The ghost of Bruce Lee · Posted May 23, 01:05 PM by Todd Babiak
One evening last week, I was picking dandelions and waiting for my pal Ron to show up. We were going to a play, and it was easiest for him to leave his Subaru at my house, as it is difficult to park in Old Strathcona.
I heard, in the distance, a pained moan. It is odd to hear a pained moan in my neighbourhood, especially from a grown man. Children skin their knees or fail to convince their parents to spend THE WHOLE DAY at the park. But adults, generally, aren’t moaners.
I walked to the end of the avenue and saw three men, two in the backyard of a rental house and one in the driveway. “I’m sorry, man,” said the man in the driveway, wearing what appeared to be the shirt Bruce Lee wore in Enter the Dragon. “I’m so fucking sorry. I love you, okay? I’m sorry.”
Of the other two men, one was the clear leader. He wore an undershirt, often called a wifebeater. He walked out and met the moaner. I couldn’t hear what he said, but he wound up to punch the man. And held back. He turned toward the house again.
“No, please. I love you. I fucking love you, man. I’m sorry. I’m just so sorry.”
I wasn’t the only neighbour watching. The man in the Bruce Lee shirt had a deep and powerful voice. It became louder when the man in the wifebeater waved him away and walked into the house.
“Please! Please! I love you. Please.”
This wasn’t romantic love. It was a different sort. The third man, who had been acting in a sort of supervisory role, turned his back on Bruce Lee.
“Well fuck you, then!” he said. “I hate you. I hope you die. Go to hell.”
The gentleman walked away, then, and all was quiet in the neighbourhood again. Ron still had not shown up, so I went back to picking dandelions. Until … like the unexpected climax of an opera:
“I love you so much!” Even louder this time. He was back, against the fence. “I’ll do anything. Please. I’m sorry, man. “
Nothing. No response from inside the house. And finally, with a near whisper, he repeated, “I’m sorry.”
He walked away, for good this time, and my friend Ron arrived. We walked past the house, on our way to the theatre, and I told Ron what I had just witnessed. And I’m not sure he believed me.
When we arrived at the theatre, I realized I had left the tickets in my manpurse, which I had placed on the sidewalk in front of my house — for dandelion picking. The writer of the show, the great Stewart Lemoine, who also happened to be selling licorice in the lobby, let me in anyway.
Exit the dragon.
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