—If this is the birthing sac, how big is the mother?
Simon looks at Mercer for the answer, then over his shoulder, nervously. Crickets are the biggest threat, and they don’t seem to be organized. The occasional bee flies past in wide, lazy turns, committed only to pollinating. Tires sing on the highway, distant, gentle, soothing. There are no clear threats to Mercer’s territory, and nothing left for him to do in the middle of the stubbled hay field. He is free, for now, to carry on.
BEHAVIOUR BEFITTING A YOUNG MAN
ANY CAR BURNS PLENTY OF GAS GOING over the Coquihalla, but Gibson’s Datsun has been especially gluttonous. At first he thought it was the weight of his stuff resting heavily on the back springs. In the less-crowded corner of a scenic lookout, with the painfully bright mountains at his back, he stares at an engine that withholds its secrets. Fifty klicks later, on his hands and knees, he finds a wide, wet strip along the bottom of the gas tank. A semi rolls by, the gust flapping his shirt and blowing dust into his eyes. The money he’s budgeted for food and lodging will now be spent on gas.
He wonders what the B stands for in Datsun B210. B-grade? Beware? Botched? If the gas leak were the only problem, he might be able to forgive the old girl, but he suspects it’s short a cylinder going uphill, full power kicking in only as he levels off at the top, when it’s no longer needed. Another surprise: driving over water at high speed creates fender fountains, high arcs of spray that blast through rusted-out crevices on either side of the hood. The floor feels spongy because large sections of it are gone. If you pull up the carpet you can see a scary amount of road.
Gas stations are farther and farther apart. Math formulas with too many variables cycle through his head: the range of the car, the range of the car with a hole or holes in the tank, the added load going uphill, balanced by greater economy on the way down.
EVEN AFTER TWO WEEKS OF restless change, he had to admit it was a child’s room. The mini-basketball hoop from the back of the door was down, along with the volleyball trophies. Even the aquarium had been banished to the garage. Still, the bed was a twin, a good size for someone who never had overnight guests. The books that remained on the shelves were bright and colourful … juvenile. The computer would stay, its drive full of games that no longer interested him. The car was full anyway.
He stood for a moment at the door to his parents’ room. He and his sister hung there on the wall over the bureau, looking awkward and out of place, framed by the flowers at Butchart Gardens. In the corner, a set of golf clubs his father could not bear to store in the garage. His mother’s jumble of shoes, kicked into the closet from across the room with enough force to leave black marks on the closet wall.
His sister’s room was across from his. It might be days before she knew he was gone. Her room was merely a place to put all the stuffed animals given to her by boys who came and went so often that no one bothered to remember their names. There was enough of her to say goodbye to in that room, in the tangles of clothing, the empty hamster cage. The electric guitar, still prized but rarely touched, was how she would become the next Bif Naked.
Gibson’s car sat idling as he rang Chelsea’s doorbell. She went crazy, listing the many reasons why his plan was wrong, stupid, selfish. After half an hour of this she was too exhausted to resist a lingering hug, observed, of course, by her mother, who spied on them from a crack between the curtains. Chelsea shook her head at the sight of his raggedy clothes pressed flat against the window and quickly walked back to the house so he would not see her cry.
Toby was at basketball practice. There were others he could call on a Saturday morning: Tony, Brian, Samantha. There were better, kinder ways to make a new start but instead, he pulled away from the curb and drove to the end of the street, where he spent a few minutes staring at the stop sign before turning onto the highway.
THE CAR WHEEZES TO THE top of another mountain pass and lines up for a straight stretch down a steep grade. Near the bottom, sun glints off the windscreen of a car parked by the side of the road. Gibson squints to make out a cop looking down into the scope of his radar.
Even with both hands, he can’t make second. The teeth grind together, kicking out the stick—he’s already going too fast. It takes two good stomps and to-the-floor pressure to get the slightest braking action. The emergency brake has always been burnt out. There’s nothing left to try. He can’t rest against the bumper of a semi. The runaway lane would probably rip the wheels off. Swerving back and forth would scrub off some speed—and make him look drunk.
At twenty klicks over the limit he gives it the double pump. Gibson expects the cop to point him to the shoulder but he turns away from the radar and goes back to his car. Gibson flies by and the cop turns around, judging the car’s speed with an expert eye, but he’s too far away from the tripod to clock it. Gibson climbs higher, in the slowest getaway ever, hoping to do the first third of the hill on momentum alone. He needs to delay the moment when he has to rev it up, puffing out a huge plume of oily blue smoke, gassing everyone behind him. If the cop sees that, the mission is over; the old bomber will be declared unfit for the road, a health hazard, a death trap.
ON FRIDAY, MR. HIND WANTED to know where Gibson had put the rubber mallets. Every few months Gibson moved them from between the caulk guns and the paint to their logical place beside the hammers. He would do it when Hind was out, hoping he wouldn’t notice. The carpentry area naturally divided into things that hit, things that cut, and things you used to slap on paint or goop. Hind recognized no such logic. All he would say was that the paint aisle was the place for mallets. That’s where they went. That’s where they’d been since opening day.
Hind reminded him that if he wanted to be manager someday, he’d have to start using his head. A little common sense, you know? Hind would expect stupid mistakes from Jerry, but Gibson was being groomed, and someday, if everything went well, if he continued to work hard, if he studied the day-to-day operations, if he did all that, someday he’d manage the place.
The first time Gibson heard about the manager position, he almost snorted. The job was beneath him. Otherwise, why the hell was he going to school? But it wasn’t long before the horror of aiming for the middle was replaced by a series of what-ifs. He began running calculations based on his guess at a manager’s wages. So-and-so many hours equalled an apartment with so-and-so many square feet. Car payments at so many dollars per month, so many years in debt. And way off in the distance, too far to think about, a house.
Yes, Hind made it clear that the job was waiting for Gibson, assuming he would someday be able to do things Hind’s way, the right way. Rubber mallets did not belong next to the hammers. The scolding, Gibson was to understand, was something to be grateful for, the kind of correction poor Jerry would never receive.
Gibson put on his apron, and nodded at everything Mr. Hind said. There were mallets that needed to be moved and a guy poking around the garden hoses who looked like he needed some help. Hind cocked his chin over to the guy, as Gibson clearly needed some direction.
He didn’t hate Hind or the job, but that day he became painfully aware that while he was inside counting nails or explaining how to use a plane, there were people outside engaging with the real world. The thought of staying in Kamloops without even sampling a small part of the rest of the country seemed unspeakably depressing. Hind’s nostrils flared with irritation. Gibson said he couldn’t work there anymore. Noooooo, Hind said, his mouth holding the shape as he fell silent. Noooooo. That’s exactly how he said it as he held a sprinkler loosely, its place on the shelf forgotten. Gibson moved toward the door. Behind him Hind said he could leave the mallets where they were. Wherever he wanted to put them was fine. Hind said some other things, but by that time the door had closed and Gibson was noticing perfect summer clouds, breathing fresh air, like a free person with an open future.
LINES OF PAINT, REFLECTIVE STRIPS, markers and signs suggest a course of travel on the highway, but ultimately it’s Gibson who decid
es. Nothing can stop him from going straight where a turn is indicated. Little force is required to change his course completely. He’ll take this road as suggested. That’s his choice today. Views that deserve half an hour get half a second, because the beast is running well, and killing momentum now is too risky. His neck hurts from craning his head around to catch scenes that fly by as the car ducks into tunnels and out again, into the bursting white.
THE CAR HAD BEEN SITTING in the guy’s driveway for more than a year. The For Sale sign—one of those plastic ones you buy at Canadian Tire off a spinning rack—looked faded and brittle. It was one of the many markers Gibson would glance at on his way to work. The old beast still had air in all the tires, glass in all the windows, and it was pointed downhill on the driveway, as if eager to go. Later Gibson learned the owner parked it that way for an easy jump start.
On Friday morning Gibson stopped at the foot of the driveway. There was no time for a break, as he always timed his commute down to the second. The longer he stood, the faster he’d have to run to make it to work on time. The body was badly rusted from winter salt, and the paint had faded to a matte finish. It wasn’t pretty, but he could tell it wanted to be used.
He walked up the steps and knocked on the door. He planned to wait half a minute, then walk away, giving himself points for spontaneity. The seal on the door popped abruptly and the scruffy-faced, overweight owner appeared.
—Yeah?
—How much for the car?
IN CHILLIWACK, GIBSON IS GETTING gas for what seems like the ten thousandth time. Two weeks of funds have already gone out the pipe in a messy blue cloud. A rivulet of gas trickles under his shoe before making its way to the gutter. He’s used two paper-towel rolls trying to staunch the leak, stuffing the sheets wherever they’ll fit, and still it keeps coming.
—Hey, is that gas coming out of your car?
Gibson answers without looking down.
—No, that’s a puddle of water.
—No, man, that’s gas. You’ve got a major gas leak. I’ve got to report this. You have to stay here while I report this.
After the gas jockey strides toward the office, Gibson sticks a twenty between the nozzle and its holder. The oily blue cloud finally works to his advantage as he pulls away, the gas jockey unable to see the licence plate through the smoke screen.
A LITTLE OVER A YEAR ago, while travelling from one grad party to another, Kevin McCullough leaned out the window and got a face full of post. Alcohol was involved. That was the beginning of a safe grad campaign that was in force by the time Gibson walked onstage to receive his paper tube and shake a series of designated hands.
The grad party was something that pleased both the teachers and the parents. That was important because they almost outnumbered the grads. They covered the entire east side of the gym, staring down fun wherever they saw it, eager to prevent kids from doing what they’d done when they were younger. Even the washroom was no refuge, as Mr. Pinkney, some beefy hockey dad, included it in his rounds of the building.
Of course, Mr. Pinkney and all of the concerned parents were looking for the drugs and alcohol that were allegedly so commonplace among Gibson’s generation. There was no booze allowed, but the kids were free to guzzle all the pop they could handle while a specially approved DJ played music the whole family could enjoy.
In the washroom Gibson heard where the real fun was going to be. While he and his date shuffled around on a darkened basketball court, others were hauling firewood down to the beach. By the time the good clean fun was wrapping up and decent children were saying their good-byes, the other party would just be starting.
The propaganda had finally wormed into Gibson’s head. Perhaps staying in the parentally supervised gym ghetto was better than dodging super-fast, runaway sports cars that blasted through intersections at two hundred klicks, kids hanging out the window, throwing beer bottles at the heads of old ladies until the crash, young bodies twitching and broken, eviscerated by metal and glass. Even those who didn’t crash and burn would find some other way to drain their alcohol-thinned blood. Because they were teenagers, completely unpredictable and untrustworthy, preprogrammed to self-destruct.
Sheena seemed happy. Two months before grad, she had tracked Gibson down in the library and laid out her proposal.
—I’ve heard you don’t have a date for grad yet.
—That’s two months away.
—A lot of people have already made their commitments. Now, I’m willing to be your date, but I don’t want to be overshadowed. I refuse to be some boy’s accessory. If you’re willing to cooperate, I think this can work out for both of us. It might even be fun.
She was her own person, she went on to clarify, though no one had ever thought otherwise. Even from a distance you could tell that no one would casually lay their hands on her life. Even so, she kept laying down boundaries until Gibson felt he had been penned into a box. A tiny part of her evening with a tiny role to play. There would be no sex before, during, or after the party. Any rumours he started about this would be dealt with quickly and severely. She also had to be free to leave him for short periods to visit with her friends. Their handshake had the finality of a signed contract. She looked beyond him, or through him, to her future—a seamless transition between school and university, a full scholarship in computer science.
It didn’t mean anything, but that had been okay by Gibson. His whole year had been full of things that didn’t mean anything. And it was true that their arrangement had eliminated the task of finding a real date, that is, a girl who liked him.
His friends were surprised and impressed with his date. Gibson guessed he gave the appearance of someone who was having fun. He knew if he could look outside he’d see the faint glow of the pagan fires on the lake, a fire pit on the shore, or someone’s parents’ cabin, parents who’d had the grace to be somewhere else on that night.
They were swaying to Enya when Gibson pulled Sheena closer than the agreed-upon six-inch limit. It wasn’t sexual, he just wanted to be closer to her ear.
—I don’t think anyone else is feeling the way I am tonight.
—What are you talking about?
—We missed something by doing it this way. Do you know what I mean?
—No, I don’t.
—Well, I have to go then.
He didn’t head toward the lake, or attempt to find his imagined parties, but he felt better outside, walking down a dark street in a quiet neighbourhood.
SOON AFTER GIBSON ENTERS KITSILANO, a Land Rover pulls up to him at an intersection and the passenger starts screaming at him, pointing to the back of his car. Her face—probably quite beautiful in a relaxed state—is now contorted with anger. Even her pompom of a dog is snarling, its spit dripping down onto the leather upholstery. He pretends not to speak English, holding his hands up in the air and trying to look puzzled.
People on the sidewalk are staring at him. Farther down 4th Avenue, he feels as though he’s driving through a gauntlet of shiny stores and beautiful people that he’s offended with his smelly, noisy, leaky bomb of a car. He knows he’s contaminating their streets, their sewers, their precious air. He knows it’s bad, but he has to get to the beach.
ONE NIGHT HE HAD ONE dance with one girl. That’s what he remembers from his visit to Vancouver last summer. He didn’t want to go to Synergy. As he explained to his friend Jeff, he didn’t like dance clubs, smoke, drinking, or shouting to be heard. Jeff promised him a game of pool but pulled him into the bar at the last moment. Gibson didn’t care that it was so cool it didn’t advertise, so cool you couldn’t even tell it was a club from outside. Jeff wanted to join up with someone he’d met at Bar None the night before. The moment they entered, Jeff disappeared, darting between tight clumps of people, into the smoky haze.
Gibson found an opening on the rail next to the dance floor. The couple on his left headed out to dance, and moments later their spot was filled. He felt someone brush his elbow. She was close to him but t
urned away, talking to her friend. The gentle nudging game continued until she smiled at him as he turned in her direction. A slow song came on and she took his hand. Close to her warmth she smelled sweet, her perfume something tropical. He swayed with her and imagined how she’d taste. He told her she had a nice body, and she said she was sure he had the same. Gibson’s hand went lower on her back and then she kissed him. He didn’t even know her name, but everything was already shifting.
Jeff tapped Gibson’s shoulder. The small group he had attracted felt it was really important to go to Richard’s on Richards, because somebody knew the brother of someone in the band and the backstage parties were legendary. As Jeff pulled him away, Gibson reached back for the woman and she leaned forward and shouted into his ear.
—I live in Kitsilano, close to the beach.
—Okay, but what’s your phone number?
She smiled and waved and as Gibson was being pulled away, some other guy was already moving in. She watched his departure, then turned to face the new man.
At Richard’s on Richards, Gibson pouted on his bar stool while Jeff’s group moved around him. He could go back to Synergy but he knew enough about bar dynamics to know that if he did, it would be completely different. She would be gone, or worse, some guy would have his tongue down her throat. When he pulled out a crumpled ball of bills to pay for his beer, he noticed a small strip of paper. It was Razi’s phone number. Her name was Razi.
WHEN HIS CAR BEGINS TO sputter Gibson thinks a whiff of the ocean air has overwhelmed it. It finally dies with a block to go, out of gas. He rolls to a stop, bumping against the curb. Behind him, the seizure-inducing strobe lights of a police car. He’d like to take this seriously but it’s hard to feel anything more than fatigue.
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