By Ian Mulder / Illustration By Byron Eggenschwiler
Ain’t it funny how the night moves
When you just don’t seem to have as much to lose
Strange how the night moves
With autumn closing in
_Bob Seger, “Night Moves”
When faced with the various trials and tribulations befitting a career of spontaneous entrepreneurship – some of which have been actual courtroom trials – I often ask myself, “WWSD?” What would Seger do? Unfortunately, the answer always seems to be, “Have another beer.” And it is in one of these situations that I find myself today. It’s only 10:30 a.m. on a Tuesday (I think), but thankfully my beer fridge is always open. I’m reflecting on the darkness of an autumn night on the lonely prairie, and the pernicious mixing of business and pleasure that tends to take place in my life after the sun goes down.
My mind drifts back to one of the first business dealings I had as a young lad. It was with Monsieur Pierre Cochard, the venerable owner of Chez Pierre, one of Edmonton’s oldest and best known dancing establishments for women who seem to have misplaced their clothing and men who seem to have misplaced their wives. Cochard, I understand, is featured in an interview somewhere else in this magazine. Where, I don’t know – they cancelled my subscription last month in light of recent cost-cutting measures at unlimited. They also relocated my desk onto the loading dock. For legal reasons.
I was a little too tall
Could’ve used a few pounds
I was just 19 when I first met Pierre Cochard. I had recently completed my first commercial art job – a four-month stint with a bar that lasted five months, creating a series of portraits of gangsters to adorn the joint. Much to my parents’ chagrin, I was keen to continue painting for “cash only” businesses (and, naturally, to continue living in their basement). Chez Pierre had a great big exterior wall that faced one of the busiest streets in downtown Edmonton. (OK, “busy” and “downtown Edmonton” are mutually exclusive, but the street had traffic at least, which is more than most of the streets downtown could boast in the late 1990s.)
Problem is, the wall already had a mural on it: a huge, out-of-proportion portrait of Cochard sitting on a stool. His head was way too small, which made him look like a ventriloquist’s dummy. Cochard had been a boxer in his youth, and his business background was as diverse as my stock portfolio, though markedly more successful. And in its heyday in the 1970s and 1980s, Chez Pierre was the place to be in Edmonton. It served a popular daily lunchtime smorgasbord, I’m told. All this to say that Cochard was somewhat of a legend around town. He deserved something better on his wall than a
bad portrait.
We weren’t in love, oh no, far from it
We weren’t searchin’ for some pie in the sky summit
So I went to Chez Pierre one night. My first time in a strip club. In Canada. On a weeknight. I gave Cochard my pitch. We could do a fresh mural. It’d be striking, colourful, grand. It’d reinvigorate the business. His answer was something along the lines of, “Why would I do that? I could turn out the lights, paint the building black, paint the windows black, and people would still come.” It was a tough sell.
I finally convinced Cochard to give me a photo of himself and I would do a mock-up for nothing. If he liked it, great, we’d do it. If not, no harm done. Unless he really hated it. Then “some guys” would pay me a visit.
A couple of weeks later I returned with a painted portrait on canvas. I drove up to the club around 9 p.m. – Cochard tends to come to the club for just a couple of hours at night. That’s what I call “nice work if you can get it.” That’s what he says about guys who make their living with paintbrushes.
He liked what he saw and I got the job. A few weeks later, Cochard paid me in cash. I think it was $1,000 – a taste I’ve been following ever since. The mural is still there, and my signature includes my phone number from back then. Which explains why my parents still get those calls at 2 a.m. U
Awoke last night to the sound of thunder
How far off I sat and wondered
Started humming a song from 1962
Ain’t it funny how the night moves
issue 7
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Ian Mulder would like to thank all the little people who made this column possible. Which, when you’re a six-foot-three Dutchman, includes a lot of people. Not that he looks down on them. He’s not nearly bitter and cynical enough to do that. Funny, ain’t it, how the night moves. |
Category: Money
