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