“Hence, the Benedict Chronicles…”
The Lakeview is closing, or so we were told; and so the Mod Squad (minus D-To) reassembled, like broken Avengers action figures, in the cold white light of winter to avail ourselves of a final omelette. They don’t serve those anymore, as it turns out, but that’s ok; they’re not actually closing, either.
As a dining experience, the Lakeview is the same. Exactly, unerringly the same. So’s Steve, so that worked out. So’s Mer actually, now that I think about it; probably, so am I, and change is an illusion, and time isn’t real. We FaceTimed Daniel in from L.A.; he’s exactly the same, at least visually. (We couldn’t hear him, over the brunch crowd din.) FaceTime is new, as are artificially-intelligent search engines surely gaining sentience (and quite a bit of resentment) right now. We talked about those, a bit. We talked about a generation of kids who went through the pandemic and are behind on their reading: that’s new. We talked about a generation of young people, two or three generations behind us, who may or may not care about boundary lines like “real” anymore… that’s new too. You get older, and you realize — if you’re lucky — that even the foundation pillars of this thing aren’t pillars at all. Everything moves, drifting like sand.
Physically, the three of us are not new. We are past the warranty. I’ll speak for myself only going forward, lest I offend someone. Being “old” or being “young” or even being in the middle, as I am, are such charged subjects. I’ve caught up with a few different circles of friends IRL in the past couple of weeks, and it feels to me like a boundary line has been passed. No longer young. Others are precious about it when I talk about it but I treasure middle age. I’ve earned this body. I’ve earned this mind. There are a trillion things in my rearview that I wish I could tackle again with the personhood I have now; but, for the most part, I’ve made it a daily practice to make peace with the fact that that’s not how it works; and it not working that way, is why it feels so good to feel this way, right now, for as long as I can, do, and will.
Now my high school friends and I sit around listening to a recording of the spring concert from Grade 10, and can’t believe how tight the orchestra sounded, compared to whatever lifetimes’ worth of experience with shitty school bands we’ve all had, or thought we’ve had. I speak of the grace of getting through our younger years together without killing one another (or filing for Friendship Divorce), and earn hugs in return. I think about the ones who have children, and the ones who don’t, and I wonder when I stopped wondering which one I was “supposed” to be.
I ordered the chicken n’ waffle Benedict. It did as advertised. The home fries were salty as fuck, which was what was needed today; the salad was a limpid pile of leaves with vinegar on them, so, not a salad. The sunlight still streams in the southern window of the eastern half of the Lakeview restaurant. Someone complimented my Disco shirt; it felt like being out in the world among people was new, even though I’ve done that plenty in the past year. This February has felt different from the previous Februarys. Maybe this time spring really is coming; a three-year spring.
When the Lakeview re-opens it will be more upscale. The Atlantic Benedict might survive, on the menu. Porterhouse steaks for the rest. Likely nothing will be $19 anymore. That’s fine. On the streetcar back along Dundas, resting my back, we looked at the great pits where housing used to be, and condos soon will be. Chinatown is still there; the stretch of Japanese eateries heading into Dundas Square feels new. Everything costs more, and nothing works as well; but you can buy a temporary bus pass by tapping your phone on a computer. “Normal” progresses, and everything else stays the same.
