From The Archives
Originally Written: July 2007
For weeks, I heard about it constantly. In every newspaper, on every radio station, in every conversation across Canada. A full, national media blitz was underway. It was the biggest public event of 2003, especially in this country. The concert of the Millennium (To be fair though, the millennium was still pretty young).
Molson bought the naming rights and called it something forgettable, so Canadians took up the slack and dubbed it SARStock. A clever portmanteau of ‘SARS’ and ‘Woodstock’, the event was hastily organized to benefit Toronto’s image. It had been hit hard by the now infamous SARS outbreak which took the lives of 44 Canadians and flat lined the city’s tourism industry.
Historically fond of Toronto, Mick Jagger and Keith Richards suggested a benefit concert to stomp the stigma and show the world that Toronto was safe to visit again. The city decided on Downsview Airfield which had just hosted 800,000 people for Pope John Paul II the year before. Almost immediately, the bill filled up with huge acts. Obviously The Stones would headline and The Blues Brothers signed on to host, but the undercard was just as enticing. The Guess Who, Rush, AC/DC, The Flaming Lips, Blue Rodeo, Sass Jordan, The Tea Party, Sam Roberts. Even Justin Timberlake made the trip up to Toronto for some reason.
I was living with my dad for the summer in London, two hours southwest of Toronto. He made it very clear that I wouldn’t be going. No one could escape the buzz this show was garnering, not even my lame, conservative dad. He actually pre-emptively told me no, assuming that I would hear about it too at some point. I was 17, of course I knew about it.
I really didn’t plan on going after that talk either. I wasn’t a terrible kid and I was still young enough to have my ass legitimately whooped by my old man. Tickets were only about thirty bucks so it wasn’t a huge hit for me to leave my already purchased ticket unused in a scrap book and swallow the loss.
As July 30th approached though, it became increasingly difficult to accept that I wouldn’t be going to the show. Everyone I knew was going, kids I had grown up with since elementary school. Even the kids from the neighbourhood who still had 9 pm curfews were going. I listened as they made plans to get there and find rides back, grinding my teeth.
I sat in my bedroom the night before the show, pissed off and full of angst. Looking at the ticket and thinking about risk and reward, I start to convince myself that it might be worth it to go.
I think to myself: Dad leaves for work in the morning, I head to Toronto, participate in the greatest show of my short life, have a great time, come back to London after show, take my punishment like an adult by getting grounded like a child.
It made sense to me, I knew the regret I would carry forever would be heavier than any punishment my dad could deal. Fuck It.
I got on the phone and called everyone I knew who was going, maybe twenty or so people. No one had room for me. Some were carpooling, some bought train or Greyhound tickets weeks ago before everything sold out. Midnight the night before and my options were thin.
There was a guy, however. Someone I knew who was going but I didn’t want to call. This guy was on the very outer orbits of the group I hung out with, somewhere between Pluto and the Kepler belt. It was my last hope, so I called Stevie and inquired about a ride.
“Yeah Mote, I got a ride for you! My friend’s dad owns a limo, and he’s driving us down there. Someone backed out just tonight and there’s one more spot if you want it.”
I shoved my feelings about Stevie aside. I told him I was really grateful and asked him how much the ride was going to be.
“Free man! The Limo driver Bernie just fell into some cash and he’s supplying the booze and weed! Pick you up around noon.”
Looking back now I see red flags. At the time I didn’t give a shit though, I thought I’d hit a jackpot. Free limo ride, booze and dope, and all of it fell into my lap at the last minute. That shit never happened to me.
. . . . . . . . . .
The next morning, my dad had already left for work when I stumbled into the kitchen half asleep. It was 10:30 am and the limo would be there pretty soon. I showered, pulled on my Stones t-shirt and scribbled out a note for my dad that went something like this:
‘Dad, I am going to SARStock. I’m sorry, don’t be mad. Be home tonight. Love you’.
I left the note on the island in the kitchen, grabbed my wallet and went outside to wait for my ride.
About a half an hour later, an old Cadillac stretch limousine screeched to a stop in front of my house. It was wine-purple and missing all of its hub caps. The back doors opened and five guys got out, I only knew Stevie. I am instantly uneasy, I don’t like people to begin with.
I introduced myself to the group one by one and start to question my decision somewhere around this point. They seemed, simple and rough around the edges.
As we were about to load into the back, our driver Bernie appeared from around the car.
“HEY!! I’M BERNIE!! HOWS IT GOING BUD!!?”
I was taken aback by his loud voice and as he approached to shake my hand, his stench. He smelled homeless, for a lack of a better term. That couldn’t be possible though, this dude owned a limo! I shook his hand and forced a smile, he went in for the bro-hug. As my face buried into the tight curls that made up the business end of his mullet, I took a quick, mental roll call.
Red flags everywhere? Check.
SARStock ticket. Check.
. . . . . . . . . .
We spent the next hour doing shots, smoking huge joints of shitty weed and driving down the 401 to Toronto. I settled in a bit here, shooting the breeze with my new ‘friends’. Sometime into my third or fourth beer, the limo came to another screeching stop. Bernie came around and opened our door like the perfect gentleman he most certainly was not.
“WE’RE HERE!” he proudly proclaimed as he fist pumped at the sky. I exited the limo inebriated and excited only to see an empty industrial-area parking lot, and a sign that read ‘No Parking. Violators Will Be Towed. City of Kitchener’.
He “confused” the two cities, a simple mistake he concluded. As I realized he may not be a professional limo driver after all, I saw him muttering to himself as he climbed back in the driver’s door. I forgot about red flags for the day, and jumped into the limo. Toronto was still 45 minutes away, we pulled back onto the freeway.
This limo by the way, was a real piece of shit. It had buttons everywhere that paid homage to what the car might have been able to do in the mid-eighties. The one button that did work was the one that controlled the window separating the driver from the back. As I pressed ‘down’, the glass lowered. There was Bernie with his elbows on the wheel, driving a bunch of drunk, under aged kids down a highway, smoking crack.
I had never seen someone smoke crack before.
. . . . . . . . . .
We rolled up to Downsview looking like we were 20 years late for prom. Bernie honked and weaved his way through thousands of people, getting us right to the security gates. Before we left I asked Stevie where we would be getting picked up after the show.
We told Bernie to let us out and we’d meet him back at the hotel. Oh yeah, where was that hotel? I heard the Scarborough Howard Johnson, and off we went. Alive and drunk, our crack smoking driver had got us there. It was hard to walk from the sheer amount of people, but we forged on and somehow managed to stay together until we reached the gates, meeting and touching many new friends along the way.
The pat down by security was laughable and I managed to stumble inside with a 26er of rye, set free into this gated zoo with every other animal in North America.
We assembled near the gates and went over some ground rules. I really didn’t listen because I planned on ditching them anyways and meeting them back at the hotel. They said some shit like:
“Let’s do this boys! Stick together OK?!! Rah! Rah! RAH!” unenthused, I rolled my eyes and lit a cigarette. As we were about to set off, one of the guys said he had some MDMA on him. I had never done it before and hadn’t planned on starting today.
But this wouldn’t be a story of regret without a heaping of regret right?
The plans of mice and men. I popped the MDMA in my mouth, and for the first time in my life experienced the effects of a chemical drug, and mostly by myself.
I walked into the mosh pit, which was about as big as a medium sized city.
Within 25 minutes of the group pep talk I was alone. Well, alone is a relative term I suppose. There were people everywhere, for as far as you could see. I walked closer and closer to the stage. The closer I got, the denser the mass of people got. As I made my way through the rows and rows of people I heard someone scream “OOOWWWW!!!” and I looked down. I saw a woman sitting on a blanket, and she did not look happy. Neither did her husband. I said I was sorry for stepping on her hand and I really meant it. I stuck out my hand for a hand shake, but her husband punched me in the face instead.
Getting punched in the face really sucks, and it hadn’t happened to me very often before that. I stepped back, and realized that I wasn’t hurt at all. I looked at him and he looked shocked that I was unhurt, I kind of was too. He probably assumed I was going to hit him back, and maybe I should’ve but I didn’t. I started laughing at the absurdity and awkwardness of the moment, which made him feel even worse I assume. I know if I punched someone in the face to defend my lady’s honour and he just laughed at me, I’d feel pretty fucking stupid.
Just as this was happening, the crackle of thunder that opens every AC/DC show started playing. The roar of the crowd was electric and I felt this surge rush through my body. ‘Thunderstruck’ had started and so had the night officially. Just as it happens, I started to feel the drug kick in at that very moment. I ran away towards the stage, alone and laughing at the top of my lungs.
I witnessed the majority of the show on top of a sound trailer from there. As I got within 400 ft. of the stage, I could go no further. It was just too dense with people, some naked and all very drunk. I managed to locate the trailer, and scaled the wall of it. At about 20 ft. above crowd level I had the best seats in the house. I spent the rest of the show up there, watching the throngs of people, smoking joints and drinking whiskey. There were about 10 of us up there and we became fast friends for a couple of hours, sharing our experience.
The Stones ended the night of course and had a great set, but let’s just say AC/DC stole the show. I caught the last half of their set from the sound trailer, and as the bell wrung out for ‘Hells Bells’ I realized I was in the right place, at the right time, in the entire world for that very second. A half million people swaying and jumping from 20 feet up is a sight to behold, especially when you’re experiencing the effects of a chemical drug for the first time. It was widely agreed that AC/DC had the best set of the night, but I know some Rush fans who would beg to differ.
SARSstock was also famous for something else. In an effort to broaden appeal, organizers put Justin Timberlake on the ticket. Yeah, Rush, AC/DC, The Stones, Flaming Lips and Justin Timberlake. He was booed off stage from a crescendo of 500,000 rock fans. And when Mick Jagger brought him out to perform a song with The Stones, we threw bottles and garbage at him. Welcome to Toronto, Justin.
. . . . . . . . . .
As the show ended, I climbed down from my spot on top of the trailer. A little disoriented, and feeling great, I picked a direction and walked. 500,000 people seemed to have picked the same direction too and the exodus began. A great thing about the show was the city of Toronto kept the subways free all night until 5 am. My destination was the Howard Johnson in Scarborough so away I went, towards the subway. The walk seemed to take forever, and I think it did because I didn’t reach Downsview Subway Station until 3 am.
I should say that Scarborough is one of the more dangerous parts of Toronto, and I got off at the last Scarborough stop at about 4 am. I walked off the train and up the stairs, to the street level. Yep, there I was. Standing in the projects alone and high still, sort of. I had no idea where this hotel was, but I managed to locate a Howard Johnson in a payphone phone book. It was about 30 minutes from where I was, so I started walking. How I did not die on this walk, I’ll never know.
I arrived at the hotel and walked up to the desk in the lobby, feeling like a bag of shit. I bet I looked even worse. I had no idea what name the room was under, so I went back out into the parking lot to make sure the limo was at least there, it wasn’t. I sat down on the curb, shut my eyes and laid down onto the grass. I had no cell phone and worse yet, no one’s cell number.
I was awoken an hour or so later in that very spot by a Howard Johnson hotel employee. He said I wasn’t allowed to sleep in the parking lot, and I agreed. I stood up and realized that while I was sleeping, someone had stolen my wallet with all my money in it. With a fresh head and some anger from my apparent mugging, I walked back to that lobby desk with some determination. After phoning every Howard Johnson in Toronto (literally) I found my ‘friends’ at a Howard Johnson in Mississauga. That was only on the other side of Toronto completely, just perfect. No money and a long way back, I left for the subway.
. . . . . . . . . .
With no cash, I hopped the gates at the subway entrance and ran onto the train; the security guard didn’t put up much of a pursuit thankfully. I was worried that they would go back to London without me, so I got to that Howard Johnson as quick as I could. I arrived at 11 am, 22 hours since I last saw my ‘friends’ and when I arrived the limo was parked out front. I figured they would be sleeping and I could get an hour of shut eye before we hit the road home. Perfect.
I walked up to the clerk at the desk and tell him my story, and mention the purple limo.
“Oh, you must be Josh. They are expecting you, here is your key”.
Fucking right, I finally made it to a bed and I was beyond tired. As I approached the door to our room from down the hall, I hear what sounds like a party inside. I slide the key in and open the door. There’s Bernie, screwing what appears to be a 50 year old Asian prostitute on a bed, as his son and the rest of my ‘friends’ snort coke off of the T.V. stand with a 15 year old Asian prostitute. Oh fuck.
I am not sure exactly what I said when i walked in, but it was something like:
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GUYS DOING?”
Everybody stopped what they were doing, and looked at me. Stevie walked over and pulled me out side of the room.
“Listen, Bernie has $15,000 to blow here in Toronto. He pulled off some job back in London and wants to celebrate with his son, and us. Everything is paid for dude, the drugs, the girls, everything. We are going to stay here in Toronto for a couple days to have some fun. Just relax”.
Stevie had a calm tone, for someone who was just snorting lines of cocaine off a hotel dresser. I let what he said sink in. I was broke, he was my ride. I thought of my dad, and about how mad he was going to be.
“Sure Stevie” I said as I walked past the hotel room and into the pool lounge for some sleep.
. . . . . . . . . .
I was asleep for about 15 minutes when I was awoken by the second Howard Johnson employee in the last 4 hours. Yeah, no sleeping, got it. I pulled some cushions off of the pool furniture and walked into the handicapped bathroom, locked the door and slept for around 5 hours. Another first for me, sleeping in a public bathroom.
I walked back to the hotel room after my beauty sleep feeling sketchy and hungry, and hoping the hookers were gone. They were. I came in and everybody was gone except Bernie as a matter of fact. He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, smoking a crack pipe.
“Hey Bernie” I started out.
“Can I borrow $10 for some food?” I felt disgusting just saying it. He put his crack pipe down and looked through me like a zombie.
“Yeah Yeah” he said as he opened the drawer on the night stand in between the beds.
Inside of that drawer was the standard hotel bible and what looked like a lot of money, thousands to be exact. He pulled out a $20 bill and gave it to me. He mumbled something I couldn’t understand, I smiled and left. I walked to the hotel restaurant and had the best breakfast of my life that afternoon. While I did that, I thought about how I could steal enough cash out of that drawer to get a Greyhound bus home.
The party did not stop at room 125 so I had grown accustomed to sitting on the grass out front of the hotel. That is what I did for the rest of that entire day and night; I hung out on the front lawn like a shattered garden gnome. At about 9 am the next morning, I was approached by a lady in her mid-twenties.
“What’s a cute little guy like you doing out here on the lawn for hours at a time?” I could sense an American accent.
When I told her my situation she explained that she was from New York, and that she was here for the concert too. She said she would be glad to have me sleep on her floor for the night. It was great to hear, a place to sleep and at least one decent human being left on Earth.
But first I found Stevie and asked him when the fuck we were leaving. He said Bernie hadn’t been in a state to drive for 2 days and that we might be here for a couple more days. I wanted to kill him right there. I told Stevie what I thought about him, told him he was a prick and that what he was doing was disgusting. I stumbled to the girl from New York’s room and didn’t see Stevie for three years after that.
I found her room, and more importantly the floor beside the air conditioner and passed out for almost an entire day, 18 hours or something. I didn’t care. What was the worst that could happen? I had already been mugged in my sleep and I had nothing else to lose, including my dignity.
She woke me up the next day, with her girlfriend standing beside her. I was really disoriented, but she wasn’t the only stranger I had woken up to in the last few days.
“Hey man, we’re leaving. Sorry but it’s time for you to hit the road”. I thanked her profusely and said I had no idea she was a lesbian. I tend to say stupid shit when I first wake up, especially after an 18 hour sleep. Just like that I was back at square 1.
Nowhere to go, broke and hungry and losing my mind. I hadn’t talked to my dad in 3 days and I had only eaten once. I had seen crack and hookers for the first time in my life and wished I hadn’t. I think I lost a little bit of my innocence in that Howard Johnson, and definitely lost my patience.
I walked back to room 125. I was pissed off and I was getting home today, one way or another. I opened the door and it was just Bernie again. All alone. High on crack, standing in front of the window grunting… masturbating. My stomach twisted and I was in shock as any normal human being would be. I closed my eyes and said as loudly as I could
“You fucking piece of shit. I am taking money out of that drawer to get home! And if you come at me, I will fucking kill you”.
He stopped what he was doing.
“OK” he said with a creepy little smile on his face. I walked over to the drawer and grabbed a $100 bill out. I left that room forever and caught a train downtown. All I wanted was supper and a thousand hot showers.
. . . . . . . . . .
I bought my Greyhound bus ticket home and arrived back in London at 7 pm, three and a half days after I left. I was as close to broken as one person could be when I walked up to the front of my dad’s house. I anticipated my punishment and I was ready for it, who gives a shit? I would be sleeping for two straight days anyhow. Nihilism is adolescence, fuck it.
I had never called him or my mom, and I felt terrible about that at least. They must have been terrified. I prepared myself for the ass beating that was about to come and opened the front door.
My dad was sitting at the dinner table alone, eating steak and potatoes when I came in. I kept my head down and walked into the dining room expecting the worst.
“So, how was it?” my dad asked.
I couldn’t believe it.
“It was good” I said, expecting the roof to come crashing in at any moment.
“Sit down and get some steak, tell me about it”.
I sat down and grabbed some potatoes.
“Well, dad, let’s just say ‘Thunderstruck’ was unbelievable”.
@MatterMote Editorial 