Online Exclusive: My Dinner With Bob

Read Peter Valing’s original article about Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside here.“If you wanna smoke some pot, just knock on my door,” said my gnome-like neighbour one morning as we passed in the hall. What luck! For weeks, my imagination had been preoccupied with the little man and his room. On hot days, he left his door open, and I’d walk by very slowly to get a glimpse of how he lived. What was all the metallic stuff that hung from the ceiling? Why was half the room painted black? Why did my neighbor run extension cords into the hallway sockets? Now Bob had extended an invitation, and as luck had struck twice that day, I knocked bearing a gift.

He didn’t thank me, which was fine because the bag of pot leaves had only cost me two cigarettes. “Where’d you get it?” he asked. “A guy plopped it in front of me while I was sitting in a pub.” He shrugged his shoulders. “We’ll see if it’s any good.” Bob was a pot aficionado. By his own account, he hasn’t spent a day clean and sober since he ran away with a carnival at the age of fourteen. That was thirty-eight years ago.

While Bob cooked up the leaves in a shoeshine tin, I began to take mental notes on his room. What struck me first was the view. Bob’s room faced the mountains, which were now silhouettes trimmed by a hundred stars. To the window frame he had attached a workbench. A partially completed model of toothpicks and Popsicle sticks stood amidst a clutter of tiny tools and brushes. “I’ve gotta find some horses for it,” said Bob. He must have sensed my mind working over the mysteries of his place.

He picked up the model and twisted its top. It circled to a music box tune. “I used to operate real merry-go-rounds,” he smiled, revealing two teeth. “And I also operated roller coasters, Ferris wheels, haunted houses…” Carefully he lifted a model of each from a shelf. They weren’t beautiful, but with their glue-dappled joints and uneven brush stokes, they were sincere. “What do you think?” beamed Bob. “Nice work,” I replied.

The compliment inspired Bob to take me on a thorough tour of “The Project.” He disappeared into the hall with his extension cords. “Don’t wanna blow the circuits,” he laughed. Then he closed the door. He popped open two cupboards, which sent the cockroaches scurrying. “Take a toke and listen!” He turned up a dial, and Pink Floyd blasted out from the speakers. The skull chandelier shook. Bob reached into his closet and pulled out a guitar. “Master Igor!” he announced, passing it to me. I cradled Master Igor and admired the hand-painted flames along his neck. “Yep, rebuilt him myself. I’ll have strings on him by October, and then you’ll see a show!”

The Project was being assembled to accommodate The Show. The sound system was in place, as was the light system. Bob flicked a switch and beams of red, orange and yellow fell on the center of the room. “I did lights for KISS, you know.” And then there was the stage: black walls, black ceiling, a blind for the window. Sometime in October, Bob planned to appear on his stage in full Vampire garb. The audience would be seated on the whitewashed side of the room. He had a song list prepared, but he kept it in his head for safe measure.

After taking me through The Project, we talked into the late hours. Well, I asked questions and he answered. For Bob was the Rock Star, and I a Mere Fan. Not once did he ask me anything. It went something like this:

Fan: Where were you born?

Rock Star: Right here on the Eastside.

MF: How long were you in the carnivals?