Tender Cuts

Godforsaken, Port Colborne, Ontario, Canada. There I was born in ’65, or so they tell me, don’t really know as I was very young at the time. And to there I often return to see Mum and others who remain, not everyone having the good fortune to decamp as I did one spectacular midsummer evening under the majestic canopy of a starlit night, as I envisioned the other side of the smog as being, and over nickel oxide-laced soils of the once fruitful Niagara region, the now sterile dirt courtesy of INCO. But I romanticize – I actually was in and out of that cesspool until my mid-twenties, when I finally procured employment elsewhere. After that though, I never looked back unless it was to see if Ma was cooking, which usually she was, eventually inspiring adherence to a regular fortnight visit to ensure all was well, “all” usually meaning my tummy.

The usual motor powered route to Port Colborne from Burlington, Ontario is quite simple; a dogleg right in St. Catharines and straight ahead until the road is no more. All told its ninety kilometers or so by highway and perhaps seventy as the crow flies, however that a crow would ever beeline for Port in that manner is unlikely as two identical snowflakes, the same going for bees themselves or any creature for that matter. Simple right turn in St Kitts or not, the fact is that Port is out of the way big time, the major thoroughfares having by passed it long ago in favor of places with life, hope and promise. The only crows seeking residence there I imagine to be those with malaria-lesioned little brains that little rogue fleas deposited there in their little rogue travels, the crows’ then mad, erratic flight depositing them in Port only after headlong encounters with abandoned buildings or tombstones.

But it is, or was, home, and to home I went one recent summer day.

While my need to be properly fed, clothed and watered is alone dire enough to circle me back to Port Colborne on occasion, this day’s journey also involved a re-birth of sorts. The earliest days of July are apropos for the resuscitation of “Pace,” my prize custom Cadillac, a spectacular two tone, two ton endowment of horse powers that would be a welcome enhancement to any man’s mid-life crisis stable.

During the off season, Pace is comfortably housed in my mother’s garage, a cinder block fortress constructed by my father and uncles fifty years ago but not seemingly aged since. Having long ago recognized not only the security and stability of the build, but also its elevated nether regions, nooks and crannies, I, at the tender age of thirteen, ensconced girlie magazines in the structure’s most discreet quarters, so discreet in fact that over the years I have since been unable to successfully retrieve them and now I, at the even more tender age of forty eight, live in constant fear of their discovery by my mother, the treasures of chests possibly exposed by a severe weather event, reconstruction project or ambitious housekeeping initiative. Perhaps she may have already discovered them and is saving that little morsel for denudation at an especially sensitive moment that would inflict maximum embarrassment, maybe during a few words at my fiftieth birthday party or something like that. But, it may be that today, within ten feet of each other, rest items that thirty five years ago secretly enhanced and celebrated my puberty and one that now desperately publicizes and promises an ongoing vigor, an elaborate mask fooling only myself.

That I return each year to restart Pace, and me, to a boondock that surely would have inspired Dante’s tenth circle had his premonition been delicate enough, is an irony not to be lost in the shuffle of my bustle, and this trip I recount for you because of its sequence of events that, while not hellish per se, were bizarre to a degree that even Nostradamus could not have forseen.

The plan and path was cumbersome but simple enough; a Goverment of Ontario, or “GO” bus from Burlington to Niagara Falls then another bus or two to Port. Actually, as the GO bus leaves from the centrally located Burlington station and I reside in Aldershot, a western suburb, a short train ride from Aldershot to my first eastbound stop should have kicked it off. In hindsight, it really should have, for the episodes which followed on this day can only be explained as a germinarion of my choice to disregard the route made available to me and others by the System and instead place my stamp on it by choosing an “exercise” walk of several kilometers to the Burlington station in lieu of the train ride, an act seemingly interpreted by the Moerae as a raised middle finger to them personally, my choice being nothing less than an affront the concept of a universal principle of natural order and so apparently blasphemous that the spirits of the Vedic Rta and Egyptian Maat piled on as advisors to the Fates to contrive retribution.

I sensed from the get-go that not getting on the GO was going to get me nowhere save nearer the Precipice of Sanity. The derailment began after only a few minutes and a stop to eat.

Partway in the walk to the station lay Socrates Restaurant, proudly advertising its breakfast specials. I dropped in, knowing it was going to be a long journey today and needing the requisite fueling. I got seated and ordered:

“I would like the BLT sandwich, please.”

“Would you like tomato with that?”

So let’s pause.

I challenge any of you to find in anywhere in the marginalia of Plato a question posed by his mentor Socrates, the Master Querist himself, whether in his millions of questions to his students, or to his dialoguing foils, or in his weakest, drunkest, most poisoned moments, a wringer so jaw-droppingly sub-mental that it compels one to Google-Earth the present address to ensure that one is actually on the earth.

But it was early in the day and I was still fresh and quick:

“Yes, you can add on the tomato. And, oh, can I also get a glass of water, with the glass, not just the water running loosely all over the plate?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks, you know you are a very conscientious waitress.”

“Why thank you!”

“I am going to make sure people hear about you.”

“Great!”

Oh no came the thought. What I am I in for today? What have I done?

Having finished breakfast I set off again. It was a brisk walk, but for some reason I didn’t consult transit departure schedules like I normally would. It was likely the buses departed one each hour, chances being that I would land near the middle of that upon my arrival leaving me thirty minutes or so wait time. If it turned out to be less than that, great, if more, no problem either, it wasn’t about rushing today. It seemed a no-lose scenario.

What I didn’t count on was the unlikely circumstance that I would get to the depot at the exact time the bus was to leave, with my constitution, however, perfectly unprepared to go, or depart, I should more accurately say; an absolute situation as the bus lacked facilities:

“What time exactly are you leaving?”

“Right now, why, do you have to use the bathroom?”

“Yes.”

“OK, there are some near the ticket office. I’ll wait, hurry up.”

“Thanks!”

Of course, the queue for the toilet was protracted and not moving, like, never moving. Finally, the kid at the front of the line tugged at partially opened door handle and peeked in to find…no one.

Holy crap, how long was that kid staring at that door and waiting for nobody?

I, now, of course, realize that it wasn’t no-one but actually a Spirit of Fate that occupied my Machine.

Finally I returned to the bus, the driver walking around just outside and desperately in search of me:

“Thought you weren’t coming back, was going to leave.”

“Yes, sorry and thanks again.”

“It’s not me you need to apologize to…”

I promptly boarded and said sorry to all, only to encounter shoulders colder than the blue gates of hell; not a word in return, just their thoughts you are one of those walkers, aren’t you?…

The polite, very Canadian, custom of moving bags, knapsacks, luggage or books off the seat next to you when a fellow traveler walks down an aisle in search of seating was suddenly not in play:

“Sorry, this seat is taken.”

“Saving this for someone.”

“Sorry…”

OK, OK. I got it. I deserved it. A square foot at the back of the bus where I could stand seemed to have my name on it, just as well so I didn’t have to look at their faces and they didn’t have to look at mine.

Now, one would think that being forced to stand still for an hour and a half ride would be penance enough but the flagellation continued with every stop. Similar to my experience at blackjack tables when I, an inexperienced player who actually just plays for fun and is free of the delusion that it is possible to get rich betting a buck at a time in a casino game, make a “mistake”, meaning I freely chose to take a card or not instead of following the unwritten rules that dictate what action to take, am summarily heckled and crucified by the other players at the table as they believe I hoarded and squandered cards inappropriately, every card to them thereafter not being the one originally destined, especially if it causes them to lose, my choice thus becoming the reason their stunted lives continue their descent into wretchedness, here every red light was met with turns of the neck and corresponding faces that I hoped not to see again with the telepathic communique this red would have been green if you were on time…

Only able to tolerate the slings and arrows of outrageous hostility for so long, the scowls having become both redundant and annoying, by the time we passed the Angels Gate Winery exit about halfway to destination, I had chosen to face backwards instead of front.

Several stops and about forty five minutes later appeared the Niagara Falls Bridge Street terminal where I had to disembark in order to change buses. While it was going to be a full hour and a half until my connection, arrival came not a moment too soon biologically as circulation to my legs had varicosed Help Us and my feet traversed a spectrum of tone reminiscent of Picasso’s Blue Period.

I had little intention of hanging around the terminal for that length of time, if time is even an appropriate as context as it seems to have abandoned these blocks altogether. The signs remain; “‘Open,” “Lunch Specials,” but the wait is only for the next tenants, not customers, the buildings all in recent and repeated abandonment.

The carrier for renowned The Burlington Teen Tour Band actually pulled into the lot sometime earlier but the kids are nowhere in sight, likely having philosophized that if they played in downtown Niagara to no one and nothing the music would not really exist.

My aunt Dora having recently moved from Toronto to the nearby Stamford Estates retirement home, I thought that I would drop in to see her for a bit until the Welland bus was ready. I hopped a cab and a few minutes later walked into the residence:

“Hi Zia”

“Joe, che sorpresa!”

“Yes, butI don’t have a lot of time Zia.”

“Ok, vieni per pranzo.”

“Sure, its lunchtime and I am hungry.”

The dining room, like the entire residence, is simply beautiful. This is the place to be when that stage in life comes. The Niagara area gets increasingly attractive the nearer death approaches.

The waiter soon approached and I ordered the daily special, a bowl of soup and the spring rolls.

The food arrived promptly.

Well, I shouldn’t have been surprised by the portions as senior appetites are not as they once were, but that the dimensions of the “bowl” failed to accommodate even my spoon caused me some chagrin. Eventually, I figured out to pour the contents into the spoon and then was able to enjoy the soup, however briefly.

Just after the first course, came a PA announcement by the manager:

“Welcome to lunch today. I am sorry to say that this morning we lost Ava, one of our friends and a long-time resident. Let’s remember her as we dine and play trivia. Have a nice day.”

Oh, God.

Collectives appetites dropped to their lowest levels since the Navage Nasal Irrigation System commercial last aired.

Then came the spring rolls.

Continuing with the motif of the miniscule, the presentation of the “rolls” immediately led me to conclude that the chef had made a studied calculus of the exact point of differentiation transitioning “singular” to “plural”, the rolls positioned at that precise flexure. There were indeed “two,” but each of lengthwise dimensions that, if combined, would be commonly recognized as barely one, which they surely were before being halved as part of the plurality initiative. With respect to their widths, well, I will just assume they had some; for all I could see the grub was unidimensional.

But Ava’s spirit had killed my hunger anyway.

“Zia, I should get going, don’t want to miss my bus.”

“Non mangiare il spring rolls? Sono magnifiche!”

“Yes I am sure they are Zia, but no.”

The waiter approached.

“Not going to eat them, Sir?”

“You know, they are just too much for me, but don’t let them go to waste, maybe a fiber optics company can use them.”

It was brilliant business, actually. Make the death announcements, kill everyone’s hunger, and save on food.

“Bye Zia.”

“Dire hello il tuo mama.”

“I will.”

The abbreviated lunch allowed me back at the terminal somewhat early, but the Welland bound bus had already showed up and I tried to board.

“You can get on but I am not leaving for twenty minutes,”clarified the exiting driver, “and I take only exact change,” he added, seeing a bill in my hand.

OK, whatever, I’ll spend a few minutes getting some change.

And it was only a few minutes.

Done. Now what to do?

Well, nothing, it was scary and depressing out there on the sidewalk of broken dreams. I decided to get on the bus and wait.

…Yuck, no air conditioning, no windows open…stiller than Ava’s lungs.…and no riders…actually… there is someone back there all curled up… eyes closed…not moving…save for, mercifully, the shallowest of breadths…a young girl in transit to the inner circles of the Peninsula, understandably enough to withdraw a spirited youth into just a youth.

Alright, the driver returned from his break an off we went. Niagara Falls to Welland. Well, not exactly. There were some stops in between. An unusual number, actually, and many that I just didn’t recall seeing on the system map, it was if the driver was showing the bus to his friends. At one point I swear he was hanging half out the window with license in hand:

“Hey guys, I got it back, I got it back!!”

So many stops in the Falls and not one new passenger save for time itself.
Tired, hot, without food, hours into the trek, and inspired by my only trip mate across the aisle I dozed off and quite deeply, having no memory of Montrose Road or Main Street, Welland, the only two avenues remaining after the Minacs non-stop in Niagara, so referred to because after countless stops and no takers our driver simply did a drive by of this last one, there being a particularly unappealing combination of no takers and no friends to show his wheels to.

I was awakened by a flash of bright light, the sun finding a fault in the grime of the windows as the bus veered sharply into the Welland depot. I exited and descend two steps, physically and socially.

I will not dwell on exactly how well Welland is, save to say that here in the eye of what once was a storm of regional economic activity remains only remains, and a community precisely misnomed, unless within it somewhere lay an actual well that residents and visitors can launch themselves to finally end the misery.

I was informed by the ticket attendant in the depot office that the bus for Port Colborne would not be leaving for twenty minutes or so and it would be $3.50, up a modest 75% since last year, Port apparently now being the new New York in the eyes of the transit administration, an error in assessment rivaling the WMD fiasco of the decade previous.

Keen on planning ahead as to avoid any more delays I checked my pocket to ensure the exact change, only to find a lone ten dollar bill and then a moment later a large sign dictating the depot office does not break bills, a purchase therefore required to obtain smaller denominations. OK, fine. A bottle of water seemed useful for me at this point in my travels so I approached the nearest vending machine only to have it reject my ten, as did the adjacent dispenser. Not eager to pay ten dollars for a three dollar trip I explained my predicament to the attendant and she agreed to trade my ten for two fives, great.

Somewhere in transit during the twenty feet from the station attendant back to the vending machines came the dawning that I was now actually in a worse position change-wise than a moment earlier. If I put a five in the machine to get a water and three dollars change then I would still be fifty cents short of the fee, thereby having to offer my other five dollar bill for the three-fifty trip, the entire scenario costing me seven dollars. So I got to thinking, why did the attendant so quickly offer me two fives for the ten when the sign explicitly said “don’t ask us for change”? Fact is people have asked regardless, likely having created a level of irascibility in the attendant that she has contrived a passive aggressive scheme to turn customers’ bumptiousness into an enterprising little money maker, attendant’s hoarding the lion’s share of profits with the drivers getting a taste. Clever; kid.

But, not to clever for cagey old me, my many gears now turning to devise a strategy to break a five.

Hmm. No one around awaiting the bus for Port…Aha!…a TD Canada Trust across the street, great, I will go there for change.

My traipse toward the counting house, however, quickly became angst ridden and my thoughts raced:

I don’t want to be “that guy” that waltzes into an establishment to get change or use the washroom. Of course, you will never be denied, not in Canada, but what will they say afterward - “skinflint,” “user,” “freeloader”? This is my family’s backyard, what if someone recognizes me? Shame will be brought to the clan; just ask my mother. And in a bank it’s all on high resolution camera! Holy Cow what to do? OK, I will have to cagily disguise my intentions while interacting with the teller.

I entered the bank and stood in line.

God, this is awkward. This must proceed with minimal alarum, strictly on the down low.

My turn. I approached a teller and inserted my debit card which is a requirement to ensure that you are a client of the treasury.

“Hey Joe good to see you, how are you?” came the the way-to-frigging-loud and informal greeting.

Oh my God worst start possible…I am now at the aiguille of self- consciousness.

I composed myself.

“Oh, great, good to see you too umm…uh…Zach…”

“Great. Joe, what can I help you with?”

OK thinking fast…

“Well, you know Zach, really wondering about those interest rates and all…”

“Oh yes, can you believe those Feds the other day!? What do you make of that?” he earnestly inquires to me.

“Well, I am just as shocked as you, really hard to believe…”

“It’s very wise of you to ask today! Here are the short term GIC rates.”

“Great,” I replied with a phoney smile and one eye on the clock as I “listened” to a skein of figures, the experiential equivalent to what Gobo my cat must endure when I blather at him.

“Substantial and complex portfolio you have Joe, looks like there is a lot to do. So what next?”

Complex portfolio… geez… what next holy crap now I have to continue…

“Umm…wow, well there is so much…umm…well, I should pay my Visa bill I guess.”

Goddamn I really didn’t want to surrender those funds just yet now cash will be tight…

“There you go Joe, well done, way ahead of the due date, great discipline!”

You don’t know the half of the discipline story Zach…

“OK, well you know Zach your line is getting long, I should let you go.”

“Are you sure Joe, not even one more thing?”

“Well, as you asked, I could use a little change to give to that guy on the corner, poor fellow…maybe can you break this five?”

And dammit, dammit, I know he is giving me a look…of course he has seen this act a million times!…I know he has busted me…that frigging smirk…God this is embarrassing…

“Sure, here you go, Joe Nobleman, I made change for you,” he declared with head high and swiveling around at least 180 so all can hear.

That was said way to loud I know it was on purpose!

I bolted out, the latest fellow-who-is-to-poor-to-drive-or-to-cheap-to-tip the-bus-driver-a-buck-fifty-so-he-comes-in-here and-makes-us-do- extra-work-for-nothing-and-you-will-never-guess-who-it-is-this-time-its-Joe -what-a-shock-his-family-has been-here-for-sixty-years-they-are-a-fine-successful-proud-lot-what-a-shame-I-hope-they-don’t-find-out-about-him-but-you-know-they-will-because-we-will-gossip; my photo surely going on the lunchroom wall and soon to be rife with darts and tomatoes.

The Port Colborne bus arrived, just a little mini bus for the mini ride, only a few kilometers southbound. It had a few passengers already on board and I seated myself across the aisle from someone, not immediately noticing that he barely seemed a someone, a slight, sickly old gentleman severely angled forward in posture to a degree that made the Tower of Pisa seemed plum-bobbed. His gravity defying deportment appeared effortless as he “sat” eyes closed, and so still that I wondered if he were a mannequin built into the seat to give appearance of active ridership, not really a stretch given the vacuity thus far observed, perhaps the curves and bumps of day long riding shifting loose his original uprightness.

Unlike the Niagara ride, this one was hardly quiet. From the moment of boarding the driver was in monologue, particularly with the front row passenger, who I eyed closely and with a bet to myself as to the exact moment it would be when that guy realizes what a situation he is in and that the prospect for escape are slight given the modest dimensions of the carrier; changing seats won’t help.

A few blocks down, King St. becomes the first stop and the boarding of a woman the driver knows:

“You’re off work early today?”

“Yes I have a migraine”

Oh boy, are you in for a time…

And the monologue continued. The story of her life kept spewing forth, the spew probably just an effort to convince herself that she has a life.

But, you know, am I any different?

Ms. Migraine mouths to me a few minutes later I wish she would stop I feel like death precipitating an actual, pedal to the floor emergency braking that lurched us all in various directions and Mannequin Man clear into the aisle and at my feet. Migraine and I returned Mannequin to his seat with only an “uh” in response to “Are you OK?” leaving unresolved the issue of his ontological status.

With the last few kilometers upon me and I was able to anticipate and consider the logistics of the final stages. The only stop with which I was aware is adjacent to Port Colborne City Hall and, as my mother’s house is situated in the furthermost northeast fringes, there will still remain several kilometres for me to complete afterwards. It will be yet another long walk, similar to how the day began, but the introduction of some symmetry and order into this chaos seems comforting. Resigned, but happy, to sit quietly as both sitting and quiet have become tantamount to bliss, I stared out the window as we segue from Welland to Port, where it all began half a century ago, only a faint reflection eclipsing the view.

We entered Port from the north via Elm St and as we crossed Main St and continue southward I admitted to myself that symmetry or not it would have be great to turn east and closer to home. From there on home will only get further away. The eastward steer does finally come at Killaly and then a few blocks later we veer south on King St.

Soon thereafter, an interruption.

“Can I get off just up here?” asks an elderly gentleman.

“Off course, whereabouts exactly?”

“At Tender Cuts butcher shop.”

Damn, I could have asked to get off earlier! All her yapping but she doesn’t mention the only thing that matters to us.

Halfway down King we stopped outside Tender Cuts.

“Hold the door, I would like to get off here also,” I interject as I approach the front and just behind the exiting senior, only to be met with some kind of suspicious stare.

What? What is the problem? I stare back.

No comment from the driver, just a look like she doesn’t believe this is really my stop.

We stepped down one after another and paused on the sidewalk to exchange a few words as the gentleman and I had already conversed briefly at the Welland terminal. The bus, however, did not proceed until minutes later when we were done chatting and part ways.

Did that driver think I was going to roll that guy? Did the driver see me in the bank back in Welland and think I am destitute and desperate? Did Zach text her with a warning?

Well, that ruined the found gift of being able to shorten my walk. Some welcome home, sheesh.

I headed north on King, and veered east on Main at Pat’s Barber Shop where, since the time I had hair to the time I didn’t, I would patronize regularly and to the best of my ability even after moving away decades ago. Unable to manage the inconvenience any longer, I finally began to see another barber but never could come clean with Patsy about it, the sheer guilt probably accounting for my avoidance of his shop in recent years. It has been so long he probably doesn’t know if I am alive or dead, but I will drop in to say hi another day. It was time to get home.

Fifteen minutes later I was there.

“Hi Ma”

“Oh My God Joseph, you look half dead.”

Mom’s really do know you best.