CONTRACTS AND NEGOTIATIONS

Even with three days off, I feel like there’s a noose around my neck. I was the 6AM this morning. I’m so used to opening, I find myself looking for things to do. A half hour into my shift I remembered to cut the horoscope out of the paper. It’s such an important job, I couldn’t believe I forgot. Flipping through the paper, I happened on the obituaries.
“Laura Branigan died of a brain aneurism!”
“Who’s Laura Branigan?” asked Matilda.
“She had a couple of really big songs in the Eighties, but I’m not going to sing them for you.”
My day began with Stu asking, “What time do you open on Sundays?”
“Seven O’clock.”
“I thought it was six.”
“Six, Monday through Friday; Seven on Sundays and Holidays.”
“Cause I came by at six and you were still baking.”
I wanted to say, “Listen Chrome-Dome, as long as I’m opening on Sundays, we’re opening at seven!” Instead I said, “You should have knocked on the window. I would have given you a coffee.”
Not long after I started having problems with the ATM machine. We just started accepting Visa, and it threw me for a loop. As I was swiping a guy’s credit card through the machine for the third time, Myself orders his fucking coffee. Myself is this pushy French guy who comes in all the time. He prefaces his orders with, “Myself, I’ll take a …”
He put his coffee change on top of his coffee card, and shoved it across the counter. I put the money in the till and as I was initialing his card he said, “You need to give me another signature. The guy yesterday didn’t give me one because I didn’t have my cup.”
“No.”
“What is it? No?”
“No, I’m not going to sign your card twice. You get an initial for every cup of coffee you buy. No re-fills.”
“But I paid for it myself!”
“Look, we don’t have to give out these little cards you know. We do it as a courtesy. It’s too early in the morning to even be arguing about this!”
“The owner will hear.”
“Send him my regards.”
I should have just signed the fucking card, but I’m getting so sick of how maniacal people are with the things. People will risk missing the bus just to make sure they are one more initial closer to a cup of coffee. And then there’s the whole, “They bought it for you” debate. If someone else pays for the coffee and doesn’t have a card, can their friends have the initial?
What people don’t know is that, I give out little free-bees all the time. If someone comes in everyday, I’ll give them a break when they don’t have money, or I’ll only charge as much money as they have.
Still, people feel the need to pull a fast one on you. This morning Hasbro walked out with the National Post, as if a double-Americano entitled him to the paper. It doesn’t matter how nice you are to people, they still play their little games like you’re just a price tag on the cost of living.
All you have to be is nice and you’ll get your free cup of coffee.

GarpinBC

GO HAWKEYES

I hadn’t been out on a Friday night in ages. The whole day long I promised myself I would turn off the TV and force myself out to a bar – make friends with society.
Part of my problem with going out is, I don’t know what I’m looking for. A one-night stand seemed appealing, but with the amount I’ve been smoking lately, the thought of kissing someone was repulsive to me. I don’t want to be remembered as the guy with the ashtray tongue. Still, there is always the potential of meeting another chain-smoker. Most of my friends are in bed by ten, so there wasn’t anyone I could really call to meet out for a drink.
Just to increase my sex potential, I put my contact lenses in. I had one last clean pair of jeans in the closet, and my IOWA shirt was just screaming for air. I did my dishes and tidied up the apartment before I left. Just in case.
It was almost eleven-thirty when I left the apartment. I figured there would be a small line up everywhere. I had considered painting the town red and going to Glitterati’s but thought that was an environment best experienced with a group of people and a bump of designer drugs. I settled on The Pasture.
The Pasture is one of my favourite bars. It’s the least pretentious of all the bars in The Village, but can also be the scariest. I like all the different levels. It’s easier to escape people.
There were two people ahead of me to get into the bar.
“There’s a five-dollar cover,” the doorman said.
I looked in over his shoulder. The bar was pretty much empty. I could see no real reason to stay. I paid him anyway.
“And here,” the doorman said. “So ,you’re like the twentieth guy to come in, so here’s a ticket for a domestic beer and well highball.” Hurray for me. The doorman gave me the ticket and five dollar bill.
“Um, I gave you a twenty.”
The first beer went pretty much as first beers go – down too fast. I couldn’t decide to stay or go. I went to the glass cube to smoke and make up my mind. The air in the place sucked the life right of me. I lit my cigarette anyway, monitoring the beer in my glass. The person the behind me nudged me. I took a step away to give him some room.
“Are you from Iowa?” he asked.
I turned around to look at him. He towered above me. His face was tight with wrinkles. Too much time in the smoking cube.
“No, I’m from here. I bought the shirt in the States.”
“You’ll have to excuse me, I am so drunk.”
“Been there, done that.”
I chatted with him for the duration of my cigarette. He complimented me on my firm handshake as he squeezed the life out my fingers. I took my cue to leave when he draped his drunken arm around my shoulder and nearly pulled me off my feet.
“Screw this,” I thought. “I’m going to The Pilsner.”
I walked right into the bar. The crowd was almost as thin as The Pasture but decidedly more attractive. I spilled beer on myself almost as soon as I got it. It was time for a smoke.
The smoking room at The Pilsner is pretty much a concrete dungeon but has ventilation. If you’re not careful, you can gut stuck there for hours, drinking and smoking. I was going to try and avoid that.
A few drags into my smoke, I made eye contact with a guy with a nose ring. I wasn’t the slightest bit interested but I figured I would smile to be nice. He was speaking French to a guy as I passed him on the way out. He caught up with me a couple of minutes later. I had already made up my mind I wasn't going home with the guy. Who knew, he could turn out to be this really cool guy.
“So where you from?” he asked, pointing to my shirt.
“I’m from here.”
The rest of our conversation pretty much consisted of him staring into my eyes and a knowing grin. I hesitated when he offered to buy me a beer. I didn’t want to feel committed to him. I did want to hang out for another, just not with him.
“I can get it,” I said.
“No. Let me.”
The staring got tired really fast. This guy obviously just wanted to get out and fuck. He started rubbing my arms, straddling my knee, and pouting his lips for kissing.
“Gotta go,” I said, polishing off my beer.
“Where to?”
“Home?”
“Yeah. Home?”
I made a beeline for The Pasture. It was pretty much as I had left. Then I noticed Svend working the back door. At least there was someone to talk to. I bought a beer from the bartender in the Cockpit.
“Where you from?” the bartender asked.
“I’m from here.” He was really cute. Had I any brains I would have chatted him up. Instead, I went to talk to Svend.
“Nice crew cut,” he said. “Goes with the shirt.”
“Everyone keeps asking me where I’m from.”
“Anyone interesting?”
“Not anyone I would care to tell. I’m gonna go smoke.”
There was only one other person in the smoking cube; you could actually see two inches ahead of you. I lit my cigarette and found myself face to face with four young queens. There was nothing else to look at; I had to look back. I tried not snarl. The cube filled with smoke quickly forcing me to race through my cigarette. On my way past them, one of the queens asked, “Where are you from?”
“I’m from here,” not stopping to elaborate.
Coming down the stairs I saw a couple that come into The Shop for breakfast. I’ve known them for over a year, and they still call me “The New Guy.” I can think of worse things. I hung out with them for a bit, shooting the shit, talking at the top of my lungs.
When next I saw Svend, he introduced me to one of the queens that had been standing in front of the smoking room.
“Where are you from?” Svend asked.
“Ha, ha.”
“We just asked him that,” the queen said. “He said he was from here and kept walking. We thought it was rude.”
I rolled my eyes.
“He was just telling me how everyone has been asking him that,” Svend explained. “And that he’s hasn’t been interested in anyone who’s asked.”
The queen looked at Svend and then me.
“And on that note, I’ll be leaving,” I said, emptying my pint glass and going out the back door.


GarpinBC

THE COMPETITION

Davie has been experiencing a burst of gentrification in recent weeks. It started with the opening of Cobbs Bakery and is continuing with an organic market that will be open in the next week. “I saw them stocking the shelves on the way here,” Ollie said last night over drinks on my patio.
The new stores are part of the retail development of the Sandhill Hotel. The place has changed names five times over and has never been able to stay afloat – it’s jinxed some how. There was talk of turning into a condominium, but the locals protested, fearing it would “Straighten” out the neighbourhood. It’s pretty much a residence hotel; it’s rumored it’s where the media is going to stay come the Olympics. The lobby is pretty swank and modern – lots of lava-like oranges.
The bakery and the market or only the beginning. The best has been saved for last. There’s going to be a Starbuck’s – not even half a block away from the Starbuck’s on Davie and Thurlow.
We’ve known they were going to put a Starbuck’s in there for a few months. There was some concern expressed around the shop, but no one really considers Starbuck’s a threat. We’re not just a coffee shop; we’re a breakfast place. Still, if the place gets too busy, there is the chance that people will go to Starbuck’s.
Our paycheque envelopes were particularly fat this week. I opened mine behind the counter and was greeted by a header: SHOP UPDATE.
“What now?” I moaned to myself.
The “Update” was essentially a letter thanking the staff for its hard work then it moved into a philosophical question: “Who are we?”
“Someone’s been dipping into the Scotch,” I thought.
Neil – only Neil could have authored that letter – went on to show how The Shop embodies the spirit of Davie Village. He noted his charitable donations and how the The Shop has evolved over the years. But all he had to say was, “We have come up against so many competitors I cannot remember most of their names,” to know this was about “The Competition.”
I didn’t read the whole letter until I got home – on the toilet. I left the letter on the sink not giving it another thought until a few hours later when Upchuck came back from a pee. “I read the letter on your sink. Sorry, but it was staring up at me. I promise to keep it a secret.” Which means everyone knows by now.
It will be interesting to see how this “Sprucing up,” of Davie goes over. Will people flock to these places in droves, or will they keep patronizing the same stores they’ve been going to for the last twenty years? There are rumors the bakery we get our cinnamon buns from is going to fold shop. The Pilsner wants to expand into it.
Will Starbuck’s cut into our business? Do they buy you a coffee when you’ve lost your job? Do they let you take a rain cheque because you forgot your wallet? Do they invite you into the shop before it opens for an Americano on the house?
Yeah, they’re going to cut into our business, that’s just the nature of the beast. But they’ll never be able to match our sense of place. We got here first.

GarpinBC

THE TWO-TEN SPECIAL

Peggy broke her toe and has to take six days off work, so I’ve been covering her opening shifts. Tomorrow will be my seventh straight day of work, the fourth time the alarm will go off at three-thirty in the morning. It’s killing me.
My day started off with a con. The baking was either in the oven or on it’s way in and I was filling up the cream and milk jugs. The front door was open for ventilation, the sandwich board blocking it.
“S’cuse-ah me, s’cuse-ah me!” I looked up from the creamers and saw this thin Asian kid, thin as a rail, doing jumping jacks on the other side of the sandwich board. He looked like a tweaker, but he was also pretty clean.
“The lady! The lady! The lady who works here! She here?”
“She broke her toe.”
“She know me. I talk to her. I work Sugar Daddy’s.” Sugar Daddies is the restaurant two doors down. “I lock keys in car and need open store.”
Despite the language barrier he still struck as kind of suspicious.
“So what do you want?”
“I need to pay tow-truck. They open door. Cost thirty-eight dollah. I need eight.”
I gave him a hairy eyeball.
“Ask woman work here. She know me. I leave license for you!”
I figured if Peggy gave him money, then I could. He only wanted eight bucks. I gave it to him. He dug into his pockets for his driver’s license. The were empty. Right there, I knew he had conned me.
“Wallet in Car. I be back five minutes.” He wanted to use the back door but I told him no.
I told Alice what happened when she came in.
“Didn’t Peggy tell you about that guy? He got thirteen bucks out of her a month ago!”
“Fuck. I hate having a conscience; it fucks you over every time. That mother-fucker probably spoke perfect English too!”
The second customer of the day was this old American who comes in every day and orders, “The two-ten special,” which is a double de-caf Americano. He’s been pedaling in every morning from the UBC campus. He’s from out east somewhere – New York or Maine or something. His arrival coincided with the last plate of cinnamon buns going into the display case.
I hate having a smoke when De-caf Americano is out there. Every time I see him I think, “Haven’t you gone home yet.” All I want to do is decompress after the baking is done and all he wants to do is talk. Not only does he want to talk, but also he wants to talk shit about blacks, Asians, and Canada.
“You’re healthcare system is falling apart,” he said once.
“It ain’t that bad. I ain’t paid a dime and I’ve never been turned away by my doctor.”
He lounges on the back patio for about an hour, the paper in front of him waiting for his next victim. He doesn’t even excuse himself, he just starts talking like he’s picking up the conversation from yesterday. Whenever he’s out there, I keep a good distance. This morning, I was especially tired, and just wanted to sit down.
“Did you hear about the machete incident on Granville last night?”
“No, I’ve been busy baking.”
“These Asian with machetes attacked some guy. They say it’s the Asian gangs but they’re trying to keep it hush.”
This guy has been here a few weeks and already he has the inside scoop on the city?
“You’re Canadian dollar went up again. That’s not good for me.”
“Yeah, the loon is really kicking in there.”
“Well if it keeps going up, Americans will just stop coming up here.”
I shook at my head at him. So we should sabotage our economy because of American tourists.
“I should get back to work,” I said, butting my cigarette despite have a good third of it left.
I told Alice about the Decaf Americano. “Did you ask if it occurred to him a stronger Canadian dollar would mean more tourism down there?”
“Damn it! No!
I fell apart about half hour before the end of my shift. I was trying finish prepping but the line wouldn’t go away and everybody was ordering the most time consuming things to make - Italian Breakfasts, Breakfast Croissants, and Continentals. I was trying to make a veggie burger but it fell apart on the grill, then Wilson ordered a Continental with cheddar instead of Swiss and I went over the edge.
“Okay someone has to take over cooking because I’m going to lose it.”
Alice patted me on the back and sent me away with a cigarette.
We were talking about my meltdown after the shift. “It was the Continental with cheddar that put me over the edge.
“Can I have some peanut butter?”
I looked up, and there was Wilson.

GarpinBC

LURCH

I’ve known Lurch for just over ten years now. Like most of my gay friends, we slept together, and then kinda-sorta-dated before we started hanging out. He let me move in with him so I could save some money before I moved to San Francisco, then he drove me to SeaTac airport. He visited me in San Francisco a couple of times – he came down right after I tested positive and we drove down to Los Angeles for a weekend. We’ve been in and out of contact since I moved home – he helped me move a couple of times. We’ve had our ups and downs over the years.
Last night Lurch called out of the blue. I was at Ollie’s watching the Canadian women’s softball team play China in the Athens Games. Canada won two nothing. We had a couple of drinks in us and a joint when he called.
“Want to go out for dinner? My treat,” he said.
“I’m a little buzzed right now. I’m at a friend’s watching the Olympics.”
“That’s okay. I want to pay you back for helping me move last week.” Lurch had found a cheap place to live in the East End. It was the first time he had lived outside of the West End in twenty years.
“What the hell.”
Lurch met me in the parking lot behind The Shop.
“You reek of booze!” he said, when I got in the car.
“I told you I’ve been drinking! I need to go home and change. I smell like shit.”
“You always smell.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
“I saw Upchuck. I honked my horn at him but he ignored me.” There’s bad blood between Lurch and Upchuck. Upchuck really wanted Lurch to fuck him, but Lurch wasn’t interested. Lurch played cat and mouse with him for a couple of weeks, until finally Upchuck left a nasty message on his voicemail.
“He’s probably drunk.”
“This early?”
“It’s a sunny Saturday afternoon. What do you expect?”
I could see Upchuck swaying down the alley. He was definitely lit. I had bumped into him earlier on the beach. He was just opening his first beer.
“I’m gonna pretend to run him over.”
“Leave him alone!”
“Ohhh…you don’t want me bugging your girlfriend?”
“Just leave him alone. He’s drunk!”
“I’m in a angry mood. I want to get drunk. I’m just waiting for someone to piss me off.”
Lurch honked the horn at him as we drove by. I waved meekly at him, feeling guilty, like I had betrayed Upchuck some how. I hate it when my friends don’t get along.
Lurch took me to Clove on Denman. It just opened. Lurch has been going to the Clove on Commercial and was raving about it. It was a nice enough place, kinda modern, kinda industrial. They’re obviously still ironing the kinks out. I had the Ahi Tuna and several martinis. It was pretty good. We went for cake and coffee across the street after.
It was still early. We had tentative plans to see the “Alien Vs Predator.” I was feeling no pain as we zoomed up Nelson toward Granville. Some how we got to the topic of Vancouver Magazine’s twenty-five most influential gay people. Lorne Mayencourt’s name came up.
I’m not big fan of the BC Liberal’s. Who’s kidding who – I hate them. Lorne has been on the receiving end of a lot of bad press for about a year now, his riding isn’t happy with his performance in parliament. He’s towing the party line. I’ve only been here for half of his term and I haven’t heard anything positive about him. I was really turned off by his “Safe Streets Act,” Legislation. He basically wants to make it illegal for homeless people to squeegee car windshields or panhandle close to stores. I said as much to Lurch.
“Lorne is a close personal friend of mine. I’m sick of the smear campaign against him.”
I knew Lurch and Lorne were friends, and have been avoiding the topic of Lorne’s leadership whenever his name comes up.
“It’s not a smear campaign, people are genuinely fed up with his voting record. It’s time for him to go.”
That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
“Lorne’s done a lot for this community. He started Friends for Life you know.”
“I didn’t know that. I just wish he’d do more for the people he was trying to help when he started that.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You just believe what everyone tells you!”
“Oh so the article in ‘The Georgia Straight’ about getting his mailman suspended was all bullshit?”
“The Straight hates the Liberals.”
“Then why didn’t they comment on the story? Why did he support stripping tenants rights? I thought he’s supposed to be a renter. Why did he give himself a raise then turn around and cut health care workers wages?”
“That’s not his fault!”
“It his fucking party! That fucking government wants everyone to work for eight bucks and hour so they give their friends tax breaks and kick-backs while the rest of us struggle!”
“Stop being such a fucking whiner!”
“That’s it! Stop the car! I’m getting out.”
“Don’t start with that shit!”
“Lorne Mayencourt is nothing but a bitchy queen who uses his position to mete out his personal vendettas and he’s hostile to his constituents!”
We were stopped at a red light at the corner of Nelson and Hornby. I got out of the car, slammed the door behind me. I watched Lurch speed down Hornby.
I hadn’t had a cigarette in a couple of hours. I bought a pack at the Seven/Eleven on my way home. I was shaking. I couldn’t believe I had just had a screaming match over Lorne Mayencourt. I know better than to talk politics – I’m too passionate about it.
My stomach was upset the whole night; I kept getting up to go to the bathroom and drink some cold water from the fridge. My mind kept going back to the argument. Now I have one more reason to vote against Lorne.
I called and left a message on Lurch’s voicemail apologizing for how the night ended. I don’t expect to hear from him anytime soon.

Garpinbc

TOURETTE'S

Yesterday I had to kick someone with Tourette’s syndrome out of The Shop He came in around nine in the morning and sat down in the corner booth – Witch Hazel’s favourite table – right across from where I was doing prep.
“Oh great,” Cayman said, “It’s ‘The Reader.’” Cayman usually works nights and weekends. He was filling in for Fang who’s on vacation. He’s the complete opposite of Fang, nice and outgoing. A little too outgoing at times. His laugh can drown out the music, and you have to watch out of his hands, which are always making some broad sweep.
The Tourette’s guy was hiding behind his backpack, which was on the table. He started speed-reading the paper out loud just above a whisper like he was chanting some Islamic prayer. The sound buzzed in my ears, like a mosquito. Five minutes of it and it was driving me crazy.
“Mother-fucking Cunt!” he shouted.
I looked around to see if anyone else heard it. The café was just under half full.
“That guy is creeping me out,” I told Peggy.
“He’s creeping Cayman out too,” she said. “You guys are such wusses.”
Fifteen minutes later, it happened again.
“Mother-fucking Cunt!”
This time people were looking back to see what was going on. I stopped chopping tomatoes wondering what I should do.
“That guy needs to go!” Peggy said changing her tune. “I don’t feel comfortable with him around.”
“He has Tourette’s. What am I supposed to do? This is supposed to be a Socialist coffee shop.”
“If my husband was here, he would kick him out.”
So now my masculinity was being challenged.
Having worked in bars, I have been through the low roads of kicking out psychos. I’ve been bitten by a crackhead, been punched in the face and had my glasses broken. I knew the guy had to go, but at what price was I willing to risk?
The guy with Tourette’s was focused on his paper, counting the words out loud with a pen, the paper an inch away from his face. I didn’t want to engage him without a reason. And then there was my Catholic guilt. Should I ostracize this guy from the rest of society because of something he can’t control?
“The next time he says ‘Mother-fucking Cunt,’ I’ll tell him he has to leave,” I told Peggy. Cayman certainly wasn’t going to do it.
“Cool.”
An hour went by. He continued to read in his angry monotone, but there were no signs of an expletive. Then finally, it happened. It wasn’t as loud as before, but loud enough that I could hear from where I was standing.
“Mother-fucking Cunt!”
I walked over to his table and said, “You have to go.”
He looked up at me, innocently – sheepish. “Why?”
“You keep saying, ‘Mother-fucking Cunt!’”
“I am? I’m not saying it to anyone in particular.”
“That doesn’t matter. It’s making me uncomfortable, it’s making my co-workers uncomfortable and I can’t imagine what the other customers are thinking. It’s just not acceptable.”
“I’ll stop. I promise.”
“I’m sorry. You have to leave. You’ve been here for two hours, you’ve had one cup of coffee and you’re hogging all the newspapers.”
He started muttering, packing up his backpack hastily. I went back behind the counter and took a couple of deep breaths. For two hours I had tolerated him, afraid he was going to flip out, and he the moment I confronted him, he crawled into his shell. I felt horrible.
“He took the newspapers with him,” Cayman said.
“Who cares, as long as he’s gone,” I said.
“You should go for a cigarette,” said Peggy.
“Yeah, I could really use one.”

GarpinBC

BALCONY COUTRE

I had the privilege of watching the fireworks from a penthouse apartment tonight. I’ve been moaning how I never get invited anywhere, and then, from out of the blue a guy who comes into the shop all the time says, “I’m having a party Saturday night for Pride and the Celebration of Light. I would love it if you could come. I live over in Stack-A-Fags.”
I’ve spent a lot of time at Stack-A-Fags this summer thanks to Durhryll. At least once a week for the last couple of weeks, he’s been inviting me over to come use the pool. I’ve developed an attachment for the place.
“I’ll make sure to drop by,” I said.
When I accepted the invitation I had no idea the apartment was the Penthouse. I had another invitation to see the fireworks from a Penthouse on Harwood, but that would have involved gluing, which I wasn’t in the mood to do.
“Ollie has all the information. Just get it off him. I would love to see you there.”
The host , Moore, comes into the shop pretty regularly. He works for the city and has to be up early in the morning. He’s a really nice guy. Very sincere. The kind of guy you go out of your way to say, “Hello,” to.
I made arrangements to go with Ollie to the party. We had made arrangements to hook up at eight at his house. At about ten minutes to eight, he called to say, “Hey ... I know we made plans to meet at eight, but I need to walk the dog.” Ollie and Blaze are looking after a friend’s Lab while she’s in Europe.
“No Problem,” I said. I was only a few minutes out of the shower. I hung out on the couch and watch two-thirds of “Corner Gas,” until it was time to leave.
I originally had plans to go to Celebrities with Peabody. Peabody was in the shop a couple of days ago and asked what I was doing for Pride. “Nothing. I can’t afford anything.”
“Let me buy you a ticket to Celebrities. It’s only twenty bucks and I just got paid.”
“So did I,” I joked.
I said he didn’t have to do it. I was prepared to do what I could afford for the evening, it wasn’t a big deal, but Peabody insisted. Then last night when I passed out drunk on the bed, Peabody left a message saying Celebrities was already sold out and that he was going to try and find some tickets. I called him back this morning to tell him not to worry about me, just go and have a good time.
I left for Ollie’s just before seven-thirty. There was already a line to get into Celebrities by the time I passed by.
The streets were packed with people on their way to English Bay and the fireworks. Davie was partially closed off to traffic and pedestrians were just beginning to take over the streets. I couldn’t wait to get to Ollie’s and away from the crowd.
Blaze was home when I got there. He had done a few hours at The Pilsner, working the patio bar and picking up glasses and cans. It’s his specialty. Ollie was wide awake. I had prepared myself for him to be passed out.
We had a quick glass of wine and a joint while watching “Total Recall” on TBS. We grabbed our beer and wine and headed out the door.
“We need to stop off at The Shop,” Ollie said. “For the art opening.”
Ah yes; the art opening.
Fang has been going on and on about this art opening for weeks. It’s photography by some guy in Seattle. It’s called, “The Seattle Project.” It’s all black and white photos of white-haired bears.
We got to The Shop shortly after nine. We entered through the back. The place was empty except for Spencer and the new chick was mopping the floor. When the new chick and Dolores saw Ollie and me come in the shop, they looked like they had been busted. “It’s been fucking dead,” Dolores said. “There was no point in staying open.” The Shop was scheduled to close at midnight.
“Don’t sweat it,” Ollie said.
“The opening was bleak,” Spencer said. “It consisted of me, Fang and the artist.”
“Glad we missed it,” I said.
“If you got’em, smoke’em,” said Spencer, moving towards the back patio.
Ollie and I hung out for a drink with Dolores and the new chick for a beer. Dolores was listing of a litany of all the people she has ever told off while working at the shop. I’ve heard all the stories a dozen times before, either from her, or through coworkers. I zoned and just watched the crowd moving past the front window. It was like there were on a moving sidewalk, they just slid by as if on wheels. I was transfixed. Every now and then there would be a gap in the crowd and Davie would be empty of pedestrians and cars - something you don’t see everyday.
We left for the party as soon as we were done our beer. Stack-A-Fags was just around the corner from The Shop. We were buzzed into the building then got into one of the two elevators that went to the Penthouse with another guest of the party.
Ollie walked into the apartment without knocking. There was a sizable crowd already. I head straight for the balcony.
Built in the sixties, Stack-A-Fags is still one of the tallest buildings in the West End with some of the best unobstructed views. There were several notes pasted to the Balcony railing: “Please put cigarette butts in the bucket,” and “Don’t lean on the railing.” The second warning was self-evident; the least amount of pressure on the railing shook it uncomfortably making you feel like you were going to go over the side of the twenty-second floor. I could just see the headlines in paper: “Pride Day tragedy: Queen goes over side of Stack-A-Fags.”
I wanted to try and mingle, but found myself glued to the balcony. It was the most of the city I had seen all at once. You never forget how beautiful the city is, but you take for granted just HOW beautiful it is. I saw the a rooftop swimming pool a couple of buildings away, that I never knew existed. The crowds milling their way to the beach looked like CGI characters from the latest blockbuster. It was a epic view. I wished I had my camera.
All around us were similar balcony parties, raising their glasses to us, and us to them. It was a city within a city, as if life existed up here, and the ground was a place you went to only if need be. I imagined what the West End would look like if the tsunami ever came. Just rooftops above the water, the ultimate in prim real estate.
Warning shots were fired. The smell of sulfur and gunpowder intermingling with the aroma of pot smoke coming from other balcony parties. Ollie and I became trapped in our little corner, unable to move. We smoked with our cigarettes close to our faces.
West Enders tend to moan and groan when the “Celebration of Light” comes around. We’re forced into our apartments avoiding the crowds and the chaos, fearing for our lives. But up here, on the twenty-second floor, the measure of safety despite the rickety railing. We had a clear view of the barge which was surrounded by sailboats, yachts and canoes. We could see the the blue lights of the police boats patrolling the bay and the camera flashes going off.
The last warning shot was fired and Moore turned up the volume on the radio which broadcast the accompanying score to the pyrotechnics. All around us the the lights were dimmed in neighbouring apartments, like a movie theater.
“Five...four... three... two...ONE,” came the countdown on the radio. A giant cheer echoed throughout the balconies and across the bay as the first explosion lit the sky.
It was Sweden’s night. I kept expecting to hear an ABBA tune but they went with the more traditional, classical route. Fireworks are pretty routine in this day and age, it’s hard to judge one show from the next. Who knows what criteria judges use when deciding a winner, but the casual bystander usually rates it on based on two things: Choreography and originality.
Maybe it was just the view, but Sweden’s effort was one of the most spectacular I ever seen. The explosions were in time with the music, there was a feeling of catharsis and mood, and I saw fireworks I have never seen before. Two-thirds of the way into the show, this sad, lamentful version of “Amazing Grace,” came over the speakers. The fireworks were small, erupting in short bursts; crisscrossing flares shot out over the sky culminating into larger, softer explosions that barely made a sound as they erupted. Maybe I was just a little high or sentimental, but I couldn’t help but feel the section of the show wasn’t a statement about the war in Iraq, about what a mess the world is right now, and meaningless of old songs that were meant to inspire us.
The finale shook the buildings and lit up the sky like a new sunrise. After the last bit fire descending into the ocean, a cheer rose up from the city. “Sweden all the way,” someone shouted.
“I have to go,”Ollie said, stumbling out of his seat towards the door.
I had one more beer in the fridge and no-one to talk to. I wanted to stay and mingle, but I felt so self-conscious, I just down my beer on the balcony and said goodbye to Moore. It bummed me out that I had just witnessed something so wonderful from such an amazing vantage point, and I had no one to share it with. The party was in full-swing, and I was going home.

GarpinBC