touring the north end with my dad

another friday lunch story

Another Friday lunch with my dad.

This one began at Crave Burger.

Our time there was cut short when a group of women with large voices and little awareness cleared the place out with their delighted clucking.

Wanna go to the mall and get a coffee?

Quick as a zippo we were out of the restaurant, into his truck and driving off into the sunshine.

Where to now?

With neither a plan nor direction I came up with a suggestion:

Let’s just burn some dinosaurs for a while.

At the lights at Hawthorn Street and Prince Albert road the first story came:

We were flying through here one night on the way to a call. The siren was on the lights were on too. Bob didn’t hear the police car on its way to a call as well. I saw him before Bob did. We clipped just the arse end of ‘em. Spun him around four of five times and sent him half way wto Creighton Avenue. Funny thing when you hit a cop while driving a fire engine. There were a lot of questions. Even more paperwork. It took me a month to crawl outta that mess.

We continued to crawl around the streets of old Dartmouth. Once past the house he lived in on Slayter Street, we sat at the lights at the corner of Albro Lake and Victoria Roads.

Up until ‘61 this was the city limits. I’d walk past here every day on my way to Harbour View School. Things were really rough here back then. People had dirt floors, pigs in their backyards and it always smelled like burning garbage. The houses weren’t so much houses as shacks. They were always burning down and as they were outside of the city, no one came to put the fires out.

After turning west onto Albro Lake Road, we swung north onto Windmill Road and rolled by the lighting studio where old station number 4 used to be.

I was hired on to work here. The station wasn’t built yet so they had us cutting ice from lake Banook. There were still ice houses back then. We’d hall blocks out thirty inches thick! Winters were colder back then.

He smirked then continued.

So much has changed. They built that store right over the old fire station. The old stairs from the firestation are still there. And that swamp? Every time Bernie ruined a roasting pan from burning the gravy he’d just take it and chuck it into the swamp.

This sounded like a common occurance.

Why did you let him cook Dad?

Well, because he was great at it. He’d be cooking supper. We’d get a call. The call would take longer than the roast would. We’d get home to a smoking station and ruined dinner.

I shook my head and laughed. I guess they’d have to send in Station 1 to put out the fire if you were out on a call then?

We eventually made out way to the mall for a coffee.

There was a cyber truck parked in our spot.

I was just about to spit on it when I saw someone in the passenger seat.

I had the same idea son. Glad we caught that.

Instead?

We loudly mocked the owner as we passed.

Oh look at me, I’m a fucking douchbag… We aped and gesticulated and laughed and laughed while speculating on how small the calipers would be needed to measure the owners tiny, flacid cock.

He’s driving that because he pushes - WET ROPE!

We finished the sentience together and shuffled off into the mall - two snarky old pricks ready to take on the world.