The Peanut Factory

By Peter D Speers PhD

Young David Wildwood finds himself in Toronto unemployed and out of luck. He hitches a ride with a couple of ageing socialist intellectuals and ends up on the west coast where his luck begins to turn.

This gritty and unique coming of age story arcs through the Dickensian world of new age labourers engaged in converting Vancouver’s skid row into what will emerge as trendy Gastown. 

The author skillfully weaves a tale that captures the passions and politics of the late 1960's while simultaneously engaging us in the growing pains of a young man caught in a web of drug dealers, draft dodgers, love, loss and violence.

The Peanut Factory is a beautifully rendered story of a young man coming awake to himself and the world of possibility around him. PD Speers, a novelist with the heart of a poet, luminously describes a city on the verge of social explosion and one man’s attempt to find his way through its myriad of lane-ways and alleys. An Excellent read. 

Juan Barker, Abraxas Books

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter D Speers PhD
• Release date: Nov 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9780994910707

Peter D Speers PhD

Dr. Peter D. Speers PhD. is a retired civil servant living and writing in Victoria, BC. Other work by Peter D. Speers: The Peanut Factory

Book preview

I dedicate this story to my long suffering wife, Norma and my two boys Blake and Brendan all of whom have shown great tolerance while I rattled on endlessly about my work. Love you to the bones.

Disclaimer

The Peanut Factory is a work of fiction. The characters and events depicted are consolidations of the author’s experiences combined with the creative imagination. Any resemblance between the characters and persons alive or dead is a matter of happenstance.

Copyright © 2015-2016 by Peter D Speers PhD

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,

without the written prior permission of the publisher.

ISBN: 978-0-9949107-0-7

Front cover photo by Mathew R Greening

Prologue

The hash she dropped into the pipe had seams of black opium running through it. She struck a foot-long match against the brick window sill. It flared to life igniting the drug and casting her pale skin in a mellow light. She drew deeply and let her languid body slide to the floor from her perch in the wicker chair. She closed the distance between us, sat on her crossed legs, and peered down the pipe barrel at me. Her deep blue eyes sparkled mischief. She flipped her long blond hair, tilted her lips heavenward and sent a plume of fragrant exhaust curling up towards the ceiling beams. She handed me the pipe. I took a deep toke. Her voice transmitted a coquettish annoyance. You’ve never really told me the whole story, she chided in her husky accented English. You’re holding out on me, she accused, and I really want to know the whole thing. How you ended up here. I passed her back the pipe, stood and stepped to the window. I cranked it open a bit to let out some of the smoke. I looked out at the Jordaan. A young woman parked her moped in front of the snack bar across the canal. She went inside. A salty breeze blew up from the Bloemgracht and pushed eddies of fall leaves along the cobbled street. I turned to take her in.

She had asked me that question a number of times in the year we’d been together and it was true I’d fed her only fragments of the truth. She fixed me with her most doleful stare. She knew how to get to me. We promised to be honest with each other, she said. That’s all I’m asking for. I felt my resolve crumbling.

I parked myself on the cushioned window seat, my back to the street. I tried to stall.

Hmm, I said stoking my chin with mock deliberation. Where to begin?

You’re playing with me now, she admonished, let’s have some honesty.

Look, it’s a long story and... She cut me off.

I’ve got lots of time, get on with it. You know where to start. At the beginning.

Okay, I warned, you asked for it. Remember I told you about Alexi Wolf and her family? She nodded. I’ll start there.

1. Landing on your Feet

It was September a couple of years back when I was crashing at the Wolfs’ place out at UBC. I stayed with them for a while after I hitched back from Toronto. Well, hitched in a manner of speaking. I’d been in Toronto with my friend Luke. Maybe I should back up a bit. Luke and I went out there to visit Dale and Wendy who had been our neighbors out in West Bay. When everyone in our communal house split for parts known and unknown Luke and I were left on our own. We were feeling at loose ends and didn’t want to spend another summer hanging around waiting for something to happen so we made up our minds to have an adventure of our own making. We decided to do a Kerouac and cross the country. We’d crash at Dale and Wendy’s and scope out Toronto. So we packed Luke’s weathered VW Bug with sleeping bags, a couple of pillows and eight ounces of hash (under the mud guard, passenger side) and set sail for T.O.

It was a long drive, but we made it in four days taking turns at the wheel, dropping bennies and, when needs must, catching a snooze in the back seat. We may not have had the company of Burroughs or Ginsberg but to us it was just like life in On the Road. Canadian style. To foreshorten the saga of crossing Canada in a VW Bug let me just say that two sweaty youths in a small car, over four days and nights drinking gallons of coffee and ingesting several ounces of hash render a tale less romantic than appears at first blush. Suffice it to say we made it more or less in one piece, and still friends, to Toronto and the apartment of our ex-neighbours.

Dale and Wendy were happy to let us sleep on their floor and were both obliging and friendly but as it turned out Wendy was six months pregnant so in short order they’d need all the spare room.

Luke was from California. He’d been called up. With service to his country killing Vietnamese peasants looming he had chosen the soft option and came to Canada, making his home in Vancouver where there was a strong antiwar movement that housed, fed, and later helped him find under-the-table employment. For a year or so he made his life there making many friends partly due to his unqualified distaste for American foreign policy and partially due to his wit and ironic sense of humour. Nonetheless, he secretly longed for home. In a candid moment in Toronto he tearfully revealed he was homesick. A few days later when the hash ran out he abruptly came to his senses and drew the stark conclusion that he needed to back his pacifism with guts and fortitude and not escapism. He was determined to split back to LA and face the music. He joked that the military would likely exempt him because he was a chicken shit hippie and, more importantly, he was a peacenik Jew. Ultimately, he said, his family was there and that had to count for something. After a few days of equivocating he packed his bags into the Beetle and took off south. There were hugs all around and he was always welcome back, I said. I had no place for him to come back to, but it was the fraternal feelings that counted. We wished him well, cursed the war, and waved him off.

Suddenly I stood out. Much of the good will afforded us by Dale and Wendy it turned out was driven by their anti-Vietnam activism. I was Canadian. In short order my place in their home seemed to shrink. The couch was comfortable but not the climate. Every day I tried to make myself scarce. Feeling the pressure to vacate their space made me uncomfortable in their presence and seemed to limit my ability to make the simplest of small talk. This created many awkward pauses in our conversations. I was the proverbial third wheel. I made overtures to find a place of my own but first I would have to find work. They were actively in favour of both and advised me so regularly. In a word, my welcome wore thin. Thin enough to shred at the edges and so, more to get out from under the bad feeling than anything, I ended up crashing with a friend of Dale and Wendy’s who had an empty couch. He was a gay guy with all the unsaid mental complications for a decidedly straight guy but my choices were limited.

I moved in with Cyril. He was a student of religious studies at U of T but it was summer and he only had one afternoon class so he was often at loose ends. He offered to show me around town, Yorkville, Honest Ed’s Village, and so on but I declined. I would make a concerted effort at employment which would use a lot of my spare time I reasoned. The uncomfortableness that had accompanied my stay at Dale and Wendy’s did not abate. Only now there was no buffer. It was Cyril and I. Neither of us were great conversationalists and the fact that we barely knew each other lay in the air like a bad smell. I became desperate to find my own place and fearful I might never manage that.

I left his flat on Spadina every day of the week and even Saturdays to knock on doors and fill out job applications. I searched the want ads and cold-called restaurants, book stores, and sandwich shops, all with no effect. At the time, working at a book store was my dream job but I landed nothing but cool receptions. I tried retail but even the hip shops in Yorkville had no use for me. I spread my search to the light industrial sector, having had some spotty experience in a coat factory and a manufacturer of fireplace screens when I’d dropped out of school in Vancouver. These were horrible forlorn times that now I reflected on with fondness. Every morning I got up early just like I thought proper, I would iron my only white shirt, press my khakis, put on my pre-tied tie, don my tweed sport coat and set out with a positive outlook. I’d come back to Cyril’s late in the afternoon wrinkled, sweaty and depressed. Thankfully, he developed a relationship with a clerk at Eaton’s and so was hardly ever home. The muggy heat of Toronto evenings drew him and his friend regularly into Yorkville, leaving me nearly broke and on my own.

I spent the heat of the afternoons riding street cars and buses or simply walking down town. In the evenings when he stayed in I would avoid having to be in close proximity to him in the confines of his small room. I took to sitting on the porch overlooking Spadina Avenue. I thought of what I might do in order to extract myself from this uncomfortable situation. I usually came up empty or trotted out the usual self-recriminations for taking up Luke’s challenge to have an adventure. I thought I was a putz. Where was Luke now? I asked myself. He’d gone home and here I was stuck in humid, smelly Toronto with fuck all hope of finding my way. Next in this cycle of self-abuse was my self-pep talk. I would draw on fictitious regular guys who no doubt had made their way and assure myself if they could get a job, get a place, have a life, so could I. But I was never fully convinced and found my energy sinking down and my attention wandering. I tried to entertain myself with the comings and goings along the street. How people were dressed, where they might work, pretty girls and how I might someday know one. Across the street a gang of bikers had set up housekeeping and there was an endless stream of people in and out of their place. Swimming in that stream were fish of the young female variety so I had my entertainment. In time however, even this avenue of entertainment began to sour. There was only so much sustenance I could draw from potential love objects observed at a distance. When the day came that I found my work search carrying me to the outskirts of rural Etobicoke I had to admit defeat. I felt depressed, even angry. What was wrong with me? Too long a list to articulate. I was out of it. A loser. I got myself into this fix and now I was too stupid to find a way out. It wasn’t long before money became an issue and Cyril was throwing out broad hints of two kinds: put out or move on. Sometimes at night I would wake up to find him ogling me from his bed across the room. I feared he might try to turn me queer. I’d heard that was possible. Like in prison or something. I felt it was in my best interests to move on. I felt a complete failure. I ached for relief. I had to find a way out. I became resigned I would have to swallow my pride and go home.

I was terminally low on cash so getting back to Vancouver was going to be difficult. I’d never hitched that far by myself. I wondered how to work it. I was stuck in Toronto but the thought of hitching by myself was not all that comforting. In a moment of clarity, I hit upon a plan to post a notice at U of T. Lots of students were traveling west either to go home for the summer or just for the adventure. I could bum a ride with someone. I was sure. This possibility was the proverbial ray of sunshine, the light at the end of the tunnel I’d been looking for. It gave me a moment of hope. I formulated a plan and wrote a couple of notices to post in the Student Services Office. Help! I wrote on a piece of foolscap: Need Ride to Vancouver – Can help with gas. Although this last bit was rapidly becoming more remote. Taking this action gave me renewed energy. I had a plan and the action of posting the note was like a declaration of war on my hopelessness. I became totally focused on this route as my salvation. It occupied my every thought. I quit looking for work and spent the day wandering Yorkville pretending to be a carefree hippy. To my great surprise and relief, a couple of days later I got a call at Cyril’s place. The caller was a young woman named Sara. We talked for a few minutes and I agreed to meet her at her place down near the university. The thought of crossing half the country with a young female university student surpassed my fantasies concerning hippy girls copping drugs on Spadina Avenue. Maybe this was the break I was hoping for. I began to imagine a bright new future. Maybe even a girlfriend. Who knew where this could go? I was both fearful and ebullient in equal measures. At one moment fearing the girl would tell me to buzz off or that she’d changed her mind and she was really heading for Mexico. And in the next moment she was pledging eternal admiration while we were making passionate love on her psychedelic sarape in a wheat field in Saskatchewan.

That evening, my pulse racing and my mind full of maybes, I hopped a bus down Spadina, transferred up College and got off at Ross which was my destination. The address they gave me was just half a block down from College. It was an old-fashioned two and a half story semi-detached. It was pretty well-kept as student digs go. The girl that had phoned answered the door. She was a couple of years older than me, a short, thinly-built brunette with a page boy haircut and loose-fitting clothes. Her feet were bare. We exchanged names and greetings. She was Sara.

As it turned out, to my disappointment, the girl herself wasn’t driving west but rather her mother and her mother’s boyfriend. I’d never driven so much as across the street with anyone’s mother so the immediate effect was off-putting. I started to sink into a funk of internalized self-mocking I-told-you-so’s. Sara shepherded me into the living room which was comfortably appointed with two over-stuffed couches, a leather lazy boy and old-fashioned wood tables. A Persian carpet covered about half the floor space. There was what looked like a working fireplace centered on one wall. It didn’t have a screen. These were the accouterments of the well-heeled and intellectual set, some of whom I’d met in my youthful brush with artists and politicos in the Vancouver scene. This recognition provided a vague sense of comfort to me. I was introduced to my potential traveling companions. Her mother, Sophia, was a grey-haired, recently retired Spanish teacher. She was a small thin woman. She sat curled up in the lazy boy which all but threatened to swallow her. She extended her hand which was warm and, given her age and diminutive size, very firm. Her hazel eyes met mine. She smiled and said she was pleased to meet me. There was honesty in this mundane civility and I felt like there might yet be hope in this enterprise.

Her boyfriend, introduced as her partner, was named Charles. He too was a small person. His hair was thin and greying around the temples. He had a bald spot at the top of his head. He had clear blue eyes and a nose a bit big for his face which was ruddy in complexion. He was sipping what I took for Scotch whiskey. He stood to greet me, shook my hand vigorously and said he too was pleased to meet me. He spoke in a distinctly British accent. As it turned out, he was retired from an academic position at some university in England. This was his first time in Canada and he was so far having a jolly good time. I thought him a friendly and inquisitive man and not at all stuffy given his academic background. He sat on the edge of the couch as we talked. I sat down but declined a drink, thinking it was likely whiskey which I had little experience with, but what I had had not ended well.

They were clearly assessing my character. Sophia and Charles seemed to warm up to me immediately, with daughter Sara retaining some reservations. I felt a little defensive under her scrutiny but saw forbearance as a necessity if I wanted to ensure myself a ride west. Did I have a proper driver’s licence she wanted to know? I produced it for inspection. They passed it along between them and I returned it to my wallet. Why was I going to Vancouver? It was my home. I planned to go to school. Simon Fraser University. Had I ever been there before? Yes, well the first answer covered that. Had I ever driven across Canada before? I told them about my trip with Luke, leaving out the bit about sleeping in the car, taking speed and smoking all the hash. Having secured these semi-fictions in their minds seemed to relax their vigilance and it looked like the deal might go through. Sophia and Charles remained just slightly skeptical about putting themselves in my hands. They wanted to show me the station wagon they had purchased for the trip. We trooped out to the back porch where we looked down on the back lane and a 1968 Chevrolet station wagon in a fetching beige colour. The only car I’d driven since getting my license was in fact Luke’s bug. I had no experience with such a new model. I was going to have to lie.

I declared myself familiar with these vehicles and attested to their cross country worthiness. Everyone was pleased and we returned to the living room to seal the deal and work out the details. Sara made tea while Sophia and Charles got to know me a bit better. They seemed genuinely interested in me which I found both refreshing and alarming. I liked that they were making me feel comfortable, important even, but I had many secrets that I regularly kept from adults so I had to remain alert should they ask anything too personal. I told them some fragmented truths which prompted them in turn to disclose a bit about themselves. They needed a driver because Charles had no Canadian license and Sophia was too short to reach the pedals in a big American car. The tea was served. I sat nervously sipping tea and smiling appropriately as my new companions talked a bit about themselves.

Sophia had taught Spanish in the Toronto school system since the mid 1950s when she had emigrated from Spain with her then husband, an ex-military guy, also a teacher, who had passed away from cancer a few years ago. Charles was a political activist and anti-fascist campaigner who had joined a volunteer brigade to fight Franco. He was, generally speaking, anti-war, especially American involvement in Vietnam, but when Hitler invaded Poland he’d signed up right away. It was in the Spanish Civil War that he and Sophia first met. His wife too had succumbed to cancer in 1965. The story of Sophia and Charles’s re-union would unfold during our trip. After tea we shook hands again and agreed to get underway early two days hence. I hopped the bus back home feeling like I’d made the lifesaving bargain of the century. There was hope on the horizon.

Two days later I hopped a bus back down to Ross Street. It was eight a.m. and the sun was shining. It was going to be a hot day and I was looking forward to hitting the road and leaving the dense humidity that clung to the city in these dying days of summer. As I climbed the stairs and prepared to knock on the door I had butterflies in my stomach but not much else. I had seventeen dollars and change in my pocket and my sleeping bag and my sport bag with the rest of my worldly possessions rolled up inside. I wondered briefly if I should flee but had no idea to where. Sara let me in and directed me through the house to the back yard where Charles and Sophia were busy packing the station wagon with camping supplies, suitcases, and bags of this and that. A mission up the Zambezi, is the way Charles put it. Sophia told him not to fuss but to make himself useful if that was at all possible for an esteemed academic like himself. I was a little chagrined. Wondering if they were like some old people who bitched at each other all the time. Charles relieved me of my stuff, handing it over to Sophia for packing. Take no notice, he said, she’s bossy but she doesn’t bite. In short order all was squared away. Sophia, Charles, and Sara exchanged hugs and kisses and multiple phone-me-when-you-get-there’s. I stood around like a loose wheel until the all clear was given. I climbed into the driver’s seat nervously trying to familiarize myself with the controls. I’d never driven an automatic before but figured it would be that much easier. I told myself I was not out of my depth. Charles stretched out in the back seat and Sophia took the passenger position her purse between her feet and a road map on her lap. She would navigate. Charles said his job was to enjoy the wonders of Canada and offer sage advice when needed. Our roles established, I honked the horn and we set out.

Our first touchstone was the 401 West which we reached by 9:15 according to Sophia’s watch. From the back seat Charles chimed, Ya hoo, Vancouver here we come. I merged into the western flow and held tight to the wheel. It was do or die and I was determined not to die. It took several miles before I got used to the power steering. At highway speed it felt like the slightest change in grip would send the car weaving left and right. I began to tense and sweat broke out on my brow. The tenser I became the more the car seemed to have intentions of its own. It wasn’t long before Sophia was startled enough to ask if I was feeling alright. Should we pull over? she wanted to know. I felt my hopes begin to vanish but with what felt like little conviction, I said I was fine, just a little hot was all. Charles obliged by rolling down his window. This diversion gave me just enough time to pull my nerves together and focus on relaxing as best I could. It worked. I brought the Chevy under control. No harm done. When the afternoon had worn down to the edges of the evening we pulled off the road into a government camp site and set up for the night. This established the routine for our entire journey. They would unpack the car, set up their tent and get the Coleman fired up and have a cup of tea or a brew as Charles called it. This they would follow with dinner. Sophia was a strict vegetarian so often it was beans and rice spiced up Spanish style followed by more tea then bed. The morning routine began as the evening had closed. Tea and toast mainly, sometimes porridge. I was relieved to learn that they felt it only fair that since I was doing all the driving, they would provide all the meals. This included, Sophia noted, any stops at cafes along the road. Over the next couple of days we became more relaxed with each other. Charles was quite a wit and liked to tease Sophia about her height, her vegetarianism, or anything else he thought worth a jibe. She indulged him, often turning to me and telling me not to pay him any attention. He’s a little demented, she would say. Charles said he was dying for some good old Canadian breakfasts of bacon and eggs sunny side up. This, he contended, was a must of any western Canadian adventure. We took many opportunities to share this experience and I was thankful for this indulgence and the hot black coffee that accompanied it. It was during one of these road side stops that we had a startling encounter that bound us in sure friendship.

We were just east of Swift Current at the junction of the Trans Canada and the #4 North. It was nine in the morning and it was already hot. Sophia directed me to pull off next to a mom and pop cafe. Crossroads Cafe. We gassed up out front then went in for breakfast. The three of us each took a stool at the counter. Charles and I were half way through our bacon and eggs when the guy who’d identified himself as the proprietor slid into position behind the counter directly in front of us. He was a thin, angular, middle-aged man. His shirt sleeves were rolled up revealing sinewy tattooed arms. He had the working man’s tan. He swept back his Brylcreamed hair and addressed me directly. You some kind of hippy aren’t you? I looked up in embarrassed silence. He shifted his attention to Charles. This your son? he asked, stabbing a finger in my direction. Charles, ever alert for some fun, patted me on the shoulder, gave me a big grin and replied, Yes, yes he is, and I’m darned proud to say so. The guy leaned in over the counter. He had soured visibly at Charles’s affirmation. There was menace in his steely glare. He shifted his attention to me. Standing to his full height he sneered his advice. If he were my son I’d grab him by the hair and cut his throat from ear-to-ear. He motioned violently across his own throat. He leered contemptuously and slipped away to the far end of the room. That was it. Dampened by this ugliness we paid and left. As I climbed behind the wheel Charles tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to face him. I meant what I said, he told me, and I know that Canadians are not like that.

Each day Charles wondered aloud at the landscape, its spaciousness and grandeur which we all agreed could not be captured in books. Both of my companions were most effusive in their praise when outside of Calgary the Rockies rose up from the prairie floor as Charles would later write in his notebook: Like muscular sentinels curtaining the treasures of the west. Sophia joined in his excitement. Their genuine enthusiasm spirited my own appreciation.

They tented and I slept in the car. Every morning without fail they were up at six. Sophia rolled out her yoga mat, performed some healthful contortions and stood on her head while Charles took a brisk walk. I would drag myself out of my sleeping bag, find a quiet place to pee, light a smoke and sit staring vacantly at the forest, lake, or whatever until the tea was brewed. I wished they drank more coffee.

They were an engaging, endearing couple, and unbelievably curious and energetic for old people. But some mornings I would have preferred some self-indulgent grumbling. But not these two. They were endlessly cheerful. I wondered what kept them going. Some mornings when their good cheer and hearty health offended my sense of propriety I’d sulk off to have my smoke at a distance.

Still, I got to know them a bit and admired them for having survived the Spanish Civil War followed by WW2. Life hadn’t been easy for either of them. As a young man Charles had run afoul of the law due to his pacifism and socialist activities. When the Spanish Civil War erupted he put his pacifism behind him as he explained it: Because the cause was so clear. Against the political and legal tide prevailing in England, he shipped out in support of the Republican side. He soon would discover that idealism took a backseat to the wrestling for power that tore the socialist/anarchist forces apart from inside.

It was in the battle-torn countryside of Spain that he met Sophia. She was part of a large peasant family that had been decimated by the civil war. Sophia, it seemed, had contracted a virulent form of dysentery and lacked the proper medical care, clean water or healthy food that might broker her back to health. Charles brought her family food, shared his rations, and purloined a few medical supplies, which allowed the family to survive and brought Sophia back from the brink. The two young people fell in love, but the advance of the Fascists drove the British contingent back home, and the loving couple apart. Sophia explained that her experience with stomach and bowel infections was why she had become a vegetarian. She had to be careful what she ingested for fear of a re-occurrence of her near fatal disease.

Charles and his comrades returned to England only to find themselves at war with Hitler. Over the next decades Sophia and Charles lost contact, both married, had children, and then sadly lost their spouses to disease. After the war Sophia and her family immigrated to Canada where she was educated and became a Spanish teacher in Toronto. As fate would have it, Charles’s political activities brought him to Canada to address a convention where, lo and behold, Sophia’s daughter was in the audience. They were soon reunited.

Charles returned to England, set his business in order, and flew to Toronto. The two were now on an adventure to