Eulogy For A Junkie, by Venetia Butler, June 19 2013
People are
gathering at the Amadeu’s patio because Fred Mamo has died. Amazing really, as
long as I’ve known him, for 23 years, he’s been a junkie. I can say it; he’d be
the first to admit.
Also known as The
Plate, Amadeu’s is a bar and restaurant here in Kensington Market.
One of the first
things Sara M. excitedly told me about Fred, coming home one morning years ago,
besides his accent and him being a good dresser was he did heroin too, like it
was an unexpected bonus: those were our priorities in 1991. He soon
disappointed her, so I don’t trust him.
Don’t get me
wrong, I used too, it was just he was ever-present at The Plate, seemed smarmy, always
dapper, a cheerful dandy, gainfully unemployed, drunk and drugged. For a while,
he wasn’t around. Sometimes it happens here.
There was Julian: panhandling
in the lane in KISS boots and fancy florescent wigs, a black guy, rumored to be
the son of UofT profs, beaten to death.
Paris: selling hot
sauce exuberantly on the street, gone overnight to a heart attack.
Bruce: a big man
with a big red beard, in a kilt and a tam, he was a window cleaner, the tools
of his trade aerodynamically strapped to his bike, going door to door, then
gone having killed himself.
Bosh: handsome,
East Indian, BFG, with a big dog, wanly smiling one day, dead of an overdose
the next, like Handsome Ned.
Amadau: the
amicable owner of the bar, having watched his patrons try to poison themselves
night after night, year after year, dying prematurely in a car crash.
Jeez, the list
goes on and on and on. There aren’t many women on it; we ease the remembrance.
People on the
patio will remind each other how Keith Whitaker died. He fronted The Demics who
sang the song, that goes “I wanna go to New York City, ‘cause they tell me it’s
the place to be.” Someone is still getting royalties from it though I’m told he
hated it. He was a “good” cranky guy versus, say, the “bad” cranky ones,
(several of whom are on the patio as I write this).
Keith was a
serious alcoholic, ex-pat, grungy in the traditional sense, with grimy leather
pants, grubby t-shirt, unshaven, terrible teeth, husky voice, ever-present
stubby ciggie between gold stained fingers. Flip, honest, self-serving,
critical, he’d arrive at The Plate around noon, with a newspaper quartered
under his arm as if it were a racing form, then with a cup of tea, in a smoke
filtered sunbeam, do the crossword puzzle and scold everyone except his
beautiful girlfriend Sue. Usually he was still there long after dusk, evermore
vocal with the lubrication of cheap pints, ending the night, after a blowout,
staggering to a cab and home on Sue’s arm.
For Sue everyday
was a special occasion, with a British accent and prettily made up, she would
look deep into the eyes of whatever lonely heart was pouring itself out that
evening and make a loyal friend for life. It was high status to sit at Sue and
Keith’s table at The Plate.
She was Keith’s
support right through to the end. I saw him when the cancer was almost done. He
had big lumps on his neck, thighs and torso, remaining teeth gone, he was pale,
covered lightly with a crumpled white sheet for modesty on a hot summers night.
He died two days later and has been mourned ever since, the events of his life
and death repeated into lore at the Amadeus.
I have a personal
policy about meeting people at the Plate: do not, DO NOT, smile when being
introduced to someone there for the first time. You could end up married to
them and only realize years later how your careless nicety had drastically
changed your life.
The last time I
saw Fred was fairly recently, a sunny day in March. He was crossing the street
from the bar to a bakery, well known for street drugs. A gallant lumberjack: he
was wearing pressed gabardine pants in a warm colour with suspenders and a red
plaid viella shirt. He wore a jaunty hat, Tyrolean perhaps, its colour same as
the pants with a ribbon to match the shirt.
He saw me and did
this charming Charlie Chaplin one-legged double hop as if he planned to change
direction. He had a big sincere, full face-of-delight smile. Then he continued
after whoever he’d been following, perhaps R who I gather was his last
girlfriend.
For sure he knew
then, what we all know now, he was dying of lung cancer; delighted for one day
of reprieve, in the sun, in Kensington Market, just doing his thing.
Postscript: I did go over to the
Amadeus, much later than invited, around 8:30 when it was still light out. At a
table with Adly, Scotty, Shoney, and a lady who had given me $60 when I was
down once, but who’s name I’ve forgotten, I recited the first draft and got reminiscences
and reminders about Julian, Paris, Bosh, Keith and Sue. A little later at
another table I was reluctant, at first, to tell three ladies, all of whom, I
think, had been girlfriends of Fred. N.C., S.D., and S.M. (mentioned near the
beginning of this article). Each one a tiny bit tipsy, an elegant, composed
Toronto dame, with bright eyes and stories for days.
For the occasion
S.M. had worn a tiny black chapeau with a showy swoop of feather; perfect for a
tujaja at Ascot. She’s carefully she tucked it away for safe keeping until the
next time we all mourn on the patio of the Amadeu’s.
December 12, almost 6 months later,
its minus 16 degrees out there. I’ve been wearing my parka and freegan aqua Uggs.
After a day of meeting with doctors and teachers I was wearily wandering home
through Kensington Market carrying a heavy bag of apples when I past the lady
who had been so kind to me at the beginning of the summer and just gave me $60 out of the blue.
I have noticed of late when I passed her she tensed and her spontaneous smile was hesitant. I
thought she regretted giving the money.
Actually it is because in I didn’t name
her in this article. She pointed out she’s a KM regular been around for years and she
knows some of my friends well. Why couldn’t I remember her name? I apologized
and used surgery as an excuse but really its my old habit of not taking
information seriously, a snobbery and one-up-man-ship I’ve used for years, I think its pretty common among punks.
Not
very nice to be on the receiving end; her name is Barbette I think, she said it
twice I should know.
I guess she won’t
be giving me any money next summer.
