Number Two (9 page)

Reid would respond, frantic, both hands gripping the wheel: “We're getting there, man. I haven't been to Pittsburgh before!” In other words, the usual conversation between two dudes on a baseball road trip. The exit numbers were descending from high to low as we approached downtown, and therefore Reid deduced that we were on the right track. I continued to be a belligerent asshole in the backseat.

“That chef is a dead man . . . that chef is a dead man . . .”

Reid kept his eyes on the exit signs.

We passed Exit 7.

We passed Exit 5.

We passed Exit 3.

Reid looked back, his face painted with agony. “I don't know what to tell you, Jay. I think we missed Exit 4.”

“You son of a bitch!” I said. “I'm dying back here!”

We hit Exit 2. Then we went into a tunnel. “Jay, I'm going to have to double back and try to find it.”

I wasn't even listening by this point. How was I going to hold
on? I was just daydreaming about toilets—toilets with big comfy seats. Remember the ones at your grandmother's house with the squishy, comfortable seats and the soft shaggy rug covers for the lid? I wanted to embrace one of those toilets at that moment. I wanted to hug it like it was my long-lost child—a baby I had given up for adoption that was now in my arms and ready for me to sit and shit on. Granted, that's kind of a strange baby/parent relationship, but don't judge my parenting techniques. I was a desperate man. Tears were literally beginning to stream down my face.

Then suddenly, we emerged from the tunnel. And there it was.
Exit 4.

It didn't matter how completely messed up the Pittsburgh interstate exit system was in our minds; what mattered was that the second Reid pulled onto the Exit 4 off-ramp, he saw the hotel.

“I see it!” he proclaimed, a man so very happy at the thought that he'd soon get away from my company.

He wheeled into the entrance of the hotel and parked as close to the lobby as he could, and I sprinted inside with the speed of an escaped convict who'd just had the spotlight shone on him during a midnight jailbreak. There was a public restroom in the lobby, and I made that public restroom my bitch for the next ten minutes while Reid checked in. We met back at the car.

“We have to move the car,” I said.

“Why?” asked Reid, who was probably seconds away from hitting a man in a violent rage for the first time in his entire life.

“Because when we pulled up I was in such a rush to empty my bowels that I put a dent in this car next to us.”

We both looked at the door of the car next to us. The dent was
huge
.

“Let's move the car,” said Reid.

By the time we got to our rooms, my bowels were once again
calling out for a toilet. I decided to skip the toilet altogether this time and just go for the tub. As George Costanza once said, “It's all pipes!”

While I was continuing to deposit every remaining ounce of waste in my body into the plumbing of that roadside hotel, Reid went downstairs to the business centre to check his email. He'd been waiting on some news about a job. One of the sportscasters at CTV Edmonton was going on maternity leave and there was a fill-in job up for grabs. Despite the uncertainty over where it would lead after the year was up, Reid was more determined than ever to get that job. And once again, he was easily the most qualified person for it.

After about fifteen minutes of hanging my ass over the edge of the tub, I heard a light knock on the door of my room. I said, “Just a second!” and washed up before answering it. A dejected Reid entered the room. Amazingly, he did not pass out from the smell in the bathroom. He just stood in front of the television set.

“I didn't get the job in Edmonton.”

“Oh.” I wasn't expecting that. “I'm sorry, man.”

“And I quit my job in Lloydminster”

Wow!

“I'm just done. I called my old boss and gave him my two weeks' notice.” He was practically in tears.

In years past I would have tried to talk him out of it, to tell him to stick things out at least until he found something—anything—else. Then I remembered what I had said on the subway. It was time to move on. The decision had already been made. The strange thing was that as conservative as I usually was about these things, I thought he had made the right decision and I had given him the right advice.

“CTV Edmonton gave the job to my weekend guy,” he explained.

Now I
really
thought he had made the right decision.

At some point, we all come to grips with the fact that television is a visual medium, and often the best and most talented journalists and broadcasters don't catch their big breaks. Reid wasn't as handsome as his younger, much less experienced and less qualified weekend guy. He'd literally taught that weekend guy everything he knew about the business, but the weekend guy probably looked like a frat boy, and
that's
what news directors wanted in their sports anchor.

When people ask me how they should put together a demo tape, I think back to the advice I was given by a news director some years ago: Begin with a montage of you, just you, doing on-camera reads. Stand-ups, at the news desk, whatever. Basically you're giving the news director a chance to decide if he or she likes the
look
of you. Before that news director ever has a chance to determine how good a journalist you are, they need to determine if their audience will actually want to turn on their television and look at you every night. If the answer is “no” then sadly no amount of journalistic expertise is going to land you that job.

There is a terrific sports anchor who has worked at Global Television Vancouver (formerly BCTV) for years named Squire Barnes. He is funny, he's sharp, and his delivery is understated and unique. Squire is a truly different personality and has become extremely popular in the market. He also looks like the kind of guy who would dress up in costume to attend the San Diego Comic Con. In other words, he's not your typical sportscaster. But somewhere along the line someone took a chance on Squire and it worked. Reid never got that chance, never had a person in a position of power like Squire and I had who believed in him.

Meanwhile, back in Pittsburgh, I had to excuse myself and return to the bathroom. I sat on the toilet this time like a normal person, or as normal as I could pretend to be given the situation. Reid detailed his new, hastily constructed life plan to me through the bathroom door, competing with my loud and violent shits, which he ignored as if I were his family dog. He would sell his place in Lloydminster and return to Edmonton. He would take some more time off and then try to figure out where he wanted life to take him.

“Good for you, buddy!” I said, before letting out a loud PFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTT from the bathroom.

After about ten minutes of discussion and pooping, Reid checked his watch and realized he had to go if he was going to make the start of the Pirates game.

“Fuck it, I'm coming with you!” I said.

I didn't care how sick I was. I wasn't going to leave my buddy alone while he was downtrodden and trying to figure out the next step of his life. Reid had bravely driven me across the state of Pennsylvania while I was belligerent, verbally abusive to him, and suffering from a violent stomach bug. The least I could do was suck it up and make sure he wasn't alone that night.

So I turned on the water in the tub and scrubbed my ass one last time—if I had a Brillo pad I probably would have run it up and down the crack just to make sure I got everything. Then a quick change of clothes and we were off to PNC Park. The park truly was the highlight of the trip—perhaps the most perfect ballpark I had ever seen. Smaller than most of the other parks we had visited, at around 35,000 seats—about the size of Fenway—but the layout was spectacular. Same with the food and the view of the Roberto Clemente Bridge, perfectly situated just beyond the outfield. We
somehow ran into Devin Steigerwald, son of Pittsburgh Penguins play-by-play announcer Paul Steigerwald, and he talked about the years of frustration Bucs fans had been forced to suffer through since Barry Bonds, Bobby Bonilla, and Jim Leyland had left town in the early 1990s. We had a terrific time.

My one regret is that I didn't get a chance to eat one of the famous Primanti Brothers sandwiches—the family had a location in the park and they were apparently a must-try. My stomach, while finally starting to feel a bit better, just wasn't quite up to the task.

DAY SIX

The next day we drove to Cleveland and in the course of one day miraculously saw the Pro Football Hall of Fame, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and a Cleveland Indians game at Jacobs Field against the Minnesota Twins—all before driving the six hours back to Toronto. To say I would like to return to have a longer visit to “the Cleve” would be an understatement. The Pro Football Hall of Fame was great but admittedly a bit underwhelming compared with its baseball counterpart. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame was a mindblower. I was engrossed in a display about handwritten lyrics by Sting for the Police when I suddenly realized the place was closing and I hadn't even seen half of it. Someday I will drag my kids there and force them to stand and listen as I explain why it was fashionable for Elvis to wear bedazzled jumpsuits on stage.

When we got home, Reid followed through on his promise to quit his job and move back to Edmonton. Not long after that he got a job as a news producer with A-Channel and then returned to his true love, sports, as the host of
Inside Sports
and the pre- and post-game shows on Edmonton Oilers broadcasts for 630 CHED, a station I had grown up listening to when it was a Top 40 jugger
naut. Now CHED is an all-news-and-talk station, and they have the radio rights to broadcast the Oilers and Edmonton Eskimos games from the NHL and CFL. Reid finally found someone who believed in him, and every once in a while he'll call me up and I'll appear on his show. We don't break out the sociopathic Chris Cuthbert impersonations anymore, but we do discuss our ill-fated baseball trip on occasion. It was a life changer for both of us in so many ways. Reid learned that he had to take a different path to get what he wanted. I learned to never again touch a glass of orange juice.

M
y first trip to New York City was back in 1996—a nine-hour bus ride with a few dozen Ryerson students from the radio and television arts program. In those days, New York was still in its pre-Giuliani cleanup mode and Times Square was still a porny wasteland neon dump. We went to legendary Lower East Side music venue CBGB, where the likes of the Talking Heads, Blondie, and the Ramones had all hit it big, but the experience was lost on most of my fellow classmates, who couldn't figure out why we were going to a run-down dive bar in the Bowery instead of a “cool” club like the Limelight. I also dragged a group of friends to Dangerfield's Comedy Club all the way out in Queens because I knew that was where Andrew Dice Clay had recorded his
The Day the Laughter Died
comedy album. Blissfully unaware of New York City's geography at the time, we all piled into a cab
from Manhattan instead of riding on the subway. The comics were okay, but they would probably have been just as good if we'd gone to Carolines in Times Square. After that experience, and the overpriced drinks at Dangerfield's, I was never allowed to plan another outing in New York ever again.

A couple years later, my best friend, Peter Sayn-Wittgenstein, was offered the use of an Upper West Side apartment for the weekend and invited me along for a trip. On the flight down I read a
Details
magazine, back when people actually read magazines. I was captivated by an article about Michael Alig, a notorious “club kid” on New York's nightlife scene and a close associate of Canadian-born Manhattan club owner Peter Gatien. The article went into great detail about the fact that Alig had maybe, possibly, chopped up and killed his drug dealer “Angel” in a drug-induced haze, stored him in his bathtub for several days, and then dumped him in the Hudson River. Eventually, Alig was convicted of the crime and sent to jail, but at that point, he was still living freely in New York City, even though pretty much everyone assumed he was guilty.

Our first evening in New York, Peter and I decided to try to be social, so we made our way down to the Bowery Bar, which at the time was one of the hottest nightspots in all of Manhattan. It was located not far from CBGB in an area on the verge of gentrification after years of being a dangerous part of the city. We walked toward the door with absolutely no hope of getting past the massive bouncer since we were two dudes wearing T-shirts with Corn Pops boxes on the front, as well as baggy, unwashed cargo pants.

Suddenly, I spotted Michael Alig wandering toward the club with a group of underage boys trailing behind, who all looked like they'd just arrived off the bus from Iowa. In an uncharacteristically bold move, I approached the club kid:

“Is your name Michael?” (
Brilliant
opening line, Onrait.)

“Yesss,” he answered with understandable reluctance.

“Alig?”

“Yesss,” he answered again, wondering what the hell I wanted.

“Can we get in here with you?” I asked, fully aware that I was likely about to enter NYC's hottest club with a man who was capable of chopping me into pieces and storing me in his bathtub for a few days.

“Uh, okay,” said Alig. And like that, we were in!
We were just cute enough for a killer!
(That was also an alternative title for this book.)

Once through the door, Alig and his merry band of underage boy toys disappeared. But he had provided our passport to Manhattan debauchery, and later that evening I passed out drunk on a small table in the club and was asked to leave.

These days, when Chobi and I visit New York City we are less concerned about which clubs we're going to hit than making sure we get into the best restaurants of the moment. It's time I made a horrifying confession: My wife and I are foodies. That's right, the dreaded “f” word. We've spent many nights bonding over our mutual love of celebrity chefs, overhyped restaurants lit exclusively with Edison bulbs and furnished with reclaimed wood, and the Food Network. Our television-watching schedule breaks down like this: fifty percent sports networks, forty percent Food Network, and ten percent premium cable. I make no apologies for being a foodie. It's fun! However, the foodie movement of the early 2000s brought along with it a frustrating, if understandable, trend: the “no reservation policy” restaurant.

In an effort to keep every seat full, while creating the illusion of demand, many restaurants—including our favourite Toronto
restaurant Pizzeria Libretto—simply did not accept reservations, operating instead on a first come, first served basis. This way, no seat ever goes empty and there's always a lineup at the door, or more likely a crowd uncomfortably sandwiched into a small bar at the entryway, awkwardly holding drinks elbow high while simultaneously giving the stink-eye to patrons lingering over their desserts and coffee. Waiting in restaurants like this always gives me flashbacks to that 2 Live Crew concert in Edmonton. But if the food's good enough, I'm willing to play along.

The Spotted Pig
in New York is the epitome of another cringe-inducing modern food movement, the gastropub. The concept, of course, involves taking the humble place around the corner where everyone knows your name and elevating the food options beyond ploughman's lunch and chicken wings. In the case of the Pig, they brought in some real culinary heavy hitters. Mario Batali, the venerable Italian-American chef, seemed to be nothing more than an investor/consultant, but adding his name to any restaurant always lends cachet. The head chef, English-born April Bloomfield, has made a name for herself elevating versions of English Pub classics. But perhaps the most interesting investor at the Pig is New York hip hop icon Jay-Z, aka Jay-Hova, Shawn Carter, the new king of New York, Beyoncé's lesser half, and the subject of elevator beatdowns by disgruntled sisters-in-law. The Pig, with all of its faux historical interiors and rich mahogany wood, couldn't be further from the Brooklyn projects where Jay-Z grew up. The place has been raved about online and on television, and it also happens to be in one of the nicest parts of Manhattan's West Village, about as “idyllic New York” as it gets.

So when Chobi and I visited New York together in 2008, it was an obvious choice for at least one of our two dinners that weekend, but we had to be prepared to wait, and wait, and wait. Word was, the wait to get a table at The Spotted Pig could often stretch past
the two-hour mark. Luckily, like many no-reservation restaurants, the Pig allows you to leave a phone number with the hostess, so you can roam around the neighbourhood freely and they'll text you when your table is ready, rather than jam yourselves into their tiny entrance and be miserable for two hours.

Our wait that evening wasn't two hours—maybe one at the most—and we were in a great mood when we were summoned back to the restaurant while wandering those leafy and beautiful West Village streets. A smiling hostess led us upstairs to the second floor, past a beautiful central bar and into a room at the back. There we were led directly into a corner booth with a view of the entire restaurant. The table seemed too good for a pair of tourists from Canada, but maybe this was simply all that was available. Either way, we certainly weren't complaining.

Our waiter for the evening was a Bill Hader type, if Bill Hader hadn't made it as a comedian and instead channelled all his comedic energy into a serving job. He was frantic, but kind and helpful in selecting beers from the tap. We ordered as many dishes as we could and they were all truly fantastic: fluffy, Batali-inspired gnocchi and a gorgonzola-laced burger that was easily one of the best I've ever eaten. About ten minutes into the meal I noticed a familiar face at the table directly across from us—David Schwimmer, Ross on
Friends
. He was dressed a lot like his character on
Friends
: khakis and a shirt topped off with a fedora. He was accompanied by his fiancée and they sat quietly chatting at a corner booth, various well-wishers from the restaurant occasionally stopping by for hugs. Ross was likely a neighbourhood regular and who could blame him? If I had a nice apartment in the area I would probably eat at the Pig twice a week.

Suddenly, faux Bill Hader appeared in front of us in a panic. His demeanor had completely changed from friendly and entertaining
to “when the hell are you two going to be finished and get the hell out of here!”

“How much longer do you think you guys are going to be?” he asked.

Yes, the dessert is just delicious. Thanks for asking
, I thought to myself. What happened to the jovial guy who was treating our dinner like a one-man show? Why did his attitude switch so fast? He scrambled away without explanation. Was Schwimmer upset that I was silently judging his hat? What the hell was going on?

Then, just a few feet away from our table, I noticed a figure staring in our direction. He was African-American, about six feet tall, and very thin. He wore a crisp, fresh-out-of-the-package white T-shirt and baggy black jeans, with a long, red string of rosary beads dangling from his neck and hanging between his chest and navel. He also wore a Yankees cap.

It was Jay-Z, and we were sitting at his table.

Faux Bill Hader re-emerged with a proposition as Jay-Z continued to stare over his shoulder: Would we consider moving to another table in the restaurant? This was just as we were finishing up our meal, a pretty confusing request for any restaurant patron no matter how hot the establishment or who was waiting for your table. He offered no explanation for the request, obviously feeling that Mr. Carter's stare was all the explanation needed.

“We'll be out of your way as soon as you bring us the cheque,” I said. That was still not quick enough for Faux Bill Hader, or very likely Jay-Z, but there was really very little that they could do. They asked us to leave and we were leaving. It still didn't change the fact that the gnocchi were frigging delicious.

Then, seconds later, I felt really important, because Jay-Z sat down right next to me.

“Hi,” I began.

As I said before, I've always been pretty good with opening lines.

“Hey, guys,” said Jay-Z. “Sorry about this. We would be happy to move you to that table right across the room. I just have a big group coming in.”

“It's really no trouble at all. We were just heading out,” I replied. This was really happening. We were having a casual conversation with Jay-Z as we were both trying to pretend he wasn't kicking us out of his table at his restaurant, all while David Schwimmer and his fiancée sat directly across from us and pretended not to notice.

At that point Jay-Z's entire entourage walked into the room. It was pretty much exactly as you would expect. Despite the fact that Mr. Carter was now happily married to Ms. Beyoncé Knowles, she was nowhere to be found. Instead, the requisite models were along for the party that night. Two girls sat on one side of Jay-Z and the other two sat on the other side of my wife. Each and every one of the models was obviously thrilled that they were one entire Canadian mixed-race couple away from the person whose attention they were trying to capture that evening. One of Jay-Z's buddies then squeezed himself in between Chobi and the models and briefly tried to make small talk with the future Mrs. Onrait: “You guys in town for a while, err . . .” Another one of Jay-Z's buddies sat on the far end of the other models who were seated next to Mr. Carter. Pudgy, wearing sunglasses, and just happy to be there, we later dubbed him “Jay-Z's weed-rolling buddy” because he was clearly the “Turtle” of Mr. Carter's entourage. Jay-Z made some small talk with the models as I signed my credit card receipt, with a frantic Faux Bill Hader waiting to snatch it out of my hand like a golden ticket to freedom. We started to get up to leave when Mr. Carter spoke:

“Would you like to have a shot of Patron with us?”

I froze.

For a split second I thought back to my one and only visit to Peter Luger Steakhouse in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Established long before Williamsburg became the hipster haven it is today, Peter Luger was a must-stop for steak lovers in New York City, serving arguably the best porterhouse in America. The place was bare bones wood décor, accepted only cash, and featured old, grizzled male waiters who had all likely worked there since they graduated high school. I had been warned about those waiters and their impatience with patrons who were unsure about what they wanted to order. There was really only one thing to order at Peter Luger, the porterhouse steak. I had even been told a story about patrons getting ridiculed by the waiters when they dared to order a seafood dish. A friend of mine attended a bachelor party dinner there with seven other guys, and they all sat back in shock as their waiter dictated the meal they were about to eat: “You want some steaks, guys? Some spinach? Some potatoes? Good.” None of them got a word in. They also said it didn't matter because the food was so delicious they would have taken any abuse handed to them for the right to watch those old, grizzled veteran servers delicately tip their platter full of meat to one side and scoop up the juices to pour all over their protein. When I finally visited the restaurant with Chobi, I warned her about the possible poor treatment we were about to receive. We were led to our table, and I sat in my seat and had just picked up my menu when a server appeared in front of us.

“You guys ready?” he asked.

“I literally just picked up the menu,” I replied.

“What's the problem?” he said.

What's the problem?

Who the hell was this guy? I was a patron in his restaurant! What happened to treating the customers with respect? Of course, I didn't actually say this to the guy. Instead, I just sat there, mouth
agape, totally stumped for a reply, while Chobi jumped in: “We'll take the steak for two, spinach, fried potatoes, and a bottle of red wine.”

“Great,” said the waiter, and off he went to terrorize another group of tourists.