01.05.06
The Promised Ones collected in twos and threes, gathering at their meeting house when the stars were just breaking through the night sky. Cider sat with two men at the front of their meeting room. The room filled up. Cider held up one hand for silence. Gradually, the crowd quieted down.
“Gentlemen,” Cider said, silencing the last of the chatters. “I would like to thank you for your patience. I know it hasn’t been easy waiting to strike. The time for action has started. Last night we left a message for the filth on the hill.”
“Those idiots left lots of messages last night,” shouted a voice from the back. Cider looked angrily for the source of the disruption. Art Bailey stood up, holding a thick sheaf of papers.
“What do you mean by this outburst, Bailey?” sneered Cider. He had little but disdain for Art Bailey, who had been rude and disruptive in the past. Still, it was handy having a police officer or two around.
“What I mean is footprints, pieces of a half-assed bomb that only slightly damaged one barbeque. A bomb that I am guessing was made out of off the rack parts. Traceable off the rack parts.”
The men sitting beside Cider flushed red, faces becoming lined with sweat. It suddenly occurred to them that perhaps they hadn’t thought everything through. This was supposed to be their glorious victory, they were supposed to be heroes, not look like fools in front of the rest of the Promised Ones.
“You don’t need to worry too much,” Bailey continued. “No one was hurt, and very little property was damaged,” he emphasized the word little, making a point. “There won’t be a serious investigation. But the evidence is one file, I suggest we try a more subtle approach in the future.”
“Do you have any ideas on how we should proceed?” asked Cider. Sitting at the back, Malcolm shifted in his seat, causing a faint rustle to be picked up by the microphone hidden under his shirt. The rest of the tape was flawless.
“As a matter of fact I do,” responded Bailey.
Ground Zero was dirty. It was dark, grimy hole in the wall, with little time for niceties, like windows you could see out of, or covered lights. It was not a bar to relax in, or have social drink. If you liked shooting pool, drinking an inordinate amount of cheap beer, or fighting, however, it was the bar for you. Chuck, Emma and Robert walked in, feeling out of place.
“Is this a fucking biker bar?” asked Chuck, eyeing the hulking, leather clad bandanna wearing clientele.
“Well, it’s not an official biker clubhouse, if that’s what you mean,” replied Robert. “It does attract a bit of a rough crowd, I will grant you that. Hey, there is Mr. Takeuchi.” The Japanese actuaries were standing near the pool table, drinks in hand. A few of them were shooting a game, playing against some rather large bikers. The actuaries were winning handily. The rest were in small pockets, engaged in conversation. One of them was attempting to pick up the big haired, big chested waitress. It was apparently going well, as the waitress was smiling her big smile.
“You guys go over and say hello, I’ll get us some drinks,” said Robert, winding his way through the crowd towards the bar.
Mr. Takeuchi smiled as Chuck and Emma approached.
“Good evening,” he said, his mouth and eyes crinkling in delight. “Robert was right to suggest this bar, it’s wonderful.”
Emma forced a smile to her face. “I’m glad you like it.”‘
“There is nothing like this bar in Osaka, this is a truly unique bar.”
Chuck fought to suppress a laugh. “Actually, there is a bar like this in just about every small city and town in Ontario, if not Canada.”
“How wonderful,” exclaimed Mr. Takeuchi. “There are many Western bars in Japan, but of course they are not this authentic.”
Robert came back from the bar holding two pints of beer for Chuck and Emma, and an improbably large, improbably blue mixed drink, served in a bucket for himself.
“I hope you like domestic,” he said, passing the cold pint glasses over. Chuck took a sip, wincing slightly at the taste. It wasn’t a prize winning brew, but it would have to do.
Chuck, Robert and Emma were introduced around to several of the actuaries. Most of them spoke passable English, but none with the fluency of Mr. Takeushi. They all expressed the same enthusiasm for the bar, the park, their trip, that Mr. Takeuchi had.
“Everywhere we go, four star hotels, all the same, upscale bars, all the same,” one of them explained to Chuck. “This real. This fun!” He tottered of in search of another pint, knocking into a biker one his way through. Chuck winced slightly, expecting a short, painful fight to break out. He was surprised when the biker just reached out to steady the actuary, gently pushing him on his way. Not what he expected at all.
The sound system suddenly blared to life, knocking Chuck backwards slightly. The driving rhythm of a Motorhead riff, coupled with the exuberant cheers of the bikers drowned out any possible conversation. The waitress, presumably on her break, dragged her suitor onto the small dance floor. They were laughingly joined by a few of his companions. Some of the younger bikers joined in, swept along by their girlfriends. A small crowd stomped along to the rhythm, causing the lights in the bar to shake and sway. A hand reached out and pulled Robert into the swelling crowd. Laughing, he joined in, being extremely careful not to spill his drink while dancing.
The bar grew more crowded at midnight when a large group of university students came in. The dance floor became packed, as students, bikers and actuaries were all bonded by the stoner vibe of seventies rock music. Chuck had replenished their drinks, and he and Emma had found a reasonably quiet corner to converse. Even the beer started to taste better to Chuck.
“Where is your son?” Chuck asked. He had almost forgotten about the son.
“I asked Melinda and Melody to watch him. They are amazing baby-sitters,” she said, a warm smile crossing her face. Chuck found himself drawn to the smile. In the back of his head he still felt guilty about Melissa, although he couldn’t understand why. Melissa was gone, left in Toronto. Emma was here. He shifted his feet, trying to find a more comfortable way to stand. He felt large and awkward, like he was looming over Emma. He looked away, watching the crowd on the dance floor. Mr. Takeuchi waved at him as he danced along to Ironman. Chuck waved back, smiling at the sight.
“Hey, look who it is,” said Emma, pointing to the doorway. Chuck looked over at the vaguely familiar form, trying to place the face. Instead, he recognized the hair.
“Hey, it’s that guy from the Sally Ann,” Chuck said, as the blue haired figure danced his way to join the crowd. His friends, none of them very hard core looking in Chuck’s opinion, went to the bar. The punk found a space on the dance floor and greeted some of the university students already there, slapping hands and backs, giving and receiving hugs from men and women alike, sharing smiles. After the greetings, he felt the music. Chuck watched as a transformation overtook the student. He tapped his foot and then started leaping, whirling, and generally dancing up a storm. The crowd parted admiringly, to give the dervish-like figure room to get his groove seriously on. Chuck and Emma laughed appreciatively.
“He can’t be from around here,” said Emma, grin still spread across here face. “No one born in St. Catharines can dance like that.”
“He looks like a refugee from Queen Street,” said Chuck. While the punk was dancing, chuck could see that his hair was cut into a Mohawk, although it was not spiked up. His grey jeans were cris-crossed with tears, held together with the standard issue safety pins. He was also wearing black, scuffed army boots, and a shapeless black tee shirt. “He looks half Goth and half punk,” said Chuck, thinking back to the crowds that hung out near the Big Bop on weekends. It was not his scene at all.
“Maybe he is another Toronto boy,” suggested Emma. “You should go say hi, there are not many of you here tonight, I think.” Chuck looked around at the diverse crowd. The actuaries were still winning at pool, the bikers were still having a good time, the students were still dancing. He noticed that Mr. Yakamoto was now making out with the waitress on the dance floor. Chuck smiled.
“I don’t need Toronto people; I’m good here with you.” Nervously he sought out Emma’s hand. She slipped it willingly and easily into his.
“Thanks,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “I’m pretty good here with you, too.” They stood a moment in silence. Chuck was sure he was supposed to do or say something, but he was not sure what it was. His face reddened, feeling flush with the drink, and embarrassment. He looked down at his shoes, amazed that he once again felt like a gawky teenager. He felt a hand at the back of his neck, moving him in quickly towards Emma’s upturned face. He realized belatedly that it was her hand, pulling him towards her waiting lips. They kissed, briefly, a kiss full of warmth, a kiss full of hope, a kiss full of promise. Chuck stepped back, and smiled.
“Wow,” was all he could say.
They rest of the night was a blur for Chuck. They stayed late, leaving Ground Zero when it was virtually empty. Chuck had gone up to meet the blue-haired dancing machine, and asked him where he was from.
“Toronto,” he said, barely pausing in his dance.
“I thought so,” responded Chuck. “Me too.”
“Nice to meet you, call me Adam,” he stuck out a hand. Chuck shook it.
“I’m Chuck, also from T.O. I’ll see you around.” Chuck and Emma got a ride home in a limo, holding hands all the way. Robert elected to stay until last call, saying that someone had offered him a ride home.
“This was a very wonderful night,” said Mr. Takeuchi. He was sitting across from them, looking slightly rumpled after a night of drinking and dancing.
“I’m glad you had fun,” said Chuck. “Won’t you all be tired for your convention tomorrow?”
Takeuchi shrugged. “We usually stay out later at home. It is only jet lag that is sending us home so early tonight. We will be fine.” He reclined further, sliding down in the seat and tilting his head back. “Besides,” he said, looking up at the roof of the car, “we can just sleep through any of the boring things.”
“That sounds like a good plan, but isn’t this costing a lot of money? Won’t your boss be pissed if you waste money like that?”
Takeuchi waved his hand dismissively. “Our bosses are not really worried about money.”
“Who do you work for, anyhow? It must be a big company to need so many actuaries on staff. Is it a consulting company?”
“Something like that,” replied Takeuchi, suddenly straightening up in his seat. “But it is not an international company, so you would have not heard of it.”
“Actually, I worked for a marketing company before, we did some business in Japan, so I might know your firm.”
Takeuchi looked levelly at Chuck. “I truly doubt you would know us.” His tone was level, as was his gaze, but Chuck got the distinct impression that the conversation was over.
They pulled into the park, driving past a pair of volunteers that Robert had on guard duty, and said their goodnights.
“I truly hope we can go out another night,” said Mr. Takeuchi, before returning to his trailer. Emma said goodnight as well, leaving Chuck at his doorstep with a soft, sweet kiss before heading off to pick up Jordon. Chuck stood outside a minute, breathing in the crisp cold air. He started to go inside when the peaceful night was interrupted with the dull roar of a motorcycle engine. Chuck looked over to see an old fashioned Harley driving down the path. A biker with a gut that was straining his zipper was driving it, with his girlfriend hanging on behind. Chuck was amazed to see an old fashioned side car attached to the old hog, and even more amazed to see Robert sitting contentedly within. Apparently this was Robert’s ride. Robert waved from his seat as they drove by on the way to his trailer. A few minutes later, Chuck heard the motorcycle depart. Chuck thought through the day, from the synchronous limo drivers to the explosion, actuaries, bikers, and blue haired university students. Life in marketing had not prepared him for this.
