Metro Meets the Mounties

During the summer of 2005 I was playing my trumpet in a community

band, Kings County Concert Band, and it fell to me to make the

arrangements for the group to accompany the R.C.M.P. Musical Ride at the

Fair grounds in Amherst, Nova Scotia.

All the Band members were really excited about the gig so I thought it

would be neat if we could be photographed with the Mounties and have a

souvenir of the event. I contacted the Ride’s advance team and they assured

me that the Mounties would be delighted to pose with us after the

performance. I hired a local photographer to take the picture and we all

looked forward to playing for the huge crowd and then getting our picture

taken with these icons of the Great White North.

I decided to have one last meeting with the sergeant in charge to go

over the details so that we wouldn’t take anymore of their time than was

necessary. That’s when he dropped the bomb. “I’m sorry!” he said. “There

isn’t going to be any picture. We reserve that privilege for amateur groups

and your band is professional!” What the hell could he be talking about? I

was astounded and a little bit flattered. “The Fair management tells me that

your group was paid to be here,” he continued with his chin jutting skyward.

That’s when I lost it. I did remember that the Fair Committee had given us a

small stipend to help with gas for the crowded vehicles we came in but it

wasn’t very much. I made some quick mental calculations and then

explained to the crusty Mountie that our pay for the two days we devoted to

the performance netted each of the band members approximately forty-nine

cents. He could see that my face was getting nearly as red as his tunic and

decided to acquiesce. We would get our picture but as I walked away from

him my mind drifted back to a time thirty-eight years previous when I had

met and dealt with an R.C.M.P. sergeant just like him.

I guess it’s all right to tell this story now since most of the participants

have by now retired, died or simply wouldn’t give a damn.

Because it was Centennial Year, the R.C.M.P. were also performing

their Musical Ride at the C.N.E. There wasn’t much interaction between our

group and theirs. We were stabled in our own partitioned off area on the first

floor of the Horse Palace and the Mounties were up on the second floor at

the opposite end of the building.

We wandered up to say hello to them but they were not very

receptive. Although we were all policemen and were involved in musical

rides we didn’t seem to have anything else in common. They were a highly

regimented outfit always in uniform even when they were mucking out the

stalls. They marched in step everywhere they went and there always seemed

to be a sergeant around watching their every move.

Our group was always turned out well when we performed but in

between rides or when we were off duty we kicked around in blue jeans and

cowboy boots and pretty well did as we pleased. The Mounties were never

off duty and they never seemed to be having any fun. We found out through

the grapevine that they had been told by their Inspector not to mix with our

group. Most of us didn’t care because from what we had seen of them, they

appeared to be a bunch of pompous, over disciplined stick-in-the-muds not

worthy of our attention.

Near the end of the week Inspector Johnson got wind of the

restrictions his counterpart on the R.C.M.P. had put on his men and decided

to confront him about the obvious insult.

I wasn’t there to see it but I can imagine the look on the Mountie’s

face with Big Ed towering over him, looking even taller than his six foot

four in his white bobby helmet, teaching him some manners.

He must have been convincing because shortly after we got word that

the members of the R.C.M.P. Musical Ride would be joining us for a little

get together at the conclusion of our shows.

It was our custom to keep a small stock of alcoholic beverages waiting

for us to wash down the tan bark dust at the end of our rides. Normally it

was a BYOB arrangement. We had been cautioned not to offer any to the

Mounties but for some reason, although I’m sure we all intended to comply

with the warning, we all showed up with extra beer and bottles of the hard

stuff. Since all of this happened without much planning or consultation, the

cache of booze, before we set upon it, was a trifle excessive. There was a

hell of a lot of it!

On the last night the boys from the Toronto unit and the Band

members got a bit of a head start on the festivities: we were all changed out

of our uniforms, reclining on our tack boxes with cold ones in our hands,

waiting for the Mounties. It was getting late and we were wondering if they

had changed their minds and weren’t coming.

Then we heard the sound of thirty pairs of boots hitting the stable

pavement in unison. On they came down the aisle in our direction, marching

two by two, arms swinging and in perfect step.

They were all wearing their full summer street uniform complete with

Stetsons. Their Sergeant broke off and ‘hup, hupped’ them through the tack

room door and then halted the troop in the centre of the room.

Their Inspector followed them in and after he gave the sergeant a nod

they were all dismissed and the group spread out among our guys and the

Band members. The Mounties started shaking hands and making some

formal attempts at conversation but you could tell that they were nervous

and uptight. When I offered the one closest to me a beer he almost had a

heart attack. “No, no, no!” he whispered, rolling his eyes and glancing over

his shoulder in the direction of his sergeant.

I could see why this sergeant had everybody intimidated. He was the

biggest man in the room-- he even had an inch or two on Big Ed. He looked

to be a fit two hundred and thirty pounder with the physique of a weight

lifter and the permanent sneer of a drill instructor. He was a handsome

bugger with Aryan features, blue eyes and short blonde hair showing below

the brim of his Stetson. Hitler would have loved him.

Inspector Johnson had greeted the Mountie Inspector as soon as he

entered the room and now he had his arm around his shoulder leading him

over to a makeshift bar we had constructed. I watched as he poured two

drinks and handed one to the Mountie who took it but then, shaking his head

from side to side, promptly placed it back down on the bar.

A bit of animated conversation ensued but the glass remained on the

bar. It was looking as if the Mountie had won the day and was not about to

take a drink but then Big Ed made a masterful maneuver.

“Gentlemen, may I have your attention?” he shouted over the noise of

the room. “This is Canada’s Centennial year and on behalf of the

Metropolitan Toronto Police and the R.C.M.P., I would like to propose a

toast to Queen and Country.”

The Mountie Inspector looked like he wanted to run out of the room

but he reluctantly picked up the glass and after nodding his approval, his

whole contingent followed suit grabbing the bottles and glasses eagerly

proffered by our guys and the members of the Band. It was a lingering toast,

not your customary sip, and when that one was over, certain other dignitaries

were remembered and subsequent toasts made until finally we were all left

on our own, each to toast whomever we chose and as often as we wanted.

I guess the Mountie Inspector figured, “What the hell? In for a penny,

in for a pound,” because he spent the next hour or so in conversation with

Big Ed and looking the other way.

His big lantern jawed sergeant wasn’t too impressed with what was

going on and kept looking in his Inspector’s direction hoping for the order to

shut things down. But that order never came so he just stood in corner

nursing his original drink and scanning the room with a sour look on his

face.

A relaxed atmosphere settled over the gathering and the tension the

young Mounties had displayed earlier was all but gone. Ties were removed

and collars opened and most of the brown Stetsons were off their closely

shorn heads and hooked over saddle cantles or bridle racks.

About halfway through the evening the R.C.M.P. Inspector received

an urgent message, delivered by one of our policewomen, and he had to

return to his hotel so Big Ed volunteered to drive him. On his way out he

slurred some final instructions to his sergeant: “Just stay a little longer then

wrap things up.”

As the two Inspectors made there way through the stable on their way

to Big Ed’s car they had to pass by a large pile of baled straw. When they

got to the far side of it they happened on a young Mountie who had

borrowed a guitar from one our guys and was sitting on a bale serenading an

equally young Metro. Policewoman who was perched near the top of the

pile. Most of the young man’s uniform had been discarded-- he still had his

britches and boots on but he was down to his t-shirt and had his tie around

his head like a bandana.

The Mountie Inspector instinctively started to admonish him but

before he could speak, Big Ed steered him away and hustling him over to his

car, muttered in his ear, “By God, that boy has a good voice!”

In the absence of the Inspectors and in spite of the Mountie sergeant’s

presence the party took a turn for the worst. All hell broke out! First one of

the Mounties came riding into the room on old Roy, bareback, with a Metro

policewoman sitting sidesaddle behind him. When Roy stopped suddenly

she lost her balance and fell over backwards and into the arms of a batch of

Mounties who caught her then started passing her from one to the other

across the room. She was laughing hysterically and no one was paying much

attention to the direction in which she was being shuttled. When her final

destination turned out to be the arms of the big sergeant over in the corner, it

was obvious that he was not amused.

As he put her down, brushed off the front of his uniform and

straightened his hat, I could tell that he was about to call a halt to the

proceedings. I quickly conferred with a couple of my close associates and

we devised a plan to distract him. It was something we had done many times

before so I trusted my friends to do the groundwork while I left the room to

prepare myself.

The sergeant had already started to gather his men around him as my

friends approached him. They had all heard him bragging about his prowess

in the gym so they knew he was a prime candidate for what they were about

to propose.

Before he could speak to his men one of my conspirators put the

question to him in a very loud voice. “Excuse me, Sgt.. I was wondering,

who would you say was the strongest man in your outfit?”

With a haughty look on his face that suggested that the answer

should be obvious, he sneered the answer. “I guess that would be me.”

“Well,” our man continued, “Why don’t we have a test of strength

between your strongest man, which is you, and the strongest man in our

unit?”

The big Mountie did a quick scan of the room taking in our spindly

arms and beer bellies and then uttered a confident “Why not?” You could

tell that he wanted to inflict some punishment on the group who had so

shamelessly undermined all of his discipline.

My friends explained the rules. They said it was an old traditional

cavalry contest to test the strength of a trooper’s neck muscles. “You will lie

spread-eagled on the floor, bracing yourself in any manner you choose; your

opponent will kneel beside you with his hands behind his back and using

only his head attempt to roll you over. If he is successful the contest is over.

If he fails to roll you over, you will get the opportunity to address him in the

same manner.” “Why me first?” he asked. “Tradition!” my buddies

chorused. The answer didn’t really seem to satisfy him but just then I came

prancing into the circle that had been cleared in the centre of the room. I

was, bare-chested and soaking wet, one hundred and forty pounds and as I

danced around playing to the crowd, shadow boxing, and humming the

theme from Rocky, my big opponent stammered, “What is this, a joke?”

“No joke,” one of my friends shot back. “He may look puny but he

has incredibly strong neck muscles so you better brace yourself.”

“ This is ridiculous,” said the big Mountie, “but we may as well get it over

with so we can get out of here.”

He started to crouch down but he was stopped by one of our men

who made his way to the centre of the circle with a partial bottle of Southern

Comfort in his hand. “What say we make this contest interesting?” he said,

“The loser has to finish this bottle off in no more than three snorts.” The

crowd cheered unanimous approval and I said modestly, “I really like

Southern Comfort.” “Whatever,” said the big sergeant, “let’s get on with it.”

He dropped to the floor and did a series of pushups to warm up

and then he assumed the position. I dropped to my knees near the halfway

point of his body; he looked even bigger from this perspective. He was

looking back over his shoulder at me so I crossed myself to emphasize the

seriousness of the occasion then placed my hands behind my back.

I gave him a couple of tentative test nudges with the top of my

head and each time I did he tensed up pressing down on his wide spread

arms and legs until his torso lifted clear of the ground and every muscle was

bulging and defined. Clearly I had my work cut out for me.

I touched his flank with my head a couple of more times and

that’s when he made the mistake of relaxing for a split second and I was able

to deliver the coup de grace. With the speed of a striking cobra I lunged

forward and sunk my teeth into the softest part of his ass and bit down as

hard as I could. He let out a stifled scream and immediately flipped over

onto his back. He made a grab for me with a murderous look on his face but

I managed to slip away and get to my feet before he could do any real

damage. He got to his feet and moved toward me shaking his clenched fists

but by then the whole room had broken into peels of laughter and he had

second thoughts and backed off.

I guess he didn’t want his crew to think he was a bad sport.

Without saying another word he snatched the bottle of Southern Comfort out

of my friends hand and drank it down, in two long gulps. “Who needs three

swallows,” he said as he handed the empty bottle back to my friend, as if his

prowess in this regard had to some extent restored a bit of his dignity.

He spent the next few minutes with a group of his trainees

gathered around him explaining why, because of his size, he was not

affected by alcohol in the same way that a smaller less muscular type would

be. Then he sat down on a tack box and promptly passed out.

The guys from our Unit took him out to the stable and bedded him

down in a box stall with old Major. The last I saw of him he was mumbling

something that sounded like pillow talk and smiling serenely while Major

nuzzled his neck and chest and rooted at his breast pockets looking for

treats.

In the total absence of any authority figure of consequence, the boys

really let their hair down and things took a turn for the worse. It was well

past closing time at the Exhibition so the party spread out into the corridors

of the Horse Palace. An impromptu game of Donkey Baseball was organized

in the riding ring and more than the bases were loaded. Some of the

Mounties were taking bagpipe lessons from the Band members and insisting

on borrowing their kilts while doing it; they had been told that proper

protocol dictated that nothing was to be worn under the garments and they

weren’t shy about bending over periodically and displaying their adherence

to the rules.

One man was marching up and down the pavement outside the

stable wearing a kilt, tall riding boots with spurs, a Mountie Stetson and

carrying a bamboo lance. It was difficult to tell exactly which outfit he was

with. Another kilted Band member was indulging in his own version of the

highland games; he had a stack of about a dozen Mountie hats and he was

tossing them Frisbee-like trying to get them up onto the ramp of the

Gardiner Expressway. He wasn’t very successful because I could see

several of the pointy-topped hats littering the parking lot directly in front of

him. It was at this juncture that I decided that it was time for me to leave the

party, the decision may not have been entirely mine because I remember

somebody holding onto my ear and guiding me out. Anyway I didn’t want to

be around when the big Mountie sergeant woke up.

I had it from reliable sources that the party continued for some time

after I left and even had a change of venue for its finale. The papers carried a

story the following day concerning a group of young Mounties and an

unspecified number of Metro. Toronto policewomen being caught playing

nude water polo in the pool at the Lakeshore Motel. The following day I was

at the Horse Palace to watch the Mounties ship out and they seemed oddly

cool and stand offish. An official directive had been issued, “Under no

circumstances will any member of the R.C.M.P. Musical Ride ever again

fraternize with the cops of The Metropolitan Toronto Police Mounted Unit.

It may not be on the books but I believe the order still stands.