Date: windy October evening
Time: around 10:30pmI had put off my departure for the Khyber club. Now, it didn’t mean I wasn’t going to go or didn’t want to go. It was Wednesday and DJ Gordski was hosting his regular night of spinning with The Skratch Bastard. The deal was, I had increasingly became engrossed in a home screening of “Requiem for a Dream” and had to experience the conclusion. None of that partial movie bullshit. I had originally watched “Requiem” at the Oxford (months after it was originally released, of course) a little less than a year ago, but this time, the music seemed to leap from my speakers and I was getting into it like it was another character. This new found appreciation was most likely derived from witnessing the Kronos Quartet at the Rebecca Cohn a few weeks earlier and they, thankfully and spectacularly, performed selections from the films soundtrack.
As I stated in the beginning, it was windy as hell, and the trees were all taking a severe beating. By the time the end credits were rolling down the screen, and despite being emotionally drained from the powerful story line, images and various hip-hop montages, I grabbed my coat, hat and gloves and headed out the one and only door of my apartment.
It was dark and all I had packed with me my Sony discman and the Radioshack batteries required to power it. I had to head up Harvey St and over towards Spring Garden to hit the nearest Royal Bank banking machine. A guy like me just won’t settle for the fake, service-charge crazed imposters that are located at places like Atlantic News or Captain Costa’s. Speaking of charges, there was no cover at the Khyber, but I just wanted some extra cash incase local beatboxer and singer Kaleb Simmonds was around and I had an opportunity to pick-up a copy of his indie CD, “The Race.” As I corner onto Church St I could see a strange man was kneeling and hiding behind a buildings. Normally, I would have tried to avoid this shadowy character who but somehow I ended up walking right beside him.
As I approached him, I pulled one of the ear buds from out of my head and I looked into his eyes and hit the pause button, He quickly and abruptly said, “It’s OK. I’m a cop.” So, naturally I just kept motoring forward as if nothing had happened. That is what I like to call acting. That is, until I hit the other side of the street and had to look back. Did I blow his mission? All I could think about was which one of my my neighbours were up to no good. Well, no good in the eyes of the Halifax Regional Police Dept. Or was this a CSIS thing? Or were they really after me? Was I some ignorant mule in a game of international drug trafficking? Then I thought the movie was definitely going to my head. Better yet, did he really have a mission? I mean, he did have a walkie-talkie. Is that is the closest thing to ID he could produce under the circumstances?
Now that I was slightly paranoid and my mind was reeling a bit, I turned up Morris St and onto Queen. A newish, North American-brand car zipped on by me and then made a U turn near the Dalhousie (Dal- tech, TUNS, or whatever the hell they call it now) parking lot. The driver, a young clean cut male, appeared to be holding a walkie- talkie too. I felt ill equipmented. I mean, I don’t even have a frickin’ cell phone let alone a walkie-talkie. Part of me wanted to follow the car back to the scene and become a witness to whatever would transpire. Then I thought about how a stake-out is probably 99% pure boredom and cold coffee, despite what Hollywood might have us believe. An even larger part of me was content enough to continue on to the bank and then down to Barrington St. It also helped that all of me was being blown in that general direction anyway.
This appeared in a short-lived website call Halifaxstories.org, part of the City Stories Project