A Jamaican. A FireStarter. And The Rise of the Shoe Monster.

It is important we get something sorted right. My mother loved ALL of my friends. Never one more than the other. Never the same at once. And never did she not speak her mind to them. Through actions, words, or asinine behaviour… you knew how she felt and where you stood. Your status could change by the minute but in the end of days, she loved you and always apologized for any miscommunication on the matter. Or didn’t. C'est la Vie.

So on her birthday, February 4th, this is for you.

‘A Jamaican. A FireStarter. And The Rise of the Shoe Monster’

This is a true story. The following events took place from June 16th, 1975 to present. At the request of few, some names have been changed. Out of respect for my creative soul, the rest has been told exactly as it occurred. To me.

To Kyle.

Kyle Marshall is one of my most cherished friends. I met Kyle in Highschool and he immediately bridged the gap of old friends I was at risk of losing and new friends I would soon adore. She didn’t start to love HIM until 2004. I met Kyle in 1989. Love takes time. Sometimes 15 years.

From 1989 to about 2003, Kyle would call my house every Friday night, late. The conversation was short, usually the same script, and always ended with my mother slamming the phone down. We had multiple one-line phones in the house and eventually I would just listen while the two of them conversed. The following is a word-by-word transcript of what I consider poetry.

11:36pm. Any Friday.

The phone begins to ring, awakens everyone in the house except me. Because I know what’s coming. I have the best friends on earth. And mother. I’m waiting. 

Linnie - “Hello?”

Kyle - “Jarrett deh yah?”

You see, for 15 years, Kyle would call my house every Friday night just before midnight in a fully realized Jamaican Patois accent.

Kyle was not Jamaican. 

At birth anyways.

Linnie - “Who is this?”

Kyle - “A Kyle. Yuh a feel alrlight?”

Linnie - “What do you want, Kyle?”

Kyle - “Mi need Jarrett fi pick mi up right away, momma”

Linnie - “Why don’t you f**k right off why don’t ya you friggin’ idiot…”

Kyle would then proceed to scream “BLOODCLAAAA…” but was never able to finish the word before she slammed the phone down and ended this week's call.

Half those calls I was actually WITH HIM.

Years later I learned the word he was trying to say and it’s a bad one.

Fast forward 15 years and In 2004, Kyle was my Master of Ceremonies at our wedding. He learned another language just for one day. Maltese. My mom told me it was the best MC she had ever seen and couldn't believe that friggin idiot did it. She was even more impressed he was able to hide his Jamaican accent.

---

To Therrin.

Therrin Veno is my oldest friend. We met in 1977. August. 48 years and counting.

My mother loved Therrin. I think she knew he’d one day save my life. I’m just not sure she knew he would almost end my life, his, and everyone else in 50 Cloverdale Dr. by burning it to the ground.

We were poor. In every sense of the word. But we had managed to keep a home, never moved, never taken. That home had a fireplace. A Push button gas model. In the basement. 11 inches from an entire room of 70’s shag carpet.

Therrin and I were brothers. ARE BROTHERS. Make no mistake. There are no two people on earth that spent more time together for that length of time. It is by far the greatest thing that ever happened to me before meeting my wife. Without him, there is no me. There is nothing.

But before saving me, he did almost kill me.

Kids are stupid. Me and every friend I ever knew or know are statistical, living proof of this. 

Stupid.

Because we spent so much time together, our thoughts became one and when you’re one, there’s nobody else to stop you.

One day we were sitting downstairs on the shag carpet. TV was off. Video Games were beaten. Board games were bored of. Therrin decided that paper wasn't just for drawing, it was for burning. With a push of a round, white button, not 5 feet up the wall, we had fire.

The fire blazed on top of fake ceramic logs, behind mesh-metal drapes, encased in a black and white brick-ish mantle.

We proceeded to take turns rolling paper, inserting tip of said paper into fire, pulling out paper, letting it burn to that last second and then blow it out. 

Repeat.

We could play this game of chicken with fire forever. And we did.

But eventually we waited too long. The fire would burn faster or we would blow slower. And when we couldn’t blow it out it was either get burned or drop the fire.

Spoiler. We weren't getting burned.

As the fire descended towards the carpet you’d think that would inspire panic? A reconsideration of the rules? Maybe even stop for the day?

Nope.

I told you we were stupid.

To say I ever thought we’d be in danger would be a lie. These were small controlled fires. Looking back I'm surprised we didn’t burn the entire street down. From Bramlea City Centre to BSS.

As the small fires would burn inside the dark maroon shag carpet we simply stomped them out with whatever was in reach. 

And because the small black burns could easily be hand combed over, hidden with old furniture, or simply mistaken for other stains, we never really worried of being caught. Plus there was never a working smoke alarm. Those batteries were used for my Masters of the Universe Castle Grayskull.

What we didn’t realize at the time was my mother’s bedroom was directly above us. A backsplit home has many advantages. Hiding sounds and smells are not one of them.

The ventilation system ran 18 inches between the basement and my mothers bedroom. When she secretly smoked in her bedroom, I smelled it before she smoked it. So, the smell of “smoke” to her was normal.

Until she quit.

My mother was a life long smoker, who I rarely saw smoke. She loved it. I loved the thought of it. But every so often she would quit for her own reasons. On a dime. Cold Turkey.

One of those quit days was a “play day” for me and Therrin. I remember the fire. I remember the foot stomps from above. And remember Therrin praying.

That was the last day we were allowed to use the fireplace and the next time I used it I was 25.

I remember blaming Therrin for the idea because if I’m being honest, he always was the cooler one. And fire is cool. And I didn’t think she would smack him.

As hard.

But what happened next and for the rest of our lives together was simple.

She got mad. Really mad. But not mad enough for regrets. Or police.

And when the mad stopped. And the smoke stopped downstairs and secretly started back up upstairs, she continued to let us be even greater friends and then brothers and then one. We never died. Just the opposite ironically. 

We lived. Greater every day.

She loved Therrin. As much as her own children and more than my father.

---

To Murray.

Murray Ditchburn. My mother loved him. And the older she got, the more she goddamn told him. She refused to believe he was ever getting married, and once married, she was convinced it was just a temporary thing. A fling. A cover.

Murray and I spent an incredible amount of time with each other in our early 20’s. Therrin was off creating a life for himself finally and Murray stepped in. At first he did it out of pure kindness and empathy… but little did he know he’d soon fall in love with the whole mess of us.

He’s never said this to me, but I know in my heart he needed us also.

We spent every minute together we could. This was a dream scenario for me. Murray on the other hand had the love of his life and extended family to boot… and now ME.

Most people would draw a line. Distance themselves. Not Murray. He worked his ass off during the day. Spent all the time with his love and loved ones. And then gave me every spare minute of his life for years. Mostly nights. Really late nights.

And one night Murray was introduced to ‘The Shoe Monster’

From 1999 to 2001 Murray did most of the driving. I was either in no shape, no desire, or I simply was told to buckle up and prepare for the most inconceivable fishtails. He drove his car, my car, or any car he wanted.

The things we would do at night are not important for this story. What is important is the return.

One late night, well beyond midnight, mid week, Murray and I arrived home. By home I mean my home. Linnie’s home.

Any normal person would end the night there, drop said friend home, and rest up for the next day’s night. Not Murray.

Murray was ‘home’. And we had Max Payne to play.

By this time I was living in my basement, shag carpet was gone, and I had only a mattress, computer, and some Nirvana CD’s to my name.

And just like “Bullet Time” in Max Payne… time with Murray moved slow and perfect.

Hours would go by…and hours did.

One night Murray realized the moon was leaving and the sun was coming. We crept upstairs quietly, as quietly as two 6 foot four and three men could.

I still remember the crash.

10 seconds before exiting, Murray was putting on the second of his size 16 shoes. To this day I’m not sure why he tried doing this in the dark, bent over, while balancing on one foot.

The first hop was onto and INTO the wall. He was moving like King Kong on a jackhammer. Crashing up and down, making his way from our side door to the middle of the kitchen where he finally meteored into our linoleum floor.

My mother was historically a terrible sleeper. Not how she slept or quality of sleep. She just always slept with the lights on, tv on, half dressed… to anyone else it would look like a crime scene. 

At first there was nothing.

And then we heard the staggering then stomping footsteps from my mom’s bedroom.

n a backsplit, there’s only about 5 stairs from the main level to the upstairs so we thought about running but instead we just waited. Murray still on the floor. In the fetal position. 

What came out of my mother’s mouth next was the most angry assault of words and names from one human to another that I’ve ever heard.

Within those unrepeatables I heard other words. “Elephant” “Plane Crash” and one I didn’t understand at the time… “CACOPHONY”

My mom was an English Major but never rubbed it in one’s face… look that one up.

The next night, probably 12 hrs later, Murray was back. Same plan, Stan.

Max Payne was played. Kurt screamed through my speakers. And Murray left. At least he tried to.

You see Linnie could be a passive, wicked woman. She also thought 20 years ahead. She knew what she did then, would be relished and reminisced now.

And though a Gorilla, Murray was not an animal. He had the most respect for my mother. He did not want to startle a single mom sleeping and would not again.

She would make sure of that.

It took a few minutes before Murray finally asked.

“J-DAWG. You see my shoe?”

“It’s on yer foot, man.” I said pointing down.

“The other one, f**ker.”, he said pointing down to his socked foot.

He couldn’t find the shoe. I looked in a pile of shoes by the side door, then the closet, then the front door. It was nowhere.

And then he said it. Looking outside, past the porch and the driveway.

“F**king Linnie…”

There, in the middle of the street, on a cold February night, half buried in snow and slush, was Murray’s shoe.

At least two cars had run over it. 

And possibly a skidoo.

Murray was the first victim of ‘The Shoe Monster’ but not the last. I don’t think they ever spoke of it and if they did, she denied it.

She loved Murray. Right up until her last days here. And still.

Happy Birthday, Linnie. You are more loved than ever. The proof is all around me.