Freddy was sitting on a bench in Allen Gardens tuning his guitar. I went up to him and asked if I could take some photos of him doing his thing. A couple hours later, after (among other things) a trip to a Timmies where I bought him a coffee, we parted company on Carlton Street.
As soon as Freddy saw the camera, he was talking publicity photos for things like posters because he’s putting together a band and he needs to work at promoting himself. He shot to his feet, grabbed his sweatshirt and jacket, and ran off to see about backgrounds for the shot. The bench where I found him was on the south side of the St. Andrew Evangelical Lutheran Church. It’s a nice stone church; maybe the wall would be a good background. But he decided no and turned to one of the glass conservatories on the other side of the walkway. Maybe that would work. But where would he sit? He ran past a row of benches but they were all covered in graffiti. I had trouble keeping up with him. Finally, he settled for a stone post by the entrance to the greenhouses. He hoisted himself onto the post and set to work tuning his guitar. I’d play a note from the keyboard app on my iPhone, he’d tune for a few seconds, then stop to tell me a bit about himself.
Freddy is from Owen Sound. One of his ex-wives lives there with his daughter and a man (who made her pay for half of her ring). He has a dog which is living in Markdale. It’s a show dog and he’d like me to take photos of it someday. He’s just come into the city from Oshawa. Somebody robbed him at knife point last night while he was still in Oshawa. Or maybe it was the night before last. He can’t remember. He needs to get back to Union Station sometime to pick up his lunch. He left it with a guy he trusts so, even if the guy isn’t there, he’ll have left it with someone else reliable. But if he loses his lunch (so to speak), so what? He’s only out a jar of olives and another jar of pickles and some other stuff. No big deal.
The reason he’s in Toronto is to find his son who’s MIA – completely dropped off the radar. The boy was born in 1997. His mom—Freddy’s previous ex-wife—just up and left with the boy. Sent him a Dear John letter and that was that. He has a paralegal working for him to help find his boy. Says he hasn’t got much hope of getting access what with Ontario’s laws and all. But he’s heard that maybe she’s in Alberta and that would be a lot easier for him legal-wise. Thing is: he can’t do that from here; he has to get out to Alberta before he can do whatever.
I ask about his music. He says it’s all his own material. As for influences, he names some people I’ve never heard of. But also the Eagles, Bob Dylan, and Ronny Hawkins, Jr. I mention Gordon Lightfoot. Yeah, he likes Lightfoot, but the harmonies in his music are a bit more tricky, not your straight 1-4-5 stuff. So you’re more of a Stompin’ Tom man, then? He laughs, then he starts singing Bud the Spud.
I have to admit, he has a pretty good singing voice. He says it’s a bit rough. He’s got something in his throat and it probably wouldn’t hurt to have, say, some tea with honey. I take the cue. I’ve got enough shots by now, so we head over to the Timmies across the road from the church. He tells me his stage name is Eveready Freddy, like the bunny, keeps going on and on. I check when I get home: it’s Energizer that has the bunny. Still, the whole bunny thing seems apt. Keeps going on and on.
He says the biggest problem is managing his bandmates. They’re off doing their own things. Or when they do get together, they want to take their share of the door and snort it up their nose or fuck prostitutes. He thinks it’s such a waste. So you guys play bars up in Owen Sound? Down in Toronto? Well … we haven’t actually got any gigs yet. We’re still putting it all together. (I’m thinking: if the door is $0, then there probably isn’t a lot of snorting or fucking going on.)
He asks for a double double, which I pay for, and he promises to buy me one the next time we get together. We sit at the counter by the window. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes which he empties onto the counter. There’s a twenty dollar bill, a one dollar American bill, a couple coins, and a broken cigarette. He leaves his double double to cool and goes outside to bum a light from a kid smoking on the sidewalk.
When he comes back inside, he tells me about his highs and his lows. Some people have told him he should be taking something for it, but he absolutely refuses. If he took chemicals like that, he wouldn’t be him anymore. There was once when he was hospitalized for a drug-induced psychosis. Wasn’t his fault. He smoked PCPs. The guy who gave it to him said it was weed. Now he has a history. Get hospitalized and it never leaves you. It wasn’t his fault, but they check and go “oh he has mental health issues” even though it was really nothing at all, but now he’s fucked.
Somehow, we get talking about fairs. Freddy has family near Markdale who run fairs. Then again Freddy doesn’t trust carnies. I ask if he’s ever been a carnie himself. He smiles and gives me his patter. He’s pretty good at it. As you’d expect, he spews it out at breakneck speed. Eveready Freddy. I learn other things, too. Freddy holds a finger to his lips and smiles: in secret, he and a couple buddies are building an ultra-light plane. It’s in a barn up north. They’re just waiting on a shipment of special aluminum.
We walk west along Carlton, and at Mutual Street, a woman drops her bicycle on the street and chases after an envelope that’s blown loose from her jacket pocket. In a thick French accent, the woman explains how important the letter is. She says she’s from Montreal. She says … and then … and then … and then … Not even Freddy can get a word in edgewise. The mantle has passed to someone else so I take my leave.
