Stan squinted into the gloom. Yes, better at night. Could that be due to subtle differences between our colour and our black & white vision? Rods and cones. Stan's mind skipped over the connections like a stone hitting a pond. Uncanny, the either/or-ness of things. Stan got stuck on that one. The Maserati's metric dash clock glowed 20:07. The town loomed ahead. He geared down when he hit the main drag. Now the trick was to find an acceptable parking spot. As usual, Stan ignored the semi-distant openings and kept driving until he arrived right in front of the OB. And there it was. Parking luck, he called it. Braking right, Stan drifted the Maz into an old-fashioned diagonal parking space. Small town stuff. He killed the engine, listened contentedly as the twin turbos emitted a deep-throated sigh, and looked at his watch. Eight-oh-twenty. Slightly late. Not good. Stan got a tad edgy when he was late. He got out of the car, locked the door, glanced quickly up and down the street, and sprinted across. He jumped a puddle to the puke-eroded sidewalk in front of the OB.

The OB was so old it had two entrances. Stan stood under the entrance marked "Ladies & Escorts". At the west end of the building stood similar doors under the sign appropriately marked: "Men". Stan started walking. From the window casements rose a row of pointed iron spikes. Stan was impressed. The OB knew how to keep the rubbies from loitering.

"Men", Stan said. He pulled the door open and looked down a long entrance hall. About fifty feet away were two more aluminium doors. The creaky hallway was unlit, save for the hallowe'enish glows emitted by a row of fluorescent posters. Stan took a closer look. Their obvious function was to tempt in the undecided by displaying the week's current crop of exotic dancers. Stan laughed. What difference did it make? He scanned the listings. "Apple". There was a name Stan recognized. Didn't she have the act with the snake? He had met a stripper once. Nancy found out one day the woman who lived in the apartment next door was an exotic dancer. She had an Australian accent. Looked fairly hard. Called herself "Mrs. Peel", after the character in The Avengers. Like wrestlers, strippers represented stereotypic myths. Name, costume, style of act - it all represented a different female archetype. Albeit in the nude, of course. Stan figured Mrs. Peel was not an "A Girl". Too old. But she still made a lotta bucks considering the time she had to spend "working" onstage. Stan would like to pull down that hourly take. Mrs Peel proved an excellent source of information, from image design to the fact most of the girls were either lesbian exhibitionists or doper exhibitionists. One got the feeling Mrs. Peel belonged to the latter category. Stan saw her perform at a lunchtime pub about six months later. He decided she wasn't much of a stripper. Too athletic, he thought, not enough of a dancer.

He thrust himself through the double doors.

Stan was in the OB.

His first reaction was to the stink of the place. He immediately thought of Proust, in some Pavlovian way. His eyes slowly adjusted to the infrared gloom.

What a hole, Stan muttered to himself. And he was right. The OB was a hole. It was one of the last of a long line of hard drinker's bars. An old biker bar. And somewhere in this precambrian twilight was Stan's old buddy, Ted. What a place to meet, Stan thought as he carefully two-stepped through the tables, empty except for a few old timers mumbling in their beers. He looked around.

Ted. Ted. Stan talked to himself when he felt self conscious.

Ted. Ted. There you are, sitting at the bar.

Indeed, Ted was sitting at the bar. In the mirror behind the bar Stan could see the animation in Ted's face as he talked to the bartender. The bartender was smiling.

Stan eased into the seat beside Ted, so as not to disturb him in mid-story. Ted caught Stan out of the corner of his eye. His smile widened but he didn't stop.

So the cowboy says 'I see you got some sheep'. And the Apache says, 'Sheep Lie'.

The bartender convulsed in tip-enhancing hilarity. Ted turned to Stan. His right hand went up.

All right. My man! Ted slapped hard.

Ted the Head. OK. Good to see you man. Nice bar. Jeez, has this joint gone downhill. Ted, this your bar? When this place turn into such a dive?

We haven't been in here for 20 years, man. Things change.

I think I stepped over some of my old puke in the hallway, then.

Ted laughed. Could be. Barkeep! Ted raised his hand and waved it about. Something for my long-lost friend, here, back from the past to lie about his future. The bartender looked up. Ted kept talking. Hey, man, heard they discovered a new use for sheep in Newfoundland?

The bartender shook his head no.

Wool. Ted paused.

The bartender laughed again. Stan laughed. He looked at his watch. Eight thirty. He caught the bartender's eye. Make it a Caesar, spicy, rim. Please. He turned to Ted.

Still the same old maniac.

No. Still the same old jokes.

Yes, Stan agreed. The state of humour has fallen. Remember how we worshipped Firesign Theatre? Stan was on the verge of nostalgia. He grabbed Ted by the shoulders.

Hell, man, lemmie see you. Looking pretty good, here. Looking pretty fit. Obviously life in the lowlands hasn't affected your gut. Stan patted his own belly affectionately. This here? All the B-Foods. Beer, butter, bread, booze, burgers... Yes, indeed. But you're looking great. Haven't changed a bit, except for those wrinkles around your eyes, on your neck, your cheeks, chin... and the grey hair. Stan gave Ted an affectionate pat on the head. He sat down and undid his necktie. The bartender served the drinks.

Run a tab?

Put it on mine.

We'll split it, Ted said.

OK, said the bartender.

So, Ted. Yeah. What's it been? Ten years? A decade?

Ted looked reflectively at the ceiling. Ten years. Round there. Let's see. You left the paper and went to the ad agency in the fall of '79. I got to be editor in '81. The last time I saw you was at lunch in the Fall of '80. Between Thanksgiving and Hallowe'en. Christ, just about 10 years ago any day now. Maybe today. Ten completed cycles, man, congratulations on the timing.

You know, Ted, you may be right. Stan furrowed his forehead. Although I can't remember why we had lunch.

I do, replied Ted. You were out in the boonies with the agency team assigned to the opening of a new car dealership. We had lunch newspaper-style. Burgers, chips & pop. On my office desk. Delivery courtesy the copy boy. I was still doing the same old stuff. Same old politicians. But you. Things were really clicking for you at the agency. You were flying. You told me you didn't miss newspapers one bit. But you thanked them. You gave me one bit of advice I've never forgotten. It's all in the headlines, you told me. That's all advertising really is. The headline. Everything else was bullshit.

Insofar as the headline represents the creative concept, Stan interjected.

OK, sure. Who cares? You dared me to quit and fly with the big birds. Copywriter. Creative Director. All you need is a headline, you said. I thought about it after you left. I couldn't do it. I decided I wanted to write the stories, instead. Ten years ago. My oh my, the time do fly.

Stan took a tentative sip of his caesar, making sure he licked a thick portion of the salty rim. He smacked his lips. Hot. Yeah. Hot.

Ted lit a cigarette. Took a deep drag. Through the exhaling smoke Stan could almost see the words being formed: So, why'd ya call?

Stan shrugged, and looked into his drink.

Ted was adamant. Really, Stan, it's great to see you again and all, but just call it my journalist's curiosity. What makes a guy re-establish contact after ten years?

The truth?

Of course the stupid truth, man. It's a simple request.

OK, I'll tell you. Stan took a drink. He crunched an ice cube between his teeth. Guilt. I guess.

Guilt? C'mon, man, you're in advertising.

Yeah, well you know, you hang around with a group for five, maybe six years, university and after, and then you get sucked into your career, whatever that is, and some guys just don't figure into the new thing.

Bullshit, man. Ted laughed. I'll tell you what happened. You stopped calling because you're a bloody snob. Class-conscious. Big time Adman. Big deal. You hang around bars. Dress well. Enjoy conversations like: 'What do you do?'... I'm the Creative Director of Flack & Flush, so there'.

Stan took another drink. He smiled. Well put, Ted. You read me like a billboard. In my position, you cannot associate with those of questionable taste and culture. By the way, did you know you stink of printer's ink?

Ted looked concerned. Momentarily.

Stan laughed. Ah, ha ... gotcha!

Ted squinted his eyes.

Listen, Stan said. I'll tell you how it really happened. Some of the old gang still likes to meet, say, the last Friday of every month. Little beer. Little darts. We all tell lies to each other, of course, but the interesting thing about these nights are the people. Never know who's going to show up. Couple of weeks ago Russell made an appearance so we all started talking about our first writing experiences, and your name came up. I said I knew where you lived and that I'd call. Said I'd make a pitch to get you out of the sticks. You remember the big city?

Said you've give 'em an update, that's what, Ted said.

Stan gave Ted his most reproving look. Suspicious or what? Hey, man, lighten up. This is no Spanish Inquisition. He looked around quickly, as if the phrase might summon Monty Python.

Ted loosened up. Yeah, it's good to see you, too. How is the old guard?

Rich or dead. Or hangin in by their fingernails. Remember Pignatelli?

Pig. The crazy photog.

Right. And Al.

How the hell is Al?

Schitzo. Stan waved at the bartender for two more drinks. He forced two 16-year-olds up the mountain at knifepoint. Kept them there for two days, then hiked them to his home. One escaped. They locked him up.

Ted hunched over the bar a bit, and shook his beer around the inside of the fingerprinted glass. Poor bastard, He said. He was a great idea man.

What about the Pig Man? Ted squinted at himself in the mirror behind the bar.

Stan did a little twirl on his barstool. The OB was still virtually empty. For some reason he thought that was odd. He caught Ted's eye in the mirror.

El Piggo? Stan's voice edged out a bit. Not much. Not much good. Turned out to be a real shyster. Left the paper to start up his own photo studio. Ripped off everybody, including a couple -- get this, man -- who hired Pig to shoot their wedding. Pig got the dough up front, but the bugger was forced by his bank to spend it on overdue credit cards. What to do? No dough, no film. So dig this. He goes to the wedding anyway, shoots with no film, then stalls the marks for two months, at which time he says the film was lost.

Ted asked: This is The Pig?

Stan nodded yes. I think they're still trying to get their money back. Pig's now selling insurance. Heard he turned religious, too.

Stan smirked for awhile. He looked at his watch. Time for another vodka. The bartender, this time, was psychic. A refreshed glass appeared just as Stan was pushing the old one away.

Speaking of another drink, I think I've neglected to tell you of my divorce from Nancy.

Ted looked surprised.

I didn't know you and Nancy were fuckin married, he said. Thought you two were shacked up, common law. When did this happen?

Stan gave a telltale sigh. Seven months ago.

Ted was alert. His eyes slit and he studied Stan's posture in the bar mirror. It was slumping. Ted felt instantly better. Reunion my ass, he thought, you're doin the divorcee shuffle. Lookin for action. Lookin for single guys. Lookin to go out and get reacquainted with the real world. Lookin for reality. The cure for baby boomer PDD -- Post-Divorce Depression. Ted knew the feeling personally. Always, the solution appeared simple. Simply combine an ocean of habit-free time with a liberal dump of nostalgia, and catch the night train back home again. It's morbid, sure. But it's also romantic; it's makin a move. All right, Stan, Ted thought, we'll go back. Right back to brutal reality. Stan stirred his drink and gave another little sigh.

Ted twirled around on his bar stool, shifted easily to the floor, and turned to grab his drink and smokes. He put his face close to Stan's.

Listen, man, the bar's too aggressive. Let's relax in a chair. Quiet talk. Nice table. Bowls of nuts. Maybe a cigar.

Civilized, Stan agreed.

Ted waved at the bartender, then started weaving through the tables. He found a quiet spot near the dart boards. A nondescript man was practicing. A lone drinker sat deep in the corner.

They plunked down in the chairs. The bartender brought fresh drinks. The change was startling.

OK, Stan said. Let's be civilized. I want to talk about the good old days. About city council. About the paper. The people. What about Strandlund, the guy in charge of circulation who faked that robbery? Shit, man, we can talk about everything. We can even talk about my divorce. You know that bag stiffed me for everything?

Everything?

OK, I still got the car. She got the house and furniture. I got my clothes and the goddam car. And half the dough.

What's half of fuck all?

Hey, man, be nice. I'm not very happy about it.

So what happened? Ted settled back. He had seen this movie before.

Stan went serious. He seemed to be reciting a well-worn speech.

I just couldn't stand the lifestyle. She got heavily into the booze. I used to go to the neighbourhood pub on my way home from drinks and darts with the boys after work, and she'd already be there, pissed out of her mind, usually dancing on a table or cussing out some other drunk. I'd try to drag her out but no go. Then one of her pissed pals would saunter over and tell me to leave her alone. It was nuts.

So I started seeing other women. It was easy. I started with the friendliest teller at my bank. She was impressed by my deposits, I liked the way she handled my account. Lunch was easy. Then a movie. Then bingo. I found out they were all horny at that branch, and pretty soon I had worked my way up to the woman manager. We got it off right away. Mabel. Great broad. She even gave me a lower interest rate on my mortgage.

Ted chuckled to himself.

Stan was getting up to speed. Of course, the motel and hotel bills were killing me. Christ, some of the tellers still lived at home. Nancy found out, naturally. I got the phone call at work about an hour before I had to catch a plane to Toronto. She was leaving. Her lawyer would be contacting my lawyer. That was that. Of course, I was taken aback. I knew she was screwing around. At least, I assumed she was amusing her barroom boyfriends.

So I fly to Toronto and come back the next night. Maybe Nancy will be home. Maybe we can sort this whole mess out. I drive expectantly up my street. I turn into my driveway. I've got a nice little house, a double A-frame with a Jacuzzi in the back. Stereo. Fireplace. Big cedar trees in the front and back yards. Good sized garage. Anyway, I pull in and even though it's raining slightly, it looks like there's something in the trees. I get out of the car for a closer look. The stuff in the branches is mine. My clothes. I look around. A drape flutters in the window of the house across the street. The fuckin neighbours are watching! I go to the door. It's locked. I get out my key, insert it, and turn. Click! I open the door just in time to hear the echo fading away in the far bedroom.

The place is empty. I hit the switch. No light. She's taken the bulbs. I go into the bathroom. No toilet paper. The fridge is turned off. There's nothing in it anyway. Even the Jacuzzi has been drained. Christ, what did she do? Pack the bloody water?

Maybe she put it in the waterbed, Ted suggested.

Shit, she got that, too. I forgot about that wonderful mega-kingsize waterbed. Stan looked away sadly.

But I got the real bad news at discovery. She had eight co-respondents. Here's luck for you. Nancy had been in the bank one day, and had pissed off one of the tellers with an accusation of short-changing. The teller, Monica, was on the rag or something and she freaked out, and spilled the beans about our romantic dates. Nancy went totally bonkers, and ended up attracting the entire bank's attention. Including Mabel, who just happened to be in the area. Mabel invited Nancy into her office to discuss the situation. It didn't take long for both of them to put two and two together, and next thing you know there's seven tellers and bookkeepers all admitting their guilt and promising revenge.

Not a very pleasant situation, Ted admitted. He leaned forward. Well, Stan, quite an experience, Yes, a very interesting experience. His voice was soft and smooth like a snake. Ted grabbed a handful of peanuts and settled back in his chair. He carefully arranged the nuts on the top of his stomach. He looked up and caught Stan by the eye. I know it's rough, man. But ya gotta think of the big picture. In five years this won't mean a thing. Hell, you don't sound too compatible. And you did screw around. And get caught.

She started it.

Nobody started it. It just ended. Maybe it's for the good. You might have stayed together and that sounds like hell.

Yeah, Stan moaned, but I know now I really loved her. It's love, Ted. It doesn't make any sense.

I'll tell you a story about love, man. It happened a couple years ago. Here, in town. Her name is Flo. Flo. Like in water. She was nothing special, regular housewife. Three kids. Except for the fact she was a major star with the swimming crowd around here. They've got a club here, a big swimming club called the Amateur Swimming Association. Been around for years. I did a story on its history for the local rag. When those baby boomer kids hit the beaches in the 50s the club had an average membership was around 5,000 a summer. For 20 years. Fortunately, they had a big beach. And a system. Start the hordes of little kids off in the shallow water, and when they can make it, they graduate out to the tank at the end of the pier.

The tank, Stan said. Drunks?

Ted laughed. It's a floating pool. They call it a tank. Dunno why.

Floating pool, Stan said. Eight-ball?

OK. Enough, man. I can explain it. Picture this: four big wooden frames supported by plastic floats. Two are fat rectangles and two are long skinny ones. They strap together to form one big rectangle with a hole in the middle of it, and the whole thing floats out at the end of the pier where the water's deep. They tow it to a winter moorage every September. Anyway, this Flo was a natural. A champion swimmer and diver for the Swim Club. Christ, she's still got a box fulla trophies. She was good enough to get a diving scholarship at some American university, but then the war came along and she stayed home. Good thing, too.

When I interviewed her she said if she had gone to university she would have become an undertaker. Can you believe that? Then she ended up breaking up an engagement to marry a guy from the east in 1942. He shipped off three months later with the RCAF.

Pilot? Stan was interested.

Affirmative, Ted replied.

The bartender arrived. Another round, boys?

Sure, says Stan.

Hold it a minute, Ted yelled after the bartender. You from around here?

The bartender stopped and returned.

Yeah. Why?

How old are you?

Thirty-eight.

Do you know how to swim?

Sure, the bartender says.

How did you learn?

The bartender put down his tray, bent over at the waist, lifted his head up, and started his arms moving rhythmically around him.

Wierd, Stan said.

That's the gospel according to Flo. Shit, you could patent the technique and advertise it as Flo-Go. Or Jet-Flo, or something.

Stan rolled his eyes.

Anyway, Ted continued, it's her teaching technique. She figured you'd learn the feel of the stroke faster if you did it daily. Dry runs, in the pure sense of the term. They all do it endlessly.

Stan lit a cigar.

So her old man was a pilot in the air force? Risky. Glamorous. Lots of willing woozles to while away the hours. He blew smoke towards the waterstained ceiling.

Yeah, man, two years of glory as a bomber pilot. Halifaxes and Lancasters.

Lancasters. Stan said the word reverently. Then he was suddenly overcome. He spread his arms and hunched his shoulders like Nixon. Bbbbrerrrremmmmm, he droned, as low as he could. He thought it sounded ugly enough to be the roar of the Lanc's four Rolls-Royce Marlin engines.

He did a slow roll and landed.

I saw a lot of Lancs when I was a kid, Stan said. My old man was in the air force, too. Enlisted in 49. Navigator. Got assigned to Maritime Air Command. Comox and Summerside. Stan started to laugh. Did I ever tell you about the time Dad was in a Lanc flying from Calgary to Comox? He's over the Rockies, droning into a strong headwind, and the old bird is just groaning along at 12,000 feet. The old man looks out the window and the cars on the ground are passing him. Stan thinks this is incredibly funny.

Ted scooped another handful of nuts. He popped one at Stan. It flew unerringly into his drink.

Oh, good one. Stan watched the peanut waffle to the bottom of his glass.

OK, so much for background. Ted lit another smoke. The awards night. Let me tell you about Flo's big awards night. Two years ago. I was goin out with a girl named Barb at the time. We were shackin up on Sunnysyde Road. I've got a invite from the paper to cover the event, so Barb decides to tag along. We show up around eight twenty at the local junior high. The ceremony is to take place in the gym. We push through the doors and the place is really packed, and everybody's standin around and talkin real loud or else they're sittin down a talkin real loud at those long wooden tables, y'know, the ones they have in schools. The tops are always covered with brown paper. There's about 200 people there and there's a crowd up on the stage, sitting at the head table with the Mayor. He's got the official chain of office around his shoulders. It looks medieval. The rest of them, I dunno. Some of them must be from the swim club. Who cares? There's a bar at the back that's doin good business so Barb and I find a seat at one of the tables and I go and get some drink tickets and watch the crowd have a few laughs. First thing I overhear is that old Doc Barber's wife had tripped at the door when she arrived and fell on the cement, breaking her wrist.

At least she'll get house calls, someone replied.

Some woman up at the podium starts yammering into the mike, so I collected our drinks and go back to sit with Barb. There's a spotlight and everything. The Mayor starts things off by introducing the Head Table. There's the swim club president, the Mayor of the municipality, the provincial representative, and people who are friends. Probably people Flo has taught to swim.

One by one, they all get up to tell their stories. This big guy, Tom, for instance, tells how Flo taught his kid how to tread water even though he was scared shitless of anything damp and wouldn't you know it the next summer they're out on his sailboat and the wind changes and the boom whips around, knocking the kid into the water. Without a life jacket. The guy's not much of a sailor and it takes him 15 minutes to get the boat turned around but the kid's still treading water and he gets rescued from the chuck. Tom gets all emotional and pretty soon everybody's all emotional and there's hardly a dry eye in the place. He gives Flo a personal plaque of appreciation and that gets a big round of applause. Then some old lady gets up and tells everybody how she had never gone in the water after her father had decided the best way to teach her to swim was to throw her into a nearby river and let nature take its course. She almost drowned before he could fish her out. She tells this story about how she told Flo she didn't think she could float, and how Flo told her the Queen Mary was a lot bigger than she was, and if it could float, so could she. Now, she says, she swims every day at the city pool and simply loves the water. She whips out this big red piece of cloth. On the top, in big embroidered letters, is the phrase "You Can Flo-at". Across the bottom all the ladies in her seniors class have stitched their names. The crowd applauded. At last the Mayor gets up and makes some boring speech about how Flo is a real credit to the community and all that, and he gives her a big plaque and a lifetime pass to the city pool. Everybody is getting pretty pissed by now, and the applause and whistling is deafening.

Then Flo approaches the mike. The crowd goes quiet.

'Hell' is the first thing she says. She holds up the pool pass in her hand. A free pass? She turns to face the Mayor. Right now you pay me to go.

The crowd laughs.

So does the Mayor.

Old Flo's surprisingly witty. She covers the bases like a politician, meandering through the years, remembering all the behind-the-scenes guys in the swim club, like the carpenters who put the bleachers up every July and took them down every September. Or the fisherman who tows the tank to its winter berth. She rattles off their names like she was reading out of a book. She invites people up out of the audience to and tells the crowd about their swimming exploits when she was their coach. Some she gives small gifts. She thanks everybody for showing up and for learning how to swim and being great people, and she's just about to start crying and the next thing you know she's thanking them again. She was just about to turn away from the mike when she remembers something.

Oh yes, almost forgot, she says, and blows her Head Coach's whistle into the mike. The crowd has all heard it before. They all stiffen slightly. She sat down. Thunderous applause.

The Mayor gets up, thanks everybody for showing up, and announces that the bar is about to reopen and dancing will be starting immediately. He leaves the mike. Everybody starts standing up and stretching. And looking for the bar.

The next thing you know there's a tortured roar from the PA system. Everybody stops and looks.

There's a guy on stage. He's terribly pissed. He tells the audience to sit down.

Shee-yit, says the guy across from me. His wife looks shocked. It's Bob, she says. And he doesn't look well.

I'm riveted, Ted says. Nailed to my seat. He took a drink. Stan was rocking slightly.

So OK, it's a situation. Who knows, this guy may be funny. Maybe he's gonna tell some cleverly nostalgic stories about Flo's days as a Coach. Like maybe a gang of bikers terrorized the pier.

Meanwhile, Bob lurches around, surveying the crowd.

I see you out there, Bob singsongs to the crowd. I see you Audrey Mitchell. He points out the unfortunate and lurches slightly.

There's a scattering of applause. Nobody has it figured out yet.

Audrey Mitchell, he says again. Audrey Mitchell I know something about you.

The crowd is nervous. Bob doesn't notice. He launches into a mumbling, rambling story about some steamy summer night in the mid-50s when Bob came across Audrey and Charlie Campbell during a skinny dipping session at the end of the pier. Bob's major oratorical device is innuendo. His confusing metaphors, however, are more than compensated by continual leerings and thinly-disguised come-ons to Audrey, now seemingly all alone in the audience. Bob makes a final attempt to go into some detail about the event, but he's so hammered he's having trouble concentrating. During one longish pause he takes his jacket off. He doffs it in Audrey's general direction. Then he starts to take the rest of his clothes off. The crowd is stunned. By the time he's finished the story he's got nothing on except his pants, which means he's shed his jacket, shirt, tie, undershirt, shoes and socks. And he's so drunk it's hard to follow what he's saying. Finally somebody in the audience yells out for him to get off the stage, and pretty soon everybody's yelling for him to either take it all off or mostly, put it back on, and Audrey gets up and leaves with her husband, who doesn't look too happy, and the star of the night, poor old Flo, well, she's sitting at the end of the table trying to pretend this nightmare isn't happening. The rest of the Head table finds the retracted basketball hoops incredibly fascinating.

Barb turns to me and says Bob is a real ass, and some old guy sitting across the table pipes up about how Bob is still a real flyboy letch, after all these years.

By this time the crowd is starting to get ugly and even Bob can sense there's going to be trouble so he finally gives up the mike, grabs his clothes, and makes a quick exit off the stage. When he's safely gone the Mayor comes back to the mike and re-invites the crowd to stick around for drinks and dancing. There's a four-piece band that's warming up in the corner, and they start to play a foxtrot and everybody beats a hasty retreat to the bar. I go back to cash in my last two tickets, and everybody's still talking about Bob's performance. By the time I got back Barb is deep in conversation with the guy sitting across from us at the table. I wander back to check out the band. They are into their second number, and the dance floor is twitching with the elderly.

I went back to the table and sit down beside Barb. We start talking about splitting, and then, you know the way it can happen, I slowly become aware of everyone looking in the same direction. I stand up but all I can see is a crowd gathering in front of the band. At first I think the lead guitarist had dropped his drawers or something, but then I notice everyone's looking down. A man's voice calls out. Old doc Barber has returned after setting his wife's wrist, and he's pushing through people off to my right. The crowd parts to let him in, then closes in again. The Doc reappears a minute or so later and speaks with the Mayor. He goes to the mike.

I'm sorry, he says, but the Doc has just announced to me that old Mr Page has just suffered a fatal heart attack and the ambulance will be arriving shortly. The band packs up. The crowd buzzes in groups. Finally the ambulance arrives, and Barb and I and everybody else goes home.

Ted took a long drink and sat back in his chair.

That's it, Stan said. That's what happened?

In a nutshell.


© 1991 Rick McGrath






SHORT FICTION

Pre-Computer Fiction

Skeleton Key
A winter weekend at a fabulous Muskoka cottage takes a strange twist as an architect's journal leads to a puzzling astrophysical conclusion... Type: Mystery

Burnin Love
A bookstore owner, crazy photograher and Elvis' mistress on the day The King died... Type: Occult

Adman
A day at work with an advertising copywriter and his erratic colleagues... Type: Satire

Jackson Whole
A night in the life of a group of zany businessmen... Type: Humour

7th Sun
A hitchiker meets a windsurfer on Hwy 1 near Cape Kennedy. Does the strange stone have anything to do with the Challenger explosion? Type: Occult

Post-Computer Fiction

Possession
A hacker discovers an interesting collection of emails. Type: Psychotic