I arrived in Toronto Sydney Eglinton Avenue Mt. Pleasant
 |
| 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
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