You Give Love A Bad Name [part II]

Continued from part I.

The Junction is a Toronto neighbourhood that one might—OK, one does—describe as "rough." Dundas Street, which runs the entire east-west length of Toronto and continues west into Hamilton and up the mountain, is the main thoroughfare by road, but The Junction was named for the crisscrossing train tracks, most no longer in use, that characterize the off-road. Dundas Street in The Junction is peppered with second hand appliance stores, hole-in-the-wall vaccuum cleaner repair places, and fabric and drapery shops, and there's a women's shelter and a bar on every block.

I never wear my white go-go boots to The Junction when I know that's where I'm going, but tonight it was spur of the moment. This ain't Queen Street: boots and mini dresses have an entirely different connotation at Dundas and Keele. But I had Lana, Nina, and Darla to protect me. And Sparky. Besides, with these boots I'm 6'3". Nobody'll mess with me. They'll probably think I'm a trannie.

The Hole In The Wall bar is aptly, if not quite literally, named. The front door is set back so far from the sidewalk that the entranceway becomes its own alley. The building was once a long, narrow nineteenth century brick house that, sometime in the twentieth century became two long, narrow brick houses. To negotiate to the far end of the bar where the karaoke is happening one has to pass along the entire length of the bar in the six inch space between the wall and the backs of the patrons sitting on the bar stools.

We see Tara and Scully, a gothy-punk couple who sometimes come to Kickass Karaoke at The Rivoli on Sunday nights, sitting at the only table in the karaoke zone. This is no coincidence; we know that this is their local, and that there's karaoke here on Friday nights. That's why we came.

There's another guy sitting with them. He has black gelled hair and is wearing a black shirt with the sleeves cut off. There are intricate tatoos on his forearms, which end in leather studded bands. His jeans are decked in chains. He sees us approach and greet Tara and Scully, and then he does the cutest thing. He jumps out of his chair, actually knocking it over, then picks it up, extends his hand to me, smiles the most adorable smile I've ever seen, and says, "Hi, I'm Ashton."

Hi, I'm Demi.

He is 6'6", skinny, and barely older than my students.

He offers me his chair so I can sit next to Tara then goes to the bar to talk to the people there. He's clearly a regular in this joint. We pile our coats on a chair in the corner, and proceed to examine the karaoke books. Business first, chat later, that's our modus operandi. What I like about Junction karaoke is, I can do songs I would never do at The Rivoli, surrounded by Queen Street hipsters, many of whom sing in bands or work in theatre. Up here amid the blue collars, I can do Connie Francis, Petula Clark, Fleetwood Mac, and Patsy Cline.

I hand the KJ "You're So Vain."

Karaoke bars like this one in The Junction have character. Some places have a guy like Bob, who was singing "Summer Wind" while Ashton was knocking down chairs. There's a guy like that at The Groundhog, I think his name's Don, who does "Mac The Knife" like he was on a Las Vegas stage. And once, when I was in Ogonquit, I met an octogenerian named Howard who sang Frank Sinatra 'til I cried.

Later, I go outside to the hole-in-the-wall entranceway for a smoke. Ashton is there, too, talking to two other guys. I touch his back to get his attention and say, "Hi, sweetie, do you have a light?"

He jumps, ever so slightly, then fumbles in his pocket for his lighter, pulls it out, drops it, picks it up, and says, "Sorry; you got me all flustered when you touched me."

He lights my cigarette with his Zippo.

He's seven inches taller than me and he carries a Zippo.

And then he says, "Will you take me home tonight?"

To be continued tomorrow.