There were lots of kids. A Christopher. A Janice. A Phoebe. Others. Stan's son was a Gavin (oh, all the pretty women in this kid's future!). I asked Janice's dad, Carson, whether the close buttons in elevators are actually connected to a circuit, and whether there were shortcut button sequences that let a savvy rider bypass floors. Contrary to what Douglas Coupland claims in Eleanor Rigby, all new modern elevators have functional close buttons. The buttons are not psychiatric tokens to assuage the control freaks among us. As for the special button sequences, no, unless you happen to have a physical key.
Tony has shaved his head. I didn't ask him about his wife. I did ask him about Robert. Tony had some sad news. Tony had left the Bookstore for a large distributor. That is how he got to know a former classmate of mine, Robert. Robert with the Mazda with the salty fish smell. Smart, gentle, honest Robert who was fascinated by the mosquitoes flitting about in our Electrical Engineering 251 class room, and mesmerized by Anne of Green Gables, even taking time off from cramming for our finals to watch the miniseries. Robert, my first exposure to a non-Cantonese speaker from China. His only English when he arrived in Canada was "orange juice," which he picked up from the flight attendant on the plane from Shanghai to Vancouver. Robert with the cute sister engaged to a cigarette salesman. Robert who once saw a boy drown. Robert my school friend.
After graduation, Robert moved to Toronto and worked at Humber College. He then returned to Vancouver, home. I met up with him once with California Mike (my friend and mutual classmate who now lives in Santa Barbara) for a barbeque at Robert's Port Coquitlam townhouse. I think we had Maui Ribs or steaks. I met his wife Joy and his daughter (obviously, he had been busy). Robert had an Ozzy Osbourne CD playing. He was selling real estate at this time.
About five years ago, Tony had mentioned that Robert was gravely ill and depressed and was staying at Royal Columbian. California Mike and I sent some get well flowers, unaware of the incurable, hard-to-diagnose lung cancer. Maybe we both didn't want to know. Come to think of it, Robert did mention a thing or two about his lungs during our third and fourth years in engineering, something about a lingering childhood problem, but nothing major. I suspect that even he did not suspect how things were going to play out.
Tony said that toward the end, Robert had refused to see anybody—he wanted people to remember him as he was, healthy and happy. Robert and Joy and his daughter had just moved into their new home when he was diagnosed. I figure the real reason for the self-imposed isolation was that he was just plain depressed.
The last time I met Tony's wife was on an eastbound 41st Avenue bus. She got on at Cambie Street and looked distraught and immediately began spilling her guts out about Tony leaving her for another woman. I listened. I nodded. I said a lame, "give me a call if you need somebody to talk to" and got off at my usual stop. Dinner was waiting.
I remember something I read two summers ago, taped to a Kitsilano shop window, on the 1800 or 1900 block of West 4th, words to the effect of
Getting old is when you have more regrets than dreams
I am going to find Robert's resting place and honour him. And I will try to dig deeper. How important are other people's lives to me?
As for the rest of the evening, I'd thought we'd share a little bit more of ourselves, but that was not to be. Mostly guys. Besides, a few of the people I never knew well and could never talk to. And empty as I am, I'm no good at small talk. Bummer I forgot to invite J. from R&D, another one of us ex-Bookstorers.
-Finis-
2 comments:
Gavin - I love your writing. And your sense of humour - Penis Thigh Trap...I almost spewed my coffee on to my keyboard. Keep up the good blogging.
The Vantripper (from Burnaby)
Thanks, stranger. I've edited this entry to read better.
Post a Comment