Karen McLennan

Chapter 3

"The years of our life are threescore and ten,

or even by reason of strength forescore...

So teach us to number our days

that we may get a heart of wisdom."

Psalm 90:10&12

One week was followed by another but little if anything changed in my staid life that was evolving into mundane routines. Too many uneventful days had passed, especially those rain-soaked weekends when alone and on my own meant far too much time available and too few meaningful activities to occupy the time with. Nonetheless, Vancouver's rainy season gradually transformed into spring, and weather forecasts promising an increasing frequency of wet-free weekends made me restless. 

In spite of the drudgery of working for a living, I was beginning to welcome Monday mornings and dread Friday evenings simply because working was better than being alone and with little else to do. An observant older work colleague who was approaching his retirement had noticed, and cautioned me about how short life is, how quickly time passes and how little time remains in which to get things done. At the time I couldn't grasp the meaning of his wisdom nor comprehend the value of his advice.

One particular evening while I was on the bus and heading homeward after another uneventful day at work, I felt wearier than usual and wasn't looking forward to arriving at my silent living quarters and then having to cook and eat another meal alone. Resting my head against the window, I wasn't really paying much attention to anything. 

Seconds later when glancing over at a woman with her back to me who was standing in the aisle a few feet away, my thoughts seemed to shout, "Karen McLennan!"

I perked up right away, believing I'd finally crossed trails with someone I know, but having some doubts seconds later, I rationalized, "It can't be her... she's studying in Kingston.”

Karen often wore a long dark green duffle coat and the woman in the aisle was wearing one too, but something about this lady's coat didn't strike me as being identical. Perhaps the shade of dark green wasn't quite right or maybe the tailoring wasn't the same. Although this young lady appeared to be the same height, had the same profile, and possessed the same long dark hair as Karen, I wasn't fully convinced. 

I was debating whether or not to get up and tap the mystery lady on the shoulder to satisfy my curiosity, but was afraid of making a fool of myself in front of a busload of strangers in case I might be wrong. Before I decided, the mystery lady turned. She was Chinese and definitely not the person I'd been hoping to encounter.

 

Disappointment felt cruel, because my busy imagination had already dreamed up a near impossible but magical reunion with Karen and I sharing some wonderful moments together. Alas the lady standing about six feet away wasn't her, but at least I was relieved about having stayed put. 

 

I'd never really paid much attention to Chinese people before, other than mentally noting they're Chinese, but again I glanced at the young woman in the aisle and this time noticed she was strikingly attractive.

 

"Is it because you reminded me of Karen?" I wondered.

The bus bumped along, well it felt that way with my head resting against the window as my thoughts drifted back to Karen. Only a year ago we were attending the same music classes at John Abbott College and trading places in top spot. Eventually we met where assignment and examination results were posted.

Perhaps recognizing me from the music classes, out of the blue she spoke, "Do you have any idea who student 7019235 is?"

Unsure if she was venting frustration aloud to herself or expecting an answer, I chose to respond, "Why?"

"7019235 beat me by one mark." 

"Don't you think 97 is a good mark?"

"How do know my mark?" astonished, and almost sounding like she'd been offended.

"You just told me." 

"I did?"

"I learned how to do this from reading Sherlock Holmes a few days ago." hoping to sound clever.

“Oh really?” and totally unimpressed.

To prove my claim I persisted, "Only one student in the class had a 97, right?”

“Right.”

“Well then... if 7019235 beat your mark by only one point then you had to be the one with the 97.”

“Yes..." her voice now betraying curiosity, "but how did you know I’m the one with 97?”

“From the obvious."

"And what's the obvious smarty-pants?"

 

"I’m 7019235.”

"Right." sounding like she now understood.

"Well I know one mystery that Sherlock Holmes never solved." I boasted.

"Oh yeah?" 

"Are you familiar with any musical pieces by Arthur Sullivan?"

"Which one?"

“The Lost Chord... and as far as I know the Lost Chord is still missing."  

Casting me a weird look, she goaded, "Let's see if you can pick up the trail to our next class." 

"How do you know if we'll be in in the same one?"

"Walk with me Sherlock and I'll clue you in."

Karen and I soon became close classmates but no less competitive. She had a keen ear for interpreting music by listening and possessed a knowledge of music history that outshone everyone else in class. I felt outclassed too but I did have a slight edge with our written music theory and analysis assignments, because she thought analyzing composition structural forms was boring. Her instrument of choice was the French horn, which she told me she'd been introduced to in her high school band. 

Karen sent me a card and short letter for Christmas. I wrote back to her the day after but never received any further word from her. She told me once that going to Queens University in Kingston was where she wanted study, and now she was there. 

I was happy for her and perhaps slightly envious too, because she always seemed confident in knowing what she wanted, and she seemed just as determined to go out and grasp it. Being the contrarian, I didn't have a clue as to what I wanted to do, nor could I define even for myself a single meaningful personal goal or an objective to strive for in life. 

Returning to the present, once more I glanced toward the Chinese lady but she'd vanished.

"Why am I seeing familiar people in complete strangers?" and feeling more alone than ever, I wondered, "What am I doing here in this city?"

Again my thoughts drifted back, to those days nearing the end of our spring semester. The Montreal Symphony Orchestra announced it would perform a series of special dollar-a-seat concerts at the Montreal Forum, and for the final performance, famed Russian pianist Emil Gilels was to appear as a guest soloist to perform Beethoven's "Emperor" concerto.

I was interested in Karen but I didn't know how to approach her on the subject of asking her out. Determined to overcome my lack of confidence I purchased two tickets and vowed I was going to invite her to attend the concert with me. A few ideal opportunities came along during the weeks leading up, but the question just wouldn't come from my mouth. I could talk at length about our latest music homework assignment, or ask her about the other subjects she was studying, even the weather, but I was unable to muster the courage to ask her to attend the concert with me. 

Is the anguish of longing but doing nothing more endurable than risking the pain of reaching out and asking, only to be rebuffed by a refusal?

Like sand in that proverbial hourglass, time ran out and I ended up going to the concert alone. Seated beside an empty seat, I despised myself for being a coward, but I think what hurt the most was unexpectedly spotting Karen in the crowds and seated about a dozen rows below from where I was. The following day in class she filled me in me about a concert she'd attended the evening before with her sister and mother, but I never told her I'd seen her there.

The last time we saw each other, she was on Cloud 9 about the summer job she'd landed at Fort Henry, and she'd be working there right up to her start at Queens University. After hearing her news I didn't consider telling her what was on my mind, so as we'd often done, we discussed music. I'm sure if she told me she was returning to CEGEP for the fall semester then I too would've returned instead dropping out and moving here to Vancouver.

Maybe our friendship might've developed further had I been different and tried to make circumstances different, but circumstances weren't changed and neither was I. Once more I pondered what could've been had I possessed the self-confidence and courage to act, but then again, perhaps nothing.

At the intersection of West Fourth Avenue and Arbutus Street I exited the bus. While scrambling in the rain to open my umbrella, that fading whistling sound the poles made against the overhead electric wires as the bus drove away attracted my attention, and I mused...

"Wires singin' in the rain, wires singin' in the rain.

What nonsense I'm thinkin'? It's pouring again."

I  was weary of Vancouver's almost constant rain. 

Upon arriving at my dwelling and hoping a letter might've come, I checked upstairs for mail. 

Nothing. 

Feeling forgotten by the world back east, I didn't feel like cooking, so I placed some cheese and salami on a couple of slices of rye bread and placed them under the oven broiler. While waiting for dinner to warm I sat on the couch and started browsing a newspaper. A 3rd-page headline about CP Rail's latest unsuccessful attempt to discontinue passenger train services in eastern Canada snagged my attention. A minute or two later I smelled burning and it wasn't pipe tobacco. I'd forgotten the oven and supper was converted to coking coal, or so it looked.

Giving up on cooking I headed downtown. My first stop was at a music store that had a library-like selection of music scores. After spending nearly an hour looking through numerous possible choices to add to my miniscule collection, I finally selected Schubert's Symphony Number 8, better known as the "Unfinished" symphony. I'd listened to recordings of the Schubert symphony but remained undecided about whether or not the work really was left unfinished in spite of those sketches he'd made.

As I walked the almost deserted streets after exiting the store, I pondered details I'd uncovered during my music studies research about the finale of Beethoven's Opus 131 string quartet . The famed composer had toyed with the possibility of using the quartet's last movement in a planned tenth symphony. He'd even scribbled some musical sketches, but he died soon after completing his last string quartets, thus any plans he might've had for a tenth symphony died with him. Anyway, I once had big aspirations for orchestrating the last movement of the A minor quartet, but after a few feeble starts I soon realized how little I knew about orchestral arranging. And what did I really know about how Beethoven might've done it? 

Nothing.

Well If Schubert could have an unfinished symphony, then maybe my claim to fame could be my "Unstarted" symphony in any key, and maybe even have it usurp John Cage's ridiculous fraud of work titled, 4' 33". 

At my second to last stop I picked up a copy of the latest edition of Trains magazine and then wandered over to a nearby restaurant with an Italian sounding name. Having decided upon pizza and beer for dinner, I wanted to spend an hour or so reading the latest news about railways, my other favourite pursuit. 

Much to my surprise the waitress was Chinese, but unlike the Chinese lady I saw on the bus earlier, the waitress didn't resemble or remind me at all of Karen. She spoke very little English and kept repeating back to me what I ordered to make certain she had it right. I had to ask her to repeat what she repeated because I had difficulty understanding what she was saying in her limited and very accented English. After she disappeared into the kitchen, I wondered, "Why isn't she working in a Chinese restaurant?"

Choosing to walk home instead of taking the bus, I proceeded westward along Robson Street toward Burrard. Vancouver was a “friendly city” because the streets were safe to walk at night. Not surprising considering the streets were almost deserted after rush-hour. The downtown buildings looked so silent, so desolate, so dark, but in some strange way they were mirroring the way I felt. 

On my way I encountered Curtis Beale, a colleague from work, and we paused to talk. After a few moments of sidewalk discussion about setting the world aright, he invited me to join him for a drink, because he was en route to his favourite hangout. I was undecided, but after some cajoling from Curtis, I accepted his invitation. Only silence awaited me at home anyway. 

Jack of Spades was the name of the bar, so upon stepping through the doorway, I asked, "What are they shovelling in this dig?" 

If he'd heard my question, he ignored it.

Curtis was one of the regulars here, because all the employees greeted him by name. Too, he didn't have to tell anyone what he wanted because they knew what he always ordered, so I asked him if he was the king of the club, but I don't think he caught my drift. 

After grabbing a vacant table and assuming I'd have the same, over the din of that thumping disco music, Curtis gestured and shouted, "My friend will have the same."

"Okay." to be agreeable, "I'll settle for dealer's choice or jokers wild."

"What on earth are you talking about?" 

"Cards." I replied.

"Cards?"

"Isn't this place the Jack of Spades?"

"What of it?" sounding like he hadn't made the connection.

Our drinks arrived and right away Curtis swished around the solitary maraschino cherry in the bottom of his glass.

Looking up, he declared, "That's it!"

"Huh?" now I was lost.

"You're a bridge player."

"I've never played bridge in my life." 

"I mean that bridge you've walked over once too often." Curtis jabbed and then laughed.

My work colleagues knew I often walked home to save a few quarters, so raising my glass I acknowledged, "Touché."

We talked at length about everything from work to politics while we had a few drinks. I had a few and he had quite a few. Curtis was in his late-thirties, never-married and didn't have anyone special in his life, but from comments he made, I sensed he wished he did. His home was a high-rise apartment in the Vancouver downtown core two blocks from the office as well as a few blocks from here. 

"Convenient." I thought, and wishing I could afford such rent.

 

During the course of our bull session I mentioned that I was from the Montreal area, well aware that no one in Vancouver had a clue about the West Island suburbs. After hearing Montreal, Curtis revealed that his last girlfriend was French and, while he didn't directly say it, his heartfelt reminisces about her left me with no doubt that he never got over her after their relationship ended some many years earlier.

 

When Curtis excused himself to make a trip to the washroom, I looked around and pondered everything I was seeing, hearing and feeling in here. 

"Are all these jovial sounding people surrounding us really having a good time like they seemed to be?"

"Is everyone laughing their heads off because they're truly happy?"

"Is enjoying life and having a fun time with each other an easy-to-discover secret everyone here seems to have figured out... except maybe for Curtis and me?"

 

I didn't know, but this bustling bar scene with its smoke-filled atmosphere seeming to reek of an underlying insincerity definitely wasn't for me, because I felt like that proverbial square peg trying to fit into the wrong place. Curtis was interesting company, but the fact was we were familiar strangers who worked together. Regardless, I really didn't want to stay here and drink late into the night, and had I wanted to, I certainly couldn't have afforded to. 

 

Making up and then giving my quick nonsensical excuse about the hour, and then bidding Curtis a hurried good night, I beat a hasty retreat. Outside, I grabbed a breath of cooler smoke-free night air and resumed my foot-sojourn homeward via the Burrard Bridge. Pausing a while later on the long center span to watch a large yacht proceeding from English Bay into False Creek, I heard music playing and a woman's laughter coming from inside the luxurious vessel as it passed beneath the bridge.

 

"Must be nice to be able to afford such luxuries." I thought and feeling a tad envious, but wealth I could live without and I had a lifetime of experience to prove it. 

All I wanted was to find that one and only special right person to share the rest of my life with, but I knew the bar-scene wasn't the way to search for her.

Instead of returning directly to my closet-sized suite as first planned, I detoured over to Kitsilano Beach for a late evening visit. Minutes later I was standing on the bluffs overlooking the edge of the water, and leaning against the white wooden fence with my hands resting on the top rail. Reflecting upon my earlier trip home on the bus, I thought about Karen McLennan and again wondered what the outcome might've been had I mustered the courage to ask her to go to that Beethoven concert last year. 

As I stared at the ink-black shoreline and city lights reflecting on the water, I debated whether or not to write to Karen once more, but in the end decided not to. Aside from my mother, those others who'd promise to write never responded to my letters. Besides, nobody under thirty has time to write letters, because letter writing is too much of a chore that takes too long. I suppose using the telephone would've been easy, but long-distance charges at almost three dollars a minute were prohibitive... and I didn't have her telephone number. Nonetheless, Karen knew my address, but no reply told me she was most likely too busy with her studies and exams, so I accepted she'd since found new interests in life and I wasn't one of them.

Might've been, could've been, hadn't and didn't, summed-up my present stark reality, and following a sigh of resignation, I whispered aloud, "Good-bye Karen." 

While walking back from the waterfront my thoughts shifted to the approaching Easter long weekend. Employment with Canadian Pacific had its advantages, and I was cognizant of pass privileges on CP Rail's few surviving passenger trains. One entitlement I hadn't known but learned about were the significant employee discounts at the CP Hotels. These two perks were perfect incentives for making a very inexpensive trip somewhere, especially considering that I loved train travel. At first I considered Calgary, but escaping from one city to go to another didn't seem appealing, so I set my sights on Banff.

After turning on the radio I sat at my desk, leaned back in the chair and stared at the backs of the music books that were lined up against the wall along the back of the desk. My thoughts were lingering on Karen, so I wasn't in the mood to read about music. A few minutes later, I reached over and pulled a pipe out of the tin I kept on top of the books. I scraped cinders out of the bowl and then stuffed it with tobacco. When satisfied the tiny stove was spouting sufficient clouds of pollution, I looked at my Bible for a moment, but instead, I picked up the CP Rail timetable and studied the passenger train schedules. 

Over the last few years CP Rail's system timetable had become pitifully thin as many passenger services were discontinued and station names eliminated from the index. Nonetheless, reading train schedules was relaxing, and perusing the schedule for "The Atlantic Limited" evoked snippets of pleasant memories of journeys made on that train so I could visit my grandparents. I concluded with a browse through the schedule for "The Canadian" and then placed the timetable beside the pipe tin on top of the books. 

While most people regard reading railway timetables as a waste of time, I see timetable reading as lessons in Canadian geography. I could recite with accuracy where dozens of little unknown towns and places in Canada were located, however, because they were almost unknown, no one ever needed to know where any of them were.

I turned off the radio and pulled out the music score for Beethoven's fourth piano concerto. After placing the stylus onto the record with the same opus, I put on the earphones, turned up the volume a little higher than usual and grabbed a pen. Following along with score, I conducted the Imaginary Symphony Orchestra through a flawless performance of the concerto’s first movement. 

My performances with this orchestra were always flawless when conducted this way, because they were similar to watching a movie for the third or fourth time and knowing how the ending would turn out. Sometimes I wondered how famous conductors were able to non-stop wave their arms through entire performances of lengthy works, because arm waving was rather tiring. Perhaps this cardio-vascular exercise was the reason orchestra conductors tended to live a long time. 

Anyway, gesturing my way through the first movement was exercise enough, and I was content just to listen to the second and third movements of the concerto as an audience of one while waiting for sleep to bring the end to another day.

The Oddblock Station Agent