Feb. 08, 2012 - Issue #851: Jon Mick

Ben Sures

War Story

You don't get to have a two-decade (so far) career in music without being a survivor and Ben Sures certainly knows a thing or two about surviving. Here's his war story from the road—surviving a trip to Lloydminster, a place that seems pretty benign, right?

I got a phone call inviting me to come to Lloydminister to play the Alberta Hotel with a guy I barely knew. No rehearsals, money's good, two evenings and a matinee. He says all I have to do is play a few licks and jam along. I say yes, he picks me up in his van at the appointed time.


We get to Lloyd where we're greeted by the 80-year-old hotel owner: skin and bones with lipstick, blue hair, dangling cigarette. The place is dingy. We spend an hour setting up, do a quick little sound check and then get our room keys. Thankfully we each have our own rooms, I retreat to my room and sit on the edge of what I hope is not a bedbug-filled mattress. I'm relieved to be alone for an hour before the gig.


At the appointed time I go down to the bar, we strap on our guitars, he turns on his amp and drum machine, we start playing the country hits for stragglers who may not even have realized there was anyone onstage. After about the third song, my fearless leader starts screaming at me between verses: "Play this! Play that! No, not there!" on and on. Every song becomes an epic scream fest from the lunatic bandleader—of a band of two. Finally the night ends, I am beat, dying to escape, I have a matinee and an evening performance the next day, one more night and then home.


At about 5 am the phone in my room rings—it's him. "Ben!" he yells "I've got the dry heaves!" I ask what he wants me to do about it; he says he doesn't know. I tell him to call me if it gets worse. An hour later, the phone rings again—same thing. "I've got the dry heaves! I need you to go to the drug store!" I go to his room, thinking in my naïve way that he has the flu or something, he explains to me he needs some 222s and could I go get him some? I walk to the highway where the grocery stores are, go to the pharmacy and explain I need some 222s, and the pharmacist asks if they are for me. I say no and she tells me she can't sell them to me. It's news to me, having never bought them. I go to the next store and go through the same routine only this time I say they are for me. I get back to the hotel, give him two pills and leave the bottle on the dresser. It's still before 9 am, so I go back to bed. I get another phone call—it's him. He wants me to take him to the hospital.


It's an old hotel without an elevator, so we spend forever getting down the stairs. The cab comes and every bump he complains. He looks bad and he's a stranger and I feel like I am in some nightmare and wish I would wake up. We get to the hospital. I have no idea what to do, so I sit and wait, all the time thinking to myself, "I don't even know his last name, does he have next of kin? Is he gonna die? Will I have to drive his van, pack up all his super heavy gear?" Finally I hear his voice from down the hall "Ben, Ben." I follow it behind a curtain there he is in bed, some colour returned to his face, seemingly more normal than before, even happy to see me. He explains to me—prefacing with the fact he has never told anyone this before—that he's a codeine addict and forgot to bring his supply. He's been taking upwards of 90 pills a day for years, has a whole system back in Edmonton to avoid the pharmacies getting suspicious. It's this great relief to him to share this with me.


We take a cab back to the hotel, the little old lady is waiting there telling us she has a business to run and we've already missed the matinee and could we please just pack up and go? Fine with me. For some reason I have the keys to both our hotel rooms, so I run upstairs, go into his room, get the codeine, bring it to my room and throw it in the garbage.


An hour into the two-and-half-hour trip back, he starts to get a little grumpy, a little owly and begins to get that junkie, "I'm your pal, can I have a buck?" vibe. He very expertly tries to disguise his growing tension and politely asks what I did with the 222s and if he could just have them it will get him home where he will start turning his life around. I politely explain that I threw them out at the hotel! He starts freaking out, screaming at me, "What were you thinking?!?!"


Finally we get back to Edmonton, he has somehow calmed down a bit. He says he'll make it up to me by getting us a gig at such-and-such a hotel. I can't remember the name, but I can remember it's the last place I would ever go inside, with or without this lunatic. He lets me out at home, all smiles. V

 

Fri, Feb 10 (8 pm)
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