Marimba Loops And Floors With A Sense Of Humour

Click to View Show Anyway

Three four-second low-frequency blasts repeated every minute until that mist fades away. The foghorn was invented here in 1853. And THAT's the rhythm of Saint John — one hundred fucking days a year.

I didn't know about it till I moved here.

I bristled as that horn sounded while I took a stool at "The Oar." It was Friday, and the place was hopping. Bright amber lights punished a small dance floor while people line-shuffled to tropical marimba loops.

And if that wasn't entertaining enough for a city that felt like a damp basement, you could watch the angled floorboards over by the bar. It was a thirty-degree trap laid by craftsmen over a century ago. A masterpiece of weathered engineering.

I'd been watching it for over an hour, and it was a study in human physics. Anyone who wasn't paying attention performed the same involuntary jerk with mechanical certainty.

And if they were tipsy?

The guy in the checkered flannel caught his toe, knees buckled, and he looked like a seagull trying to take off. He almost kissed the floor but saved his drink, a smart move — at those prices.

My respect for the original builders grew with every stumble. They didn't just lay flooring: they created architectural slapstick.

A woman in sequins was up next. Heel, crack, panic-save — nearly wiped out a table of tourists. She regained her balance just as the foghorn blasted. Beer glasses rattled. She was startled, rhythm gone, and finally gave the floor what it had been asking for.

Four seconds of noise. Eighteen seconds to watch her stand back up. With help, of course.

Her husband wasn't impressed as he shouted from over by the bar. "Come on Margaret, this isn't your first time in here. Jeez."

That horn gave off another colossal and reassuring...
"Ohhhhh-wahhhhh."

Friends say I'll get used to it.

I might, but NOT at five in the morning.

• Open mic. Early riser or late? Ever witness strange bar vibes?

Click to View Show Anyway

Compulsory clickbait.