The Daisy Chain

On a tiny street in North Toronto, exactly one city block long, where 3/4 of the block belonged to Metropolitan Toronto, 1/4 to North York, The Comrade was raised. The parsing out of the pre-amalgamated city and borough boundaries happened when the area was little more than dirt roads, small forests and green pastures. Hard to imagine for a girl who would often find the younger brother of her oldest friend Heathie, on hands and knees trying to scrape flavourless, abandoned gum off the sidewalk to chew.

Heathie and Jimmy weren't allowed to chew gum in their house. They didn't, like our neighbours across the road, the criminal lawyer's family, the fella who at one time defended Paul Bernardo, the small family from the U.S. who avoided the last great draft of 1969, yet still waved the stars and stripes every 4th of July, have stocks in Wrigley's gum.

It was a rather magical street to grow up on because there were so many children at any given time. Every five years or so an entirely new crop of kids would blossom out of this petri dish. The kids were mostly girls in my five year cycle. The occasional boy raised in our time would be subjected to playing our gimp dressed in rags and lipstick, given some dignity with a G.I. Joe figure as a mini representation of himself. G.I. Joe was small enough to act as a counter revolutionary trying to usurp the female amazons. Eventually both would be tied to sticks receiving public ridicule in the form of the girls eating grape flavoured Lolas within sight, but out of reach.

Exactly at the age of 12 I discovered my knees, which had been perpetually scraped and scabbed, were clear of any blemishes. At around the same time I noticed our willing victims had grown up and had become gorgeous. Payback.


Over the weekend I had a terrible itch to go out. The first person I called was Dirty.

Dirty and I met over 10 years ago while I was working at a downtown bar. I introduced her to Bloody Caesars which is still her drink of choice. She and I shared a love for design. Both of us are hands-on people who work with drills and sewing machines. Through drinking and talks of making stuff, I became the first real female friend she ever had. She never liked the company of women before that. She found them too catty. I thought women were great and powerful, if not a bit sadistic.

A few years ago, shortly after I'd married, I had taken a rather long sabbatical from the restaurant industry. I was tired of the business. A person can be so nice for only so long.

But...

Just when I thought I was out... they pull me back in.
It wasn't that I was necessarily unwilling.

I missed it.
The Holy shit! We're so fucked and we'll never get out of this alive feeling that often accompanies any given weekend night at a decent place.
The comraderie.
The debriefs.
The ability to see everyone's true essence when being pushed to the brink.
The ability to see one's own.
The ruckus laughter.
The fact that mostly all of my friends were made behind, beside or in front of a bar.


Lately I've enjoyed the company of men more than women. This has been so for the past 5 years or so. I think the one most to blame is Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend. He helped me to rediscover that guys are so damned interesting. They don't focus on minutia. They don't tend to want to solve your problems; instead they shed insight; share experiences. They tell ridiculous jokes. They make me laugh. They forgive each other readily, harbouring no long term ill will. Their knowledge is individual and uniquely vast. And they love gossip.

When I last talked to Dirty, it came as a sort of surprise when she accused me of not having too many girlfriends right now. Other than her, of course. I don't have a lot of friends. Real friends. I know a shitload of people whom I say hello to on a regular basis, but as for real friends I can count them on two hands, which makes me pretty rich if I do say so myself. As for the percentages, right now, yes, the greater percentage is held by the masculine variety. It hasn't always been so.

I get crushes on people, both men and women. They're not sexual crushes, they feel more like a spark of overwhelming familiarity between two people. That's how all of my relationships had started with my friends.

With Ack there was real electricity. We needed a copper ground.
With Fatty it was like finding that perfect kid in the sandbox totally willing to share his Tonka truck and shovels with you.
With Faith she allowed a drunken 16 year old Comrade, sitting on her foreign lap, to puke between her legs. And yet she stayed. For that I'm grateful as Faith knows me better than anyone else in the world does.

I don't find them too often. When they appear it is like magic. I thought I had a glimmer of that the other week. The spark. The 5'0" Paula who came into my new place of employ, my one night a week improv routine.

Paula has no ON/OFF switch. It broke off at ON. She is charm, effervescence and quick wit personified. When I told her how great it was to have to met her, she replied with, "You had me at 'hello'." Though ripped from Hollywood dialogue, that was the single greatest line one sororal woman could have passed to another. I was delighted by her. When I get this delighted over another creature I immediately go into matchmaking mode.

The Comrade: Ian? Have you met Paula?
Ian: For the 16th time, yes.

Apparently I have a tendency to repeat myself.

Ian was just as smitten with her as I had been. He asked her out for dinner, which is a very big thing for my Ian. He has not considered the idea of getting to know a woman for a very long time. Sex, sure, but he's felt that if one gets to know someone there could be an emotional attachment. He couldn't risk that. He hadn't been ready. The right person hadn't presented herself of late. When he metaphorically sniffed Paula's butt, it smelled like honeyed roses. It seemed he was finally ready.

The dinner went really well. They had a very good rapport, both in public and private. They had both sweet and dirty intimate moments that were gratifying for everyone involved. He really liked her a lot. The first time in a long time. I was so happy for him. A bit of my happiness was a bit selfish, admittedly. Life is much better when one really likes the chosen partner of a close friend.

On my venture out on Saturday night, without Dirty as she seemed spent from a day with girls looking for bridesmaid dresses that wouldn't make them look too hippy, and simultaneously standing tall on her soapbox accusing me of not having enough female friends, I went in to visit Ian at his work. I have never gone to a bar and ordered dessert before.

Cutting into my tart with Grand Marnier macerated strawberries and homemade vanilla bean ice cream, Ian had pulled the bar stool next to me away enough to wedge his lithe little body into a newly created niche.

Ian: Have you seen Paula?
The Comrade: No! What's going on? I thought things were going really well.
Ian: I thought so too, but she hasn't called. I've called her a few times, but she hasn't returned any of them. Maybe she's sick.
The Comrade: Maybe.
Insert Pinter pause...
Ian: I did a really stupid thing.
The Comrade: I doubt that. What?
Ian: I overheard her saying that she really doesn't like flowers, but she likes daisies. I called the floral department at the grocer's and bought every daisy they had.
The Comrade: Oh, Ian! How many?
Ian: 14 bunches... She'd also left a pair of socks over at my place, which I washed. I thought it would be cute if I went over to her house and tied the clean socks to the front door knob. And then I spread the daisies all over her foyer.

Sigh.

Maybe she's working.
Maybe she's sick.
Maybe she's fallen and she can't get up.
Maybe...

I watched Ian and Fatty get really drunk later that night. Both were looking for a modicum of emotional support. Ian from his broken heart. Fatty was looking for a rescue from a sort of date with an ex-girlfriend who lived firmly in the past. Remember when...?

I went for brunch at Ian's restaurant, the sister restaurant of my place of employ. Any employee from either establishment receives deeply discounted prices on food and drink at either location. I went in for two reasons:

1. The raspberry pancakes which took up a 10" plate, loaded with Chantilly cream and maple syrup, farmer's sausage on the side (a little bit of Dijon mustard please).
2. Has she called yet?

I had singlehandedly drunk nearly a bottle's worth of champagne mimosas. Seated to my left was George, a writer and a local amiable drunk who refers to me as his future ex-wife. He forgoes the orange juice, opting straight for the purity of essential sparkling wine. His appetite was made smaller by the preceding night's bender.

The Comrade: [examining his 1/4 eaten sausage] Are you done with that?
George: Oh, God, yeah. Help yourself.
The Comrade: I don't mind if I do.

Brunch was like Thanksgiving. I couldn't help myself but to help myself.

She had not called.
It had been 24 hours.
Ian was wearing his very brave face.

Maybe...

Between myself and Marnie, a lovely co-comrade of Ian's, it was decided we were going to pay Paula a visit to quell anymore maybe's. Like any good drunk worth his salt, George offered us a ride.

The Comrade: Ah, yes! A drive-by!

Ian didn't like this idea.
Boo.
Hiss.


Ian, my darling Robert (also Ian's co-comrade) and myself were going to have dinner later that evening. I was stuffed past maximum capacity and needed to do 4 hours of either jumping jacks or Scrabble to try to work matter further south. When I arrived at 8:15, belly still protruding, Ian had news.

Ian: I couldn't help myself. I went over to her house. The not knowing was killing me.
The Comrade: Well, sure! What happened?
Ian: She wasn't home. Her roommate was. He said that she'd left just recently and that she really liked the flowers.
The Comrade: SHE SAID SHE REALLY LIKED THE FLOWERS?!
Ian: So I wrote her a note. Basically it said, "Paula, one way or the other, it doesn't matter. Courtesy with a call would be greatly appreciated at this time."

Still nothing.

I don't understand some things. I don't understand some people. Maybe my Ian was coming on too strong. Maybe she didn't feel it like he did. Maybe she's not brave enough to tell sincere truths to people who care about her. Maybe...

I don't know.

This is not meant as commentary for the condition of women or as a rationale of why I'd rather be spending my time with gentlemen. The truth is I'd rather be spending my time with gentle humans, regardless of sex, who allow their vulnerability to surface; who aren't afraid to do silly things that they look back on with more than a twinge of humiliation because things didn't work out the way they'd hoped. But they tried.

The very sad thing is Ian has gone back into his unfeeling shell again. He was devasted and embarrassed by all that had occurred. He is convinced this is divine karmic retribution for his past unfeeling responses to other women. I don't feel that. As much as there are those who don't like Ian for one reason or another, I love him for his awkward attempts, his great friendship, his highly protective nature and the moments when his shell cracks, leaving little points of light that blind me every now and then.