While I’m making my mother a coffee for breakfast I’m thinking.
I’m thinking how Dumper’s barrel was full that night Dink and I waited outside the Elmdale and saw him come out with Mr. Fryday. And I’m thinking about how, on the days he’d come around for the trash, I’d hear that dull heavy clunking sound when he’d hit the trash can against the side of the barrel.
A dull, heavy clunking sound, not a hollow sound, means a barrel is full.
And I’m thinking about what the red-headed friend of Rainy Day Delaney said about seeing Dumper collecting grease from restaurants. What if, every day, Dumper collected a full barrel and got paid for collecting a full barrel from the restaurants? And what if he did that every day, six days a week? And another full barrel from Mr. Fryday’s wagons on Sundays?
And what if he then, with his wrench and his hose every night...?
And the $15 a barrel he’s supposed to pay to the rendering company at the grease depot. Seven barrels times $15 is...$105 a week he can steal by just attaching a hose and...
Would Dumper break the law, pollute the world, for money?
Suddenly I’m thinking about Dumper Stubbs ruining everybody’s beautiful stroll on Sunday in Chinatown just to pick up one cent off the sidewalk.
Sure he would!
While I’m giving my mother her coffee she’s combing her short shiny black hair in the mirror. Her eyes move from her own face in the mirror to me. She looks mad.
She tells me that some official phoned from Ottawa Tech and said that if she came over and signed some papers, I could get back into school in the fall. They said this was what always was done when people got kicked out. At Ottawa Tech they’re always phoning your place for something. Mostly to try and get you to keep going to school. They must be short of students or something. Maybe it would be better if they had no students at all — then they’d have to fire hot-shot Boyle.
While I’m trying to tell her what happened, about putting my foot on the wall when Boyle came along and how Connie Pan was there, she keeps saying that everything’s falling apart because my father’s dead and then we start having a big fight.
She’s yelling how my father got laid off at the paper mill for mouthing off and how I’m doing the same now and mouthing off and now I get mean and I say why is she hanging around across the street at the Village Inn so much and I’m not the only one falling apart. And then I tell her I’m going to get hot-shot Boyle for this, it’s all his fault. Maybe I’ll get a big sign that says Boyle has lunch with naked ladies at Valentino’s all the time! and carry it up and down Albert Street in front of Ottawa Tech!
All this in the mirror!
But now she looks away from the mirror and looks at me straight on.
And now I’ve never seen my mother’s beautiful face so sad.
“Oh my God, John!” she cries. “Oh John, I’m so, so sorry,” she cries. Now she’s looking past me. For a minute I think she’s speaking to my father! I look over my shoulder to see if he’s standing there.
“Why are you so sorry?” I say. “What are you sorry about?”
“It was so selfish of me,” she cries. “I never thought of it until now. It never entered my head until just this instant,” she cries, her face sort of falling apart, tears spilling out of her eyes.
She puts her strong thin arms around me and squeezes me.
“What do you mean?” I say. “What are you talking about?”
“I didn’t see it till now,” she says in my ear, her wet cheek on my cheek, “that you miss him just as much as I do. That you loved him just as much as I did. That you lost him, too!”
She pushes me away from her so she can hold me with her eyes.
“I was behaving,” she says, “I’ve been acting as though I’m the only mourner around here, the only one who lost everything.”
She squeezes my shoulders.
“My God, John! I forgot all about you all this time!”
Now she’s got me crying.
“It must have been so lonesome for you, these past months. I’m so, so sorry,” she says softly.
Now I’m telling her everything, just like I used to. All about hot-shot Boyle and being kicked out of school and about Dumper Stubbs and the poisoned beach and about Connie Pan and E.S.L. volleyball...
“I’ll have a little chat with hot-shot Boyle for starters,” my mother says, and when she says that, I can feel muscles in her voice.
“That Connie Pan, she sounds nice,” she says, “why don’t you bring her over some time? I think I might know her mother. She comes into the Resource Center. She’s a community leader. If you’re not Chinese she’ll call you Bignose!”
“That’s her!” I say. “That’s the one!”
“Don’t be too sure,” she says. “A lot of the new Chinese Canadians say that. They don’t mean any harm, they’re just scared. You think what it would be like to live in China, not speaking the language hardly at all, surrounded by people with little noses and different shaped eyes. It wouldn’t be easy. Connie doesn’t say that though, eh?”
“No, she just laughs at it.”
“At what, your nose?” my mother says, doing one of her old jokes.
Then, as she drinks a drink of her coffee, and looks over her cup at me, I see the green flecks flashing in her brown eyes.
I give Dink a call and tell him to meet me at the chipwagon as soon as he can.
At work, Mr. Fryday doesn’t even mention my research on the “open” and “closed” business. He’s being his cheerful old self, praising me up for being a good businessman and selling those chips like hot cakes and putting on just the right Beethoven music to get the customers in the right mood. He hangs around polishing his rings and talking to some people passing by until he can give the old taste test to the first potato chip. Surprise! He doesn’t even tell me that I should have left it in a few more seconds or that I should have taken it out a couple of seconds earlier.
“Just right, Spud Sweetgrass!” says Mr. Fryday.
Under his arm he’s got today’s Ottawa Citizen. He’s reading a story in the local section while he’s tasting his perfect Beethoven’s chip. He’s singing softly his “My day is Fryday” song and flashing his rings and gold tooth in the sun’s rays. Then he leaves the paper open on the counter, open at the story he’s been reading in the local section, so I’ll read it.
“Beach Re-opens” the headline says. Then it tells all about how the mighty Ottawa River has washed away all the pollution from Westboro Beach and the water’s been tested and the authorities at Regional Environment have given the beach the O.K. for swimming again. Then it gives stuff about how many times the beach was closed last year and how many swimmers used the beach this year and all that.
No wonder Mr. Fryday’s in such a good mood. No more grease being dumped on the beach, eh Mr. Fryday! No more pollution? Your buddy Stubbs is off the hook. It’s all over. Let’s pretend it never happened. You can relax now. Back to business as usual.
Sure.
While I’m waiting for Dink to get here and working out my plan along comes Connie Pan and, oh, oh, she’s with her mother. They’re not walking like they’re going to walk by, either. They’re walking like they’re walking to see me!
I have to watch my mouth.
I’m smiling to myself, thinking of how my mother knows Connie’s mother.
Up they come. Connie Pan looks at me and shrugs her shoulders. I’m wearing my silk buttercup. She looks at it and smiles.
Mrs. Pan starts right in. Connie Pan rolls her eyes.
“Why give rose to my daughter?” says Mrs. Pan.
I can see she’s looking at my nose. She’s so far down there on the sidewalk and I’m so far up here, my nose must be hanging down like an elephant’s trunk. I make up a quick order of fries.
“Why give rose, Bignose?” she says.
I give the fries to her.
“Rose is a gift. Like chips. I give you chips — a gift,” I say. I know it’s stupid to talk bad broken English to people who can’t speak English very well but I guess I can’t help it because I always do it. Except with Connie Pan. I don’t do it with her.
She takes the fries. Connie Pan tries one.
I turn up Beethoven’s Third Symphony, Third Movement which is now playing. At least it’s happier than the second movement.
“Why go on dirty road?” says Mrs. Pan.
Why do Chinese daughters tell their mothers everything? Maybe it’s a Chinese tradition. Tell your mother everything.
“We were going on a picnic and I took the wrong road,” I say. Canadian sons tell their mothers lies. And their girlfriend’s mothers too. It’s a Canadian tradition.
“Not bike no more on dirty road!” says Mrs. Pan, wagging her finger.
“No, Mrs. Pan, I promise. No more on dirty road bike,” I say, being a bit of smart ass.
“O.K.,” she says. Then she takes another look at my nose and turns and walks away. Connie Pan goes with her. After a few steps, Connie Pan does this amazing thing. She turns her head to me and kisses the air!
I feel my face get deep red and hot. When I stop watching her walk up Somerset Street with her mother and when my face cools off I see Dink the Thinker there in front of me, taking my picture from the step of the Mekong Grocery.
“Nice flower,” says Dink, his camera in front of his face.
“Flower is gift,” I say. “Like chips. I give you chips — a gift.” I give Dink a free order of fries. He douses them with vinegar and salt and then we look at my picture. Pretty good picture of an elephant wearing a silk buttercup over his heart.
In between customers I tell Dink everything. When I get to the part about Dumper’s lake he can hardly control himself, he’s so excited. Then I tell about the hose and the sewer grate.
All of a sudden we both get the same great idea at the same time!
The camera!
We have a good solid big supper at Dink’s place because we’ve got a lot of biking to do. We get a whole load of take-out from the Chu Ching Restaurant next door to the Hong Kong Beauty Salon after Mr. Fryday gives us a big happy goodbye and drives off carefully in his truck. I pay for the take-out because today’s payday and because Dink has no money because he spent it all on a flash for his camera.
We have spring rolls, shrimp fried rice, moo koo guy pan, shrimp chop suey, vegetable chow mein, bar-b-q pork almond diced, moo koo har kew, mushroom egg foo young and almond cookies.
Even Dink’s dad has a taste of a few dishes in between cigarettes. But when he coughs a whole lot of chop suey all over the wall, he leaves the kitchen and goes to bed.
We watch TV for a while to kill some time and let the take-out food go down a bit. We watch a show that Dink wants to see about a quasar they just found as big as our whole solar system. It gives off a light brighter than 1,000 galaxies of 100 billion stars each, the astronomer on TV tells us. Dink always plays his science shows really loud so his dad can hear them in the other room. “That’s a lotta light!” Dink’s dad shouts and then coughs through the rest of the program.
At about ten o’clock we ride down Somerset to Wellington and the Elmdale Tavern to check out Dumper’s truck. It’s there alright, and he’s got a full barrel of grease in the back. I check his glove compartment. It’s still locked.
We get back on our bikes and ride west on Wellington until it changes into Richmond Road. We’re not taking the Queensway to Dumper’s place. This way is safer. And longer. And slower. But we’re not in a hurry. We’ll be there before Dumper gets there.
We cross the Queensway at Maitland and turn up Woodward.
We hide our bikes under the hedge and walk across the dark lot to where Dumper’s parking spot is.
We stand over the sewer grate where Dumper Stubbs will put his hose down. I stand beside the grate and point at it. Dink flashes my picture. We go back to the hedge and lie down near our bikes and check out the picture with my pen flashlight. The picture is perfect. Dink’s flash works great.
I can see Dink’s eyes are pretty wide.
He can’t wait to catch this criminal in the act with his instant camera.
We go back to the sewer. This time I take Dink’s picture standing beside the grate. This time, Dink’s not pointing. He’s standing with his arms folded and his foot on the grate, like an old-fashioned picture of a guy who just shot a lion.
Back at the hedge, there’s a big man standing with his foot on our bikes, like a guy in an old-fashioned picture who just shot two lions. There’s a light on now in the front window of the furniture factory.
“What the hell are you kids doing here?” says the guy. “Get away from that truck.” He’s got sawdust in the hair on his arms. He’s wearing a belt with a tape measure attached and he’s got a hammer in a holster on the side. He must be from inside the furniture factory.
“Just trying out this new camera we got for our birthday,” I say. “My brother and me, we’re twins, we got this summer school project, in night photography,” I say, telling the longest lie of my career so far.
“Well, you can’t hang around here, this is private property. Get the hell out of here,” says the guy, and gives our bikes a kick.
We walk our bikes out of the lot and down Woodward Avenue till we’re out of sight of the furniture factory hedge. We hide our bikes behind a pile of fresh sod and slide back in the shadows behind the factory.
“Twins?” says Dink. “I should have got a picture of that lie!”
There’s some lights coming into the lot.
It’s Dumper’s truck.
He turns and backs into his spot. He’s over his sewer grate.
We’re sitting in the bushes right behind his truck. If it was daylight, he’d see us sitting there, just like two crows on a fence. But in the dark, if we don’t move, he won’t. His broken tail light lights us up like a search-light. But that light will be out when he comes around the back of the truck to put down his hose.
Out comes Dumper, grunting and talking to himself.
I’ve got my hand on Dink. I don’t want him to move until exactly the right time. Dumper’s going to see the flash. So we’ve only got one shot. Dumper climbs up on his truck. He gets his hose and his wrench. He turns the plug at the bottom of the barrel with the wrench, takes out the plug, jams the plug end of the hose into the hole, tightens the hose. You can hear gurgling. Here comes the grease. Dumper gets down off the truck. He doesn’t look as drunk tonight, not like he was last night. He’s down off the truck without staggering. He’s puffing a bit, though. He’s got the end of the hose in his hand. It’s spouting grease. You can hear the grease splashing on the pavement.
He leans under the truck with the dangling hose. He tries a couple of times and then finds the grate. Finds one of the rectangle holes.
He’s on his knees. He’s placing the flowing hose.
I let go of Dink’s arm.
Dink flashes the picture. Gotcha!
Dumper lifts up and bangs his head under his truck so hard that he goes back down. His head hitting the truck sounds like the dull heavy clunking sound of something hollow hitting something full. I guess the something hollow part is Dumper’s head.
Now Dumper’s mad. He crawls out from under the truck and charges right at us. He’s blind from the flash and so are we. He’s so fast crawling, he’s like an animal, a bear maybe. He’s growling and cursing. Dink and I are moving away from the back of the truck. There’s bushes blocking our way a bit. The other way is easier. Dumper is crawling and grunting and swearing. Dink trips over a cinder block along the edge and his camera flies ahead along the pavement. Now Dink is crawling. Dink and Dumper are both crawling towards the camera. I jump over Dink and kick the camera ahead so Dumper won’t get it. I run and kick it again. Then I lean over and pick it up. I run towards Woodward Avenue and our bikes. Dink is running now too. We can’t see but we can sort of see. Dumper’s tangled up in his grease hose. He’s slipping around in the cooking grease, the hose whipping around his feet. He falls on his back.
I’m at the bikes where we hid them. I can hear the carpenter yelling from the furniture factory about what’s going on out there. I’m on my bike. Dink’s got his bike. I’ve got the camera. We take off down Woodward Avenue the other way to Clyde Avenue. We cut up Clyde to Carling. We stop at Churchill and Carling to get our breath. There’s nobody following us. We pull in behind Hakim Optical and sit on the grass there.
Dink is puffing and snorting and almost crying. The knees of his pants are ripped and his elbows are bleeding.
I give him his camera. There are pieces hanging off it. He tries to eject the developed picture. It’s jammed. The track is broken. The camera is smashed.
Dink looks up at me.
He shakes his head.
We haven’t got a camera anymore.
We haven’t got the picture either.
In fact, we haven’t got anything except torn pants and bleeding elbows.