Harbor House Hotel, Salt Spring Island, 1990-something
"Yeah, whatever, he's probably got his demons too...but what about tonight? What are you doing?" I ask.
"Ivana (his girlfriend) is supposed to be here for Karaoke" says Anu.
Terror hits me. Karaoke! Anything but the drunken spectacle of Karaoke, but before you know it we're sitting with a local softball legend and two ladies and the music is on loud and sad as wannabe singer's drop their inhibitions and act out their fantasy for the eager crowd more appreciative for effort and courage than talent or ability to carry a tune
Fred, the softball legend, was playing the game in leagues all over western Canada and even as far north as Inuit when I was a kid growing up in Los Angeles, another lifetime ago. Fred was catching on the local team I joined when I moved to this godforsaken rock, as beautiful as it is, it is the home of the doomed, we all know that, and he is as lively as ever. Always the lampshade dude at the party, he has mellowed somewhat with age, but still he reels off one-liners, almost like a Flinstonian Henny Youngman.
"My wife..." he says in deep growly voice, leaning over with his gigantic carpet-layer forearms which I've seen smash softballs with such efficiency even steroid-pumping 19-year old assholes with attitude stop and stare and recognize...he goes on "...my wife ain’t much of a wrestler, but you should see her box! Muwa ha ha ha ha!" He howls approval of his own joke with such gusto you cannot help but share the enthusiasm and laugh even though you may feel the humor to be catering to a lower part of your intelligence, but hey, get off your high horse and just dig the laughter because you’re here once and the more you laugh the better your pitiful existence will be and the happier you'll be and the wider your smile will be on your deathbed, and in the end that's really all that counts.
At the table he is in the company of two women who both just hit thirty with a little more on their frames than ten years ago but with big smiles and a let loose attitude of young single mothers out for the first time in a long time.
They immediately strike up conversation with me because I am running the slo-pitch league this year and they have a lot to say about it. The blonde one is wearing red and a beaming alcohol glow (they've been drinking since 2 o'clock in the afternoon) and she looks me in the eye when she speaks and I feel she is thinking more than what's coming out of her mouth.
"Hey, I like your jacket, wanna trade?" she says with a slight slur or accent of some kind, I'm not sure which.
"Sure".
I hand it over, a black leather thing I bought for my ex-wife, I bought it for her many years ago and she never wore it because it's too "masculine", so I own it by default. Now it’s on this somewhat slaphappy blonde – her jacket now drapes my chair - and the Karaoke is booming some sad tune and people dance and older folks enjoy their evening as I try to keep my mind off of the fact I cannot escape. I miss her and I wish I could do something else, find some way, to replace the void in my heart.
I end up sitting next to the blonde who suddenly devotes her attention to me.
"I wanna go for a walk, down by the docks, let's go" she offers up.
Fred makes some comment about falling in the ocean. Blondie says she was a lifeguard, and I decide a walk with a woman might be okay. So I take the bait.
"You wanna go, let's go!"
"Bring your drink, but hide it good!" she says as she follows me outside.
We leave and walk across the street to the waterfront and about thirty seconds into it I find out she has a boyfriend, nine years younger, someone I know only in name, and I immediately curse my fate. I find some nice woman who gives me the time of day and she has a boyfriend, which makes me want to go back to the bar. I feel guilt for being with someone else's girlfriend, and I don't want to go there. A minute later she asks me to hug her. I dumbly put my arm around her as we stare at the boats all silent and tied up for winter nights. A few blank minutes pass and I'm walking her back to the bar wondering if she thinks I'm weird for not trying to grope her or kiss her or something. The conversation slides into lip service small-talk.
"So who are you going out with again?" I ask , looking for something safe.
"Brent, he's 21. We've been going out a month now, and he's going away to school on Monday."
"Oh yeah, really?"
It's then I realize he's rooming with a friend of mine, who's also going away on Monday and I state the obvious.
"This island really is small, isn't it?"
She ignores my comment and continues to walk, little steps in what I think are slutty pumps, but I say nothing, only think it.
"So, what's your story?" I ask.
She looks confused and blurts out "what do you mean?"
"I mean what are you doing here on this rock, how did you get here and what do you want out of life?"
"Wow! That's too much" she says, reminding me she's drunk, "but I moved here with an old boyfriend and then we broke up. I cut hair".
We small-talk our way back to the bar and I try to give her the impression all men are pigs, except me, and that we're all looking for the same thing. She looks me in the eye as we go back inside -one luscious moment - and I think she believed me.
Inside the crowd has thickened, with some horrible song being sung by someone who has only done this in a shower before and I wonder why I am here, but before I can dwell on this sorry reality I am greeted by many people I do not know well but am friendly enough with to chat and the hours begin to slip by. Miles the real-estate guy says I should go to Victoria with him and hit a club or two. I meet Chris, cousin of the bouncer from the pub, and his girlfriend who knows me as the guy with the Mustang. We talk about her 11-month old child and why she left her ex-husband. In ten seconds flat she spins a tale of alcohol abuse, young parental dysfunction, and two sad lives turned upside down by unprotected teenage sex.
This island eats people I keep thinking to myself, isolation and lack of morality, lack of respect, lack of thought, lack of conscience, all of it makes lawyers and therapists, drug dealers and liquor-sellers happy, but the rest of us die slowly without even knowing that our lives are getting sucked out of us as we just mark the days and buy new calendars every now and then.
The older you get the faster it goes and the best part of life gets harder to hold on to.
(c) A.C. James
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