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 Content Rating Notice: Recommended for Readers 18 Years and Older Only |
| >> Static Item >> Prose >> Biographical >> ID #1293110 |   |
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Following are some brief reminiscences of my brother John who died at age 52 in 1984. Memories Of My Brother The first image that comes to mind of my brother John is seeing him walking towards me on College Street in Toronto after a day's work. We would arrive home for supper at roughly the same time each evening so there was always the possibility of my seeing him when I got off the bus and started walking the two blocks to the apartment we shared on Lippincott Street. Even from a long way off I would recognize him. He was the one with the case of 24 beer on his shoulder. Every night he would stop at the beer store and occasionally the dry cleaners. We would drink the beer straight out of the case which would be put on the kitchen table. The beer never made it to the fridge since he and I would have it drunk before it had a chance to cool. The empties would be stacked beside the fridge and would dwarf it by the end of the week when we would return them to the beer store. I was about twenty-two years old at the time, single and worked as a Contracts Clerk for A.E.Ames, stock brokers. John was thirty-five, going through a divorce and was a draftsman for Del Zotto Brothers Construction Company. Each evening John cooked supper and I did the washing up. We would spend the few hours before bed playing guitar, singing and telling stories. John was a loud and enthusiastic singer and a great story teller. He seemed to attract adventures like a dog or cat attracts fleas. Another image that comes to mind is that of John seated across the table from me, beer in one hand, guitar in his lap and the tabletop littered with empty beer bottles. He'd be wearing a gray polo-type shirt with the top few buttons undone. He had a chipped front tooth, since he was a teenager, from walking up the stairs on his hands and falling into a metal bed frame. He was always very athletic. There would be a far-away look in his pale blue eyes, and a crooked grin on his mouth, as he recollected and related a story of his time in the navy or of his army days in Korea, or a more recent adventure. When we did venture out in the evening, or on the weekends, our first stop would always be one of the low class bars where beer was the cheapest. One such place was the Continental Hotel which has since been torn down for the expansion of the bus depot. The basement bar was one of the old style men's tap rooms. There was no decor; only inexpensive functionality. Tables were round and small with melamine tops, sopping wet with spilled beer. Chairs were wooden with no padding on the seats. Noise was constant: drink orders being shouted, glasses striking the table tops, chairs scraping the tiled floors, talking, arguing and fighting. The fights would invariably involve old men who would end up rolling around in the aisles. Seated patrons would, of necessity, have to hold onto their beer glasses and keep their feet up to protect themselves from the rolling combatants. The chance of a heart attack was greater than that of sustaining an injury from the fight. I describe this bar and one of the patrons in my poem:
Another adventure took place in the Ford Hotel next door. John had previously been drinking at home and was already quite drunk. He staggered to the bathroom while I sat down and ordered four glasses of draft. The waiter set down two glasses for me but wouldn't leave any for John because of his obvious inebriation. When John returned he was upset at not being served and went over to the bar to talk to the bartender. That didn't yield any positive results so he reached over, grabbed his uniform jacket by the lapels and pulled him over to the other side of the bar. This immediately brought four huge men from the back. I stood up and was grabbed from behind in a bear hug and, with my feet dangling about six inches off the floor, was walked out of the front of the bar. I saw John being pushed out the alley door. I ran around the hotel to the back to see the three bar staff re-entering the hotel. I couldn't see John at first, then saw his feet sticking out behind a garbage can. One side of his face was completely scraped and swollen and his eye was purple. I helped him stagger home. The next day he phoned his work to tell them that he had been in a car accident. One of John's stories involves his service in the Navy which was a disaster. Much of his time was spent in the brig for fighting. He bragged that he caused a riot at the Mauna Loa Hotel in Honolulu. While on leave, after an afternoon of drinking, one remark from an American soldier brought a flurry of punches from John. Then, all hell broke loose. Chairs and tables were smashed as soldiers and sailors started fighting. John saw the police coming so he crawled under a table and out the side door. With police right behind him he climbed a trellis that went up the side of the hotel. Half way up it broke. There was such a tangle of vines, trellis and bodies that he was able to slip away in the confusion. He escaped the police but not the MPs aboard ship. He was back in the brig. Understandably, John left the navy with a dishonorable discharge. He worked on tugboats on the west coast. In Calgary he worked at a bakery. He did odd jobs when he could find them. When he couldn’t he lived on the streets. He went three days without eating and was ready to jump off a bridge when someone suggested to him that he join the army. This was 1953; the Canadian Army was looking for recruits. He would get three square meals a day and a uniform. The only problem was the dishonorable discharge from the Navy. Luckily, his prior service record didn’t catch up with him before he was shipped off to Korea with the 2nd Battalion, Black Watch (Royal Highland Regiment) Of Canada . He was there from the 29th of October, 1953 to the 3rd of November 1954. His Military Service Number was SM10169. One of John's army stories involves a time when he was on leave in Tokyo. I may not have all of the details correct, however, that would not have bothered John. In his mind a story's worth lay in its entertainment value; the truth was only a jumping off point. I've heard the same story told with different details depending on how many beer had been consumed. On with the story. It was towards the end of his leave and he had already spent most of his pay. He was with a group of Canadian soldiers who were walking along a street frequented by prostitutes. A number of attractive women were following the group, speaking to them in broken english, laughing and gesturing. One of the women kept tugging at John's arm. He explained to her that he had no money and demonstrated this by showing her his empty wallet and the small amount of change he had in his pocket. He expected that this would discourage her. This was not the case; she took the money. She led him down a street to a small Japanese cottage. They walked around the back where there was a small but beautifully landscaped garden complete with bonsai trees and a small fountain with water cascading over the rocks. John was introduced to her grandfather, then she served tea. Later, she took John to her room where they drank sake and made love throughout the night. John left the next morning. The woman was pleased that she had been paid and so, had not been taken advantage of. Another story involves a geisha house where John stayed for two weeks. The word geisha meant "artist" or "performing artist". A true "geisha" is not a prostitute, however an "onsen geisha" is a term which has been co-opted by prostitutes. Prostitution was legal in Japan until 1956. It was this later type of "geisha" or "comfort women" that my brother was involved with. For a relatively small amount of money John was treated like a sultan. He had his choice of a different woman every night who would serve him meals, sing and play for him on a three stringed instrument called a shamisen, recite verse and be his bed companion at night. He was especially attracted to one of the geishas with whom he spent most of his time. He hated to leave and vowed that he would return after the war. That, however, didn't happen.
© Copyright 2007 Dennis Cardiff (UN: dcardiff at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
Dennis Cardiff has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |
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