Number 13

French was by on the weekend. He said we really outta go out and see a Hockey Game. I was thinking NHL - Major Junior, no, French and I went to see a couple of Junior B teams smash it out. I was reluctant, but what the hell?
We downed a few pints and went down to the rink. Cumberland was playing Rockland. We sat down at the Rockland end; even though we were in Cumberland.
He kept a keen eye on the Rockland team. We went out at the intermission and snagged another pint. He told me to watch number 13 during the next period.
13 was good; he'd come up the ice pound a few heavy checks, then blast shots from the point.
At the next intermission we went out to the car for beers again; as per tradition. I said to French: "the kid plays exactly like you, he even skates like you". French replied: "That's because that is my kid".
My can of beer slipped out of my hand and exploded in a frothy bomb: "Dude, you have a kid"?
"Yep now let's go watch the last period".
Turns out an old flame of his turned up back in town: this super cute french girl that he dated about 17 years ago called him up and gave him the news.
We went back in to see the end of the game. This time we were both huge Rockland fans and we were cheering hard for number 13 - or Little French as I was calling him.

Coke

Our art teacher loved to take us on trips. We went every semester for a big day long bus ride.
One trip to Montreal was most memorable. We were going to see some museums and take pictures for our photography unit.
French, Sweaty and I headed down into old Montreal; and like all good high-school students we went straight to a the first fast food chain that our little town didn't have. The museums could wait. We slammed a few burgers down and headed into the john.
There was someone in there when we went in. We watched this slick looking dude in a fancy suit snorting cocaine right in the McDonald's bathroom. He had the coke lines on top of one of those cookie boxes you always got with the happy meal. He snorted the coke through a drinking straw, stuck it back in to his super sized coca-cola, took a huge swig, looked right at us and said: "okay, much better, back to work". Oddly, he shook each of our hands before he left the bathroom. He even gave French a quick brotherly hug.
That is pretty much all I remember from that field-trip.

Sketching

French, Sweaty and I took art class every year. We had some cool artsy teachers - they basically let us sit together and draw, or paint what we will. All three of us filled pads upon pads of sketches. Such a great class. I'd look forward to sitting at a table with the lads: chat, joke, and knock out a few pictures.
We could never convince Bruce Fish to take art; he always took shop. Odd, because the guy creates art all the time at the dump. After class, though, Bruce Fish would flip through our drawings and critique every aspect of our work; then he'd be off to welding or machine shop.
French had this great system where he'd convince the prettiest girl in the class to pose for him. He'd pick out his mark then he'd sweet talk her just right. French had really honed his "sweet talk skills"; we were in awe watching him work the girls. Once the teacher came in late, and French had this cute preppy girl (white leggings, skirt, and a Ralph Lauren t-shirt) sitting on a chair that he'd placed up on a big art table. The three of us were positioned around the table sketching and complimenting her every trait and fashion choice.
The teacher was shocked: "Guys get her down, health and safety boys, health and safety". French was ready, he replied: "Sir I'm working on my composition and use of angles and perspective".
The teacher ate it up. The cute preppy girl was thrilled to be the centre of attention and told the teacher how she was glad to help out. She was in her glory, and so were we. The teacher shut the classroom door, chuckled, and walked to his desk. We got back to sketching. French had a big grin on his face and said: "You can thank me later boys".
I'm pretty sure I have some of those sketch pads around, I'll have to dig them up one of these days.

Tape Hiss

I was cleaning out some "junk" on the weekend; and I came across an old "ghetto-blaster". When I got this thing at age 11 I thought it was the best. I'd load up 6 huge D Cells and rock the neighbourhood with some Van Halen and later some Guns and Roses. Now it was about to land in the church yard sale.
At one point I bought a mic for it and we'd record little comedy bits, or songs that we'd write and sing in sheds and basements.
I looked in the tape deck and could see that there was a casette still in it. I lost the adapter ages ago, but I loaded up some batteries, scrounged from flashlights, and pressed play. It was 60 full minutes of French, Sweaty and I playing and singing all kinds of songs. Every once in a while you can hear Bruce Fish just killing himself laughing. He said: "that's a good one" after every song.
We usually just sang funny songs: Falling Down in the Falls, Boot Circle Blues, and a crazy one called: Naked in an Alleyway. Most times we'd crack up halfway through the song.
The tape was full of hisses, crackles, and the heavy thuds and clicks of the record button being pressed down, but it was the best stuff I'd heard in a long while.

Little Brunette 2.0

I met up with that little brunette again at the Spring Dance. French and I had a few nips of Vodka and headed down to the dance. In our small town the dance was a good night out. When we got in French said: "Look I am gonna hook up with that little red headed runner". He pointed to this tiny 5'2 girl that was an amazing long distance runner, she had a mass of curly red hair that went all the way down her back. He continued: "Problem is my little brunette may show up. I'll keep my red head over by the stage; your job is to keep the little brunette over by the gym office". French took off through the crowd and started to dance to "Shook Me All Night Long" with his new girl. He picked her up and whirled her around; red hair flying.
Sure enough, the little brunette showed. She was so pretty and sweet; I thought this was a pretty good gig, at first. I held this nice little thing, perfect in a jean skirt and Aerosmith t-shirt, through some awkward dances. I spotted French a couple of times and turned "my date" away and worked her further away and deeper into the crowd.
I took her out to the drink stand and bought her a Coke. Telling her that French maybe out here. This went on for a while, once I saw French wink and raise a thumbs up over the back of his little runner. French then signalled that he was leaving and I saw him leave hand-in-hand with little red out a side door.
During the next slow dance the little brunette said: "French isn't here is he?" I said "No sweety he's gone".

Little Brunette

To set the scene: Monday morning - the next school day after the big Valentine's Dance. French had had a nice cosy weekend with his new girlfriend...the little Brunette. I met with French at his locker. He poured me my usual "early morning coffee" ( a dash of rye in my java). He always had a bottle in his locker. We'd meet before school and have a special coffee. The little Brunette was early for school as well. We were chatting a bit; I kept calling the little brunette the "little brunette" or "sleeping bag" or "tomcat". She was getting pissed at my ribs. I never did learn her real name.
This big fella was coming down the hallway punching lockers and pushing little grade nine kids outta the way. He was a head taller than French and broader too. Big fella said: "French that's my girl". French just laughed a big ol'crazy laugh and said: "not any more bub". Big fella chucked a massive sweeping haymaker, French ducked and came up hard - upper cut right to the chin - "bang". Big Fella's eyes rolled, he swayed and fell into me and rolled down the lockers to the floor.
I said "time to get a new girl...one punch".
The grade nines started in to chanting "one punch - one punch - one punch". French walked off down the hall to his welding class; all the while holding the hand of the prettiest little brunette in town.

French, Bret Hart, Bubbles and Their Cats

Bret Hart used to grab a cat a night to keep him warm when he tucked in for the cold Calgary nights. Bubbles of Trailer Park Boys fame had a whole shed of cats to keep him warm.

French did the same thing. One day I saw French with a little red wagon collecting the yellow pages off of people's driveways. He'd bring them back to his garden shed. We'd toss them into the wood stove to keep warm. But we'd always run out of wood, or scrap lumber, and the phone books and yellow pages were only "available" once a year.

When he ran out he'd always snag one of his cats. He slept in the shed more often than not. Who wants to share a room with Sweaty? Plus his dad got drunk, played guitar and sang country western songs most nights.

Late one cold February night after the Valentine's Day Dance at school I knocked on the shed door. I went in and I saw a stack of yellow pages; the fire was going. There was also a pile of sleeping bags on the floor.

I gave French a kick, and said: "you got a big ol'tom cat in there with you"?

This pretty little brunette popped her head up and said "hey" in a very pissed off tone.

French looked up, as well, and said: "she's no tom cat - now get the hell out".