1982 (21 page)

Still, whether wearing nothing on his torso or sporting his brown leather jacket, Toke’s older brother became an important influence on us in learning about rock music and life. Toke was a regular source of information for me, but Mitch was the ultimate source. Mitch always had CHUM FM on in the house. Unlike 1050 CHUM, which just played the pop hits, CHUM FM had emerged as the more mature and cutting-edge progressive rock station in the late ’70s. By 1982, I would discover CFNY, the New Wave and new music station. But until then, CHUM FM was a training ground.

Mitch particularly liked his hard rock. Because of Mitch, Toke knew lots of AC/DC lyrics. AC/DC were the massively successful Australian rock band that featured anthemic songs, loud power chords, screaming vocals, and a diminutive energizer-bunny guitarist dressed as a schoolboy. Of course, you already know AC/DC. Explaining who AC/DC were is like explaining what bread is. They became one of the biggestselling bands of all time. AC/DC were the declared favourite of older rock guys in the late ’70s, along with bands like Zeppelin and the Who. Toke would often slowly repeat AC/DC lyrics as if he were dictating to a child. Toke didn’t sing. And Toke was already turning into a bit of a tough guy like his brother. Only sissies really sang. The fact that I sang would become a dividing line between us eventually, but for the most part in the early ’80s I didn’t sing very much in front of Toke, and
definitely not in the presence of Mitch. Mitch had told Toke to always be proud and never let people tease him. Toke puffed out his chest when he walked and carried his Afro-laden head high. I think Mitch had taught him to do that, too.

Toke didn’t have lots of friends beyond me, but early on he had gained some notoriety in being a renegade who would do crazy things. Toke would do these things in exchange for money. We had a group of kids who hung out on my street, including Pete Hickey, Randy Jones, Little Charles, and Toke. Back in 1978, the summer before Grade 6, Toke had declared that he would swallow anything if we collectively gave him fifty cents. His first challenge was to eat a raw egg. At the appointed time, we gathered in front of my house and watched while Toke broke a raw egg into a mug and then purposefully put the mug up to his mouth and quickly swallowed the contents. We gave Toke his fifty cents and he went home with his chest puffed out. The rest of us discussed how Toke was a real crazy daredevil.

The following week, Toke ate a pink pencil eraser for fifty cents. It was important for Toke to up the ante each time. Soon, word got out that if we could put together one dollar, doubling the purse, Toke was going to eat a “live guppy.” Now, when I say “word got out,” I mean Toke announced this with his right index finger in the air to anyone who would listen. “Hallo, everyone. I’m going to eat a live guppy. Dat’s what I’m going to do. I will eat a live guppy on Wednesday afternoon for a dollar!”

I wasn’t sure about the supposed importance of Toke’s guppy victim being “live.” It seemed like less of a shocking trick than swallowing a dead guppy. But I suppose Toke meant
that the guppy would be uncooked and still squirming and therefore less than savoury. As rumours spread of Toke’s intention to eat a live guppy, a group of kids once again gathered on the street in front of my house on the appointed Wednesday afternoon. Pete Hickey and Randy Jones were there, as well as me, Toke, and Davey Franklin. Toke showed up with some fanfare and a sandwich bag containing water and a guppy swimming in it. He made sure to collect his dollar first. We all pulled coins out of our pockets until it added up to the dollar we’d promised. Then Toke dramatically picked the guppy out of the bag, held it high over his head, and dropped it into his mouth and swallowed. Toke made a big production of swallowing the guppy. He made sure to make a loud
gulp
sound for our benefit. He then opened his mouth wide as evidence that the “live guppy” was well into his body. After he made it clear that he’d really swallowed the live guppy, Toke tried to make himself throw up. But he didn’t. Still, there was no doubt Toke put some thought into these performances.

Here is a short list of items Toke swallowed for money in the summer before Grade 6:

raw egg

pink pencil eraser

small bag of dirt

sheet of paper

live guppy

After each feat of public swallowing, Toke would put his right finger in the air and sing-speak the lyrics to the AC/DC song “Dirty Deeds.” This was a song that actually dated back
to the mid-’70s, but it continued to be Toke’s anthem. Toke had become a fan of AC/DC’s lead singer, Bon Scott, who was still alive at the time. Toke would say, “I like dat guy, Bon Scott … ee’s great.” After eating the live guppy, Toke engaged in his standard ritual and went right into song. Again, when I say “song,” I mean he would do the slow-speak Toke version of singing that included elongating the end of the word that came at the conclusion of each phrase. “Dirty deeds … done dirt cheeeap. Dirty deeds … done dirt cheeeap.”

Sometimes I wondered if it would be a good idea for me to eat things the way Toke did—all daredevil like. I wouldn’t do it for money, but I might do it to be liked. That would probably get me some attention and make me tough. Maybe then Dana Verner wouldn’t have broken up with me. Like I told you, we kissed in Grade 5. Twice. I think. But then Dana Verner broke up with me. I wondered if it would make a difference if I was tougher. Maybe John Cusack was tougher when he was a kid. But I’m not sure he ate live guppies. And I’m not convinced Dana Verner would have stayed with me if I ate live guppies, either. Years later, by Grade 9, I had a good sense that eating live guppies was for kids. I knew that Wendy was too cool to be impressed by such foolishness. And Bowie probably didn’t care about kids that could swallow a pink eraser.

Toke and I saw movies together and spent countless after-school hours playing road hockey or trading hockey cards. But as Toke and I grew older, we had less in common. I was in the school musical in Grade 8,
Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat
, and that really wasn’t Toke’s bag. I was gradually getting into artsy girls and theatre and New Wave, and that was all very different from what Toke was interested in. Toke
didn’t really seem to understand Bowie. And Bowie was rapidly becoming my idol. If Toke didn’t also become a fan of David Bowie, we were in serious trouble. CHUM FM was playing Bowie and songs like “Under Pressure” in 1981, but Bowie was probably too theatrical and androgynous for Toke. And though Bowie was respected, he wasn’t hard rock. By Grade 9, Toke and I would end up in different high schools. I transferred to Thornlea SS, the “arts” high school my sister was attending. Toke went to Thornhill SS. He called it the “rocker” school.

Still, Toke and I remained very close until we were both fifteen. At the end of Grade 8, Toke and I had both gotten our Adidas bags. We didn’t actually buy them together, but we had much to celebrate when we shared our cool acquisitions. We spent a bunch of time that summer walking around with our new Adidas bags and getting Lolas from the Mac’s Milk on the corner with the lady my father called “the good Chinese woman” behind the counter. A Lola was a giant triangle of coloured ice with sugar. It came in flavours like cherry red or blue. We were never sure what flavour blue was. One time, Toke suggested that he would consume an entire Lola in one gulp if I gave him five dollars. Toke continued to think of dares that might make an impression. I didn’t agree to give him the five dollars. That was a lot of money for us. You could get an album at Sam the Record Man on Yonge Street downtown for $2.99 if you got yourself in the 6 a.m. lineup on Saturday mornings. But also, the Lola just looked very large and potentially dangerous.

THE MOST COMMON ACTIVITY
in our part of Thornhill from ages eight to fourteen was playing road hockey. I had gotten a net, and
we usually had enough kids to form two teams. Our suburban street was relatively quiet, and most drivers knew that as they rounded the corner onto our road on any given afternoon there was probably some hockey going on, and so they gave us enough time to scream “Car!” and clear the way for passage. If other kids weren’t around, Toke and I would just take shots. That would involve one guy playing net and the other guy shooting a tennis ball at him. In contrast to my less-than-spectacular on-ice performance in the winter leagues, I was a pretty good road hockey player. I was fast and I had a quick snap shot. I had scored seven goals in one road hockey game, although Little Charles claimed that I was at an advantage because he had a cast on and could only hold his stick with one hand.

Toke was a bit slower than the other players and was sometimes relegated to playing in net with his big green duffle coat and his Habs toque. One of the older kids on the street, Rick Bolton, was a junior hockey player with a chip on his shoulder and would play rough with us. He lived across the street a few houses down from me. Rick was a pretty nice guy overall, but not when he played hockey. He had lost a couple of fingers in his left hand, and he had to hold the top of his hockey stick with his elbow against his chest. Sometimes, when we played road hockey, Rick seemed to use younger kids as a way to get his frustrations out.

One cold day in the fall of 1982, around dusk, Rick summoned us from across the street to take shots with him. That really meant Toke and me taking turns in net while Rick took shots at us. Rick seemed to be having a harsh day, and he started shooting really hard at Toke. It didn’t seem like Rick
was trying to score, but rather that he wanted to target Toke and hurt him. Rick laughed each time he hit Toke, and I stood by helplessly as I saw the tension escalate. When Toke made the mistake of calling him a “weasel!” out loud, Rick Bolton took a blistering slapshot from the middle of his driveway and hit Toke directly in the face. Toke fell to the ground and started rolling around, holding his head. I had never seen him so vulnerable. I ran to see if Toke was okay, but he said nothing. He got to his feet and pulled up the hood of his green duffle coat and started running away in the direction of his house. I tore across the street to tell my mother that Toke had been hurt. Rick Bolton just laughed and continued to take shots at the net on his driveway.