I thought moving away would make a man out of me. It did not
Before I left home, my mother told me, “you are in the Great White now. Toronto isn’t Georgia.” How valid. She had to make sure I knew.
I signed a year-lease to a colossal walk-in closet containing a bathroom, a fridge, and a crock pot. My parents allowed 18 year old Brooks to move out to a country of 27 year olds or older. I don’t know why, maybe they had faith in me.
My dad moved me in and flew back home and I optimistically walked out to town to get a grown-up’s (27 or older) nightlife. I assured myself with a pep-talk. I slapped my face.
“Here you are Brooks. On your own now. Now, whenever you want to talk to someone... do it. If you see a good-looking woman... you talk to her. Whenever a man needs to be put in check... do it. You have some chest-hair. You have to shave your face. You enjoy a good steak. You are almost a man.”
“I can do that.” I said to myself. I talked out loud.
I took the momentum from the stairs and with sanguine gusto drifted down the town.
I was doing just fine until I saw a pretty lady. We were about to cross and my little pep
I took the momentum from the stairs and with sanguine gusto drifted down the town.
I was doing just fine until I saw a pretty lady. We were about to cross and my little pep
talk reminded me that I was weird and I talked to myself. I told myself to do something. So with timid determination, I smiled stiffly, and she looked at the fence next to us. There climbing on
the fence- a dilemma. A raccoon stared me down. I took off running. Her face was lost in the raccoon’s eyes. All I heard was her laughing at me.
I figured I was a product of Hunter S. Thompson, Ernest Hemingway, Jack Kerouac and Co. shipped off into the 2000s to do my worst. I asked for their approval before I did anything. But there was a contrast; I was far from their breed. I was Brooks Tompkins— the man equally scared of a girl as he is a raccoon.
I made my way down the road and zig-zagged around the smell of alcohol. A party of three rounded the corner and walked in front of me. They were a band of gigglers that consisted of one guy and two girls. I wanted to intuitively tell the guy “one for you, one for me” but I couldn’t think of anything better to initiate with other than “sup?” Both girls were eyefuls, but based off the back of her head, I concluded that the girl on the right was clearly a keeper. I was getting ready to give her some apple butter flattery, but all I had in my bank of things to say were cheesy pick-up lines and the classic and simple “sup.”
Older men like your uncles tell you how easy it is to converse with beautiful women. “Just go right up and talk to her,” they say. “They are just waiting for a guy like you,” they say. “No, all the girls I like fall for the dickhead,” I say. Hairy-chested men like David Hasselhoff might do this, but not me. No one does that, and your nerdy uncle who got married by default sure as hell didn’t do that.
I gathered my guts together just as the gigglers giggled their way up some stairs and into a bar called Pour Girl. I pulled out a cigarette and stood still like a dormant volcano staring at the door. Then I told myself I was an unstable lunatic and walked on. Brooks-0, girls and raccoons-3.
“Welp, that settles that.” I said to myself. I was overheard.
“Settles what?” it was behind me. I turned around merrily. It was some dude.
“Nothing.” I said. He laughed. I lowered my head and continued on. I thought about how long I was going to be in Toronto. I thought about my friends back home. Wherever I am not, it was easier to talk to girls there I thought. At least my friends back at home can’t laugh at me right now.
I was making my way back home when an old man in a ragged ball cap and battered letterman jacket walked in front of me. He had his arm around his woman. They giggled too. I was in the middle of a bunch of chipper gigglers. I turned around and went to find that bar.
I stood in front of Pour Girl and carelessly threw up my cigarette like James Dean with a balloon. My girl was in there, and I was going to talk to her. I was hoping she didn’t remember me as the fat fish from earlier. I pulled myself up the stairs and there she was sitting with all her friends. Who knew if she was really enjoying herself? Maybe she was sick of all the conservative Canadians and needed some random bundie from Georgia to shake things up for her. Who knows. I made my way to the bar.
I sat in solitude at the corner. I ordered a rum and coke.
“Should I make it a tab?” The bartender asked.
“Yes,” I said.
I sat at the bar for awhile and had felt clever enough to talk to the cute bartenders some. “You came all the way from Georgia, Nathan?” she asked using my fake id name. I acted
“Should I make it a tab?” The bartender asked.
“Yes,” I said.
I sat at the bar for awhile and had felt clever enough to talk to the cute bartenders some. “You came all the way from Georgia, Nathan?” she asked using my fake id name. I acted
civilized and twenty-two.
“Yep. It’s my first night here.” Twenty-two year olds talked short. “Well, at least you found the bars your first night. Welcome to Toronto!”
“Yep. It’s my first night here.” Twenty-two year olds talked short. “Well, at least you found the bars your first night. Welcome to Toronto!”
I shed a small smile, “glad to be here.”
I made an empty glass and looked through it as I spun it underneath my finger. I saw pretty dimes being spun around by the kind of shallow men who get a cup of confidence from every drop of beer. One of the girls was my dime. She glanced my way some. The bartenders felt bad for me and introduced me to other helpless clydes around the bar. They took shots with me to make me feel at home, but I was far from it. Lauren was a good-looking bartender. She had sympathy for me. She threw on “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay” and looked across the bar to me.
“This one is for you Nathan.” She said. It was very heart-warming to hear that. I just imagined she said my name instead and said thank you as she diverted her attention to an empty pitcher.
I knew girls like Lauren. They are real charmers. She smiled to men with money and got tipped great for it. I heard “Sitting On the Dock of the Bay” about four more times that night. They played it just because it was the only song they knew that had Georgia in it. Me and Otis Redding were heading for two completely different areas, but I sure as shooting knew what he meant when he sang that with all his soul. I am here though. I already signed the lease and I’m here. I have to stay.
I made some great genuine temporary best friendships that night. The ones where you meet someone who knows one song by Led Zeppelin when you know Led Zeppelin as the band who gets you and has a special venue in your heart but you disregard your differences and solemnly swear to each other “WE ARE GOING TO HANG OUT LIKE EVERYDAY” in that drunk-yelling voice only to wake up the next day and dig through your soggy brain asking
yourself “what was his name?” I made those kind of great temporary best friendships that night. It was great. One guy (logically guessing his name was Aaron) showed me great lessons every Torontotonian needs to know such as: how to pee on the back of a bar and not look suspicious, how to smoke a joint behind a bar and not look suspicious, and how to walk red-eyed and bumbling and not look suspicious.
I was sure that every night would look a little like this, so I made my way back home to my walk-in closet apartment. Maybe I would say “sup” to that girl next time. I was about halfway home before I even realized I had said absolutely nothing to her. That’s when a paralyzingly urge to squeeze the lemon -if you will- came upon me. It was like lightning itself came down like hellfire to the bladder. I scanned for potential tinkle spots, but hark there were none. I thought about what cultured Aaron would do in this situation but was running out of time. So I improvised. I acted in urbane fashion, and while walking, peed off to the side. It was during that time that I discerned what exactly I was doing. I wasn’t just peeing while walking which is considered an aesthetic in some societies. No, it was much greater than that. I was peeing and ultimately defiling my new home. It was just my first night in the great kind North, and I had already peed my name in cursive about four or five times on it. I was irreverent to everything but me, and until then I had no idea what I was doing. I zipped up my pants and picked up my chin.
My drunken stupor got me to continue on thinking. It was time for the assertive and drunk Brooks to come in and say what was really going on, what I really needed to change, because flat boring sober Brooks was a timid little girl scout. A raccoon was digging through some trash and he stared me down. I stared daggers right back at him, raised my eyebrows and waved in a “remember me?” manner.
I was a man, I decided. A man who is a man and respects his surroundings. A man who is a man and is not scared of a raccoon who is scared of him. I may not have had much chest hair, and maybe I still made a scrunched and curdled face when I tried to quaff some scotch, but I was more of a man than I ever was then.
I was a block from my apartment, and I looked at a behemoth church under construction. St. Michael’s Cathedral. I hopped the fence and began climbing up the scaffoldings. At first I told myself that men do this, but then I had to revise my statement to men like me do this. It was about a forty-story climb and I made my way to the top. There were raccoons all around but I was under the impression that we came to an unspoken concession to put up with each other. I closed my eyes while the cool wind slapped my drunken face. “Thank you Jesus” I said, “thank you God. Thank you Mom. Dad. Thank you St. Michael.” St. Michael’s Cathedral was my Mt. Zion for a succinct second and I was lulled to bliss as the wind whispered,
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re welcome.”
