My latest short story. Not for sensitive or very young readers.
My
neighbours, Wendy & Don, had invited me to the theatre, and they
had just bought a Smart Car four-seater so I couldn't resist making the
trek in with them to the city. Don was a Billy Joel fan and he wanted
to see Movin' Out before it
closed its run. After the show we went for supper at Cant', the latest
trendy place on King West, which had a huge patio where we could dine al fresco under the summer stars. It was a gorgeous evening, just a hint of warm moist breeze blowing in from the lake.
We
were talking about art, and how it predicted the times to come, and we
took our time, so there were only a couple dozen people still on the
deck and hardly anyone, from what we could see, sitting inside, as we
lingered over gelati and cappuccinos. Don had told me that the owner of
Cant' was famous for having confronted some Russian 'protection'
racketeers, and I was half-watching a guy in chef's garb about three
tables away and slightly to my left, who was talking loudly and
animatedly in some foreign language to a couple of male guests. I
wondered if he was re-enacting this act of bravado. He went away and
came back with what looked like a pop-gun, one of those old toys that
shot pieces of cork like we had as kids. I thought this was carrying
the dramatization a bit far, but I didn't say anything.
So we
go back to our conversation but I'm kinda worried, glancing over there
from time to time, and a bit on edge because I think the mood of the
evening has been spoiled. And they're talking and laughing really
loud in this foreign language no one else can understand. I'm trying to
follow what Wendy is saying but now the chef and his guest are punching
each other in the shoulder and shouting at each other. Don's sitting
facing me partially blocking what's going on and the next thing I hear
is "Blam!", a combination of the noise from the toy gun, louder than
I'd expected, and the chef guy saying "Blam!" and the guest's hat goes
flying in our direction, and the guest tips his chair back and rolls on
the ground, pretending, I guess, to have been shot. They're both
laughing but now I'm steamed. I heard a couple of screams from other
customers so I conclude I'm not the only one pissed off. I rise.
"Hey!"
I tell them. "This is completely inappropriate behaviour. You've
frightened several of your customers. People come here for a quiet
dinner with friends, not to have their conversation disturbed by noisy
and disruptive theatrics. I think you owe your customers an apology".
The
chef guy comes over, hands on his hips, a menacing scowl. As he speaks
I can smell liquor on his breath. Maybe, I think, the encounter with
the protection gang has unhinged this guy a bit. He's sweating, and
breathing heavily, pausing in the middle of his sentences.
"The
restaurant... is closed", he says, loudly, some Mediterranean or East
European accent I can't quite place. "What I do in my restaurant after
it is officially closed... is my
business. I am guessing that you... are one of those humourless
jerks... with a stick up your ass... who is making a fuss so that you
can walk out of here, without paying. Am I right?"
The situation
is out of control and I'm regretting saying anything, regretting coming
in here in the first place. I just want to leave. I look at Wendy and
Don sort of desperately, searching for a hint what to do.
"Just
bring us the bill, please, and we'll be on our way." I'm aware that the
people at the six or seven tables still occupied are all watching us
intently.
The chef guy knows it too. I can't guess what's going through his mind.
"And
now... all these other good people in the restaurant... have had their
meals and their conversations... ruined by your outburst... and now
they will want free meals as well. It was just a toy pop-gun, for God's
sake. I was showing my friend what it is like when someone walks into
your business with a gun and tries to destroy you." He's talking faster
now. "Do you have any idea what that is like, Mister 'this is
inappropriate behaviour?'... Maybe I should go back and get my real gun
and show you what happens when someone tries to steal my livelihood?"
From
this point on everything starts to happen so fast it is almost a blur.
A guy who looks like a lawyer two tables over to my right stands, with
a cell phone to his ear, and announces "All right, that's enough! I've
just heard you, Sir, threaten this customer with bodily harm, and I've
called the police." [looking at me] "I'd be pleased to be a witness if
you decide to lay charges against this goon".
The chef guy goes
berserk, charging over to the lawyer-guy's table and grabbing him by
the front of his collar. "What... you crazy?... you in cahoots with
this other guy to destroy my business? You call them back, tell them is
a misunderstanding. If police come here, you the one will be facing
charges, you piece of shit." He raises the pop-gun in his other arm and
holds it threateningly over his head.
Most of the people left in
the restaurant are standing now, but no one is moving to leave. It's as
if we're paralyzed, or maybe it's because none of us have received our
bills for the meal yet, so we're afraid to leave without paying,
especially if the police are coming. My mind is racing, and improbably
I'm trying to imagine what I would be doing if I were one of the other
customers, rather than at the centre of attention.
"Back away!",
shouts a guy in a leather jacket, a couple of tables behind the
lawyer-guy. He's talking to the chef guy, and he's standing and
brandishing a gun. It occurs to me I've never seen a real handgun
before. In fact I don't even know if it is real. The crazy thought
occurs to me that this is all a put-on, a piece of theatre for the
customers' benefit, and in a second some make-believe cops will burst
in applauding and offering everyone free cognacs. Then I see the
flashing lights from the cop cars, and an ambulance too.
"Let go
of the customer's collar and settle down", leather-jacket guy says to
chef-guy. Nobody moves as the police surround the patio, pushing aside
the potted trees buffering it from the street, guns raised. Chef guy
still has the rifle in one upraised hand and his other on lawyer-guy's
collar, frozen. Leather-jacket guy still has his gun pointed at chef
guy but his other hand is now raised as the police take their positions
and order everyone to stay still.
And then, from way over to my
left, there is a bright flash. My eyes catch the fact that another
customer has shot a flash-picture of the entire scene -- he's in the
perfect position to do so. And a split second later I swear I can see
the bullet coming from behind me to my left, whizzing by. And another
split-second later leather-jacket guy is propelled back and down onto
the floor by the bullet.
.....
The cops rushed in,
patted everyone down, handcuffed chef-guy, and we all spent hours
giving statements. The restaurant kept bringing free coffee and we
never did get the bill for dinner. But I don't go downtown so much
anymore, not in the evening anyway. And I can kind of imagine how
chef-guy's experience with the mobsters affected him. I have a lot of
nightmares these days, and when people use cell phones in restaurants
or shoot off flash pictures without warning it makes me sort of crazy. |
MADE IN CANADA
trust your
instincts 
Gene
McCarthy, the most important and influential critic of and galvanizer
of action against the Vietnam War, died yesterday. His 1968
presidential campaign was what stirred me to believe in political
activism, to believe change was possible. He was most of all a deep
thinker, and he realized fifty years ago that the greatest threat to
the survival of our world was what he called 'acedia' -- beyond apathy,
spiritual torpor, resignation. He said this was much more dangerous
than ignorance, and, fifty years later, he is still right.
