Doombus Omnibus

Back in New York, and it's hot and muggy.

In Vancouver, where it sometimes rained and at other times didn't but was never muggy, we found ourselves staying a night longer than originally planned. The reason was simple: it was crucial that we eat pelmeni at the Russian-French fusion restaurant, and we would not finish said pelmeni until after the last ferry to Nanaimo sailed.

This was not a problem because Vancouver is a fantastic city filled with excellent, warm people, some of whom are named Gary.

This is not the greatest song in the world. It is just a tribute. To Gary and the Garyesque (but not necessarily garish).

The pelmeni were accompanied by a fine bottle of Australian Shiraz (thanks, Australians! Thanks, grapes!), which caused that incurable-by-anything-but-time condition that is called everywhere "drunkenness." This made driving anywhere after the restaurant an utter impossibility. No worries, though -- we had no sleeping accomodations in place and were therefore entirely unrestrained. Surely, there would be affordable lodging somewhere nearby. And in any case, walking drunkenly, late at night, in a new city is an endeavor that is nothing if not joyous.

So we walk. And after walking a little while, we decide that it is, in fact, written nowhere that there should be "affordable lodging somewhere nearby" to any damn place we pleased to find ourselves. But certainly, there will be a friendly local walking the streets who will direct us.

Enter Gary. He is a man in his fifties, with long, unkempt hair and round spectacles which are not large enough to hide his eyes, which bulge with either excitement or bewilderment. He wears a white tanktop with a few strategically placed holes and old khaki shorts which come down to his mid-thigh. He is slightly bow-legged and talks with a raspiness that belies decades of heavy drinking and smoking.

Me: Hey, excuse me. Can I ask you a question?
Gary: (startled) Yeah.
Me: We're travelling, and don't have a place to stay the night. Do you know of a hostel or a motel around here?
Gary: No shit?
Me: Yeah.
Gary: I'll tell you this. Don't go to the East Side. East Side's bullshit.
Me: Well, we're walking anyway...
Gary: (starts walking) Here, walk with me. I'd love to put you guys up at my place ...
(Dina and I protest energetically)
... but, fuck! I can't do that! (eyes bulge a little more, for emphasis)
Me: (nods understandingly) Yeah -
Gary: Fuck, there's nothing around here. Where you from?
Dina: I'm from Calgary. (phone rings, she answers, not without a sense of relief)
Me: New York.
Gary: Fuck!
Me: Well, thanks for stopping -
Gary: OK, I'll tell you what. You can come up to my place -- but just for a minute. (significant pause) Just for a minute! And you can use my Yellow Pages, because let me tell you something -- you don't want to go to the East side. The East Side is bullshit.
Me: (glance at Dina. She is animatedly on the phone.) OK, cool. Thanks, thanks man!
Gary: I'm Gary.

So we wound up going into this guy's apartment, a tiny studio which he shares with his brother, who was present but not at all surprised at our appearance. The place reeked of cigarettes and booze, and Gary opened a can of beer, offering both of us "a shot of this." We declined. The brother and I searched the yellow pages for a nearby motel, while Gary and Dina discussed his love of keyboarding. He produced, as proof, a yellowing keyboard manual from under the mattress. There was no actual keyboard that we could see. We found a place not too far off (and not on the East Side) and told them we'd be walking. Gary's brother offered us busfare, thinking it might be too long of a walk, but we declined. Thanking them for their hospitality, we set to take off. Gary insisted on walking us out and showing us how to go down the street. En route, we found out that he was from Toronto (and that Toronto is bullshit). As we finally left him, I heard a now-familiar raspy voice behind us shouting, "Hey New York! How's Brooklyn?"

Brooklyn's good, man. Brooklyn's good.