Tuesday, August 14, 2007, Toronto, Ontario
King Street West
It had been nearly two months since the abdication, and I find
myself...unsure. Adrift.
I am unsure of my career, my love life - it exists, if it will ever
exist again, like some insidious
black hole - even my role as father, are being questioned by myself on
a near daily basis.
Everything seems somewhat surreal still.
Her murder, my loss, my renewal, the entire transition.
More than I can ever recall since that horrible day in 1993.
Thankfully one of the biggest transitions of all supposedly really
hasn't been that much of a transition: the move from New York to
Toronto.
The two cities have similarities. Cosmopolitan. Vast -
though Toronto pales. Refined in many ways.
And I have always loved my visits here in the past. The Duke of
York, one of my favourite haunts near the University of Toronto had
unfortunately underwent renovations, eliminating most of their
menu, but had since re-opened to full operation.
But I wasn't in that part of the city today. So I have to find
respite elsewhere for the time being.
Having retired from the ring, I have found more time on my hands than I
know what to do with.
I find myself wandering the streets of the downtown, before coming
across a small winebar on King Street West.
Muse.
Checking my watch: 10pm.
Being on a Tuesday night, I anticipated that the place shouldn't be too
busy.
Opening the door I glance around the surroundings. Not too busy.
Good.
I'm seated quickly and politely and take my time to pour over the
menu.
Ten dollar or less port would do nicely. I just want to drink.
And think.
I had spent the day wandering around the newly renovated Royal Ontario
Museum. They did one hell of a job imposing a giant ass crystal
into a neo-gothic building, for a quarter of a billion dollars.
They call it the Michael Lee-Chin Crystal. I've heard of him,
very generous man. I should have bloody well donated that $25
million.
The Robert Lancaster Crystal.
Then again maybe not.
"Can I get you something sir, a
drink to start off?" interrupts the
well mannered waiter.
"Yes please, a port, this one,"
I point to the menu.
"Certainly sir."
Suddenly in comes a group of ten people.
I let out a very audible sigh as they begin to chat with the maitre-de
about seating.
This place isn't too big to begin with.
Feelings of foreboding and loathing begin to surround me as rear ends
are placed in chairs near and around me.
Lesson here?
If you want quiet, stay at home.
My book - Bill Clinton's "My Life" - will most decidedly stay put
beside me on this night.
My port arrives and I begin to second-guess my evening's outing.
The chatter in my vicinity starts to get louder and louder.
My patience, in sync with the chatter, begins to wane, thinner and
thinner.
In walks a lovely young lady, perhaps 28 or so. Caucasian.
Trim.
Fascinating.
Somehow the Lord always seems to smile on me at times like this, and
put some tasty dish my way.
Mind you the last time that happened I ended up with Marissah.
I won't be so eager this time around.
I hope.
For now, let's see...
I glance upwards at the Lord - i.e. the ceiling - and flash a smile.
Pointless, but He understands my gratitude.
I manage to over hear some blathering on her mobile phone. She's
gesticulating in the air. Something about some person named Kelly
not
attending or...something or other...stupid bitch, etc...what about
Paul...more something or other...
A load of tripe, but the light catches her in just the right way.
She is indeed beautiful.
She glances over at me. Suddenly I make as if the menu is the
most fascinating bit of work since Dostoevsky.
I lower the menu just a tad past my eyes, straight out of a negative
five star rated detective story, and find she is still looking at me,
this time squinting.
I hear footsteps over the muttering of the masses around me and see her
red locks hanging slightly over her eyes as her red lips purse in a
smile.
"Robert Lancaster?"
I shift in my chair and shift my eyes, lowering the menu.
"Would you believe a mild
mannered reporter working for a major metropolitan newspaper?"
She raised her eyebrows.
"Hardly."
"Then why don't you take a seat
and keep me company, since Paul and Kelly are leaving you hanging."
She opened her mouth in mock shock.
"For a former aristocrat you sure
are a cheeky monkey."
Former aristocrat.
I hated being an aristocrat, to some extent. But that stung.
"I'd not have it any other
way. Paul your boyfriend?"
"Actually," she put her
purse down beside her. "Kelly
is my girlfriend."
SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH.
"I see. Lucky girl."
She smiles. "She is.
But where are my manners. I'm Caitlin."
We cordially shake hands.
"I take it you're a fan.
And not a stalker."
"If I were straight, I might be,
but yes, I'm a fan. I would never have expected to bump into you
of
all people, but I'm delighted I did. I have so many questions for
you."
Suddenly I begin to think she is
a stalker - of the journalistic type.
"Journalist?"
She shakes her head. "Much
more boring than that. Financial analyst."
That is boring.
"You have my sympathy. So
then, ask away."
I finish my port and summon the waiter. Red wine agrees with her,
I order a bottle, and it is soon placed in front of us.
"How have you managed to keep your
sanity with all these disruptions in OLW? Run-ins, brawls, all
that shit."
I expected something more...serious? Concrete? to be asked. But I
can
appreciate that. And it is a good question. I am tired of
all the
bullshit.
"I haven't kept it well.
I
didn't want to strip the titles off of the Conspiracy, but what the
Syndicate did, and then with all these other assholes pouring out of
the back, I had no choice. I had to send a message to these
bastards,
including Jeff Andrews, that bastard...did I mention he's a bastard?"
She nods as she sips.
"Good. That I will not
put up
with this much more. I'm the bloody boss. They want to
screw with
me? I'll screw with them. They want to act like
savages? I'll put
them in matches that will beat them like savages. I'll start
carrying a shotgun if needs be, to teach them all a lesson. I'll
rip them a new one."
"You won't do that to Heidi
though."
Heidi.
Heidi.
"No..." I gulp. "I wouldn't do that to her."
Caitlin leans forward, "Why don't
you ask her out?"
My expression is stone faced. Here I am, receiving romantic
advice
from a woman I do not know, save that she is an attractive late
twenties/early thirties lesbian red head who is a financial analyst.
"I uh...tried that once, as you
may recall...and..."
"I said you, not Avarice."
"I..."
"CAITLIN!"
We both turn, and it must be her love Kelly, she's waving at the front
doors, with a big smile on her face. Apparently she made her way
after
all.
"I'm sorry I have to go.
Listen, here's my card."
A moment or two fishing in her purse and I am presented with a rather
drab business card; I suppose to match her rather drab career. "Call me if you want."
I stand up and we shake hands as she heads towards the door.
A quick wave and she is gone.
And I'm left with some thinking to do.
Why don't I ask her out?