The name is Kevin Garner and dealing isn’t who I am. It’s not who I want to be. But check this out: there are three joints to a gram, ten bucks a joint or thirty bucks a gram. An eighth is three and a half grams. A quarter is five, six, or seven grams depending if you eye it up or weigh it. If you don’t have your weights and you’re making a deal on the spot, a loonie weighs seven grams. A half-ounce—we’re talking dry, fluffy pot here—is two to three fingers. An ounce is four. For wet, stinky, clingy pot, never measure with your fingers as seven grams can look like three. There are always 28 grams on the ounce: 30 bucks a pop. You make 840 bucks if you’re not smokin’ or spending. A half-ounce is 14 grams. You can usually move it for $200. There are 16 ounces to a pound, eight ounces to a half-pound and four ounces to a quarter pound. A pound, or an elbow, you can buy for $3,400 or more if it’s outdoor—that’s hydroponic prices. Clients are willing to pay more if it’s indoor because it’s more potent, more controlled. There are 448 grams in a pound. You can make $13,440 on one pound alone if you sell it by the gram. Do the math. There are some like Stan the Man who can roll a hundred joints from a single ounce—I’m not there yet, but I’m working on it.
I was in the editing suite at the cable TV office. I had the sniffles and I needed my vitamins. A joint laced with a little blow would have been nice. Six smokes left, some ginseng tea. My nose was still dripping from the cold of the hockey arena but I was pleased. The game was a success. Lots of slashing, high sticking and cross checking to keep the sheep happy.
Hockey’s just modern day lacrosse. How come nobody at Hockey Night in Canada talks about that? I’m surprised Don Cherry doesn’t say it’s just a matter of time, folks, before players are allowed to kill one another for public spectacle, so just hang in there, eh!
The first few goals usually tell the tale, but the Spruce Kings lost to Fort Smith. I, nonetheless, shone brighter than a thousand suns. Man, she was cold at the rink.
Torque. Sandy’s physics final exam’s tomorrow and the kid’s stuck on torque. The little guy reminds me of myself when I was that age, and I’m doing my best to nurture and foster. Now torque, as I explained, is the physics of twisting and turning about an axis measured in Newton metres. Christ, I hope he makes it. The hardcore party crowd still doesn’t believe I’m trying to change, that I’m serious about declaring the trailer off limits. I had to run there, get my old VCR tapes beside the porn and WWF archives and lock the doors. That Love Shack of mine was trouble and I had to lose it and the porn. If I was going to be a teacher, I needed a place to study, and if I was gonna get Lona, I’d have to prove to her I could change. Tower’s not too happy I’m quitting either and I really gotta think about this. I owe him six grand and I got nothing to show for it. I’ve been evading his phone calls, even his drive-by’s. He was the one who spoiled me, shouldn’t have given me that kind of freedom. I was the only dealer in town who didn’t pay deposits on the fronts ’cause I had the high school crowd. I saved my best for the regulars, saved the lowest quality for the high school. My fellow grads didn’t know the difference and, really, what were they gonna say? Who were they gonna tell?
This hockey game means everything. Can’t blow it. I got a bag in my packsack, my last ounce on the street. I’m selling out today. All of it. I’m really trying to change. I’m tutoring, laying off the dope and the booze. I’ve had mine, but it’s time to move on. I just gotta be a teacher. Taping and broadcasting this game is my ticket out. When my alarm clock rings in the morning, it might as well be a bugle: I am on a mission and the only thing that’s gonna stop me is a bullet from an elephant gun.
Eleven this morning, head pounding, I walked to the college to get the application forms and who did I see? Goddamn-stuck-in-the-80s-Patsy with her bangs-reaching-for-the-moon. Patsy was the college receptionist and had lathered so much gel in her snare wire hair that it looked crunchy. Everybody calls her Skull Face ’cause you can already tell what her skull looks like. Plus she’s queen of the camel toes, a yeast infection waiting to happen, so touch my bum already!
“Whatcha here for, Kev?” Patsy asked. Her sweater was smeared with cat hair. I tried not to look so hung over by running my fingers through my hair and smiled. “Application for the Teacher Education Program.”
“Sha right!”
I couldn’t stop staring at her lemming teeth. “Seriously.”
“You want to be a teacher?”
It hit me I hadn’t shaved. Good thing I’m gorgeous. “I want to be a teacher.”
“How old are you?”
“18.”
“You, Kevin Garner, want to teach our kids?”
I massaged my temples with my thumbs. “Can you be funny later and just give me the application forms?”
“Your truck’s still parked outside the Terminal and you’re here registering for the TEP Program?”
Ah, I thought, every Welfare Wednesday for the rest of your forgettable life, you’re gonna be line dancing to the same tunes at the Legion while I’m down south teaching. I remember when Black Fonzy dedicated Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad by Meatloaf to you on the Saturday Night Request Show and how I laughed my ass off at the both of you. That’s all you’re ever gonna get outta life: two out of three in everything.
“You’re gonna have to cut your hair, you know,” she said as she went to get the application. Sure enough there were her camel toes. I was like, “Hello, left camel toe. Hello, right camel toe. There you are. There you are.” You could even see them from behind when she bent over. I was like, “Hello, left bumper. Hello right bumper. There you are. There you are.” Someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was Mister Chang, the richest man in town. Chinese. He was holding an invoice in his hand. While everybody else in town owed Mister Chang money, I was one of the proud few who didn’t. My overhead’s low so I got satellite. I don’t give a hang about Friends and, really, they should tape the next Survivor up here ’cause no one would make it, no one at all.
“You want to be teacher?” he asked.
“Yeah, Mister Chang,” I wiped my nose with my sleeve. “I really do.”
My auntie who abandoned me and moved to Hay River after Grandma passed made him his parka. She owed him eight hundred bucks for an overdue cable bill. No problem. She traded him the parka, and they called it even. Just like that.
“Good decision, school,” he said, “Good money. Summer’s off. Get to see the world. Help the kids.” He looked at me and studied me for a bit before he said anything more. I had sold his son a few grams and maybe he knew it. “You want a job?” he asked.
I thought about it. Me? Buddy, I got so much money I need a brand new truck to get it to the bank—but then I thought, Wait a minute. Use this. Earn the town’s trust. Earn it. I smiled and said, “Sure.”
“Hockey game finals are tonight at eight. Everybody wants to watch. Hay River, Smith, Yellowknife and Simpson. I need someone to tape the game and broadcast it from the office. You do this and you get into TEP I bet.”
Mister Chang was right. Not only was I Dogrib, he knew with my past I’d never get into the Teacher Education Program. I figured if people found out I did all the videotaping tonight and co-ordinated showing the hockey game over the satellite station, surely someone at Aurora College—and Lona—and Tower—and Sandy—and that pig Morris would all see I was trying to change my ways.
“So when’s the next bash at your trailer?” Patsy asked and I know she did this on purpose to embarrass me.
“Never again,” I said proudly. “I’m finished.”
“Wah!” she said. “Get out of here.”
I looked at Mister Chang who smiled and gave me the coolest nod ever. “Let’s go get the equipment.”
I got the camcorder from the Cable TV studio, got a quick how-to, but I already knew how. I had taped and broadcast the talent show for the past three years, so it was no prob. The only thing is he uses VHS tapes because he’s cheap. I had helped Mister Chang hook up the video feed the summer before at the college so the students there could have video-conferencing with other students and instructors across Canada and the north, so he knew I was good to go. I stumbled past my parked truck (where are my keys?) outside the Terminal, and ran all the way home before running to school to start tutoring. No snow yet this year. Skidooers are mad. Everyone’s got new machines, but no snow to drive on.
Mister Chang gave me twenty bucks for new videotapes but I pocketed it. That twenty covered my application fee for housing. I figured I could record over some tapes from my trailer. I dialed my answering machine from the station and hit my password: 6969. Five messages. Better not be five scores waiting to happen. Sat down. Gathered my vitamins out of my packsack. Pressed play as I gathered my Excaliburs: two saw-blades wrapped with electrical tape. Those were my buddies: red, hot right away.
“Kev, Jazz here. How’s your elbow? Doctor says for 3,500 he’ll look at it. This Sunday at the Chinese Smorg. Ciao, bro. Don’t spank it too hard or you’ll get a purple head!—click!—”
Damn. I wrote this down. I told him not to use the phone lines. I told them to use the Saturday Night Request Show tonight. Send out a request to me. I get back to you from the pay phone downtown. An elbow equals a pound. Thirty five hundred for the quality I got. Why not? There’s my tuition and then some. Do they really have a Badger on my line?
I popped 1,000 mgs of Vitamin C, 800 I.U.’s of Vitamin E, 250 mgs of Vitamin B12, 1,000 mgs of Imperial Dragon Korean Red Ginseng and two Kyolic Garlics. Guzzled it all down with my last cold Canadian.
Next message.
“Kev, Larry here. What are you burning? Three spot a G-spot or what? Gimme call, you—click!—”
I shook my head. Translation from Larry’s Raven Talk: Can you please lend me three dollars so I can take you out for coffee, but I won’t have to pay you back because, after all, I took you out for coffee.”
Big burp. One last blast with the Excaliburs. No. Not in here. Not in the station. Oh hell. Truly, hot knifing’s where it’s at: quick, efficient, no smoke wasted. This would be my thirty-third hot knife off the same gram. Right arm, right arm. Doesn’t ninety percent of digestion take place in the mouth?
I’ve been stoned since I was sixteen. Back then it was like get stoned, see what happens. Now it’s like make money off people getting stoned and making things happen. I’m paying for it though. How are my fingers? I have started to notice lately that I feel like I’m missing digits. I believe the end plates of my nerves are rusting with THC, and plus my left eye clicks whenever I roll it backwards. The enzymes in my blood that fuel my dreams are working overtime, and my arms fall asleep quicker than normal. When they tingle, does that mean they’re dreaming? The dope’s finally starting to catch up with me. I noticed a long time ago that those who start smoking up during their growth spurt develop retarded. They can’t do small things with their fingers as they get older. They get lazy, lack hope. I started hooting after growing six foot even so I’m okay—or I was. Now I get deja vus all the time and I’m starting to dream: not DREAM dream, but DREAM like the elders. Spooky.
Next message. Lona? Pleeaaassssse….
“Kev, this is Tower. Listen, it’s a good day for a ride. We need to talk—“
Fast forward. Sorry, boss. Next. Beep. Lona? Nothing. Then—
“Kevin. This is Constable Morris Spencer here. Just wanted to see if you thought any more of our talk. You can call me here at the detachment. Talk to you soon.—click—!”
Bastard. Good thing no one was here. They’d think I was turning Narc. It was this goddamn cop that was making me change my ways. Morris took me to the cop shop, poured me a coffee I couldn’t taste and told me that this was just a talk between Skins (Yeah, right, pig!). Then the bastard took out the infamous Black Book that the cops keep denying they have.
“Kevin,” he said, “you know what this is and your name’s in it. You’re a young man; you don’t have a record. We know you’re moving a lot of dope for Tower. This is your only warning. I want you to get out of the racket, Kev. Think about it. If there’s something you’d rather be doing, you better start doing it now.”
“Can I go now?” I asked. What else could I do?
“Can you go now?” He took off his glasses, pressed his fingers into the side pockets of his tired eyes and had a look at what had oozed there all day before wiping it on his pants. “Do you know what a Badger is, Kevin? It’s a neat little computer program we have. It shows who Tower calls and he calls you a lot, doesn’t he? It shows who you call. It just grows and grows. We find out a whole network every time you make a call or someone calls you. Neat, eh? It looks like a spider web, and when we show it to a Justice of the Peace, it makes obtaining a search warrant a simple process, especially in this town. We’ve already looked into your bank account, Kevin. The last time we looked you had four grand in your account. Now where did you get all that money from? Yeah, I guess you can go now.”
About a small thousand heart attacks later, I croaked, “Good.”
No calls from Lona. I get ass cramps just thinking about her.
The Fort Simmer Journal did this article on her and talked about how a modeling agency flew her to Edmonton and took her pictures and have already started lining up deals for her. The town calls her “the little Shania Twain” because she’s only 5’6”, but what a body. A total knockout. I can’t believe she hasn’t seen through Dean yet, and I kept hinting about that when we talked at the party. The hell with Dean. Is it just wishful thinking or are they drifting? She’s always eyeing me up at the bush parties. Cousin or no, what can Dean give her? That yellow-toothed loser. He lives on top of the bar for Christ sakes.
I don’t give a hang if he knows Lona and I were together and talked well past midnight, before I scared her away.
Man, what a one-nipple town. I watch the monitor. It’s just about half-time.
I can’t believe what Black Fonzy said back at the rink.
The Fort Simmer Spruce Kings ran like crippled trees from their dressing room. Their jerseys are white and black. The team was hung over. You could smell it. Wanna whiff? Think of snails in the same shoebox for a month; now multiply that stink by 69. There you go.
When the Spruce Kings got to the ice, they kicked off their skate guards and pushed themselves away. Black Fonzy. He chopped past me on his skates.
“Yo, Kev, Tower’s been lookin’ for you.”
I changed the battery for the camera. “Tower? Yeah yeah.
We met.”
“You met? He was just here.”
What a burn-out. “Yeah, we met.”
“Oh.” He looked around. “Think you can score me anymore of that Jamaican finger hash?”
Fonzy was centre for Simmer. Players call him The Fist of God ’cause if he checks you, you’ll come to about a hundred feet up looking down on your own body. They say it’s a lesson from Jesus.
“Naw, man. I quit.”
Fonzy’s nose bull’s-eyed his dopey face. “You’re turning Narc on us, or what?”
“I want to get into the TEP program.”
“That’s funny.” He laughed. “You teach? I heard Tower’s got some chocolate-covered shrooms. Why don’t you score us some and I’ll split it. I got fifty.”
“I’m serious, man. I quit.”
“Gonna join the robots, huh? What about your weights
and torch?”
“You can have ’em for eighty.”
“Fifty.”
“Seventy-five.”
“Sixty.”
I give him the nod. “Done.”
“What about the trailer that cold-hard-hash made?”
“Sellin’ it,” I told him.
“I can’t see this happening,” he said and skated away.
“Sheep,” I whispered.
That was when a grunge casualty shuffled up to me, looking this way, that way.
“Mister Garner?”
Some kid. I couldn’t remember his name. His hair was so slick it looked like he combed bear grease into his mop. Behind him, a Mongolian horde of snow boarders and shithead skaters posed strong.
“Can you sell me a bag?” he asked.
“A bag of what,” I looked around. “Chips? How old are you?”
“We got cash.”
I was in shock. He was in Sandy’s class. “Get out of here,” I said. “Go.”
He blushed, shrugged, shambled off back towards the stands and spat.
Man, this town is full of decomposers—and Larry—I got no fuckin’ use for Larry. He only goes to the college so he can do panty raids in the women’s residence. Um, grow up?
“All right Lay-deeeees and Gentlemen,” I said clearly again as I track the players, “Welcome to Moccasin Square Gardens. Tonight I, Kevin Garner, am your play-by-play M.C. as Fort Simmer tries to down Yellowknife for the territorial championships...”
I followed the game and cracked the best jokes I know. This hangover meant nothing. It was all resting on tonight. God, I felt it. I was speaking to the communities, but I was really speaking to Lona, Tower and Constable Morris.
Gerald was sitting with Donna and they were holding hands sharing a coffee. It was about time those two hooked up. Gerald actually had a smile on his face and Donna looked proud. Thank God Gerald called Social Services on the principal. I talked with the crowd between periods and asked Sandy what he thought of the game.
“Simmer blew a two goal lead!” he yelled. It wasn’t what I was looking for so I asked, “What’s your greatest joy these days in our little community?”
The little champ looked right into the camera and said, “You, Mister Garner! You’re the best tutor I’ve ever had!”
Bingo. The money shot. I swear to God everyone around me clapped. Man, I hope the college president caught that, and that’s when I knew: it was time to rewrite history.
Back at the techy’s desk at the Fort Simmer Cable office. The phone rang. My palms started burning, just like my Grandma’s when she knew something huge was going to happen.
“You’re amazing, Kevin,” Lona said. “Keep up the great work. This is a great hockey game. I’m sorry for what I said Friday night.” My little Shania Twain. Brothers of the world, there is a God and His name is love! Maybe in heaven the guitar solos never end and you get the chick you’ve always wanted.
“Lona,” I said. I was feeling so high and so cocky from the game, but I knew it had to be asked. “Thanks for calling. Hey, did you listen to that tape I made you? That first song, it’s called Smothered Hope by Skinny Puppy. Beautiful, hey? That’s the remix, off their Dystemper album. It’s rare and precious, is what I’m trying to say. Like you. I put the Ministry’s remix of it on Side B, but I like this one the best—”
“Kevin, we shouldn’t be talking.”
I took a puff. “Why?”
“You and Dean are cousins. I don’t want to cause friction.”
My heart had a G-spot right then and there. I had to sit down. There was hope. I blew my nose. “Are you two still going out?”
“He’s trying, Kevin.”
“Trying?” I stood up. “He’s on the road for Tower. That’s not trying. We just have to dance once, you and me. I got some new moves that’ll make you blush.”
“Kevin—”
“Lona,” I took a sip and took another puff. “I’m gonna be a teacher, you know, and I’m out of the dealing business as of tonight. Lona, you’re the one for me. I swear to God. I’m sorry I scared you at the party. I’m dying to taste you—”
“I should get going.”
“What? What’d I say? Look. I want to kiss you. Can I kiss you?”
“What did Dean do to my back?” she asks, and I can tell she’s wanted to ask me this since Friday.
“I don’t want to scare you. I got a plan anyways, so don’t worry about it.”
“You’re stoned,” she said. “Good-bye.”
What! The phone rang again. “Lona?”
Someone was laughing. Music was playing. I could hear the hockey game from the Cable office’s cheap little speakers here in the editing suite. My hockey game. My hockey game was in Surround Sound from the monitor and the phone. “Kevin?” a voice giggled. “Kevin, this is Aleaha Apples. Come over. We’re in room 304. Women’s residence. Bring all your dope.”
I sat up. “Who is this?”
“Aleaha Apples. We heard you’re selling your stash and we’ll buy you out.”
Shit. “Who told you that?”
“Black Fonzy.”
The word was out now. “Who’s all there?”
“Us. Come soon.” She burst out laughing and hung up.
Hmmm. If I sell out, I’m free. Maybe pay what I make to Tower … maybe.
On the last tape now at Cable TV. Soon the footage will come. Soon. The twenty that Mister Chang gave me turned out handy. Ordered pizza. She’s on the way. Forget the student residence fees for a while. I’m celebrating.
Nineteen minutes left on the last tape and Yellowknife, Hay River, Smith, and Fort Simpson are watching. Tomorrow, when I go for a coffee uptown, everyone’s gonna know my name.
Last Friday. After the party. With Lona. Lying down with her on my bed. Without warning, I started to cry about my grandmother being gone. Lona wiped my tears away and kissed my neck. She was the first person I ever told about holding my grandmother’s hand for five days before she died. I slid my hands up Lona’s shirt but stayed away from her breasteges. No way. Slow down, I thought. Earn her. I caressed her back. Her strong, smooth back. She unbuttoned my shirt and ran her hands over me. We were flush faced and shivering, and I was starting to breathe heavy, heavier than her. I told her how I was at the crossroads, anything could happen. I wasn’t so far gone that I couldn’t turn it all around. I told her about a teacher I had, Mrs. Stellan. I was thinking about how she always believed in me and, man, when you have that, anything’s possible. I was telling her I’d like to be that somebody for those without, and I can empathize.
I then told her about my ability of echolocation.
“What?”
“I lie on my bed, turn the music off, and send my psychic lasso your way. I know where you were Tuesday night.”
She smiled. “Okay. Where?”
“The café. You had a coffee and fries with gravy on the side. You then ordered Iced Tea with a twist of lemon for dessert.”
Her eyes lit up. “Where was I Wednesday?”
“Your house helping your mom bake bread. You thought about me all day.”
Her jaw dropped. “How did you—”
I smiled. “Echolocation. Like bats. I send out my psychic feelers. When I was a kid, I used to walk on the top of the trees outside the house when I dreamed. Now I just send the signals out there, like a slow spell, and I reel it in. My grandma had medicine. Maybe she passed it on to me.”
She kissed my forehead. “You’re crazy.”
“Maybe.”
• • •
I put the mix on that I made for her. Whitesnake sang Still of the Night and it got to the solo where the violins play together, like bees dancing, and I always get the shivers when I hear it. As more violins escalate, I feel like I’m climbing the northern lights with a peace stronger than Prozac, and I want to lick something and put my fist through glass at the same time.
I never should have told her about my dream.
“Lona,” I said. “You know how you want to be a model?”
She nodded and ran her fingers through my hair.
“Well, I had a dream. It was a little freaky but I want to tell it to you. Grandma said if you have a nightmare, you know, see something horrible about a person, you should tell as many people as you can so it won’t come true.”
I could feel her pull away, but I held her. “What did you see?”
“Lona,” I said. “Give me a stack of Bibles ’cause what I saw was your future.”
She sat up. I couldn’t stop now. “I saw that you and Dean were still together. You were older, maybe eight years from now.”
“And—”
“And you’ve only gotten more beautiful but the thing is—”
“What?”
“The thing is I saw you getting up to say goodbye to him as he went to work and he looked at you with hate in his eyes and said, ‘You got uglier today.’”
Lona made a sound in her throat.
“And you believed it.”
She looked around for her jacket. “I’m going now.”
“No wait. And the thing is I could see something else too. I saw your arms.”
Lona stopped buttoning up her shirt. “What was wrong with them?”
“He gave you horrible tattoos so you couldn’t model in anything other than long sleeve shirts. It’s like he’d stained you, and he—”
“He what?”
“He also knocked out half of your teeth on your right side, so you could never model close-ups, and your back,” I stopped. “He—”
She pulled her shirt up over her face and peeked at me through her bangs. “I’m going now. You’re scaring me.”
I rose with her. “But you can change this. It doesn’t have to happen. I’ve told you: tell everyone. We can break the dream, so it won’t come true.”
“You mean if I screw you and leave him, it’ll be okay.”
“No. It’s not that. I’m telling you the truth. And your back,” I tried, “He—”
“Kevin, don’t ever speak to me again.”
She left without tying her shoes or pulling her jacket on. At least she took the mix. She left and nothing I could say stopped her from leaving.
It was true, Lona. My cousin’s gonna take his time killing you. For years. And he’ll do it from the inside out. I never told you I could see your tummy. He’d mauled your stomach with huge bite marks, and I won’t tell you what I saw on your back—but we can stop it—or I can—in a few minutes.
In the editing suite, the phone’s been ringing steady. I bide my time until the moment of truth. The callers were people laughing hard and thanking me for a great job. I sprinkled an eighth of a gram on tobacco and rolled it up. Voila Cocoa Puff! I love how coke makes a joint sweet. As always, my lips, tongue and gums go numb as a smoke that smells like vanilla surrounds me. It’s like watching ’70s porn. There were real women then: long hair, natural. And there’s kissing. Remember kissing? They kiss in ‘70s porn and they take their frickin’ time.
“You’re gonna make a great teacher!” Mrs. Spencer said. “They say the worst students make the best teachers and I believe it!”
What a sheep. Mrs. Spencer taught me kindergarten ages ago and she’s still teaching it today.
“Thanks,” I said. “How’s Adrienne?”
“Twins!” she beamed.
“Glad to hear it!” I hung up. Good thing I banged her before she got knocked up. I hit Line 2.
“Hey, Kev! It’s Patsy. You really were serious about being a teacher weren’t you? You’ll do it! You’ll do it!”
The hell with Black Fonzy! I was flying. “Thanks, Skull Face! Two outta three ain’t bad!” I took a puff, a swig, a sip, a shot. I popped two little Effy’s just to keep things fine. Back on top, baby.
I figured the town knew what a good job I’d done, so I took the phone off the hook. There could be no distractions for what was about to unfold. I lit a smoke. Maybe tobacco was the Devil’s hair. Did anyone ever think of that? Did anyone in this town know that the Chinese called TB The Steaming Bone Disease? Who knows? Who cares? Tomorrow, I will be requesting a number of reference letters from key individuals plus working on a five hundred-word essay on Why I Want To Be a Teacher. This I can write in my sleep as it seems my focus has never been clearer. Let the sheep talk amongst themselves. I am going to be a teacher!
“No more Hash Wednesdays!” I jigged. “No more Spring Bakes!” I danced a Spruce King dance, stopping to slap my ass and go “Hoot hoot!”
I did the last of my coke and looked out the window. Hey, it was sleeting and I was glowing—it’s wanting to snow! Thank God it was almost snowing in Fort Simmer! I watched it fall and remembered how Grandma always called snow the quietest mass.
Now, for the real reason I agreed to tape the hockey game.
The moment of truth:
After Sandy finished telling the western NWT what a great tutor I am, I turned the camera around to me and said, “Hello party people. This is Kevin Garner. Yes, I know, the contraband kid. I just wanted to take this opportunity to say hi to Lona and my cousin Dean. Dean Meddows, if you don’t know, is my cousin. I love him. I really do. The only problem is I’m in love with Lona Saw. Yup, that’s right. I’m declaring this here and now.”
I stop to wipe my nose with my sleeve. “You see, folks, a few nights ago I had this dream where I saw Lona and Dean together and they were miserable.” I wait. “I had this dream Dean was beating on her on a daily basis and he was taking his time killing her, and I had a dream that she was brainwashed into thinking she needed to stay. Well, Lona Saw, you don’t have to stay now. You can leave. I don’t want you to be beaten. I want you to be a model. Put Fort Simmer on the map. Make us proud. So that’s it. Tell everyone about this. Tell everyone that Kevin Garner had a dream in which he saw the future of Dean Meddows and Lona Saw, and it was horrible. It was a slow motion suicide for both of them, even me. So that’s it, folks. That’s all. I’d like to dedicate tonight’s game in memory of my grandma, Ava Snow, who always said, ‘Never let go of a dream.’ Thank you and mahsi cho.”
I turned the camera around and got back to the game.
I turned off the monitor and sound. The hockey game resumed, televised and broadcasting.
It was done. Lona, I just rewrote your fucking history via the moccasin telegraph as each townie tells two friends and those two friends tell their two friends. You’re free, Lona. If you stay, well, it’s your fault now. I tried. When Dean starts in on you, you’ll remember me. Besides—and I don’t even mean this—I got Aleaha waiting for me in room 304.
As for your back, Lona, this was what I saw: Dean had you convinced you needed to learn about Reaction Time. Every afternoon, you’d sit on the bed and he’d sit behind you. He’d hold a lit cigarette behind you as you stared at the wall. The game was the closer you felt the heat, the quicker you were supposed to move. Would it be today? Tomorrow? Friday? Next week? You never really caught on, Lona, that he could burn you whenever the fuck he felt like it, and you were too slow and too beat to move away anymore.
Now, Lona. How could I think of something that cruel all by myself if I hadn’t seen it? And something else: you’ve got to get away from Dean, Lona. He loves you like two dogs stuck. If you don’t, baby, I saw your exit plan. Your suicide note’s going to be three pages long. I was shaking. I stood and made a toast.
“One for the road and two for the ditch. Either way, I just rewrote history. Get outta town, Lona. Make us proud.”
I cranked Wasp on the ghetto blaster. Blacky Lawless is blaring, “I WANNA BE SOMEBODY! BE SOMEBODY NOW!!” What the—I looked out the window: pitch black, snowing. The sleet has turned to snow! It is officially snowing!
Grandma said when it snows nothing can touch you. No bad medicine. Nothing. Look at the flakes! As thick as tufts of goose down. Wendy, wherever you are. I pray this snow protects you. Lona, baby. You could’a had me. My truck. We’d cruise, shack-up, make love all night. We could watch the snow fall together for the rest of our lives. I’ve never made love all night with someone. I’ve never wanted to hold someone so close to me and to whisper their name with love. To feel your hair, to move inside you. Such a beautiful face. I wanted to feel my skin under your nails. You blew it, baby. You’re going out with the wrong cousin. With your atrocious perfume and your beautiful brown Metis eyes.
Now Aleaha at the college residence. I didn’t know. To be determined….
Look at that snow. Is it the first or last snowfall of the year that the elders call the Snow of the Virgin Mary because Mary called it for the world? Anyhow, whichever it is, if you collect it, melt it and bottle it, drink it or rub it on a wound, it can cure anything. I think it’s the first snow, so Grandma’s telling me everything’ll be okay.
What am I gonna do about Tower? He took me in after Gran passed, gave me the low down in the deadliest house in Simmer. We sat down, had some tea. Stan the Man was there in his flashy suit. I had always seen these guys around town when I was growing up. They were so cool. We listened to some Neil Young, passed a thick fatty around and sipped African tea.
“Sorry about your grandmother,” Tower said. “Anything you need?”
I sat up. “A job would be nice.”
“Check this out,” Tower broke the science of dealing down to me and finished with a simple question. “You in?”
The language they used, the codes, the poetry of it all. I never felt so alive in my whole life. I nodded: “I’m in.”
Tower smiled. “This is your Freedom 35 plan, Kevin. I’m going to start you moving quarters. That all right? Stan here will teach you how to use the scales and eye it up. Remember: although the customer is never right, never underestimate one. Most frequent flyers have scales at home and will hunt you down if you screw ‘em, so don’t. Do it right. Take pride in your work and watch your ass.” He and Stan pointed in unison to a sign on the wall that read WATCH THY ASS! before continuing: “If a customer has a great experience with a company they’ll tell four to six people. If they’re screwed over by a company, they’ll tell fourteen to twenty people. Prevention is the key. You keep ‘em satisfied, they’ll always come back. You got that?”
I never felt so good in my whole life. “I got it, Tower. Thank you for this.”
Tower stood up. “We take care of our own. Dogribs are outnumbered in Fort Simmer, and I have great respect for your grandmother. She and my mom were like sisters. We’ll work together, right? It’s about getting paid.”
“And laid,” Stan smiled. “Welcome to the club.”
Tower shook my hand like a man. Stan, too. That week I made three grand cash. Cash. You’re damn rights I felt great. I got my truck within three months and this trailer is already all mine.
Whoah. Two Summits blasted by the building kicking up mud and snow. They were just the first of hundreds of skidoos that would tear this town up for the next seven months. Soon, half this town would be flying through the fields and ditches. Hoo-yah.
There were kids making snowmen though. One shook a tree, dousing himself with snow. The headlights of a car pulled into the driveway. The white palm of the light when it turned the corner caught the houses across the street, grabbed each house and pushed it down. The door opened. Someone sprinted towards the building. Pizza boy: probably Jessie Chaplin, the Chief’s son. Third biggest dealer in town. Now that I was gonna be in TEP, now that I had Aleaha waiting for me, he could keep the tip. I pulled out my twenty and opened the door. All I heard was yelling, “Three little pigmies! Three little pigmies! Disconnect! Disconnect!”
“What?” I asked. I didn’t understand. The music was too loud. It wasn’t Jessie. It was Mister Chang! He slapped me hard across the face, “Turn it off! Turn it off! Turn off the computer! Stop the tape! Stop the tape!”
I was stunned. He flew to the monitor and turned it on. I couldn’t believe what I saw. My heart twisted and my stomach sucked it down. Through the smoke. On the monitor. On the monitor that Fort Smith, Hay River, Fort Simpson and Yellowknife were watching, a naked Nurse Nora was chasing three studs with piggy masks on. The men squealed like pigs and I’d never realized until now what a cheap set they’d used. My least favourite ’70s porno!
Three Little Piggies.
My ears were ringing louder than they were this morning. The communities were seeing a porno. My porno. How? I couldn’t believe it. I’d been playing a porno! My porno. For how long? The nasty-ass porno I thought I lost forever. How the—?
Nurse Nora bellows, “I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blowwwwww your house down!”
Wasp was still blaring, “I WANNA BE SOMEBODY! BE SOMEBODY NOW!!”
There was my porno! I had watched this porno a hundred times at the Love Shack. Ron Jeremy was still skinny in this one. He cracked a few good jokes before going to town. “I WANNA BE SOMEBODY! BE SOME—” Mister Chang banged the ghetto blaster off, ripped at the cables, pulled them right out of the console. He’s swearing in Chinese at me. At me! His hood slid off his head. He looked at me. His face was red. “Ho Cha! Hockey game ended after you made your little speech! I’ve been calling here for you but you didn’t answer!”
My mind was a whirlwind of rate-limiting-steps that began to eat themselves as they swirled and died together. Had I turned the record button off by accident?
My right eye watered as my cheek started to sting and my hands were set ablaze.
“Get out!” he yelled. Spit landed on his wolverine hood. He was waiting for me to respond. I looked at the little red hand of his that slapped me and then to his purple, puckered lips.
Sandy. God. He was watching the game right now, watching it all. Mister Chang ejected the tape and grabbed the twenty from my palm, holding it in front of his face. “Out!” he says. “Get out! I’m gonna lose my license, you sunovabitch!”
The label on the porno he ejected was switched with a blank label. This was the one. I was supposed to tape WWF Raw over this one on Saturday.
My head fell back. I felt the cold winter air bathe me from the open door behind, and I used up fifteen minutes of air in the next two seconds. Tomorrow, Black Fonzy—The Fist of God—was gonna be looking for me for calling his old lady Skull Face. Tomorrow the community would be talking about me at the coffee shop. Everyone was gonna know my name. Everyone! I was dead. I was so dead. I felt my rib cage rise and fall as I released a death sigh to the ceiling.
Grandma, you lied. Anything and anyone can get you in
the snow….
Who wanted me now—with my horrible night? I had an ounce on the street and a bag in my pack. My name was Kevin Garner. I wanted to be a teacher. I turned and I went, dizzy through the snow as it popped and crunched under my feet. To the women’s residence. Aleaha. Tower. Stan. Constable Morris. Bury me deep, somebody, under this snow of deceit….
Sandy—
Lona—
Anyone—