The Lesser Blessed

by Richard Van Camp

  “As a matter of fact, Mister Harris, yes! Yes, there is something that you, as a teacher of our English class, can do to make this a more enjoyable learning experience.”

  “I see,” Mister Harris said as he paced in front of the room. His magic wand finger flicked erect as he approached the subject. “Mister Beck,” he gritted, “oh, please, Mister Beck, enlighten us—what might that be?”

  “Well,” Johnny said as he stood up, “you have this entire classroom set up wrong.”

  “What?” Mister Harris spat.

  “Yeah, you do. We’re all facing that snot-green blackboard. You get to face the windows and the sunlight. Now, wouldn’t it be more comfortable if we turned this whole classroom around so we face the sun? Come on. You could feel the last of the summer sun on your back during the day, we’d get to see some sunshine, and everybody’s happy. Even you, Mister Harris. What do you think, class?”

  Everybody clapped and hooted their appreciation. Johnny sat down and waited for a reply. There was a thick pause. Mister Harris stood still. We watched him, and he got fatal on us. His little shark face was red. He walked over to the door, opened it and pointed out.

  “Get,” he ordered.

  “What?” everybody said in disbelief. “Come on, Mister Harris. What’s the scoop? We’ll all help. It’ll only take a few minutes. Come on. ?

  When Johnny didn’t move, Mister Harris said, “Mister Beck, are we going to start our war all over again?”

  “Is that a question?” Johnny asked, picking his teeth.

  “That’s a question,” Mister Harris shimmied. “You and I havediscussed your behaviour. We both agreed you would attempt to be a better student.”

  “I know,” Johnny said. “But couldn’t we just move things around ? Couldn’t we just talk?”

  “No!” Mister Harris yelled. He scared us and I guess he scared himself too. He sat down and thought about it. The class sat straight. It felt like everyone was screaming inside but couldn’t let it out.

  “Okay, John,” he said. “Let’s talk about students who have talent but never even try to reach their potential.”

  Johnny’s voice came from low in his throat when he said, “Okay, Mister Harris. Let’s talk about a teacher whose wife is leaving him.”

  The air in the classroom dropped. Mister Harris stood and paced. “Let’s talk about boys who have no father and a mother who’s—”

  Johnny stood up and shouted, “No! Let’s talk about a teacher who drinks too much!”

  Mister Harris yelled, “Getthehellouttahere!” and pointed to the door. Johnny walked out with his head down, and just as he neared the door, he spun around and pointed. “You’re a tough man, babyfingers,” he said, and we all started laughing. I couldn’t believe it.

  “Get out! !” Mister Harris roared.

  Johnny left, and the class was quiet for five solid minutes.

  “I believe,” Mister Harris said, stammering to resurrect the class, “that it is every parent’s nightmare to watch his child become a social misfit.”

  “I believe,” I said inside, “it is every parent’s dream to watch his child burn.”

  Six Stages of Rigor Mortis

  Later that morning we had a class with Mademoiselle Sauvé. French. My desk was in the middle of the room. Johnny’s seat was empty. He usually sat right next to me. Darcy McMannus was hunched over his desk in the far back corner. I knew Juliet had a spare in the library. Sometimes I’d go to the bathroom and pass by there real slow.

  (Juliet! Juliet! Juliet!)

  I don’t know why we took French. Personally, I hated it. The guidance counsellor said we’d get into college and university a lot easier. For crisis management, I only went because of Mademoiselle Sauvé’s French titties. They were so perky. I swear to God I’m perverted or something, but I just can’t help noticing. I can’t help it. I have hungers, you know. Man hungers

  We were going through the six stages of rigor mortis, droning on and on about the verb être, which means “to be.” It didn’t mean a damn thing to me, but I had it down pat: “Je suis, tu es, il est, elle est, nous sommes, vous êtes, ils sont, elles sont.” I was with the rest of the damn worker bees singing this death chant mantra when we heard a great rumbling. It sounded like somebody was dragging heavy pieces of wood across the floor. The floor vibrated under our feet. Nobody could figure it out. Dean Meddows mentioned maybe they were setting up for a student assembly but Moustache Sammy said no, that couldn’t be right. The rumbling was on this floor, next door. English class! Mister Harris’s room! Somebody was moving the classroom furniture—Johnny !

  We all sat up. The girls giggled and whispered things to each other. The boys smiled and looked out the windows, but Mademoiselle Sauvé kept on with her class nonetheless.

  “Johnny Beck,” Junior Merc said, “now that’s a man with balls.”

  “Bullshit,” Darcy McMannus countered from the corner. “He’s a goddamn pain in the ass, that’s what he is.”

  We were all quiet after that, ̵7cause Darcy was the boss. I snuck a peek over at Johnny’s empty desk, and I noticed that scratched into the wood-top was “Johnny Beck was here questing for fire” and “Stay high pigs don’t fly” and “I don’t go to high school, I go to school high” and “Juliet Hope goes down.”

  As the rumbling in the next room continued, a religious fervour swept over the room. A human cry arose from student lips. We bombarded Mademoiselle Sauvé with a roar of “JE SUIS! TU ES! IL EST! ELLE EST! NOUS SOMMES! VOUS ÊTES! ILS SONT! ELLES SONT!”

  I looked out of the corner of my eye and even Darcy McMannus was cheering ... a little.

  We all ran out of the classroom when the buzzer went off and peeked into the next room. Johnny wasn’t there but his signature was: the whole classroom had been rearranged. Mister Harris’s desk had its back to the windows so he could feel the heat of September’s dying light. The class could look forward to watching the November sunsets at four in the afternoon. If anyone had to serve a detention or work late, they could watch the Christmas moon come out at 3:30. The picture of the Queen with her big hooters was placed to the left of the bookshelf; the plastic glory of Mister Harris’s plants was by his desk. Even the clock that timed our sagging hours was there, above the window right behind Mister Harris’s desk. I laughed and the class laughed with me. We had our hero.

  The next day, however, the classroom furniture was moved back to its original position. Mister Harris kept diligently to his curriculum while we looked at the snot-green chalkboard. We didn’t see Johnny for a whole week. He had been suspended.

  The Feast of Kings

  Johnny came back on Monday. I watched him all day. After class, I ran up behind him as he walked across the field leading towards the back streets of town where we lived.

  “Boy, that Mister Harris,” I said. “What a Leonard.”

  “Leonard who?”

  “Not a who—a what.”

  “Who—Babyfingers?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The fuck’s a Leonard?” he asked. I could tell he was interested.

  “Oh, you know, a monge, a face-melt, a stick!”

  “What?”

  “An asshole!” I yelled. We both smiled after that. “My name’s Larry Sole.”

  “Johnny Beck.”

  “Man, you sure are daring.”

  “You’re only beautiful once.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Okay. Wanna see where I live? I’m on Little Vietnam—”

  “Little Vietnam?”

  “It’s just around the corner from you. My mom goes to the college. Is your mom a college student? My mom’s a college student.” I remembered Mister Harris saying something about Johnny’s mom but I didn’t want to pry.

  “Yeah, howdjoo guess?”

  “Spruce Manor’s the town residence for college students.”

  “My mom’s going there,” he mumbled. “This town sucks. I mean, if this t
own were a fart, I wouldn’t even stop to sniff it. I’d just keep on walking.”

  I laughed and covered my mouth.

  “This high school any good?”

  “The chicks here have magnormous breasts.”

  He looked at me. “It’s the pill, man. You gotta love it.”

  I inhaled autumn. It was blazing along our path. The fireweed surrounding us sang with her brightest voice: purple, bloody, fresh. I almost didn’t see the empty Lysol bottles or the brown broken glass we walked by.

  “My number’s in the book,” I said. “If you want to go for a pop, give me a call—holy shit!”

  “What?” Johnny asked, but I was already running to the house.

  “Ravens!” I yelled. “The damn ravens!”

  It was too late. The ravens had opened the garbage bin and scattered our garbage over the lawn and road. It was five minutes of death. There were juice cans, coffee filters, caribou bones, everything, just everything you’d never want to see on your goddamn lawn.

  “What the hell happened?” Johnny asked as he jogged up to me.

  “Those damn ravens got into the garbage again. I was supposed to put another lock on the door. The ravens keep picking the old one.”

  “Ravens can’t do that—”

  “Damn straight,” I said. “I’ve seen ravens steal food from a baby’s hand. They’re real bastards when it comes right down to it.”

  “Wow.”

  “Well, could you help me?” I asked.

  “I think,” he said, “I’m gonna be a Leonard and get the hell home. My mom’ll be home at five.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Yeah. You can come over later if you want. Bring food—or call me. Ask for the Big Kahoona.”

  “You bet!” I called out. “I’ll do that. Sol later.” “Sol later” is Raven Talk. It’s “See you later” said really fast. The correct response is “Sol” but Johnny didn’t say it. All he did was shake his head and go, “Little Vietnam. Not bad, not bad.”

  I went into the house to grab more garbage bags.

  Bannock and Dishes

  The sticker by the apartment 13 slot said “A. Beck,” and seeing how Johnny’s last name was Beck, I rang it. I had some hot bannock wrapped in a plastic bag stuffed in my jacket. The intercom crackled and I called out, “Johnny, this is Larry, I’m—”

  “Hello?” Johnny asked. “Hello, am I on the air? Can I make a request? Just wait, someone else wants to make a request... oh, piss on it—this thing is broken. Just come up.” The buzzer went off and I opened the door.

  Spruce Manor, I thought, what a place to die. There was the smell of wet rugs, muktuk and dry meat in the air. I breathed through my mouth and covered my nose. People had punchedholes in the wall all the way up the stairs. Johnny was standing out in the hallway with the door open. From his apartment I could hear AC/DC. It was either “Back in Black” or “Highway to Hell.” I didn’t really know them. AC/DC was great to dance to but I never bought any of their tapes. Johnny had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows; his hair was kind of messy. He had on bleached white socks with a hole in one of them. As I got closer, I noticed he had soap suds on his hands.

  “Edanat’e?” I said.

  “Which?”

  “That means, How are you?”

  “Oh ... good. Come on in. I’m just cleaning up the joint. It’s Larry, right?”

  “Yup,” I said, “and you’re the Big Kahoona.”

  “Yeah.” He looked nervous.

  I walked into the apartment and took off my jacket. I carefully hung it up, away from the dirty floor.

  “What’s this?” Johnny asked as I handed him the hot package.

  “Don’t panic,” I answered. “I made bannock.”

  “Oh yeah?” Johnny smiled. “That’s cool, man. That’s really cool. Come in.”

  We walked through the kitchen. Johnny had done a motherload of dishes. They were stacked right up and there were still more to do. Ashtrays on the kitchen table were overflowing. There were about three different sets of cards, all of which looked overused. There was a crib board there too, but I didn’t know how to play. I sat on the love seat in the living room and Johnny turned down the volume. The apartment was barren. I mean, there was nothing on the walls except for a Canadian flag that reached from one end of the room to the other, covering the windows completely. There was a TV, but it was piled on some old milk crates. I noticed the linoleum was peppered with burns where people had dropped their cigarettes and matches. The holes looked like charred, blurred eyes staring up at the ceiling.

  I remembered the flag from school had been stolen recently and eyed this one more carefully.

  “You like country?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Hey, is it true there’s a song called ‘Take Your Tongue Outta My Mouth, I’m Trying to Kiss You Good-bye?’ ”

  “What!”

  “Jokes! You like AC/DC?”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Iron Maiden rules.”

  “Oh yeah, ‘Run to the Hills,’ hey? Did you butter this already?”

  “Yeah. Do you have any raspberry jam?”

  “Naw, we’re strapped until my mom gets some cash. Things are pretty horror-show right now.”

  “What?” I said, eyeing him. “Ain’t nothing sadder than bannock without raspberry jam—that’s just about as sad as a one-bark dog!” (Jed taught me that one.) “Well, how about lard? You got any lard?”

  “Nope.”

  “You know what they say? Bannock and lard make you hard!”

  “Cute,” he smirked.

  From the hallway, a little boy peeked around the corner. He had big eyes, like a whitefish. He walked past Johnny and sat at the table across from me.

  “Edanat’e?” I asked.

  “The hell does that mean?” the little guy asked.

  “How are you, smart ass, and be nice to Larry. He’s in my class,” Johnny snapped. “Look what he brought us.”

  “Is that bannock?”

  “Yeah, and you owe another twenty-five cents to the swear-jar.”

  “What! ?” the little guy said. “What for, huh? What did I say?”

  “You said, ‘What the hell does that mean?’ ‘Hell’ is on the list. You owe twenty-five cents.”

  “Damn,” the little guy agreed. “Can I pay later when Mom gives me allowance?”

  “No,” Johnny said. “You pay it now, and that’s another twenty-five cents, Mister Damn.”

  Frowning, the boy pulled two quarters out of his pocket and put them into a glass jar in the middle of the supper table. The jar was half full. The quarters clinked as they landed on the top of the pile.

  “Good boy,” Johnny said. “Now don’t swear.”

  I looked at Johnny and motioned to the jar.

  “Scoop?” I asked.

  “Scoop ... where?”

  “No, what’s the scoop? With the jar?”

  “Oh that.” He smiled. “If Donny swears he puts twenty-five cents into the swear-jar. If he calls anyone a name, that’s another twenty-five cents in the jar. If he talks back or starts to hit, that’s another quarter. I use the money to do the laundry and buy milk or juice.”

  “Ever smart,” I said.

  “It’s ’cause of my big cock, I guess!” Johnny joked.

  “Ischa!” I said and laughed.

  They both studied me.

  “You some kind of chief or what?” Donny asked.

  Before I could answer, he asked, “How much money you got, chief?”

  “Two bucks.”

  “Well,” he said, eyeing my pockets, “if I can guess where you were born, I can keep it, ’kay?”

  “What are you going to do with the cash if you win?”

  “He’s saving up for a mountain bike,” Johnny muttered. “He’s already got a hundred dollars so far.”

  “Okay,” I said. There was no damn way he could know I was born in Fort Rae. “Where was I born?”

  He eyeballed me an
d grinned. “You were born between your mama’s legs!”

  We all started laughing.

  “He’s a bandit,” Johnny smiled, looking at Donny.

  “Hand it over,” Donny commanded. I gave him his cash.

  “Thanks, chief,” he said as he stuffed the bills into his shirt pocket. “You got hair on your nuts, or what?”

  Before I could answer, Johnny stomped over to Donny, scooped him up and took him around the corner. The little boy was quiet about the whole thing, and it looked like this had been done many times before. They were gone for about thirty seconds. Only Johnny came back.

  “Sorry, Lare,” he said. “My brother can be a putz.”

  I didn’t say anything. Johnny took a break from doing the dishes and had some bannock. I was thinking of having some too, but the way he was taking great big mouthfuls, it looked like he hadn’t eaten in a long time.

  “Hey, this is goob,” he said.

  “Not too dry?” I asked.

  “Naw, just right. Goob.” Johnny seemed to be antsy about me being there. He kept mentioning that his mom would be home soon and that she liked it really quiet.

  “Nothing personal, Lare, but you better go before she gets here. Thanks for the bannock. I still have to do those dishes.”

  “Yeah. Tell Donny I said good-bye.”

  “You gotter.” He nodded. He looked at the clock, then walked me to the hall. I wasn’t even out the door yet and he was already back in the kitchen scrubbing away.

  The next time I saw Johnny was in the hallway at school. Except it wasn’t him that I saw first—it was the fight he was in and the commotion it caused.

  There were students all around him, buzzing like bees excited or about to swarm. There were about thirty guys—Chipewyan, Cree, Slavey, Inuit and white—with their arms locked to form a huge human circle so nobody in the ring could escape until it was all over. If whoever was fighting tried to escape, they’d be kicked back into the ring. People who were late were pushing into the circle to watch the fight. The air was charged and people were yelling out things like: “Kick his honky ass!” “Don’t be a pussy ...fight!! fight!” “Fiiiiidemm!”