It was around the corner and down the street from where I lived, at Sherbourne and Dundas , between and As of the late s, the place had seen many better days. I had forgotten that it had closed in , while I was still living in the area, having first opened in Toronto author Hugh Garner made his home there for a period, and referenced the hotel in his pseudonym , Jarvis Warwick, when writing pulp fiction.
Upstairs was what amounted to the neigbourhood bar. Downstairs was what amounted to the neighbourhood strip lounge. Generally tired exotic dancers, performing to live music. Was not uncommon in the late s to find live music accompaniment in a strip club. Organ and drums were the entire band, as I recall. Maybe a bass player as well, long forgotten. This was the Warwick Hotel where the outside convenience store, attached to the hotel, would get robbed regularly.
So much so that, after one robbery, all the robber did was to go to the upstairs lounge to drink. The guy was only arrested after someone upstairs tipped the police that there was someone in there relatively flush with cashβwhere no one was flush with cash, relatively or otherwise. NO minimum. The downstairs lounge, where the prostitutes sat at tables along the back wall. Some speaking about how their school-age children were doing, as prospective customers shuffled around.
Would see the same prostitutes lining up to do banking later in the week across the street, all of us in the line before the teller, in the days before banking machines. The dowstairs lounge, where one night I thought the cleaning lady had decided to change occupations by moving away from her mop, pail and uniform at the same time, onstage. Turned out it was performance artist Margaret Dragu. Made sense, as did most of what seemed to be going on there. Lots of churning keyboard.
Maybe I was there for the dancers, sometimes, though everyone, dancers and audience, seemed quite tired, collectively trying to deal with some sideline lifeload. The only one seeming to have a genuine excitement, appreciation and gratitute being the ragged, aged drunk sitting close up, to the side of the stage, looking at the disrobing dancers with absolute joy. No roaring applause. Not much applause at any time, at The Warwick. But not much indifference, either.
