The Manor

I don't know why he dragged me to this. I really don't. There I was in my room, happy to play Hellstorm and rack up some kills when Dad walks in my room (knock first, Dad!).

'Get dressed junior. We're going to a housewarming in the east end.'
'What?'
'Nice clothes, look sharp. Be ready by the front door in ten minutes or I'm dragging you out there.'

Dad closed the door. I groaned, threw my controller to the floor and found the best clothes I could within the pile on the floor. What a pain. We had to take a bus to the subway, take another bus from that subway stop and then walk several minutes down some street called Southwood. It was windy, some dumb kid brothers bumped into me and spilled popcorn all over the place, and these dress shoes were giving me blisters. Finally we got to the house and Dad rung the doorbell.

'Stand up straight junior. Look presentable.'

I rolled my eyes and waited. And waited. We stood outside for several minutes, Dad ringing the doorbell several more times (knock first, Dad!) with no result. It was a nice house, with a white porch that closed up everything within itself. At last somebody answered, looked Dad over and looked very disappointed. Without another word we were inside.
There were a lot of people in every room, none of them dressed as nicely as me or Dad. I spoke up to mention this but he shushed me. We wandered through the house, peeking into every room while the strangers within stopped talking at each intrusion. We entered the kitchen and there was Mom with another fella, looking happy and relaxed until she saw us.

'What... what are you doing here?'

Mom was not happy. I turned to leave the room but Dad's leg tripped me back into place.

'This is pathetic.'
'You're pathetic.'

And on it went. Venom turned to fangs, yelling to screaming, spit into tears. I don't know why he dragged me to this, I really don't.

Girls On Film

We were waiting in line outside an old movie theatre: my little brother, me and my parents. They'd wanted to come all the way across the city because one of their first ever dates was here. Dad repeated this story a few times during the drive as an excuse to kiss Mom, causing my little brother and I to grossly squeal.

As Mom and Dad bought the tickets a kiddo bumped into me and asked if I knew where East and something was. He seemed sad when I couldn't answer and sadder when Mom pulled me inside before I could say sorry. Dad bought us all popcorn but little brother whined because he wanted Smarties instead. Spoiled brat. The floors at the... I wanna say Badger Theatre? The floors were very slanted, which was fun. I was at the Ex again! It didn't have an arcade or flashing lights prizes though, just some boring black and white posters.

Mom got some wine and Dad got a beer and weirdly they wanted to sit behind us when we took our seats. 'We'll keep an eye on you!' Dad smiled while Mom giggled. So I was stuck next to little brother who wouldn't shut up about this new game everyone at school was playing. I pinched him many times and ate popcorn until the movie started.

It wasn't the same without surround sound or 3D glasses or those awesome vibrating seats, but it was still Bond on a big screen and it was great. Like the beginning where he's battling a goon hand to hand on a crane, while a bomb is dangling by a thread overtop a local school! Or that part where he fires a bullet through a keyhole, right into the hand of a bad guy who had a knife to the queen's throat!

Halfway through the movie my stomach hurt and I lost track of the plot. Bond was suddenly on a big beach, with bright blue water and paper white sand. He was there to meet a spy or steal some plans or something, and he approached a woman lying in the sand by the shore. She stood up to face him and her skin sparkled and shone golden brown under the bright sun. I felt warm and tingly inside, like nervous. Another close up of her, ending at chest level and the feeling doubled.

My face was on fire, I was blushing. I'd never felt anything like this before. My legs twitched slightly. Some bizarre energy flowed towards them, meeting in the middle. Bond put a hand on her shoulder, kissed her lips and I wished I was in his place. Little brother squealed like he did in the car. I stared at the screen, wanting to see more like a rabbit peeking down the hole.

End of the Line

'Last stop! Get off my streetcar ya dumb kid!'

The driver practically shoved me down the steps. I could not understand his anger, driving a train through the city sounds like fun.
It was colder here than downtown. The wind was harder. Chilly air from the lake went through my bones. Mom did tell me to pack an extra sweater. I hate when parents are right.
I didn't know where I was. I'd asked the driver where Eastern and Woodfield was but he snorted at me. This place was some weird spot where the streetcar tracks loop behind some Deco fortress. Now my friend with the latest game was waiting somewhere and I was here, wherever that is. This sucks.

The wind bites my face. It howls along these strange buildings, taking it's time to feed on me. I start walking back the way I came. The other way darkens and closes up, like to swallow my future. In my future hopefully I can find someone seeing I am lost and directing me towards my waiting friend. Or a streetcar driver with a smile. But now it's cold and I am so alone in this worn unknown town. In the distance way ahead is the tower, the shiny city world where I came from. Here I am a stranger and I hide my face to the passersby. The sooner I can grow outta here the better.

Drinks At The Local Thirsty

The sequence of circumstances that led to my employment at The Local Thirsty don't make a particularly gripping tale, especially contrasted with other unusual occurrences over my years at the Thirsty. Many of the less interesting tales blur together, such like the dying gasps of autumn as brutal winter moves in to finish the hit. An occasion in my memory rises above that cold haze, despite taking place during those aggressively neutral months.

----

It was a bleak November afternoon, windy jacket weather where any beam of sunlight was unable to pierce through a dense colourless layer of cloud. The Thirsty was especially quiet, that awkward transitional part of the day when the lunchtime rush had completely died down but about an hour before the neighbourhood regulars finished work. My only table was a hungover couple in the back nursing a shared mimosa, when a young man I'd never seen before took a seat at the bar.

Immediately noticeable about this man was how he dressed, leading me to think how Halloween had been weeks ago. On the surface it seemed nothing more than a costume yet the man appeared so natural and comfortable in it that even some friendly jabs towards his style seemed an inappropriate way to approach. So I began quiet, dropping a menu and a coaster in front of him while he adjusted his large silver belt and turned his head so as to find the most gracious lighting for his brown fedora.

'What's your best rye?' He asked me without a glance at the menu.
'We've got Boswell Bullet or Lot 40, that's the premium stuff.' I replied.
'Bullet sounds appropriate, Been dodging a few of those lately. On the rocks, double.'

This was a while before the Thirsty tightened their inventory counts, so I poured this odd young man a splash or two over the standard two shots. I was very curious by his appearance and attitude and hoped to slyly and expertly loosen his tongue.

'First time in the city?' I asked him. A generic ice-breaker.
'Yeah. Stopover from Ankara, resting it off for a while. Lots of snakes there.'

He took the glass of rye to his lips and gulped down half of it. He set the glass back down on the bar and glanced up at me.

'Decent stuff.'
'I'm not much of a rye drinker, to be honest.' I replied.
'I assume you have a poison of choice?' He inquired. 'Never met a barkeep anywhere in the world who didn't.'
'Gun to my head, tequila.'
'Ha! Huh. You don't strike me as a tequila man.' Said he, his eyes wandering me up and down.
'Sure. I just don't care for cheap stuff.'
'Me neither.'

The young man stared at me for a moment with a look of both judgement and amusement. I've never been a great guesser of age but I doubt even after the fact that he was older than 26. Yet he possessed this demeanour of gruff and weary worldliness that itself surpassed him by decades. My instincts could not conclude whether he was genuine or a brilliant facade.

'So what brought you here of all places? This is a decent city but nothing special.' I asked.
'Got some time to kill, thought I'd maybe go finish up my doctorate.'
'What's your field?'
'Archaeology.' He replied, finishing his drink and smacking his lips afterwards. 'Same thing, fella.'

I poured him another with a little less ice this time. He took out a small notebook from the inside pocket of his thin brown jacket and jotted down some words quickly, all the while peeking towards the entrance. I checked in on my mimosa table ("We're fine") and went back behind the bar.

'Wyoming.' Said he, glancing up from his notebook and nodding to me.

I told him my name.

'Huh. Unusual. Huh, huh huh. Never heard that one before. You look a bit like a fella I met down in the Yucatan, Bajon. He looked up a student paper I wrote for Oxford and sent me a letter inviting me down to look at a particular find he discovered off the beaches in Tulum.'
'I've been there before.' I nodded. 'Was it worthwhile heading all the way down there?'

Wyoming sniffed his rye and took a sizeable sip, letting it linger in his mouth for a moment before gulping it down.

'Huh. We met in Playa Del Carman, at the bar of a small resort where he knew the owner. After a few tequilas he felt comfortable enough in my confidence and pulled out what he'd found. It was truly remarkable, I'd never seen anything like it.'
'Diamonds? Jewelry?'
'It was an amulet, flawless condition, a blue gemstone in the very center. Somehow it'd survived in a makeshift preservative, inside a metal box buried under the sands of the beach. Deciphering what we could of the symbols on the amulet, we concluded this had belonged to an ancient princess, and that there was a twin amulet belonging to a her beloved, a prince. Bajon fortunately was sharp enough to also bring the metal box with him, so we took a room at the resort and got to work trying to find any clues towards the possible location of the second amulet.'

At this point the mimosa table finally asked for their bill. I dealt with that, chuckled at overhearing how they were each buzzed again, and went back to Wyoming's progressing tale.

'Bajon and I spent a few days and a few bottles of whiskey I'd smuggled through customs getting nowhere on this mystery. None of the symbols on the box even resembled anything either of us were familiar with. Then one evening I fell asleep but Bajon quickly shook me awake. He'd made a brilliant revelation: the unknown symbols weren't words but co-ordinates!'

Wyoming became so excited at this moment of retelling that he knocked over his drink onto the wood of my bar. I refilled it and looked the other way.

'Cheers, friend. Yes co-ordinates! A precise instruction, hidden in code within misleading pictograph. Brilliant, really. Using a map in the welcome basket of our hotel room, we triangulated the location and groaned once the final calculation confirmed it. The spot was twenty-three miles east of the resort, in the blue of the sea according to our map.'

A regular of the Thirsty, Jake Nosul (who we referred to as "Nose" or "The Nose"), walked in around this part of the story. He sat next to Wyoming at the bar and leaned in, which made Wyoming quietly unwilling to continue the tale.

'Hey Nose, how bout I buy you lunch?'
'Really? Sure! To what do I owe this pleasure?'
'My unselfish nature.' I replied. 'Just go into the kitchen and tell Chef what you want. Tell him it's on me.'
'All right! I have been craving a well-done steak lately...'

Once Jake had disappeared into the back Wyoming flashed me a quick smirk.

'The next day we borrowed a boat and set out to see if there was anything out there. It was twilight and foggy when we reached the co-ordinates, so I cut the engines. Good thing too, because otherwise we would've crashed head on into a cliff-face! The mass wasn't wide or high but it was large enough to climb onto, maybe about the size of this bar actually. With a couple of ropes we were atop the thing, marveling at how unnaturally flat it was. In the centre of the mass was a big stone noticeably outta place, shining silver through the mist. Geology has never been a trick in my bag but this stone I swear was untouched by the ravages of the eroding sea. With a flashlight we found the thinnest of seams along the stones corner, connecting into a rectangular outline within the top. Too precise and fine to have occurred naturally. A soft touch onto it and we were certain it was removable. Bajon grabbed a thin knife from his jacket, used it as a lever and the portion of stone was free.'
'There were engravings etched on the inside of the compartment, very similar to those on the amulet. A buildup of moss was along the bottom that we had to tear away, revealing the small metal box we suspected was there. Another pry of Bajon's knife and we had the box open.'

Wyoming took a sip, swished his drink and closed his eyes, as though to savour an old memory becoming fresh again.

'An amulet almost exactly like the other, except the centre stone was vivid red instead of blue. That wasn't all. There were scraps of paper, badly worn but still the handwriting was legible. I carefully stuffed them into my pack to protect them from the mist, knowing their potential historical importance. Right as I did that, an enormous wave crashed against the island. Once the haze lifted we weren't alone anymore.'
'The clicking of pistols, the international unfriendly hello. There were only two, meaning in numbers we were an even match, but Bajon and I were not armed.'
' "Bajon, old friend." said the lead man. As he stepped closer I recognized him as the owner of the resort. Obviously he had followed us. "Deepest thanks to both of you. At first I was content with simply snatching the first amulet away from you. But when I saw you sneak out to sea, I knew something as up. Like you both knew where the second one might be. So my associate and I followed you, and now here we are." '
'Bajon handed both metal boxes over but could not keep silent. "Why? We've been friends for fourteen years. Why?" Friend Bajon growled. The associate pointing a gun at me tightened his grip. I was just extra baggage in this affair.'
' "Why he asks? Old friend, there are many reasons. Maybe my resort is losing money, meaning the sale of these amulets is just the surge of cash I need. Or maybe I'm a long down descendant of the invaders that destroyed this ancient kingdom, so if I possess the amulets the misdeeds of my ancestors is lost in history. Or maybe dear Bajon, I just never liked you that much. Maybe none of those! Or maybe all three. Speaking of the second, you there put something in your pocket. Hand it over." '.
'The associate advanced on me, gun pointing to my chest. I kept one hand raised, threw off my pack with the other and bent down to open it up. His hand drooped a little as he came closer, a lackey mistake. I swung the pack hard around my shoulder, belting him square across the face. Baggage saving baggage. In the confusion Bajon made his move, tackling his old friend by the legs. I moved to help but my adversary grabbed my arm and fired a bullet that missed my nose by a foot. Luckily I was a champion wrestler in college, dunno if I mentioned that.'

'Sure.' I shrugged.

'Right. Well I was. I tossed that bastard into the sea once I'd loosened the gun. I got up and through the haze of the crashing waves saw Bajon still duking it out. Just as I recovered the pistol, a gigantic wave gathered up just by the break of the rocks. I scrambled behind the largest stone right as this three-storey wave crashed into the island, the sound echoing into the sea like an explosion. Once the mist had cleared I looked around and saw no sign of Bajon, his betrayer, or the amulets. By miracle our boat was still intact, and I went back to shore.'

Wyoming was silent for a while, staring out towards the window with a regretful expression on his face and poking his nearly empty drink.

'The end?' I eventually asked.
'Yeah.' He grunted, his eyes looking to his glass to suggest one more.

I poured it, gave him the bill and greeted a pair of regulars who'd walked in during the climax of Wyoming's tale. This gave me a sudden sense of reality as I returned to Wyoming to settle up.

'Sounds a bit cliche to be honest.' I remarked to him.
'...excuse me?' He replied, more surprised than angry.
'Sorry, like something out of a movie. Just a tad too fantastic.'

Wyoming was silent for a moment. 'Sure. Guess ya got me. Good ears, friend.' Wyoming said, reaching into his jacket pocket for a wad of bills. 'The pleasure was mine, though I'm sure we'll meet again.'

With a subtle tip of his hat he slipped out the door like a shadow chased by a vengeful light. I cleared his empty glass and gathered up his generous gratuity. There was a strange foreign bill mixed in the middle of what he left, which I thought nothing of until I separated it. I realized it wasn't currency but a folded piece of paper, extremely old and yellowed with faded handwriting in a language resembling nothing I'd ever seen. Cliches indeed.

A Farewell To Doc

There are so many stories that should and probably will be written about Harry Leroy Halladay. I can't possibly do the man justice by trying to impart those facts within my limited knowledge.

Especially since many people know the story: how he was a top draft pick who rose to the major leagues with so much promise, coming within a single out of throwing a no-hitter in his second career start. Then the story shifted to one of a struggling young pitcher trying to make his way against the very best hitters in the world, during the tail end of an era where slugging batters dominated the sport no less. He turned in one of the worst seasons a qualified MLB pitcher has ever handed on the desk in 2000, and the team sent him down three levels the next year in a potentially vain hope he'd figure shit out.

The 2001 team stands out to me really because it was the genuine beginning of my infatuation/love affair with the Toronto Blue Jays. Which is objectively hilarious because what a truly forgettable team, despite how Carlos Delgado was freaking awesome, Vernon Wells gave us lots of hope for the future (ha!) and the Quantrill-Plesac bromance was only trumped by their awesome abilities to actually pitch good bullpen innings. Aside from that (and Jose Cruz Jr.'s 30-30 year), the most notable thing about this squad was how dreadful the starting pitching staff was, particularly early on. Steve Parris, Joey Hamilton, Chris Michalek, Esteban Loaiza (I mean, Tom Riddle), all stinking up the SkyDome mound on a regular basis. Finally this pitching-sad squad made a depth callup in the middle of June for an arm with anything resembling life.

I'm not lying, I actually remember this game somewhat: Halladay's 2001 debut in relief (a truly dreadful Loaiza start it turns out). Doc same in early and then surrendered six runs in two-plus innings to the Red Sox. I recall my thirteen year old self watching and thinking: "This guy is really awful. I never want to see him out there again.". Halladay's ERA on the season after that game was 23.14. The team gave him an actual start five days later and I thought they were completely insane. This is why MLB teams don't listen to the whims of 13 year olds.

I quickly changed my tune and fell in love with Halladay. He didn't walk anybody (25 in 105.1 IP), didn't give up home runs (3!) and was just 24 years old in 2001, yet clearly had the best composure on that staff. Nothing seemed to bother this guy now, not Billy Koch blowing his potential wins multiple times or even just playing on a team so forgettably mediocre as the 2001 Blue Jays. You could just tell he was potentially on a different level.

Indeed he was. Roy Halladay had clearly arrived. He was a lonely bright spot on a really bad 2002 Blue Jays team, a point of pride on a competitive 2003 team that scored a million runs thanks to simultaneous career years, and his injury/brief ineffectiveness was a major symptom of the Season From Hell (vol I) that was 2004.

2005 rolls in, I'm seventeen and now have fallen in love with pitching. I spent a lot of my after school time at my high school going out back to the sports field, finding a familiar square on the outer brick wall and just firing away. I learned quickly my fastball was pathetically slow (like barely breaking the speed limit in a school zone slow), but the appeal of it all was more in the art of pitching than just being able to blow heat past people. I wanted to carve corners, change speeds, make em think something else was coming. I 'd been watching a master at this in Doc Halladay for three-plus seasons now, and I wanted to emulate this master sculptor like a child desperate for just a single slab of marble. Everything he threw at hitters moved, but it moved in such unpredictable directions and was always in just a perfect spot where a hitter couldn't quite get it. Another weak ground ball. I watched every one of his starts, studied this impossible method and aspired to be capable of the same, even after an errant but heartbreaking line drive from Kevin Mench prematurely ended what could have been Doc's best season.

Halladay's brilliance as a Blue Jay became a yearly expectancy as his career continued. Once we knew he was fully healthy after an initially exciting 2006 season, Doc spent his remaining time as a Blue Jay spinning seasonal masterpieces for teams that either made ineffectual moves towards competing or just wanted to start over. After 2009, it was time for Doc to start over. It was a common secret Halladay wanted to play in Philadelphia, yet he never made a public request or complained on emerging social media, and the team made a deal that now basically results in getting a third of R.A. Dickey and all of Devon Travis. Conclusion jury is still out looking for conclusions on that one.

Losing Doc hurt every fan of the Blue Jays, despite how inevitable it felt near the end. And yet, many of us didn't harbor ill feelings towards him for wanting to get outta town. Many of us still rooted for him, and were ecstatic the night he threw his perfect game in Miami. I remember I was out on the town with some friends, heard about what he'd done and once I was free rushed home at three in the morning just to watch the highlights of another Halladay masterpiece. And he looked every bit the pitcher he had always been, except he was wearing the wrong uniform. But that didn't matter. He was still our guy.

Later that same season was the first game of the 2010 NLDS with the Phillies facing off against the Reds (before they became my adopted NL team). A friend of mine wanted to have a long hang out of beers, personal basketball/baseball rivalries and various other stuffs, but it was Roy Halladay's first ever playoff appearance for the Phillies and I just did not want to miss it, so I blew him off. My friend fired some snarky remarks my way, which I gladly accepted for the opportunity to watch live only the second no-hitter in MLB postseason history. A historically excellent performance tarnished only by the fact that Doc missed a perfect game by walking a single batter, on a borderline 3-2 pitch no less. The Phillies won that series against the Reds but lost frustratingly to a clearly inferior Giants squad in the NLCS, and that was the closest Halladay ever got to a championship he richly deserved. He had a couple more good years with Philadelphia (including that great Game Five playoff duel with Carpenter the next year) but shoulder problems slowly robbed him of velocity and he hung up the spikes after 2013 with 206 wins in the big leagues.

Roy Halladay was the kind of player you wanted to root for, to cheer for, to love, once you inhaled a single wiff of what he was about. He was an insanely hard working and well conditioned, but humble about his own personal successes. His greatest pitching skill was ruthless efficiency, yet he was incredibly enjoyable to watch when on his game. In retirement his obsessive dedication to his craft gave way to a man cheerful and relaxed with his accomplishments, whether it be trolling a fan with a Halladay jersey (who walked past Doc without recognizing him) in good social media fun, signing a theatrical one day contract so he could retire as a Blue Jay (with all the gushing that followed), or taking up an interest in aviation (which is exactly what has led to this tragedy).

All I can say is that I'm proud to be a fan of the Blue Jays, because Roy Halladay played for the Blue Jays. A great, classy ballplayer who by so many accounts was an even greater and classier human being. During those forgettable seasons when Doc took the mound I usually didn't care who the Jays were facing or what the sad W-L record of my team was, I was more excited to see a true master take the stage once more. I am truly saddened we will never get to see the man himself take to the precious stage of life again.

Maybe The Truth

Maybe the truth is
I have so much to offer
Maybe the truth is
I don't interact like a normal person
Maybe the truth is
I want to be alone
even though that's what kills me
Maybe the truth is
I imagine magic that isn't there
Maybe the truth is
I don't need to imagine
the magic is there in all of us
Maybe the truth is
I'm afraid
but aren't we all
Maybe the truth is
Most of us are noble and true
it's the bad ones that shit
on the parade

Alone At A Party

Talking up to the corner
Making friends with the snack bowl
The bathroom sure knows my name by now
It's where I've been hiding

Everyone else is so natural
like they're actually friends
So badly I want the same
but I've nothing to say

I drift through the room
like an aggressive decoration
A look here, an eyebrow raised there
I'm a phony so lonely
Hiding fear through smiles
While my eyes roll
among the floorboards