From Tabusintac to Tokyo | Page 9

providing an example for someone to follow but they have to want to follow the example. (Something that's always bothered me: If you lose your mentor, does that mean you're demented?)
It turns out that I was looking for a mentor. And I was lucky enough to find one.
Locutus, when I met him, was definitely a different box of rocks. I realize now that he couldn't have been much more than 45. Looking at him now in his seventies, he really hasn't changed that much, although gravity has worked its evil magic on him.
As the Dean of the Biz Admin School, Locutus was no lightweight. He was smart, sarcastic and cynical. A grumpy exterior disguised a heart as big as all creation.
In his role as Don of the residence, Locutus had an open door policy. That is, the door to his apartment in our residence was literally open during the evenings. Anyone could waltz into his living room, pour themselves a cup of something approximating coffee and then plunk their butts into a chair and join the conversation.
Did I also mention that I'm a bit paranoid and resistant to change? I didn't pay very much attention to this new Don. I had liked the old Don just fine and had seen no reason for the change. But someone suggested that I go in to have coffee. And one night I did. For the next three years of my life at Bridges House, Locutus' place was pretty much my social centre.
Let me paint you a picture of Locutus' sanctum. A two-bedroom, not very spacious apartment on the second floor of Bridges. As Locutus was, at minimum, a two pack a day man, there was a certain atmosphere that can only be described as heavy. Antique tables of many descriptions and in a variety of repair held up lamps, coffee cups and books. Oil paintings covered the walls. Although I didn't like his art then, being a follower of the Playboy School of Photorealism, Locutus had excellent taste in the works he purchased.
Pieces of large and oddly shaped pottery took up space in the corners. Large, shapeless loveseats provided seating for guests. Metal cauldrons about the size of crock pots were situated here and there in the living rooma€|Locutus' version of ashtrays.
There was a small bookcase for those in the room who did not wish to engage in conversation. In some cases, several conversations went on simultaneously.
Depending on the time of day, the event or holiday, food might be served. This could take the form of "Soupe ?? la Garbage", that is, whatever Locutus might have kicking around in the fridge. Anchovy pizza also sticks in my mind for some reason. Guest chefs were always welcome to whip up something in Locutus' tiny, not very tidy, kitchen.
Dinners would frequently continue long into the night with coffee being replaced by alcohol of many descriptions. Locutus was the first person I encountered who bought his booze by the case so that he had a selection of wine, liqueurs and spirits for all occasions. Most people I had known up to then bought one bottle, then drank it until they fell asleep or were arrested.
Every Saturday, Locutus would get up early, bundle a few brave, sometimes hung-over souls into his Datsun and drive down to the Farmer's Market to buy food for breakfast.
That's right, almost every weekend, a hearty breakfast was to be had for nothing except the willingness to be polite to everyone else in the room. As a starter, there was freshly made cider. If you were really hurting from the night before, you could add a dash of rum from the bottle right next to the cider. I recommend this even if you're not suffering.
Huge amounts of coffee would be consumed. Locutus would shuffle into the living room, announce what was on the griddle and take orders. At some point, the breakfast rush would peter out and Locutus would have his own breakfast, tidy the place up and go about his errands for the day, sometimes with several pimply students following in his wake like ducklings.
Just like Rick's place in "Casablanca", sooner or later, everyone came to Locutus': Students, professors, the occasional actor, artist or poet. Women, accompanied and not. Someone who knew him would drop in with three friends in tow. They'd have a drink and stay for dinner.
Discussions might include local politics, the university, trips to Italy, France and England, someone's latest book or painting or just plain gossip.
This sort of thing could become a blood sport. I met the "Pies"; two women too old to be tarts. They taught in the Biz Admin department and were ardently left wing Americans when it was still OK to be that way. One of them later became the Leader of the NDP in