RECORD STORE TALES #1186: Reunion of the Legendariumites

A sequel to #1182: The Legendarium of George
and #1184: The Legendarium of George: Gene Simmonsarillion

There we were, three men in our 50s, sipping hot drinks as old men do.  One of us is bald now.  One of us has grey, stringy hair.  The third one, perhaps having sampled the powers of longevity from the One Ring itself, had barely aged a day.  There he stood, tall and red:  the legendary Bob.

“What’s your drink?” I asked, having ordered a large coffee for everyone.

“I only drink tea,” he explained.  “I’ve never drank coffee actually.”

“I did not know that,” I replied.  You learn something new everyday, even about the guy you grew up with.

And so, Scott Peddle, myself and the legendary Bob gathered over hot beverages to catch up.  For Bob and I, it had been only a year and a half since the last funeral at which we reunited.  Lately, it has only been funerals.  For Scott, it was their first meeting since 1989, when Bob graduated highschool.

We smiled, we reacquainted, and we laughed.  It was good to be together again.  Our small trio was only a fraction of the old neighbourhood gang.  George, of course, is 10 years gone now.

“So I have to know, do you still listen to music?  And do you listen to the old stuff?” I asked Bob.

“Not so much; my kids like the current music.  One of my sons likes the old rock.”  I smiled.  Someone was continuing the legacy.

Scott then showed off his magnificent Kiss tattoos.  Both of us still love Kiss.  Some things have never changed.  Bob still has some of his old Iron Maiden picture discs.

Talk soon focused on the old neighbourhood.  The late George was older, and always a bit of a pervert.  He had no problem telling us what dirty song lyrics were really about.  “Let me ask you something,” I queried Bob.  “Did you know what a ‘love gun’ was?  Or did you think it was something else?  I thought it was like a gun that shot love potion, like in stories and movies.”  Bob agreed.  It didn’t occur to us that Paul Stanley was singing about his wiener.  Our innocent minds interpreted the lyrics innocently.

I remember a conversation with George about the Kiss song “Under the Gun”.  I assumed the song was about cars.  “Let’s hit the highway doing 69!” sang Paul Stanley.

“That’s not about driving,” said George, but declined to elaborate.  He was always the one with the dirty mind.

Coffee with Bob and Scott was probably the fastest two hours I’ve ever spent.  We spent just as much time talking about the past as the present.  What are you driving?  More like, what is your son driving?   Remember that time that Mike threw a lawn dart and hit Mrs. Reddecopp’s car?  Bob and I agreed to cover for me by blaming it on George.  It was the only time George was innocent, but got the blame anyway.  Most of the time he was the guilty party.  Not always.  We reminisced about all sorts of activities that we got into in the 80s.  Speaking from my own perspective, I think we felt entitled to own those streets as kids.  Cutting through a private parking lot to get to the mall quicker?  That was OUR route; we beat that path into the grass with our own feet, week after week.  How dare they fence it off!  What rebels we were.

Walking to the mall and Short Stop on a Saturday is a memory of something I miss.  Short Stop in those days was like a different store.  No liquor, but loads of comic books and magazines, candy and kites.  When we were young, we’d walk or bike and buy a comic and a candy bar.  When we were older, it was a rock magazine and a bag of chips.  We were, literally kids in a candy store, but the candy store was way better.

Conversation drifted back and forth from family to vehicles to work, but always circled back to George; the tie that still binds us.

I noticed something interesting.  Within the microcosm of our small suburban neighbourhood, there were subdivisions.  Scott Peddle was part of the “Secord Gang”, consisting of himself, George, and Sean and Todd Meyer.  I was in the Owen Avenue Gang, which featured George, Rob Szabo, Bob and his brother.  George’s house was the dividing line, thus he was in both groups.  Further down, there was the snootier Halliwell Gang, and so on.  These groups didn’t intermingle much, even though they were only meters apart.  When you’re a kid, meters may as well have been miles.

Before too long, two hours were behind us, and other duties beckoned.  We pledged to reunite again soon.  And we will.

Some things are as temporary as morning mist, others last a lifetime.  It’s a comforting thing to know.