I've probably wandered aimlessly in pouring rain for half my life and where has it gotten me? Tonight I'm on Yonge Street in search of a bar or crowded bistro where I can blend anonymously into the fabric of human cacophony.
Nobody talks any more, just make noise and I'm in search of peace and a haven from the storm―the one inside me that's a lot more frightening than thunder of lightning.
The rain's turned the asphalt road into a riot of blurred and marred colours and that's fine with me. I don't want reality or even too much actuality―I just want to fade into the background while still being part of the scene.
I'm a chameleon intent on fitting in while remaining separate.
That makes no sense to most people but it's code to others like me. We've seen too much and don't want explain. We just want to be near, not to be seen, but more to disappear.
I veer off the main drag and end up in a dive bar called The Horseshoe Tavern. I've been here before with Kenny when his band was playing live and the joint was jumping.
The place is legendary. The Stones played here back in 1997 but that's not why I'm here. The front part of the bar is tacky and sticky. There's a pool table and $8.00 beer and shadowy denizens who don't ask questions.
It's not a cocktail party―nobody asks what you do for a living. Like I said, I just want to blend in. The bar's crowded and noisy and no one notices another stiff nursing a beer.
Past midnight, the rain's stopped or at least it's let up and so I take advantage and head home. This time, I flag a cab and end up in my condo just before one.
I'm on the top floor, technically the penthouse. The building's old and has seen better days but still offers a good view of the Toronto skyline. A myriad lights are out there blinking tonight in the wet darkness and I sit and watch in my darkened front room until sleep overtakes and I also blink out.
I awake in the grey morning light my mouth feeling and tasting like the bottom of a bird cage and my bed unslept in again. My sleep was dreamless so I count it a win.
I'm hung over from booze but something else keeps me from sleeping through nights. Sometimes strange images of death―something an ordinary person might fear, but then, no ordinary people would not pursue my trade.
I spent ten years as a criminal profiler for the RCMP and now I'm out of it and write about it. It's a way of exorcising my ghosts but it doesn't work. They still return to haunt me.
My shrink tells me to take my meds. I'm on a benzo and prazosin for insomnia and nightmares. They don't get rid of the symptoms but make them more manageable...supposedly.
And yes, I've been through all the therapies but they don't reset my psyche or the recurring images disturbing my sleep. I need a distraction and right now self-medication and losing myself in a crowd seem to be working for me.
"Hey Cam!" Marta's cheerful voice sounds in my ear. She's my literary agent and it's her weekly call.
"Publisher bought, Cold in the Earth and wants more. "Congratulations!"
"Good to know—glad I'm not working for nothing."
"By the way, do you know a man named Cyril?"
"Yeah, he's my uncle."
"He's been looking for you. Sounds desperate. Hope everything's okay."
"I've been invisible. I'll get back to him. Thanks, Mar."
I hang up the phone with a sense of dread. Cyril wasn't one to phone about trivia. I hadn't talked to him much since quitting the force. He's staff superintendent in some small town and as driven about police work as I once was.
Wonder what he wants? I muse, Maybe some info on a case I worked a few years ago.
I've only been out of police work for a year, but it's been a struggle. Hard to make ends meet as a full-time writer and I actually miss the work, aside from the nightmares.
I punch his number into my cell and pray he doesn't answer.
No such luck. He picks up on the second ring. Busted!
"Cam, where you been? I've been trying to reach you all week—even phoned your publisher."
"Marta's my agent, Cyril and she just told me."
"I need your help on a case. How soon can you get out here?"
"Uh, you remember the fact I'm retired?"
"I really need you help, Cam, or I wouldn't be asking."
"Two hours," I say flatly.
"What's that?" he asks, puzzled.
"My E.T.A. and make sure there's plenty of Timmies coffee—not the gut rot you guys drink."
"I'll put my assistant right on it....and thanks, Cam—I owe you."
He's right—he does owe me big time for even going out to the boondocks let alone looking into one of his cases.
Truth be told, I was feeling sidelined and on the shelf and it wasn't helping my mood or my outlook. I enjoyed being a cop—the problem was I kept ignoring the struggles dealing with profiling gruesome murders. I should have sought help earlier.
I've been involved with exposure therapy to deal with my PTSD—maybe aiding Cyril on this case might end up benefitting me…or worse,
but I’ve got nothing to lose and it might be worth a try.
