Back in the 1960’s ‘logging’ was big in British Columbia and the men going into Vancouver, for
any time off they had. They would spend hard earned wages on all kinds of vices, based in a
seedy hotel, probably in the old Gas Town district. Employers knew, the men would be
compelled to return to camp, after time in town, without close family or worthwhile
alternatives. They became well known and regarded as heroic, colourful, manly and maybe
disdainful – by all accounts, a tough way to make a living. I had an ole friend, who was ‘logger’
up the BC coast and fully engaged with this life, for over two decades…
It was Wednesday evening, not even the weekend; but all the rooms suddenly filled for a
few weeks, end of season. To allow a visit into town, at familiar low cost rooms near the
center of town. Peter was a little irked to know that his presence was already known to the
local establishment, everything except his actual room number. They were not celebrities or
any kind of luminaries; no, rather the opposite —
“Hey, d’you wanna party”?
“No, that’s next door, try them”.
“Alright, thanks”!
He was lying out flat on his newly made bed; after a hot bath, good shave, then a shower.
He was in clean clothes and new pants; just did not want to take them off so soon. He enjoying
thick new socks resting upon the top blanket, while his boots were parked by the window…
“Hi there, want some company, tonight”?
“No, maybe tomorrow, I’m too tired”.
“Okay then, goodnight”!
Peter was not sleeping, just lying out flat and turning his head to see the sky becoming dark
through his window. He had dreamt of this for weeks now, up on the mountain side with his
logging crew and didn’t want to spoil it; not tonight, so soon after getting into town.
“Hi Pete, are you in there”?
“No, he’s gone out for a while, to stretch his legs”.
“Sounds like you”.
“Yeah, we’re best buddies; talk together a lot, that’s all”.
Peter became stubborn and resistant to girls, booze and so on – for a while. He disliked
being taken for granted, taken for a ride and such like. Because he was thinking of breakfast at
the café below, by the lobby of the hotel. Maybe they’d do a late serving, if that was on his
mind. Then he’d go for breakfast again in the morning – like it was an appetite gone wrong.
Meanwhile he continued to stretch out on his bedding, with a white starched pillow caressing
his cheeks, before going down to the café.
“Hey Molly here, remember me”? The girls they just kept coming.
“Got some good grass we can share”!
This was a hotel for loggers, right in town, for their time off work. It had a beer-parlour
downstairs and a café. He’d been here many times, where all his work mates came for a few
weeks, over Christmas and the like. No one else came near, when the loggers took it over and
the same girls showed for the holiday periods. Eventually, everyone’s name became known,
their first names.
Peter was thinking back tonight, when he was a boy, with his parents downstairs and a small
garden out back. He got fed-up being a man and wanted to be a boy again, back home –
without a job, rough company, or the slavery of wages. If this was what growing-up was like, he
had enough – it was not much fun, nothing to look forward to and nobody cared. But he was
still thinking of bacon an’ eggs; so when the urge became stronger, he got his boots on and
headed downstairs.
“You still doing breakfast” he asked?
“Not really, but take a seat and see what I can do”.
“Any chance of extra toast”?
“Sit over there, please, we close up soon”.
He sat in a corner, with utensils wrapped in a paper napkin and a glass ready for water. He
asked for ham an’ eggs with sausages, hash-brown potatoes, whole wheat toast an’ coffee. The
man came over and filled his glass with water and promised some kind of breakfast, late in the
evening. Because the loggers were regular customers and big spenders, mostly.
A few minutes later a white porcelain plate arrived, steaming with warm food —
“Sorry, no more sausages, but found some mushrooms for you – okay, alright”!
“Yeah, sure… appreciate the effort made. Thankyou”.
And Peter turned the plate this way an’ that, to see properly what he got; to admire a short
order cook they held, out of sight in the kitchen. A close friend he never saw. Everything was
just like his mother made; when they had a small house up country, with a yard out back for his
bike. His father was absent a lot and the family dog fussed over everything. Though he never
liked school and kept this to himself. Winter was tough, but in summer he roamed far an’ wide,
away from known entities and common interests.
The plate was empty by the end, nothing left, wiped clean; but his cup was refilled a few
times, till he was very awake, not ready to sleep anymore. But he went back upstairs anyway,
hoping to avoid the girls or anyone else he might know; because he felt better now with a full
belly and good taste in his mouth. He remembered a book of poems left by his bedside, to
peruse slowly before sleeping. His mother had been a reader.
A lot of the poems were on romance and love, which he was beginning to prefer, over the
real thing. The real thing was a bit absurd really, from all the tales he heard and from his own
misadventures. In the poems there was humour and a bit of philosophy, nicely placed on top of
the absurdity. So far he liked poems on Oscar Wilde best, not really love poems but pursuing
death and tragedy; like in ‘The Ballad of Reading Goal’ and ‘The Arrest of Oscar Wilde at the
Cadogan Hotel’. They were very real, compelling; about men, also down on their luck with
diminishing prospects.
It was very dark outside now, but his mates would not be sleeping yet and the man in the
next room, really did have a party going. With sounds of men drinking and women frolicking,
responding loudly to everything. But Peter was used to this from the camp and slept right
through it, after finally turning off the bedside light. No, he did not dream, not tonight; too
tired and too full of eats, poems, memories, wishes an’ wants. He simply switched off and
closed down, till the daylight started to appear again at his window next morning.
Then he turned a few times under his blanket, to postpone waking and facing another day.
Eventually he opened his eyes and took a good look round the room, for the first time. He saw
that he had a roof over his head and food not far away – all to the good. At camp this was a
premium – a wooden roof above, so’s you could hear the rain above and enough food nearby
to last a month or more. This was article one in the employment contract and many men came
to work in the woods, after being homeless for a while. There were pictures on two walls, a
medium chest of drawers and bedside table. The pictures were landscapes of lakeside scenes
amid forests and mountain peaks; a bit like his work place and there was a rug in center of the
floor. It was comfortable enough, but not really his own room; lots of men slept here over the
years, though it did not bear thinking about.
He went out by late morning, to savour the city air and see folks hurrying to their work
places. He forgot how they would be clean jobs, lending to clean apparel and fashionable wear.
Some of the ladies looked attractive, young and slim; while the men liked their shiny shoes and
neat haircuts. They did not look at him, like he was invisible; yet moved out of his way on the
sidewalks, like he might be a pariah of some sort. At end of the street, at the corner, was a
welcome relief – a newspaper outlet, also selling oddments like mints and candy bars, briar
pipes and tobacco. He went in and saw a few paperback books stashed alongside the toiletries.
So he got some tooth-paste and two books: Mickey Spillane and Jules Verne, because his
mother had been a reader and went to college for one year.
Satisfied with his venture, he walked back to the hotel with a new found purpose and
landed in the lobby with a cup of coffee in a paper-cup. He found a nice sofa chair to one side
of the reception, so he could watch folk coming an’ going; while he sipped at his cup and delved
into a new story of Mike Hammer, down in California. The dialogue was terse and real, from
the kinds of people he might meet or work with. The situations were familiar like tedious
streets with shabby accommodation, short-order cafes and glum faces with something to hide.
This continued for more than an hour, listening-in to the man at reception with his
customers. But the book held out with strong characters, fighting for attention and space with
Peter. The dialogue was often confounding, better than anything he heard in his own life; with
the main character saying things he always wanted to say, but never quick enough or bold
enough. Real life in front of him, in the hotel, palled in comparison. By chapter three he closed
the book, to save for another time; pressed the pages back together and smoothed the covers
flat again; because it was a paper-back needing care and attention.
Peter looked round the lobby a bit more, satisfied he saw enough and set to climb the stairs
to his corridor, his room. The staff member called out to him, but got no answer. Now he was
intent on a shave and washing a few small items in the sink. At evening he avoided the beer
parlour downstairs and went looking for the TV room.
“Excuse – d’you know where the TV room is”?
“I’m here to drink, tonight; so what’s wrong with you”!
“It’s only Thursday, too soon for me”.
Soon enough Peter bumped into a staff member, who directed him to a room in the
basement, with a medium size consul to view. The front rows were basic folding chairs and at
the back were two three-seater couches, for the lucky ones. He snuggled into one corner at the
back and started nibbling on a candy bar. He was hopping to see a western movie, in full
colour, with lots of horses and open terrain. Two men at front were turning the consul knobs
and asking for preferences —
“Looks like we all want a western, okay”?
“So long as it’s in colour and our hero gets the dame by the end”.
“Of course, but we all seen that before”.
Peter did not enter the debate, not knowing the men well enough. He just wanted to be
entertained for a while, in a passive way, to allow him a bit of laziness. He pulled out another
candy bar and slouched on his couch, seeing enough in front of him for a satisfying interlude.
The room had only a small light in two corners, enough to prevent you falling over the chairs
or something and men in the front rows passed round their cigarettes. It was quiet enough to
hear the sound-track round the room, while one-or-two of the men made a few wise cracks for
everyone to hear. It was Gary Cooper, riding tall in the saddle, rejecting a lovely blond gal for a
long time; till he vanquished the bad guys sneering at him for an hour or more and leering at
the gal a bit too. The supporting players were meant to be a little short and a mite ugly, in
favourable contrast to the hero, the way Hollywood liked to work. This hero was made ap-
pealing to both men and women, in the audiences. By the time Peter realized he saw it before
on the big screen, he was ready to go upstairs and find his own quarters again. His candy bars
ran out and he became a little stiff in the soft seating.
“Hey Pete, didn’t you come into town last month? How come you back so soon”?
“Yeah, I did. This a little extra leave, for personal reasons”.
“You going upstairs to smoke a joint, yeah”?
And with that he made a prompt exit to the door and hurried up to his room, now a
welcome idea, when they should know something about privacy.
Peter was not so tall and not so stocky, for a logger. Baldness was now hiding under his cap,
but he rarely smoked. So still strong enough on the job, agile and willing. He didn’t have a big
wardrobe anymore, working clothes mostly – clean and ready to use, or grubby and dusty from
work. Back into town, he still in working gear, the clean set; or maybe with a few renewed
items. He was using glasses to read now and had regular haircuts, like the rest of his gener-
ation. His talk was mostly loud and clear, required at work and he did not converse with his
work mates much; knowing it often led to fights and such like, when hidden thoughts came out
into the open and clashed. Which might mean you lost your job, or made a life-long enemy.
His pals were not ones for talking politics or books, the weather or mortgages. They liked to
hear of sports and women, gambling exploits, or dangerous exploits like accidents and such like.
Their stories also had to be funny, somehow, or profound; with a lot of belly laughs, nothing
very subtle or clever. Their bosses and newcomers were constantly evaluated, when poor
management or carelessness might be risky to men on the job — working with heavy
machinery, power saws, pulley cables, snagging lines and bill-knives, heavy timbers and soft
ground underfoot. This was never going to be office employment, with a coffee pot, chairs an’
tables, bits of paper and polite conversation.
His next big outing was to a local cinema, like the ole days. He would go with a few pals and
bags of buttered popcorn, sitting together to one side of the center, towards the front. The
seats creaked a bit when you squirmed in your place, after an hour or so. Otherwise it would
be a good afternoon, or evening. But today, he was on his own and knew nothing about what
he was about to see, except from the splashy headlines out front. He got some popcorn again,
in a paper box this time and sat with the non-smokers. It took a while to figure the story, the
characters. In fact he could not even decide what the genre was: western, crime, film noir,
romance or war story. There was a lot of noise, because he too close to the screen and a few
youngsters excited and restless, switching seats and hanging their legs over the folding arms,
while eating their popcorn in a showy way. He was not enjoying things. By the time he figured
the story, the period and genre, he wanted to leave. It was no good on his own, not this week-
end; far better off with his poetry volume back in his room; with the window open and a cup of
tea nearby. He forgot how the cinema had no windows and smelled stale all the time.
Saturday night was always a big occasion at their beer parlour and girls brought in to serve
the tables, with short frilly skirts, lipstick and new hairdo’s. But he still not tempted, not on this
visit. Beer smells wafted out the double doors, smoke and garish lights spilled out when men
went in an’ out; in a general confusion of excitement and restraint, new faces and old lags,
noise and music, friends and adversaries, nibbles an’ drink. He went past the entrance a few
times that night; but had lost it’s magic for him, it seems — now more like a vortex towards a
‘black hole’ in space. But no one bothered to notice his abstinence. The coffee shop held more
appeal this weekend and he asked for a steak sandwich once, never tried before; he tasted all
their soups on offer and various kinds of bread, like whole-wheat, sourdough, brown and rye.
He was having quite an adventure in the culinary arts, with no regrets or misgivings. He was
known to the staff, like sitting with family in the best seating. Then there were recom-
mendations and suggestions, extras and exchanges – like a home from home.
But he still spent regular hours at reception, in the arm chair with a book; or looking to
begin a conversation with someone, anyone. The staff would often start things, by saying a few
words; then hand it over to another resident, customers, visitors, or an unknown. His book
would soon be forgotten about; to make way for a few interesting exchanges, sometimes a bit
of new humour, or just plain good ole courtesies.
A few times he went out, with no particular plan, to search the nearby streets for some-
thing, a park maybe, long lost friend, a small child, new developments, faces in the crowd, a lost
stranger, the unexpected and the beguiling. But he easily got lost, away from the front en-
trance to his building and guessed he not an attractive persona on a busy sidewalk. The small
park, he found, was good. It was a memorial to fallen soldiers, with long bench seating round
the perimeter; where Peter could bring out his mints and not worry about people noticing, or
not noticing him. He fit in such places, for a while. Till he spotted a policeman touring the site
and quizzing some of the patrons. It’s time to move on, he was thinking, naturally shy and
cautious.
One evening, at the café, he sat with another work-mate deliberating what to eat. His pal
was always convivial in their camp, an abstainer and old-timer. After deciding on the food, they
went quiet, until it arrived for them. Both ordered the same dish, a fancy omelet with blue-
berry pie an’ ice-cream – standard fair for a good appetite. Their conversation began again, as
if to slow the eating, aid the digestion, allow the taste buds start working. But his pal was also
curious and finally a bit direct with Peter —
“You here just last month, someone said, yeah”?
“Yeah, that’s right”.
“So what you here for now”?
“A funeral”.
“Well, who died”?
“My mother”.