A Shadow Known

I'm sitting on the stone benches between McClennen and Redpath Libraries at McGill, scribbling notes.

I glance up.

Coming from the Leacock Building is a familiar figure. Not the same but familiar. He is walking between two buddies, intent, as if a decision must be made. To be or not to be.

I recognise him now. He has lost much of his body weight, resembling more his brother Barry, lanky and tall; now older with two day growth on his face.

"He was always the darker of the two" I think to myself coversationally.

He passes by.
I stand and peer at his back.

I say out loud, " I remeber you."
There is a pause in his movement.

" I do know who you are."
He stops at this.

"I remember the pool."
He turns now and looks at me, unsure I am talking to him.
Perhaps I don't look the same. Surely I have grown so much older. After all I was only fourteen back then.

" You remember too, the days in the sun, and how you cut dolphin-like, in and out of the crystal flicker of the afternoon water, the momentum beats of your flutter kick, propelling you up and out ward, your browned bicepts slicing back down to complete a cycle of the butterfly."

He steps toward me now, unsure but with a look of wonder.

"Just fantastic you were to behold, muscles ripped in sunscreened definition, beads of water falling away as you gripped the diving board rail in prepartion. So golden in your moment of Speedo splendered contour."

He moved closer to me but now eyes closing, feeling the vision.

" Your mom and dad watched with pride, in their whites, over by Claire and Ken P. Your sister Sandra standing with her friends all watched you. Even your brother Barry had to pay attention. You were the epicentre of a summer life moment.

He held his hand to his brow. He was there living it now.

I walked to him, put my arm over his boney shoulder like a long lost pal.

" I know you recall the days horsing around with Chuck B., both of you chasing Linda P., the variety show nights - Hello Mudda, Hello Fawda, her I am in Camp Ranata, and the movies across the pool."

We walked and I spun the story of his memory through the eyes of little boy watching his bad-boy-devil- may-care hero from afar.

"And here you are- alive! You fooled them all! And they all said you died. But you are very much alive- in me you always will be.

The whole time he had not said a thing, but just held on to himself,
straining to ...
remember.

It was still dark.

Instinctively, I tried to swim back through the void, back to the world I had just been pulled from by my clock radio into this realm of darkness before the dawn.

There was a little groan at the foot of my bed. Elfin, one of the cats warned me in her own way not to disturb. I wondered for a bit if it was Saturday. No such luck. Ah yes - I recalled through the fog, the reason for waking so early- get to the city by 7:30 a.m.

How bloody uncivilized.

Proceeding from shower, shave and dressing, padding my way down the hall past empty bedrooms which used to house our children, loafers suspended by two fingers, ninja business dude still struggled to wake up, yet endeavouring to allow Jane and cats to continue sleeping.

Glancing at the mirror in the hall, everything seemed to be in order, hair in place -neither too long n'or too short, a dash of gray on the sides now, brown corduroy jacket reminiscent of grade seven, but on the man in the mirror, somewhat academic, not quite the financial advisor, but what the hell- I was off to a 'roadshow' not to see a client.

Today was to be TD Bank's turn at Place du Commerce in Old Montreal.

At least there were no patches on my elbows as some of my professors of thirty-five years ago- McGill U.

It seemed back then, irrespitive of the wear and tear of a given jacket, one had to have the required look offered up by patches on the elbows, somehow offsetting the mustaches, sideburns, long V Motown collars, wide leather belt and buckle with the 'just so'
worn-in desert boots emerging from stove-pipe Levi jeans. Ah- but that was then and this is now.

A 'roadshow'-. The word has always brought to mind a carney act; the snake-oil salesman mounts the steps, at the back of his wagon, extolling the vibrant virtue of a bottles blue glass elixir, held up delicately between digits, capturing the gleam of the sun, one dash melted shoe polish, to generous measure of spit and vinager, said to be sourced from a lost tomb beyond the veil of Isis, that of Queen Nephretiti herself.

But in today's financial industry, the 'road-show' is where manufacturer/suppliers of financial products from ETFs, Mutual Funds, Flow Through Shares, IPOs, and Insurance products gather advisors, planners, brokers -otherwise known as 'retailers' in one place, with the lure of a free breakfast or lunch offering their latest take on the markets while hinting at new and improved products in hopes that we will serve them up to our individual end user clients...people like you.

I let myself out into the cool November darkness, slipped into the welcoming embrace of heated leather seats. Do I listen to radio news and road conditions, or blast myself into consiousness via 'Brown Sugar' on the CD, or simply cruise along and try not to compete with the idiots vying for sumpemacy of the road? What shall it be? Accept the challenge of the 4 cylendar twits and zoom another twenty feet in traffic on the hybrid V6 magic carpet. Why spend more money on gas?

"Pace yourself, " I say out loud. "Don't even turn on the phone.- Cool. Let the fools go. You don't have to prove anything."

Ok. There's the underground parking . Pay the $15 and find a spot, ticket left on the dash. Leave the coat in the car, up the escalator to register, receive my plactic name tag and today's agenda. Ah! A deserted table. (I am a rock, I am an Island sing Simon & Garfunkle in my stereophonic mind...and an island never crys...good song) Sit -coffee -eggs- no bacon thanks, I'm off the meat and hopefully off the Lipitor.

And it begins - blah blah blah, the economy this, the market that, the fund managers -who I agree have done a damn fine job this past year, more coffee, good we're almost done, time to go...

Oh oh..someone approaching in peripheral range on my right, lift my head, adjust my glasses, it's ..WHOA!

"Don't she look good man!" exclaims my pre-ten o'clock investment adled mind.

Well, I had to wake up sometime.

Quick! Who is that- you know her.. my memory zaps back - way back.. to 'The Pit' just behind the family compounds near the lake at Ville de Lery. A thin attractive girl and her handsome sister watching me teach YMCA skiing as they rest elbows on their own ski poles.

"Well good morning Les - forgotten me already?"

Ah! Gail Goodfellow.

Look at her -little girl grown up, neat, trim form and quite professional - grown ever so effortlessly Fifth Form and charm into a natural grace and light. That smile, the eyes. Her mom and dad would have been so proud.

What a way to start the day.

This is one of the benefits of having stayed in Montreal.
One is always bumping into one's mirage montage past.