40 Nickels

by R. Daniel Lester

  His brow furrowed. He got cross. “Oh, now don’t use the ‘c’ word, we don’t like that kind of thing.”

  We? I thought. Interesting. I decided not to follow up. More like a dusty gold nugget to put in the pocket and polish up to reveal at a later, more opportune date.

  “And that’s the thing with a hypothesis, Fitch. One can never really know for sure.”

  “True,” I said. “Just like one can never really know what they’ll do in a certain situation. Like this one, for example. I’ve dreamed of being handed something like this all my life. In fact, last year I thought I was getting close. But alas, no cigar. And now here it is. And here I am. And I’m doing this.” I folded the cheque several times and ripped it into pieces. The pieces fluttered to the floor like confetti. Very expensive confetti.

  Janssen shrugged. So be it. “That tells me that you’re more stupid than I’d even imagined, Fitch. I wouldn’t think a man in your situation would play so fast and loose with a cheque like that.”

  “And what situation would that be, pray tell.”

  “Well, let’s see. Perpetually broke and no prospects, for starters. Yes, while I’m sure you’ve spent the last few days lifting my rocks I’ve been lifting yours. Why I found out you don’t have an investigator’s license or a tow truck license. Imagine that. You’re a little child in an adult’s world. Always playing games and angles. Still nothing, Fitch, a nobody. Just like when I left you in Toronto.”

  “Hey, that’s not fair. I have a hot plate now.”

  Janssen chuckled. “Well, I stand corrected. You’ve come a long way. Congratulations, you can heat up canned soup in your fleabag flophouse apartment.”

  “Hey, again, that’s a shot below the belt. It’s a cockroach infestation not fleas.”

  “Always the joker. And to think I thought you might be an asset to the team and, at the very least, a silent partner. I guess there’s only one more thing that might change your mind.”

  “Oh yeah, what’s that?”

  “Do you want to see it, Fitch?”

  “It?”

  “The glow.”

  “Do I want to see the glow?”

  “It’s a simple question.”

  I thought about that. “It’s really not.”

  “I think you should. A man like you could learn a lot from it.”

  “A man like me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Could learn a lot from…?”

  “The glow.”

  “Right, the glow.”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “Is it you flashing them pearly whites in a dark room?”

  “No, sorry to disappoint.”

  “Hmm. Okay, so what’s ‘the glow’?”

  “It might be easier if I show you.”

  “Why don’t you give me a hint? I have a bad heart.”

  “I really think I should show you.”

  “And I really think I’m fine not to see it.” Which I absolutely was but Reynold grunted and in that caveman-esque sound, one forged on the open plain, in fire and ice, I heard the sound of snapped bones and screaming. I understood my options. “Okay,” I said, “sure.”

  Janssen winked at me, pleased as punch. “Excellent.”

  So, I guess I was going to see the glow.

  8

  We took Hugo’s car, a cherry Lincoln Continental, although the way Janssen acted as if it was his, it was easy to tell the vehicle was yet another appropriation for the “cause.” Driving was a goon I hadn’t been unfortunate enough to meet yet and he had an air of recently-washed about him. I may have seen him around Gastown, wearing out a bar top with his elbows at noon, but maybe not. Whoever he was, whatever back alley doorway he recently stumbled out of, he now had a nice suit and a nice hat and a nice new set of slightly-oversized teeth and he drove sure and steady. Like Reynold he didn’t say much but I suppose he hadn’t been hired for his conversation either. Janssen rode shotgun. In the backseat it was Reynold behind Janssen and me on the driver’s side. I stared out the window, feeling Reynold’s gaze bore a hole into the side of my skull.

  Every stop sign and red light, my hand crept for the door. And Reynold would grunt. And I’d understand my options very clearly, once again. We were developing quite the friendship.

  Behind us, another Disciple of the Sacred Glow goon followed in my tow truck, as we went from toney Shaughnessy back to my neck of the woods, downtown. Our destination was, unsurprisingly, the Brasher family warehouse on Water Street. The goon pulled the Continental in behind a beat-up Buick blocking the loading bay doors. My tow rig was nowhere to be seen.

  “One of ours, Sir?” asked the driver.

  “No,” said Janssen, “I don’t believe it is. Take care of it, please.”

  “Right away.” The driver hopped out of the car and walked across the street to a phone booth, where he made a quick call. When he got back in the car, he said, “Anytime now, they have someone close.”

  Janssen nodded. “Excellent.”

  So, we waited. I had to really fight the urge to break the uncomfortable silence with a wisecrack but something told me now wasn’t the time. Reynold was in the punishment business and I didn’t want a wisecrack to turn into a skull crack.

  After a few minutes, a tow truck pulled up beside the Continental, driver side to driver side. The goon rolled the window down, said, “Hey” and nodded towards the Buick. Then the tow truck driver quickly and methodically spent the next ten minutes hooking up the Buick to his rig and drove it away, but not before standing in the wash of the Continental’s headlights and nodding respectfully at Janssen. Janssen gave a quick wave back. And that was that.

  “Okay, let’s go,” said Janssen when the tow truck had turned the corner. He had a key on his ring that opened the loading bay door. Inside, was a wide-open space with boxes of pamphlets, buttons and other paraphernalia. A propaganda drop. “It’s from here that we spread the message, Fitch,” he said, enjoying the scene.

  “This is what you wanted me to see?”

  Janssen shook his head. “This is only the beginning. Reynold, show the man to the back.”

  Reynold put his giant mitt on my neck and led me through the boxes to the rear of the warehouse. Janssen got another key off his ring and opened a trap door in the floor. The door swung up and out on a recessed hinge, revealing a staircase. Janssen tugged on a string attached to a bare bulb and it illuminated the way down. Reynold nudged me in the back. I followed Janssen down the stairs. At the bottom, he wandered off in the half-light and I heard him flick another switch.

  “Oh, shit,” I said when I got to the last step, realizing I was in a whole heap of trouble. In the middle of the large, open space was a movable overhead light on a stand. And in the spotlight was a single dentist chair. Janssen removed his jacket, hung it on a coat rack next to the dentist setup and rolled up his sleeves.

  “Let’s take a look in that mouth of yours, shall we, Fitch?” he asked, smug, no disguising the fun he was having.

  Reynold’s hand kept me moving forward. My feet didn’t want to participate but they kept moving. Stupid feet. “I…no…fine,” I said, tongue heavy and unwieldy. Sweat popped at my hairline.

  Janssen rolled a stainless steel table on wheels beside the chair. On it were pointy things and gougey things and scrapey things and I was getting a bit concerned. “Oh, Fitch, surely a quick look. When was the last time you visited the dentist?”

  “Years. And there’s a reason for that.”

  “But that’s the problem, Fitch. Rot creeps in. Rot ruins lives. So new smile, new life. Better living through dentistry.”

  “That sounds familiar.”

  “Yes, it’s a riff on the DuPont slogan, but I don’t suppose they’ll mind, do you? It’s an informal slogan.”

  “And you know me, Janssen: Mr. Formality. Official slogans only.” I hammed it up, going full ‘50s TV ad, “‘Wonderbread: Builds Strong Bodies 8 Ways.’ ‘T
hings Go Better With Coke, Drink Coca-Cola.’”

  Janssen chuckled. “A man of the times. Bravo. Anything else you’d like to share?”

  “Nah, I’ve got an informal slogan too: always leave an audience wanting more. So I’ll just be go—” I turned to leave but Reynold grabbed me by the shoulders. He had one hell of a grip and meant business.

  “Sit, Fitch,” said Janssen.

  I sat. Reynold pushed me back and strapped my arms and legs down. Janssen ratcheted the chair back. “No wonder you got chased out of Halifax,” I said. “Your customer service needs a lot of work.”

  “My ‘customers,’ as you call them, Fitch, are the happiest former winos and hobos on the block. My work changes lives. The DSG is a family for the lost, the scared. I give them what they so desperately crave, normality. Bring them under my wing. And now, little birdie, I want you under there, too. So open your mouth.”

  I shook my head. Janssen said that was okay, fine, suited him. He seemed glad I’d made that choice, which meant he had another way in mind. I was pretty sure that way was Reynold cracking my jaw open like it was oyster-shucking time. I opened my mouth.

  “Excellent,” said Janssen, strapping on a headlamp. “Now, let’s get started.” He leaned in, the glint of two stainless steel tools in his hands.

  I felt the tools enter the private space of my mouth, caressing gum, clicking slowly and carefully over teeth. One instrument held my tongue aside while the other probed. Janssen took his time. My heart rate spiked. I retched, nearly throwing up.

  “Relax, old friend, I’m simply having a look see. And what I see is that I have my work cut out for me.”

  The words “work” and “cut” didn’t calm me down one bit. I had the chair arms in a death grip. I dripped sweat. My heart rate had spiked and stayed there. It was fight or flight but neither was an option. I wondered how it all went wrong and if it’d ever go right again.

  Janssen whistled as he inspected and measured, a merry and lilting tune. He was a man in his element, doing what he’d been trained to do. Hands down the single most bizarre experience of my life and I’d been specializing in bizarre lately what with nearly getting run over by a stampeding elephant last summer and tortured by a cash-crazy janitor with a couple of alligator clips, a car battery and a decaying moral center gooey with rot. Life sure was full of surprises. As was Janssen of words. So many words that when he wasn’t whistling, he opened his mouth and out they came, one after the other after the other.

  He told me that the human body had so many nerve endings in the mouth that the dentist had to be careful, or it really could be quite painful.

  He said, “I remember that you used to try to whistle” and I said, “I hay ih uh e euz I its ahen ooen ay om ah uh ahihihn” and he said, “Excuse me?” and removed the tools from my mouth and I said, “I gave it up because my lips wanted union pay from all the practicing” and he laughed and said, “Same ol’ Fitch, always a joke” and then shoved the tools back inside.

  He told me about leaving me behind at the campsite, years ago, after he’d stolen the roll of nickels. How he’d walked through the neighbourhoods of Toronto that night, creeping in the dark, peeking into windows, seeing the happy, content families in front of the television. Basking in the glow, accepting its warmth. And it was that night that he realized how he could take his passion for helping the poor and forgotten and combine it with this new element of television, of normality. And so, Disciples of the Sacred Glow was born.

  He said he was very confident that I was snooping around on behalf of Hugo’s mother but what he couldn’t figure out was who her mole was, though he was sure there was one, since Mrs. Brasher was about as slick as sandpaper. There had been a number of inductees recently and he was convinced one of them was a spy. But no matter, he said. He’d soon figure it out and he was very much looking forward to a face-to-face meeting.

  He said he was done with the examination.

  He said he had something to show me because he needed a few moments before the operation began, to prep the correct dentures for my mouth.

  He said “New smile, new life.”

  I didn’t get it.

  And then I got it and I laughed. I laughed big and I laughed long.

  Janssen was going to remove all my teeth.

  I was so conflicted. Janssen was a lot of bad words I couldn’t remember anymore but he was pretty darn funny, too.

  And handsome, I had to admit.

  And maybe he was right because new smile, new life. New opportunity. Maybe it was my old crooked teeth holding me back. And for the first time since being in the warehouse basement, I felt…calm. Relaxed. Nothing weighed on me, my bones felt light. Good thing I was strapped in or I might float up to the ceiling. And as long as I listened to Janssen everything would be okay. And it was hunky dory with me that Janssen tipped my chair back up, moved all the dentistry equipment away and then turned off all the lights. Cool as a cucumber, that was me, ol’ Fitchy, strapped to a chair and sitting in the dark with evil but handsome people all around, scurrying around in the background like rats. But rats were A-OK. No problemo. Who didn’t love a hairy rat? I heard the squeak of wheels approaching and then a large television flicked to life in front of me. Not tuned to any channel, but the sheer bright white of the snow was shocking, mesmerizing. And that’s when I realized:

  It was the glow.

  And my new teeth would be the glow, too.

  And the glow was beautiful.

  The glow was everything.

  The glow truly was blessed.

  Janssen began to speak and his voice was everywhere, all around me. In each ear, flowing into every nook and cranny of my brain. And I was getting it. I could see now. The glow. Yes.

  The glow was beautiful.

  The glow was everything.

  The glow was blessed.

  The glow was beautiful.

  The glow was everything.

  The glow was

  Gone, suddenly.

  Janssen’s voice, too.

  And there was nothing.

  Only the scurrying of rats.

  Many rats.

  And darkness.

  It was the void.

  I got scared.

  My heart rate spiked.

  I screamed.

  I screamed again.

  I heard a “Hey!” followed by an “Ooh” followed by a loud crash.

  Then I felt hands on me, undoing the straps, pulling me along, further into the dark, the un-glow.

  Into the void.

  The hands pulled.

  The void was lit with thin strands of light.

  I could see more now.

  The hands belonged to a small pale ghost.

  The ghost looked back at me and grinned.

  And it felt like an end.

  But it was a beginning.

  9

  And like most beginnings it was a rude awakening.

  De-tethered from the glow, I was being ushered to the land of the dead by the small pale ghost to be reborn on the other side, from the void. To then be forced out into the unforgiving un-glow.

  My legs were rubber.

  I couldn’t walk properly, no strength.

  The ghost was still there, guiding me farther out of the void.

  The ghost yelled.

  The ghost pulled.

  I realized this ghost did not have my best interests at heart.

  So I shoved the ghost away.

  I ran.

  I bolted on unsteady legs.

  There were flashing lights and broken sounds.

  I had crossed over.

  I was seeing things how they really were.

  The city morphed, back into a forest. Paved streets became muddy paths. The people changed in front of me, de-evolving as well. Here in the un-glow, on the other side of the void, they could show their true form to me. Their bottom teeth were wicked fangs that curled up over
their lips, towards their misshapen noses. They cast off their human wrapping and became goblins loping along the sidewalks. Their skins were a sickly green hue with grody yellow and red splotches.

  The temperature dipped. I shivered. The goblins blew clouds of breath from moist nostrils. Bits of stringy meat hung from their lips.

  Goblins watched as I passed by, sensing my newly born status, probing my weak-limbed-knock-kneed gait for weak spots, for opportunity. Hunters and I was the hunted.

  Like a fawn is a target for the wolf.

  And me without a mother deer in sight.

  Seeking shelter, I fled into the underbrush.

  I stumbled down a steep mud path.

  I emerged in an enclosed glade, where only shafts of moonlight lit a group of man-goblins standing in a circle, around a large ornate table, carved of an ancient, dark wood. They spoke in a strange tongue. They played a game of sorts. They used long femur bones to knock painted baby skulls, smoothed and rounded, against each other. The object of the game seemed to be getting the baby skulls into the corners, where they would disappear down the gullet of human skulls, their jaws pried unnaturally open.

  I wanted to leave but I didn’t know which way to go. Or how to move my legs anymore. I froze. I went fear-stiff.

  Good thing I was downwind. They couldn’t smell me. Perched on the edge of the light, I decided not moving was the wisest strategy.

  And I became fascinated by their guttural grunts and odd sounds as I watched their game unfold. I wanted to turn away but could not. Their game was one of war, separation, a cleaving. A domination of humanity, bodies becoming tools of entertainment.

  Until a goblin turned to me, nodding.

  I was wrong.

  They’d smelled me all along.

  The creature stepped away from the grassy glade, the game, and loped towards me, bulbous lips glistening in the moonlight.

  I couldn’t move. My limbs were solid blocks.

  The goblin grabbed me by the leg and upended me with ease. It dragged me to his lair, where it laid me down into a special sacrificial chair, exposing my tender neck for the bloodletting. It unsheathed a blade from a scabbard around its chest as it spoke ancient incantations in its goblin tongue.