Read Online Moody Food by Ray Robertson - Free Book Online Page B

shelves and came back with a copy of the Manual for Draft-Age Immigrants to Canada . “Give this to Thomas when you see him, will you?”
    â€œThomas?” I said. “What for?” Thomas was one of the lucky ones, was 4-F—an irregular heartbeat—had told me so over our very first beer.
    â€œI ran into him at the Grab Bag the other day and he said someone who lived downstairs from him wanted a copy. Insisted on paying for it, too. Practically forced me to take the money.”
    I took the book, and Christine and I headed off hand in hand, the protest posters in her free hand, the book for Thomas’s friend in mine.

11.
    ROOT VEGETABLE COUSCOUS sitting in both our bellies nicely, the fiery Tunisian red sauce that went along with it helping to keep us warm underneath our jackets, Christine and I strolled a lovers’ stroll down freshly snow-dusted Bloor Street tight to each other’s hip.
    â€œSo you haven’t actually seen this place Thomas has rented?” she said.
    â€œNope, tonight’s the night.”
    â€œBut you say it’s big enough for an entire band to practise in?”
    â€œIt’s great, isn’t it? And we’re going to need every inch of it,
believe me. Besides Thomas and me, eventually there’ll be a steel guitarist and a bass player. Plus, Thomas says we’re going to want to get a big Hammond B-3 organ sound sometimes, so we’ll need space for that, too.”
    Not seeing us but right there anyway down Bloor at Avenue Road, coming out the front door of the Park Plaza Hotel, there was Thomas.
    â€œBlonde or brunette?” I asked.
    Christine laughed. “What makes you so sure she’s not a redhead?”
    â€œMaybe she is,” I said. Thomas wasn’t so far away we couldn’t have yelled out his name and caught up, but we lagged behind on purpose to keep on being just the two of us.
    â€œWell, whoever she is, it’s not anybody we know,” Christine said. “That place is ritzy. Like, fifty bucks a night, minimum.”
    We both considered this for a moment.
    â€œHey, where does Thomas get all his dough from, anyway?” Christine said.
    â€œI don’t know. I never asked.”
    â€œI mean, the way he’s always paying for all of us whenever we go out? And the rehearsal space and the drums he got for you? He doesn’t work—I’ve never even heard him mention having to get a job.”
    â€œHe said the drums were a used set he bought off somebody in the village,” I said. “And the rent he’s paying on the place is cheap, lots of bands use it to play there.”
    â€œBut it costs something, right?”
    â€œWell, yeah.” We walked in silence some more.
    â€œBoo!”
    Thomas leapt out in front of us from around the darkened corner of the Park Plaza, screaming and waving both hands in the air like some kind of psychotic windmill. Seeing us knocked
back and scattered apart over the sidewalk, he let his arms fall to his sides and smiled.
    â€œGot you two, didn’t I?” he said.
    Heart still pounding but at least out of my throat now, “Yeah, you got us,” I said.
    â€œChrist, Thomas,” Christine said.
    â€œAh, come on now, y’all, I was only having a little fun.”
    Knowing that Christine was justifiably a little more sensitive to men lunging out of the dark at her than me, even in jest, I grabbed her hand again, gave it a squeeze, and nodded up at the hotel. “Who’s your rich friend?” I said.
    Thomas looked up high himself; after the briefest contemplation, let the cold wind deliver a carefully blown pucker to some unknown room on some undetermined floor. Kiss delivered, “Like my Uncle Pen used to say, ‘A gentleman never kisses and tells.’”
    Christine shook her head but couldn’t resist a slight smile. “It sounds like this Uncle Pen of yours is quite a guy,” she said.
    I already knew