Days Like This

Probably a heart attack killed Russell Biss. Claire viewed his startling death in light of her own recent heart issues. It was frustrating he was so careful to ask her about what happened to her, why didn’t he look after himself? He said he was a “Star Maker”, he gave good advice and promoted those he favoured anyway he could by sending notes and studio tapes to producers in London and LA, or phoning the books editor to point out something they may have over looked. Why didn’t he realize what was happening to him? His unexpected passing reaffirmed how close death seemed lately and it was the ‘third thing’ she’d been waiting for: one was her emergency heart surgery then her niece’s death and now this.

Time changed for her; any future was unimaginable. There were no stages of time, no progression or accumulation; just now and now now. Everything Russell and Claire had done together became extra-vivid.

At first they weren’t friends and they were never introduced. In second year at the Ontario College of Art she saw his band play. When they were couriers they’d nod in passing like all the others.

Standing near each other in the damp and dirty winter uniform of the downtown messenger outside The Plate, a dive bar the favored by reckless, pre-alcoholic bike couriers, Russell and Claire would both compulsively check and recheck their walkie-talkies for calls in case the volume was turned down; being on standby meant not making money.  After the distribution of cigarettes, and the zipping of layers, they’d speak to each other in impatient, one-up-man-ship voices of authority, delighted for company but suffering from long days filled with dangerous close calls faced alone, each had lots to tell. The conversations usually started with basics, “Hey” or “plastic bags work great,” then an expanded discussion about bearings, bottom brackets and the annual Gortek sale. It was when the conversation lasted longer Clare found out that Russell was a freelance music writer. He showed her a piece in a worn and folded Toronto Star.

For a while after that he was a music writer for the Globe and Mail then he was back working the streets and back at the old bar. One evening Claire suggested he apply as a food writer for NOW Magazine, the local independent paper where she worked in the design department. He was exasperated when she finger-tipped the paper advertisement across the table at the bar. He declared, “What do I know about food?”

She reasoned, “the people who read the paper, the ‘demographic’, are more interested in music and lefty politics but they still need to eat.”

He asked, “Where would I write about?”

She shrugged and raised her palms and said, “Here”.

He was sure her bosses wouldn’t consider him. Claire didn’t realize the idea had resonated until a week later he told her he had an interview with the editor. A week after that he dodged the publisher’s questions about wine saying “Your readers drink beer!” His first story was about the The Plate, the bar where they met.

For twenty years, with a brief hiatus while she had a baby, they dined together once or twice a week. Russell did the research and writing, Claire made the reservations, was on time and didn’t draw attention. He knew what to order and ordered for both of them. Claire would try anything. It was fun: getting dressed-up, being there at opening, choosing a great table, ordering a coffee or a San Pellegrino while she waited for Russell.

No one friend could keep up with Russell’s work, he tried each restaurant three times over lunch and supper. He needed a stable of eating partners. Claire, Russell and others had been to hundreds of different places together. With him she had meals she would never have had otherwise.

The deal with Russell was his guests couldn’t say his name out loud, or talk about his articles or mention the paper, although he did it all the time. If she forgot and said, “I read your piece” or “Russell...” he’d scold her with an intake of breath and tense body language as if he were the only Russell in the city and everybody was thinking about him. He took it very seriously. In the early days he reminded Claire more than once, “This is my work, so no need to be social. Bring a magazine if you like. Its food I’m here to see.” She never brought anything to read, but it relieved the impulse to be entertaining.

He was obsessed with keeping his identity a secret. He wouldn’t allow pictures of himself to be published; none appeared in the paper or online. He kept a luchador’s mask for occasions when the publisher or a favored restaurateur insisted on having a photo taken. His day-to-day disguise was more of a lifestyle than an outfit. He would amble into upscale eateries with the casual indifference of the 70’s punk he was. He used his bike as part of the smokescreen; no one would suspect a reviewer of merit to be the a city-hardened commuter defiantly shaking off snow or water while conspicuously stashing helmet, ratty gloves and a single key.

Many times he avoided suspicion, but sometimes staff guessed and upped the customer care obviously. The owner would come out with a big grin and a bottle of wine, patting Russell on the back and shaking his hand like an old friend from the trenches. Those suppers lasted longer.

This happened once during a snowstorm in a particularly remarkable, and for once empty, restaurant downtown. Russell had actually rubbed his hands in gleeful anticipation eyes glittering at his three guests, before he pointed at the short menu, ran his finger down the list and said, “We want to try everything! We’ll share.”

He told them the names and culinary pedigree of the staff working in the open kitchen, he had interviewed and reviewed them all, so it was only a matter of time before the talented chef/owner, toweling his fingers, walked over and shook Russell’s hand and coaxed them to try a martini with local gin, Kombucha and Cointreau. Russell refused but waved the back of his hand to the table to try, like a benevolent dad on holiday.

As Russell talked to the chef, tiny portions of food were gently placed in front of each of them: a single tortellini stuffed with perfectly braised beef cheek, sitting in a flavorful dab of jus, minimally decorated with three purple stemmed radish sprouts, refreshing in winter and in spicy contrast to all the rich food they decorated. There had been course after course that evening: a poached oyster on the half shell, house cured cubes of ham beside a dollop of tart blackberry jam, nothing else on the little block of wood just meat and jam, foie gras toasts, a green soup, a curl of Montforte cheese balanced on house made olives framed by one pickled baby carrot with its top still on, smoked mackerel, roasted quail and fingerling potatoes and small slate roofing tile with a trio of luscious cheese cakes in ramekins: pink rhubarb, golden maple syrup and the same dark purple, tart jam as before. The meal went on for hours. The restaurant closed. The furniture around them was piled in that way restaurants do, all the lights dim except on their table and in the bright kitchen at the back, snow falling, falling, falling outside the plate glass windows in the dark. The chef and kitchen staff brought tiny perfect samplings in turn, each staying for a glass of wine as one of the others worked on the next masterpiece in the kitchen.

A good friend was a newish thing for Claire who’d been living in the city for years, except the bums at the bar, had only connected with people she worked with. Good friends were a rarity but she knew they were evolving with Russell when one afternoon he called first then showed up at her door and let her have it. He had made a special trip to tell her that at lunch the day before she had acted manic, she was talking and laughing fake loudly. She drew attention by sending back food. He’d come with this single message to tell her to take it easy or he couldn’t bring her. Claire, well knowing the longing other ostracized friends felt when he had cut them cold, just said, “Thank you.” She was rewarded by an invitation to lunch later in the week and their relationship improved.

After the paper laid her off, she was unemployed for a while. So in addition to being free for lunch she had time for other luxuries like art classes and writing. She started writing. Russell was a natural critic and gave clear and sincere advice. She was delighted a mutually satisfying subject to talk about over the sometimes dull meals. Under his tutorage her writing would advance.

She had wondered about Russell when they weren’t on-the-job. Her offers of movies, home cooked food or invitations to the cottage were always refused. He said, “Oh you know, my work is to go out. I’m out all the time, when I’m not working I just want to stay in, thank you.” It was true: he didn’t travel, and although he planned to go to friend’s events, he never did. He was becoming reclusive.

He expensed their meals but he was her host and she often let him have the last word. At one of the last meals they had together, brunch in an posh spot in an area with lots of posh spots, she tried to explain, ”I write about the catalysts for decisions, right before people realize they have a choice.” They both watched a waiter with tattoos, a beard, plaid shirt and long shorts step out to the patio. It occurred to Claire Russell could easily come back and strike up something more than a conversation about food.

The bill came; Russell included a memorable tip, they gathered their things from the booth. She went on, “They are optimistic stories, about lives reclaimed, of a better second half.” Together they stepped into the brilliant midday sun, looked in opposite directions.

After a moment Claire turned back and said, “Thank you for lunch.” With a backwards wave, Russell said, “I don’t know about next time. I’ll keep you posted.” They snugged on their helmets, unlocked their bicycles and went off, each in their own direction.

Two days later Claire got an email:
Subject: Lunch? Body: “What's your schedule 2-ish the next few days? Church & Wellesley, -rd”

Then on Friday, the planned meeting day an email saying, “No lunch today. I've got a stomach bug and was up all night. Back to bed! -rd”.

That was the last.

On Tuesday it was jobless Claire who sped 11 bocks on her bike over to Russell’s house, after his editor rang inquiring if she had seen him lately, the paper had a deadline. It was she who paced around the whole three story building looking for a way to break into the second floor corner apartment she had visited only once in all these years. She called 911 to summon EMS.

She who comforted from the seedy boarding house hallway “We’re coming, everything will be okay” and stood back while EMS used a special pry bar to force the lock. A small bachelor apartment with a large metal office desk set diagonally across the middle of the main room. A huge flat-screened TV, a huge computer monitor, a wall of cookbooks and another wall of band handbills. EMS trudged single file: office, kitchen, bedroom and came back single file to look at her, wondering if she’d called in a prank.

Claire dismissed their implied mischief stares to: think, think, think! Where are you? Dazed she walked in an eerie smell of man-sleep and something else past Russell’s unmade bed, with blackout curtain draped over the post, swung back the towel hanging over an unseen door and pushed it against’ the leg of her friend, dead on the bathroom floor. On his back, head into the red-painted corner, his hands near his shoulders as if about to adjust his hair, almost unrecognizable with four days of stubble, tiny clear bubbles along his lips, naked except flat grey penis over the top of black Y-fronts.

Propped against the red wall there was a tall yellow with red letters Plexiglas sign: “GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS. Hanging on the wall four staring dolly-face molds, tarnished brass, side-by-side, one with a scuff of red spray paint around its surprised little “oh” mouth, a slightly erotic witness.

Claire stepped backwards, wanted someone to be surprised with her. Actually she wanted Russell to be surprised with her. He would have loved this: coming across a dead body in the middle of the day without warning. At first the professionals couldn’t hear her. “I found him. He’s there.” Then one went back to check, and bsoon back with, “No vitals” answering the unspoken query from the others confirming what Claire already knew.

 She tried to seal this image into her memory, a little later she asked if she could take a picture of her dead friend. She had to. She even asked though she could have anyway, the bathroom entrance was so small nobody would have seen. She had known since the phone call, maybe since the email she sent four days before, and email which ever prompt Russell had never returned. 

 2281 words