Won’t die of a thousand fakes

After I pay my bill and wave off a second cup of coffee, Gord starts to sing, “scared” and I am immediately thrown back in my booth to listen. How I love the timber of his voice, I think this and swirl the remains of my cup while examining the simple sign of the restaurant: timber. The tragically hip: cool boy lyrics that I was never quite cool enough to understand. Reminds me of the boys I dated when I bought this tape, back when a person bought tapes: Tofino camping, tangled ringlets that smelled of sea weed, tobacco leaf on the tongue, skin that smelled like chocolate orange and all that unrequited love. Bad for the heart, bad for the poetry. Cooking vegan with Jodie before it was common and cool to be vegan. Listening to Anita whisper her favourite poems by the sea, the sun shining on her long dark hair. Watching Jeremy ponder and pull at his eyebrow: what is that man thinking about now? Roaming the streets of my neighbourhood in the middle of the night, trying to untangle ugly politics in the work place,  wrestling with the angel of God, “Why do you have me by the heel?! I never asked for this fight.” The first of many shattering disappointments. Welcome to life.

Oh little fiery one, now you’re about to turn fifty and face a two show day of Shakespeare. There’s a play in Italy. There’s a play in New York. There’s a third acre with chickens and a fireman sleeping in your bed. There’s a daughter with ringlets. If you only knew that then…

How very like my night last night. I was to take transit to the Bay and water taxi midnightish to the Cove. But bridge repairs delayed the bus and god knows the whatnot, I was stuck, roaming downtown Vancouver at one in the morning looking for a hotel with a vacancy that wasn’t five hundred dollars. What friend would I call at this ungodly hour? I was in tears, warding off drunks. I was not prepared to be stuck. I had two pounds of butter melting in my purse and no tooth brush. I had chickens to feed and pies to bake. I had a big day tomorrow.

But Joel offered up a haven as did Linda. Within minutes of me posting, “Is anybody up…?” I tucked away at Linda’s because it was a two block walk. I had the best sleep I’ve had in months. My dead end turned into a little high rise getaway with a view of the harbour.

I can buy pies. Scott can feed the birds.

Tonight my cast of beautiful youth are throwing a “nineties party”, post show, thinking that’s pretty cool. I shake my head with a smile and head off to find a thrift store that might have fishnets, baby berets and ripped up high waisted jeans. Gord is now singing:

“I hear your voice cross a frozen lake
A voice from the end of a leaf
Saying, “You won’t die of a thousand fakes
Or be beaten by the sweetest of dekes”.