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The Sour Toe Cocktail
Kicking around the memory of a visit
To a friend in Whitehorse at least
Fifteen years ago - I've lost many
Details, as well as that friendship.
She introduced me to her
Acquaintances as "The Guy
From Toronto" - she liked
Making me uncomfortable,
Enjoyed my self-conscious explanation
Of growing up in British Columbia,
Which made no difference whatsoever
To my awkward and chilly reception.
(Later she told me most of them
Weren't 'real northerners' anyway,
Leaving the region for months
To avoid days of 23-hour darkness.)
In Dawson City my friend asked
A bartender, "How do we get
My friend - from Toronto -
A sour toe cocktail?"
The sly smiles
Exchanged told me clearly
A conspiracy was afoot.
No one answered my questions.
"The toe's on the boat
With the Captain,"
We were casually told,
"Be back later."
After some hours, the bartender
Pointed to a darkened corner
Of the room, and told me,
"You'll need to bring a drink."
The man sitting alone at a small table
Looked to be in his fifties, wearing
An old pea coat and captain's hat,
A few days' growth to his beard.
Deep lines folded his narrow face,
Grimy with machine oil and sunburned.
His head was lowered, loose and swaying
Slightly, as if still on a boat.
He told me to pay his wife,
Whom I remember to be sober,
Cheerful and alone at another table -
I don't recall the 'fee for the toe.'
He carried it in a wooden box
That might have once contained jewellery
In the side pocket of his coat:
A genuine human toe, the big one,
Nail intact, and at the other end:
Sharp, spiky bits like wires.
He opened the box and quickly,
Before I could get too close a look,
Dropped the toe in my drink,
Told me to raise my glass.
"You've got to kiss the toe," he said,
Tapping his drink to mine.
I imagined the entire bar watching
The Guy From Toronto, my tumbler
Filled with a drink I've forgotten: vodka,
Or whiskey, while the Captain drank beer.
I took the toe in one gulp
Swirled it around a little for effect -
A rough-textured pebble with edges -
Spat it neatly into my palm.
"There you go," he said, re-boxing
His pet object. "This is my third toe.
The other two've been swallowed -
People get a little crazy with it.
You know the big toe
Controls your sense of balance?
Got this from a lawnmower accident,
The others from frostbite. Hospital deal."
My friend later moved to Vancouver,
Where she found work as a coroner.
She had a black cat named Kate,
And often regretted her choices in men.
Outside the bar I passed a bullet-riddled
Street sign that read, "Please refrain
From shooting at our signs."
The sky was bright at 3am.
Also from Oliver Ho:
November Insomnia
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