The Firsts

The Firsts

The first boyfriend I had was named Mack. He attended Rutland Senior High after he had transferred from Kelowna Senior Secondary in Grade 11. A year older than I was, his teachers had held him back for a year over his poor mathematical skills. What he lacked in math, he made up for in creativity.

Mack was constantly writing. He kept journals and books of poetry. Our weekly meetings involved trips to the North End park by the Mill, off Coronation Street and Knox Mountain Drive. There used to be a secluded bushy inlet near the north side, later cut down by the district. We used to go hide in there.

I brought along 'shit mix', a mixture of various hard spirits and liquors including dark rum, gin, amaretto, Strega, vodka, cheap Bourbon, and brandy. We sipped the toxic mixture from a thermos, occasionally supplementing with tea and lemon on the side. Mack showed me all of his journals and poems. He could easily have been a writer.

At the same time, he was up on all the latest bands: The Pixies, Jesus and Mary Chain, The Psychos, 10,000 Maniacs, R.E.M., Mudhoney, Mother Love Bones, Screaming Trees, and others, to name a few. He brought mixed tapes with notes for me to look over. I learned a great deal about the music scene from him.

Mack looked like a cross between a young Hell's Angel recruit and James Dean. I never cared for his interest in motorbikes. Bikers scared me; I avoided them due to their connections to domestic abuse, racism, human trafficking, and hard drugs. This was before I was raped at the age of seventeen, in the spring of 1993 by my second boyfriend, a man I shall refer to as 'The Doctor'.

Mack and I never had sex; he was not uninterested in me sexually. It was obvious that he preferred blondes and considered me a naive 'goodie-two-shoes'. Drinking and occasional pot-smoking were my only indulgences. I was a pescatarian who walked everywhere and spoke of world peace. My only expensive habit was fashion. In the end, Mack and I had little in common outside of an appreciation for poetry and alt-rock music. His sexual rejection, increasing level of moodiness, lack of commonality, and involvement with a questionable group of people from his high school forced my hand. I ended our relationship after one year.

We remained friends and he introduced me to 'The Doctor', a young man with medical aspirations, good looks, and a sadistic, sociopathic attitude towards women and life. At this point, I would have to state that I experienced the worst type of sexual violence and choking before I ever experienced sex. I left Mack with my virginity firmly intact. It was not the way I wanted things at the time, but I respected Mack's decision. My feelings, however, were seared by his rejection. In the end, he settled for a young, blonde hairdresser who shared his love of ATVing and motorbikes. They are still married today. She forced his hand when she got pregnant.

When I heared the news at the age of nineteen, that he was getting married, I was rather neutral. As his first girlfriend, he expected a reaction from me. My friends told me about it through the grapevine. By this time, he had finally stopped calling me. For two years after our break-up, he called me between 4:30 PM and 6:00 PM five days a week, Monday to Friday. My family did not approve of him; he had figured out when to call and not to call in order to avoid them. He was considered a 'corrupt greaser' in the style of Montgomery Clift by my parents. Mostly, they just couldn't handle the idea that I even dated and had boyfriends.

Their reaction to men I dated was the same as their reaction to red hair and red lipstick. I felt sorry for them, fantasized of flying back east permanently, and avoided them like the Plague. I had no reaction to Mack's decision to marry after he got his girlfriend pregnant. Why would I? He had not wanted me and over two years had passed. I was mildly happy for him and basically disinterested.

The calls stopped, to my relief, due to the interference of his new wife, Angel, and rightly so. I could understand why his fiancee no longer wanted him to be in contact with me. He hadn't wanted me in the first place; I never understood why he kept calling. The conversations had descended into sad tales about his cow-tipping, unemployment, personal issues with depression, and fondness for a cartoon called Ren & Stimpy.

By this time, I had graduated from high school and accepted a Social Work scholarship. I worked at a newspaper and was dating a libertarian activist of Native Cree and Scottish background by the name of Abraham, a highly intellectual and alcoholic man. My world revolved around discussions of Homer, Sophocles, Nietzche, and other philosophers, not around Harley-Davidson and cartoons. I had grown up and out of that period.

I happily moved on and eventually married Abraham. Unfortunately, I was unaware of the extend of his alcoholism, which would later derail our marriage. I have always protected his privacy, particularly since his death. Four years after we separated, he died in an alcohol-related boating accident in Eastern Manitoba. I learned of his fate while working at a ski resort in Kananaskis, back in 2003. It had been my intention to divorce from him or annul the marriage; his reserve-based Native family fought over money and refused to push him to sign the papers. They kept his location and identification from my lawyers in Vancouver and Banff. I had offered to settle fro $60,000; by this time, he refused all contact and would not look at any papers, let alone attend a hearing. I was forced to shelve my plans. His death released me from that marriage. I was disappointed but not shocked. It was obvious when I left Abraham that rehab and sobriety were not options for him. He had been offered an intervention, help from Alcoholics Anonymous, the chance to sober up at his mother's house, counselling, and rehab by his friends and family. He refused them all. In 1998, his drinking had accelerated from three to five binges a night. He kept a refrigerator full of whiskey, Southern Comfort, and amaretto. Weekends were dedicated to binging on beer. Two flats and a pile of hard liquor bottles decorated our front door each Monday morning at our Juniper Road residence. He had a service come pick them up for recycling at 9:00 AM each week. The house smelled of alcohol; a former freezer used for saving meat from hunting and fishing was now stocked with frozen liquor mix and hard liquor bottles of Strega and rum. Abraham did not even like rum.

As his drinking spiralled out of control, the headaches, depression, and anger increased. He complained of migraine headaches brought on by his five-night-a-week drinking binges of twenty or more drinks. He started fights and confrontations at bars. At the time, I was only working twenty hours a week, so I spent more time at home. Previously, my schedule for the first three years of our marriage consisted of secretarial and English Literature classes. I had abandoned my Social Work program for what I really wanted to do: literature and business. Though I was a certified teacher of braille and ASL, I disliked the work for a number of reasons. I also worked four nights a week plus all of Saturday as a newspaper employee. Most of the time, I was not around for his drinking binges.

Abraham had agreed to manage a music group by the name of Who's on Bass, a house band at Angie's club, from 1996 to 1999. We attended over 100 concerts at that time. One day, at work, it was announced that staff members would work Saturday nights instead of daytimes; this change released me from attending yet another concert. After Who's on Bass? received a record deal with the help of Abraham along with video promotion and grants, they no longer had a use for him. He no longer soothed their egos diplomatically, helped them with lyrics, and persuaded them to put aside their differences and get on stage; without his assistance, they unraveled quickly in less than two years. Leguilloux was a talented blues guitarist; he went on to form his own band in rhythm & blues. I am not certain what happened to the Jim Morrison clone in a tacky tourist shirt of a lead singer. Perhaps fancying himself as a replacement for Roger Waters of Pink Floyd, he set up that cover band he had always envisioned as an alternative to his band.

I had tired of band fights, politics, and equipment loss years before. There was only one song by them that I could tolerate. Apparently, they went on to collaberate with the Planetsmashers and Revenge of the Egg People. Only the Planetsmashers were worth noting; they were an excellent live act and I went to see them three times when I lived in Banff. Surfing in Tofino is one of their better-known songs and a live act staple. There were few bands who could get ska-punk right; the Deftones were not one of them.

Band management had given Abraham purpose after he abandoned his education as a paramedic and dream of becoming an ambulance driver. He had lost his trucking status due to his drinking and failure to renew his Class 1 license, so he took up the study of Wilderness and Industrial First Aid, reaching three levels in each. His friend recruited him to paint and design doors for a local company. His job kept his busy from 9:00 AM to 6:00 PM five days a week. I had to leave earlier, owing to cab and bus times, as well as my class schedule. Mostly, my marriage was relegated to weekends.

During those years, my drinking had become minimal. I felt uncomfortable drinking around an alcoholic. Typically, we would order two rounds of drinks at Angie's. I then took over orders and got them to put a little alcohol as possible in his drinks while offering me a simple diet Coke or Sprite. It was a trick I used with Joe as well; neither of them knew better. They probably thought I could keep up with them and was a real trouper. The truth is, I rarely had more than two drinks around them. If I had more, it was a special occasion over dinner at him. Unfortunately, someone had to be somewhat aware in the late night bar surroundings and it certainly wasn't going to be either of those lushes. Joe was simply an escapist binge drinker during his time off from trucking and audio engineering; Abraham was the true pathological alcoholic.

Abraham's favourite drink was an Alabama Slammer. I hate that drink to this day. He enjoyed doubles in five or ten rounds with Estelle. She often took acid beforehand. Acid was a drug I avoided, much like this favoured cocktail. I tried it once, gagged, and never drank it again. My drinking with Estelle consisted of weekend gab sessions over one or two double Margaritas on the Kelly O'Bryan's patio. Unlike other people, she was a VIP regular who did not require reservations or waiting in line. Hanging out with Estelle was easy; we got into everything including bars, restaurants, night clubs, and fashion shows from the age of seventeen onward by just showing up and offering her name.

Estelle was like a VIP model-socialite back in the 90s in this town; she persuaded all the owners of restaurants like Johnathan Segal's and Joey's Only Seafood to give her free food, drinks, and immediate entry without reservations. We always had a nice table, dining with Estelle. It is too bad she failed to enjoy food.

After two years of modeling and anorexia, she turned to film extra work. Fortunately, she regained thirty pounds on her 5"8 frame of eighty-five pounds. Pot helped her eat, though her diet was limited to Clamato juice, Chinese food, brownie mix, French chocolate cake icing, hot dogs, ramen noodles, Kraft macaroni and cheese, McDonald's hamburger happy meals, and her famous potato and onion casserole. I don't think she had ever heard of unprocessed food; her annual garden famously rotted.

This did not stop her from ordering me plates upon plates of food. Apparently, I was 'heavy' at 140 pounds and 5"9. I was the eater of the group; this did not mean I enjoyed five plates of food at a time. At Kelly O'Bryan's she ordered me five of the following dishes each time: Patchos with Emerald Island Dressing and all the toppings, Twice-Baked Potatoes, Broccoli Bacon Soup, Chicken Lips, Caesar Salad, McCracken Rolls, Yorkshire Pudding, and Margarita Flatbread. The only thing I wanted to eat was the Margarita Flatbread, which replaced my usual order of Bruschetta. I usually skipped lunch or dinner on the days we went out. Prime Rib Yorkies were sirloin steak medallions placed on bread and baked with gravy. Chicken lips were breaded strips of chicken breast. The Emerald Isle dressing was honey mustard mayonnaise with a hint of lemon. McCracken Rolls were crab and shrimp stuffed wontons filled with cream cheese and deep-fried with lemon. Pachos were lattice-shaped fries served with green onions, melted cheddar cheese, and Emerald Isle sauce.

The food was usually doggy-bagged and taken home to Abraham. He enjoyed the meat and potatoes. Most of the spicier food and vegetables were tossed. To this day, I never understood their hatred of vegetables, which I loved. Then again, Abraham's two most famous recipes were his barbecued bran muffins and his much-hated Golden Paradise Potatoes. The recipe was the following:

1 large jar of Cheez Whiz

1 cup of ketchup

2 packages of French Onion Soup Mix

1 can of French-Fried onions

1 package of cooked cabbage

5 hot dogs (optional)

2 bottles of Golden Italian seasoning

6 sliced green onions

1/2 cup canola oil

3 pounds of Yukon Gold potatoes

1 sliced yellow onion

French seasoning salt and black pepper to taste.

The dish was heinous and a waste of Yukon Gold potatoes. The potatoes were never cooked through and the messy sea of sauce worked as a sea for the potatoes to swim in. The recipe was supposed to be golden and tender. It was sloshy, undercooked, and the color of cheddar string cheese.

I tolerated the mixture, which he claimed I loved along with Who's on Bass? for three years until I had to be honest. He was devastated. Abraham was never a good cook. Estelle's cooking was even worse.

(All names have been changed in this story).