Episode 1, Part 2

York Mills, Ontario

Every window was illuminated in the luxurious home situated in a quiet cul-de-sac of Toronto’s most affluent suburb, creating a beacon in the midst of the otherwise sleepy neighborhood sufficient for guiding ships to harbor in Lake Ontario on a foggy night.

Upstairs in the master bedroom, Brooke was pacing the floor, hissing undiluted venom with careful enunciation to ensure every word was heard loud and clear through the receiver of the iPhone that was lying face-up on an end table in speaker mode.

“…and I can’t even say I’m surprised, Amanda.  After all, you couldn’t be bothered to show up for my wedding or Tabitha’s bat mitzvah or—

“I don’t consider someone’s third marriage something that rises to the level of an occasion.”

“What?  It was my second wedding, you little shit, but now that you mention it, I don’t recall you gracing us with your presence at the first one, either.  Just forget I even called.  It’ll be far more gratifying to accept this award withoot having to see your bitchy face sneering up at me from the audience.”

Brooke snatched her phone from the table and hung up, feeling briefly nostalgic for the days when one could punctuate unpleasant telecommunications with a furious slam of the headset into a receiver.  Amanda had been correct, of course.  Elliot Hoffman was Brooke’s third husband, but rather than acknowledge the mortifying emotional abuse she’d endured from Augustin, she chose instead to pretend that memories of her impetuous Parisian nuptials were merely the contents of an oddly recurrent bad dream.

She had fallen for Augustin the moment she heard him vociferously lecturing a group of students in a shady courtyard of École Internationale.  It was two months after she’d enrolled at the institution, so Brooke felt vulnerable and memories of home were fresh.  Regardless, Augustin’s youthful passion and shoulder-length raven-black hair were enough to obscure from her conscious mind the fact that he was just as aggressively misogynistic as her father, another topic which Brooke found prudent to avoid.  It had taken a considerable effort to refrain from spitting in his casket at the funeral last year.

Shaking off these unpleasant psychic intrusions, Brooke turned her thoughts to a week from tonight, when she would be a nominee for the Womenswear Designer of The Year at the Canadian Arts & Fashion Awards.  A faint smile crossed her face as she remembered someone from long ago and retrieved the phone from her pocket.

 *************************

Our Lady of Sorrows Convent
Vancouver, British Columbia

“Sister Courtney!”

From the far end of the corridor, Sister Regina skipped to Courtney’s side, her habit swaying precariously from side to side before her sneakers slid to a squeaky halt upon catching up with her comparatively reserved friend.

“Hi, Regina.  What’s up?”

“I saw your brother on Jimmy Fallon last night – he’s sooo funny!”

“Yeah, that seems to be the consensus.”

“He’s dreamy, too.  If he ever decides to pay us a visit, my vow of chastity is toast!”

“You sound pretty confident.  Listen, I have something important that I need to discuss with Mother Judy.  Have you seen her?”

“Sure, she’s down in the church basement helping pick up after last night’s 12 Step meeting.  For a bunch of sober guys, they sure do treat our place like a dive bar.”

“Yeah, I guess…I’ll see you around.”

Sister Regina bit her lip and stared after her friend as she disappeared down the north stairwell.  Something wasn’t right.  She hadn’t seen Courtney laugh or even crack a smile in weeks and her manner had become uncomfortably brooding.  She thought back to morning mass and remembered something else: Sister Courtney neglected to make the sign of the cross at the commencement of the Gospel, and she hadn’t lined up to receive communion with the rest of the nuns, opting instead to remain in her pew and stare straight ahead.

Regina resolved that this afternoon, she would have her own private chat with the Mother Superior.

*************************

Vancouver, B.C.

Jerry finished swabbing the last of the tables in the back room, whipped off his apron and killed the lights.  The quiet three block stroll back to his apartment afforded him his only opportunity to ruminate free from the noise of boisterous teenage idiots.

Last week, Jerry had turned 45 years old withoot a hint of fanfare (or even recognition).  He held the same job that he’d had since the age of fifteen and made nearly the same salary.  Back then, the cafe had been called The Avalon, but aside from the addition of the word Bistro to its moniker and some updated Formica countertops, the establishment was essentially stuck in a time warp.  Jerry couldn’t help but feel like he was, too.

As he rounded the corner onto Crown Street, he noticed a loose flap of paper wedged at the base of a chain link fence.  Bending down to investigate, Jerry picked up a small paper bag emblazoned with the Mac’s logo and peered inside.  It contained roughly a dozen Lotto Max tickets bearing yesterday’s date, all intact aside from some slight water stains around the edges.  With a smirk, Jerry deposited the bag in his coat pocket and continued home through the gloomy night, making a quick pit stop at the corner Petro-Canada for a copy of The Sun.  Pessimism was Jerry’s mainstay defense against feelings of loneliness and failure, but still…it couldn’t hurt to at least check the winning numbers.  With the paper rolled up under his arm and a six pack of Labatt Blue in hand, Jerry arrived at the door of his studio apartment and let himself inside.

Jerry hung up his coat, removed the small paper bag from its pocket, grabbed a beer, twisted the top off and flicked it across the room before settling his voluminous frame on the sofa.  He shook the tickets oot of the bag onto the coffee table and opened the paper to yesterday’s OLG results.  Running his finger across the row of numbers on the first ticket, he checked it against the winning Lotto Max numbers.

24 – 9 – 47 – 15 – 39 – 4 – 33

Jerry choked, took a quick pull from his beer and looked again.

24 – 9 – 47 – 15 – 39 – 4 – 33

“Ho-ly shit!”  A demented smile contorted his facial features into a demonic display of  glee.  He chuckled at the recollection he’d almost called oot sick today as he jumped up and down on the precariously buckling sofa cushions.  Tonight, he would celebrate. Tomorrow, he would finally kick this world’s sorry ass.

 

Episode 1, Part 1

This will be the last of my editorial commentary for a while, just to let you know how I’ll be posting this reunion story, then I’ll get the hell oot of the way and let the tale tell itself.  I’ve settled on an 8-episode Netflix series as the ideal format (many thanks to Tom of TomBeingTom for the idea).  That will give me more than enough time to flesh oot the plots of this large ensemble cast and it also gives me license to swear.  Each episode would probably run aboot an hour (or slightly less), so in order not to overwhelm, I’ll break each episode into at least two posts.  Aside from some pre-existing rough ideas that I want to integrate into the story, I’ll be essentially making this up as I go, which means that suggestions will still be welcome and considered right to the end, so don’t be shy in the comments section.  The format will be something between fictional prose and television script, which is to say that it’s not really in any official format; for now, I just want to get the plots and the dialogue oot there.  I can worry aboot stylistic consistency later, should I happen to be contacted by either Random House or Ryan Reynolds. Below is the start of Episode 1, which will now necessitate 3 posts to complete because of the long-winded blabbermouthery you’re enduring at this very moment.  In other words, this is an atypically short one just to get the ball rolling. Enjoy!

Backstage
Atrium Theater, Luxor Casino
Las Vegas, NV
December 28, 2021

“Do we have a pulse?”

“Yeah.  Blood pressure 180 over 110 and rising.  Prepare the defibrillator and try to find a contact while I stabilize him for transport and wipe this shit off his face.”

“Does he have a phone?”

“Yeah, here.  Call it into General, too.  Dylan Blackwell, 45-year-old male Caucasian, possible narcotic overdose resulting in cardiac arrest.  Judging from the marquee, he probably did the audience a favor.  Who the hell does a Hendrix tribute in blackface, for Christ’s sake?”

Beep…beep…beeeeeeeeeeeppp

 *************************

Durham, Ontario

“Alright, Babe, I’m gonna go show that house in Forest Hill again.  I should be back around 5:00.”

Ashley was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at her phone with a wistful smile.  Curious at her lack of response, Matt approached from behind and peered over her shoulder.  Ashley quickly slid her arm over the iPhone screen and smiled up at Matt.

“sorry, matt, i didn’t see you there.”

“You look dumbfounded.  Anything wrong?”

“no.  no, nothing wrong.  i just got a text from an old friend i haven’t heard from in ages.”

“Anyone I know?”

“i don’t think so.  h—she didn’t graduate from hillside.”

“Well, I hope you enjoy catching up.  Love you.”

With a peck on the lips, Matt took his leave, whereupon Ashley moved her arm from the phone and stared at the message in disbelief.

Almost died last night.  I’m coming home in a few weeks.  I want you to know that I never stopped loving you. – Dylan

 *************************

Vancouver, British Columbia

Unbroken sheets of rain had transformed the parking lot of Mac’s Convenience Store into a colorful tapestry of irrigated oil stains.  Exiting the store, Chris watched a slowly rotating kaleidoscope of viscous fluids in a puddle by his feet as he bit the cellophane tab on his pack of du Mauriers, opened it with his teeth and slid one between his lips.  Fumbling for a lighter, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled oot the crumpled bills he’d just received as change from the cashier.

“Oh shit.”

Roxane, as always, had made herself crystal clear.  A pint of milk, a copy of the Vancouver Sun and a home pregnancy test from the pharmacy next door.  “And no beer…God help you if you come home with beer.”

Chris, as always, had blown the wad of cash he’d been handed on cigarettes and lottery tickets.  Lighting his smoke beneath the store’s sheet metal awning, his panic began to subside at the realization he’d at least refrained from grabbing a 40 ounce from the cooler and thus had followed the most vehemently delivered of Roxane’s dictatorial directions.  Usually, this kind of partial adherence to the rules was enough to ensure the ensuing financial argument ended in a stalemate.

He walked back to the apartment complex and hesitated briefly before going inside.  Roxane hadn’t moved from the sofa, arms crossed tightly in exaggerated impatience.

“Let me guess…you got mugged by street cats and they ran off with the milk?”

“Don’t start…if we don’t come into some serious cash quick, we’re fucked, Roxane.”

“And if you still don’t realize that the odds of winning the Lotto Max are even worse than those of you holding down a job for longer than a month, you’re fucked, Chris.  Did you at least get the paper?  Hand me the classifieds and go walk your damn dog, he’s been whining at the back door for an hour.”

Chris trudged into the kitchen and grabbed Dudley’s leash from a hook on the wall, relieved at the opportunity to escape the apartment again, if only for ten gloriously peaceful minutes.  In the living room, Roxane grabbed her cell phone and shot off a quick text.

It was still teeming as Chris leaned against the far end of the complex’s security fence, waiting for Dudley to do his business.  He pulled his fists into the sleeves of his coat when he spotted two silhouettes approaching from across the street.  Their features were obscured in the inclement night, but Chris could discern that they were larger than average sized men, with a deliberately slow and determined gait.

“Jesus, Dudley, hurry the fuck up.”

Before he knew it, Chris found himself flanked on either side.

“Oh, fuck, Tony?  Ben?  You guys scared the shit oot of m—”

A sucker punch to the nose sent Chris tumbling to the mud.  As he struggled to regain his footing, a boot caught his left side causing him to roll into the fence.  Tony straddled his body, creating a vapor cloud in the frigid winter air that seemed to ring his words with a tangible aura of menace as he bent down to face Chris.

“If you don’t man up and start treating Roxane right, the next time, we’ll kill you.”

Shivering in the mud, Chris watched his attackers disappear into the night while Dudley sniffed at the small paper bag on the ground that had fallen oot of Chris’ jacket pocket during the scuffle.