The Communist’s Daughter

Emily Ferrell
Jul 25, 2017 · 2 min read

“I’ve had 25mg of THC and was partying to Kendrick, but this makes me want to crawl back to my couch!”

Ladies and gentlemen: can I have your attention.

Any long-term Toronto resident has been to the Commie. Hidden behind a false Nazareth, you walk into your buddy’s grandma’s basement from the 1970's. The bar’s namesake, a dour blonde child hitched up to eye level on the southern wall, stares sulkily out into a narrow closet of a space the width of an apartment hallway. The bar is backlit with fairy lights, and countless nations of currency peer out at you from the backsplash through cheap coloured votives.

On the bar itself is a dated map of the world. Red Corduroy Shirt backhands a grapefruit radler across South America, and I have to snatch my wine (at least a day uncorked, possibly two, judging by the sourness) away from Indonesia before the incoming deluge.

A plastic swan stands sentry over the beer fridge, glowering across the front tables with almost as much disdain as the Daughter herself.

It’s cramped in here: the air is thick, and there are pickled eggs on the snack menu, though they’re all out tonight. I sometimes come here alone on Monday nights with no misgivings — I know M, and always, without a doubt, chance encounters occur. Tonight, a different M and I debate the differences between convex and concave:

“So do you have a science degree? Maybe your masters in physics?”

Nope, just a regular human. (Also I grew up on Bill Nye, so I really have no excuse.)

“But they must make Old Fashioneds here!” I impatiently point out to M that maraschino cherries are, indeed, not preserved in formaldehyde, and that the jar on the bar is too big to be anything but sour cherries.

On my way downstairs, I pass an M.C. who I’ve played with on a recent street busking session. I make an appearance in his recent selfie-style Tinder profile photo from the session, but he doesn’t recognize me in person.

All of my movements come with a split second delay. I came here for one drink after an evening alone at home, but stick around for side A of Massive Attack, and several sides of a dashing Italian-French crooner named Yves Montand. My argument for the B-side: polka, Harmon-muted trumpet, and sensitive lyrics (in French, but the point gets across).

This time of night finds me perched outside on my porch typing with chilled fingers that my phone only half recognizes. It’s 4am, I am quite fond of this city, and time is still a gorgeous construct.

Sleep well.

Emily Ferrell

Written by

Here and there and the people I meet.

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