Meanwhile, back at Red’s Smokehouse
There’s always a warm welcome that awaits me when I come into Red’s Smokehouse with Lenny. It’s not unlike the friendly greeting that would await a particular character from a certain 80’s television show.(Okay, goddamnit! It’s Norm from “Cheers”. Please don’t sue me.) It seems so joyful and inviting that it makes you wonder why there aren’t even more people who wouldn’t choose to be functioning alcoholics. Of course Mary, our bartender, is always glad we came because, just like our ol’ buddy from Cheers, we’re about to spend a few rubles and a chunk of that goes to her. Besides, she genuinely enjoys being the sober companion on our road to eventual inebriation. She’s the sherpa whose skills we rely on to bring us safely upwards to the peak. The “peak” in this case is not a mountain and “safely” means that Mary didn’t have to cut us off before we could walk away with an acceptable amount of dignity.
Lenny prefers sitting at the bar for a few reasons and I get it completely. He’s already neurotic to begin with and hanging out with guys like me and the other barflies makes him more susceptible to anxiety. His professional reputation could easily be tarnished when considering the company he keeps. Barflies are generally sociable by their nature and therefore have been known to talk. Remarkably, some of them are even known to be sociable when sober and they still enjoy talking!
Lenny is friendly to all of them and is even on a first name basis with most but he, like myself, is insistent on sitting away from the group that congregates merrily at the large wooden table. The table is best suited for 8 drinkers but often occupied by up to 12 or more, some of whom decide to order food as well. Even during the uncertain covid times, when the government insisted upon safe distancing measures, you would still find these barflies squished shoulder to shoulder like rummies in a mosh pit. Not surprisingly, some of them are now dead.
Lenny is also in possession of a caustic wit which does not always mix well with his Irish Catholic tendency to call somebody out on their bullshit. And you are going to hear an enormous pile of bullshit when you hang around drunks. I’m happy to sit at the bar with Lenny and not just because he’s my best friend. I have my own reasons.
I am considered a big man by most others and I believe that to be because I’m an obese man but, because I’m generally liked, nobody wants to hurt my feelings. I think this is very nice of them but naive nevertheless, as I am consciously aware of my own body. Being fat requires that much more space already, making comfort difficult to find in a sardine can.
I am also hopeful that they don’t take my expansive girth as a deliberate effort to look like the kind of big man who likes to fight. It represents exactly what one should think: Unhealthy eating habits, chronic alcoholism, and an appalling lack of self discipline. I have scrapped a lot in the past because being the youngest of three Irish newfie boys meant fighting back was the necessary means for survival. Given a preference, I would choose never having to find out if I am still capable of kicking somebody’s ass. I am even less anxious to find out if I could withstand a beating myself.
At this stage in life I am in no shape to defend my friend’s honour should some unruly barfly’s pride be rattled by Leonard Timleck’s caustic wit. I have an acerbic tongue myself and I am fully aware of how deeply my words can cut. Shamefully, I’ve inadvertently wounded my own loved ones with some of my more compulsive statements. That was probably at the core of most beatings bestowed upon me by my older brothers during my formative years.
Having lived in Kitchener that much longer than Lenny, I have made that many more appearances at Red’s. I used to sit with those at the coveted table firmly cementing my alcoholic legacy while developing the uncanny ability to distribute my sarcasm both gently and evenly. I eventually evolved to the bar of my own accord when the table’s population began to soar like a third world country.
I suppose it was just perceived to be where the action was. One regular would introduce a friend and he’d join us at the table. The next week the friend would bring his friend and they would just sit at the table as if knowing a regular meant that you were now considered a regular yourself. It just kept growing from there and eventually it became just plain awkward to physically enjoy a beer. It was getting ridiculously overcrowded and it was completely unnecessary as there were plenty of other tables for them to go to.
The Covid crisis had put the barfly lifestyle upon a literal rollercoaster ride with mandatory shutdowns suddenly followed by clumsy attempts to reopen. There was more than just advised safe distancing measures to disregard, it also provided too many stupid people with too much time to develop stupid thoughts. Of course the anit-vaxers began with the expert advice that they’d recently acquired courtesy of some quack’s Youtube podcast. Given the severity of the pandemic crisis, any medical professional who actually had time to post videos on Youtube was probably not really a medical expert. But these dimwits could not come up with anything better than what they’d spent most of their time already doing anyway, getting drunk and watching T.V.
Despite the initial shock and discomfort that lockdown had on our daily regiment, there’s no denying that it did provide people with excessive free time. What people choose to do with their own free time is very dependent on the individual. For those duller tools locked in the shed, their main concern was the answer as to why they could no longer hang out aimlessly and get drunk in a pub. Afforded the very same opportunity as every other citizen they were unable to successfully adapt and evolve. They were too compelled to find out why they could not just stay the same and hang out aimlessly and get drunk in a pub.
Trying to engage with an anti-vax conspirator was bad enough but it was the arrival of all the other preposterous claims that drove me away from the table to the respite of the nearby bar. How many letters does a movement need to describe its members as not being of the standard heterosexual variety? What if there’s a transgendering flat-earther? Shouldn’t they be included too?
To this very day I try to resist engaging in conversation with other specific regulars. It’s not that I hate them, it’s just that I don’t really like them. Still though, I have learned how to remain friendly and often engage from my seat at the bar. I certainly can’t decide who sits at the table but I can decide that I’m not going to sit there.
At one point the table was like a revered hall of fame for barflies. Now it’s become a rock and roll hall of fame for barflies because virtually anybody can get in and the true legends won’t even consider its validity. I’d be lying if I were to deny the appreciation of such a positive reception, but eventually I would be lying if I continued to sit with some of them. I’m certain there are a few that don’t like me either but, unlike them, at least I don’t have to lie about it.
Mostly all of the barflies know me from different places that I have worked at..and then later drank at upon shift completion. Some of them were first introduced to me when I was a bartender or server. They’re aware that I’ve been in this business for a long time and 30 plus years of my service industry grind has taken place right before some of their eyes in Kitchener.
Lenny, on the other hand, is received with the sort of apprehension reserved for immigrants. He hasn’t lived in the KW region long enough for the locals to fully embrace him as one of the community. There is always a level of mistrust among suburbanites that is associated with being from another culture, and the big city of Toronto is considered just that. That is something I can certainly attest to as it took me about 20 years to finally feel at home here myself. He’s only been living here for just over 5 years and, at that rate, there is a realistic possibility that he may be dead before he gets his citizenship.
He’s just uncomfortable with barflies knowing his personal business and doesn’t want them to know how he earns his bread and butter. He’s not embarrassed by it. If anything, he passionately believes in what he does. He’s obsessed with charting the unexplored depths of the human mind. As mentioned, he’s well aware of the potential risk to his reputation. But just like me, he also doesn’t like to talk about his work when he’s trying to enjoy not thinking about work.
Mary knows that he’s a shrink and Lenny is aware that she knows. It isn’t shocking as we have been drinking in her presence for the last few years. Unlike our ex-wives, she’s actually willing to stick around for a mere 15% of our expenditures. And just like a wife she makes it her business to know the business of others. Sometimes she may make a probe with a seemingly innocent query but the deep stuff she gets by eavesdropping. That’s easy to do while she’s making a drink or pouring beer from the conveniently located draught taps. If it’s extremely sensitive information we can always step outside for a smoke but even that can present a problem. Other barflies who smoke tend to also enjoy ingesting their lung cancer in a congenial group setting and so they will follow our lead like lemmings over a cliff. As well, Lenny doesn’t smoke.
When you’re tight with another person there is a kind of telepathy that develops between the two of you and you’re able to convey a sentiment or thought without having to actually speak. While it is handy to also have that same uncommon communication with your bartender, it is important to have an entirely separate unspoken language for your best friends. It’s like our Latin to the bartender’s Flemish. Lenny and I are both multilingual in that sense.
On this particular evening it is Leaf’s game day at the bar. The fact that there are televisions inside the establishment is an indication of where the business’ priorities lie. An obvious hierarchical statement is made when the 41st game of an 82 game hockey season dominates the environment surrounding you. Diners are considered somewhat of a lesser species than drinkers in this place because they don’t generate as much income.
You’re not going to see any televisions in the high end places because it’s considered gauche by the upper echelons of society who have an upstanding reputation to maintain. They don’t want television to distract them from watching other people eat. Those likeminded who also overspend needlessly, in turn, watching you eat. Nevermind the chance that a Harvey’s commercial might cause people to question the validity of their most recent purchase. I suppose one can always find refuge by sneaking a peek into their cell phone to catch the score.
Likewise, you don’t see televisions in a fast food joint. As the name implies, the quicker the food for money transaction can be achieved, the happier both parties are to have it done. Somebody able to sit through an entire sporting event at a fast food joint is a sad indicator that they are probably homeless.
Speaking of homeless, Red’s Smokehouse has their very own resident hobo. Not surprisingly, he was among the regulars who sat at the pseudo prestigious table of honour. His homeless situation has unfortunately caused his barfly credentials into question as it appears some of his decisions appear to be closely associated with that of a dysfunctional alcoholic. It’s not unlike one of those suspenseful spy novels where the truth isn’t revealed until just before the end. An Ian Fleming novel if it were to be reimagined by the uniquely twisted mind of Hunter S. Thompson.
His name is Richard and he is as hardcore about the Toronto Maple Leafs as he is about his alcohol abuse. There are rumours circulating about why Richard happens to be homeless to begin with. It was only a few months ago that he appeared to be living a seemingly uneventful existence as a lonely, sports loving barfly though the clues were there. He had always been prone to odd behaviour and was steadfast in his refusal to hear opinions other than his own. We all just assume that’s what led to his downfall. There are many who secretly think he had it coming and there are those who suspect a mental illness as being the catalyst. Either way, this guy loves the Leafs!
Everybody is uncomfortable when Richard shows up in his Leafs jersey. He has a knapsack that he wears on his back while he travails the rocky road of deprivation. He only takes out the jersey for gameday where he’ll stand outside in the cold and watch the game through the bar windows. The fact that it is January in Canada, and therefore very cold, has a strange effect on some of the other Leaf fans who may also happen to be barflies. It’s not very long before the guilt trip causes one of them to crack and invite him inside. Here he gets to stay warm while they pay for his beers out of the goodness of their heart. In Southern Ontario, any other team’s jersey means that ol’ Richard may not be making it through the cold night.
Lenny bristles at the very sight of Richard and it does not mix well with his own existential anxieties. While he possesses the very same empathy as most, he’s also not likely to be conned. Perhaps it’s our big city upbringing but both of us are cognizant of the fact that compassion has its limits and shameless behaviour seems to be in endless supply.
Lenny is always paranoid that Mary is going to suggest that he treat Richard’s potential mental illness when he makes his awkward appearances on game day. She wouldn’t though because in better times Richard had always been a horrible tipper and did little to merit any empathy in her thoughts.
Russell Shalebank was tonight’s charitable donor and he walked past us with Richard trailing behind him like an emotional support dog. Russ is a sweet guy but he’s not particularly skilled at reading a room. He slapped me on the back in a friendly gesture upon approach.
“Look what the cat dragged in!” He announced loudly, oblivious to the inference that was just implied.
“Hey.” I muttered back. I was sure to avoid eye contact like some teenager who didn’t want his Mom to know that he was high.
Lenny has no problem with maintaining eye contact because he deals with crazy people all the time and so he’s honed that charade. When he’s unable to say anything supportive or nice he says nothing, just like his Mother taught him. So he stayed silent and gave a firm nod instead, it was an acknowledgement to Richard confirming an awkward awareness of their shared existence and that was to be the sole extent of their relationship. No more, no less. Sweet and simple.
“It’s a big game tonight.” Russ continued enthusiastically for no apparent reason “We’re playing the Habs.”
“Great.” I said glibly, making no effort to match his glee “Go Leafs, go.”
Russell and Richard made their way to the other end of Mary’s bar, where she greeted them with a frown of disapproval. She did not approve of letting Richard drink in the bar but Nick was the owner and he felt that it just meant more money for him in the long run. He also had a twisted notion that somehow he was contributing to charity as well because the bar did provide free popcorn.
“I hate it when Leafs fans say we’re playing the Habs tonight..” Lenny sighed under his breath “It’s not like they have anything to do with the final outcome.”
“Unless sports is fixed like I’ve always said.” I replied “Toronto is a huge hockey market and there are a lot of people who like betting on their games. Most of these guys here bet money on the Leafs. In a sense, I guess they are kind of responsible for the outcome. If they didn’t care who won the game then they wouldn’t watch and, if they didn’t watch, there would be no need for the games to be played in the first place. That would lead to the collapse of a few micro economies..”
Lenny brought his pointing finger and thumb ever so close together, a universally accepted symbol of measurement.
“You know that you’re this close to being considered a conspiracy theorist, bud. Are you gonna tell me that the earth is flat next? Or how clear is actually a colour..”
I thoroughly enjoyed rattling my friend’s cage with my asinine life observations and I suspect that, deep down, he liked it too. Otherwise he would charge me for my counselling sessions and he currently did not. It was an unspoken rule that I would pick up the tab for our post counselling drinks. It seemed like a fair trade off to me. He kept me sane and, in turn, I kept him sufficiently buzzed.
“First of all,” I replied, “clear could not be a colour because it doesn’t have an appearance. It’s invisible, so technically it doesn’t even exist in a physical form.”
Lenny shook his head and smirked, generally a precursor for a vigorous disagreement.
“What? Are you gonna tell me that the wind doesn’t exist because we can’t actually see it?”
“Of course it exists! But you can’t see it and, therefore, does not have a colour”
“What about a tornado then? We’ve all seen them.”
I knew that the tables had been pulled on me, as Lenny so often liked to do. We both had always loved debating the most mundane subjects. It was a harmless joust that we engaged in where a victor would never be declared. It would always be me who loved to bring other people into our little game as I considered myself to be a bit of a social scientist in my own right. When Mary came by with two more draughts, I asked her.
“Hey, do you think clear should be considered a colour?”
She furrowed her brow and scowled at me for having asked such a redundant question.
“What d’ya think? Ya think maybe it’s time that I finally cut you off after all these years?” She smiled indicating that she was teasing me, because we both knew that cutting me off meant cutting off about 10 others that were clearly drunker than me.
She snapped back “It’s not a colour” and went about her business.
“I don’t think that we can fully discount clear as colour.” The familiar voice of our homeless barfly, Richard, chimed in from a few barstools down.
The murmur around us immediately ceased for a few seconds as if time had literally stopped. Perhaps the entire room had seemingly been captivated by Richard’s thoughtful perspective on the topic and the very gravity of it suggested a required moment of dead silence and sober thought. No, no that wasn’t it at all. Of course it wasn’t. We were all just collectively stunned that Richard was still so convinced that his opinion would merit even the slightest of considerations. Afterall, he was known for being homeless and that is one hell of a heavy statement. Although,the scam of standing outside in freezing temperatures, trying to coerce fellow Leafs fans to buy him beer did require some guile. Should we consider his input?
The lively barroom chatter resumed very quickly as if it had never been paused. As drunk as some of the patrons might’ve been there would be no need to waste time pondering what Richard might think. We were already sufficiently unimpressed with his train of thought.
“I still think professional sports is fixed.” I said to Lenny matter-of-factly, suggesting another topic that may require the analytical skew of our resident homeless representative, should he be listening in.
Admittedly, I do get curious in that regard.