Years
ago, coming home to the communal house they shared on McCaul Street, one
morning slim, tall and blond Sara M. excitedly told Claire about the amazing Fred
she had met and spent the last few days with, “he’s into vintage clothing, he’s
a great dresser. He’s Maltese! And has a British accent!” As a bonus he did
heroin too, such were their priorities in 1991.
Fred
had quickly disappointed Sara and since then Claire didn’t trust him. It wasn’t
the smack that she distrusted, Claire used too, everybody did, it was just he
was always in Kensington Market, sitting at The Plate. He was a dandy, always
dapper, unaccountably cheerful, gainfully unemployed, smarmy, drunk and drugged.
Claire
hadn’t seen him for a while, that happens in KM people straighten out, go clean
or go back home or go to jail. Or die. No world plague for them, these were personally
manageable premature deaths.
Like
Julian a young black guy, rumored to be the son of University of Toronto profs,
in high KISS boots wearing a florescent pink wig with bangs, pan-handling in a
back laneway when he could stand, beaten to death there when he couldn’t.
Like
Paris, a charismatic tale graceful black man, he might have been a dancer once,
exuberantly selling his homemade hot sauce, gone with a heart attack overnight.
Like
Bruce, in a kilt and a tam with a red beard, he was a window cleaner with the
tools of his trade aerodynamically strapped to his bike, going door to door,
then suddenly gone for good having volunteered (killed himself).
Like
Bosh, a handsome, East Indian hunk in bulky black leather jacket covered in
band patches, studs and chains. He was a Bunch of Fucking Goofs groupie, with a
big dog (son of Derty Dawg’s maybe?), wanly smiling one day, and dead of an
overdose the next, just like local and famous Rock-a-Billy, Handsome Ned.
Even
Amadau, the amicable Portuguese owner of the bar, died prematurely in a car
crash. Ironic, having watched his patrons try to poison themselves night after
night, year after year.
Jeez,
the list went on and on and on. Claire realized there were few women on it; they
were left to ease the remembrance.
The
people on the patio would remind each other how Keith Whitaker died. He fronted
the band The Demics, and sang the big hit someone is still getting royalties for,
the chorus goes, “ I wanna go to New York City…” Keith hated it.
Claire
had always considered Keith “good” cranky guy versus, say, the “bad” cranky
ones, (several of whom were on the patio that day).
Keith
was a committed alcoholic, an ex-pat with grimy leather pants, faded, almost illegible
band t-shirt, unshaven, terrible teeth, husky voice, and ever-present stubby ciggie
between gold stained fingertips. Flip, self-serving, critical, but ostensibly
honest, he’d arrive at The Plate with a newspaper quartered under his arm like
a racing form noonish then with a cup of tea, in a smoke filtered sunbeam, do
the crossword puzzle and scold and swear at everyone except his beautiful
girlfriend. Usually he was still there long after dusk, evermore vocal with many
pints of cheap draft, fighting with patrons and ending the night, staggering to
a cab and home on enduring Sue’s arm.
Always
prettily made-up and pulled together, for Sue everyday was a special occasion, she
also had a British accent, she would open-mindedly look deep into the eyes of
whatever lonely heart was pouring its out that evening and make a loyal friend
for life. She was Keith’s support right through to the bitter end. It used to
be pretty high status to sit at Keith and Sue’s table at The Lisbon Plate.
Claire
went to visit Keith and Sue at home when he was almost done. On a hot summers
night, he was covered lightly with a crumpled white sheet for modesty. He had big
lumps on his neck, thighs and torso, remaining teeth gone and so pale. He died two
days later and has been mourned ever since, the events of his life and death repeated
into lore at the Amadeus.
Claire
had developed a personal policy about meeting people there: do not, DO NOT smile
when being first introduced to anyone at The Plate; you could end up married to
them and only realize years later that your careless nicety had ruined your
life.
Claire
had seen Fred Mamo fairly recently actually, on a rare sunny day in March
perhaps? He was crossing Augusta from the bar to Friendly’s Bakery, well known
for provenance of street drugs. He was dressed that day as a Gallant
Lumberjack wearing perfectly pressed tan coloured gabardine pants
with suspenders, a red and black plaid viella shirt tucked in, bright white T-shirt
peaking at the neck. He had a jaunty hat on, Tyrolean perhaps, same colour as
the pants with a burgundy ribbon.
He
had seen Claire too, shown her a big sincere, full face-of-delight smile and
did a charming Charlie Chaplin one-legged double hop as if he planned to change
direction. Then he continued on after whoever he’d been following, perhaps Ruth, who Claire found out later was
his last girlfriend.
For
sure he knew then, what everyone knew now, he was dying of lung cancer: delighted
for one day of reprieve, in the sun, in Kensington Market, just doing his own thing.
Claire
went to the memorial much later than invited, 8:30 -it was still light out. At
a table with regulars from the old days: Adly, Scotty, Shoney, and a lady who
had given her $60 when she was down once, but who’s name Claire never knew or
had forgotten, she listened to reminiscences and reminders about Julian, Paris,
Bosh, the others, Keith and beautiful Sue who was still winning hearts. A
little later at another table Claire was reluctant at first, to sit with three
ladies, all of whom, had been girlfriends of Fred, Each one an elegant,
composed Toronto dame, a bit tipsy, with bright eyes and stories for days
including her old roommate, still stunning and now a successful costume
designer, Sara. Sara wore a tiny black chapeau with a swoop of black feather
and tulle veil, the hat perfect for a Yorkshire terrier. She carefully tucked it
away for safekeeping until needed again.
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