4.

Get in, get the hell out, and get home in time to take Allison to the birthing class.

In the northwest corner of the parking lot, an old man scuffled out the front door of the Tim Hortons coffee shop. It looked almost the same as I’d remembered it.

Behind it was the old Plenske plaza, which housed a dollar store, a Canadian Tire hardware store and a Blockbuster video store. The sun dipped low in the sky, filling the shop windows with a reddish-orange glow.

As I creaked open my rusty car door, I noticed a shiny black Ford pull into a parking spot nearby. Two solid-looking men in suits sat in front. I started, thinking back to the drive up the Jolly Cut. Just a coincidence, Love. They’re not following you. You’re not that important. Besides, the whole nation is addicted to Tim’s coffee. They just wanted their daily fix, OK?

I prepared myself mentally to deal with seeing Tony. I had visions of Tony with a big gut hanging over his belt, his face ravaged by time.

I struggled not to turn and run. I had to face up to my past. God knew I’d been running from it long enough.

I still couldn’t shake my paranoia. The pressure of the two bullshit columns I’d written, plus my wife’s pregnancy, were beginning to eat me up inside. What was Tony going to say about the columns?

Valentini will be a disappointment. You know you can’t go back. Do the Brent Carlton Price Chopper shtick and run off before he can say “french cruller”.

What the hell you writin’ that shit for, Love? It’s a bunch of lies and you know it,” a male voice muttered, right at my ear. I spun around nearly jumping out of my skin.

He hadn’t turned into a bloated old geezer after all; I found myself grinning, embarrassment flushing my cheeks, suddenly glad to be visiting an old friend. I couldn’t believe my eyes—Tony looked almost exactly the same, save for a few more wrinkles, and shorter hair. Greyer hair. We moved to a four-seater across from the main serving counter, next to a glass display case offering gift certificates, shiny coffee mugs, and tins of coffee. He was still wearing his grey Canadian Tire mechanic’s coveralls.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s not go there, okay?” I shook my head. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“No I’m good, man. Allison and I are going to a birthing class at six, so I can’t stay long.” I took a deep breath. “So, how’s Angela?”

In my mind’s eye, I saw Tony’s eighteen-year-old self, his long curly hair jiggling on his shoulders like menacing black snakes, his juvenile tough-guy expression screwed tightly onto his face, a DuMaurier cigarette dangling from his mouth, and a cold Export beer in his hand. That was the Tony I remembered.

In a blink of an eye, he was gone. Now, in front of me, sat forty-year-old Tony, wearing coveralls darkened and splotched with oil. I nervously pre-empted the inevitable topic.

Tone? He must think you’re an idiot. We’re not in high school anymore. Tony, not Tone.

“Four. After Frankie we had three girls. Oldest two are in university now. You?”

He nodded. “That’s a start, but you left it a bit late, eh? You’re going to have your hands full, old man.”

We talked about kids and wives, the usual stuff to break the ice that had grown quite thick and crusty over the years, when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the two businessmen from the black Ford sitting by the far window. One of them seemed to be surreptitiously looking at me.

Let’s cut the bullshit, Love. We go way back, remember? It’s good to see you and all, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve been reading your column and I think you’re digging yourself a pretty deep shit hole. I also think you’re a little frickin’ nuts.” He punctuated his last statement with a loud slurp of his coffee.

“Yeah, is that what you think?” A mysterious anger rose up inside me and tried to punch its way out. “You think that Steven didn’t deserve to be famous?”

You know exactly what I mean. You saw what Steven was capable of back in the day. You saw his potential.”

“Potential? What, so the guy did the ventriloquist dummy act at the variety night every year and he deserved to be famous? Yeah, right. Whoop-dee-do.” He smirked.

I felt a jolt of pleasure. “Hey, I’d forgotten about that! You’re right, he was excellent at that, too.”

Tony gave a half-shrug. “Okay, he was good at that. So, what high school in Hamilton or anywhere else, for that matter, didn’t have some kid who was going to be the next big thing?”

“Yeah, but you remember how good he was at the grad dance that night? He blew us away. Listen, Tony, I’ve played in bands and I’ve made studying the music scene my life and I can tell you, Steven had what it takes to make it in music or show biz or whatever the hell he wanted. The guy was pure fucking genius.”

I realized he wasn’t listening. I’d caught him with his eyes wandering, but he flicked his gaze back to me before I could see where he was looking. “Love, you remember that old Fifties game show, This is Your Life?”

I followed his gaze. Outside, on the way in were what appeared to me at first to be bizarre distortions of the two other friends we’d hung out with in high school.

“Probably not,” I muttered, shaking my head. This was all becoming way too much.

Tony leaned across the table and whispered: “Pappas is alright, but Reingruber’s gone a little weirder since you knew him. Two years ago, he was charged with arson. Said he didn’t do it—a good lawyer got him off. Reingruber always said that it was mistaken identity. But we don’t talk about that, okay? It’s an unspoken rule. Obviously, the guy’s a fucking nut...but other than that, he’s not half bad. Same old Norbie.”

I stared at Tony, stunned by his revelation. My jaw had dropped. Who are these people? Reingruber’s an arsonist? What in God’s name am I doing here? What’s Pappas? A serial killer? A shudder ran down my spine. Being here felt wrong. I shouldn’t have come. I should have gone straight home. I had to get out of here as fast as possible.

John Pappas strode towards us first. He extended his hand. His face was still as cherubic as ever, almost pre-pubescent. He looked as if he’d somehow reversed the aging process. “Hey, Donny. Read your Steven article. Outlandish pack of lies, of course, but I do like the feel of it. Welcome back to the Hammer, man.”

One thing that hadn’t changed about John was his smooth voice, like molasses dripping off a spoon, sweet and slow. A pair of narrow-fitting beige slacks hugged his legs, which were long and lean like a dancer’s, and under a waist-length black leather coat he wore a black turtle neck. A pair of polished black leather shoes, skinny at the toe, stuck out from his legs. He was an outlandish, bohemian presence in the Tim Hortons.

And there, plunking himself down right beside me, was Norbert Reingruber, or Eggie, as John had called him back in the day. Norbie was a thick-necked guy. He had a big puffy face with a greasy elfin beard, matted at the ends, and he was stroking it to a fine point with his pudgy fingers. I’d expected him to stink of BO, but he didn’t. In fact, he smelled quite nice—some kind of cologne. A black leather vest with a Harley Davidson logo on the back hugged his belly, and he wore a faded purple Led Zeppelin t-shirt. I could picture him as he was on the first day of Grade Three, wearing the lederhosen that his immigrant mama had innocently put him in. I blinked away the image. He had a glazed look in his eyes.

My thoughts naturally took a turn to the cynical. Good to be back in The Hammer. Back with the losers who never left. A loser back to hang with the losers he left behind. Living in the land of the losers has never felt better. If Tim Horton were alive, he’d be very proud to host this reunion at his donut shop.

Norb blushed. “I didn’t mean it that way. You know, I was just trying to compliment the guy. Geez.”

Tony shook his at both of them. “Don’t sweat it Norb, we knew what you meant.”

His tenor voice sounded thick and slurry, as if he’d taken too many hits to the head. “Not much, you know, working part time at Talbot’s Trading Card Shop.”

“Easily ten,” said Pappas. “Ten solid years.” One eyebrow had gone up. “Where’re you living, Norb?”

“Still living with my mom,” he said, “but in the basement. I turned it into an apartment. Got my own entrance now.”

“Cool,” I said. Oh, God. This was just pathetic. “I thought you used to work at Dofasco?”

Valentini kicked me and gave me a dirty look. I figured not working there anymore had something to do with his arson allegations. “Norb, can I buy you a coffee?”

As Tony went for the coffees, we three sat and stared at each other, smiling awkwardly, nodding, not quite knowing how to proceed next. You can’t go back, the voice nagged smugly.

“Wow, so guys, what the hell’s new?” My voice sounded an octave higher than usual to my ears.

“Really long,” Reingruber said, staring at me, a greasy smile lighting up his face.

“Now, the last time I saw you guys was at the McDonald’s, about two months after the Prom. Remember, we hooked up for lunch and then drank a twelve-pack in my parents’ basement?”

Pappas shrugged. He hadn’t gained more than a pound since high school. He was still a handsome man. It was incongruous, him sitting beside Reingruber. Like Legolas and Gimli, for God’s sake.

“Okay, so you guys don’t remember that. John, what are you doing these days?”

“Still running the restaurant. It’s one hell of an exciting career.” He was still as sarcastic as ever, apparently.

"Really, after all these years? Wow, I’m blown away. I haven’t held a job longer than a year.” Even as I said it, I wished that I hadn’t.

“I dunno,” I said, evasively. This conversation was seriously uncomfortable.

“Well,” said Pappas, “don’t feel so bad. At least you’re not a loser living in his mom’s basement.” He snorted appreciatively at his own joke.

“It’s an apartment, dickhead,” Reingruber said, calmly. “And I pay rent.”

Pappas was grinning. This kind of good-natured baiting had always been part of their pattern.

“You’re such a fucking loser,” Papas said. “You’re almost forty and you’re living with your mom and you collect comic books.”

Reingruber knit his eyebrows together. “Yeah, well at least I’m not divorced, pinhead.”

“Keep it cool, boys,” Valentini said in a grim tone, returning with a tray of coffees and a box of donuts. “Let’s try and give Love here the impression that we did alright with our lives okay?” He set down the four coffees.

“So, you three have been hanging out since high school?” I said. “I mean, I think that’s pretty amazing.”

“No, it’s not, it’s fucking pathetic, straight up,” said Valentini. “I should have moved out of this shit hole town years ago. All I’m left with now is a sore back and these two knuckleheads.” He rolled his eyes and drank some coffee.

“Your article, Donny,” Pappas said, drily, “not bad, bud. Very entertaining. But how do you plan to crawl out of that shit heap?”

To people who didn’t know Reingruber, he didn’t seem the brightest bulb on the porch, but we knew differently. He’d tagged along with us back in the day, and we’d all felt a little dumped by the popular clique in high school, so we stuck together, just as we had since Kindergarten. The thing that made him likeable was his kindness and loyalty. He also was an excellent road hockey goalie, had an awesome comic book collection, and could draw really well; that part of his brain actually had a brain, if you know what I mean. Truthfully, though, Norbie did have some smarts; it’s just that he always made himself look stupid. That was my theory, anyway.

We’re all retarded adolescents, I thought, thinking back to Reingruber’s joke. I couldn’t hold a job, Pappas acted like he was still chucking spitballs at Reingruber in Grade Ten History class, Reingruber was living with his mom in her basement, conjuring up arsonist fantasies, and Tony Valentini ... well, what about Tony? Where did he fit in on this scale of mental retardation?

Tony, the Grand Inquisitor, stared at me pointedly. “You’re a meatball, Donny. It’s you who wants to be famous; you don’t care about making Steven famous. Isn’t that right?”

The others looked at me questioningly. A rim of icing sugar lined the top of Reingruber’s upper lip.

“C’mon Tony, be honest with yourself. You wouldn’t mind being famous for a while. You know you’d love the attention, the flashing lights, the dough. Who here wouldn’t mind the dough? Pay off your house, maybe. Quit your day job. And after a while, the fame fades away and you’re set for life and the media leaves you alone.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Tony said, chomping on a sour cream glazed donut.

“I’d love to be famous,” murmured Reingruber, his big face all dreamy. “Think of all the chicks you could score. They’d be all over you.” I had a sudden mental image of Reingruber out on a date with a lovely girl who shared his interest in sunset strolls on the beach, romantic dinners by candlelight, and snuggling up by a big cozy fire, perhaps one Norb had set in an old warehouse, or a dumpster.

Pappas was grinning. “I should’ve gone to La-La Land. A guy like me could go far in Hollywood. I’m a triple threat, man—I can sing, act, dance. Gene Kelly for the twenty-first century!”

Pappas gazed at him with condescending pity. “You know nothing, Eggie. Women love men who dance. It turns them on. Haven’t you ever watched salsa dancing or the tango? Man, it’s practically sex on the dance floor.”

Reingruber‘s brain was working hard to re-evaluate this new information. I had another unbidden mental image, this time of Norbie in tight black pants and a white buccaneer’s shirt, unbuttoned to the navel, while he salsa danced with some hot Latina. It was alarming.

Pappas turned his attention to Tony. “Well, what about you, Tony? Any burning desire to be famous?”

“A grease-monkey wop from Hamilton? Famous?” Tony snorted, then paused, uncomfortable. “You probably don’t know this about me, but I always wanted to win the Mini Stock Nationals. I’d already won three track titles by the time I was twenty, so the odds were good. But then there was marriage and kids and a mortgage so I quit.” He softened: “It was never about fame for me. I just loved the thrill of the track. I wanted my life to be something more than just fixing cars for a living.” He sighed deeply. “Man, I loved to race.” He slowly shook his head, thinking of what could have been. Tony’s regret flabbergasted me, I hadn’t see it coming, not really, but I understood it—I was the king of regret.

Norb and John had raised their eyebrows at me. They obviously wanted me to change the subject so I did, sort of.

“Well, what about Steven?” I said, balling up my resolve. “Don’t you think he deserves to be famous?”

“Well, of course he’s dead,” I said. “What else? I mean, no phone calls, no letters, no nothing. A guy doesn’t just decide to abandon everybody.” Except for me, apparently. “I mean, he has to be dead.” My voice had a hint of a tremor in it. “John, who told you he was dead?”

“Reingruber. Right, Norb, you said you heard it from Dale Richardson over at The Blue Ball? You said that Dale said that Steven had been killed in a hunting accident up in Smith’s Falls.”

The journalist in me was getting a bit annoyed with this broken-telephone shtick. “So, did you see his name in the obituary section in the Gazette?”

I found myself staring at the suited men by the far window. They were stone-faced, staring past us. There was something intelligent and predatory in their demeanour. In front of them sat empty coffee cups. It pissed me off, seeing them there. They’re some kind of agents, I suddenly thought with alarm.

“What’s wrong?” said Reingruber. His bushy eyebrows made me think of a quizzical dog.

I looked back at Tony and motioned with my head towards the men. I leaned across the table. “I’m being followed by cops or something. I think my column has sparked some kind of investigation.” Even as I said it, I knew that it was a ridiculous idea. I was a nobody. No one would take my column seriously. It was laughable, really.

Tony looked over at them, smirking, then back at me. His expression had changed. He spoke quietly. “Shit. It sounds crazy, but I could swear that I just saw one of them muttering into his sleeve. What the hell kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into, man?” He glanced back at them surreptitiously.

Panicking, I knocked my coffee and it sloshed over the sides onto the table and started dripping onto the floor. “Shit!”

I grabbed some napkins out of the metal dispenser and started wiping up the mess. I noticed the time on my watch, and alarm bells sounded in my ears. “Shit, now I’m late for the birthing class! Allison will freak. I’ve gotta run. Catch you guys later!” I jumped up and raced for the door. “Thanks for the coffee! Nice to see you guys again!”

The Agents uncoiled and headed out the other door, managing to slide along calmly at an alarming pace.

But those bastards wouldn’t get a hold of me. I had a Birthing Class to attend. And an old friend to make famous. Nothing would stop me.