heaters singlehandedly up a frozen mud path, one in each hand, these were jobs that required 4 or 6 temps pushing and pulling together, Paul, he could do it on his own.
At lunch he would devour his Tim Hortons sandwich, watch his phone, laughing to himself at funny videos you could only guess the content of, with his constant companion Joe, you could bust them blowing snow off the decks, leafblowers on their backs, know by their sheepish expressions that they were both caught playing "Ghostbusters"...
He denies it, adamantly, but he looks very much like someone that would spend a lot of time playing dungeons and dragons...
Paul didn't like Magic. Or, he as he claimed, he liked magic, just not my magic, which, to be fair, is more like wizarding than magic, but as wizarding is a somewhat obsolete term I use the more vernacular phrases like "prestidigitation", "illusions", "legerdemain" and "conjurer"...He still disagrees.
"Think of any number between 1 and 100..." I tell him. "Don't write it down.". I make a secretive little note on a pad, shopping list for when I finish work. "What's the number you were thinking of?" I ask him..."71" he replies, I nod knowingly and tap my nose "Exactly the same number I was thinking of ..." I tell him. "You're just agreeing with me" he argues. Joseph, he gets it, acknowledges that I'm a wizard of the first order, doesn't doubt that I knew Dumbledore and Gandalf, Paul, he's not convinced...
"Another one. Think of any number between one and five" I'm holding my hand behind my back...."Four" replies Paul...I remove my hand and show him 4 fingers extended. "Again?" I prompt him, but he's not playing anymore...
***
From my perspective hanging off the towers, 100 feet in the air, I can see the entire pit, waiting for the pour to finish so we can tarp, spot Paul, usually with Joe, they're talking or bumblefuckedly standing about. This is the one perk to this job in construction, you're privy to the big picture, can see what everyone above-decks is doing, Paul, Joe, invariably they're doing nothing, leaning on shovels or wandering about the site...
The Sky-Crane is flying in forms, panels, Paul is standing about watching, I find him, and with grand flourishes and gestures set about trying to convince him that I'm moving them with the force, "Like Yoda Taught Me", the men waiting for the panels, they see me, "Don't stop...left...bring it in...Use the Force", Paul merely shakes his head, walks away in disgust.
***
I've told Paul that I'm also a hypnotist, and when I find him next tending his heaters I make a few passes in front of his face, assure him he's been hypnotized, tell him that he will no longer feel the urge to smoke, that he won't remember a thing, that he'll wake up refreshed...he tells me he can't be hypnotized, I tell him he already has, that he's awake and refreshed, I leave him ...
Over lunch, in the trailer with the other men I boast about having hypnotized Paul to quit smoking. Paul glowers in the corner ... "I never smoked! Ever! Never a cigarette in my life...!". I merely nod in a self-satisfied sort of way..."You didn't Paul, and you won't again..."...The guys, they're impressed that he gave it up, nasty habit, a couple of them ask me later if I'd hypnotize them...
***
I've been given an assistant, Luke, shorter, good looking young lad from Nova Scotia. Classic small town boy, charming, good natured, he's to learn and master the art of Tarpentry so he can take over when I go off prospecting. There's more to learn than this, however, and so I take him off to find Paul, picking up an old discarded work glove, block of wood, pack of katsup saved from lunch, find Paul beneath the tarps, setting up heaters in the labrynthine depths of the parkade...
"I am going to show you a new Illusion...for Easter...I call it "Crucifixio"..."
And I set about laying my hand on on block while Luke hammers a nail through it and I scream and writhe as if in agony...Katsup spurting out...Paul's not buying it, grabs me, tries to grab my hand, we wrestle (and at 300 pounds what are my chances?), Luke, my assistant, grabs the prop glove and escapes while I pop my hand out of my sleeve "Ta-Da!"... He's worse than any five-year old hellion at a birthday party, but I like the challenge...
***
Late at night, a dozen men waiting for the concrete to dry enough that we can tarp, I've packed along a couple of fortune cookies. I hold them out to Paul: "Pick one, either one..." He refuses. The other men insist, eventually he gives in. "Open it" I tell him, "Read your fortune aloud...". He grudgingly complies..."You will meet an influential friend for dinner...". I nod knowingly, "You see?" I tell him, the foreman wants to know how I did it, what my fortune reads, I merely pocket it and smile...
Sometimes it's just conversation, there's no desire to illuminate or elevate him, just the days shit, news, catching up. "I had a friend" I tell him "Who visited Chernobyl and got bit by a spider...afterwards he got real sick but then when he got better he could shoot spider webs from his wrists...". He doesn't believe me, I shrug, it's true, they made a movie kinda-about it if he doesn't believe me...
***
"Have you ever seen the documentary Harry Potter?" I enquire...he just looks at me. Some conversations are shorter than others.
***
I've found him, am showing him my ventriloquist routine, skeptical as always he bears it while I hold a grimace in the shape of a smile and throw my voice.."Hey Paul...over here...behind this pillar..." and "Hey Paul, look down here, it's me, you're hammer talking, we gotta talk buddy". Paul just looks at me, swears he can see my lips move, tells me I'm without a doubt the worst ventriloquist he's ever seen.
I'm not gonna take this lying down. From high above the site, hanging off the forms, I can see him, standing around the heaters, warm, bastard. I pull up his number on my phone and give him a ring..."Hey Paul...it's me, Rod...I'm throwing my voice into your phone right now..."
He looks around, spots me..."No you're not, I heard it ring..."
I reply "Yes I am. I made that ringing sound with my voice because I'm just that good a ventriloquist..."
And hang up. Sometimes you quit when your ahead...
...but idea leads onto idea, and before long I've talked Luke into being my Ventriloquist dummy...we find Paul, I do my grimace and pretend to work Lukes back while he looks side to side and says "Hi Paul...it's me Rod...I'm throwing my voice into Luke's mouth...see, my lips aren't moving at all...", but this fails, Luke can't keep his shit together, Paul starts laughing too, laughter, it's death to Wizards and Sorcery in general, I escape...
***
Paul's removing the heaters from the columns, I'm charged with detarping them, before I begin unwrapping them I tell Paul: "Imagine...whatever you want it to be...it will become. Tell me...my greatest illusion yet. What do you want? An Elephant? A Car?"
Paul just looks at me. "It's a column" he says. "As you wish..." and I begin. Like so many he's the victim of his own lack of imagination.
He's not around for the "Ta-Da".
***
Luke's invented an illusion of his own, magnet in Glove, finds nail, throws it into the distance, miraculously reappears it on the tip of his finger. He's got Paul stumped for a minute or two while he figures it out. So it goes, the pupil becomes the master...
***
Pocket Ninja
We're picking up loose bits of rebar from the site, stray pieces, when I have an idea. Paul's standing near...I've got a 6 and an 8 inch piece...
"Paul, would you be interested in purchasing a Pocket Ninja personal defense device? Me and Luke have been making them...39.95$ for the base model, $59.95 for the Pocket Ninja and Pocket Ninja Pro..."
Paul is unimpressed, so we quote to him the company mantra "Safety first Paul".
He's still not convinced, I explain the benefits, he's trying to argue that these are just a couple of loose pieces of rebar we found on the site...
"Under decks, guy like you alone here in the dark, all these Columbians and Filopinos around Paul, it's not safe, you could be raped..."
He spies his counter arguement, a pile of rebar lying just beyond the reach of the floodlights, finds his own pocket ninja...
"Beware of Cheap Imitations, Paul..." I warn...
We continue like this for a good 20 minutes, I show him all the ninja defense moves he could do, offer lessons, he's not having any of it. Paul, Paul, Paul...
***
We're all waiting in the trailer for the concrete to cure so we can tarp, a cold winter night, they're up there, polishing, scrubbing, we can sit and be warm until we're needed.
I tell Luke that I'm going to show him how to hypnotize Paul, loudly, Paul's sitting across from us, I tell Luke I'm going to make Paul cluck like a chicken and behave ridiculously, Paul, he won't catch my eye, I'm puzzled, and I figure it out...he's genuinely afraid of being hypnotized, and for a brief moment I feel for him...
***
When I left construction they threw me a party. I think in their fucked up way they thought they'd miss me. The foreman made attendance mandatory. From Paul I got a child's magic kit, full of illusions he felt that I could master. From Joe, a rubber inflateable sex doll to keep me company on the lonely roads ahead - "Mylie: Daddy's little stoner just can't wait for you to bone her..." (That astonished open-mouthed gaze peering through the cellophane...). From the others, gold pans, samples of gold, a rubber fist (and my mind immediately thought of the illusions I could do with this, an extra hand?), various other trifles, I'd never in my life had a party this good. But these guys could drink, could they ever drink, and before the night was over astonished Mylie was blown up and raped with a pool cue in front of an astonished bar full of non-constructions workers.
That was when the bar owners asked us all to leave.
Ever-after my constant companion, and ever after uninflateable, I was denied my conjugal priviledge. Didn't matter, it was time to go, pack up, find the happier trails...
***
I've often thought of Paul since then, thought of sending him post-hypnotic suggestions to keep him non-smoking, or videos of the new tricks I could do with a rubber fist, with Mylie my assistant (levitating an inflatable assistant is far easier to do than with the more solid flesh and blood counterparts), waving hula-hoops over her gossamer clad form, her perpetual astonished look at my every illusion, but she was deflated, unwilling to cooperate, punctured, the rape had left her breathless, I thought of inventing flyers to promote my travelling conjuring show, performances across BC, tagline "What Unholy Pact with the Devil has given Him these Powers? One Night Only, No refund on souls", but all these plans remained sadly unformed, I wasn't going back to construction, and I wasn't going to get Pauls' hopes up...