I Missed it All

Why does a middle-aged man decide that the onset of ossification is the time to undertake an artistic renaissance?

Because I missed it all, that’s why.

Timing has never been my strong suit. Perhaps because I never learned a musical instrument, I simply could never determine when I ought to jump in, as opposed to stay out. Hence, I would always ask out girls long before they were interested, or long after. I would discover bands long after they had peaked, trends long after they were laughingstocks.

I missed my artistic renaissance, that much is for certain.

I grew up in Vancouver, a two-hour drive from Vancouver, and I came of age listening to the same damned music Laine Staley and Kurt Cobain listened to. I was an artist to boot, attending Theatre School from 1987-1989, giving full reign to my artistic impulses. I never learned to play an instrument, but let’s face it; Kurt was never exactly Eric Clapton.

So, I should’ve been right on the dance floor for Grunge, right? I would’ve been perfect. An angry young man, liking angry young music, with a head full of ideas. And two hours from Seattle?

Yeah, fine. Except at that point of my life, I was busy trying to become the man, not fight him. I’d decided in around 1989 or so that I’d wandered from the true faith; that the me I was supposed to be was the cop me of my father, not the artist me of my mother.

Pot was out the window. I couldn’t even stand next to anyone who smoked it. Discipline and hard work were the new keywords of my life. Too bad I was too late for the party.

For my ethnicity was passé. White males were so last year. I could’ve been the next grunge frontman, but instead I languished in the law enforcement minor leagues for ten years.

This brings me to my next missed train. I was always, and still am, a believer in the controversial idea that wars make the man. I missed my war, and, again, I missed it while chasing an entirely different sort of butterfly.

Understand this about me: There are two me’s: The Artist, and the Warrior. One is born of my mother, the other, my father. I had pursued a law enforcement career largely in honour of the latter, as I could, at the time, see no suitable analogue for a young Canadian man. Yes, as a frustrated young man in the early ‘90’s, I had visited an Armed Forces recruiting centre.

I asked “Anything in the combat arms? Infantry, armour, artillery, even engineers?”

“Uh, how about dental assistant?”

At this point, I’d excused myself. I was not prepared to join the Army in order to irrigate a root canal. Flame throwing bunkers was more like it.

But then, the game changed. September 11, 2001 was the call to duty for many men of my generation. North America had been attacked, and I was 32 and ready to answer the call. I was certainly fired up to drive a bayonet into the guts of the nearest jihadi.

But I was lulled into a false sense of security. I’d been peripherally involved in the security response to the attacks, and I convinced myself that I ought to stay where I could make the most contribution.

I convinced myself wrong. The management of my agency relegated itself to the back benches, where it felt most comfortable, while other men fought my war.

Why did this happen? Cowardice? Comfort? Simple lack of awareness?

As to the first, while I do not pretend to be a hero, I also believe I am not excessively intimidated by physical danger. I believe that many people I have served with, including combat veterans, would agree with my own self-assessment.

Comfort is another question. It is very hard to leave one’s comfy chair for something less familiar. To this, I plead guilty. Had the September 11 attacks occurred two years’ earlier, when I was a mere aspirant to my chosen profession, I firmly believe I’d have been humping 80 lbs through the Panjwai in 40 C. But comfort is a creature unknown to those undergoing basic training or battle school. Could I hack it? I honestly think hardship is more concerning to me than death, truth be told. I’m more of a James Bond risk-taker.

Lack of awareness is the big problem, I think. Like me in the early nineties, I simply didn’t realize that the Agency was going to retreat in irrelevance, while the Army took the fight to the enemy.

But the big problem here has not yet been mentioned. This problem is: nostalgia.

When I should’ve been listening to Nirvana, Mudhoney, and Pearl Jam, I was set five years back. I was listening to Squeeze, the Specials, and the Cure. My timer was set too far back. While I should’ve had my ear to the ground for history now, I was dreaming of WWII.

This realization has motivated my most recent project. So much historical fiction, so much speculative fiction…why, when I, you, and everybody else is living through the most serious upheaval since WWII.

So, now, Apocalypse Eight, a collection of tales available on Wattpad, set in the 2020 Coronavirus pandemic. My belated attempt to be on-time for history, for once. We’re living it, so let’s write it.

Only we can get it write.