My new friend Don McKellar. Photo by Ryan Coleman.
Back when we lived in the loft at Church and Dundas, my neighborhood celebrity was Sum 41's Steve Jocz, who had a place in the building—I'd see him every so often in the elevator, with his BMX bike. When we moved around Trinity-Bellwoods four years ago, the neighborhood celebrity became George Strombolopolous, who lived just down the street. Ever since Strombo moved about a year ago our neighborhood celebrity has been Don McKellar.
So far as neighbourhood celebrities go McKellar is a pretty good one to have. I've admired his work since Highway 61. I really liked Monkey Warfare. When I was writing The Soviet Ambassador I would walk to Ella's Uncle, the local coffee shop, for a midmorning coffee, and I'd sometimes see McKellar reading the paper on the stool by the window. It became a bit of a joke between Natalie and I. I'd come back from my break and say, "Oh, I just had a coffee with Don."
"How's he doing?" Natalie would ask.
"He grew a beard," I might say (you know, if he actually did). "He looks good."
It happened frequently enough, these McKellar sightings, that one day as I was returning with my coffee it occurred to me that I should give him my book—like, if I ever finished the darn thing. (This was during the period when it seemed like the work would never end.) On the one hand, I think Yakovlev's story would make a great film. Not that McKellar would write it, necessarily. But maybe he could give it to someone who would. And heck being completely blunt about it, I thought it would be cool to get to know him. That way, when I saw him at Ella's Uncle, I could be like, "Hi Don," and then he could be like, "Hey Chris."
So yeah, the book came out in June. And the first time I saw McKellar at Ella's Uncle after that was a Sunday morning in July. I was in there with Myron and he was in there at the usual stool, reading the Star. As Myron and I walked home I berated myself for not introducing myself. "The books done, you idiot, you don't have an excuse, what's the big deal." And more variations on that theme. Clearly I was a loser for not having the guts to say hi. I needed more self-confidence. How was I ever going to be a famous writer if I couldn't talk up my book to someone like McKellar?
But wait. I still had an extra copy of the book in the basement. I could go back. I thought about it as Natalie and Myron and I ate our scones from Ella's. Then, ten minutes after I had left the first time, I was on my way back, book in hand. Probably he had already left, I was thinking. Actually, I was almost hoping that, so I wouldn't have to do it. But nope, there he was, right in the window, along with like eight other people inside Ella's. Which is small. If I introduced myself now all the eight other people would be sure to hear. I stood there a minute, outside the door, feeling ridiculous, and then I turned back and returned home.
Dammit dammit dammit. Berating and other forms of self-abasement dominated my stream of consciousness. I stalked back and forth from my kitchen to my front door. It's a Sunday. He's reading the paper. He doesn't want to be bothered. I even went downstairs to return the book to its spot on the shelf. But wait a sec. Who wouldn't want someone to just hand them a book? A book he'd probably like? A really fascinating book, at that? How great would that be?
Jaw set, stomach flexed, I speedwalked out my front door and headed to the coffee shop for the third time that morning. He's probably gone, anyway, I was thinking. I was just approaching the blind corner where my street intersects with Dundas when McKellar appeared on the sidewalk.
"Don McKellar!" I basically shouted. "My name's Chris Shulgan, I wrote this book—" I held it up. "—and we've been getting great reviews, there was one in the Globe a few weeks ago."
"Whose 'we'?" he said.
"What?"
"You said, 'we've' been getting great reviews."
"I," I said. "I've been getting great reviews. I wrote the book."
"Oh, OK."
"And it looks like it's about Soviet politics, and it is, but it's also about Canada and how Canadians encouraged the end of the Cold War, by being Canadian."
"You wrote this book?"
"Yes."
"This book?" By this time I had thrust it into his hands. He opened it to display the back flap, where my author's pic is. "This is you?"
"Yes."
"This is about the Soviet ambassador. The—Gorbachev's guy."
"Yes," I said, "That's right."
McKellar said, "I read about this."
"Oh, cool. I thought you might—if you liked it, maybe, or you could give it to someone—"
"Why?" He said this just like Don McKellar would say 'why.' He drew it out, and let the word hang there, at the end.
"It would make a great movie," I said.
"What attracted you to the story?"
"I just like good stories. It's a great story, his life, Yakvovlev's life. He was an amazing person."
And then McKellar started asking me questions. House location, thoughts on the neighbourhood, how much work it was to write a book—these topics we discussed, and more besides. I was pretty scatterbrained. At that point I was still processing that Don McKellar had heard about my book. "I don't want to take up too much of your time," I finished. "You know, I just love your stuff, and I thought you might get a kick out of this book."
Book in hand, he thanked me. And then I turned and walked home, feeling something less of a coward.
