Tapping his way into the ground. The late student Jack the drunk

Creative Writing Assignment By Stephen Weir

I don't drink but when I got my surprise degree last semester my wife and I went back to the DH to have a drink.  We first went there in 1969 when we were in residence and Syd the owner was willing to cash my Baby Bonus cheque to pay for our drinks. Back then, if you tapped on the bar, they immediately plonked a draft beer in front of you. If you gave a frenzying tapping they put a shot glass full of Windsor made

(left) your classic boiler maker

whisky inside the full beer glass. It was called a boiler maker. I was recently shut down by at the back of the hall at last Friday’s Senate meeting. I wanted set up a meeting about my wish to work on a Masters. It was suggested I quit Windsor and go to UofT.  I was devasted. But maybe the lack of student's tapping was a second type of rejection I was feeling. 

Stephen and his wife Maria and Convocataion 2005 the oldest student at Union always trolling for taps in Windsor.

In my soon to write story I introduce Jack a drunk, and another mature student in our creative writing course who commuted daily to Chatham I ask him to join me at the DH just before our class that day. We had a couple of boiler makers and then Jack asked me to loan him some money to get gas for his ride home after class.

(right ) hundreds of year old, the Domion House (DH)

 I gave him a C-note and asked that he tap for me next class, and to forget about repaying me the $100.  I think boiler makers had done the trick. When I stood up in class he started tapping. Loud. Non-Stop and he kept yelling"Yeah". You shock me when you ask him to leave. He winks at me as he stomps out. At our next class you are not at the podium. Jack isn't there. But the others arre. A grief counsellor sent by the school is there. She tells us that Jack was dead.  He had had a roll-over on the road to Chatham after last week's class. I blush when she suggests that drinking might have been involved.  "The OPP officer investigating the crash has asked me to ask you all what had happened to Jack in that last class she asks "When they pulled Jack from the wreck both of his knuckles were broken and there was blood all down his arms and soaking his jeans, "What's Up?" Just silence the way students know how to do. She asked again and she puts away her Bible and leaves the lecture hall.

And so, the story continues. I am overcome with guilt. The class knew I had taken Jack to the DH. They had hated his tapping performance too.

I went to Jack's funeral.  When I walked into the side lounge where his coffin rested. his knuckles were so ugly the family had made it a closed coffin affair. His widow stood beside the coffin, She stares daggers at me and she began to tap on her husband's polish box.  "You tapped him into this" she yelled as she did a Boiler Maker style noise banging on the coffin. Jack didn't wake up not even when she starts tapping me on my face I decided to leave. The students and friends who had heard the commotion from the seats in the chapel snickered when they saw the blood dripping down from my lips. They gasped a big Oh when they peered around me into the burial lounge and saw the widow’s knuckles bleeding non-stop. The funeral was instantly cancelled.

Next class I stood to talk about my stories. " Please class" I begged the group with my hands in an old fashion prayer position. Don't start knocking if  my knees are rocking and Jack the drunk isn't yet in the ground.