Knucklehead & Other Stories (3 page)

—Hey, look at this, said Jason, running down the mall. Benjamin followed, almost keeping up. Joanne pushed the stroller piled with winter clothes, stopping at the display window of Peoples Jewellers.

Joanne used her credit card at the luncheonette in Woolco. Mrs. Bell, her neighbour from across the alley, entered and sat at the table beside them. Mrs. Bell worked in the Saan store at the other end of the mall: it was her lunch break. Joanne could never remember her first name. Gladys? Beryl?

—How is he? Mrs. Bell said, pointing with a nod and a flick of her eyes towards Benjamin. She took a wax-paper package from her purse, placed it on the formica tabletop, and briskly unwrapped it.

—He's fine, Joanne said. Total remission. Did she say that or just think it? She watched a coarse black hair that grew from a mole on the older woman's chin. It moved up and down as Mrs. Bell chewed the white bread and variety meat. The effects of the hashish had dulled to a comfortable fatigue, a pleasant fuzziness. Joanne spooned tomato soup into her mouth so she wouldn't have to say anything. She knew Mrs. Bell would fill the silence.

—Morris's brother had his gallstones out last month, Mrs. Bell said. This is Myron, his older brother, what lives out in Stony Plain. And instead of getting better and better, he just got sicker. The doctors and nurses fussed around. Finally they took him back into surgery, after three days mind you. What do you think they found?

Joanne sipped more soup. Too salty.

—A sponge, Mrs. Bell said. They found a sponge. Some dumb nurse left a sponge inside him. What do you think of that?

Joanne imagined a sponge in her gall bladder. Where is the gall bladder? How different does a sponge feel from a stone?

—I tell them they should call my Jamie. He's the lawyer. Call Jamie, I go, send him after that darn hospital. Mrs. Bell took another bite of sandwich, chewed three or four times before she continued: But they wouldn't. They're just happy it's all okay now. Some people.

—Benjamin, stop that, Joanne said. He was fingerpainting with his chili con carne.

—It's a pitcher of you, he said. A circle with two dots for eyes, a little crescent nose and a smiling mouth.

—Eat your lunch, Joanne said. Don't play with your food.

—I'm full, he said. I ate my hotdog.

Joanne wetted a paper napkin in her stainless steel teapot, cleaned the sauce from Benjamin's hand, then cleaned the table.

—Jason, do you want the rest of Benjy's chili?

Jason looked at his mom, belched, and grinned hugely.

—No thanks, Mom, Jason said. Can I go watch that man play Pac-Man?

—Sure, Joanne said. Go on. She pulled the blue-edged bowl towards her.

Mrs. Bell was reminiscing about her hysterectomy. Her monthly visits were so bad, she felt she was dying.

—You girls have it lucky now, Mrs. Bell said. What with female doctors and all. When I was young …

Joanne watched the boys move off to the video games by the exit. Jason skipped on ahead, Benjamin hopped after, holding both crutches in one hand. She ate the chili. It was too salty too.

—A Filter Queen, maybe, Mrs. Bell said. Joanne had missed the transition, but nodded.

—The lady said I get fifty dollars worth of dry cleaning certificates. Guaranteed hundred dollar trade-in on my old machine. Just to watch a demonstration. How do you like that?

—I got an Electrolux for Christmas, Joanne said. Joanne liked her vacuum. It was powerful, with a beater bar, and accessories for crevices and drapes that fit into a neat little box. It reminds me of a dog.

—What's that? Mrs. Bell said.

—My Electrolux. It reminds me of a little wiener dog, Joanne said. You know, long and low.

—A dachshund, Mrs. Bell said. Morris's brother and his new wife, they have dachshunds. Not the Myron with the gall bladder, this is Martin, lives in Montreal. The old one, Gertie they call her, she wears a diaper. Imagine that, a dog with a diaper.

—Mom, Mom. Jason came running over. Can I play Pac-Man?

—Mom, can I play? Benjamin said, three steps behind.

—No, Joanne said. She rose from her chair. It was nice seeing you Mrs. Bell. I have to get these guys home.

—Alice, Mrs. Bell said.

—What? Joanne said.

—I'm Alice. Not Mrs. Bell. It sounds so old. We're neighbours.

—Right. Okay. Alice. Joanne gathered her purse.

—How's your husband? Mrs. Bell asked.

—Fine, great, Joanne said. She put her purse in the stroller.

—I see him going off in the morning, Mrs. Bell said. Or if I don't see him, I hear him. That contraption of his is a noisy thing.

—It's a welding rig, Joanne said. Just a truck really. He's a welder. She gripped the stroller handles. He leaves early to get to the job sites. Like he's working out at Keephills this week.

—Morris is always going on how it's illegal to have a business in a residential area, Mrs. Bell said. But really, I go, they're our neighbours. You're such a nice young family. And you've got troubles enough. Mrs. Bell looked at Joanne, then at the boys. They had grown silent, crowding their mother's legs. They looked at Mrs. Bell's chin.

—Let me give the boys a quarter, Mrs. Bell said.

—No, really, Mrs. … Alice. I wish you wouldn't.

—Yay! Yay! The boys surrounded Mrs. Bell on either side. Can I have two? Jason asked.

—I'll just give you one and you can share it, Mrs. Bell said, poking around in her boxy black vinyl handbag. Here you go. She placed the quarter in Benjamin's hand. He closed his fist on it.

—Gimme that, Jason said.

—Now boys, Joanne said. Share. Really, Mrs. Bell, I wish you wouldn't.

—Alice, Mrs. Bell said. Benjamin was hunched over, trying to protect the coin from Jason's prying fingers.

—Hey. Hey, Joanne said. Be nice. What do you say to Mrs. Bell? Jason. Benjamin. The boys kept struggling until Joanne came over and grabbed them lightly by their collars. What do you say?

—I'm sorry? Benjamin said. Mrs. Bell laughed.

—You're sorry? Mrs. Bell said.

—Not sorry, Benjamin. Say thank you, Joanne said.

—Thank you? Benjamin mumbled and dropped his head.

—Thanks, Mrs. Bell, Jason said. He looked at her and smiled. His hand quickly went out as he tried to catch Benjamin off-guard to take the quarter.

—Oh look, Mrs. Bell said. I have another one in my sweater. She held out another coin. Jason snatched it.

He turned and made for Pac-Man. Thanks a lot, he called back. Benjamin put his quarter in his mouth, slid his arms into the crutch braces and followed. Joanne smiled at Mrs. Bell, then looked down at the stroller.

—Thank you, she said. Alice.

—Oh, it's nothing. That poor little boy. Why in the world?

—Mom. Help me, Jason called. He was putting his quarter into the coin-return slot.

—Well, good-bye, Joanne said.

—Boys will be boys, Mrs. Bell said. Lord knows, I had three of them. She waved her hand, shook her head and smiled.

Joanne inserted the quarter for Jason, then played the first man for him, to show him what to do. He caught on quickly, manoeuvering the yellow blob through the maze. Joanne stared at the screen, listened to the electronic jingle. I will go home, she thought. I will settle the kids in front of the TV. I will vacuum the dog hair from under the couch and by the back door. I will get Benjamin's leg on. Dale likes to see Benjamin wearing his leg. I will take a meatloaf out of the freezer, and I will make a Duncan Hines layer cake. I will smoke that joint.

Cigarettes

Stinky Bob smelled bad. When Soupy—Mr. Campbell—told me to go find Bob, I just followed my nose. At a quarter after eight in the morning Soupy himself had come over the intercom to announce a staff meeting in the coffee room. I usually worked Zone 2 (electrical, ignition, brake and suspension systems, nuts and bolts, lots of the little stuff) and the coffee room is just up the stairs, so I was there quick and lit up a smoke.

Tattoo Terri came in right after, moved in on me like always, crushing her boobs against my arm. With one hand she scratched the back of my neck under my hair—I was pretty touchy about my hair back then, when I still had some—and like by instinct I pulled away. She was waiting for that, already had a hold of my cigarettes. So when I moved away, the pack just came right out of my pocket in her other hand. Before I could make a grab for them. “Hey Walter, can I bum
fag
.” “Fag” like it was some big joke, as usual.

“Jeez, Terri, why don't you buy your own once in a while.” I could hear myself whining, and I wished I could think of some quick comeback like Danny would have. Tattoo Terri never grabbed Danny's smokes, and if she tried he'd say something smart.

“Take a Valium, Walter,” she said. Pulled a Zippo from her smock pocket and lit up—she never had her own cigarettes, but she carried a gold-plated Zippo. Go figure. “You'd be all right if you ever got laid,” Tattoo Terri said, blowing smoke towards the exhaust vent in the ceiling. The rose tattooed on her hand had a stem running from her wrist into full bloom between thumb and forefinger. It fluttered like a weird bird. She waved her hand a bit, flicking ash into an empty cardboard coffee cup.

“I been laid,” I said.

“I
have
been laid,” Tattoo Terri said.

“You too, huh?” I said back. I wished somebody else, Danny, was there to hear that one.

“You should use proper English. Say ‘been' to rhyme with ‘seen,' not ‘sin.' ” She was rubbing her earlobe now, where another tiny rose was tattooed where you might expect to see an earring. “Anyway, I'm sure you have. Been laid.” She took a long inhale and flexed her forearm, where there was a parrot as colourful as a bunch of flowers. She blew smoke in my face to make me look up, then finished: “But your daddy doesn't count.”

I gave her the finger. “I'll have to trust you on that one,” I said.

She watched the parrot as it ruffled its feathers on her arm. “Yep, you will.”

Everyone else started coming into the coffee room. The whole warehouse staff, guys from the front office and sales reps. They even closed down the order desk. I just sat back and tried to enjoy my smoke. Didn't usually have a chance to sneak one between starting time and coffee break. Finally Soupy came in. Only Danny and Bob were missing.

Soupy was a jerk in a harmless sort of way. He was the boss, right? Wasn't much older than Danny, or even me for that matter, maybe five or seven years, fresh out of business college and into the warehouse. Always trying to act like one of the crew, a pat on the back, a soft jab to the shoulder. Telling a bad joke we'd already seen in the morning paper. Then all that touchy-feely stuff — “We're all managers here,” or “Never say, ‘It's not my job.'” Worst of all, helping out when things got busy—picking orders, packing boxes, checking shipments. Then we'd spend the next week fixing his screw-ups for customers he'd pissed off. Today wasn't going to be any pep talk, that was for sure. He shoved his hands in his pockets, pulling the shoulders of his jacket low. One of those fake hunting jackets, tweed or whatever with a suede patch over the right shoulder, like he was going to go shoot some ducks and drink sherry at noon hour. He went around the room, kind of fidgety, shifting his weight from foot to foot, jerking his head around, not actually looking at any of us.

“Where's Bob?” he said to me, like I had all the answers.

“Probably in Zone 4,” I said. Stinky Bob never came to the coffee room. If he did, everyone else left. Well, Tattoo Terri stayed.

“Walter,” Soupy said, “go get Bob.” It was the closest thing to a direct order I ever heard him give.

I had to make a quick decision. Butt my smoke and save it for later, or just leave it burning and hope to get a couple of puffs off it when I got back. “What about Danny?” I asked. Enough time for one more drag.

“Danny,” Soupy said. Started to fidget again. He turned to Tattoo Terri and out of the blue asked her for a cigarette.

“Walter has some,” she said. Gave me a “gotcha” look.

“Sure,” I said, fished my pack out of my pocket. How could I say no to my boss, even if he didn't smoke. His hand shook a bit as he took one. Tattoo Terri held out her Zippo and flicked the flame on, but he didn't light up right away. “Walter, would you please find Bob and ask him if he would like to join us?” That was more like it. The way I was used to Soupy asking to get something done.

“Sure,” I said. I didn't feel like staying in the room anymore. I decided to butt my smoke out.

Zone 4 was where we kept all the heavy-duty stuff—engine exhaust systems, batteries, tires, hoses, rope and electrical cable in bulk rolls, barrels of Varsol and chemicals. Zone 4 was as big as Zones 1, 2 and 3 put together. I wandered up and down until I caught the trail of Stinky Bob at an intersection of two aisles. Turned left and the smell got worse. Getting closer. I found him behind a low wall of Quaker State 80-weight gear oil. He was sitting on a five-gallon pail of Lemon Gojo Hand Cleaner, reading a grocery-store tabloid. Picture of an alien shaking Jimmy Carter's hand on the cover. “Hey Bob,” I said.