Saturday 17 August 2013

Killer's Killer Spaghetti

I arrived in Toronto in early 1967. About a year later, a friend from Sydney—Terry Kilderry—joined me. My apartment wasn’t big enough for the two of us so we looked for other accommodation. We found the ideal spot on Eglinton Avenue, just east of Mt. Pleasant. A couple of Englishmen had the house and were renting out rooms.

Killer & Lightning*
During our search, while driving around in Terry’s car, for some reason the two of us began clowning around belting each other on the arm. “Careful,” Terry warned me. “They don’t call me ‘Killer’ Kilderry for nothing.”

“It’s you who should watch out,” I replied. “I’m known as ‘Lightning’ Lawson’.”

Whether Terry made up his name on the spur of the moment I don’t know. I did with mine and to this day I’m still known as ‘Lightning’ to some people.

When ‘Killer’ and I moved into the house on Eglinton, the only other tenant was ‘Big Dave’ Small—another Englishman—making for a total of five residents. ‘Big Dave’ was a strange bird. While the four of us spent the majority of our evenings out bar-hopping or partying in pursuit of females, Dave appeared content to remain at home. I think he disliked the idea of spending money on anything that would eventually find its way into a toilet.

We’d leave him perched upon a beer-barrel in a corner of the kitchen drinking a cup of tea. I’ve no idea what he did during the time we were out but he was usually there on his barrel when we arrived home—a fact which often presented a problem whenever one of us returned with a young lady in tow with seduction in mind.

Dave’s barrel afforded him a perfect view of the front door. He was like a spider lurking on the fringes of its web waiting for a fly. “I’ve just brewed a fresh pot of tea,” he’d announce. “Surely the lady would like a cup.” He was sneaky that way, addressing his offer to the girl, who invariably found it difficult to refuse.

So, rather than getting on with the intended business of the evening, Dave’s victims would be forced to endure polite idle chatter for half an hour or so whilst forcing weak tea down their gullets.

Six months or so later, ‘Big Dave’ bought himself a used Ford Falcon. But not having enough money to insure it, the thing sat out in the back garden while he accumulated his pennies. Every evening after supper, he’d take his cup of tea out to the prized vehicle, start the engine and sit there with the radio playing.

One night, ‘Killer’ threw a dinner party for about ten of us. The meal was to be his famous (according to him) spaghetti. As it bubbled away on the stove we sat around the table guzzling beer and telling tall tales. Dave was out back sitting in his car with his tea.

‘Killer’ was in the middle of a lengthy anecdote when Dave burst into the dining room in an agitated state. ‘Killer’ ploughed on with his story despite our house-mate’s obvious distress. Only when the punch line had been delivered did the ever-polite Dave interrupt the proceedings. “Excuse me,” he said. “But my car’s on fire.”

One of the guys grabbed a fire extinguisher as we all raced outside. Sure enough, smoke was issuing from the vehicle’s engine compartment. While the one with the extinguisher stood poised ready for action, someone else lifted the hood.

With the added oxygen, the previously smouldering fire burst into life. The trigger of the extinguisher was depressed and a gob of foam plopped to the ground. Unchecked, the flames leaped into the night sky.

It was then that ‘Killer’ sprang into action—he went darting back into the house, returned with his huge pot of spaghetti and heaved the contents onto the car’s engine. The flames were no match for ‘Killer’s’ ‘famous’ concoction.

But the vehicle was beyond repair. Dave had owned the thing for perhaps two months and had yet to actually drive it. Next day, poor old Dave could only watch forlornly as his pride and joy was towed from the back garden on its way to the wreckers.

*We were congratulating ourselves after converting a canoe into a square-rigger with the aid of bed-sheets. She wasn't bad downwind.


Edited by Davina

Sunday 4 August 2013

Clam Comes into the Chips

Memory blurs—I can’t recall exactly what took me down to Nassau, Bahamas on this particular occasion. Some sort of monkey-business I imagine. I’d planned on flying in and out the same day.

Last time I’d been there—some six months previous—my old diving buddy, Alex 'Captain' Clam had been camping out aboard his nineteen-foot Seacraft runabout at the Nassau Harbour Club. I had a few hours to kill before my flight back to Miami so I took a cab to the Harbour Club and asked after Alex at the bar.

Captain Clam
Any other time I’d had cause to make inquiries after my friend Clam, I’d always noticed a degree of disdain accompanying the reply—a wrinkling of the nose as if at an unpleasant odour. But on this particular occasion the bartender was strangely deferential. “Mister Clam? Yes SIR! Pier One, berth A.”

Tied up at Pier One, berth A was this monster of a power boat. She was around eighty feet long and rather handsome for a stink-pot. Ahh, thinks I—Clam’s got himself a captain’s job. But I was proven to be wrong.

I took myself aboard, banged on a door and a few minutes later Clam emerged in a silk, monogrammed dressing gown. “Lawson,” he exclaimed upon seeing me. “Welcome aboard my new vessel. We’ll take her for a spin around the island.” Clam had always held the vague belief that he was the re-incarnation of W.C.Fields. In his everyday speech, he affected the deceased actor’s unique drawl.

Well, in the six months since we’d last seen each other, this seemed like an extraordinary step up the financial ladder for him; from sleeping under a tarpaulin aboard a nineteen-foot runabout to this?. “Your fortunes appear to have improved considerably since I last saw you,” I remarked when we got under way.

“Ah, yes,” he replied with a wide grin. “Let me tell you how I got this little baby…”

I jumped in quickly to cut him off. “I’d rather not know, Alex.” I knew it must have been something shady and, as one never knows when one might be summoned to give evidence in a court of law, I've always considered it better to remain ignorant of certain matters.

Clam's New  Vessel
By the end of our voyage we were getting close to the end of a bottle of rum and Clam invited me to stay on. I had nothing pressing happening at the time, so I did—for two weeks.

But there’s no such thing as smooth sailing where Captain Clam is concerned—a week into my vacation, the vessel was seized by the Bahamian authorities and a watchman put aboard to make sure it didn’t leave the dock.  We were, however, permitted to remain on board until matters were sorted out.

Clam gave me a rather colourful version of the circumstances behind the seizure, painting himself as the wronged party. But then the Captain was prone to telling an occasional fib—even to his friends. I later discovered that he’d put a down payment on the boat and sailed off to the Bahamas, neglecting to complete the transaction.

As it turned out, the night-watchman—an amiable chap who went by the name of Lincoln—was a bit of a lush. No, I lie. He was an out-and-out lush. (and coming from me, this is quite a compliment). Clam and I conducted experiments and discovered that Lincoln would imbibe anything put in front of him.

So, Clam and yours truly plotted to exploit this weakness: We would re-take the vessel on Lincoln's watch. Our plan was to feed him alcohol until he passed out then sneak away around one in the morning. We’d drop him off at one of the out islands then head for the open sea. We even bought a mosquito-proof tent so Lincoln wouldn’t be drained of blood while he awaited rescue.

The morning before the planned recapture of the vessel, I happened to emerge from the breakfast-room at the Harbour Club to find Clam on the public phone. I caught a snatch of his conversation, “…a drunk. Lawson and I are taking the boat tonight...” Clam was incapable of talking softly—half of Nassau could have heard him. I gave him my darkest scowl of disapproval.

When I moved away, I spied Lonnie Pinder lurking in a doorway. Lonnie was a local who kept his boat at the Club and harboured a deep hatred for Clam for some reason. He was grinning wickedlyhe'd obviously heard Clam’s every word.

That evening, at the change of the watchman shift, there was no sign of Lincoln. A new, rather serious-looking fellow had taken his place. When Clam offered this new man a drink, he declined. “No thank you Captain,” he said with a smirk that told us everything, “I’m not partial to strong drink.”

Needless to say, Clam lost the vessel.

Edited by Davina