TURKEY AND BEER

I’ve decided I hate Canadian Thanksgiving. This is my second one and so far, it’s never lived up to my eight American Thanksgivings.
My biggest problem with Thanksgiving north of the 49th parallel is I can never remember which day it’s on. I asked several people and still don’t know if it’s on a Sunday or a Monday. Regardless, it’s too soon to be Thanksgiving. It seemed like there was no time to prepare – no time to make arrangements to go somewhere of invite people. Not like I got invited anywhere or have the wherewithal to prepare a turkey dinner. My contribution to a Thanksgiving dinner is my famous cranberry relish, which takes twenty minutes and one burner on the stove to prepare.
Back in San Francisco, we had Thanksgiving at the flat on Belcher St. You could call it an orphan’s Thanksgiving, but it never felt that way. We would usually gather there the night before to start the prep for the next day’s dinner and go over any last minute things that needed to be purchased. Since I don’t cook I was usually the lackey who had to wait in line for hours at Safeway to buy a bag of flour, a pint of whipping cream or just a bag of chocolate chips. The TV would be on in the living room, and the bong was constantly being loaded and passed around. In the back room behind the kitchen, Emme would have her jazz station on, while Daria ran around taking pictures. I was constantly nibbling. Thanksgiving Day proper, people would start showing up around noon to watch whatever movie they were repeating on TBS.
This year I was holding out for an invitation somewhere nice. You know, sitting down at a table and eating instead of balancing a plate between your knees. When none came I tried to hide from it by doing volunteer work. It turns out to volunteer to dole out food to homeless people you need to fill out an application and get a police check and TB test.
The homeless problem in Vancouver is big topic of conversation right now. The Provincial Government is ramming through the Safe Streets Act, which is supposed to stop aggressive panhandling but boils doing to making it illegal to be poor. NIMBYs are meeting several proposed addiction centers with fierce opposition. I find myself getting very angry about it. I’ll admit I’ve had my run-ins with panhandlers but I don’t think they should they should be locked up. I was hoping that helping out on Thanksgiving would make me feel like I’m walking the talk, or if nothing else, make me feel better about what I have; that is the point of Thanksgiving after all.
Against my better judgment I met Ollie for a couple pints at The Pilsner this afternoon. They had set up their holiday patio in the alley behind the bar. There were a couple of tents and some heat lamps; Red Bull had their hands in it some how because there were banners everywhere; even the metal tables had their logo emblazoned on it. Two sips into my beer, Ollie asked, “You sticking around for the turkey?”
“What turkey?”
“They’re having a turkey dinner!”
“But I thought tomorrow was Thanksgiving.”
“Tomorrow is the stat holiday; today is Thanksgiving.”
Just then a guy in a chef’s outfit gets out of a blue and asks, “Is this The Pilsner?”
“Yes it is,” the bar manager shouts back to him and shows him where to take the turkeys. As they were unloading the food and ambulance arrived to pick up a junkie who had overdosed not from the catering van.
Talbert and Upchuck joined us not long after.
“You having turkey?” Upchuck asked again.
“I don’t know. I have this about eating a holiday meal in a bar. It’s kind of depressing isn’t it?”
“But the price is right.”
For one of the first times in months the issue wasn’t money. I just started a second job, and had money enough to go buy myself a turkey breast at the PayMo Foods, if I wanted. It just bugged me that I had no place to go, that I would be served my Thanksgiving meal from a steam tray by and someone I didn’t know while the drunk guy who plays pull tabs every day waited in line behind me. I might as well be homeless. But the smell of the turkeys warming on the gas bar-b-ques were giving me second thoughts.
“Who wants to get stoned at my place?” Ollie asked.
“I do! I do!” I said.
I hung out at Ollie’s long enough for a glass of wine, a toke and insider look at my new favourite show, “Corner Gas.” As the credits were rolling on the show, my cell phone rang. It was Talbert.
“Are coming back for turkey?”
It was the philosophical question of the day.
“I’ll be there in a bit.”
On the way back to the The Pilsner, the streets were filled with junkies and the panhandlers were out in full force. Drunk and stoned I felt right at home.
Upchuck was chatting up some guy in line for a drink when I entered the bar. I walked past without even acknowledging him knowing we would catch up on the patio. I found Talbert playing the new “Lord of the Rings,” pinball machine at the back of the bar.
“You gonna eat?”
“I don’t know.”
“Just have something.”
“Why am I obligated to eat turkey just because it’s Thanksgiving?”
“I thought you were hungry.”
“Who said I was hungry? Did I say I was hungry?”
“You’re always hungry. All you ever talk about is food.” Talbert kicked the leg of the pinball machine. “Now look; you made me loose my ball.”
I caught a glimpse of someone’s paper plate loaded with turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes, smothered in gravy. It looked and smelled so good, but the black walls and the teddy bear in a sling took something away from the ambiance.
“Do you want me to get you plate?” Talbert asked.
“No. I’ll get it myself.”
Talbert watched me eat my turkey off a paper plate using plastic utensils. “Here’s to Thanksgiving in a bar, “ I said, raising my glass.
Talbert patted my shoulder and said, “ You’re amongst friends. There’s no shame in that.”


GarpinBC