I recall the moment as if it was
yesterday. I'd been in Toronto for about a month, and had recently
moved into Place Du Soliel. I'd met a few people, even had dinner
with a couple of folks but had not yet formed any firm friendships.
Frankly, I was feeling a little lonely. Deb had attended a marriage
counseling session with me, but her heart wasn't in it and she had
returned to Toledo for good. I knew the papers would be arriving any
time now. As fortunate as I felt I'd been in coming to Toronto, I
missed her terribly.
And then...
As I was walking down the hall to my
apartment I noticed the door of the place across the hall was open. The sound of a hockey game could be heard coming from the TV inside.
As I peeked into the door I saw what could only be described as a
drunked up, deranged hippy sitting on the edge of a couch with a
Labatts 50 in his hand, yelling at the screen like a lunatic! You've
seen those old photos taken in Haight Ashbury back in the 60's of
half-stoned weirdos with long hair, beards and a wild expression in
their eyes? That was this guy 100%! Eventually the ref blew his
whistle, and the wild man turned his head. It must've taken a moment
for his eyes to focus on the door, but as soon as he could make out
my outline a grin began to form on his face. His eyes lit up as his
smile became bigger and bigger until finally he began to gesticulate
wildly with his arm, I could see he was trying to invite me in.
“Whasss' yer namefffph?”
“Ummmm Pat Bergin” I replied
“Bourbon? Pat Bourbon? BLAH HAAAA
HAAAA... Pat Bourbon!!!”
“No... Pat Bergin!”
“OOOOOOHHHHHHHHH BERGIN!!!!!
Lessee... BERGIE, that's it BEEEERRRRRGGGGIE!!!! Here have'a 50!”
His demure and beautiful girlfriend was
popping corn at the stove. She put cinnamon in it, and it had the
most delicious aroma I'd ever smelt. Without blinking an eye she
grabbed a 50 out of the fridge while stirring the popcorn with the
other hand and deftly handed it to me... she'd obviously done this kind of
thing before! The crazy man on the couch handed me an opener, waited
while I popped the top on the 50, then started pointing at himself.
I wondered what the hell he meant.
“You're Bergie... I'm Randy, but you
need to give me a name!” He said, still grinning like a deranged
Cheshire cat. I knew I had to come up with a fitting nickname for my
new found BFF. Something that was not only descriptive, but memorable
as well and I had to do it before the game started back up or I would
lose him for sure.
“Ummmmmmmm... FART HEAD!!!!!!!”
His eyes lit up even more, you could
tell he was mightily impressed by my ingenious nickname... obviously
nobody had ever called him that before... I can't imagine why not!
“HAAAAAAAW, HAAAAAWWWWW,
HAAAWWWWWW... FART HEAD... GOOD ONE EH!” he shouted at the top of
his lungs, his girlfriend looking on with a mildly maternal look on
her face as her man proceeded to go ape shit over his new found
friend! I later learned that Randy was a
drummer, and played professionally in clubs around town, his
girlfriend Carrie had briefly sung with his band, but was now a full
time homemaker.
In the coming months I would meet and
become fast friends with Fart Head's other pals... Tony Carr, a
former Mr Dominion of Canada and circus palm reader, “Too Tall
Mike” a local small-time hustler who spent as much time in the
clink as he did at home, Don “Burr Head” Weir, one of the
greatest singers I'd ever heard, Owen "The Beard", “John The Boot”,
“Accordion Vince”, “Pizza Dave”, and an entire assortment of
wackos with whom I would spend many a beer soaked evening carousing,
laughing and raising hell. And right now I was seated next to my
new pal Fart Head, watching the Leafs lose as usual, and munching on the most
delicious, cinnamon popcorn I'd ever tasted.
Life was GOOOOOOOOOD again!
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