Grey Side of Town delves into an underworld dynasty, where loyalty binds and secrets suffocate. The Kaspar family saga is narrated in vignettes. Like snapshots or stars in the night sky, each stands alone—yet we begin to discern the whole.
Grey Side of Town
Let me put you in the passenger seat of a spotless classic. That’s Damien at the wheel, his ride, but introductions in a moment. Let’s set the scene.
The sun slides behind the skyline, casting the city in muted afternoon hues. Driving north, the industrial pound fades into the gentle pulse of the suburbs. It’s a pleasant valley façade for the underlying debts and the fear of uncertainty. Life runs smoothly when everyone knows their place and keeps to their lane.
Those who do not might find themselves cruising through life one moment, only to watch their tail lights slip into the shadows. Damien ‘The Lion’ Lyon, the forceful muscle of the family enterprise, has directed more than one soul to the grey side.
Damien
Morning around town is well lit and noisy for it. But there’s a stretch in the afternoon where, lulled to think the road unrolls forever, leaned back paying not so much mind, you find yourself on the grey side of town.
Where mom-and-pops lock up toward early bedtime for the newborn and old worn. Where a street lamp elongates the shadow of a dog, relieved on the neighbour’s lawn, bounding up to a private warm.
Your cruiser feels tire-heavy turning arcs around family streets. Over chalk outlines of hop-scotch, under wavering chimney vapours.
Past dinner dioramas and autumn leaves, un-raked because of that damn dog. Not that anybody keeps score—not that he doesn’t.
The playlist for such a silver evening is industrial and distant. Most birds are wise to let the occasional train whistle speak for them or a child’s swing weep solo in the breeze.
You hear the crunch of your tires despite the absence of gravel and drive on. And at some intersection stand in the street, in the dim, watching your cruiser slip into the shadows until you are tail-lights.
Fire Hydrant
We have the aging patriarch, the heir apparent, and the enforcer. Let’s introduce a younger member, less involved. Nathan is eleven, and he’s Julian’s nephew. For him, life is opening up like a fire hydrant.
Picture shimmering waves rising above the concrete as the city simmers under a relentless sun. In front of row houses, a hydrant unleashes a fountain of relief onto the scorched street, where Nathan and neighbourhood kids flock like moths to lamplight.
Nathan
Fry an egg out there, hot as hell it is—we used clichés to gauge the heat. While our fathers were at work or at war, we opened the hydrant.
Bony knee kids ’n muffin top moms, we shed our clothes—most of them. First time I saw a filled out bra, and felt wonder rise in the heat.
A lady everyone called Aunt Millie was our levelling presence. “Leave your pecker alone and get in the game—cold water, do you good.”
The summer dad transferred, we left the city, but the heat never left me. But cold water does do a person good.
Nathan left the city with Sophia and Marcus, his parents, in search of a fresh start. To say that, I should tell you Sophia Barrett-Reed is the sister of Julian, daughter of Clara and Ethan.
Don’t worry, big family, but I will guide you through the genealogy. Clara is the only daughter of Vinnie of Vinnie’s Bakery, now Bistro.
Marcus Reed, husband of Sophia, brings an outsider’s perspective to the family dynamics. He would see the overthrow the Kaspar cartel, but suffice it to say he saw his son becoming a too attached to the city. Thus, the move.
* * *
Now, I really must introduce Teddy Kaspar, Vincent’s brother. Teddy (Theodore) is a spectator in the family business. Like young Nathan, Teddy may be detached from the Kaspar family business but is still affected.
Both Theodore and Nathan are introspective and idealistic. Theodore, in particular, as a professor at the University, seeks a better world.
Theodore
Morning mist hangs shadows in the air, anonymous shades navigating the University quad.
My trench coat, buttonless after all these years, is cool again—but not as chill as the morning.
I pull it closed and walk past a waft of ragweed, shortcut through the philosophy building and down to the commons café.
Here I light a bomb in minds bearing the imprimatur of academia.
Here I proselytize a cadre of youth vowed to change the world.
The net effect will be to change how they see it.
Rain pounds the air clear of pollen, but the weather underground never changes.
Theodore stands before their eager faces, planting ideas of critical thought and challenging paradigms. His words are like spores released into the wild, each capable of taking root in the fertile ground of open minds.
As the last student exits, Theodore remains with thoughts and chairs askew. The climate of mistakes and silent battles linger, unchanged and seemingly unchangeable.
Bar Barista
Vinnie’s Bistro has the orderly chaos of a train station. On most mornings, baristas weave behind the counter with a dancer’s grace, their hands choreographed to the hissing steam and the clatter of porcelain.
Jeff shyly slides behind the espresso machine in this controlled confusion, stealing furtive glances at Eileen. You may think this part is about Jeff, the barista, but keep an eye on Eileen Mercer. She will become connected to the Kaspars through Damien, the enforcer.
Jeff might serve as the father of Eileen’s son, Oliver, but for now, he is serving poorly.
Jeff
I slid an espresso in front of the fellow with a palmtop, no sooner than Eileen screamed: This cappuccino has milk, I expressly ordered cream. Everyone swivels to look.
Finally the guy with lilliputian screen and dilated eyes snaps closed the case and points beyond me. Here, I’ll do it.
I follow his eyes to the coffee maker, surprised to hear myself whimper: Are you sure? Second week of work and already demoted by a patron whose charm is swift and confident.
A week of clogged equipment, the other employee off sick, and now this slip up with Eileen. My low esteem takes a double shot, not making the impression that was the reason for this job, around the corner from her door.
Mr. Palmtop pulls a grin, turning a whoosh into arabica with a topiary top as my jaw drops. I’ve lost my dream girl to meringue artwork, courtesy of the fat content in cream.
Cheer up, says Palmtop. The big mistake is giving up. Son, you’re interested as long as circumstance permits. Commit and accept no excuses.
She stomps to the other side of the shoppe—so what? Nobody is lost by a slather of froth. Ask yourself, in this or any endeavour, without the ache of desire: Do you care?
I now work not far from my old espresso haunt, and Eileen dreams of becoming better. Achieving, she admits, starts with believing her character is the author of her story.
