The last thing we needed to organize was our Saturday night soirée. Being recently displaced prairie folk, neither of us had the faintest idea where to go in Toronto for a good meal. We solicited advice from our co-workers and one of Jan’s colleagues recommended a restaurant he and his wife liked. Jan asked if I’d need to wear a suit or jacket and was assured dress pants with a shirt and tie would be more than sufficient. We called the restaurant and made reservations for 7:00 p.m. on the Saturday.
A couple of weeks later we packed our bags and left for the airport to begin our much-anticipated weekend in the Big Smoke.
After checking into our hotel we spruced up a bit and caught a cab to the theatre. The lobby was packed with excited people. Through one of the doors nearby I glimpsed a portion of the stage as well as the first few rows of seats. I surveyed our tickets: row K, centre. This is going to be great - 11 rows from the stage!
We joined one of the queues and slowly inched our way to the nearest door. I handed the usher our tickets. He looked at them, frowned deeply and passed them back to me.
“Is something wrong?” I inquired.
“Sir, these are for row K, upper balcony. This entrance is for the seats on the main floor.” He said “upper balcony” like it was some kind of STD.
I quickly re-examined the tickets. Of course he was right.
“Which line should we be in?” I asked.
“Over there.” He pointed to a long line at the far end of the lobby. Jan and I mumbled apologies and shuffled over to the proper line-up. Eventually we made it to the balcony. I looked down at the stage and was disappointed to see the view wasn’t that great. Oh well, 11 rows from the front of the balcony will still be okay. When we got to row K I motioned to my wife and started to edge in.
“Wait a minute, this isn’t right,” said Jan. “This row is full.”
“Really?” I backed out.
“Look,” she continued, her eagle eyes fixed on the dark nether regions at the rear of the theatre. “Right now we’re in the main balcony. Our seats are in the upper balcony!”
I thought back to what the usher downstairs had said. Jan was correct. Row K? More like K2! Our seats were going to be so remote, we’d need Sherpas to find them. We steeled our jaws and continued on our quest.
A couple of postal codes later we arrived at row K in the upper balcony. It was one row from the wall at the very back of the theatre. The only people behind us were a few pimply high school kids. They were busy having a lively discussion about the latest Guns N’ Roses album. I turned my attention to the stage. From our vantage point it was about the size of a shoebox. A well-decorated shoebox, but a shoebox nonetheless.
The show began. The people onstage looked like ants. Singing ants! What a concept! But why were they so fuzzy? It suddenly occurred to me that in our haste to get to the show on time I had left my glasses back at the hotel.
“I can’t see a thing!” I complained to no one in particular.
“Shh!” the high school students chorused.
A few minutes later an usher came by hawking programs. I was tempted to ask him if he also sold high-altitude oxygen bottles, but I knew Jan would slap me silly if I did.
“Do you sell binoculars?” I asked.
“Yes, sir,” he replied. “Only $15 apiece.”
“I’ll take a pair, please.” He took my money and ran.
I inspected my new purchase in the half-light. It looked like something you’d get with a McHappy Meal. When I removed the shrink wrap, one of the eyepieces fell off and rolled down the aisle. A Good Samaritan picked it up and returned it to me. I jammed the plastic lens back into place and tried focusing on the stage. If anything, the el cheapo binoculars made it look even farther away. Now the people were no bigger than grains of sand. Singing grains of sand! Gosh, what’ll they think of next?
“Hey man, binocs. Cool! Can I try?” asked one of the acne victims behind me.
I tossed the useless binoculars over to him.
“You can keep them,” I grumbled. I closed my eyes and settled in for a several-hundred-dollar nap.
The next day we went shopping. I like shopping about as much as the next guy – which is to say, not at all. I basically spent most of the day muling Jan’s multiple purchases around the mall. When I started getting blisters on my palms I pleaded for mercy and escaped back to the hotel. Jan returned a few hours later. Her Visa card was so hot it glowed.
Later that evening we started getting ready for our dinner date. At 6:55 a cab dropped us off at the restaurant. As we hung up our coats we agreed we were definitely indebted to Jan’s colleague for his tip. The place looked classy and the food smelled delicious.
I walked up to the maître d’ and said, “Hi! We have a seven o’clock reservation.” He stared at me intently, much like a scientist studying an unusually freakish lab specimen. Uh-oh. “Under Gray,” I added nervously. He cleared his throat, but didn’t say anything. The suspense was gruesome. “Is there some kind of problem?” I finally blurted out.
“Oh no, not at all,” he said. “But perhaps monsieur would like to wear… zis?” He reached into a nearby closet and pulled out a threadbare brown corduroy jacket. I recoiled in horror. Oh, no. The house jacket – the jacket loaned to charity cases who have the gall (or stupidity) to show up at formal restaurants in inappropriately casual attire. I briefly wondered what Quincy scribbles on his coroner’s report when someone dies of embarrassment.
I was about to politely decline his offer and slink out of the place like a mangy cur when three couples sauntered in and lined up behind us, effectively blocking our escape route. I noted miserably that each of the men was wearing a high-end Harry Rosen suit. I recognized the cut because I happened to own one. The problem was that these guys were wearing theirs, whereas mine was hanging uselessly in a closet about 800 kilometres away.
“Sh-sh-sure, I’ll wear the jacket,” I stuttered. I motioned for him to pass it to me. I was hoping to get it on before anyone else noticed some jackass had tried to defile the dress code.
“Let me help you weeth zat, monsieur,” he oozed. He then proceeded to hold the arms out for me. I tried not to flinch as I slid my arms in. Behind me I heard one of the Rosen triplets gasp. My cheeks started burning. I snuck a peek at Jan. She looked ill. I finished wriggling into the jacket and straightened up. It was about three inches too short at the wrists. Hey, look at me – I’m Jethro Bodine! I had a frightening vision of the maître d’ poking around in his carnival closet of terror for a jacket that would fit me better while more and more guys straight off the cover of GQ joined the line-up behind us.
“Fits great,” I squeaked. “Where do we sit?” Jan and I marched to our table in lockstep. I was certain everyone we passed was gaping at me and whispering, “Is that guy really wearing the house jacket? What’s this place coming to? Let’s get the hell out of here!”
The food tasted like sawdust.
On-Call Gall
“Once more unto the breach!”
- King Henry in William Shakespeare's
The Life of Henry the Fifth
It’s Saturday morning in the ER. I’m about to emerge from my foxhole at the main desk and go on point again. Born to Cure… .
My first patient of the day is Rocky. He moved to our little duckburg only a few weeks ago, yet he’s already racked up an impressive number of alcohol-related ER visits. Rocky lives at “no fixed address” and his home telephone number is “not applicable.” This time he’s been delivered to us because someone found him crawling around on his hands and knees trying to round up a herd of invisible bugs. I guess everyone needs a hobby. I drain the last of my Tim Hortons coffee, rrroll up the rim (please play again!) and walk over to his cubicle.