Tag: wet coast

House of Horrors

We found the accommodations fairly quickly. It was in an old house in the city’s west end not far from the University and not far from the British sounding bay and beach and city park. Funny that beach for there was an extremely large public outdoor swimming pool adjacent to and at parallel odds with the sand and surf of the British sounding bay. It was somewhat oxymoronic to me in having a public swimming pool situated on a beach beside the ocean.

We parked the car on the street and slowly walked up to the front door of the house. We double checked the address to ensure ourselves that we were in the correct location. The house itself looked to be about 100 years old, with some grey beaded glass stucco siding and cedar cladding on its exterior. It had a very large front window showcasing a very large and cluttered drawing room – as they called living rooms in those days. There appeared to be a basement, a main level where we were standing, a second story with two opposing windows followed up with an attic that had a very small window as well as vents. The roof was extremely high, “A” framed, with a very steep angular pitch to it. There was minimal front grass and the steps leading up to the stoop and front door were of the basic stamped concrete pad formation. The front door was large: of wood, dark and heavy. The house was one of many similar designed houses for the area and it was situated on one of the main streets of this community. – Fourth Avenue I do recall.

“Well, here goes,” we both said to no one in particular.

We rang the bell and waited in nervous anticipation. Waited! Waited! We rang the bell again then heard in a very high pitched squeaking female voice:

“I’m coming, I’m coming, hold your horses now, I’m coming” she squealed in an impatient drawl.

We couldn’t see her, only hear her weak lilting voice.

We detected a number of latches, or locks being sprung, about five it seemed, and then the door slowly opened. We looked straight ahead but saw nothing, nothing but a long dark hallway that led into a very old fashioned kitchen with a window that provided light and a view to the back laneway. The air was heavy, musty and badly perfumed. We could hear the TV from where we stood.

“Down here boys.” she whimpered

We looked down, in disbelief. Standing there in front of and below us was an old lady, in her early 80’s I would guess, maybe late 70s. She stood there about four foot eight inches tall, dwarf like and as thin as a waif. Her hair was curly, thinning, multi-coloured and stood up in such a disorganized disarray of hair that it appeared as if she had had electric shock therapy up her ass.  She was heavily made up.  Her lipstick was of bright red in colour but missed her lips entirely.  Same with her eyes. I think they were hazel but it was difficult to tell with her old fashioned rimmed glasses and eye make-up that also missed the mark. Her painted eyebrows were orange brown in colour, crooked and situated well above the upper rim of her specs. She was draped over in a brightly coloured day dress and slippers that had that pom, pom puff look on the slipper tops that were all the rage and fashion in the 1920s. Or so I am told.

The Two Stooges…5

…A few hours later, after a good breakfast and a cleanup, we drove around looking at our new surrounding, although it was hard to see anything in the pouring rain. We decided that we would apply for welfare just to get our feet on the ground. We located the municipal government building, parked the car, and went over to the facility. There was a long line-up from the office’s front door, then down the street, around the corner, and down a block or two. There were old men, old women; young men, young women; many Native Americans, young and old; hippies, young and old; well just a cross section of life itself in this part of the world. Welfare was a disconcerting all inclusive service that was indiscriminate and unsympathetic in its application. It had no pretensions whatsoever with respect to class distinction.  No, welfare treated everyone exactly the same.

And just then a young man came running down from the offices and the front of the line as excitable as one could be. Looking at no one in particular he shouted out for all of us to hear:

“Hey Billy, Hey Billy” he yelled. “I got fifty bucks!”

“Great,” Billy said, “Let’s spend it” some unknown entity answered, eagerly.

We were all excited, for him and for us.

Off he went with his best friend to have a wonderful and insightful day of booze and drugs. Within a day or two Billy and his mate will have run out of the financial juice and be forced to scrounge for scraps and drugs and live on and off the street in the city’s East End, or at least until the welfare’s maven’s call to muster yet again on this avenue of distilled dreams. It was a never ending pendulum rout from want to waste: a cycle of hope of anticipated elixir followed by deep despair. “There but for the grace of God go I” I thought yet here we all were waiting in line together, like seals yelping on a harbour pier, with anxious determination that our applications for approval or continued support from the man will be granted. Unbeknownst to Timmy and I we just happened to pick the worst day of the week to apply for assistance – Welfare Wednesday. Unlike Timmy and I most of these people were already approved. They were waiting for their cheques.

After a considerable wait we finally made it to the front of the line. There, face to face with the government official, we were drilled with expurgatory type questions that seemed to spell impatience or indifference on the part of the agent. There was no compassion or expectation for and on us by him. After what seemed to be an onslaught of useless questions we were directed to an office to wait for the next cull of disingenuous applicants.

We were finally interviewed, but one at a time, separated as if we were common criminals. I, we, explained our situation, basically, homeless with minimal funds. We needed help but only temporarily you see. We wanted to work. Whatever it was, the agent seemed to like us for we were immediately provided with a cheque each for fifty bucks plus a lead on basic accommodation. If we decided to stay at one of the identified flats on the city’s approved list of flop houses the city would pay for the first months rent. We accepted, thanked the man and were on our way. We almost felt like yelling to the world when we left that building: “Hey world, we got our fifty bucks. Now let’s spend it” Yes, all was good with the world.

That was the one and only time in my life that I applied for Welfare. That 50 bucks got us our start in life on the wet coast. I have never begrudged anyone who has gone on welfare for one never knows the individual circumstances or the personal stories that steers one into social desperation and dependency.

The Two Stooges…4

…When I returned home from my first west coast sojourn I was quite vocal about my experiences regaling all who would listen about the majestic awesomeness of the mountains and the Pacific Ocean. I never did tell them about the greyness and soul wrenching loneliness that came over my entire psyche out there like some wet mouldy blanket. It wouldn’t have played very well in a macho sense to say I was really homesick. Yet, by the time spring came along Timmy and I thought about ditching everything we had and heading west to seek our fame and fortune. It never seemed to dawn on me or us that geography was not a determinant for personal success and glory. Going west was just an excuse for us to delay the inevitability of personal responsibility and commitments – growing up. At that age and during those heady days of drug induced comas and out worldly consciousness it seemed like a good plan.

It was a Sunday afternoon. Timmy was over at my place when we decided to go, on the spot. Timmy had a 1965 Galaxy 500 at his disposal, a very large family car with a very big trunk. Enough to hold 4 or 5 spare balding tires, which we felt we would need given that all of the tires on that car were bald. We had sufficient funds for gas, food and smokes. No need for accommodation as our plan was to drive continuously until we reached the coastal city. Hare brained scheme I know but that is how immature dudes like us thought in those days.

I immediately went in to tell my parents that I was off again to the coast, only this time with Timmy. They were non-plussed about this as I think that by now they had just about given up on me and my irresponsible ways.

“What about your job” they asked

“I quit”

So off we went. Of course to hide our fears and anxiety we joked about the whole thing thinking and jesting that the area where we lived was just too boring and flat. We had to find the mountains. So we did.

We made it out there early Wednesday morning, after about 56 hours of driving, taking turns at the wheel while the other slept in the back seat. Lucky for us there were no mishaps. Even our tires held up. The plan now was to find some 24 hour diner and wait it out until the city came to life later in the day.

It was raining… of course it was….

The Two Stooges…3

…Of course it didn’t come to that. Being juvenile in mind and in body both of us were placed on probation for six months with a stern warning. It worked as it was extremely embarrassing for us, especially me, given that the Morrison name was fairly recognizable in the hallowed halls of justice in this shit hole of a city. My Grandfather Morrison was a cop, his son-in-law was a cop and every cop of Scottish, Irish descent in this Orange shit city knew about this case. The Gaelic, Celtic grapevine was faster than today’s Internet. Like Minority Report, they all knew about me and this particular indiscretion before I did or before it even happened. I was doomed for in those days having any sort of record, misdemeanour or felony, was a fate worse than death as manual labour was about all one could hope to acquire in the employment world if one had a record such as this. As it turned out the son-in-law cop was very high up there on the cop scale so unbeknownst to me my name was expunged of any record. Whew! That would come in handy later.

Timmy always had a lot of money. Wads of it. His mother had him and his other siblings modelling for the various catalogues and magazines that were popular with the locals. He was paid very well for these showings. In fact his mother preferred these modelling outings to his schoolwork. He missed a lot of school and barely got by in Elementary School but in High School he had to repeat Grade 9 and 10 a plethora of times. Nevertheless, his financial largesse to us was his way into friendship, or so it seemed to him, as he played on this financial pecuniary card to fraternize with his so called favourite buds or eviscerate the feelings of those of us that he thought unworthy of his attention. In this way I felt sorry for him.

My mother was empathetic when it came to Timmy. He would show up at our door in the winter with the top part of his shoes missing, toes open to the elements, or wearing a thin summer jacket when temperatures were well below zero. It was obvious that he was neglected but at the time this never occurred to me. He was fun to be with, crazy in his outlook on just about everything and most of all he had money to burn! And, he loved the Stooges.

Timmy, Jimmymum, O’Grunts and I became inseparable in those drug induced summers of love days of the 60s. While everyone else it seemed had lost their collective minds to sex drugs and rock-n-roll we just carried on, squarely, boringly normal. We did form a band at one time with visions of rock n roll glory, had a few gigs, then disbanded as Jimmymum’s car was his real guitar, O’Grunts became somewhat of a druggie; a hipster in his Nehru jackets and exceptionally wide bell bottomed slacks. Bruce, our lead guitarist, left for India to discover himself. I told him that all he had to do was look in the mirror. Timmy and I just hung out…

The Two Stooges…2

…Ed Sullivan dominated Sunday evening’s showcasing new musical talent, including the British Invasion that revolutionized the music industry. There was also Shindig, Dick Clark’s American Bandstand, Saturday Night Hockey, Wrestling…real wrestling, Wide World of Sports, Sonny and Cher, Smothers Brothers and Laugh-in, Beverly Hillbillies, Green Acres, Hee Haw and on and on it went and all covered off by just three national networks instead of the three hundred plus specialty channels that we have today with its paucity of talent, inventiveness, innovation and creativity. The sexual revolution was about to explode upon us in 1964 but damn it all anyway, at the tender age of 13, we were just a bit too young to appreciate what was going on or coming our way. The drug culture was also about to detonate like some psychedelic undulating, modulating explosive mind game but that only scared the bee-jee-zus out of us. No matter, the music was awesome and we spent many a Saturday afternoon at one of our houses, in the basement, or at the local restaurant, pool hall, plying what seemed to be an endless supply of nickels or dimes and quarters into that jukebox.

It was this sort of musical magic that got Timmy and I into a spot of trouble. One afternoon at the local mall, Timmy decided to lift a few albums that he had his eye on, placing them down the front of his pants. It wasn’t so much the square flattened bulge of his pants that gave him, us, away but his stiff legged robotic gait in getting the hell out of there. It was as if he had a large load in his pants. I am sure that they had us on their monitors as it came as no surprise to us that we were cornered by security on the way out. Timmy, the perp, and me, guilty by association.

We were charged and had to go to court. Timmy being Timmy had a brilliant idea. He didn’t let me in on his intent but before we came before the judge and prosecutor Timmy had his toothbrush ready to go, just in case. It was a standard brush but he attached a little bit of string to it with a small handle attached. It was kind of funny to see. One had to be there to see the humour in it. He was also ready with a retort if it came to that:

“So Mr Saunders” said the Judge “What do you have to say for yourself?

“Not much yer Honour”

“Given the evidence against you I do find you guilty and charge you with either 5 days detention or 50 dollars. What is your decision”

“Oh, that’s easy yer honour. I’ll take the fifty bucks: Nyuk, Nyuk, Nyuk”…