The Crown of Thorns

I was out with my awesome friend Ian a couple times this weekend. He works for the sister restaurant to my favourite bar; the Cheer's equivalent. After picking up some more coffee, this time relatively incident-free, I dodged traffic travelling a mean speed of 20kms, popping in to see how he was. The restaurant, though in peak dinner hour, was inordinately deserted.

The Comrade: Care for a union break, darling?
Ian: Yes!
The Comrade: Shall we go to the club?
[This is Stratenger's, the delightful bar/restaurant which has wonderful food, charming staff and with a one time membership of $10 one can smoke one's brains out in this town of smoke-free dining]
Ian: Order us a round and have them put it on my tab.
So you can see why I love Ian so much.

Ian is many things to me.
Ian is my favourite wrestling opponent.
Ian and I occasionally make out, though only in public. Everyone's hands are visible.
Ian loves women too much and loves to argue with men too often.
Ian got sent into awesome category when he told Kissy about her rights in Canadian judiciary proceedings.

Here in Canada, when one wishes to press charges because someone's grabbed her crotch, say, it really doesn't matter if you're a waitress with no money, often finding only moths flying out of the old purse at the end of the month. We have the Crown court.

When charges are laid, the Crown, as appointed by the Queen of England, represents the plaintiff. The bad guys wearing the 5 gallon black Stetsons have to hire lawyers. Because the Crown is a right to all Canadians, the attorneys are all paid with Canadian taxpayer's money. Ah... I don't mind ponying up for that! We don't tend to take advantage of the court system here. It also takes forever to process suits. For reasons of restrictions or timeline, we don't tend to have outrageous lawsuits like they've had elsewhere.

Outrageous Court Case #1: Once upon a time McDonald's coffee was too hot. Someone sued. Shockingly, to me anyway, the plaintiff won. Millions. And McDonald's had to put a warning on every coffee cup.
Outrageous Court Case #2: Some woman left her very young child in her car with a lit cigarette in the ashtray as she went to go buy a couple of things. When she came back she found a shrieking child with only 2 remaining fingers left. The rest were so badly burned from the cigarette, rendering the child maimed for life. I think, and I could be wrong here, she sued Phillip Morris... for making cigarettes? God, I hope I was dreaming this instead. But then again, what the hell does that say about my subconscious?

I told Ian I write about him from time to time.

Ian: Did you mention the size of my cock?
The Comrade: I've never seen your cock.
Ian: Yeah, well... you could say you felt its sheer size rubbing against you one night.
The Comrade: But that would be a lie.
Ian: [begging] Could you please write that it's big? Please?

Okay... well... it's ENORMOUS! It's like a baby's arm holding a MASSIVE apple. No, no, scratch that. A MASSIVE and horribly disfigured pumpkin. That throbs!

Well... if I'm going to lie...

Ian and I have a few things in common: We hate restrictions. We hate authority. We don't follow rules that inherently make no sense to us. The difference between Ian and myself is he's still employed.

Ian wanted to come out for a drink with me for 2 reasons:
1. To try to woo me into working at the Cheer's equivalent bar.
2. To find out about the status of Kissy's situation.

I found out that my buddy Mike, whom I often hang out with at concerts, and Jimmy the bartender, whom I've made out with, both work in the kitchen of the Cheer's equivalent bar on certain nights. I was asked by Ian to work one of those nights.

Interesting.

I love working with friends. It's good times. Also, if I worked there, I'd effectively be receiving drinks at staff prices.

I'm considering the pot sweetened.

The thing I like most about the Cheer's equivalent bar is that there is zero pretention there. There exists mostly, truly thought provoking/ evoking, very real folk that inhabit the place. Staff and patrons alike. It's the only place I'm considering to work right now. I'm in no real hurry. I'm not crazy about working. Ack, the ex-husband/return-to-best friend, as he's now given me back my poor cat, always says, "Work's for Jerks. Testify!

Over cocktails I tell Ian about my conversation with Kissy a few days ago.

The day after I was supposed to hold her hand and accompany her to Police Precinct 55 Division, she'd called asking me what I thought she'd done that day.

The Comrade: What?
Kissy: I went to the police station.
The Comrade: With whom?
Kissy: All by myself!
The Comrade: Miss Kiss! Look at you!
Kissy: Helloo!
The Comrade: How did it go?
Kissy: They were really, really nice.

The Comrade knows how nice they can be if you're a victim. I once had my bike stolen. The kid who stole it was knabbed by my high school's art teacher. With his weeping mother in the courtroom, it was discovered the kid had an excess of 200 bikes in the garage. The mother had no idea they were stolen. He must have received more than the $5/wk allowance I got when I was 15.

The Comrade also knows how guilty uniformed officials can make you feel when you're a suspected criminal.

En route to Chicago, a Customs officer sits at her post. She can be no more than 4'11". She is younger than I. With zero warmth and less expression, she initiates the standard form interrogation process:

Customs Officer: What is your purpose of travel?
The Comrade: Pleasure. [That's right, Comrade... keep it short and succinct]
I learned to not mess with Customs officials.
Customs Officer: Who are you visiting?
The Comrade: Um... Friends.
Customs Officer: How long have you known these friends?
The Comrade: (fuck) Oh! Yeeeaars!
Customs Officer: Where did you meet them?
The Comrade: (ready to just get hauled out, shot in the head) [In a very small voice] On the internet?
Customs Officer: SO YOU'VE NEVER MET THESE PEOPLE?
The Comrade: [squeaking] No.
She flips through my passport for what seems an eternity. She gathers boarding pass and passport, hands both back to me.
Customs Officer: Have a nice day.
The Comrade has just messed herself.

I walk shakingly to the metal detection area. I am wearing high boots. There is a woman of Eastern European decent, 30's, who has a very strong accent which resembles my EX-mother-in-law when she's very, very angry.
Metal Detecting Agent: BOOTS!
The Comrade: Sorry?
Metal Detecting Agent: BOOTS! TAKE OFF BOOTS!

I hadn't been on a plane since 2000. This new security at airports was confounding and a bit terrifying. The process felt really violating. All I kept thinking was, "I hope I don't have any holes in my knee-highs."


Kissy walked to Police Precinct 55 Division on a cold winter day. It was sunny out. She got up and made brave for breakfast. She had run many possible scenarios around and around in her mind. She weighed all the pros and cons. She stepped out into the day.

She was spoken kindly to by 3 different officers, all with separate ranks. She thoroughly gave her statement of the events. She was then asked to repeat her account. This time her testimony was filmed on video, in front of a live uniformed audience.

Josh, my old favourite work comrade, is the only good man standing in my old employ. He feels lost without us. No Kissy. No Matty. No Comrade. At the bar one night, Josh overheard the Stupid Disgusting Pig of a Man express certain things about Kissy that Josh didn't feel comfortable hearing. Josh told him that Kissy is his friend and he didn't want him talking about her that way. At another juncture, trying to get a rise out of him, Josh had stated that the Disgusting Pig of a Man's daughter would be hot when she grew up.

The Disgusting Pig of a Man: She's going to have to learn how to suck dick well to get ahead in this world.

The Comrade actually really likes his daughter. A lot.

The scene is my old place of employ. The decor is deconstructionist. Save a smattering of decent gorgeous folk, it is now inhabited mostly by soulless, money hungry personnel. Gone are the days of debriefs over dozens of cocktails until the sun comes up. Gone are the high fives, the ass-slaps, the ruckus laughter.

This is the new scene. A silver haired man in his 50's sits slumped at the bar. He is drinking Molson Canadian beer and shooters of Peppermint Schnappes in frequent succession. He gets drunker and drunker. In his hand he is clutching a subpoena. Next to him is his lawyer. He tries to dispense advice. In the open kitchen is the silver haired man's wife. The chef. She stands with smeared stained apron, freshly applied vermillion lipstick, head too heavy to keep high anymore. She wants only to cut onions to give her a cover for her tears. Wanting the music to be louder to cover her sobs.

Kissy was asked by one of the officers how she felt after coming in and making her statement. In her small, beautiful voice she said, "Well, a little proud of myself."

And so am I.