Knucklehead & Other Stories (23 page)

“Right, you're from H.R.” He has been holding a handkerchief in his hand to try to keep it dry, palms it into his jacket pocket, shakes her hand. Hers a desert plain.

“Technically we're not H.R., we have an industrial psychology practice.”

“Great.”

“We're running a little late, Mr. Hamilton, so if you have no objections, I'll get right down to business.” She looks up. “Do you want some water or a coffee?”

Hamish clears his throat. “No.” The pads of his hands below the thumbs start to burn.

She opens a legal-size folder. Hamish's name is on the tab, a blue sticker stuck below it. She makes a note on a piece of paper. “I'm going to ask you to fill out this profile survey. It helps us build a background and give us a sense of how the candidate can benefit the team. When you're done, Mr. Chiang and Mr. Musselman from SynerPlus will come in and ask you a few questions.” She looks up again.

Hamish looks back. “You're not with SynerPlus?”

“No, I'm consulting for them.” Hamish continues to look at her. He recognizes her now from the last days at HydroCarb. She plays both sides of the human resources game. He wants to ask, You bill out at, what, one-twenty-five an hour? One-fifty? “Shall we proceed, then?” Two hundred?

“Right. Let's do it,” says Hamish. He wipes his chin and brow.

“Before we get to the survey,” Ms. Antonuk picks up a paper from the folder and begins to read: “Let me state for the record, on behalf of SynerPlus Exploration Ltd., that the position of Exploration Geologist will be filled by a candidate who is: between the ages of eighteen and sixty-five; legally entitled to work in Canada; physically fit to perform the functions of the position which may include, but not be limited to, long hours in an office environment or at a well site, travel, and lifting under twenty-two kilograms; willing to undergo a pre-employment medical examination conducted by a physician of the company's choosing; willing to submit to urinalysis as a condition of pre-employment and at any other time the company may request it; and who agrees to full disclosure in security background investigations including disclosure of criminal convictions, pending criminal or civil actions, business holdings, partnerships or any other financial dealings that represent a fiduciary duty, or any other aspect of character, conduct or personal history that the company may legally request; in possession of a valid permit to operate a motor vehicle.”

“Great,” Hamish says. “I'm legal, capable. Fit as a fiddle. Drug-free. My life's an open book, and I can drive. Yes to all.”

“You aren't required to respond to any of this information.” Ms. Antonuk makes another note as she speaks. “How long?”

“Pardon,” Hamish says.

“How long drug-free?”

“Forever. I've never touched drugs.”

“Never? No personal history?”

Mother on Valium, brother on speed and cocaine, wife on Prozac, a son smoking pot. Daughter on the Pill. “Never taken any.”

Ms. Antonuk writes some more. “Never any prescription medication, nothing over-the-counter, no aspirin, Tylenol.”

“Oh sure. Penicillin a few times. Cold and flu stuff. Cough drops.”

“Antidepressants, tranquilizers, barbiturates.”

“No. Just antihistamines.” He holds his hands under the table, scratches the backs until they almost bleed.

More notes in her file. She hands a small booklet to him. “This is the profile survey. Most candidates take about fifteen minutes to complete it. Any questions?”

“Pen or pencil?”

“You choose,” she says. “You're on your own.” As she goes out the door, she presses a button on her watch.

Hamish checks his own watch. Is fifteen minutes the mean or the median? Is the time to finish the questionnaire part of the test? Examines his writing tools: a BurgerWorld ballpoint with a plastic cap, and the mechanical pencil from the set he received for his HydroCarb twenty-year award. Pencil. He rushes through the questions, answering what he thinks they're looking for. A couple he mulls over.

What was the last book you read?

He's been reading biographic profiles at the library when he's supposed to be researching oilpatch jobs. About self-made millionaires. Not books. Magazine articles, entries in almanacs. Travelling salesman King Gillette invents the safety razor, the design comes to him in flash when he's shaving. Harland Sanders turns chickens into dollar bills. Ron Popiel makes a fortune from the Pocket Fisherman and the Veg-O-Matic. Just in the lobby he's read about Joseph Cossman—sells a million dollars worth of spud guns from the backs of comic books. Hamish answers the question with the titles of books he's never read: Sun Tzu's
Art of War,
and
Swimming with the Sharks.
His fingers begin to swell with the stress hives. Writing nearly illegible.

Choose the statement that best describes you:
__ I like to balance my life and my work
__ I like to work until the job's done
__ I believe in an honest day's work for an honest day's pay

He marks the middle choice, changes his mind for the first. The eraser on his pencil is hard and brittle. He licks it, rubs at the mark on the page, tearing the paper.

Choose the statement that best describes you:
__ I am a team player
__ I am a leader
__ I am an independent thinker

He marks an X beside the first choice, it's obviously the answer they're looking for. Writes in, very faintly, a question of his own: Why can't someone be all three? He doesn't think he's that person.

When he finishes the thirty questions, he checks his watch. Just under fourteen minutes. Ms. Antonuk enters. “All done?” He hands her the paper. She scans it for a few seconds, then slides it into the folder. There is a red label now stuck next to the blue one. “I'll just run off a copy of this and be back in a moment with Mr. Musselman and Mr. Chiang.” She steps out.

Hamish pulls the handkerchief from his pocket, wipes his brow and chin. He runs a finger around his collar. The flesh on his forehead feels as hard as saddle leather. His feet are popping out of his shoes. She returns with the two men, introduces them. Both men are younger than Hamish by at least ten years. Sharp-edged tailored suits, silk ties, crisp white shirts. Mr. Musselman wipes his hand on his trouser leg after shaking hands.

Hamish's inner ears begin to itch, his Eustachian tubes boil. He grinds a finger in one ear, then the other. One of the men asks a question about explorations experience. A yellow label has joined the red and blue on Ms. Antonuk's folder.

“Excuse me.” Hamish says.

“Are you all right?” Mr. Chiang asks. He looks up from the paper he is examining. Someone else's résumé.

“I'm a hard worker. I love to work.”

“Good. That's good. Field work means long hours. As I'm sure you know.”

“You should see my house,” Hamish hauls himself to his feet. Mr. Musselman looks at Mr. Chiang. Ms. Antonuk shuffles the papers in front of her, makes a note in a box.

“I'll just be going now.” Hamish lurches through the door. On his way out, he grabs the magazine from the lobby. There is a profile of a man who built a watch-repair empire. He spills into the street. Gulps the air. He is not sure if he needs to laugh or vomit. He has a plan. He is finished with job interviews.

Bang! The garage door rattles as one of the boys outside drills a shot wide, and the hard rubber road-hockey ball makes contact. Clatter of sticks. “Centre it! Shoot!” Bang! The door rattles again.

Hamish pulls down the Christmas decorations from the rafters of the garage. He lives on a street famous for its annual displays. Hamish is one of four neighbours who started it. For years he makes all the street's snowmen and candy canes in his garage. But the neighbourhood changes. Families come and go. Not everyone celebrates Christmas anymore. He wipes down his snowman, touches up the sign with black paint. “Merry Xmas from the Hamiltons.” He and Helen argue for years whether they need an apostrophe. He runs the strings of lights down the floor, replaces the burned bulbs.

It's warm inside. He burns lumber ends and salvaged wood in a small Franklin stove, and there's a gas space heater. He builds this garage with his own hands, Hamish and Helen's dad Ion. Seventeen years ago. Helen pregnant with Kimmy. His own dad pitches in as best he can, hollering advice from the lawn chair. It's the summer he's dying of cancer. Mesothelioma. Nobody can understand how a tobacco-hating produce manager at a grocery store contracts a lung cancer associated to asbestos and smoking. Ion and Hamish barely exchange a word. Helen translates the Romanian when she needs to. Strong as two oxen. Stubborn. Nine days to put the garage in. Not all the finishes. But the walls, trusses, roofing, electrical rough-in, plumbing. They think he's nuts to have spent all the time beforehand hand-trenching the water and sewer, who has a bathroom in the garage? He never regrets it. The city will never make him take it out. Adds value to the property. That's the name of the game. Improve your property.

Shouts in the driveway, the sound of a scuffle, sticks quiet. Hamish hears his son Mike's voice: “Hold him down.”

Robbie: “Fuck off, Mike.”

Mike: “Hold him still, I said.”

Sajjad: “Isn't your dad in there?”

Robbie: “You cunt. I'll never do it. Even if you make me.”

Mike: “We'll see about that.” [
Thumps and slaps. Grunting.
]

Sajjad: “Isn't your dad in there?” [
Robbie whimpers.
] “Shit. Oh shit.”

Mike: “Don't let him go or you're next.”

Sajjad: “Fuck me. What if your dad—”

Mike: “My dad doesn't give a shit. He's probably jerking off. Hey!” [
Running feet alongside the garage.
] “You fuckwad. Why'd you let go.”

Robbie [
Yelling from the other side of the garage
.]: “Never. You'll never make me do it. You stupid dink.”

Sajjad: “You're crazy.”

Hamish turns on the table saw. Rips some two-by-four lengths into thin laths. He needs to shore up Santa's reindeer. He's still got lumber left over from all the renos. The first year after he's laid off, he rebuilds and refinishes the whole place. Twenty-seven years at HydroCarb minding his business. He estimates the renovations add forty, maybe even forty-eight thousand to the value of the house, though materials' cost to him is under twenty.

He does all the labour. Best materials. Except for the roof—he uses a contractor for the roof—six guys from Newfoundland take three days for the whole job. Nine thousand, but a roof is a roof. Good for another twenty years. He owns it all free and clear, no mortgage, no line of credit. Everything he owns is free and clear. House, car, appliances. Even Kimmy's cello. It's worth almost as much as the house. Well, maybe half as much. Commits to it when she is ten, Czerny says she needs an instrument to match her gifts. Czerny finds it, he's got contacts all over the world. Some Austrian family that needs the cash. Pays probably seventy-five percent of what it could get at auction, Czerny doesn't take any commission. Hamish has to finance it, but pays it out when he gets his HydroCarb package. By the end of year one after the downsizing, with renovations complete and cello purchased, the savings are all gone. But he owns everything free and clear. Managing BurgerWorld keeps all the balls in the air.

He puts the finishing touches on Rudolph, arranges the decorations on the floor. Tomorrow's a Sunday, he'll be home all day. He'll set them up outside. After putting his tools away, sweeping and tidying, he prepares for work. He irons one of his uniforms, puts it on. Before he puts on his parka and mitts and pedals into the afternoon, he sits at his desk, unlocks his file cabinet. He wonders about Mike's comment: how can he know about the magazines in the bottom drawer? Or was it just a figure of speech?

Hamish pulls folders from a different drawer. Franchise information packages for Subway, KFC, BurgerWorld, Tim Hortons, a bagel place, coffee, Chinese food, pizza, ten others. Even McDonald's, the franchisee's holy grail.

Fast food is hard work. Hamish can tell as soon he goes into another store, sometimes just driving by, he can tell if the manager gets it. Best to check when business is dead, the lull between breakfast and lunch. Cleanliness and activity. In a couple of seconds he can clock those two things, know whether the food's good. Whether the owner is seeing any return. If it's 11 a.m. and there are no customers, and still trays to be bussed, still finger marks on the glass doors, the kids are in the back snapping towels, forget about it. It's hard work. Hamish is there six days a week, sometimes seven if he has to cover a shift.

People who work for Hamish work hard. He doesn't hire kids if he can help it. The immigrants are good, except language. He's careful not to hire too many from one circle. Not that it's ever been a problem. But he hears stories. One bad apple, it goes to hell. He mixes it up. Balvinder is his right arm, he'd hire ten of her for any job on the planet. She's a complainer, but she gets it done. Honh is always there, logs more hours than even Hamish, but he's untrainable.