Extreme Vinyl Café (18 page)

He had laid out his clothes the night before: his green sweatshirt, a beige spring jacket and a pair of sandals. He figured the sandals would force him to move slowly. He whispered into the kitchen and boiled water for tea. Slowly.
He filled a stainless steel Thermos with the tea and added milk. Slowly. He was moving like a monk.

He was supposed to pick up his papers at Lawlor’s Drug Store. When he got there, he would sit quietly and drink his tea before he set off.

When he arrived at Lawlor’s, he was surprised to find he was not alone. A man was there already, throwing stacks of newspapers into the back of a little red car. This man was moving quickly, urgently actually, loading hundreds of papers into his car. The driver’s door was open and the tape machine was playing some kind of Asian music. The man was small and dark haired. He looked Vietnamese, maybe. He heaved the last bundle onto the passenger seat, leaned over and snipped the bundle open with a pair of wire clippers. Then he nodded curtly at Dave, jumped into his car and peeled off.

There were two small packs of papers left. Dave figured they must be his piles. They were bound together with wire. No one had said anything about wire. Dave tried to work the pile open with his hands. No one could have broken open the pile with their hands.

Dave ran home. Or he tried to run home. It is hard running when you are wearing monk’s sandals. He sort of skipped home, bounding down his street like a panicked antelope jumping across the African veldt.

Of course,
Mr. Early Riser
, Bert Turlington, was already up and standing in his driveway.

“You okay?” said Bert as Dave lurched by.

Dave pitched to a stop.

“Wire cutters,” he gasped. “I need wire cutters.” His heart
was pounding. Little flecks of spit sprayed Bert. “For my paper route.”

It was 8:30 before he got home from his rounds. At noon he received a call from the circulation department.

“We received two late complaints,” said the lady. “One from number fifty-four and one from fifty.”

Dave was indignant. Number fifty-four was his neighbourhood nemesis, Bert’s wife, Mary Turlington. Number fifty was
his
house. Morley had called in a complaint.

D
ave set the alarm half an hour earlier on Tuesday. He jumped into his clothes and hustled out to the garage. He didn’t stop to make tea. He had uncovered Sam’s old wagon the night before. He rounded the corner and was in sight of Lawlor’s, pulling the wagon behind him, when he realized he had forgotten the wire cutters. The Asian paper carrier was nowhere in sight.

I
t was raining on Wednesday morning.

Dave did his best to cover the papers in his wagon with a green garbage bag. But the bag kept flapping loose and the edges of the papers kept getting wet.

Then, when he turned the corner, there was a worm stretched across the sidewalk like a rubber band. Dave stopped dead. If he kept going, he would run over the worm with his wagon. He stared at the worm for a long moment. Then he bent over and picked it up. Standing there not sure what to do, Dave dropped the worm into the wagon with the papers. He would put it in his garden when he got home.

In that simple act, Dave made himself responsible for every
drowning worm stretched out on the sidewalk in front of him. He looked down the street. There seemed to be hundreds. How could he spare one worm and not the others? He spent the rest of the route, bobbing up and down the streets like a woodpecker.

The lady from circulation called at noon. Mary Turlington had called again. She had found worms in her paper.

D
ave was determined to get better at this. That was the purpose of a practice. He bought a box of thick elastic bands and on Wednesday afternoon went into the backyard with a couple of old papers. He rolled the papers into cylinders and used the elastics to secure them. He set a cardboard box near the back fence. He practised throwing the papers at the box from the far end of the yard, smiling every time he made a direct hit. He was working in the zone until Sam came outside and said, “Couldn’t you wait until the sun goes down?”

Thursday morning was as perfect as a morning could be. The sky was warm and blue and dotted with quiet clouds. It hadn’t rained. There were no worms to worry about. Dave was pulling his wagon along the sidewalk happily, stopping every time he had a paper to toss. But his release was off. His tosses were falling short. Dave had imagined his papers smacking onto porches and sliding right up to front doors. They were, instead, bouncing up walks, resting on porch stairs. He put more muscle into his next toss. It was still short. So at the next house he eyeballed the door. Standing on the sidewalk, he tried to visualize the throw. He cocked his arm like a discus thrower and let the paper fly, his arm following through. His
eyes locked on the paper as it soared through the air and over the front lawn. And then, as it arced over the stairs, he blinked and wondered why the front door was opening. He watched in disbelief as the door opened wide, and his paper smacked Mary Turlington in the face.

T
he next morning, Carl Lowbear leaned out his bedroom window and called to him. “Hey, Dave,” said Carl, “do you want to come over and play after school?”

S
lowly, however, things got better. Dave bought himself a retro canvas delivery bag—the kind paper boys carried over their shoulders when he was a kid. It had the word
NEWS
in faded letters on the side. He loved the bag.

One day, when he got to Lawlor’s, his stack of papers was twice as big as it had ever been before.

“Flyer day,” said the Asian guy.

Dave nodded, sat on the curb and got to work. Right away he realized he had a problem. The first elastic he tried to slip around the fat paper snapped; the next one snapped and zinged him in the eye. It took him twice as long as usual to fill his bag, the elastics zinging around like horseflies. And when the bag was full, there was still a pile of papers left over that wouldn’t fit in.

He set off with the bag over one shoulder and the extra papers stuffed under his other arm, hobbling along, struggling to keep everything square. Sections kept slipping out. He had to backtrack to pick up rogue bits and pieces.

When he got to the first house on his route, he pulled a paper out of his bag and launched it at the front porch. The
heavy paper stuffed with flyers made it halfway across the lawn before it exploded in mid-air like a spaceship in some intergalactic battle.

Bits of paper flew everywhere—littering the yard with advertisements for home renovations and pizza delivery. It took Dave almost five minutes to bump around and pick it all up. As he lurched down the street, he was aware of Howard Kelman standing in his upstairs bedroom window shaking his head.

The next morning, Howard let his vicious little Pomeranian out the front door just as Dave reached their walk. The dog tore toward Dave like a heat-seeking missile. It stopped inches away from him, jumping backward and forward, snapping at Dave’s ankles. As Dave sprinted down the street, his newspaper bag thumping into his hip, Howard called out, “Sorry.” But it didn’t sound as if he was sorry. It sounded as if he was laughing.

T
he last Friday of the month was collection day, which should have been easy enough. Most of the people on Dave’s route paid for their papers by credit card. There were only two people who paid by cash—only two people he had to collect from. The first was Eleanor Marrotte, an eighty-sevenyear-old widow who refused to use credit cards.

Eleanor paid him entirely in change. She counted it out coin by coin, and then as Dave turned to leave, she nudged him and pressed a quarter into his hand.

“This is for you,” she said.

The other person who didn’t use a credit card was, of course, Mary Turlington.

As Dave stood on the Turlingtons’ porch about to ring their bell, he was hating his life. He was hating his life. He was hating his life.

Things weren’t working out the way he had imagined. His mornings were rushed—not relaxing at all. His feet were sore and his shoulder ached from the newspaper bag. And worse, he was doing a lousy job. Each day, the silent, swift-moving Asian guy was a reminder of that.

O
ne morning the papers weren’t there. Dave got to Lawlor’s and the Asian guy was sitting on the sidewalk in Lawlor’s doorway.

The guy held up his cellphone and said, “Printing problem. No paper for an hour.”

Dave wasn’t sure what to do.

The Asian guy said, “You want go coffee?”

Dave hadn’t expected that.

The man’s name was Thanh Trang. He was from Vietnam.

“Thanh?” said Dave. “Or Trang?”

“Thanh,” said the man, waving his hand over his head. “Means
colour of sky
.”

Dave followed his arm across the sky. It was a beautiful morning. White clouds congregating over the city like a pack of puffy elephants. They walked to Kenny Wong’s café. All they saw along the way was a bread truck and a lone taxi. They crossed the street wherever they wanted without looking. The only other pedestrian they saw was Emil, carrying a cardboard box with a plant in it down the other side of the street.

Thanh and Dave ordered eggs, toast, orange juice and
coffee. Dave didn’t ask how Thanh had made it to Canada. He knew the stories of the Vietnamese boat people: the fearsome South China Sea; the leaky, terrifying, crowded boats; the typhoons; the Thai pirates; the corrupt refugee camps.

“What did you used to do?” asked Dave. “In Vietnam?” Thanh told Dave he was a doctor in Vietnam. “Here,” he said, “I am not able to practise.” He said this without rancour or frustration. Thanh said he had two jobs. He worked days in a restaurant and nights as a cleaner. “Three jobs, then,” said Dave. “Two,” said Thanh, counting them off on his fingers. “One, restaurant. Two, cleaner.” “And three,” said Dave. “Papers. The papers make three.” “Papers not a real job,” said Thanh. He was smiling. “I do papers on way to restaurant.” Then he said, “How many job you have?” We are, all of us, ultimately, insignificant against the creaking and turning of this old world. But mostly, as the world turns, we are too busy to face the truth of the thing. Dave took a deep breath. He felt foolish. He felt juvenile. He felt diminished sitting across from this quiet man. “Hardly one job,” he said. “I own a little record store.” “You do papers on way to store?” said Thanh. “Just for a while,” said Dave. “Just for a couple of months.

Until I can buy something.” “Me too,” said Thanh. “I want to buy new washing machine and dryer for my wife. Then maybe new fridge.” Dave took a deep breath.

“I want to buy a pinball game,” he said.

“What?” said Thanh.

“A pinball game,” said Dave.

Thanh obviously didn’t know what he was talking about. Dave was tempted to let that go. But if this guy deserved anything, he deserved the truth.

How to explain this? He held his arms out in front of him as if he were working the flippers. “A machine,” he said. “A game. There is a ball and …”

“I know pinball,” said Thanh, exasperated.

Oh. Dave had misinterpreted the look on Thanh’s face. Thanh wasn’t confused. He was … disappointed.

Dave said, “It’s just a game.”

Thanh said, “I know. I know. What game?”

“Oh,” said Dave. “It’s called the Hot Shot. It is a game, where you … it’s a game like pool …”

“Blue or green background?” said Thanh.

And in that moment, right then, right there, they became friends—sitting in the booth of Kenny Wong’s café on that beautiful and soft morning before anybody else was up. They talked about music.

“Blood Sweat and Tears,” said Thanh. “My favourite group.”

Al Kooper’s band. Al put Blood Sweat and Tears together.

T
he game arrived three months later, on a truck from Indianapolis. It came on a Thursday, but Dave waited for Sunday to set it up—when the record store wasn’t open and Thanh wasn’t working. Delayed pleasure. Is there any better?

He invited Thanh and his family to the store. Morley and
Sam joined them. They ordered dinner, and then everyone played Hot Shot.

Dave and Thanh started off. They were both horrible. Tilting the machine all over the place, completely blowing games.

“I thought you said you were good,” said Thanh.

“Ah,” said Dave, “Once. It will take a while to get the feel back.”

He had always thought the thrill of pinball was being in “the zone,” playing well, getting the game lit up like a Christmas tree. But pinball never made him as happy as that Sunday evening, sitting in his store with Thanh Trang and his wife, as they passed around boxes of Kenny Wong’s crispy salt cod, while his son, Sam, leaning against the machine, watched Thanh’s twelve-year-old daughter, Sarah, pull the plunger back and put a ball into play. Sam was staring at Sarah’s face, not at the game, and not at the flashing lights or the clunking bells. He was completely unconscious of all that, and of all the laughter filling Dave’s little store.

Dear Stuart,

My wife and I are trying to figure out what we should do with our twelve-year-old son this summer. He is not interested in summer camp, and he certainly won’t have a babysitter. My wife and I both work full-time. I think that my son is old enough to stay on his own at the house while we are at work. We have neighbours who can check in with him, and he has a few friends to keep him company. But my wife is worried that he might get into some kind of shenanigans. She listens to your show every week and seems to trust you. Maybe you could share a word or two that would reassure her.

Yours,
Jeff Anderson

Dear Jeff,

Maybe not.

I
t was the dog days of summer and half the city was away. Even the mailman was on vacation. The neighbourhood was so quiet you could hear the spiders at work. There was absolutely
nothing
to do.

Murphy and Sam were lying on their backs, shoulder to shoulder, underneath Jim Scoffield’s mulberry tree. There was an ant crawling across Sam’s forehead. Both boys had their mouths stretched wide open.