Rich man

Poor man

Beggar man

Thief

Last blog was based on my disenchantment with the standard obituary contained in the Globe and Mail, where every life reviewed seemed to stand along Jesus Christ and Buddha in its purity, accomplishment and standards to be emulated.

There are no halos on human beings. With this review of the life of Joe ‘Btfsplyk’, I write an unsanitized biography of a man who could be you…or more likely, me.

Joe passed from these mortal coils in Montreal on July 1st and no one could tell if it was peaceful or not because his last bender had left him in a deep coma. It was ironic that his death occurred on his country’s birthday since he had always referred to his homeland as the “asshole of creation” and always loudly expressed his desire to live in the United States. There was no chance of that ever happening, however, as several minor drug convictions and a lack of marketable skills would leave Joe about as much chance of obtaining a green card as the Toronto Maple Leafs have of winning the Stanley Cup anytime in this century.

Joe was a mediocre student for whom the phrase ‘Christmas graduate’ was a perfect fit. He was invited to leave the Loyola campus of Montreal’s Concordia University due to the fact that he was much more familiar with that city’s Crescent Street bars than any university classroom. Cut adrift from the hallowed halls of academia Joe found himself at loose ends until the one uncle from whom he was not totally estranged found him a job as a labourer/apprentice in an auto bodyshop. Joe managed to draw a livable wage for six weeks until a falling-out with his employer materialized over Joe’s chronic tardiness and frequent absenteeism. That employer had too often observed Joe in (non) action and was heard muttering to himself, “If he ever gets the urge to work he just lies down until he feels better.”

Joe had met a variety of women through his familiarity with a (large) number of seedy watering holes in Montreal’s east end. His ‘relationships’ with a couple of these women enriched the planet with two more inhabitants, neither of whom inspired in Joe any more desire to rejoin the workaday world. To escape the inevitable paternity suits and ongoing court battles Joe hitchhiked out to Fort McMurray in the mid 1970s during the height of the Alberta oil boom.

It was in northern Alberta that Joe came closest to fulfill whatever potential the universe provides to every living creature. The necessity of the oil companies to pump out the Alberta Crude 24 hours a day enforced their Human Resources Departments to overlook a plethora of human weaknesses and shortcomings in their labour pool and Joe’s drinking and gambling habits were well provided with a steady stream of income for the first time in his life. And to his credit Joe steered clear of the drug habits to which too many of his colleagues fell as victims.

No man is completely deplorable and for the first time in his life Joe lived up to his responsibilities, sending cheques regularly back to Montreal to provide for his spawn. Room and board in the Fort were provided gratis by the company and a good chunk of the rest of Joe’s paycheque was invested in the gaming tables of Las Vegas, where he often displayed a surprising and very personally-gratifying propensity for the poker game of Texas Hold ‘Em.

Carpal Tunnel Syndrome eventually reared its ugly head in Joe’s joints and so he had no choice but to return from whence he came and to another set of joints that had plagued him all his life, those of the sort that serve liquor. But the skills that he had picked up in Vegas provided him with a modest under-the-table living from backroom poker games that with the social security cheques from the generous Quebec and Canadian governments kept Joe sheltered in an east-end rooming house. His relationship with his two offspring salvaged because of the cheques he had uncharacteristically sent home during his salad days out west provided Joe with some company and comfort.

Joe was not surrounded by family nor friends when he was finally unshackled from these earthly chains and went to wherever the ordinary Joes of this world go to. I happened to be in the cemetery on my monthly trip to remind myself of where I too would end up soon enough. I watched his casket lowered into the earth and the priest, who of course was a stranger to Joe, say a few generic final words.

With a wink to our common humanity, I left before the first clump of earth was thrown down.

Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. I haven’t whitewashed Joe’s life nor pretend he would be missed by everyone he met. I left Joe with a promise to head to my favourite watering hole and bend my elbow in honour of him.

It was the least I could do.