Knock Three Times

5. The Godfather

                 IT WAS NEARLY NINE o'clock in the bustling downtown core. Toronto, the southern-most metropolis of the eastern Canadian border was a massive harbour city on the edge of Lake Ontario—some say the lesser twin of New York City, but a few hours' drive north of the Big Apple. Similarly, the big city was a cruel and merciless mistress, capable of utter ruin if one were caught unaware, just as likely to make you rich as she was to crush you into bankruptcy—into the streets, and starving without a nickel to your name. Like many of her likeness, life in Toronto could quite easily make or break you, and there was no lenience for lack of ambition, a harsh lesson in the unwritten book of survival known only to those who had tasted her bitter flavour and cold indifference.

    The crowded sidewalks were alive with commotion on a brisk Saturday night in mid-autumn. Lights from almost all upper angles brightened every crevice of urban life, as a cool pre-winter's breeze whistled and occasionally howled through the narrow alleys between buildings and wind-tunneled streets. The steady gusts posed little-to-no challenge to the countless urbanites accustomed to windy city life, as they moved about the sidewalks unvexed—even lax. Here, like a boom town within the city, visitors and tourists were easy targets for those swift of hand and cunning mind, over-dressed in winter attire too early for the season, an err of confusion about them, prey among the predators of the treeless concrete jungle. Street vendors worked their business from every view, the odour of street meat and vulnerable naivety in the air. Scammers and bootleggers were situated at every corner, pick-pockets swiftly moving through the crowd much more subtle than the breeze, and drug addicts in search of the biggest bang for the cheapest price.

    Beneath the neon palm-tree sign of the famous venue, El Macombo, a crowd of music fans puffed on their cigarettes in the cool night air, their collars flipped up and shoulders lifted to shield themselves from the chilly October winds. They were huddled before the door like lax Spartans, each standing bold as to not be rushed into the ever-flowing stream of the passersby. Many of the moving crowd avoided them, stepping off the curb and amongst the sluggish traffic, though the occasional horn blasted disapproval. Their banter was disturbed periodically whenever the front doors of the club parted, the doormen releasing the disruptive but oddly suiting sound of hard metal into the streets, only to muffle once again when they closed.

    'So what do you think of the opening act?' asked one of the smokers as the drunken frivolity carried on within the huddled bunch.

    'Good voice, classic style.' nodded the young lady he was trying to pick up. Dark lipstick stained the white butt of her cigarette as her slightly inebriated gaze roamed about the flashing signs above. 'Sektion8 has been here before, ever the opening act.' She shook her head.

    'What do you mean?'

    'I mean, the lead singer's got a hell of a set of pipes on her, but she's never been a headliner, whether with the band—or even on her own.' the enthusiastic friend stated as though she knew her personally.

    'So, you gonna buy some merch?' he asked.

    'Way ahead of you.' She patted a lump in her pocket where her newest band shirt was rolled up, the pocket of her long gothic, black-suede coat stuffed to capacity. 'I've got two of her albums at home, just waiting for a third; high quality stuff for a country bumpkin.'

    'Bumpkin?' the man's brow crinkled listening to the hard and heavy guitar, and double-kick petals so fast it sounded like machinegun fire. 'She doesn't sound country in the least.'

    'She's from Belleville, a small harbour town 'bout two hours east from here.' she elaborated.

    'Is that where you're from?' he asked, but his lady friend shook her head. 'Just assumed—sounded like you knew her.'