Chapter 9

The morning after I found out that Moe's health had taken a turn for the worse, I was in a daze. I moped around my hotel room for a while. But I knew that I had a meeting with Shauna that afternoon, so I had to get my shit together. I got myself into the shower, shaved and got dressed. I even managed to choke down some breakfast.

I went over to the Canadian Broadcasting Centre and hung around the newsroom for a while, bullshitting with some of the editors. Finally, I figured it was time to call Shauna.

"New media. Shauna speaking."

"Shauna, it's Pat. I know that we're supposed to meet at 1:30, but I have an alternate plan. How about having lunch as well? That way, we can get the hell out of this building for a while."

"Sounds OK to me. What time?"

"Well, it's about 11:30 now. What about 12:00 at Barootes'?"

"Where's that?"

"It's on King Street, right across from Metro Hall."

"OK. I'll meet you there."

I called Barootes to make a reservation for two for lunch. Bill Baroote and his cousin Nancy owned both the restaurant and Quotes, the pub associated with it. I'd been their customer for years. Bill answered.

"Hi, Pat. Coming to see us for lunch?"

"Yeah, Bill, and I'd like..."

Bill finished my sentence, "... the corner booth in the back."

"How'd you know?"

"I must be psychic. You silly bastard, you've been asking for that same booth for ten years. I should put a plaque on the damned thing. What time and how many?"

"Two at noon."

"You got it."

I arrived at the restaurant a little early and ordered a gin and tonic. The one that Barootes calls "King Street Size." It's a double and a half. An XXL G & T. I sipped at it until I saw Shauna come in.

When I saw her, I couldn't believe it. She was stunning.

I'd been thinking of Shauna as a geek with possibilities. Well, the ugly duckling had just turned into a swan. It was one of those subtle transformations. Other women would know exactly what she'd done. Guys could only guess. Was it her hair, her makeup, her outfit, or a combination of all of those? All I knew was that she looked fucking gorgeous.

Shauna saw me. She smiled. Beamed, more like. She came over and gave me a peck on the cheek. By this time, I had recovered from my initial shock at seeing her.

"Shauna, you look great!"

"Do you like it? I had my hair done this morning. I figured that I'd better look civilized if I was going to be working with you TV people. Is it OK?"

"It's much more than OK."

We sat down and ordered lunch and a bottle of chardonnay. Shauna had about a glass and a half. I drank the rest. Between that and the monster G & T, I was feeling pretty good. However, like most good newsmen, I was used to sailing several sheets into the wind. So I was able to hold up my end of the conversation.

I was amused that, aside from the obvious questions of office and computer facilities (which, by the way, I couldn't answer), Shauna was most interested in how much stuff she should take with her and what kind of stuff it should be. Should she bring dressy clothes, casual clothes, all the above? How did people dress in Ottawa? Would she have to meet members of Parliament, cabinet ministers or people like that?

I answered her questions with a straight face. Yes, she should bring a mix of clothes. Yes, she might meet some politicians, but it was no big deal. People in Ottawa didn't dress much more formally than people anywhere else. Unless, that was, they were going to one of those multi-thousand-dollar-a-plate fund raisers where they serve rubber chicken and promises.

After that was out of the way, we talked about, what else, politics. After all that was what my show was about. Shauna was going to produce the website for the show, and obviously the topics on the website would be political.

I was rather surprised to find that Shauna was quite knowledgeable and had very informed opinions. She was a very bright girl and obviously cared about the issues of the day. Most kids her age could care less who's running the country. At times, Shauna sounded almost like a political insider.

I enjoyed being with her. She was really a fun kid. It probably helped that I was half pissed. Maybe more than half. I usually didn't drink this much at lunch. But who cared? I was enjoying myself, and I'd had a really shitty morning. This was a hell of a lot better.

I had to get rid of some of my fluid intake, so I excused myself. After shaking the dew off the daisy, I looked at myself in the mirror while I was washing my hands.

Suddenly, the depression of the morning returned. Moe was dying. I loved him more than anyone -- perhaps more than my mother. He was the father I'd never had. Now it turned out that I didn't even have the respect of my surrogate father. If that wasn't enough, Tori was gone. I knew in my heart that she wouldn't be coming back, except to pick up her stuff. In spite of all her faults, I missed her. I knew that I'd miss her even more as time went on. In the words of the old Joni Mitchell song, "Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you've got till it's gone..." I was alone and a very sad old bastard. But getting drunk at lunch was no solution.

Well, I had to go back to the table. Shauna would think that I'd fallen into the crapper. I splashed some water on my face and managed to get myself together. I looked at myself carefully in the mirror. TV training, you know. I thought that I looked OK. Much better than I felt.

I found Shauna looking at her watch. "Pat, I didn't realize it was getting so late. This has been great, but I've got to get back to the office. There's so much to do before I'm ready to go."

"I understand. Go ahead. I'll settle up here and then go back."

"Thanks. You're the best." After a peck on the cheek, she was gone.

I didn't go back to the CBC. There was really nothing to do there. The show was pre-empted until next week. If I went back, I'd just hang out in the office and get even more depressed. I decided to wander two blocks north to my favourite watering hole, the Eternity. When I entered the bar, I was relieved not to see any newsmen there. I didn't want to talk business, since I was sure that the topic of Moe Casselman would come up. I also didn't really want to get shitfaced. I just wanted a place to hang out -- a refuge. I took a stool at the bar, and when Sarah the wan Goth bartender came over, I ordered a beer.

When Sarah brought my beer, I asked for the bar phone. I called Princess Margaret Hospital and asked for Moe's room. A woman's voice answered.

"Is Mr. Casselman available?"

"No sir, I'm afraid not. He had a procedure this morning, and he'll be sleeping most of the day. I'm his nurse. May I ask who's calling?"

"My name is Pat Connolly. I'm a very close friend of Mr. Casselman's. He practically raised me. Can you tell me anything about his condition?"

"You'd have to talk to his doctor about his prognosis, but he's resting comfortably. I'd expect that he'd be able to talk on the phone by tomorrow afternoon or evening."

I thanked the nurse, hung up and stared at the TV screen over the bar, not really seeing it. There were a couple of guys to my left arguing about the eternal pursuit of Canadian males: hockey. I realized that I'd met one of them in here before. Apparently, he felt that gave him the right to draw me into the conversation.

"Pat, what do you think? I say that the goddam Maple Leafs are so fucking bad they won't even make the play-offs this year."

"I don't really know," I said, hoping to avoid entanglement.

"You're probably a fucking Ottawa Senators fan, right?"

"I've been to a couple of their games, but I don't really know the first damned thing about them. I couldn't even name any of their players. Now, if you ask me about politics, we can talk."

The guy on the left of the hockey expert chimed in. "Speaking of politics, what's going on with this fucking health care thing? It looks like Ottawa isn't going to contribute squat. What the hell do we pay all those federal taxes for?"

Now this was something I could get my teeth into, so we talked about political issues, starting with health care and going on to the perceived failings of the federal and provincial leaders. It was just what I needed -- a way to pass the time. The discussion went on for quite a while and quite a few beers. About mid-afternoon, my two debating partners wandered off, amid a show of semi-drunken bonhomie.

About that time, Danny Sullivan wandered in. Danny owned the bar, or rather his wife Carole did. I'd known them both for quite a while. I'd always found Danny a great conversationalist, and his arrival gave me the chance to talk about another topic I enjoy: jazz. I admit that I know dick-all about jazz, especially compared to Danny. He's one of Canada's great jazz musicians. I'd rate him up there with the likes of Phil Nimmons and Rob McConnell. Danny was also very patient. When he caught me in an error of fact or judgment, he gently corrected me. I always learned a lot from our bull sessions. Enough so that I could fool a lot of people into thinking I was a jazz expert.

After a while, Danny left to pick up Carole at her gallery, and I headed back to my hotel. I was a bit more than half-pissed, but, as the guy said, "you can't fly on one wing." I knew that I had to pick up Shauna at eight o'clock the next morning, but it was still only about 5:30. Plenty of time to sleep it off. So I went into the hotel bar.

The place was busy. It was noisy and nearly full, but most of the clientele were business types seated in groups at tables. There was plenty of room at the bar. I took a stool. Then I noticed the bartender. It was Adrienne, my companion of the night before. While I was still trying to decide whether this was a good or bad thing, she saw me and came over.

"Hi, Pat. Sorry I had to leave so early this morning. I had lots of stuff to do before work. You were sleeping like a baby, and I didn't have the heart to wake you up."

I smiled. "I had reason to sleep. Someone tired me out."