Wordsmen
Walking into The Toucan feels completely familiar.
I’ve done it recently, and so many, many times before.
Instinctively, I glance to the notices for upcoming bands
as I push my way, thirstily, through the pub’s main door.

I stroll past the upstairs bar, and its upstairs patrons.
Down the few stairs, and then down the short sort-of-a hall.
As I walk by the other, more familiar, array of beer taps,
I see them, at a sort-of half-booth bench, snug against the wall.

I take the one chair that they have left for me.
Sitting down, next to Gord, and across from Neil.
It really just seems quite normal to me that I am here.
I did make the choice of pub after all, so it seems to be real.

The first drinks have already been brought to the table.
Two perfectly poured pints of Guinness, and one glass of red.
Oddly enough, I am the only one of us sitting at the table
who still has his hat on his head.

The smart-ass comments come immediately.
The expert chastising is sharp, but it’s brief. 
I choose, only then, to remove my Leafs cap,
after, what seems to be, the requisite amount of grief.

I notice that the pub is the usual amount of busy,
as I raise my glass to join them in a hearty cheers.
It all feels very natural, and comfortable, to me.
Just three good Canadian lads, toasting with wine and beers.

Even arranging this pub meeting seemed surprisingly easy.
Neil just rode down, after seeing some family in Toronto’s west end.
He was much taller than I anticipated, and far more laid back.
Seemed to be quite comfortable, like I was a long-awaited friend.

On a whim, I had sent ‘Allegiance’ to Neil, via Anthem, a few months back.
Despite knowing, by reputation, that sort of thing often made him squirm.
He had actually responded to me, quite quickly, via a California post card,
saying “I portrayed fandom accurately” and that “my grasp on it was firm.”

I had already met Gord, on a few different occasions before.
Had beers, many years ago, and handshakes a couple of times since.
We did have some friends in common, and had the same hometown.
Yet, he still seemed far too easy for me to convince.

He said he was going to be in town for a few days anyway.
Visiting some of his family, and two of those guys in his band.
He had to leave first thing in the morning for an event in Bobcaygeon,
so, I might need to readily broach, the subject at hand.

A couple of hard swallows, and then some of Guinness, and I was ready.
To broach away, and to explain exactly why I’d asked them here.
As I pulled out my sheets of paper, and slid my chair a little closer,
the waitress interceded, as someone just sent Gord another beer.

She pointed out to him whom the generous person, or fan, was.
I hoped the gesture could be acknowledged with a simple nod.
It turned out to be a buddy of his, from back in high school,
so he left my dream, for the moment, which seemed a little odd.

I did a quick self-reality check then, and took a much larger swig.
It was just me and the professor now. Just me, gulp, alone with ‘the man’.
I have never been more excited about making small talk before.
And there seemed to be no real hurry, to get back to the original plan.

I wanted to spare him the usual awe and awkward questions.
So I went straight to my interest for, and appreciation of his books.
Told him how I felt lost, vicariously, with him, while reading Ghost Rider.
To which he responded, with the most compassionate of looks.

He seemed a bit melancholy, and yet okay, with my choice of subjects.
Like he had been longing to talk about this again for a while.
It felt like that emotional journey was somehow fresh in his mind.
He became the narrator, to all I had read, recalling many a healing mile.

I listened intently to his expressive thoughts, and his eloquent phrasing.
Much like the books, and the substance of his lyrics, I was struck by every word.
I noticed that his face seemed to wear all that his sleeve could not bear.
I found myself emotionally invested, again, by all that I knew and now heard.

I went on to ask him about the inspiration behind the lyrics most lingering to me.
About ‘Losing It’, about ‘Bravado’, ‘Ceiling Unlimited’ and ‘The Pass’.
He had just barely touched on his note-taking, and his constant observations,
when Gord returned, with a third of the gifted pint still left in his glass.

With a light tap on my shoulder, and a nod, Gord retook his spot.
He apologized as he sat, with a familiar smirk, and the exhale of a sigh.
It was easy to notice that life was good, and that friends were great,
by both the relax in his manner, and the sparkle in his eye.

I took more of all this in, for a moment, making my own observations.
A beer had never tasted better.  And why was easy to understand.
Nerves, that should have been there, were simply non-existent
as I put down my glass, and returned to the task at hand.

Little hesitation, and I confidently look to each of the two of them.
Then I say, “well gentlemen, I have something to ask, and here’s the thing.
I wrote something new, that I’d really hoped you both would read.
And it’s something, I also had hoped, that Gord might want to sing.”

Amazingly, I had no reservations, or qualms, about this.
No feelings of overstepping. And no extremes of anxiety.
Yet, here I was, presenting my innermost thoughts,
to a strong voice of my generation…and to my inspirational deity.

Keep in mind, please, that I am entirely non-religious.
Have no inclination toward the spiritual, to heaven, or even hell.
I am of sound mind, usually, as far as I know.
I live hard, occasionally, but, generally, I am well.

And here I was, literally, living the dream, as many like to over-say.
About to share, literarily, my own writing, with two great men of words.
And now, apparently, we would also be sharing potato skins and antojitos,
as the waitress puts two platters down, and we divide them into thirds.

Neil and I (NEIL AND I!) order another drink while the server is there,
and Gord downs the last of his pint and decides to make it three.
Neil says “I’m looking forward to seeing your work Gary, as soon as I get back.”
He slides out of the sort-of half-booth bench, and then he departs for a pee.

He pauses after a few steps, turns and asks for directions to the loo.
I tell him it’s down the sort-of-a hall and a couple stairs, and to the right.
He continues, finding his way, after digesting my helpful words.
Leaving me now, with my other invited guest, on this funny fly-by night.

The faint echo of an April Wine guitar solo drifts to us from up front,
as Gord and I, simultaneously, reach for our forks and a bite to eat.
It’s certainly a different dynamic, now, than just a few moments earlier.
Just two good Kingston boys, with food and drink, and a now empty seat.

Again, however, the unique gravity of this situation comes to me,
as I remember songs, and words, that originated from this man’s mind.
I think of how many times I have closed my eyes and just listened to him.
And how many more times that I have grooved, and then chosen to rewind.

This time, alone with Gord, I speak up, suddenly a little more focused.
I remember another poem, words for him, that I’ve been meaning to send.
Something, based on a conversation we must have once apparently had.
An elegy, about Richard Maracle, the deceased son of a mutual indigenous friend.

His sparkle settles now, into serious emotion, as he intently looks my way.
The subject matter seeming to have added some weight to our earlier chat.
“Please e-mail it to me, when you get a chance,” he says, softly.
“It would likely want the proper time to absorb something like that.”

After a shared glance, knowing nods, and an exchange of subtle smiles,
we slide easily back to the night’s earlier atmosphere, and its dreamy seriousness lack.
I notice that the younger crowd is otherwise occupied, or more likely just unaware,
as, arguably, the world’s greatest drummer, gradually comes ambling back.

“Sorry I took so long fellas. I was otherwise pre-occupied, in the bathroom.
I was actually the only one in there, thankfully. There was neither line nor crowd.
So, I spent two or three extra minutes reading the clippings and comics above the urinal.
And, at least another five, laughing loudly, and hysterically, out loud.”

I am exceptionally pleased at this, to see his smile, like a friend in deed, indeed.
It really is the Toucan’s unique, seedy richness, that gives personality to the joint.
Neil’s unembarrassed excitement seems perfectly on purpose.
The ever-clever wordsmith, intentionally goofy, to emphasize his point.

Having both done exactly the same thing in that restroom, on numerous occasions,
Gord and I also laugh loudly, as the table wobbles and our glasses shake.
I think, “this is undoubtedly the most fun I have ever had in a dream,”
and I’m quite sure I will recall every detail, should I eventually awake.

Neil, settled in, takes the final small sip of his glass of Sandbanks Baco.
Gord and I have the last of two local craft beers that I could drink by the gallon.
Time, again, to get back to the night, and the idea, and the related conversation.
But not until after Neil politely intercedes, to order us a round of The Macallan.

I’m pretty sure that I now have both of their undivided, expert attentions.
To say this is the pinnacle, of even this dream’s heights, would hardly be a reach.
So, I stretch around, to the inside pocket of my back-of-the-seat jacket,
and with my most assured look, I confidently give a hand-written copy to each.

My breath stalls now, in a rush of excited, expectant anticipation.
It’s never happened before, but I feel a slight, but distinct, tremble in my lower lip.
I suddenly realize, that my hopes, and the possibility of a dream coming true,
rely, on these two great poets, finding MY written words, to be sufficiently tragic and hip.

Having planned, and waited, for the time and place for this to happen,
time now stands still, as two of my heroes assess my humble work.
They both seem to be equally invested in what my words have to say,
when Gord’s head suddenly rises, and then turns with a jerk.

Thinking that our next round of drinks has arrived to the table,
I look up to see a slender, older gentleman, leaning casually against the wall.
Gord stands, and as he speaks, he eagerly extends to shake the fellow’s hand.
“Boys, I’d like you to meet a good friend of mine, who’s visiting from Montreal.”

It turns out that Neil already knows the guy, and he clearly knows Neil.
He slides deftly into the sort-of half-booth bench, and now he’s sitting down.
Gord then introduces me to this familiar looking guy. “Gary, this is Leonard.
I had asked him to give me a call whenever he came to town.”

As dreams go, this one is turning out to be a pretty cool and fairly busy epic.
So much stimulation, in fact, that it is hard for me to actually stop, and to think.
It strikes me then, that it will all simply happen in good time. It will work out, eventually.
And, that it seems rather odd, when Leonard orders a wine cooler for his first drink.