All The Worlds’ a Stage…

My earliest memories were of the Byeways Restaurant and Tavern on highway #17 in Point Alexander, Ontario Canada. My mother worked as a chambermaid there and her husband (whom I was told was my biological father at the time and wasn’t — a long, sad, sick story) worked as a cook.

We lived in a small apartment above the bar. Country music from the jukebox (Hank Williams, Johnny Paycheck, Hank Snow) Country music bands and stripper music (the stripper fed the jukebox from the change she was given) were my nightly lullaby.

Our (black and white, no remote control of course) television got two channels, CBC English and CBC French. As a special bonus, our television picked up and through the speakers blasted any police band transmissions from any Ontario Provincial Police patrol cars that were nearby.

Our television’s Police radio band reception made this T.V. a key asset of the Byeways — we were alerted in advance to any police ‘raids’ on the Byeways Hotel and Tavern. I was not sure of the target of these ‘raids’, they always took place after my bedtime. But they were a matter of great worry and concern for Vern C. — the owner of the Byeways. Judging by the panic and commotion that occurred after our T.V. blasted out advance warning (the volume of these police broadcasts coming through our T.V. speakers were very high) of a ‘raid’ some nefarious goings on occurred at night as I slept. (My best bet is gambling)

One early pleasant memory of mine was being in the back parking lot of the Byeways with two of Vern C.’s daughters. They were both beautiful teenagers, one brunette, one blonde. I thought them angels.

They had bought me a toy — a plastic toy paratrooper soldier. This paratrooper had a working parachute that deployed if properly packed and thrown a certain way up in the air. I practiced and practiced packing it’s chute and throwing it up in the sky so that my success rate at a proper parachute deployment was high and soft landing were almost a certainty.

I caught up to Vern’s two beautiful daughters in the back parking lot of the Byeways and showed off to them my skill at the toy they gave me. This is one of my earliest memories. Vern’s daughters were standing on both sides of me as I threw the paratrooper into the air.

As the parachute deployed and the soldier drifted gently down to the ground landing upright, gun at the ready the two girls clapped an exaggerated clap for a child, with their hands in front of their faces as they jumped gently up and down congratulating me. I stared fascinated at their young nubile bodies with their breasts bouncing up and down as they did this. I wanted them badly. I had no idea what I wanted them for, but I wanted them to do this approval display a lot. (I think this started a trend in my life — will perform for female approval.)

Point Alexander had some famously long, dark, snowed-in winters. About the only outdoor activity that was possible was tobogganing. Walking anywhere that did not have the snow plowed off it was almost impossible. Walking the same meadows we had played in during summer was impossible with a 14 foot deep soft snow pack. Young children are almost “shut ins” during these long, dark winters.

Since I was stuck indoors and both my parents? worked all day a solution had to be found for the pre-elementary school child who was bouncing off the walls of the Byeways and getting underfoot. There was what we called a ‘Bar’ Shuffleboard table against the wall near the bar. Most know this game as ‘Table’ Shuffleboard.

There were four stainless steel pucks with cherry red ceramic top inserts and four similar lime green topped pucks. The table was covered with sawdust, refreshed from a bucket nearby to lubricate the pucks travel down the highly polished tabletop.

A three point scoring area extended from the far end of the table back 6 inches, a two point scoring area extended another six inches and a one point scoring area demarked the rest of the other half of the table. ‘Bar rules’ on the wall declared any puck hanging over the far edge scored four points.

My babysitters through the long dark snowy winter were the bartenders, waitresses, and afternoon drinkers (all men) of the Byeways. My playground the bar shuffleboard table. My mom popped in and out occasionally. As cook Jack Geerts stuck his head out from the rectangular kitchen opening regularly to laugh at some stupid shit someone had done and bark out an insult.

Free games (this just meant I kept the pucks all day) for me to shut me up and occupy my time. I learned if you practice enough you get really really good at stuff. I became awesome at bar shuffleboard, hitting three pointers at will and four pointers often.

Part of the initiation rites to be accepted in the ByeWays was to lose to ‘The Kid’ — as they called me, (my first ‘street name’ @ 4 years old priceless!)— in bar shuffleboard. Stakes were a quarter — a fair bit of money in those days (with real silver content). A domestic beer at the bar cost 25 cents. The only reason to play bar shuffleboard was to bet.

The initiation rite of the newbie losing to me in bar shuffleboard was my introduction to life as ‘performance’. The newbie to be initiated was in the bar, a little drunk. I came in and played a crappy game of shuffleboard. The guys at the bar softened the mark up by saying how I think I am a great player and am ‘just a kid’.

The mark came over to chat with me and I offered to play him for money — 25 cents. Sometimes the look of hunger in their eyes for the quarter I held up was amazing. The regulars played along with some appropriate encouraging banter.

I went first and threw one of my favorite color red disks (which I insisted on playing) to score at least a three, often a four. I played up my score acting surprised, put it on the chalkboard under Paul in kid’s clumsy script (my bit of flourish, I could write better). The mark threw for a two, maybe a three, sometimes a one, almost never a four. Repeat. Repeat. When three of the four pucks were thrown usually the setup would ‘catch on’ and concede, to much bar regular laughter in the background. Some lost with grace, some with laughter, some got angry, some really angry, but they all paid Paul in the end, the bar made sure.

‘Paying the kid’ was first step to being accepted as a part of the ‘Byeway’s family’. Two drunks tied together can walk a straight line.

The ‘performance’ the bar regulars put on was nothing compared to the complete Potemkin Village that was erected when the Liquor Control Board Inspector was scheduled to show up for his ‘surprise inspection’. The Byeways Hotel and Tavern was, apparently, as rich a smorgasbord of Liquor Board Code violations as the Sunday smorgasbord at the Byeways was rich in calories. It would be closed if properly inspected but this was ‘Back In The Day’, so the Liquor Inspector (as we called him) called well ahead, to warn and prep for his arrival.

‘Liquor Inspector Day’ had as much work put into it as opening night as some Broadway shows must take. The air of nervous, excited expectancy that gripped the bar, Vern actually clapping his hands and gesturing the bar regulars to their assigned stations, everyone dressed nicely and on their best behavior. Days of cleaning, practicing and bitching climaxed in this show.

The Liquor Inspector got a big steak lunch (The Byeways’ famous 24 ounce steak), an envelope of money, and a big tittied whore. I was not allowed in the bar that day — for obvious reasons — so to keep me quiet I was sat down in the restaurant part and fed french fries with gravy and pop all day to keep my mouth occupied and keep me sat in one place so I was a performer Vern did not have to worry about.

I got not only food all day but got a front row seat for the arrival of the steak, the money and the women. I dreamed of being a Liquor Inspector when I grew up for obvious reasons. The ability to instill such fear and command such a performance really impressed ME.

Life is a cabaret…