DAVIE AT DAWN

September 21, 2004

DAVIE AT DAWN

Last night I had a few friends over to watch the 1984 documentary, “Hookers on Davie.” I haven’t seen it in twenty years ago. It took me months to get a copy of it. I called every video store in the city, checked the library, went online to see if I could buy a copy of it, but no luck. Finally, I was reading the local gay rag and I saw a picture of a regular at The Shop getting an award for taking it upon himself to archive the gay community’s artifacts – whatever they may be. The next time I saw him, I congratulated him on his award, and asked if he had a copy of “Hookers on Davie.”
“Have you tried Videomatica?”
“Their copy is damaged.”
“Rogers?”
“Got rid of it? And the library doesn’t stock a copy. I’ve gone to the National Film Board of Canada, found the film makers online, but I still can’t get a copy unless I shell out a couple of hundred bucks.”
He thought about it for a second, his coffee steaming in front of him.
“Let me see.”
He came back the next day to report; “I found a copy, in my collection. It’s taped from the television and I have no idea what the picture quality is like. But you have to come to my place to see. If it’s the only copy floating around …”
He broke his arm shortly thereafter and I didn’t want to bother him about the video. He’s healed now, so I finally asked him last Thursday if I could take him up on his offer to see the video.
“When do you work?”
“Sunday through Thursdays.”
He brought it in yesterday. Right after he handed it to me, Peggy says to me, “That was on the documentary channel just last night.” Whatever. I had it in my greedy little palms.
After inviting a few people over, I slid the tape into the VCR to see what the picture quality was like. Some really old commercials came on, then some show ended and I expected “Hookers on Davie,” next. I scroll ahead on the tape, and I get Armand Assante in “The Odyssey.” Why hadn’t I done this before I invited people over? There was a full two hours of “The Odyssey,” before I found the documentary.
There were four of us. I just assumed everyone would be excited about, “Hookers on Davie,” so I was a little bummed out when Ollie passes out half way through. Talbert sat erect, but seemed to lose interest in parts. Upchuck was all over it; he moved here in the nineties, so this wall new to him.
“Sorry I passed out,” Ollie said, stretching. “I’ve seen that movie so many times. I had roommate that owned it.”
“I’ve been looking for this movie for months and now it’s popping out of the woodworks,” I said.
“I remember seeing it late one night on CityTV back when I lived in Toronto,” Talbert said.
“Me too. I was in high school. Boy did that open my eyes,” I said. “I wonder if we were watching it at the same time. It’s like we’re connected.”
The next morning when I was walking to work at four in the morning, I tried to imagine the West End as it was back in ’84. I reconstructed the vacant lots, and the townhouses that had been torn down to make room for a condo. Walking up the cul-de-sac at Bute and Barclay, I superimposed the junkies who were using the flower stands for bleachers, with Michelle, Tiffany and Joyce from the movie. Even walking within an inch of them, they were nothing more than shadows in the streetlight.
Being awake and sober at four in the morning puts you in an interesting position. People are always pulling on the door needing something: money, a cigarette, something to eat. Every now and then a regular will get locked out their apartment and want to use the phone, or a warm place to sit until the landlord wakes up.
This morning I was standing outside the shop, smoking at about six thirty in the morning. Spudnik was coming up the street, with a plastic bag in one hand, a backpack in the other. He was swaying a bit.
“Coming home from work?” I asked. Spudnik bartends down the street.
“Three hours ago. Then I went out after and lost my keys. I’ve been wandering the streets, mad as fucking hell. This is the third time this month.”
Now there’s, “I lost my keys and I can’t get in my apartment,” and then there’s “I’m high on crack, and I need a fix.” Spudnik seemed to be saying the latter.
I’ve seen a lot of guys who used to work in the neighbourhood and come into the shop, lose their jobs and wandering around Davie at dawn, “looking for their keys.” It was particularly sad to seeing it happen to Spudnik. His once muscular body has shrunk, his cheeks are hollow and his looks like he got drunk and cut with nail scissors. Twenty years ago I would have thought he was an AIDS patient, but these days it says only one thing: Crack head.
“You want to come in?” I wanted to take the offer back as soon as I said it. Who knows what state of mind he was in. Plus Peggy would be showing up in about ten minutes. Peggy can’t deal with the public until 6:01.
“I’m okay.”
“Oz is usually here first thing in the morning.” Oz manages the Oxford Apartments, where Spudnik lives.
“Really? What time does he get here?”
“Between six and seven. He’s one of the first people here.”
“That means he’s probably waking up right about now.”
“Maybe.”
“Thanks. I’ll check it out.” After an awkward goodbye, he headed towards the Oxford.
I threw my cigarette out on Davie and sighed. Nothing kills a crush like a drug habit.

GarpinBC

THE COST OF LIVING

“Now, that’s what a ham & cheese croissant is supposed to look like!” Peggy said, pulling them out of the oven.
I rolled my eyes and pretended I was zombie.
“Little sick of the croissant criticisms huh?”
“All I’ll say is, I’m cooking them last like he asked me to.”
I have to admit, the ham & cheese croissants have been looking better as of late. They have time to rise in a hot room while the muffins and scones are baking.
“Yes, it’s starting to wear thin,” I said. “Yesterday, Neil told Matilda her croissants looked like crap. I’m surprised she didn’t deck him. And just for a kick in the balls, Neil thought I made them.”
Ever since the letter, there has been a sort of battening down of the hatches. The pressure is on now. Last Sunday, Alice walked into the shop and said, “Hey, you know Merriam’s? That ice cream shop on the corner of Davie and Denman? It’s turning into a Starbuck’s!”
That brings us to a grand total of four Starbuck’s on Davie. And that is killer property! Beach view and everything. Fuck I hate the WTO!
Ollie, Fang and Peggy are trying to stay on top of things. At least Peggy is. We all take our job seriously – but to a point. Too much weird shit goes on to treat it like a career. You need someone like Peggy around the shop; you get complacent otherwise. Still, she can be like a dog with bone sometimes.
I was making myself some poached microwave eggs and toast, when Peggy asks, “You’re going to remember to pay for that, right?”
Neil is getting on everyone’s case about paying for their food – enough to cover costs.
“Sure, no problem.”
“I’ve noticed you haven’t been paying lately.”
“Tips suck. If I pay for this stuff, I can’t eat dinner.”
“You can afford cigarettes.”
“Actually, I can’t, but sometimes, they last longer than food.”
“That’s not Neil’s or Abbey’s problem.”
“I agree, but what am I supposed to do? Starve?”
Once again, I felt the need to justify my lifestyle to Peggy. How do you justify being poor? It’s easy for Peggy to criticize; she splits her already cheap rent with her husband. I, on the other hand, live by myself with my dog. I chose to go off the beaten path for a reason, and it’s proving to be the right path for me. Every café owner in the city must know that he or she is in some way funding the arts. That doesn’t justify a meal nor does it justify going hungry.
The employees aren’t’ the only ones feeling the heat of all this competition. The prices are going up. The muffins went up a dime yesterday. The fruit salad could go up another two dollars. Neil asked me how much I thought he should raise the prices. I gave him one of my socialist answers.
“You gotta remember, some things have to stay cheap. A lot of starving artists come in here.”
“I’ve got three kids to feed.”
“We’ve all got someone to feed.”

GarpinBC

DAVIE DAYS AND SATURDAYS

It was just after nine at night when the phone rang. The call display said it was Ollie. I wondered what he could possibly want this late on a Friday night.
“Can you open tomorrow?”
Fuck!
“Peggy stubbed her toe and she can’t stand on it. She was crying on the phone.”
I hummed and hawed. If I opened, it meant I would have to go to bed as soon as I hung up the phone. The worst part was, I could use the money. I’ve overspent.
“Can we at least open at seven instead of six?”
Ollie winced into the phone.
“Oh, all right!”
As soon as I hung up the phone, I remembered that Saturday was Davie Day - the business association’s attempt at a street fair. The streets were being closed at ten in the morning. I was scheduled until eleven. There was the potential for it to be very busy and stressful.
It turned out I had nothing to fear. In typical Vancouver fashion, they didn’t actually close off Davie for Davie Day, just the block of Bute on either side of Davie. We can’t interrupt the bus routes you know, it’s very inconvenient. My shift was pretty much a breeze.
Upchuck ended up going back to my place after work. “Guess who I saw on my way up here?” he asked.
“Lurch?”
“Yup.”
I lost my enthusiasm for Davie Day. The last couple of days, I’ve been imagining bumping into Lurch, have even considered deleting him from my phonebook. I’ve practically conjured him. I’m not even sure how I feel about him one way or the other. What’s the point of getting worked up over a fight you had with a friend who was distant to start with. Still, like it or not, I’m going to run into him sometime, somewhere, probably when I’m stoned and least expect it.
“I’m going to need to go to this thing incognito,” I told Upchuck. I put in my contact lenses and wore a button-down shirt.
“That’s incognito?”
“Nobody recognizes me when I’m cleaned up.”
We took Burnaby up to the cul-de-sac at Bute. We were just in time to catch Joan-E do a number. I haven’t seen her perform in a really long time. There’s a reason she’s making a living as a drag queen. The crowd was slowly starting to build. People had to be told to sit down so the people behind them could see. The usual. Then Kim Kuzma came on. She’s a local performer who moved to San Francisco. I guess she used to be really popular or something.
“My ass is starting to hurt. Wanna check out the rest of it?” I asked Upchuck.
“Sure.”
We crossed Davie to the other side of Bute. I was stoned and leading, concentrating on not walking face first into anyone. “There’s that guy from the Pilsner who says he’s straight,” Upchuck said.
“Which one?” Like I cared, but for that instant I did.
“The guy sitting in the pick-up.”
I looked back at the guy. He was kind of average looking.
“Did you hear what I just said?”
“The guy in the pick-up.”
“No. I said, ‘There’s Lurch!’”
“Where?”
“He just passed the bus stop.”
“How close were we?”
“You nearly bumped into him!”
“Did he see me?”
“Judging from the hard right he made, I’d say he did.”
“Whew. I told you my disguise works.”
As we crossed Davie, I wondered what went through Lurch’s mind when he saw me with Upchuck. It was probably his worst nightmare realized. I felt like I was in grade school again. A tent was set up on the other side of Bute St so people could voice their opinions to representatives of the Business Association. There was this really cool aerial photo of the neighbourhood, about four feet long. They should have it on a postcard. I tuned in a little bit to hear what people were saying. People really seem to take issue with the Business Association. There were a lot of complaints about the street people but no viable solutions. Outside the tents were examples of nieghbourhood upgrades. It was pretty cool.
That was it for Davie Day as far as Upchuck and I were concerned. We went to The Pilsner and got really drunk, then he came back here and we watched the documentary,” Little Sisters vs. Big Brother.” It doesn’t get any more Davie Day than that.

GarpinBC

THE CROISSANT KERFLUFFLE

Whenever Neil feels like he’s losing business, he takes it out on the croissants. It doesn’t matter how busy we may be, the measure by which the customers judge The Shop are the croissants.
It is a point well taken to a certain degree. Stu almost never leaves the shop without commenting on the ham and cheese croissants. Only Stu doesn’t call them croissants, he calls them, crescents. I’m not sure which is more annoying, his running commentary, or his pronunciation.
“Who made the crescents yesterday? They were burnt?” he’ll complain, or, “Nice crescents,” like he’s commenting on your ass. He’s stopped Neil on the street to voice is opinion on the topic. Usually he just complains to me. Luckily, he likes how I bake my croissants, but I still don’t like hearing him complain about my co-workers. It’s not easy getting to work at four-thirty in the morning. Croissants are the last things on anyone’s mind.
We get our croissants frozen. The night staff leaves them out overnight to thaw, and then the opener comes in, gives them an eggwash and throws them in the oven to bake while panning the muffins. You aim for a nice golden brown, but you can’t start the scones until the muffin pans are in the oven, so you make a few compromises for the sake of expediency.
I was watching the diving finals of the Olympics when Neil’s wife, Abbey called. Abbey is Den Mother of the shop, and is usually the bearer of bad news. She has a soft touch.
“I need to have a croissant conversation.”
The cute Canadian, Alexandre Despatie, had just stepped up to the board. I don’t know which excited me more: the potential of a gold medal or his bathing suit.
“You know how you guys make the croissants first thing in the morning? Well, Neil wants you to bake them last when the oven is hot. They cook faster, and look better when they’re done.”
Alex blew the dive.
“Shit!” I said into the phone.
“What?”
“Sorry! I’m watching diving. Sure. Anything. I’ll do it like he wants.” Then got off the phone to get back to diving.
I make a concerted effort to follow instructions even though it’s just a Joe-Job that just barely pays the bills. The next morning I went, and let the empty oven warm up while I panned the muffins. It threw my day off a good half hour. The croissants were just going to into the oven when people started ordering breakfast. It was a struggle microwaving eggs and keeping an eye on the croissants so they didn’t go up in smoke. I spent the rest of my shift trying to catch up.
The next time I worked with her Peggy asked, “So what do you think about this whole croissant thing?”
“Personally, I don’t see the difference.”
“Me neither.”
Neither had Matilda, the other opener.
The three of us spent the next couple of weeks worrying about how our croissants looked. No one commented on them one way or the other. I give it six months before it becomes a bone of contention again.

GarpinBC