The brutal cold that brought shrieks of discomfort to four of the women leaving the church late that Saturday afternoon was typical for Calgary in January. After a few polite, but hurried words to each other, bringing into question the true climate of Hell, four of them made their way through the bottle blue dusk to their frozen Corollas and Windstars. The fifth stood and watched, calmly unaffected by the biting northeast wind. She missed this about the prairies; the naked harshness of the landscape, and the extremities of the weather. She somehow felt comforted by the vulnerability she felt, that she, or anyone, could easily perish under such conditions. This was a land for the sharp witted and the strong. After the four other women had pulled out of the parking lot, she walked east, toward McLeod Trail, the snow beneath her feet making that delightful crunching sound of minus thirty degrees. And she realised how much she hated Toronto.
It had been two years since Olivia had been here. It seemed like forever. But she was patient, and knew she had to be. The woman she now appeared to be, and the life she now lived, were worlds and decades apart from who she was, once upon a time. However, every passing day seemed to bring her some subtle reminder that the veneer she so dutifully kept polished was very thin......
"That picture must be retouched, man. No one has eyes that color. That's just freaky!" Brendan held the picture under a brighter light, not able to quite accept the deep sea green eyes of the woman in the photo.
"Believe it, they are real, just like the rest of her." Matt took the picture from the other man and looked at the woman in it. Just like every time, every emotion within him boiled up, and he had to look away and focus his thoughts. He thought of the twists of fate and happenstance that had brought them together and kept them apart over the years as Brendan passed him a joint.
"No, thanks, man. I'll have some later. We're going to be here for a while, anyway."
Brendan looked at Matt and nodded, knowing that Matt had been planning this evening for months, then turned around and put on the Fu Manchu vinyl he just picked up.
Olivia walked briskly through the cold, thinking about one of the girls who was at the meeting earlier. She was the real deal. A girl who didn't buy into the thrill of being at a lecture by 'Olivia McClaren, Wife of Reverend Bryce McClaren, Founder of The McClaren Ministries'. As always, most of the girls were in awe of this beautiful woman, who they had seen on The Miracle Network beside her handsome husband. But that one girl, the one with the Betty Page haircut, and the faint aroma of Craven Menthol cigarettes, she saw right into Olivia's soul, and wasn't having any of this abstinence and purity business. She hadn't spoken a word or sang a note during the course of the afternoon. At the end of the meeting she looked into Olivia's eyes and tilted her head slightly as she shook her hand. Neither of them had to say a word; Olivia was busted, and somehow this girl knew exactly what was behind the veneer. As the girl turned and walked away, Olivia felt thrilled that someone had seen her real self.
Matt stared out across the city's downtown, and grinned to himself as he noticed the reflection in the large sheet of glass; Brendan gyrating and twisting like a tall, cartoonish Iggy Pop to the thick, throbbing groove of his latest vinyl treasure. Matt hadn't had a friend like him since he was a little kid. Brendan's mom had moved him and his older brother away from Northern Ireland before they were drawn into the vengeance fuelled maelstrom that had claimed the life of their father. It had been tough for them when they got to Calgary, they didn't have much, but they loved what little they had, and their mother created two fine men on her own. Brendan was the kind of guy that never asked anything of you but your honesty and company, and whom you could trust without question. He had completely transformed Matt's jaded opinion of music, and of life, in one insane, thirty seven minute audition, having been called at one a.m. one night by a mutual friend, telling Matt that he knew someone looking for a "guitar whore". And, at the time, that is exactly what Matthew Cross was, and what his business card proudly stated. He was good. Really good, better than the likes of the big hair clowns of the era, and had spent years on the road, making connections with producers and other musicians while forging a reputation as a consummate professional. And, as a guy who could walk into a studio and nail nearly anything thrown at him on the first take. 'Wham Bam, Where's the Cash, Man', hence the 'whore' moniker jokingly laid on him by those happy to work with him. His encyclopaedic interest in music allowed him to pick up live or studio gigs of practically any genre; he listened to everything. He also knew that he could always just go and make a living as a welder, and he actually missed doing it, and was as good at welding exotic metals as he was at playing guitar; probably better. And he took that uncompromising, blue collar attitude on stage with him. Every night, he kicked ass. He just never kissed ass, and happily, never would. "matthew cross. welder. guitar whore."
After the insane roller coaster ride that Brendan, lunatic rhythmatist, and his bass player/wife, Sophie, took Matt through; careening wildly from The Dave Brubeck Quartet's "Take Five" to "Ace of Spades" by Motorhead and somehow winding up on Pat Metheny's "Are You Going With Me?", one thing was certain. Matt would never whore himself out again.
As if she were a child, Olivia suddenly clutched her bag tightly as she stepped onto the C-Train platform, a southbound LRT whooshing by into the suburbs blowing her off balance slightly. As she stood alone on the northbound platform, she thought of a photograph her friend Shawna had taken of her years earlier. The last photograph taken of her in her old life, it would turn out. She had convinced Olivia to strip completely naked, and stand on the Rosedale subway platform in Toronto as she photographed her through the window of a subway car. In the photo, a high contrast black and white shot taken with an ancient Spotmatic, Olivia stood, more beautiful and radiant than she could ever imagine herself actually being, somehow un-noticed by everyone else on the platform. Everyone, except a delighted, wide eyed little boy, holding his mother's hand while pointing at Olivia, and somehow, looking directly into the lens of Shawna's camera. That little boy hadn't been afraid to see the real Olivia. That young woman with the Betty Page haircut hadn't been afraid either. Olivia could still feel that girl's strong, sinewey hand in her own, and as the northbound C-Train stopped and it's doors opened, Olivia felt how moist she had become.
"So, how did things go this afternoon, then?"
