Of Easy Times And Black Russians. Snippets Of T.C.

A little long these stories but I figure get them out since these are just (unedited) glimpses into the whole picture.

***

Maybe it was the lazy haziness of the atmosphere that compelled my friend to call me the other day leading into a walk down night hawk memory lane. Shabadee, shabedah it was a ride and a bit back then.

"Hey, T.C. remember that time when Pat Cash beat Ivan Lendl at Wimbledon?"

"Was it Wimbledon? Your dad fell asleep half way through and woke up at the end at lost his mind when he saw a person with a sign saying "Cash is better than a Czech."

"See, pa? I told you! What did he say, T.C. was he swearing like a sick bastard?"

"Fuck you, Pat Cash!"

Laughs in the background. "I think he was more upset at the sign than anything because he really did like Cash."

"Yeah but Lendl was the demon. Awesome power."

And so went on the conversation better suited for pretend adults.

The Jello Bar we frequented back in the early to mid 1990s housed one of those nights we got pummeled on Black Russians. A night we came out with so many telephone numbers we couldn't match the faces to the names.

I think we may have tried to solve the puzzle over souvlaki well into the wee morning.

INT. DINER. 4AM. T.C. reaches into pocket and pulls out a piece of paper with a telelphone number written on it.

T.C.: Helen? Who the fuck is Helen?
FIFTER: Not sure.
T.C.: Where were we last night?
FIFTER: We started at the Moot from Quito's party at his apartment.
T.C.: Right. The doob party.
FIFTER: Then we heaed to K.O.X.
T.C.: Right. Why in the world did we go there?
FIFTER: To meet Spacegirl. Remember? "Hostie, c'est quoi sont probleme T.C.? J'suis pret pour lui! Bang, bang, bang!"
T.C.: Right. Fricken Lorusso got me in a jam on that one.
FIFTER: Lorusso is legend. Man, seeing Ginner from poli sci class was funny.
T.C.: I think he was stunned to see us in a gay bar. Where else did we go?
FIFTER: Well. There was (lists several places).
T.C.: Oh, wait a second! Helen! Helen the Greek. Met her last week in Little Italy!
FIFTER: The heavy smoker. Elena's friend. Got it.
T.C.: Hm, she slipped through the cracks. Maybe I should give her a call. Should I now?
FIFTER: That would be funny. Especially if her mother answers.
T.C.: Yeah. Maybe we should wash up and get ready for class later...

***

There were some days we'd walk in when our fathers, real men, were leaving for work. One such time we had spent the night playing billardino (fuzz ball) in a friend's basement. There was no internet back then.

We're talking 8am to 7am straight. We took an hour or so in between  to make some spaghetti with olive oil and garlic (a classic Sicilian dish) while praising Jesus and Dario's magic-dusted rust-colored god damn Malibu.

No seriously. In the kitchen there was room for one picture: Jesus. My buddy, now in foreign affairs, set the meal and proposed a toast. "To these little pear juices in a bottle! And Jesus!"

We'd resume soon after. Our marathon so intense the Jewish chicks hanging with us only stuck because they were fascinated by our behavior. We were, after all, choosing a table soccer game over them. One of them said, "I don't get what the obsession is!"

Nick replied, "Hey, when you die you become one of these men, girl!"

Never saw them again. Damn.

But we were the kings of the night club circuit when it came to that game.

That morning I waltzed into the kitchen. There sat my parents starting their day. "Where were you?" my mother asked. "At Pat's playing billardino." "Oh" she replied satisfied as she continued her domisticated duties. My father on the other hand was hearning none of it. In Italian he scolded me for taking him a fool. "Erano cazzo tutta la notte!" "They were fucking all night!"

"No, pa. Really..."

"Ma va...!"

"Ma, where are the Froot Loops?"

He then took his coat and went to earn some coin just as my brother slobbered in.

"Where's the Froot Loops?"

***

My friend ended up calling one of the numbers we culled . She was a Chinese girl who could barely speak English yet he persevered and managed to get a date. When she called to confirm the date his bombastic father answered. "Che? Che cazzo...Fifter!" He came down and threw the phone at him. "You guys now hitting the UN?"

The next day she took him to a Chinese hall where he swore it was filled with gangsters. He called me only to say, "I don't understand a fucking word she's saying. Help me. I may be getting married soon and shipped to China!"

"Hey, you're the one that said 'bang everything in plain sight.'

"Her friend thinks your cute. Hello...? Hello?"

Good times.

***

Which in turn reminded me of another moment this time the place was Sofa. Three of us decided to buy a couple of bottles of port each about $100 and proceeded to down both in about 1 1/2 hours. Let me tell you, port can hit you hard. We saw dead people that night.

My friend kept saying "love me 212.2 times" as the real song from The Doors played. We still don't know who those chicks were in the back seat.

***

Fifter, I should add, is pretty good looking and an even better talker. His background hails from the kick ass Renaissance town of Lucca. We'd back each other up once in a while where a girl insisted on bringing a friend. That was such the case one cool September evening, man. He had met a really hot girl and she claimed her friend would have been perfect for me.

We took the bus to the east end of Montreal and met them up. I noticed them from afar and was hoping my first glance of the girl wasn't true. As we approached it became more and more apparent I was being set up with "the other" friend.

The night was a major drag. Of course, Fifter was oblivious to it. The next day he had the balls to say, "Hey, great night, eh? How about Chloe! What do you think about her friend?"

"Are you serious? She could open a bottle cap with her teeth!"

"So, what are you saying?"

"You disgust me at this moment."

"Why? "in plain sight" remember?"

"No. That's your mantra. Not mine! I never thought I'd see Joe Dalessandro in the flesh but I got a pretty good idea with you and Lorusso!"

***

My father owned a building the market and decided to open a fruit store one year. We then proceeded, of course, to turn it into a meeting place. "The Little Whore Stand on the Corner that happened to sell bananas" was open for business. Fifter began banging the cashier, a half descent looking Brazilian-Italian, in no time and we soon began hanging with her gang.

EXT: Fruit stand. Day. T.C. talking to a girl in love with him as he serves customers.

T.C.: It's not you, Lynne. It's me.
Customer: Sont combien les citrons?
T.C.: 4 pour $1
Customer: C'est cher.
T.C.: Look, it's a kind gesture to offer to pay for the room but really..."
Customer: 5 pour .99?
T.C.: Non, madame.
Customer: C'est trop cher.
T.C.: As I was saying...Lynn? Lynn? Ok, madame. Donne moi .99...

***

Along our merry moments, we ended up at, of all places, an Indian wedding. Up until that time Fifter had been courting the bride (who was of Irish heritage) managing to get us into a Halloween party months before at her home in fancy Westmount.  She invited him, for some reason, to the wedding after party. I don't know why she did that since his only goal was to get in her pants and she had to have known that. He got ready for it as if he was going to hump the bride on the table in front of the guests. Bright red jacket and all...

Nothing came of it of course.

***

Just a note on Industrial and Piglette. At one point, the two biggest whores in town decided we were entertaining enough to host them. One of them passed through eight of our pals  - on the other side of the language divide - at a party in the forest.

Right in Nick's basement lay two girls who exuded so much horniness the father got worried for us.

"You guys ok?"

"Yeah, pa. We're watching Corky. Buzz off."

One time the phone rang and Nick asked Industrial to pick up the phone. She anwered him in total construction gutter talk, "Mon do'm fais mal, tabernak!" (Excuse the spelling). We all staired at each other in dead silence at the marvel before us.

A few months after they took their carni act elsewhere it was brought to our attention that although we had two ready and willing girls (one of them read my palm more on that in a minute) among us, not one of the nine guys among us took advantage.

There were limits to our willingness after all!

Back to the girl who read my palm. My parents were away on vacation and I have no idea where my siblings were because there were a lot of girls in the house. One gang was a group of local French-Canadians mostly well-to-do and of course, Industrial and Piglette who hailed from the side of the tracks we're sure got bulldozed by the health department, and the other group composed of cool alternative Italian girls from East-end Montreal.

Piglette was the one who read my palm.

End of story.

***

INT: Restaurant. North Vancouver. T.C., Fifter and buddy sitting at the table with two girls. One is getting married that week.

Girl: What's with you?
Fifter: Man, those mushrooms are amazing!
Girl: You took some and didn't tell us!
Fifter: Er...
Girl: We want in!

Naturally, Fifter mamaged to make out with the budding bride. We later ended up in a bar frequented by B.C. Natives. I still get chills.