From the west coast of Vancouver Island, across the straits to the mainland and extending throughout the vast and imposing interior, each little provincial hamlet or village with populations ranging from a mortification of 1,000 to an advanced metropolis of 12,000 to 15,000, (depending on the season), each borough is home to one of the last vestiges of the Gold Rush of 1858: the local Chinese restaurant.
It doesn’t matter at all that you may be unfamiliar with the town of our story; or even the province of British Columbia suffice to say that if you know west coast North American towns at all, you will know the type of village to which I refer. Unimposing in architectural expression, built with false facades so as to appear more grand, these humble diners certify their charm with their names in garish neon lighting: The White Swan; The Yellow Dragon; The Lotus Inn; The Golden Pheasant and so on and they bewitch children and invoke adventure into the dreary and tired souls, eager for some leisurely intermission to a burden filled work week. And so a Saturday night dinner at the Golden Pheasant was a treat to which the whole family could look forward to with blithe expectation.
Like many of these coastal and interior settlements, the town of St. George was almost wholly dependent upon logging for its commerce and prosperity. The little towns are deceivingly quiet during the two seasons of winter and summer During these periods the loggers are in camp working and the townsfolk enjoy a period of peace and predictability: The banks open at 10:00 as normal and close at 3:00; the hotel beer parlor begins to pour its first suds for the regulars waiting by the door as expected and closes its doors at 12:00 as the law prescribes; the Barber strops his razors and prepares his steaming towels as always and the sun rises and sets according to Canada’s National Meteorological Prognostication Centre.
But when the loggers come to town between the two remaining seasons locally known as spring break-up and winter freeze-up, the town will see a noticeable increase in population. It will enhance its pedestrian traffic and introduce a measure of tension to the atmosphere.
Now, in our experience, loggers can be divided into two distinct categories: sober and drunk. Generally speaking, when sober, the men are courteous and civil and again, generally speaking, when they have been drinking it is a rule of nature that they will cause chaos and raise hell. If they are in the streets they are either walking to find another drink or on their way to the bank to make a withdrawal. They are rough looking; rude, rugged and plain speaking. Mothers may turn their children’s faces to their skirts if they by chance encounter one or two already in his tips. Of course these small towns tolerate their activities, for after all, as we mentioned, logging sustains most little villages like St. George and if pressed, people would agree that on the whole, the inconvenience is in the long run, a benefit to all. For in spite of the hell-raising, many of the businesses prosper: the local Barber shaves hundreds more faces and trims many more heads; the restaurants are full almost every day and evening; the drinking establishments are particularly fortunate and almost double their normal income and the clothing stores can easily sell the remainder of last year’s fashions. And strangely, the banks are at their busiest: the men will deposit all their cheques that they have been hording throughout the winter but miss estimate their spending needs and so will return perhaps twice in a day to make withdrawals.
On George Street itself there are a number of buildings of special significance: The Toronto Dominion Bank; the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce; the King George Hotel and of course the Golden Pheasant, stationed at the corner of George and 3rd. The doors to the Golden Pheasant open to the intersection and are flanked by two pillars decorated with red dragons encircling the columns. The flashing neon sign above greets every customer. The Golden Pheasant is grand and enchanting and is easily the most popular of these restaurants in our little town which was always full on any given Saturday night. Most of the customers were local business people who brought their families out for a treat. The meals were exotic and tasty; spicy and sweet; dishes of the most outlandish color. Each customer had his favorites: Snow peas with garlic; Lemon Chicken, Shanghai Fried Rice and Broad Noodle Chow Mein and the most favorites of favorites, a heaping helping of Sweet and Sour which the mischievous rumored might be more cat than pork or chicken.
It was on one particular Saturday night, unremarkable in every other respect, that Jack Redford and his family came to dine. Mr. Jack Redford was the town’s prominent and esteemed manager at the Toronto Dominion Bank, and friend and servant to all. Most townsfolk had met him and all knew of him: home mortgages and small business loans were the greatest of the bank’s industry. He was a well liked and affable man and respected as one of the town’s preeminent personalities. Always formal in both dress and demeanor, tall and well built, and handsome to some, Mr. Jack Redford was one of the socialites of the town.
In these small towns such men wielded salient unpretentious power; seldom abused it, and in this way held the respect of the townsfolk. Leaders of the community, they would happily receive but feign unwillingness to accept, special Christmas gifts of wheels of cheese imported from Quebec and bricks of Maple Sugar for these were certainly simply gestures of respect on a festive occasion when such gifts were permitted. They would accept privileged parking, hockey tickets and a client’s son’s offer to wash the car during summer holidays. Still more gestures of appreciation. They belonged to the exclusive clubs, the private societies and guilds and were the favorites when it came to nominating candidates for public office. Among the favored ones sharing such celebrity with Jack Radford were the Post Master who, it was said, was paid directly from the Ottawa’s Dominion’s exchequer; Mr. Johnston, the owner of the two automobile franchises in town; Mr. and Mrs. Pickering, the owners of the Strand and Princess theaters; a family who lived on the highest land, which overlooked the town below; and Mr. McClellan, the owner of the “5 cent to a Dollar” store, a man who gained particular distinction by owning the only Siamese cat in town.
Apparently contradictory, with respect, often comes resentment and jealously is often a component of this contrariety. Notoriety has its negative component too and such displays of feelings will surely be manifested when circumstances are dire.
Jack Radford was among this elite group and one of the most esteemed of the set. He had the habit of speaking clearly and logically with sociable emotion. Well known for his wise advice and plain philosophy on any subject, he displayed an even temper when confronted with problems preferring to tackle them sensibly and openly. Generally regarded as a “man’s man” wherever he went he was accepted ostensibly with warmth and hospitality; a thoroughly sophisticated man though he stooped a little from the burden of his office and his forty-eight years. He owned five suits, (one for each day of the week) and five pairs of Banker’s Last kid leather shoes, similarly worn on different days, both items of clothing were renewed each year. In fall and winter he wore his much favored Fedora, always freshly brushed, and a grey overcoat of the finest Cashmere. It was seldom that you would find him without a tie and clean white shirt, but if not, then certainly he would be wearing a smart shirt and sports jacket with perfectly creased slacks. He was an organized man in activity and thought. Every Friday afternoon you would find him in the Barber shop getting a weekly trim and an indulgent shave, preparing himself for the workweek ahead.
As the family entered the Golden Pheasant, Mr. Radford held the door for his wife, and his children followed one by one, each bearing a hearty appetite and wearing a smile of expectation. The café was almost full with hungry patrons. It was noisier than usual and more remarkable, smoke and the pungent odor of liquor filled the air. The owner, Mr. Lin, recognizing a preferred customer, and the man who held his mortgage, ran to Jack’s side and escorted him to the only remaining table suitable for the whole family. Mr. Lin apologized abundantly for the atmosphere and noise but was gallantly comforted by Mr. Radford that it was of little consequence, so eager they were to begin their meal.
They sat in a preferred pattern: Jack Radford facing the door, as it was explained to him by Mr. Lin, was the favored seating arrangement for a man of such prominence. Across from him was his wife and to either side his two children: a girl of 12 years and a boy of 9: the boy on his right. They all looked to Jack Radford for guidance and approval, and only out of politeness did they pretend to look over the menu. Each had already made his choices. So they ordered and waited patiently.
While waiting, they evoked the vicissitudes of the prior week: they spoke of the daughter’s excellent schoolwork; of the boy’s growing interest in hockey and most notably, on the noise in the room. Most of the customers were families or young people on Saturday night dates, but there was a new element of boisterous and rude activity that was obvious to all. Most of the diners would from time to time, look over to the noisiest table of a group of loggers just out of camp and then return to their meal whispering cautious admonitions. The loggers were drinking heavily and waving their arms wildly. Cigarettes drooped from their lips and their speech was slurred and rambling. A group like this was not unusual but the circumstances kept everybody in a nervous condition.
They were sitting two tables away from the Radford family. As was his habit, when Jack Radford disapproved of something he looked boldly in its direction readily displaying his displeasure, by arching his left brow and focusing on the source of his objection. After several outbursts such as this, his bold observations did not go unnoticed to the loggers who predictably resented the obvious display of what they took to be arrogance. The circumstances might have been different had liquor not been involved. To those already mean in spirit, alcohol can bring out the malevolence in otherwise tolerable personalities. And this was the case here, where two incompatible temperaments met on common ground.
Jack Radford soon understood that his looks were proving to be more provocative than pedagogical so as a second line of approach, recognizing a clear sense of danger, he decided to try to ignore the boisterous group of men. This tactic unfortunately was taken as a sign of disrespect and cowardice, and aggravated the meanest of the men even more to challenge the Radford table.
Now, in addition to the incongruity of respect and resentment in play as mentioned earlier, the patrons, as if a herd of Wildebeests being stalked by lions at their flanks, were not inclined to assist in any way, so long as it was determined that the danger was not directed at them personally.
This principle was evident this evening in the most shameful and uncivil way. All were vigilant, watching their food with one eye and the loggers table with the other. Most of the patrons were aware of the possible danger in the atmosphere but none were prepared to make a move to either quell the danger itself, or to assist Mr. Radford and his family, notwithstanding all the positive features of Mr. Radford mentioned previously. Fear and compromise will show the true colors of a man it is said.
For a time, the noise abated and the atmosphere was more amenable. But there was still the feeling of ill will lingering. The men had quieted down and the Radford family attended to their meal. Still an obvious tension filled the room and everyone seemed to wait and expect a disagreeable outcome to the evening.
Quite innocuously a little rolled up wad of paper landed on the Radford table very close to Mr. Radford’s plate. He noticed it; he knew where it came from; but what to do? It had obviously been thrown by one of the rowdy men: by which, was of no consequence. The gesture was a direct challenge even though apparently innocent. What to do? The children, who had not missed the incident, looked to their father for direction; the mother continued to eat trying to ignore the unpleasant display. One of the men at the other table laughed louder than was warranted and mockingly tossed another little ball of paper.
Now, Mr. Jack Radford, as indicated previously had the reputation of being a conciliatory factor in any given situation; not any sort who would engage in some common confrontation. However, he was unused to such behavior and found it to be unnerving. What to do? His children again looked to him. Mr. Radford collected the two pieces of paper and stood up; walked over to the logger’s table and laid the pieces down.
“I believe these are yours,” he stated calmly, “I shouldn’t want you to lose them.”
At first all the men were speechless until one simply laughed and said, “That’s all right, we have lots more.” Mr. Radford returned to his table and to the admiration of his children and wife. Some patrons clapped and shouted encouragement, others shuffled uncomfortably in their chairs.
The sentiment from the logger’s table seethed and fumed. A sense of ominous calamity was unmistakable and the customers, like the aforementioned herd of Wildebeests, were restless; not completely sure of the outcome of such a confrontation.
One of them muttered, “Someone should do something about this.”
Mr. Radford and his family sat uncomfortably and tried to carry on with their meal. The tension did not last long before it broke.
The drunkest of the raucous bunch stood up, left the table and lurched towards Mr. Radford’s table. He pushed Jack Radford in his chair in such a violent way that it could not be ignored.
“Who the hell d’yu think yu’ are?” the logger slurred objectionably.
Mr. Radford felt the hatred in his voice, uncertain as to how it could be directed at him. He tried to reason with the man: standing up, and attempting to be firm yet conciliatory, he ventured a compromise.
“Look Sir, let’s just forget it and enjoy our meal. If I have offended you, I apologize, but let’s just get on with our lives. OK?”
But a bully, when bent on confrontation, will find any excuse to push the limit in efforts to raise the level of violence satisfactory to his desires. In response to Mr. Radford’s suggestion, a hard fast fist suddenly came down on the side of Mr. Radford’s head and knocked him easily to the ground. Mr. Radford didn’t move. His children and wife jumped from their chairs and ran to his side. The bully wasn’t finished. He repeatedly kicked Mr. Radford in the head and body until his hatred had dissipated and he was breathing hard unable to continue.
Nobody moved to help. Jack Radford lay still. The blow to the head had caused an aneurism which killed him almost instantly. The restaurant was in a vocal turmoil but still nobody went to his aid. Mr. Lin came racing from the kitchen wielding an enormous cleaver, braced on intimidating the bullies. Screaming and gesticulating wildly Mr. Lin managed to disperse the bullies and the restaurant waited for the inevitable police and ambulance.
It was not a usual night at the Golden Pheasant. And people talked about it for days after. The loggers were caught and punished; Mrs. Radford, soon after left town with her children and it was rumored that she shortly remarried. The subject of the events of Mr. Radford’s experience was a popular theme in the Barber shop for quite awhile; the banking industry did not lose a fraction of interest; and the Golden Pheasant continued to serve family meals at reasonable prices. The town returned to normal, witnessing successive break-ups and freeze-ups and a little rowdiness here and there. And Jack Radford lay dead and was soon forgotten.
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