Jim Hagarty

All that stood between me and the waitress behind the front counter at the coffee shop were three people – a well-dressed man and his two female companions. “I should have my coffee to go in a minute,” I thought, a good thing because of the hurry I was in.

But I was not to be so lucky.

“We’ll have two Jolly Jelly Delights, and a Hungerbuster,” said the man, and while the waitress went to fetch them, he and his companions surveyed the doughnut shelves as carefully as detectives inspecting the scene of a homicide.

“Anything to drink?” asked the waitress when she’d returned with the food.

“Yes,” said the man. “We’ll have one small coffee to go, a medium coffee and a tea.”

“What would you like in them?” asked the waitress, as a line of people began forming behind me.

“Well,” said the man, “I’d like lots of cream and about half a teaspoon of sugar in my coffee. And my sister here would like cream and sugar …”

“Not cream, Albert. Milk. You know I can’t handle cream,” scolded the sister. “And no sugar.”

“Yes, no sugar. And milk,” Albert shyly told the waitress. “And my wife will take just a bit of cream in her tea.”

The drinks came. By then, Albert had already eaten his Hungerbuster and the evidence lay in crumbs down the front of his shirt.

“Anything else?” asked the waitress.

“As a matter of fact,” said Albert’s wife. “I’d like something else to eat. What about you two?” Ab and his sis conferred and agreed that they too could do some more chowing down.

“I’d like to have one of those Sweet Dreamy Creams,” said Mrs. Albert, “but they look too rich.”
“How much are the Tasty Twists?” she finally asked.

“They’re 79 cents,” said the waitress, who by now was shooting sympathetic looks my way.

“Well, I’ll take two of those to go.” Albert and his sibling were analyzing the contents of the display window below the counter when he announced: “I’d like a Sprinkle Top Tart and a Crusty Custard.”

The line behind me was so long, by now, it extended through the doorway and onto the sidewalk outside.

“Is there much sugar in a Puff of Stuff?” Ab’s sister asked the waitress.

By now, a second waitress had come to the rescue and I placed my order. But the drama next to me continued.

“Anything else?” the first, harried waitress asked sadly.

“Yes, of course,” smiled Albert. “You didn’t think we’d quit just yet, did you?” I, for one, didn’t think they would. Just yet. Or ever.

“We’d all like something to drink here, as well.”

And as I grabbed my coffee and filed out of the shop past a group of unhappy-looking customers who seemed on the verge of rioting, I could hear Albert and family in the midst of an argument over who would pay for the whole production.

“Well, who paid last time?” asked Sis. Nobody seemed to know.

I don’t know either.

I do know we customers all paid this time.

©1989 Jim Hagarty

One part of my job as a newspaper editor involves writing headlines, a task I usually don’t mind too much. Trying to cram a few key words into a small space and make them accurately reflect the story below them, is a challenge and takes a bit of skill.

A poor headline writer can keep a newspaper’s phone lines jammed with angry callers. In fact, nine times out of 10, it is the headline that readers object to, not the content of the story itself, and thus a hapless reporter will get the blame when it was really a careless editor who let her down.

Headline writers also have to tread as carefully a cat through a dog kennel when they’re putting heads on sensitive stories such as this week’s news that five women who took off their shirts in public last summer were found not guilty of indecency in a Kitchener court on Monday. The next day, one newspaper announced on the top of its front page, Topless Ruling Leaves Deep Rifts. (You can look up the word “rifts” on your own – I’m in enough trouble already.) Undaunted, the newspaper told its readers on Page 1 the following day, above a picture of a smiling, male police chief, Police Won’t Ignore Bare Breasts. I had a feeling they wouldn’t.

As a rural editor, the range of stories I get to handle rarely gets as exotic as breasts, bare or otherwise. I can most often be found struggling with headlines that suggest, Town Councillors Debate Zoning Bylaw Amendment or Farmers Fear GATT Ruling Will Kill Supply Management. Important stories all, but not the kind you can have much fun writing heads for.

If you want fun in this business, you have to become a sports editor. Most of the time, they have a ball. From time to time, I look over enviously at the sports editor at this newspaper and watch him chuckle as he writes Leafs Fall, or Kings Crowned, Sharks Bite Bruins or Oilers Drill Isles.

And now, as if he hasn’t got it too good already, along comes the National Hockey League’s latest team, The Mighty Ducks. Sports editors continent-wide are lamenting what the name of this team from Anaheim, California, will do to the dignity of the game, but I know better. Down deep, they’re relishing the years of snappy headlines to come, because if ever a name was made for pun-loving headline scribblers everywhere, it was this one.

And so, I face more years of writing Township Appoints Fence Viewers, Milkhouse Wastewater Pollutes Waterways and Official Plan Designates Industrial Areas while the sports editors get to devise headlines about The Mighty Ducks.

Well, that’s it. I’m not going to take it anymore. I’ll head them off at the pass.

Remember, you read these here first!

Flames Roast Ducks – Calgary Downs Anaheim

Birds Of A Feather Stick Together – Ducks, Hawks, Tie

Ducks Flap Wings – Detroit Loses Big One To Anaheim

Ugly Duckling Throws Tantrum – Ducks Rookie Starts Brawl

Waddle The Ducks Do Now? – Anaheim Loses Head Coach

No Ducking The issue – Montreal Faces Tough Anaheim Squad

Quack Created In Ducks’ Roster – Leading Scorer Out For Season

Ducks Float To Easy Win – Anaheim Shuts Out Washington

Ah, come to think of it, the sports department can keep their Mighty Ducks. To be honest, writing those snappy headlines wasn’t all it was quacked up to be.

For me, rural headlines fit the bill just fine. They may be boring but it’s hard to ruffle many feathers announcing stories about fencelines and mandated tree cover on farmland.

©1993 Jim Hagarty

My, my, my, the world has become a touchy place.

People are walking around with their feelings hanging out, just waiting for some poor clod to come stumbling along and trip all over them.

Such a clod am I, not being particularly schooled in the right and wrong way to address people and so, it seems, I am destined for a lifetime of giving offence to the other earth creatures with whom I share this planet. Now, giving offence is something, except in a few rare cases, that I don’t much want to do. My main daily plan is to go to work, go home, eat supper, watch a sitcom and go to bed.

As I recall things only a few short years ago, the average person didn’t really even start to get whipped up unless he or she was referred to in plainly unflattering terms. Being likened to a skunk, a rat or a toad might set the blood to pumpin’ but then only if those comparisons came complete with a string of similarly unflattering adjectives like, “dirty, rotten, good-for-nothing …” and the like.

Nowadays, call someone a skunk and he or she is liable to be offended not only for his or her own honour, but for the dignity of the skunk and all other four-footed animals on the globe.

Generally speaking, it takes a whole lot less these days to get into trouble. Almost all conversation with other humans has become like trying to cross a mined battlefield – you know the enemy has planted explosives all over the terrain but you’ll only discover where they are when you step on one.

We are all expected to know all the rules without ever being told what the rules are until we break them. And we can never hope to know the rules anyway because they are changed from day to day by the people lying in wait to be offended.

This brings me to (you knew this was bringing me to something, now didn’t you?) the other day when a woman called me at the newspaper here to ask me if I knew the phone number of a woman featured in an article which ran in my section a while back. No, I’m afraid I didn’t, I told her, but if she could hang on, I would look it up. She could hang on.

Taking down the London phone book, I leafed through it hastily, hoping not to delay the caller too long in case she was paying for a long-distance call. Fearing I was doing just that, I ran back to the phone to apologize for the delay and explain the number was a little hard to locate. Shortly after that, I found the number and gave it to the woman.

“Now, if that’s her home number, do you know where I can reach her during the day?” the caller asked.

“Well, as far as I know, she doesn’t have a job, so you can probably reach her at home,” I said.

Yes, that’s right. I said that.

SHE DOESN’T HAVE A JOB!

At that moment, a dark cloud settled above my desk and lightning bolts shot out of it, just missing my head. Huge celestial buzzers went off and big red lights flashed outside my window, causing me temporary blindness. A booming voice from somewhere yelled, “WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! ERROR DETECTED! ERROR DETECTED!

There was a deathly silence. And then …

“Well, if she stays at home, I can tell you she most definitely has a job,” the woman reprimanded me.

Three little letters: j-o-b. And I had spoken them. In connection with a stay-at-home mom. And I was to be scolded, lest I be tempted to speak them again. I, who had spent five minutes running around the newsroom looking up a phone number for this anonymous woman who could have found it herself by calling Ma Bell’s information service, had to be “re-educated” lest I contaminate others with my incorrect terminology.

Fortunately for society’s sake, I was stopped before I could strike again. But I am obviously a walking, talking English language time bomb, itching to cause hurt wherever I can.

Bring on the re-education camps. How long can it be before I ask someone, “So, does your wife work?”

©1992 Jim Hagarty

It has been brought to our attention that there is still some confusion over a few of the details of the new waste-collection bylaw in the Town of St. Marys. Frankly, it has us puzzled how anyone could have any problem figuring out any part of it. It is all set down very clearly in 2,500 words on seven pages of legal-size paper.

The bylaw is divided up into 14 sections which are split into another 45 subsections. Within those 45 subsections, there are an additional 25 sub-subsections and within those sub-subsections are six more sub-sub-subsections. So, you can see, care has been taken not to leave anything out.

Because it is so simply presented, we hesitate to explain the bylaw yet again for our readers but since the maximum fine for breaking any part of it is $2,000, perhaps some sections of it do bear repeating. The bylaw excerpts we’ve been asked about most appear first in quotations with an explanation of their meaning following in regular type. (Our answers were developed after consulting with the Ontario Commissioner of Speaking Plainly.)

• “No person, other than the householder, shall pick over, interfere with, disturb, remove or scatter any bundle of paper, or article placed for removal, whether contained in a covered metal container or otherwise except and until the same is removed as herein provided, provided however, that the householder shall be permitted access to any covered metal container placed by the said householder for garbage collection by the Town, for the purpose of depositing therein additional garbage prior to the said container’s contents being collected or removed by the said Town.”

What this means:
Stay the heck out of your neighbour’s garbage can!

• “No person shall suffer or permit within the Town, the accumulation upon his premises or upon lands occupied by him or under his control, or deposit or permit the deposit upon any lands belonging to him or in occupation or under his control, of any garbage, refuse or waste or any other matter or thing, which may endanger public health.”

What this means:
Bombs, grenades, dynamite, gunpowder, live rattlesnakes and any other ammunition must be separated from the regular garbage and placed in a special green container for pickup at a later time.

• “No person shall sweep, throw, cast, lay or direct or suffer any agent or employee to sweep, throw, cast, lay or deposit any ashes, offal, fruit skins, cinders, straw, excelsior, store sweepings, shavings, paper, dirt, lawn rakings, broken glassware, hand bills, crockery, bottles, carcass of any animal, or waste of any kind whatever, on any lane, street, creek, roadway, or public place in the Town.”

What this means:
No littering allowed. For example, if you drag a dead cow, llama or bear uptown and leave it in front of the town hall, you’ll be in big trouble. (Editor’s note: Despite extensive research, we apologize that we have not been able to find out what offal and excelsior are, but to us, offal sounds awful.)

• “No person shall convey through the streets within the Town limits any garbage, refuse or any non-collectible waste except in properly covered metallic containers or otherwise in carts, wagons, or vehicles totally enclosed or covered with canvas, tarpaulins, or nets, so fastened down around the edges as to prevent any of the contents falling upon the streets and to protect the same from flies and to control, as far as possible, the escape of any offensive odours therefrom.”

What this means:
Keep your car windows rolled up as you drive through St. Marys, especially if you haven’t had a bath for a while.

Otherwise, happy waste disposalling!

©1989 Jim Hagarty

One of the troubles with getting older, it seems to me, is that whatever party a person’s been at for the past 20 years will be over, sooner or later. Smokers will eventually have to quit. Heavy drinkers will have to get sober. Drug users will have to get clean. Gamblers … well, you get the idea.

The central theme behind all these cures is abstinence makes the heart grow fonder. None of these “evils” can hurt you directly if you don’t inhale them, swallow them, pop them, shoot them or bet on them. Other people who do might get you, in which case you’ll have been done in by their addiction. But at least you’ll be blameless.

The picture is not so black and white, however, when it comes to food. In this case, when you’ve eaten yourself into trouble, you have no choice but to turn around and eat yourself back out. You can’t just swear off food and live happily ever after. Well, you can and you might live happily. But not ever after.

No, sadly, in this area, there is no choice but to start eating different foods than the ones you ate which landed you in the soup, so to speak, in the first place. And it doesn’t take a genius to realize the foods you’ve eaten for the past quarter century have been the ones you wanted to eat. By simple deduction, the foods which are now going to return you to good health are the ones you don’t like. Or you would have been eating them all along.

It is the exact reverse of the situation concerning the other addictions mentioned above. Whereas with them, your body naturally rejects nicotine, alcohol and cocaine and is happy to go back to doing without them after you’ve finally smartened up, the foods that end up being the ones you have to have are the very ones your body’s been rejecting all along.

Let me mention the name of one food, to prove my point.

Lentils.

Now, to move on to the second half of this thesis. Why, then, if everyone knows all of the above, do those involved in trying to get you to eat “right”, attempt to make you think that what’s good for you to eat is also good to eat? Why do they take away your Yummy candy bar, hand you a handful of soybeans and then try to make you happy about the trade?

A better approach, as with all matters such as this, is to use a little honesty. Admit somewhere in all that fancy dietary literature that, yes, your, “life” without pizza pie and hamburgers, chocolate cake and ice cream is pretty much over and hardly worth the effort it takes to get out of bed in the morning. But, since you have commitments to meet that absolutely require you to show up for life every day, like it or not, you are sentenced to 40 years of bran and oats, whole wheat, fish and skim milk.

Even more effective, if dietitians knew anything at all about addicted eaters, would be the use of a little reverse psychology. After all, overeaters are a bit on the rebellious side. Appeal to that aspect of their nature. Wrap up that broccoli in fancy paper, put a warning label on it regarding its terrible effect on human health, and watch the vegetable sales soar.

When the drinking of chocolate milkshakes is rightfully seen as the anti-social behaviour that it is, then we can get on with the job of redefining what is and what is not health food. For some people, one skinny, sanctimonious guy in a TV ad eating cherry pie and ice cream will do more to promote the eating of squash and asparagus than 20 lectures on the evils of doughnuts.

Ban the banana. It’s the only way.

©1990 Jim Hagarty

At times, it disappoints me to know that the two cats I share my home with think of me as just a giant can opener with a beard. But I guess I shouldn’t expect better from a species of animal whose only apparent purpose in life is to eat. (Notice how similar the words cat and eat are?)

It amazes me how much food two furry creatures that don’t even stand as tall as the top of my socks can put away in a day. Grumbles’ capacity for chow is especially startling. At eight inches high and weighing in at only four pounds, she’s a regular dining machine. Considering I weigh about 40 times as much as her and stand almost 10 times as tall, I would have to eat, if I wanted to match her daily intake, about 20 large cans of mushy cat food a day plus a pound or two of kibble and 10 or 12 mice.

Where do they put it all? Even though my other cat Buddy, once a slim and dashing feline, now looks like an over-inflated beach ball covered in fur, he’s still just a runt compared to other heavy-eating animals such as buffaloes, whales and draught horses. And yet, if it’s organic and not moving, he’ll eat it, anytime, anywhere. For Grumbles, it doesn’t even have to be not moving. She has a special way of getting her snacks to slow down.

If my cats were cars, they’d be getting about four miles to the gallon. Every three or four weeks, I spend another $30 on cat food. I buy the wet food by the case – 24 cans at a time – and the dry kibble by the 20-pound bag. The cats do cartwheels across the lawn when they see me coming up the driveway with all this under my arms.

And yet, as maddening as the insatiable appetites of these two fuzzy bottomless pits can be, the quantity of food they process through their frames each day is not my main complaint. Everything has to eat. What really gets me going is the way they connive and scheme to get me to feed them and the way they go about chowing down once I do.

Grumbles, no doubt forever affected by her former life as an alley cat, believes each meal will be her last and therefore, is constantly vigilant. Her little ears are especially attuned to the sounds of a fridge door opening and a can opener grinding tin. She can be sound asleep in a box in a far corner of the basement, but let me open any cupboard door in the kitchen and she’ll soon be standing beside me conducting an inventory of the groceries.

And once she’s decided it’s snack time, there’s no getting her to forget it. She has several types of meows from contented, to bored to angry but there is one particularly aggravating cry she saves for those times when I delay too long in opening up the cafeteria. The honking of a kid blowing the horn in his parents’ car every five seconds is a rather nice sound in comparison.

And if I don’t move immediately to feed her, she proceeds through various dramatic contortions to warn me of her impending death from starvation. She has perfected a mournful cry and a pitiful and frantic look that would win her an Oscar if she was in acting.

Buddy, on the other hand, doesn’t bother with the long, drawn-out preliminary theatrics and while Grumbles is shaking and jumping like a leaf in a windstorm, he lies quietly and patiently by the basement door, apparently taking no interest in the proceedings. Instead, he saves all his firepower for the end but what a barrage it is. Dispensing with all the coaxing and cajoling and pleading Grumbles goes through every night before supper, Buddy just suddenly raises his hulk off the floor, quietly takes up a position directly in front of me and lets off a series of loud and unbroken meows.

For all Grumbles’ antics, it’s Buddy’s yowling which, roughly translated means, “Hey! You! I want my supper. Now!” that get the action. I drop whatever I’m doing and serve up their grub as fast as I can just to get that awful sound to stop.

When they finally do start eating, there are certain rituals to observe. Buddy has to look over at Grumbles’ plate and she stares over at his. Before long, they trade. They’re both sure the other one got the best of the deal. Then they have to walk around their plates two or three times to come at their meals from the best angle.

Grumbles finally hits her plate running and finishes it off in minutes. Buddy, takes his time. First, he has to lick all his food, like a smoker licking the tip of his rum-dipped cigar. Then he has to push it all off the dish with his nose and onto the floor. Only at this point, can he begin to eat. By the time he finishes, Grumbles has already gone outside and ran up and down the trunks of a half dozen trees.

All fueled up and ready for action, darling kitties show no further interest in their great provider until their tanks run low again.

Unless, of course, it’s cold and they need somebody’s stomach to sit on for warmth.

©1987 Jim Hagarty

When the middle-aged black man and his sister sat down next to me at our table on the high school gymnasium floor, I became a bit ruffled. I had been sitting beside my sister and her husband and was looking forward to an enjoyable evening of cabaret song and dance by the senior students of their kids’ school. Now, a change of plans and seating had put me next to two total strangers and it was with them I was about to share the night.

My new acquaintances were introduced to me as friends of my sister and after handshakes and smiles all around, we all settled in for some heavy-duty chitchat. How long had they lived in this city? How’d they like the school? Was I driving home or spending the night? Did they think spring would ever get here? What a-strange winter we’d had, eh?

Even after the show had begun, I was still unable to return to the relaxed state I had been in before the musical chairs had begun. I felt unusually uncomfortable around these strangers and I couldn’t quite figure out why. Perhaps it was the fact they were so well dressed, while I was in jeans and open-collar shirt.

Or maybe it was the impression I got that they were very classy – even wealthy – people. My sister had mentioned he was a doctor. This is always enough to rattle a former farm boy from Logan Township.

It’s even possible, I guess, as I am just a human being, that the colour of my table companions’ skin had helped to unnerve me. Not because I am bothered by black people, but because I so much want black people to know I am not bothered by black people.

In this day and age, when we’re all striving so hard to be socially “appropriate”, who doesn’t want to make that extra effort to be considered benign?

So, as 15 high school dancers and singers took to the stage to do a Broadway number, I glanced over the names of the performers in the program on the table before me. As I scanned the list of unfamiliar names, one jumped out at me. It was the name of the son of the man beside me, who had mentioned his boy was in the show.

Oh, if it were possible to rewind life and tape over the parts we didn’t like, I might erase the next few seconds.

“Which one is your son?” I leaned over and asked the man beside me and as the words left my mouth, I suddenly felt my neck get warm. I looked up and quickly did a colour check of the performers. Twelve of them were white. There were two black females.

And only one black male. He stood a foot taller than everyone else in the show and wore his hair in high, gelled spikes.

His father looked at me with a wide smile and said, “I was going to try to claim that little guy in the middle, but I knew I couldn’t fool you.” Then he broke into a long, hearty laugh and told his sister what I’d said. I put my hand on his shoulder, felt my face change its colour to that of a late-evening sun, and didn’t even try to explain.

We got along fine after that.

©1991 Jim Hagarty

Call it a mid-life crisis. That’s probably what it was.

But I was bored with the music I’d been listening to for decades. All that doo-wop stuff from the ’50s and the yeah-yeah stuff from the ’60s just had to go. I needed a change. I made up my mind that when the ’90s arrived, I’d be ready for them.

So when I saw something on television about the alternative rock music scene, I decided to check it out.

“I’d like to see your alternative music section,” I said daringly to the record store owner. I could feel a glint of adventure beaming from my eyes. No more Beatles and Beach Boys, Drifters and Dylan for me. The Everly Brothers could Dream, Dream, Dream on somebody else’s stereo. It was time for a walk on the wild side.

“Right this way,” he said, and as I followed him to the back of the shop, I felt myself tingle with excitement at this breaking out. First I’d change my music and then, who knows, maybe my clothes, my hair, my glasses. I might even start wearing an earring. Maybe get a buzz cut. Have my phone number sheared into the sides of my head.

“Here we are,” said the owner, as we stopped before a section of records and tapes. “I’ll leave you to browse.”

“That’s cool,” I said. “Far out.”

Eagerly, I began flipping through albums, searching for new musical heroes. I filed through records by bands named Megadeth, Poison, Nuclear Assault and The Stranglers and I paused for a moment at one by 10,000 Maniacs. Talk about your big band. There were cassette tapes by Suicidal Tendencies, Mutant Cats From Hell, Bad Brains, Exploding White Mice and Circle Jerks. The Cosmic Psychos, Drunks With Guns and The Flesheaters all had recordings out as did The Gruesome, Little Wretches, Violent Femmes and Nasty Savage.

There was even a band called The Stupids.

I started to feel confused. Should I buy an album by My Dad Is Dead called Let’s Skip The Details or that new record by Swamptrash entitled it Don’t Make No Never Mind?

I paused at a record by the Pyjama Slave Dancers named Blood, Sweat and Beers but couldn’t decide between it and the new release by Warrant called Dirty Rotten Filthy Stinkey Rich. Tough choice.

Gradually, I started to realize this becoming modern wasn’t going to be easy. There was just too much good stuff to choose from.

I checked out an album by Skulls named Dress Up And Die, but decided to move on. Should my new favourite band be Death Sentence, Vandals or Trained Attack Dogs? Or should it be Treacherous Jaywalkers, Prefab Sprout or Echo and The Bunneymen? How about Public Enemy, The Dead Milkmen or Skinny Puppy?

I picked up a record by Dirty Rotten Imbeciles – but moved on to others by Scruffy The Cat, Vampire Lovers and The Dead Kennedys.

Finally it came down to a choice between 10 bands – Omar And The Howlers, Mighty Lemon Drops, Inbred, Blue Oyster Cult, Mucky Pup, The Meat Puppies, Lime Spiders, Dag Nasty, Deadspot or Plastercene Replicas.

But then, I saw another rack full of recordings by Drips Under Pressure, Subhumans and GBH (that’s Grievous Bodily Harm).

It was an too much. I couldn’t decide.

So, I went home and put on some Roy Orbison.

I realize he was no Purple Toads or Voice Of The Beehive.

But he wasn’t bad.

Not bad at all.

©1989 Jim Hagarty

My sister jetted off to New York City last weekend along with her husband and some of their friends. So, when I saw her on Wednesday after her four-day excursion, Anne had lots to tell me.

“Well, how was your weekend?” I asked her, right off.

“Oh, fantastic,” she beamed. “Just unbelievable. New York is out of this world. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s so big and there’s so much to do. Really amazing.”

“Well, that’s great,” I exclaimed, truly pleased by her good fortune at having had such an exciting end-of-winter trip.

“Yeah,” she said. “We had a wonderful time. Just super. Hardly slept a wink. By the way, how was your weekend?”

“Oh it was fine,” I answered. “Swell. Unlimited fun and non-stop hilarity all around.”

“Really. What did you do?” she asked.

“Me? Oh, uh, let me see. Friday night after work, I went home and sat on the loveseat for a while. Then I got up and went over and sat on the couch. Then I stretched out on the couch. Then I fell asleep until 9 o’clock and when I got up, I went over to the coffee shop and read the newspaper. Then I went home and watched TV.

The next day, I went downtown and picked up some cat food and then I drove out to Motherwell to buy a lawn chair.”

“Oh really? How are things in Motherwell?” she wondered.

“Great,” I said. “Just great. So, tell me all about the Big Apple.”

“Well, we flew into LaGuardia Airport and took a taxi to our hotel downtown. That night, we hit some clubs – Sardi’s and Dangerfield’s, only Rodney wasn’t there. And we went to the Hard Rock Cafe and took the NBC tour and saw where they tape Saturday Night Live. So, what else did you do?”

“Me? Well, uh, let me see,” I said. “When I got back from Motherwell, I cleaned the sinks in the kitchen and then I sorted out my toothbrushes and swept the basement steps. So, you had a good time, eh?”

“Oh, I’m tellin’ you. I don’t think I’ve ever had a better time,” she said. “Sunday, the men went to the New York-Hartford hockey game while we women wandered around. We saw the Empire State building, the World Trade Centre, the Statue of Liberty. Later, we had drinks in the lounge at Madison Square Gardens with the Rangers. Mike’s cousin Don Maloney showed us around and I met John Vanbiesbrouck and got Marcel Dionne’s autograph. So, what else did you do?”

“Me? Oh, I bought a newspaper and read it Saturday night. Front to back. Even the business section. Then, I arranged all my catalogues in alphabetical order and fell asleep in front of the TV. So, did you see any stars on your trip?”

“Not in New York, but I almost bumped into Howie Mandel at the airport,” she said. “I bought a Cheers sweatshirt and a Letterman sweatshirt. And we rode the subway. So, you bought a lawn chair?”

“Yeah, I was pretty happy to get it,” I answered. “It matches my other one. So, anything else exciting happen in New York?”

“Are you kidding? Sometime I’ll tell you all about it. The city is so alive. Sirens goin’ all the time and cars everywhere. And people. They’re walkin’ the streets day and night. And talk about action. Wow. One day, as we were walking along, policemen started appearing all over the place and they threw a dangerous looking guy up against a car and arrested him right in front of us. So, what did you do Sunday?”

“Me? Oh I, uh, I took the lawn chair downstairs and set it beside the other one. Looked at the two of them for awhile. Then I went out and bought a Sunday paper. Read it cover to cover. Even most of the classified ads. Then, I fell asleep in front of the TV.”

“You know, the only trouble with my weekend,” she said, “is it went too fast.”

“Mine too,” I agreed. “Too bad there wasn’t some way of slowin’ them down.”

©1988 Jim Hagarty

It was a meal fit for a king.

Two big pork chops, heaps of mashed potatoes, lots of carrots, apple sauce and fresh rolls. Washed down with a large glass of cold milk and cups of steaming coffee. (Well, it wasn’t steaming, but writers always describe coffee that way.)

It was nothing fancy, really, but every bite was very tasty.

And very filling.

So filling, there was barely room for dessert, especially since I’d wolfed it all down like a lumberjack at the end of a 12-hour day in the bush.

But on this special night out with my wife, there could be no holding back and so a quick perusal of the dessert menu revealed the only choice possible for a hungry man on such an occasion.

“How big is your cherry cheesecake?” I asked the waiter.

Being a former farm boy, quantity has always counted as much for me as quality when it comes to judging the worth of a meal.

“Three inches square,” he replied, proudly. I ordered one, with ice cream on the side.

And so it arrived. The biggest piece of cherry cheesecake I’d ever seen served in a restaurant, delivered with a couple of big scoops of ice cream around it. And as well as being the biggest piece, it was the best. It was even better than the chocolate sundae my wife had ordered and which I helped her to eat.

By the end of it all, between the sundae and the cheesecake, the pork chops and the potatoes, I was the picture of a man who’d eaten his way into contentment, just a morsel or two short of busting.

“How was the cherry cheesecake?” enquired the waiter.

A simple question, really. Best answered with a simple reply. But in the heat of the excitement of a night out on the town, my sense of “humour” got the better of me.

“It was great,” I said. “But, there wasn’t enough of it.”

Now, over many years of firing off “smart” comments, I’ve learned that how a wisecrack is intended and how it is received are often two very different things. In this case, mine had been meant as a backhanded compliment. Impossible to misconstrue. But to the waiter, I guess, it was just a backhand.

I went back to digesting my meal and feeling fine.

“Well, maybe this’ll top you up,” said the waiter suddenly from behind me as he set another plate of cherry cheesecake in front of me, with even more ice cream piled around the side.

A so I suffered. Bite of cherry cheesecake by bite of cherry cheesecake. Each spoonful searching for a spot in a stomach that had filled up many spoonsful ago.

To make it worse, between the chunks of cake and cherries, there were all those words to eat.

I didn’t have to pay for the second slice.

Not until I got up, that is, and tried to walk home from the table.

©1991 Jim Hagarty