Sweet Serendipity
Do the ‘If only........’ questions of life fascinate you like they do me? Or are you one of those individuals who spend too much ‘If only’ time in sad reproach and haunting reflection? Did you go up in that mountain chair lift at the precise time the soul mate you hadn't yet met was passing you by on the way down?
Perhaps you are a married parent desperately in search of peace and quiet, along with the absence of debt; a parent who occasionally wonders how different your life might have been ‘if only’ you hadn’t decided to parent a football team. Or a repentant 20-year-old trapped in a dead-end job, whose prospects might have been transformed ‘if only’ you’d sat and obtained those ‘A’ Levels or studied harder during earlier school years. Who knows? Had you not been looking where you walked in that crowded street yesterday, you may have accidentally bumped into the one you would be with today?
How different would all our lives have been ‘if only’ we’d done ‘that’ instead of ‘this’, gone ‘there’ instead of ‘here’, been ‘sooner’ instead of ‘later’, said ‘yes’ instead of ‘no’, gone ‘up’ in the lift instead of ‘down! ‘If only' we’d decided not to change our lottery numbers, we would have won over £1million’ is perhaps the most reproachful ‘if only’ I’ve ever come across. I once heard of a couple who must have passed each other on up-down escalators for a number of years before their eyes eventually met!
Often in my unattached days, when I've been going into a large building through those revolving entrance doors, I've thought, perhaps the woman coming out of the building at the very same moment as I was going into it, has just been meeting her lover or has perhaps murdered him and is leaving the scene of the crime as 'cool as a cucumber' Or perhaps....she could have been the one for you and you have missed each other by mere seconds! Get the crucial action wrong; do what you decide to do in the wrong moment or place and time and it’s put down to bad luck or poor judgement, but get it right and you’re entitled to view it as ‘sweet serendipity.’
During my early 20s, I spent two years working my way around Canada. Being single and without dependents or commitments at the time, I was foot loose and fancy free. Subsequently, I enjoyed the luxury of being able to travel when and where I wanted to, and I was able to ‘up sticks’ whenever I wanted a change of job or scenery.
I spent my first three months serving as a waiter on the Canadian Pacific Railway. The hours were as long as the trains and seemed to stretch on and on endlessly, and the wages were poor. All of these downsides were offset by the beautiful scenery I saw during each daily run; scenery which couldn't have been purchased by me from all my weekly wages. After three months on the railway, it was time to try my hand at singing for a living.
During my two-year jaunt, I worked as a railway waiter on the CPR and then as a singer in Montreal. Finally, I spent the rest of my time working as a hotel receptionist in Toronto, Canada.
I spent my first three months serving as a waiter on the Canadian Pacific Railway. The hours were as long as the trains and seemed to stretch on and on endlessly, and the wages were poor. All of these downsides were offset by the beautiful scenery I saw during each daily run; scenery which couldn't have been purchased by me from all my weekly wages. After three months on the railway, it was time to try my hand at singing for a living.
During my two-year jaunt, I worked as a railway waiter on the CPR and then as a singer in Montreal. Finally, I spent the rest of my time working as a hotel receptionist in Toronto, Canada.
The venue where I launched my singing career was ‘The Last Chance Saloon’ in Montreal. The mere name of the establishment should have told me that it was a place where ‘has been’ singers ended their career and not where ‘young hopefuls’ started theirs. ‘The Last Chance Saloon’ was a down-town night club situated in one of the more dangerous parts of Montreal where clientele were frisked for weapons before entry was permitted and where the two official bouncers wore full cowboy dress, including revolvers primed with live bullets. In many ways it sometimes felt like it could have been 'The Rosedeer Hotel' in Wayne, Alberta.
'The Rosedeer' is situated in the 'badlands' and it has its own 'Last Chance Saloon' of notoriety. By the early 60's, the population numbered mere hundreds and Wayne was fast becoming a ghost town. I understand that it was a dangerous place to hang out and was described as being only a few steps removed from 'The Last Chance Saloon' where I sang in Montreal. Look askance at a stranger or fail to please your audience and you were likely to finish up dead in both establishments!
'The Rosedeer' is situated in the 'badlands' and it has its own 'Last Chance Saloon' of notoriety. By the early 60's, the population numbered mere hundreds and Wayne was fast becoming a ghost town. I understand that it was a dangerous place to hang out and was described as being only a few steps removed from 'The Last Chance Saloon' where I sang in Montreal. Look askance at a stranger or fail to please your audience and you were likely to finish up dead in both establishments!
There were four singers who sang in 20-minute rotational-slots between the hours of 10.00 pm and 2.00 am; three slots per singer per night. It was usually 4.00 am before we got to bed, where we would sleep in until noon. Most afternoons were frequently spent drinking, talking and playing poker.
Fancying myself as a good poker player as well as a singer, I invariably saved my better performances for the afternoon shift, where the chances of seeing a ‘full house’ were greater. Having won around $800 one wet Wednesday afternoon on a fortuitous poker hand (the only ‘royal flush’ I’ve ever been dealt in my life ), the biggest loser sitting at the card table decided to get his revenge by bringing my brief singing career to an abrupt end. When my back was turned, he spiked my drink!
Ten minutes before I was due to go on stage that night for my first turn, I was still reeling from the effects of alcohol poisoning. My balance was unsteady, my speech slurred and my breath would have knocked-down-dead any skunk skulking around the Saint Lawrence River. Also, there was no guarantee of the small crowd's response if they failed to like you, as singeres had been run out of town for no less than being 'out of tune' in 'The Last Chance Saloon.'
Fancying myself as a good poker player as well as a singer, I invariably saved my better performances for the afternoon shift, where the chances of seeing a ‘full house’ were greater. Having won around $800 one wet Wednesday afternoon on a fortuitous poker hand (the only ‘royal flush’ I’ve ever been dealt in my life ), the biggest loser sitting at the card table decided to get his revenge by bringing my brief singing career to an abrupt end. When my back was turned, he spiked my drink!
Ten minutes before I was due to go on stage that night for my first turn, I was still reeling from the effects of alcohol poisoning. My balance was unsteady, my speech slurred and my breath would have knocked-down-dead any skunk skulking around the Saint Lawrence River. Also, there was no guarantee of the small crowd's response if they failed to like you, as singeres had been run out of town for no less than being 'out of tune' in 'The Last Chance Saloon.'
A radio in the background was playing the latest hit; a song by Dean Martin entitled ‘Everybody loves somebody sometime.’ The song had intrigued me ever since I’d first heard it some three weeks earlier. Like most of Dean’s recorded songs, it was a ballad sung in that sweet-sounding sentimental drawl which only Dean himself could convert to a melody capable of melting any warm-blooded woman’s heart in the three minutes it took to sing. Being one of the Rat Pack (Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis Junior included); Dean reportedly never went on stage without having had a few drinks beforehand. Consequently, I could never quite make up my mind if Dean had been blowing bubble gum during its recording, or was perhaps suffering the effects of having had a drink too many beforehand.
Being the trooper I was, I decided to go for broke and 'wing it.' I knew if I managed to do one song before ‘going down sick’ that I’d get paid for a full night's turn, whereas if I failed to sing at all, I’d probably 'get fired at' by the audience or sacked by the boss. I only did the one song; Dean’s latest number, before leaving the applauding and unwitting audience with a feigned attack of acute appendicitis. The audience generously received my slurred delivery as a reasonable impression of Dean by the ‘resident limey,’ as I’d become affectionately known. I went straight to my room and must have blanked out there and then. I awoke the next day to find myself slouched over a chair and covered from head to toe in all manner of objects that my buddies had placed about me when I was out for the count.
Three months later, I was living and working in Toronto. I decided to chance my luck in the hotel trade and applied for the post of Receptionist at one of the classiest hotels up-town. With no relevant experience behind my application, I did what any streetwise limey would have done: I invented my curriculum vita and provided references details that didn’t exist; knowing that they would buy me a few month's grace before they were checked out. I concluded that by the time the hotel had checked them out and got no reply, I’d already be settled in post and rapidly impressing my new employer as being a young man of good managerial potential. My new place of work was 'The Glenview Terrace Hotel' in up town Toronto.
Despite the other two candidates who'd applied for the job having had hotel experience, one had never worked a 36-line telephone switch board before and neither had ever operated a billing device that operated from an up-market IBM computor. In order to secure the post, I told my prospective employers that I'd worked in one of London's top hotels in the past as a Receptionist and that I could also operate a telephone switchboard of up to 36 lines and was familiar with the principle workings of an IBM computor. I was duly offered the position at the princely rate of $1 per hour, and told that I would have to work a two-week alternate shift-system of 8.00 am to 8.00 pm and 8.00 pm to 8.00 am.
I got the job in the hotel, took a deep breath and determined to learn the ropes as swiftly as I could. I was slowly picking up the hang of the switchboard and could manage to receive and send calls, providing that their requirement to be managed didn't come at a greater frequency than one at a time! On my third shift of my first week, and to my great surprise, I came into face-to-face contact with the man himself.
Dean’s fogbound flight back to the States necessitated his plane being grounded at Toronto Airport, and with the hotel I worked at being the nearest to the airport, Dean booked in at, ‘The Glenview Terrace Hotel.’ It was well passed midnight (around 2.45 am) and the hotel was as quiet as a mouse during the early morning hours.Dean had obviously had a few drinks before he mererily checked in.
Dean’s fogbound flight back to the States necessitated his plane being grounded at Toronto Airport, and with the hotel I worked at being the nearest to the airport, Dean booked in at, ‘The Glenview Terrace Hotel.’ It was well passed midnight (around 2.45 am) and the hotel was as quiet as a mouse during the early morning hours.Dean had obviously had a few drinks before he mererily checked in.
I was on the front desk looking down when Dean approached. As soon as I heard that voice, I knew to whom it belonged. There was no mistaking that dulcet voice, but I still found it hard to believe my eyes when I looked up. Dean Martin booking into my hotel. Well, it wasn’t quite mine yet, but hopefully one day, it might be, if ever I was to progress that far!
It was easy to see why Dean had become a firm favourite with the ladies. To tell the truth, had I been somewhat differently inclined in the testosterone department, I’d have fancied him myself! Even with that mellow crooning voice at rest, his craggy, rugged facial-features, coupled with the most inviting of smiles contained an added glint of lurking romance in his eyes which was disarmingly appealing to the opposite sex. The man oozed charm by the bucket load from every pore of his suntanned face.
It was easy to see why Dean had become a firm favourite with the ladies. To tell the truth, had I been somewhat differently inclined in the testosterone department, I’d have fancied him myself! Even with that mellow crooning voice at rest, his craggy, rugged facial-features, coupled with the most inviting of smiles contained an added glint of lurking romance in his eyes which was disarmingly appealing to the opposite sex. The man oozed charm by the bucket load from every pore of his suntanned face.
Although the hotel restaurant was closed until the following morning, one of the waitresses called Wendy, an avid fan of Dean's, volunteered to come back into work for an hour; just on the off-chance that that she might be given the gratification of serving Dean during the night if he got hungry or required any added attention. I'd told the Bell Hop, Ron, to phone Wendy and tip her off as to her idol's presence while I opened up the restaurant for our first customer of the new day. Wendy was prepared to get out of bed and attend work in the middle of early morning for no payment, just so she may get sight of Dean or exchange 'Good mornings' on his way out the next day. Naturally, she came in 'dressed to kill'; obviously believing all the rumours that had been spread about Dean about his 'out-of-town' excursions.
Prior to his departure the next morning, I had the opportunity of an hour with Dean over a few coffees and a beer, on a 'singer-to-singer’ basis of course. I told him jokingly about my brief singing career and the spiked-drink incident in Montreal, and in particular how his recent hit had saved my bacon on the night my drink had been spiked. He started singing his latest song and I joined in a few bars. Then, he smiled that smile that could make any woman admirer over forty tremble at the knees and replied, “It saved my bacon too, Billy boy. That song saved my bacon too.”
Before I went off shift in the morning, the hotel reception area was inundated by camera crews and a barrage of press reporters. There were flash lights everywhere as the clicking sound of camera lenses in operation continued unabated for what seemed like five minutes or more. Eventually, Dean simply pushed his way through to the taxi outside with a goodbye wave to me; or was it the waitress Wendy who'd been stood alongside me seeing the great man off?
Ten minutes after Dean had left the hotel, in walked the film star Jack Lemon, followed two hours later by evangelist, Billy Graham and film star, Tom Ewell. For the next 48 hours the hotel was besieged by a media circus. The sheer frenzy that the mere presence of a star engendered was beyond the belief of this level-headed Irish chap. One could have been forgiven for thinking that the late J.F.Kennedy had been miraculously found alive and well inside ‘The Glen View Terrace Hotel.’
I learned a great deal about Canadians and Americans during this 48-hour siege experience; in particular, how they respond in the presence of famous people and the Godlike status they accord their celebrities.
I learned a great deal about Canadians and Americans during this 48-hour siege experience; in particular, how they respond in the presence of famous people and the Godlike status they accord their celebrities.
Dean Martin had stayed one night and we had the patronage of two nights from Jack Lemon. And although he had booked two suits for three nights, it later turned out that Billy Graham had used the hotel as a 'decoy venue' and never stayed there at all; having walked in the front door and presumably straight out of the back, via the fire escape.
My first brush with the stars left me with mixed feelings. Dean had been, as imagined; polite, courteous, charming; and not averse to a drink of the hard stuff or even exchanging tales, having a coffee and singing a brief duet with this humble recetionist. Jack Lemon; who spoke mostly in silent gestures, lived up to the ‘sourness’ of his surname. And, as for the Evangelist, Billy Graham; alas, I never did see him! As Bruce Forsythe might have remarked, had he set eyes on the religious, caped crusader, “Nice to see you. Nice!”
My first brush with the stars left me with mixed feelings. Dean had been, as imagined; polite, courteous, charming; and not averse to a drink of the hard stuff or even exchanging tales, having a coffee and singing a brief duet with this humble recetionist. Jack Lemon; who spoke mostly in silent gestures, lived up to the ‘sourness’ of his surname. And, as for the Evangelist, Billy Graham; alas, I never did see him! As Bruce Forsythe might have remarked, had he set eyes on the religious, caped crusader, “Nice to see you. Nice!”
Somewhat disenchanted with the fallen majesty of two of the famous faces I’d clapped eyes on, when my girlfriend, Jenny Downton offered me a free ticket to an open-stadium concert by ‘The Beatles’ from Liverpool some two months later, I declined.
Being the daughter of the then British Trade Commissioner to Canada, Jenny’s father had been given four complimentary tickets to see this up and coming English group. Jenny thought me foolish to miss such an opportunity, just so I could attend a previous function I’d agreed to go to.
As time would testify, my response to Jenny was indeed the height of misguided folly. “Oh, I’ll catch them on tour when they’re back in England. They come from Liverpool, and that’s only 50 miles down the road from where I live!” I’ve made some duff decisions in my life, but turning down the opportunity to see the 'Fabulous Four' live must rank as one of the dumbest.
Being the daughter of the then British Trade Commissioner to Canada, Jenny’s father had been given four complimentary tickets to see this up and coming English group. Jenny thought me foolish to miss such an opportunity, just so I could attend a previous function I’d agreed to go to.
As time would testify, my response to Jenny was indeed the height of misguided folly. “Oh, I’ll catch them on tour when they’re back in England. They come from Liverpool, and that’s only 50 miles down the road from where I live!” I’ve made some duff decisions in my life, but turning down the opportunity to see the 'Fabulous Four' live must rank as one of the dumbest.
Whilst in Canada, I worked on The Canadian Pacific Railway as a waiter. I was on the Toronto to Vancouver run, a 3000-miles three-day journey across some of the most magnificent landscape in Canada. Like most waiter's jobs, the wages were meagre and the only hope was to earn enough in tips in order to make the long hours of work more gratifying. The one good thing about Canadian trains is the amount of passengers and freight they carried. They were some of the longest trains I ever saw then or since and I often felt they could have stretched from one English county to another.
There were two waiters on duty, myself and a 25-year-old chap from Saint Columbus, whose only ambition was to one day become famous as an actor or a male fashion model. He possessed no discernible talent, but what he lacked in ability, he more than made up for in sheer good luck, along with the good looks that most young men born branding cattle and mending fences on the open range of the Saint Columbus plains seem to naturally possess.
I can't recall his proper name, but we called him 'Lucky,' on account of him always coming up trumps where the ladies were concerned. Even when he fell down, he always landed 'sunny side up' as they say whenever fried morning eggs are presented with their yolks smiling back wide at you!
During the latter half of the outbound journey, I was asked to deliver a coffee to the passenger in car ‘F’, at table number ’46.’ Having developed an instinctive aversion to the number ‘46’ since my bubble-gum-blowing adolescent years, I asked my Saint Columbus buddy on duty with me to take this order instead of myself. He was delighted to have the opportunity of an extra tip and did so willingly.
My buddy, Lucky, complied with my request and returned five minutes later grinning widely with his sheer good fortune. “Never look a gift horse in the mouth, sucker,” he jibed as he waved a $20 bill in the air. The passenger he’d served at table ‘46’ was Mary Tyler Moore, one of America’s hottest TV stars and the Oprah Winfrey of her time, and she had obviously been pleased enough with the service Lucky had provided.
‘If only.......If only I’d served table ‘46’ singing a few notes in my sweetest of voices, Mary might have sensed the singing talent lurking within this mere coffee attendant and offered me a spot on her own TV channel, launching me into overnight celebrity status?’
If only Mary had heard the voice, perhaps.......perhaps she would have 'believed in me.'
If only Mary had heard the voice, perhaps.......perhaps she would have 'believed in me.'
Never mind. ‘That’s life,’ as they say. One can’t be expected to play the winning hand all the time, even if one is holding it!
Copyright William Forde: March 2012.
Copyright William Forde: March 2012.
