New Directions

In the spring of 1964 Prime Minister Pearson was campaigning for a unique Canadian flag to replace the Red Ensign that Canada had been using. At the same time, Stan’s plans for a printing company were starting to jell. He organized a company to print hundreds of copies of proposed flags, as well as some joke ones, and a team of seamstresses finished them off. They were a massive hit and Stan was beginning to make enough money to realize his dream. One afternoon he and I went to visit a carriage house he was thinking of renting to use for his printing business. Like all carriage houses, there was a double hinged door big enough to admit the carriages. The ground floor was barren, except for a horse stall in a back corner. The upper floor, that once housed the hay needed to feed the horses, was a massive open space with a single half door formerly used to hoist the hay bales as the only outside light source. He didn’t commit to it then, but it would soon become the home of “Coach House Press,” one of Canada’s most outstanding and frequent award-winning printers of books.  http://www.chbooks.com/about_us

The home of Coach House Press, Canada's most celebrated independent publishing house. Stan Bevington, its founder, was awarded the Order of Canada in 2009.

The owner of the house where Stan lived let me camp out after I left Hans’ and Maria’s. I slept on the floor of the unused dining room. I packed flags into boxes for shipping and listened as Stan and his friends discussed the publishing arm of Coach House Press, House of Anansi, named for an African spider goddess. I didn’t pay much attention as I was trying to put my plans into action. I had decided I was going to return to Kitchener, appeal to a school principal to admit me as a student and apply to the welfare department for support. I needed some cash. Stan gave me a bundle of ten flags that I could sell and I phoned one of the teachers that I knew at Riverdale. He agreed to lend me fifty dollars and invited me to visit his home to pick it up. He sat close to me on the couch, his hand always on my thigh as he asked me about my plans. When it got late he asked if I’d like to spend the night. My head was filled with my idea that I would board a bus for Kitchener in the morning, so I said no thanks. He hugged me. I saw him next a few years later when I visited Riverdale when I was a university student, hair down to my waist, the same length as my girlfriend’s. He died soon afterwards of a brain aneurysm. I don’t need to name him, as nothing happened that night when he gave me fifty dollars.

I walked from the bus station in Kitchener to the YMCA, only a few blocks away, where I paid to rent a room for four nights. It was a Monday afternoon and I figured that five days would be enough to accomplish what I set out to do. The next morning I took my breakfast at a lunch counter near the YMCA and the owner agreed to take my ten flags and sell them on a consignment basis. The flags I had were the most popular of the proposed designs: a red maple leaf on a white square in a blue field. They were designed to be slipped over car radio antennas.

My first order of business the next day was to visit one of the high schools. I put my case to the principal that I should be admitted to grade 13, as I figured that I could tough out one year of high school on welfare, but two years would have been too hard a grind unless I could manage to find part-time work to supplement my income. He turned me down, saying he’d be willing to accept me into grade 12, but that was all he could do. I said I’d think about it.

Wednesday morning when I returned to the lunch bar, the owner told me he had to return the flags. Many of his customers were so angry that they had threatened never to enter his establishment again if he did not get rid of the flags. He explained that he had no problem with the proposals, but he could not afford to upset his regular clientele. Kitchener, in the heart of the most conservative part of Ontario, was not an environment where one could freely discuss new ideas. I was going to get another lesson in that later that day.  About four years later when I returned to visit with my sister, my hair now shoulder-length after a year in university, as I waited for a municipal bus, cars of angry looking young men circled the block to get a better look as this hippy in their pristine city, some shouting insults at me. Fast forward a few years after that incident and those same angry young men had hair even longer than mine had been that day. I am sure that today the customers of that lunch counter would be equally angry if someone were to propose that we change the current flag of Canada back to what it had been prior to 1965.

However, on my way to the welfare office I stopped at a small confectionery and the owner agreed to take my flags on a consignment basis. Two days later she had sold all the flags and insisted that I take the entire proceeds, foregoing her agreed-upon share. She wanted me to get more flags for her. As I sat in the waiting area of the welfare office, I could clearly hear the woman in charge addressing a client, from what I could overhear a young woman whose husband had abandoned her, leaving her with two small children. Instead of assistance, the welfare official was bragging that Kitchener held the record in Ontario for the lowest welfare rate and she was not about to let a healthy and fit young woman spoil that record. “But I can’t feed my kids,” the woman pleaded. “Then get a job,” she was told. “But who will look after my kids?” “That’s not our problem,” she was told. Nothing would move this official, not even the mother’s tears. She left quickly, baby in arms, holding the hand of a two year old.

My turn.

The woman listened to my story and then told me that Kitchener held the record for the lowest welfare rate in Ontario and that no healthy young man was going to spoil that record. “But I can’t hold a full-time job and still go to school,” I argued. “Not our problem,” I was told. Then the woman softened and said, “Why don’t you go home? I know your father. He’s a good man.” When I got back to the YMCA that afternoon, the desk clerk gave me a ten dollar bill. “This is for you,” he said. I don’t know who it was from, but I was getting very low on cash and appreciated it.

Through that hot and muggy week, I visited the homes of friends from elementary school days. The stories were all the same: they’d be pleasant to me and their parents would advise me to go home, my father was a nice man, etc., etc. It was as if the entire city knew my father and what a good man he was. I could not answer any of them. I did not have a vocabulary able to express the sense of oppression I had in his presence. No one understood what I was about and I wasn’t even sure about that myself. Hot, sticky, muggy evenings, I sat in my room, looking out the window at a small park across the street. Nothing was working out the way I had hoped it would.  I could not explain to anyone what it was I wanted. I picked up a pen and started to write on a sheet of paper on the ledge of the window.

Simple words. Keep it simple. No explanations or expositions. Just words. “He big,” I wrote. “I small.” “He big/ I hurt.” “Small me.” And so it went, one page filled and became another. “Big hurt.”

I looked at the park across the street. “Park/ green/ so green/ cool/ dark.” Keep it simple. Just write what was there, nothing more. “Bright cars/ dark trees.”

The next day after I returned from my breakfast the desk clerk told me that he had a phone message for me. “Mr. Brown” and a phone number. Someone had told my father I was here. I felt panicky, afraid he was going to show up. I quickly packed, checked out, and walked quickly to the bus station, worried that his car was going to screech to a halt across my path. As the bus pulled away from the city I felt as though I had just escaped prison and was headed for the freedom and anonymity of the big city.

Over the next three years I called myself a poet. I filled books with neatly typed pages, numbering some 300 poems in all. I read regularly in coffee houses, like “The Bohemian Embassy,” where Margaret Atwood, Milton Acorn, and Gwendolyn MacEwen read their poetry between performances by Ian and Sylvia Tyson. Here’s a brief description of The Embassy: http://torontodreamsproject.blogspot.ca/2011/02/canadas-first-beatnik-happening.html. I read often at The Inn of the Unmuzzled Ox, a poor cousin of The Embassy, run by The Student Christian Movement, a Canada-wide campus organization where some of the most radical ideas in Canada, such as the early discussions of gay rights, were being discussed. The Inn is mentioned in an article here: http://www.scmcanada.org/files/Epistle-2009.pdf. One of my poems was published in an anthology of Canadian poetry edited by George Bowering, and a number were published at McGill University when I was a student there in 1974-75. Poetry became a vehicle through which I could say things I could never put into words before and it helped me articulate and define who I was becoming.

The Encroachment

(May 13, 1966)

the ambivalence of cold cheap stone

in amber lights

a room flashes on, one off

over hypnotic ritual of apartment buildings

can I say this pyramid

will not collapse on fulfilment

of its ten year lease

while this ancient home

can legate to its legacy?

and can I say this cold, this warm

this house, this home

this and all and no more?

and will I say this doomsday

book will outlive its inheritors

this scrap, the dust? I will be

free as birds which dart though the one hole

in the tangled interwoven twigs

be quick

before the foliage fills them in

Seen in Passing Eyes

(November 3, 1966)

The loneliness of people’s eyes

moves in a slow inner dance

like a buttocks bone grinding into a chair

it eats.

Like a young girl

tears streaming down her cheeks

writing on her window

for passing pedestrians the word

Happy.

the movement increases

till mind and body

are divorced in a frenzy

and ceases

in a cumulative

sleep.

Growing Alone

In September of 1963 I was seventeen years old and had been away from home for almost three years. I entered grade 12 at Riverdale alienated from my classmates. I had attempted suicide and spent eight months in a mental institute. I was friends with artists and writers and had spent the summer working in the garment industry. Nothing, as far as I could see, had changed for them. They still lived in comfortable homes with comfortable parents and had their lives planned out. Just two more years of high school and they’d be off to the University of Toronto, or Queens, or Western, settled into frat houses and on their way to careers in business. I didn’t know what I wanted, but it wasn’t that.

Though I remained friends with the men who lived in the house where I had rented a room for the summer, it was considered a good idea for me to move when Jack and I got drunk one night on Stan’s wine while he was out. Jack staggered about the room, flailing his arms, tearing down decorations that Stan had put up and falling onto Stan’s silkscreens. I was drunkenly angry, cursing the men who tried to calm me and throwing burning cigarettes at them. The reason I was angry is that I had met a young woman at a party who had come home with me. Though we never made out—I slept on the cot while she took my bed—she was the first woman I had seen completely nude. The first morning we awoke and each got up, wrapped in a blanket. She let hers drop as we stood facing each other and said, “I think people should be comfortable with the human body, don’t you?” Of course I agreed, trying not to stare. She hugged me and then quickly dressed. Whatever dreams I might have had of an affair with Doris vanished as she spent her evenings off visiting friends, then coming back to my room to sleep. One night I gathered up her clothing that had been scattered about my room and threw everything down the stairs to send a message to her when she returned that night. So, Jack and I got drunk and I was asked to leave.

I found a room in a house a few blocks away. The home was owned by a young couple with two young girls. The wife, Maria, was from Italy, and the husband, Hans, from Poland. They occupied the first floor and rented the second floor to another young couple. The third floor had two rooms; I took one, the other was empty when I moved in. The room had a single bed, dresser, a table and chair, and a hotplate. My rent was $10 a week. My welfare cheques had started arriving when I began school. They were for $54 a month, meaning I had between $4 and $14 a month, depending on how many weeks there were in a month, for food and everything else. I was a heavy smoker, so there was even less money remaining for food. I had no idea how to budget or how to prepare simple meals. I had enough saved from my summer job to pay for text books and basic supplies. There was a fish and chip shop a short distance away and, when I had enough money, I’d take home a meal wrapped in newspaper. There was also a lunch counter where I’d order coffee and chat with the owner. He occasionally gave me small jobs to do, like cleaning the gutters, and he’d sometimes give me a free cup of coffee. I couldn’t afford the club sandwiches he sold. I used my hotplate to heat water for instant coffee that I learned to drink black, as I had no way to keep milk.

I starting seeing Mr Belt again once a week, as he kept office hours one evening a week to accommodate those going to school or working. He invited me to his home for dinner a few times. And my music teacher, Baird Knecktel, invited me for Sunday dinner fairly regularly. Generally I could count on one good meal a week. Sometimes Jack would drop by and he’d buy me tea and a Danish pastry at a lunch counter.

Hans, who owned the house where I rented, told me the story of how the Germans had come to his village and, because he had four brothers, all fit and healthy, the family was offered a larger home. All the boys were expected to—and did—join the German army. However, he was wounded and captured while battling the British in France and was evacuated to England where, after he recovered, he joined the British army and was sent to fight in Italy where he met his future wife.  He was the first person I had met who had fought for the Germans during the war. Growing up I was used to seeing thin older men with blue numbers tattooed on their forearms. They were from Latvia, Poland, Lithuania, Estonia. They were all quiet and grim, raising their families with a sad distance. Like my insight a year before when I realized that most Russians had to be simple hard-working folks just like the rest of us, here was a representative of the most hated regime in history and he was a quiet, hard-working man with a young family. He was a fan of the Irish Sweepstakes and tried to explain to me how it worked, but I just didn’t get it. When I’d return from trips to the University of Toronto’s music library with pages of scores of Schoenberg and Stravinsky that I had copied out, he translate the German and Russian for me.

I was now convinced that I was destined to become a composer of music. I stayed up late at night furiously scribbling notes on the staff paper that Stan had printed for me. I’d copy out all the orchestra parts and take the clutches of barely legible pages to Mr Knecktel hoping he’d have the orchestra class play them. He never did, though he did start giving me private violin lessons at his home.

Sometime during my stay at Hans’ and Maria’s I was drawn to a paper-back book in the coffee shop rack. It had a dark blue jacket, a picture of a woman in a swirling dress seemingly floating in an ill-defined chaos—like the paintings I had produced when at the Toronto Psychiatric Hospital. The cover was dominated by an iron-like letter “V.” Thomas Pynchon was the author. I bought and read that book, unable to put it down, absolutely enthralled. It described a world I, at the point, was barely aware of existing. It is a sprawling story embracing many characters in scattered parts of the world. It described parties that went on for days, and hunting for alligators in New York’s sewers. The characters were hip, alienated, wildly creative, and sometimes weird. It was so far from the neat orderly world I had grown up in, it was as if I was reading about creatures from another planet. Even the hipsters I knew, like Kig, Cog, Stan, and Denis, were narrowly straight-laced compared the Pynchon’s characters. For the rest of my life I skirted around the edges of Pynchon’s world, never a part of it, but never quite apart from it either. I still have that same paperback, though I have not yet re-read it, on my bedside table, more than 50 years later. A few years ago I started to read “Gravity’s Rainbow” and found it absolutely unreadable. I tried three times and never got more than about 50 pages into it before I gave it up as a lost cause.

Meanwhile, Stan gave me a jacket he no longer wanted, as the jacket I had used since leaving home was now far too small for me. However, my shoes were worn and holes developed in the soles. My socks soon were worn through where the holes were and my feet became blistered from the constant contact with pavement. I learned to cut layers of newspaper to line my shoes and felt an enormous sense of relief and comfort for the few moments before the paper shredded and wore through. Rainy days were the worse, as my feet would be wet and as fall advanced towards winter, it seemed as if I was always cold—especially my feet. I was also experiencing a deep sense of exhaustion and was finding it increasingly difficult to get up on time to attend school. Often I would sleep until two or three o’clock in the afternoon, then rush off to school in time for orchestra rehearsal.

Stan had moved to the basement of the house he shared and built a bunk and work tables. Every Saturday evening artists and writers would gather at his place to talk about the arts. I joined them. Stan was planning to start a printing business and conversations often revolved around that. At a given point during the evening people would pile on top of each other on cushions in a corner of the room, groaning loudly and moaning. I didn’t really understand what was going on, but wanted to join in. I’d lean on top of the pile stiffly, uncertain. One night Doris, who was below me, suddenly kissed me passionately during such a group huddle.

One of the girls treated me kindly and invited me to her home for dinner and so she could lend me some books that she thought I might find enlightening. As we stood in her porch, I holding the bundle of books, she suddenly threw her arms about my neck and hugged me tightly. I didn’t understand what was going on, so I kissed her neck and she immediately drew away. The next Saturday I was waiting for her at Stan’s when she arrived and fell into an animated conversation with another young man. I waited, growing angry and impatient. When she finally ended her conversation and turned to me, the smile faded from her face when she saw the look on mine. She drew back as I lashed out at her, angry that she had talked with someone else before acknowledging me. It was as if I had split into two people. One of me was angry and hurt; the other wondering what was going on and why was I acting this way. I finally caught up with myself and stumbled, mumbling an apology, but I knew that I could never undo whatever harm I had just created.

I raced home in agony and threw myself on the stairs leading up to my room. When the owners returned home from visiting relatives they found me there, asking what was wrong. I couldn’t answer them. I had no idea how to explain. Soon Mac Belt was there and he led me to his car and drove me to St Michael’s hospital. I didn’t want to talk to anyone and stared through a frosted window at the raining distorted world of the emergency parking lot. Mr Belt called my name several times, but I didn’t respond to him. Finally he left. Meanwhile, I was admitted to St Michael’s suffering from malnutrition and anxiety. They kept me there for two weeks. That’s where I passed my eighteenth birthday. Jack visited me, giving me a book as a birthday present.

On my release from hospital I figured I deserved to take the time remaining before Christmas off. I looked after Hans and Maria’s children until he arrived home from work. I’d then sit in the kitchen chatting with him while he prepared dinner. It seemed it was always the same: potatoes and vegetables in a beef stew. He’d invite me to eat with them, so, as Christmas approached I was getting at least one good meal a day. I’d usually retire to my room for the evening, writing music, then creep downstairs to watch the late night movie after Hans and Maria had gone to bed. They rented the front room on the third floor to an older man who I avoided. He drank a great deal and I’d hear him muttering to himself as I lay in bed. He frightened me.

Hans and Maria invited me to spend Christmas day with them. I had received my January welfare cheque early and bought the two girls simple toys. Maria was angry with me for having spent what little money I had on them. They then took me with them when they visited Maria’s family for the Christmas meal. What a feast. They started with spaghetti and I filled my plate, not realizing that this was the appetizer course and there was a lot more to come. They served eels and various Italian dishes that I was unfamiliar with. All throughout they steadily drank hard distilled liquor and my glass was always kept full. I was drunk and satiated when we returned home. I lay in bed listening to the old man mutter about how nobody gave him any respect and how angry he was at being excluded from the Christmas festivities. He kept saying he was going to stick a screw-driver in my stomach to make me pay. There was a small hook and eye latch on my door and I hoped it was strong enough to keep him out of my room. I told Hans about the old man’s threats and they asked him to leave their house immediately.

After the Christmas break I made a valiant effort at returning to school and catching up, but I had missed a month of classes before the break. Also, it was a rare day I woke up early enough to make it to school on time. A crisis came when the chemistry teacher returned the test we had recently taken. I had failed miserably. What angered me was the test was based on one’s ability to remember the characteristics of the elements, like their valencies. I understood all the concepts but couldn’t remember the damned little numbers that crowded the boxes on the periodic table. I walked quickly from the class and headed for the principal’s office where I complained loudly that the teacher was prejudiced against intelligence, focusing on idiotic rote memory work instead of intellectual comprehension. The principal suggested I go home for a few days. When I returned to his office a few days later I told him that I had decided to drop out. I was literally starving to death on the pittance the welfare department provided. He then told me he had petitioned the school board and they had agreed to give me twenty dollars a month for living expenses. It was too late. I had made up my mind.

I read the Toronto Star every day. In those days the classified want ad section was 20 or 30 pages long, about a quarter to half filled with job vacancies. I phoned a life insurance company looking for a mail clerk and was interviewed the next day. I was hired and began work immediately.

The company was on Yonge Street at King, the heart of Toronto’s high finance district. It was in an 18-story stone building, long since torn down and replaced with about 60 stories of steel and glass. The company occupied three floors near the top. The middle floor was where the agents occupied private offices around the periphery and the typists and clerks occupied the open space in the centre. The mail room as also on that floor. On the floor below was the supply room and purchasing department. The floor above was for the company president and owner. My job was to sort the mail when it arrived twice daily, open the envelopes and sort the contents for various recipients. I would then push a small cart around the floor dropping the mail into appropriate in-baskets. I also had to operate a mailing machine. The unsealed envelopes, already addressed by the typists, were fed through the machine that printed a stamp and dampened and sealed the envelope. One of my life-long afflictions is the inability to make machines fulfil their intended purpose. Invariably, envelopes would jam and be torn by the machine, or fail to receive a stamp print, or be stamped on the wrong side or upsidedown.

Actually, I was the junior mail clerk. I shared the mail room with the senior clerk. As far as I could see his duties were to read the newspaper in the morning and kibitz with other staff members the rest of the day. He also ran the office hockey pool. The director of personal had me in her office a few times for pep talks. She didn’t think I was putting enough energy into the job. Though starting time was 9:00 am, and I usually arrived at about five minutes to the hour, she suggested I should arrive 15 minutes early and start the coffee machine. I also should show more initiative on the job, and, to that end was asked to run errands for the company president. I was to check outside his office each morning and take the pair of shoes I found there to a shop down the street to be polished and to pick up a red carnation for his desk. I also was to check his closet to see if there were shirts that needed dry-cleaning. Whatever I was asked to do, I did, but it did not appear to be enough. I was sent to the Toronto Stock Exchange, a few blocks away on Bay Street, so I could “learn” something. I had no idea what I was expected to do once there and stood bewildered, watching as meaningless letters and numbers scrolled by on the strip display over the trading floor. Finally, after a couple of weeks I was let go, the reason given was that I did not show enough initiative and interest in the job. And, so it was back to having next to nothing. At least I had been able to buy a new pair of shoes with my first pay cheque.

Hans rented the other room on my floor to a young man who decided that we should join forces and merge our rooms together. He moved his single bed into my room and moved my table into his so that we now had a sitting room-kitchen and a separate bedroom. I was not happy, being used to being alone, but I didn’t know how to say no. He had a small portable record player and played early Beatle pieces over and over, gushing enthusiastically over each piece. I was thoroughly immersed in 20ieth century classical music at that point, thinking that Prokoviev, Stravinski, and Shostakovitch were the only music worth listening to, but the Beatles tunes were catchy and a step up from the mindless pop music that I was completely disinterested in. One night I arrived home to find him in his bed with another young man. I was repelled and took my blanket downstairs to sleep on the couch in Hans’ and Maria’s living room. The next day, Hans, on hearing why I had slept on his couch, ordered the young man to put the rooms back the way they had been originally.  In a week or so my once roommate moved out and I never saw him again.

Mr. Belt, meanwhile, was working hard to get me established at something. He sent me to visit a potential “big brother,” but the interview consisted of the intense man staring into my eyes, his hand on my thigh, telling that he hoped we would become very close as we got to know each other. Mr. Belt told me of an elderly couple who had a book-binding business looking for a young person to train to take over their shop once they retired. I could not picture myself doing this for the rest of my life. And then he lucked into an opportunity for me to start on the ground floor of a new business just opening. The owner was looking for a right-hand man to get his ice cream shop up and running, eventually becoming his manager. I went to the interview in the sawdust coated restaurant and was hired after receiving a lecture from Mr. Hopgood about how the ice cream business was all about making people happy. He gave me some pamphlets on how to store and retail ice cream to take home and study.

Over the next few days I worked at preping the restaurant, particularly at cleaning up and repairing the broken plaster walls of the washrooms. I had no idea how to mix and apply plaster. I just kept layering it on, hoping some would stick. He eventually hired someone who knew what he was doing to complete the job. I learned how to operate the grill and the formulas for making ice cream sundaes and he hired a young woman to take orders and run the cash register. Hopgood’s Old Fashioned Ice Cream Parlour and Sandwich Bar opened, the small restaurant crowded with the owner’s family and friends wishing him well.

Other staff were hired—young people from a local high school. Though I was supposed to be training to be the manager, I was treated like the other employees and resented it. I felt humiliated when told to distribute flyers throughout the local neighbourhood. I retreated to working the grill, though I had no idea how to make the fried eggs sandwiches and other simple items on the menu. Mr. Hopgood himself seemed unclear on how to run a restaurant in that part of Toronto. Initially he charged ten cents for a cup of coffee and faced a near riot as customers refused to pay such an exorbitant price. I had to scratch out the ten cent prices on the menus and replace them with the standard five cents. There was a movie theatre across the street from the restaurant, but he never seemed able to coordinate our closing time with the time the movies let out, so that often he would have me reopen when he saw the crowd leaving the theatre, after all the closing activities were done, the grill scrubbed and cooling off, chairs on tables off the freshly mopped floor, cash register balanced, and all dishes washed and put away. I was angry and miserable a lot of the time. Mr. Hopgood tried giving me pep talks, telling me repeatedly that if I smiled everything would go so much better.

Finally, one night, when working alone with a young woman who was ordering me about as if I was a junior apprentice, I had enough and left by the rear door. A new plan for my future was forming. I gave Hans and Maria my notice and moved on. It was July of 1964.