Second Last of the East End Bars (A Found Story)

A night that began in billowing, silver mists in Richmond Hill has led here: an improbable bar toughing it out between Greektown to the west and the Afghani and Pakistani neighbourhood to the east.

He looks like someone I know, but isn’t.

“Hey how are ya man, ya wanna shot?” he asks, before I even have my coat off.

You need people skills to drink in a place like this.

“No thanks man. I’m good with beer, but thanks, eh.”

He does a shot of whiskey.  “All ya got is friends, eh, that’s this place. Friends, ya. I’m Hal.”

Well, I have to shake his hand, no matter where it’s been.  “Hey Hal, I’m Jeff.” I nod and try to disengage so I can watch the hockey game.

He looks at me, glassy-eyed, smiling, head orbiting its drunken axis, wobbly: “We’ve all been there, eh brother?”

“Fer sher,” I reply, and turn to the television.

My shot goes instead to Tommy, the brother of Susie, the Vietnamese bartender and owner, cute in her grey tights and short-for-December skirt.

“Hey Hal,” she kids, “you owe me 200 dollar.”

Laughter.  An ugly man, soon to pull out a harmonica, tells Susie that she owes Hal the 200 dollars.

Laughter.

Susie skiffles off,  leaving Tommy and his iPhone to hold the fort.

There is a freezing rain warning, but I’m on foot.  “Tower of Song” comes on.  It reminds me of when I used to smoke.

“We invented NASA, all those guys who built the Avro Arrow, they went and built it. Hey Tommy, that’s good turkey, and I’ve been eatin’ turkey for thirty fuckin’ years.”

The time for more shots has arrived.  The ugly harmonica player is standing the round this time.  The play is clearly to get a woman (whose lower face seems to have shrunk to half the size of the top) even more drunk than she is.

All ya got is friends, eh?

“I’ll have the gold, the gold, ya know, gold, uh, cinnamon…”

“Goldschlager,”  Tommy helps out.

“Ya, Goldschlager,” she repeats, then downs the shot.

“Pay back, baby, pay back!” she cackles, hugging the ugly man, smiling, hanging off his neck.

All ya got is friends, eh?

At the back, a table of Ethiopians with the drained-of-hope look of seasoned Northern Ontario alcoholics works through another round of Ex and OV.  They chime in with half-hearted “Woy yoy yos!”  during “Buffalo Soldier,” but leave after the third in a row AC/DC song.  I wonder what dreams they packed when they emigrated.  I am betting that being piss drunk in a place like this was not one of them.

All ya got is friends, eh?

“Toronto and Chicago are almost the same size, man.  There were 60 murders in Toronto and 6000 in Chicago, 6000 that’s uh,10, 100, no, fuck, 1000 times more. Holy fuck, eh.”

I notice:  I am the only one here not wearing a baseball cap.

The harmonica has now been pulled from the pocket and brought to the ugly man’s lips.  He is trying to play along, (appropriately), with “Have a Drink on Me.”  He’s the closest thing to a rock star in here tonight so the woman with the shrunken lower face leers at him the best she can.  I don’t imagine them fucking.

“Wait, shit, maybe it was only, like 600.  Still, fuck.”

“We’re playin’ ball in hand, but we’re not playin it,” Hal announces in the general direction of the ugly man and the woman with the ill-sized face.

“There was an 18 year old running for parliament, did ya hear that?  What the fuck does an eighteen year old know?  What fuckin’ life experience he’s got?”

“We’re playin’ ball in hand, but we ain’t playin’ it.”

Laughter.

“Those are our fucking diamonds!!”

All ya got.

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