Old Socks

I have enough clothes to go at least two weeks before I have to do laundry.

I have a large drawer full of socks and underwear. On socks alone, I could probably go a month, but certain socks have specific purposes. I have my everyday socks, my winter socks, and ankle socks, for when I wear shorts or am on my bike.

Same with t-shirts. I could easily go a month before I ran out of them. Pants are another matter, because depending on my level of activity, I can wear the same pants for several days, so I have enough pairs to go at least a month.

I know that I'm running low on underwear when I get down to the four pairs of travel undies, which are lightweight and are able to hang dry in less than a day. I brought them with me to Peru and was laughing for 16 days: I'd wear a pair, wash a pair and hang them up to dry, and still have two back-up pairs available, just in case the humidity levels slowed down the drying time or I had an emergency.

At this time of year, I know that I'm desperate for socks—everyday socks, not the winter or ankle socks—when I get to the back of the drawer and pull out a black pair of old, polyester socks.

I dislike these socks and try to keep my laundry up to date so that I don't have to wear them. They're hot and make my feet sweat, and I pride myself on having feet that don't stink.

Well, on Monday, I realized that I had run out of socks as I got dressed and pulled out these old socks. And when I put them on, I noticed a tiny hole under the big toe on my right foot.

Because they were the only 'normal' socks that I had and because it was too warm to be putting on winter socks, I kept them on but told myself that this would be the last time I wore them. Like a pair of the cotton Tommy Hilfiger socks that had also developed a hole near the heel, last week, I'd be throwing this pair out.

When I realized that I was finally getting rid of these socks, I started thinking about when I had originally acquired them. I know I wouldn't have bought them myself because I don't like polyester as a rule, and especially not for my feet.

The socks were a simple black with a vertical ribbing that helped keep them up. Practical but as basic as they come.

And then the memory of getting them hit me like a ton of bricks.

In my youth, I had enlisted in the Canadian Armed Services with my best friend, Stuart. We were going to be weekend warriors, in the militia. We trained on Thursday evenings and on weekends at the drill hall near city hall, and during the summer we would be spending time at the base in Petawawa.

We were in the Cameron Highlanders, a proud outfit with strong Scottish roots. As part of our kit, we were issued a kilt, tam-o'-shanter, and special knee-high socks for when we wore the kilt. We also had green fatigues that we wore most of the time.

I wrote about my kilt in another blog post many years ago.

As part of our dress kit, we were provided with several pairs of socks, which we had to wear as part of our uniform. They were basic-black polyester socks.

The same pair that I wore this week. Folks, this pair of socks is 43 years old. I've had them since I was 17.

I mustered out of the Cameron Highlanders a few weeks after joining, after breaking my leg while playing soccer at school, just a week before we were going to be let out for the summer. I had to return all of my kit but was told to keep the socks. Understandably, they wouldn't be reused.

I kept the socks with my others, only wearing them when I dressed for occasions such as weddings and funerals. I had better socks for when I worked in sales and at a bank, but the military-issued socks would come out every once in a while.

Over the decades, they would eventually wear a hole and be discarded. But because I had enough socks that I would wear regularly, the last pair of these black socks stayed tucked away at the back of my sock drawer, pulled out only when I was desperate for socks and hadn't done laundry in a while.

On Monday night, I took the socks off and took a final photo of them before chucking them out. After 43 years, the last evidence that I had been a soldier—albeit for only a month—was gone.

Of course, I still had the photos that my mom snapped.

Happy Thursday!

Face Dance

I could see stars racing across my vision. Sounds from the surrounding crowd were muffled, as though I was wearing noise-cancelling headphones. Things around me began to slow down and the light of the day seemed to dim toward night.

I had to stay on my feet, though the pressure in my head felt as though I was going to explode.

Then, for some inexplicable reason, the beating stopped.

And the main show hadn't even begun...

My friends and I were going to make this show, even though we hadn't worked out all of the details. We had waited for hours to purchase our tickets but getting from Ottawa to Toronto was another matter.

It was the fall of 1982, and The Who had announced that they were on their final tour. They were travelling across North America but only had three Canadian dates, all in Toronto. In fact, the two final shows, on December 16 and December 17, were to end the tour—the band's final farewell.

My friends and I chose to go to the first date, on October 9. We had just started grade 12 and the earlier date was better for us. In December, we would be into our midterm exams.

But it still came down to getting to Toronto, to the CNE Stadium. We looked at the price of round-trip tickets by bus, but the price was almost as much as the concert tickets. We asked parents, but no one was interested in driving the nearly five hours, waiting around for the show to end, and then driving another five hours to get home.

And then the solution came to us. A free solution.

A mutual friend, who had also purchased a ticket, had arranged passage on a chartered bus for people with disabilities. This friend had recently had a catastrophic accident and was confined to a wheelchair.

Her solution was simple: my other friends and I were to help the disabled people get on and off the handicap bus, and help get these folks to an area that was designated for them. By assisting these people, our passage was free.

Done.

It was a Magic Bus, of sorts.

As soon as we were on the highway to Toronto, the party began. A cooler full of ice-cold beer was opened. Joints were lit up. Music was cranked up. My friends and I were invited to partake. By the time we reached Toronto, we were feeling no pain at all.

That, for me, would come later.

We wheeled the disabled folk to their private area, and we were free to either stay or head down to general admission, as our tickets were designated. A couple of people stayed; a few others, like me, made our way down to the field of CNE Stadium, looking to get closer to the stage and to a better vantage to see The Who.

I was able to get quite close to the stage, just a little to the right. The tower of speakers was facing me, but I determined that they wouldn't block my view of the performers.

As the showtime drew close, more and more filled the ground around me. I could feel the heat off the other bodies, smell the sweat, mixed with booze and weed. Because I wasn't a tall person, I was worried that my view might soon become obstructed by other fans. Every time there was a surge in the crowd, I would inch my way a little closer to the stage.

It was at this point that I realized that I had lost my friends, that I was alone in a sea of humans.

Joe Jackson and his band were the opening act. His latest album, Night and Day, had been released earlier that year, and it was the album that really made me a fan. Before then, I liked "Fools In Love," but that was about it.

Jackson's performance was amazing, but unfortunately his act was badly matched for this audience. Despite the solid sound, many in the crowd were shouting for The Who, telling Jackson to get off the stage, and even began to boo.

I have never felt so ashamed of a crowd at a concert in all my days.

It was when some asshole in the crowd threw an empty bottle at the band that the music abruptly stopped. The guitarist screamed "That was fucking stupid, you cunt," and the band stormed offstage. Sadly, the mob mentality led to huge cheers at the vacated stage.

It also meant that we had more time to wait, without entertainment, before the main event.

The crowd packed tighter. I was sweating from the heat, realizing that I had no water to drink. This was going to be a long, brutal show.

And then things got worse.

He was jumping up and down, hooting at the stage as though the music had begun. His arms were raised above him and I realized that he was incredibly tall.

He was stoned, or drunk, or perhaps a little of both. But he sure seemed to be having a good time.

Just as quickly as I took notice of him, however, things changed. His left arm came down and wrapped itself around my neck, holding me in a grip that left me utterly immobile. His right arm also came down and proceeded to beat the right side of my face, between my ear and my cheek.

Surprisingly, no one else moved. No one intervened. The people directly in front of me, their backs to me, seemed oblivious to what was going on behind them.

He was hitting me over and over again, and I couldn't move. The right side of my face was becoming unbearably hot. Stars raced across my vision. Sounds from the surrounding crowd were fading, becoming muffled. All motion around me began to slow down and the daylight of that October afternoon seemed to dim toward nighttime.

I was beginning to lose consciousness. Another couple of hits and I would be hitting the ground. I had to stay on my feet, I told myself.

And then, as quickly as it started, it stopped. The punches, the arm around my neck.

My assailant had swung in front of me. Was he moving to the other side to work on the left side of my face? Had his right arm become sore and he wanted to switch to his left arm?

I looked at him, standing in front of me: blue denim overalls, a white t-shirt underneath. A massive head of brown curls. His eyes were a pale blue and seemed vacant, as though the drugs or booze were the only things keeping him conscious.

I had to act fast. My head was throbbing and couldn't take any more. As soon as he was directly in front of me, I swung a leg upward, as fast as I could and with as much force as I could muster. My foot landed squarely between his legs.

He sucked in air and began to double forward, but before he could completely bend down, I punched him straight in the throat. The force of the blow sent him falling backward, between the two people, in front of me, who until that moment had no idea that a fight had begun.

I didn't wait to see him hit the ground. I didn't wait to see how badly hurt he was. I spun around and dove into the crowd. I fell to the ground and crawled as best as I could, between the forest of legs. I made it as far as I could, until hands reached down and picked me up.

I was afraid that it was my assailant, but it seemed to be caring hands that didn't wish to see me trampled. When I was on my feet, I saw the worried eyes, mostly looking at the right side of my face.

"All you all right?" I was asked. I looked around, trying to see if my attacker was coming after me, but he was nowhere in sight.

"I think so," I panted.

An ice-cold can of Molson Canadian was put in my hand. "Press that to your face," I heard, and did as I was told. I could feel that my face was swollen. The heat was reacting strongly to the cold. My head was pounding, the blood inside pulsing through my face, filling my ear with a whoosh... whoosh... whoosh...

A roar from the crowd made me look up. I was a little further back from the stage but more centered. I had a clear view as Kenney Jones, John Entwistle, Pete Townsend, and Roger Daltrey, took to the stage. "My Generation" was the first number.

I became lost in the show, catching my breath and being regenerated, though my head was sore. But I was at The Who's final tour, and I wasn't about to let a beating detract from the experience.

I still had the unopened can of beer when the show was over, when I made my way back to our bus home. I had made it back before my friends, because they were helping our disabled hosts back. The driver was sitting outside the bus on a folding chair. He had a cooler full of soda. I traded the beer for a cold can of Coke, again applying it to my face.

My best friend eventually found me, as he continued to help others. "What happened to your face?" he asked. I recounted the story as we pulled out of the stadium parking lot, on our trip back to Ottawa, until fatigue got the better of me and I drifted asleep.

Despite the loud music, sounds of beer cans cracking open, and the smell of weed wafting around me.

I had heard "Magic Bus" at the show. Now, another magic bus was bringing me home.