The doors open on the sixth floor and directly across from me is another elevator, it’s doors opening to reveal just one person, too. We look at one another, this woman about my age and I. The plot device that launched a thousand Romcoms. A moment so random yet particular, that it doesn’t feel random at all. We know this. It’s the invisible line connecting us. We’re probably a little amused by it, but maybe a little saddened, too. Each of us in our 50’s– me with my oxygen, she with her IV pole. I wave over at her. A small, rueful wave. She smiles, looks down and away, waves back. Our losses connect for just a moment, and then the doors close, and we vanish, ghosts falling away to the past.

The elderly husband is in a wheelchair being pushed through the hospital by his elderly wife. They’ve probably been married for 60 years, but he’s presently vanishing before her eyes. No longer the man she met chasing a dog down a street so many years ago. Now he’s frail and stooped, his shoulders curling forward as if some magnet within his body was  compelling them together. But in spite of this, in spite of his immobility, the hospital slippers, IV bag and bruises crawling up his legs, he’s trying to be cheerful, trying to make the best of things. He says something to his wife, but his voice is a whisper and she can’t hear him. He tries again and it’s the same result. And then he stops trying to talk, and the two of them, so bound, move in silence toward whatever comes next.

While driving along Bloor he started to talk about how much things had changed. This, a safe conversational starter for men past a certain age.

What used to be there.

What’s there now.

All the things we had known and lived.

And so we shared our wonder at the velocity of the world overtaking us, of all the businesses popping up on the blocks passing by and the real estate prices that had long since soared beyond our reach. Each aspect of this conversation revealed an unresolved bitterness in the man, a sense of having missed out, and then a car cut him off. He slammed his fist on the steering wheel, “DID YOU SEE THAT ASSHOLE?!”, he shouted as he accelerated into traffic. I tried to say something neutral yet supportive in tone, and then in an attempt to distract him from his rising fury, I asked where he’d most like to live if there were absolutely no limitations.

After some struggle, he offered up San Diego, but this only served as an entry point for a long, detailed story about being on a cruise ship with his ex-wife, getting ripped-off at the bar, and the fist fight that ensued. “They didn’t know who they were dealing with,” he said to me, his voice a cold, flat hiss.

And then we came to a red light and stopped. It felt like the barometric pressure had changed, that some destructive potential was either gathering or dispersing inside the car. And so we sat there quietly, lonely now in ways that could not be acknowledged. And beside us at the red light a beautiful young woman idled on her bicycle. When her eyes accidentally fell upon us, she quickly averted her gaze, just as we knew she would.

And then the light turned green.

She stood up on her bike and pedalled confidently away, into the future, I guess, and there was something so sad and beautiful in this, that neither the driver nor I even thought to speak for the rest of the ride.

(Photo credit to the great Lincoln Clarkes)

and he just won the race to become the Ontario leader of the Progressive Conservative party after a controversial election. This is his acceptance speech:

*************************************

Thank you, thank you!

Thanks.

Hey, let’s give it up for The Dream Police, the best goddamn Cheap Trick tribute band in the entire GTA!!

Okay, okay, I know you’re all excited, but let’s bring it down a bit.

Now.

We can bring it down NOW.

I SAID BE QUIET DAMMIT

I MEAN IT

YOU DO NOT EVEN KNOW HOW MUCH I MEAN IT

Ok, that’s better.

Well my friends, thank you for coming this evening.

Tonight we took the first step in defeating our opposition. The people of Ontario want the crappy Ontario Liberals cleansed from government, and I am more than happy to be the man to deliver that enema!

JESUS H CHRIST YOU HAVE TO BE KIDDING ME

ARE YOU CHEWING GUM

YES, YOU IN THE FRONT ROW

YOU KNOW DAMN WELL I’M TALKING TO YOU

DO YOU SEE ANYBODY ELSE CHEWING GUM

SWEET CAROLINE DONT MAKE ME COME DOWN THERE BECAUSE I WILL AND I WILL TEAR THAT GUM OUT OF YOUR MOUTH LIKE IT WAS A TONGUE FROM AN ALBANIAN PIG…

Okay.

As I was saying, I want to thank my beautiful wife Karla, my girls, my whole family, and my brother, Rob upstairs. He was incredible. He sacrificed so much for the little man.

Rob, my brother, you always stood by me, you were my rock. I wouldn’t be standing here without your support. And to my incredible team, you were absolutely amazing, your dedication to our cause made this possible. The hard-working people of Ontario, I am truly humbled, very humbled, by your support. You are the ones who kept me going, you are the reason I am here.

We have a lot of work to do before the next campaign. We have a lot to do in a very short amount of time. But I promise you this. I will get our party back on track. We will put a platform forward that speaks to every Ontarian. Together we will return our province to where it belongs. We will make Ontario the leader of jobs and growth in Canada. I’ve said before and I’ll say it again: Ontario will be open for business.

Nine to five.

Every single day of the week except Sunday.

Just like our family business Deco Labels and Tags.

We were always ready to serve the public. Always.

Does that sound like white privilege to you?

I didn’t think so.

YOU BETTER BE FUCKING KIDDING ME

AGAIN WITH THE GUM

IS THERE SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOU

DO YOU HAVE A MEDICAL CONDITION WHERE YOU HAVE TO CHEW GUM LIKE A MORON WHENEVER A MAN OF THE PEOPLE IS MAKING A SPEECH

HAVE YOU BEEN ON OPRAH TO TALK ABOUT YOUR CONDITION YET

HOW ITS IMPACTED YOUR LIFE

BUDDY I AM ABOUT TO IMPACT YOUR LIFE LIKE A GODDAMN METEOR

Yeah, that’s better, you just put that gum away.

Snowflake.

Friends, it’s been an awfully long night and I will have more to say about how we’re going to punch the Liberals in the gut in coming days, but for now we have to clear the hall for an Ayahuasca For Seniors Ceremony that’s supposed to be coming in and starting up at 5:00, so if everybody could just make their way, in an orderly fashion, to the exits…

Let’s not keep our seniors waiting.

We’re not doing some social science study here, we’re getting things done.

MOTHER AYAHUASCA WAITS FOR NO MAN OR WOMAN!!!

EVERYBODY OUT, GODDAMIT!!!

I was 13 years-old, hopelessly white and just starting high school. I wanted to be cool but didn’t have the foggiest notion how to go about it. Cool was an undiscovered, mythic country that existed off at some unknowable distance, and I was lost, so very, very lost.

Eventually, I learned that the best passage to this land was through music. At the time, while punk and new wave were exploding around me, Billy Joel was my God, and this was not cool.

I found out that the music I had been listening to was wretched kid’s stuff, as were the lame, middle of the road radio stations I pledged allegiance to. If I wanted to be cool, I had to listen to college radio, CKCU specifically.

Listening to this radio station felt subversive, like receiving secret transmissions from a dangerous and lawless place. Unlike the chipper and inauthentic DJ’s I had previously been listening to, the ones who used sound effects and clearly knew nothing about music, the college DJ’s seemed singularly interested in what they were playing, as if it was their holy mission to bring “good music” to you. It was, I think, my first exposure to what might be thought of as the alternative scene.

It was here where I first heard the voice of Nadine Gelineau. She was a DJ at CKCU, and for whatever reason she struck a chord with me. I loved her. I mean, I was in love with her.

Her voice, so knowledgable, confident and fun, suggested worlds I had never imagined. It was a voice that for a 13 year-old boy in Ottawa, was a path, a path to a world of music and cool and all that lay beyond, a path out of the childhood I had always inhabited and on toward something much grander. Her voice conjured the possibility of thousands of different lives.

She was a legend. Hosting radio shows, spinning discs at the counter-culture clubs, championing music and just generally being Ottawa’s single-combat hero of cool, she was the way we collectively wanted to be seen. She gave us all hope and pride, I think, and now she is gravely ill. I hope that she’s able to get through it and return to herself and the legions of people whom she loves and love her.

The thought of her passing is a kind of cataclysm. Ridiculously, it seems impossible, but time, it just slips away, quietly sliding away into a larger and larger pool now forming beneath and behind us. Who knew that pool would get so big and we would get so old? Who knew the present would so mercilessly raze our beloved past?

I was recently reminded that the last song she played at all the club sets she performed was Enjoy Yourself by The Specials.

At the time it struck me as a drunken party song, but now when I listen to it, there’s a sadness and inevitability to it. It was an appropriate song for Nadine to have played, I think. It’s a funny time, that last song of the night, bittersweet. I never wanted it to end, I wanted it to stretch out infinitely, with more and more people joining in, each one a light in the greater constellation of who we were, each one shining so brightly.

So, thank you Nadine, thank you.

( Photo courtesy of Julie Beun)

After I got the phone call informing me that I had advanced cancer, I went to the New Edinburgh Pub. I sat at the end of the bar,  so thin and pale and hunched as to be little more than a shadow on the periphery, and ordered a half liter of red wine and a large soda water, and then quietly flipped through a newspaper for the rest of the night. That was over 20 years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday.

The New Edinburgh Pub, located on Beechwood in Ottawa, wasn’t too far from where my parents lived.

It’s a generic place, a standard Ottawa pub that looks like it was made from a Build-Your-Own-Bar kit. It wasn’t ugly, but there was just no mind paid to the character or aesthetics of the place, and it reflected nothing back to you. It was nobody’s first choice, just a space in which you could drink.

The reason that I went to this particular pub on that night is that I didn’t think that I would know anybody there. I wanted to be invisible and uncalled to. I wanted to separate from the herd,  step outside of my life and dissolve into the space around me. I didn’t want to see anybody who might call me back to my life or the one that had been expected of me. I could not bear my own sadness, let alone theirs.

My recovery from the treatments and surgeries for Hodgkin’s Disease took a long time, years, actually, and each night, I went to this pub. It became the bell I had to ring each day, the one that confirmed my survival. And in spite of my desire to be anonymous, to have nobody care about me and vice versa, I became friends with all the staff and regulars.

I went there late, in the drinking hours, and all of us there carried our weights. But the pub served as a place where these weights were lifted, and suspended from our lives we could just sit amongst other people, unjudged and unmeasured.

We all need rest stops like this. And when I think of this place I think of it as being as essential to my recovery as the hospital. I sought to abandon the world, but it was here that I found the world, and that world restored me.

Just the other day, about half and hour before I turned the astonishing and impossible age of 50, I was told that after decades, the New Edinburgh Pub will be closing. This is what the world does. It reinvents itself. And that the landscape of my past is vanishing is nothing new–it happens to everybody, on every single block of this world, but still, it’s a blow, a real loss. And I just want to thank the New Edinburgh Pub– Paul, the truly decent owner, and everyone who worked and spent time there, I want to thank them for being present and sharing that space with me.

My hatred of him was immediate, visceral and enduring, and over the years I have taken time out of my busy, important life to write him a note each year on his birthday. This is a small sample of some of the letters I have written him:

July 3, 1986

Dear Maverick:

Your call sign in Top Gun should have been Muffin.

You’re a loser and flash in the pan and it’s obvious you don’t have a clue how to play beach volleyball.

Your smile makes me want to punch you with a rake.

Happy 24^th, moron.

Michael Murray

PS: Please send an autographed photograph.

July 3, 1992

Dear Tom:

I want to congratulate you on your Irish accent in Far and Away.

You’ve really been acting the shit out of things lately, especially when you made us all understand what it must feel like to be Tom Cruise in a wheelchair in Born on the Fourth of July. That was some heavy shit, really brave, and you deserve a milk carton full of Oscars for that role.

Happy 30^th, loser, it’s all downhill from here.

Michael Murray

PS: I have named my band Cole Trickle after your character in Days of Thunder. Inspired by your acting, we formed as a group even though none of us can play any instruments.

July 3, 2000

Tom:

What the fuck was up with your package in Magnolia???

I mean, please! Are you really that vain that you have to make it look like you have a giant cock? Really?? And did you even know what Eyes Wide Shut was about? Truly, you are the worst actor ever.

Happy birthday.

Michael Murray

July 3, 2005

Dear crazy Scientology person:

Joey will never love you.

You will never have her.

You may jump on sofas all you want, but you will never win her heart. You are a robot, a robot made of money and teeth, and although she has likely signed a contract, that contract will end and she will leave you. Mark my words, Cruise, mark my words.

You’re 43 now, and although you don’t know it, things are beginning to slip away.

Happy birthday.

Michael Murray

PS: I am taking the bus to America to buy a crossbow on the weekend.

July 3, 2014

Tom:

I’m on medication now and am doing well. I understand boundaries. I am sorry about the genetic material I sent to you on your 50^th birthday. It was inappropriate of me, to say the least, and trying to get you to introduce me to your ex-wife, the Katie Holmes version of your ex-wife, was insensitive. I just want to thank you for our friendship over the years, wish you the best as you move through your 50’s and let you know that I am really just fantastically excited for Top Gun II.

Happy birthday, old friend!

Michael Murray

Dear Queen Elizabeth II:

Happy birthday!!!

I just want to say that you look absolutely fantastic for 88! Really, I could see in the photograph that your skin was just glowing so I really want to congratulate you on that. I had my passport photograph taken yesterday, after only a five year interval, and I’m very sorry to say that I looked asymmetrical, angry and jaundiced, like a hard drinking 68 year-old. Really, I looked like I live in Russia or something, and I don’t!

I’m actually from Canada, so I’m one of your subjects, and when I was a boy I used to collect stamps with you on them. There must have been hundreds of them, and they all looked pretty much alike—you, looking regal in front of some aspect of Canadian industry.

None of them were valuable for collectors as so many were printed and used to mail letters. (You remember mailing letters, don’t you? Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you always had a fancy butler to mail them for you and put the stamp on the envelope, otherwise I guess it would have been pretty weird to put a stamp of yourself on the envelope. That’s the sort of thing that could go to a person’s head, I think.) At any rate, they were everyday stamps, the sort that filled the pages between the cool ones of Grizzly Bears or hockey players, but every once in awhile for a special occasion they’d put out a stamp of you that was practically the size of a hockey card. It would be either silver or gold and it was like finding a jewel. Suddenly, we got to see you in all your majesty, if that makes any sense.

Everybody has regrets, but I imagine a queen might have more than most. You were locked into a very particular life from the time you were born and you must always wonder about that boy you thought cute way back when, or what it would have been like to have been a hippy and get high with a Beatle. What would you say your biggest regret is?

I regret never learning how to fire a gun.

And if you could sleep with either Colin Firth or Russell Brand, which one would you choose?

Don’t be shy, it’s your birthday.

Michael Murray

PS: Is Gwyneth Paltrow really British?

Across from this, splayed on a bench lay a dusty, shirtless man baking in the sun, all of his life’s possessions scattered about him like discarded Kleenex. It felt like he was trying to defy his circumstance, the weather and all the people who had been trying in small ways to help him.

As I was locking my bicycle a tall, beautiful Russian woman, just as thin and cruel as a switchblade, walked toward me. She was a tennis superstar, a billionaire’s trophy, somebody who would never fall in love, and the language she used with her companion was precise and directional. There was not a sentimental bone in her body, and concealed beneath her sunglasses she was still able to make it clear that she wanted me out of her way. Disdainful, she was a supermodel who would not break stride, and I hurried in my task, trying to make myself smaller and less obtrusive as the city beyond opened up before her terrible beauty.  And then, just a few moments later, a middle-aged man talking to himself, his hands a fury of unknowable intent, walked past me too, “ I don’t care, I’ll take the day off work, end up downtown and probably get a blow-job,” he said to nobody living in the visible present.

At the Real Thailand restaurant, beneath faded pictures of some Thai King, sat a scattering of elderly, single women sitting alone at various tables. With swollen ankles and sunken faces, they stared straight ahead. Their hearts and minds elsewhere, they existed within humid, little bubbles of sadness.

In front of a corner store a beggar noticed my Montreal Expos t-shirt and we fell into a conversation about the city and baseball team, discovering that we lived there at the same time. Free associating, as if on some sort of game show, we shouted out the names of all our favourite players:

Andre Dawson!

El Presidente!

Casey Candaele!

Pasquel Perez!

Hubie Brooks!

And then we reminisced  about the unhurried evenings we had each spent at the Big O watching games. Sitting in the cheap seats smoking cigarettes and drinking our knapsack beer, the future we were both living on this hot afternoon so distant and unimaginable.