When I accepted the job in Hay River it was not immediately apparent that the scope of my decision was going to be so massive. I knew full well that this was an undertaking, but the sheer size of the work required to realize this goal did not present itself until I was immersed in it.
There was the duty of leaving the current job I held in Saint John, the sorting and packing of my possessions into piles labeled “to take”, “to leave”, and “to trash”, and the many evenings spent saying goodbye to the many folks I would not see for some months. Packing was done intermittently throughout the two weeks between the acceptance and the departure, and while this went on there were also a few nights of music and send-off parties to be had.
December 4 & 5, 2009 were spent in St. Andrews, New Brunswick, entertaining patrons and friends at the Red Herring Pub, owned by Kevin Simmonds. Alongside my good friend Mike Humble, I belted my final tunes in the fair town in which I had once lived for over 3 years. As the duo “Butthummer”, we rarely (if ever) practiced, but were comfortable winging it relying on one another’s competence and familiarity to my repertoire.
Beginning the weekend in town with my first drink at about 5pm on the Friday, I felt an eagerness to get the events started. Mike showed up to the pub around 9pm, set up, grabbed a drink, and we were off. We tore through about 20 songs per night and as many drinks, and treated the lively crowd to our signature “dulo”, where, upon Mike’s grossly oversized kit, we both pounded out a decent enough drum solo. That evening, we retired to the house of our good friend Dan, who greeted us at 3am by graciously putting on pants and showing us to our rooms.
Saturday, upon waking up, we decided to self-medicate our hangovers and then secure some breakfast. As the coffee ran low and plates were licked, we were treated to an evening at the local Motor Inn by Kevin. I had previously worked at this property a few years prior, and was certain that I’ve never been happier there then when we picked our respectful beds and did something neither of us had done in some time: watch TV.
We spent the day in repose, only lifting our heads when we lifted our bottles, and soon were joined by another great friend, Tyler McGee. He alerted us that in the time since we had checked in, a winter storm began to touch down and a Christmas parade had gone by, unbeknownst to Mike and I. Not that I would have made any effort to watch, for the only thing I detest more than Christmas is a Christmas parade, but I was delighted that I’d spent an afternoon with one of my best friends, completely oblivious to the outside world. That, to me, is proof of the power of a good time.
The rest of the evening gets hazy from there, but I’m positive the Saturday show was better, tighter, and full of admiration from beautiful women. At least, that’s what I’ve told myself and many others in the time since.
As the sunlight trickled through the break in the curtains on Sunday morning, I feared the day ahead. Required of me, in order, was a quick trip the bar for my gear, a drive home to Saint John, then more music and drinking for the remainder of the day. My other musical venture, Virgo-A, was to play its final show before my departure.
Virgo-A was a band made up of three engineers and a former cab driver, playing tight progressive instrumentals tediously written in a helter-skelter method. We would play any riff at least once, and what stuck was used. What failed to make it to a song was never dismissed, but rather tucked away for future considerations. This formula worked well for us, and as a band I always thought we were really on to something. What was more was the fact that I also made three great friends out of the deal.
On the way back to Saint John, I swore to myself that I would wait until reaching the bar before procuring any more alcohol, mainly because the previous nights were still featured prominently in my eyes and on my face. My head still pounded with the hangover produced in St. Andrews, and I felt I may not do so well to begin drinking right away.
Arriving into the West side of Saint John, I swiftly exited at Catherwood Street and headed to the liquor store. After stopping home to deliver my dog, Carter, who had spent the weekend in St. Andrews with me, it was across the parking lot to the fabled 87 where we practiced. Immediately we were in form, tackling our beverages and eight song set with the vigor of a band who knows it will be a while until this happens again. That evening, we loaded in to Peppers Pub, ready to melt some faces.
Peppers had become my second living room over the preceding 6 months, and welcomed our last show with open arms. This was to be another going away party for myself, the third of four, and went off smashingly. Not a huge crowd, not even a lively crowd, but some good friends, good music, and one more memory for the road. For the first time in history, I walked out on a tab after telling our party on the deck that nobody was to leave until all tabs were paid. As the gang filed in one by one, I stayed outside with the remainders and was ushered away without having dropped a single dime on the bar. The debt, along with another incurred at the time, was paid the following Friday.
Monday was a restful, uneventful day. I awoke feeling much better than the amount of booze I imbibed would suggest, packed up some clothes and hitched up Carter for a 2 night stint in Fredericton. The drive would prove to be somewhat languorous as I stuck to the back roads and took in some of my favorite twists and turns one last time.
Arriving in New Brunswick’s capital, I quickly ducked to the back ends of the city limits to drop Carter at his favorite kennel, a lovely spot in Durham called “Fosters Home for Dogs”. Now, Carter never exactly dropped me an email or memo to express this sentiment, but when you visit a place perhaps once a year, and the dog still shits himself in excitement five kilometers away, you know he knows where he is headed, and that he couldn’t be happier.
Once Carter was introduced to two rather lovely Golden Retrievers, I got back in the car, cranked some RUSH, and headed for an afternoon with my mother. While I’m sure we both would have loved a more interactive visit, I sunk low into the couch and took to drifting in and out of a conscious state while nothing at all interesting flashed on the television. The rest of the evening would play off in such a manner, even while visiting a few friends, repeating this process of wink, blink, and nod in their homes.
Waking up Tuesday, many errands were to be completed before a family supper, which was followed by the last of the set parties devoted to my departure. At the Wilser’s Room in Fredericton, I was met for a low key evening by friends from many eras of my time in the province, and managed to actually be told by my brother around midnight that it may be best if I retired for the evening. While I didn’t think he was wrong, I thought he could have at least secured his interest by tendering one last rye for me. No such luck was to be had, and back to mom’s I went via cab, to sleep like several logs.
Wednesday, I was to leave for Saint John and finish the last bits of arranging and packing before I left the following Monday, December 14. However, before I could go, I had one more stop to make, so I stopped at Tim Hortons for two coffees, and landed at my ex’s place at about 1:30.
Now, as mentioned in my first post, I had made an absolute mess of our situation by virtue of my own stupidity and selfishness. And so, it goes without saying I was delighted to even be asked to her place for a visit. For all I knew, she might have had it in for me, sharpening knives since dawn, polishing guns borrowed from her father’s rack back home, or delighting in her last opportunity to give me one swift kick in the balls.
Well, it wasn’t so. Either she’d had a change of heart or just plain forgiven my indiscretions, but we enjoyed a wonderful afternoon, which gave way to an evening of talking and total reconciliation (no, not that kind of reconciliation). The day began with the reuniting of our dogs, Carter and Ralph, who we had picked out while still in the early stages of our relationship some three and a half years before. Following coffee I was further warmed by her invitation for supper, which even if laced with poison, I would have indulged. Her culinary skills are second to none, a sentiment echoed by any whose fork has ever been graced with her prowess.
As the next banks of snow began to settle in, it was apparent that I was to either head home before dark, or rest in Fredericton another evening. As it was beginning to look at tad threatening, I opted for the latter, and was truly glad on all fronts. The evening brought with it the offerings of two people who have truly let the bygones be, and the next morning I drove back to Saint John with the wheels of the car suspended about 40 feet off the highway. I was never so happy to have had a conversation straight through to daylight. In all truth, I’ll miss her more this time around, as a friend, because that was something we had never experienced with each other. No doubt, in my heart the place she filled will remain empty unless tended to by her again, but the way a friendship feels when you have never had it can not be adequately explained.
Back in my hometown, the next days were full of the usual moving mess. Securing flight times, booking a hotel, making sure Carter had all of his provisions for his portion of the move, and a few nights with the boys. One night here, one night there, but all nights saw me in my final moments in the city, saying goodbye to friends I had known since high school or earlier, as well as friends with whom I had forged brotherhoods throughout the year before.
Trying to leave myself some work for the restless night before departing, I purposely avoided some parts of the apartment. Clothes, dishes, and some random scraps of whatnot were still awaiting their fate on the night of December 13, 2009. At about 11pm, with the last boxes taped and labeled, I settled into my bed one last time and had the most dissected evening of slumber I’ve encountered since my most fierce depressions the previous winter.
The next day, I was to board my first ever flight, and begin my journey.
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