Destination: Toronto @ Midnight

     Growing up in a small southwestern Ontario town, I was always aware that Toronto’s  cultural and nightlife metropolis was a few hours’ drive to the east. It was a mecca that  beckoned to me from an early age. It was physically not far away; however, metaphysically it  seemed as distant from me as Timbuktu. As a young child, I vaguely recall going there with my  parents and younger sister when my dad had to collect something for his garage in Clinton. We  lived outside of town on a farm, and after my father decided to rent out the farmland, he  purchased a gas station. Ultimately, it would fail because my dad was such a nice guy that he  found collecting overdue payments from customers to be an onerous task. Another time, a few  years later, there was a school trip to a museum, which I barely remember. Although the details  of the museum visit have escaped me, I do indeed recall the thrill of knowing I was in the ‘big  city’, where things happened, and anything was possible. I was not aware of being gay at that  pre-adolescent point, but there were stirrings in me of an interest in what a large, diverse,  cosmopolitan city could offer.  

     Fast forward to when I was in my penultimate year at high school (Grade 12; that was in  the late 70s when there was still Grade 13, which I would complete the following year before  attending the University of Western Ontario). My oldest sister, Cheri, had moved back to  Clinton after living in Stratford, a small city a short drive to the east, home to the Shakespearian  Festival Theatre, and working in the bar at a well-known hotel there. From a young age, Cheri  had epitomized the saying, ‘rebel without a cause,’ and lived a little on the edge. Back in Clinton,  Cheri had worked in a bar at a hotel on the main street. After living at our parent’s home for a  time, she decided to rent a yellow-brick Victorian cottage in town and asked me to live with her.  It was a dream come true and a chance to live away from home and within walking distance of  the high school.  

     As with any dream, there is often – if not always – a darker side. Cheri was always ‘the  life of the party’ and most nights would bring home a crew of friends and misbegotten souls  from the bar when it closed. I would have to get up early for my high school classes. It cast a pallor over the excitement of living in town, and I resented the late-night revelers. Cheri only  rented the cottage for a few months before she decided to make another change in her life. In  any case, she found the rent too high for what she earned as a barmaid at the hotel. During the short time that I lived with Cheri, one of the recurring thoughts at the back of my mind was  that I could be gay. I was attracted to men, but at that point, I thought I could be bisexual. Aside from one encounter with another high school friend in Grade 9, nothing further  happened. Living in a small, rural town at that time, it was not an option to be openly gay.  Therefore, I knew if I explored this possibility further, I would need to go to the big city of  Toronto. 

     One Sunday afternoon, having borrowed my parents’ car, on the spur of the moment, I  started to drive eastward out of Clinton. I drove through Stratford and continued east. I was  intensely curious about what the big city had to offer but had no idea where to go in Toronto in  terms of gay bars, and more importantly, I had never driven to or in the city previously. The  closer I came to Kitchener, where I would have to leave the provincial highway and go on the  fast-paced 401, the more my resolve and interest lessened. Finally, with the 401 exit just ahead, I  turned the car around and headed back to Clinton, my proverbial tail between my legs. It was  just too huge a task to try to manage for a variety of persuasive reasons.  

     Eventually, I came out at what I thought to be the rather belated age of 22. I was not a  card-carrying gay, due to being the type of person who prefers not to be noticed too much.  However, I certainly enjoyed making new friends and sampling what the gay lifestyle had to  offer. Two of my best friends in my early 20s when living and working in London – and  remain so to this day – were Steve and Dan. I worked at a clothing store in the city’s eastern  part: Vaisler’s Men’s and Women’s Clothing. I met Dan working there, whilst Steve and I  became friends through the local gay bar scene. Eventually, Steve rented an apartment in the  Boug Apartments in the Old South area of the city, where I already lived.  

     Working at Vaisler’s, the days were long (9 AM to 9 PM), with one day off during the  week and on Sundays. After I left work on Friday or Saturday evenings, there was often the  alluring prospect of heading to Toronto for the night. Sometimes, Dan and I would work together on a Friday or Saturday evening, and then when the store closed, we would head to  Toronto in Dan’s sporty car. Ida, the manager of the women’s side, would sometimes walk over  to the men’s side of the store near closing time and say to the two of us, with a knowing look in  her eyes, “What are you two boys up to tonight?” Even if we had to make a quick stop at home  for a few clothes, Dan and I knew we would be in Toronto by midnight – perfect timing for the  bars and, later, the baths! I recall one time when Dan and I were sailing down to Toronto in his  chariot, we had been talking and planning about our upcoming adventures in the big city. 

     Suddenly, Dan realized that he needed to get on the Gardiner Expressway, and he swerved over at full speed, cutting off a few other drivers but somehow managed to get in the correct lane without an accident!  

     Like Dan, my friend Steve was always a good sport about heading to Toronto at short  notice. I recall a few times that I would get off work on a Friday evening and when at home,  would drop by Steve’s apartment at the Boug Apartments. I would tell him, “Steve, guess what,  we’re going to Toronto this evening!” in short order, we would go off. If I went to Toronto on  a Friday evening with either Dan or Steve (both of whom, fortunately, had cars), I always knew  that I had to be at work the next morning by 9 AM. Saturday was always the busiest shopping  day in the store. After returning from Toronto to London in the early morning hours, I  sometimes only had sufficient time to shower and change before going to do my 12-hour shift  at the store. I shudder at the thought now, but I seemed to do it with ease back then.  

     At my behest, one particular weekend, Steve and I were motoring to Toronto in his  Honda Civic after I finished work. We always took a few clothes and personal items in an  overnight bag. As a wearer of contact lenses since my final year of high school, I always took  along my only pair of eyeglasses just in case they were required. Of course, I knew that I would  not be caught dead wearing those Coke bottom bottle glasses! When wearing my contact lenses,  I was a good-looking young guy. Whenever I wore my eyeglasses – only at home, mind you,  when alone and in no danger of anyone seeing me – I looked like Ernie Douglas, the youngest  son in My Three Sons, for those who remember that classic 60s sitcom.  

     During the journey, as we neared the city, Steve asked me if I wanted to do some drugs.  I had no problem with drinking but had steered away from drugs because I did not like being  out of control. Throwing caution to the wind, I agreed. I forget now what the drugs were that  we took, but I recall saying to Steve that they had not affected me at all. Out of the mouth of  babes – not yet! Steve and I went to a popular disco club when we arrived in Toronto. We knew  that we would probably be going our separate ways at some point in the night, so we agreed  that if we parted company at any point, then we would meet up at 5 AM for breakfast at Fran’s,  a historic diner on College Street.  

     Steve and I lost each other in the crowd at the club. At some point, I could feel the  effect of the drugs that we had taken earlier in the car. I felt euphoric at first, particularly when  on the dance floor. Then I started to feel rather hyper. I eventually ended up at the baths. What  transpired there was a blur, but now a new feeling was coming over me: panic! A terrible feeling of foreboding came over me: I would miss Steve at Fran’s and be stranded in Toronto. How  would I get back to London? What if I did not show up at work the next morning? Would I be  fired? I recall leaving the baths in haste around 4 AM and going to Fran’s on College Street.  

     When I entered the diner, Steve was not there. For some reason, I seemed to have  forgotten that we would meet there around 5 AM. I sat drinking coffee and feeling paranoid  and anxious. I was sure that Steve had already come and gone. He would never have deserted  me; it was the effects of the drugs that made me so panicky and irrational. When I had just  about given up hope that Steve would appear at the dinner, with a sinking feeling in the pit of  my stomach, I looked up, and he was walking toward the booth where I sat. I greeted Steve  with the rapture and relief of a man dying of thirst in the desert come upon by a benevolent Bedouin on a camel. I jumped up from my seat, practically hugging and kissing Steve (which no doubt mortified him because, like me in a normal situation, he is not overly demonstrative).  

     Steve was in much better shape than me and could calm me down. Always eminently  sensible, Steve suggested we have breakfast before heading back to London. I kept up an  ongoing chatter about thinking he had left already and that I did not know how to get back to  London. I also thanked Steve profusely for coming to Fran’s as promised. He was no doubt  thinking that I was on a bad trip from the drugs taken earlier! I was eternally grateful when we  were ensconced safely back in Steve’s trusty Honda and making our way out of the city.  

     A new feeling came over me, like a wave: sorrow. I was sorry for having taken the drugs. I was sorry for thinking Steve had abandoned me. I was sorry for letting myself out of control, which was rare for me. Let’s face it; I was sorry! I felt that I had to punish myself somehow for my poor decision-making. I could feel tears filling my eyes, which astounded me because I was normally not a crier. My contact lenses were stinging from being in too long, and a few salty tears started sliding down my cheeks. I reached around me and grabbed my overnight bag from the back seat. I told Steve that I had to take out my contact lenses because they were torture.  

     After removing the contact lenses and putting them in the container, I put on my Coke  bottle bottom eyeglasses. Wanting to punish myself, in the spirit of self-flagellation, I turned to  Steve and exclaimed, “This is what I look like with my eyeglasses on! See how horrible I look!”  Frankly, I am surprised that Steve did not swerve off the road in surprise and terror at the  

spectacle before him. Instead, he just smiled and said something to the effect that I did not look  that bad. He also commented that I must have been affected by the drugs after all. After that, Steve continued to drive us back calmly and efficiently to London. By the time we arrived back  at the Boug Apartments, I had come off my hysterical high and had come back to earth. I  somehow managed to shower and get ready for work. I do recall it seemed like an  extraordinarily long 12-hour shift at work that day.  

     Looking back on those pre-AIDS days, I have often felt fortunate and blessed to have  emerged from that epidemic unscathed. One of our close friends did not, as described in my  story, “The Manhattan Club.” The city of Toronto has remained one of my favourite places in the world. After I moved overseas in the late 90s, I would return to Canada once or twice a  year, and I always felt a sense of excitement as the airplane began its descent to Pearson  International Airport. I could see Toronto below me. For many years, I would stay with Steve  and his partner, Raymond, at their beautiful home near Church Street for a few days at the start  and again at the end of my holiday in Canada. Toronto – or TO as locals call it – remains an  incredibly special place for me, a home away from home.