I tear up his cheque and toss the shreds on his desk.
“Keep your dirty money, you thief,” I say.
“Jesus forgive you!” Liam calls out in a saccharine-sweet voice, as I stomp out the back door.
What I do next happens almost independent of my will, as if my body is on autopilot. It is like an outside force is guiding me along. It is almost like I’m dreaming.
I am walking towards home when I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. I spin and walk back to the front of Searchlight TV. When I peek through the store’s front window, I can hear Liam calling loudly for Wanda. “I’m not finished with you, Wanda! Get back here!”
As Wanda drags herself into the backroom again, I step into the store and walk to the sales counter. From a ledge beneath the countertop, I pluck two computer disks, respectively labelled Inventory and Sales – April (Gov’t) and Inventory and Sales – April (CLHC) — one set of books for the government, another set for the church. I slide the disks into my back pocket and leave the store. As simple as that.
It is a couple of weeks later, my parents are out of town, and Zoe is over at my place. Naturally, being alone for the evening we go straight to my bedroom — to read the newspaper. I have the sports pages and Zoe has the national news section.
“OH MY GOD!” she shrieks. “Listen to this!”
She begins reading out loud:
Bad Books Bring Down CLHC Ministry
(Faireville - CP)
Liam Capper, a Faireville businessman with links to the Church of the Lord’s Holy Command (CLHC) was arrested Monday in an early morning raid on his appliance store, Searchlight TV. Based on several anonymously sent computer disks containing incriminating evidence of tax evasion and fraud, police obtained warrants to search the premises.
Upon entering the store, police allegedly discovered Mr. Capper engaged in abusive behaviour with an unnamed female employee, also a member of the CLHC. Mr. Capper then became violent, allegedly attacking a police officer with a symbol of the CLHC — a steel cross with a lightning bolt. Police used force to subdue him.
The female employee later led police to further evidence of illegal activities by Capper and other deacons of the CLHC. She gave additional testimony concerning the long-suspected manipulative and abusive practices of the organization. Other female members of the congregation are said to be coming forth with testimony.
Police also searched the office of Ignaceous Rathburn, leader of the Faireville CLHC, and former singer of the punk rock band, Ejaculator. Rathburn, who has been linked to fraudulent activities documented in records from Searchlight TV, has apparently fled. His office was found emptied of all documents, frustrating attempts by investigators to further infiltrate the CLHC organization . . .
“I’ll bet his wife got sick of being treated like a slave and sent those computer disks in herself,” Zoe says.
“That would be poetic, wouldn’t it?” I say.
I am considering telling her how the disks really got to the police, when Zoe says, “I’ll bet you’re glad I made you promise to never go back there, eh?”
She winks at me when she says that, and kisses my cheek. I feel a little twinge of guilt for breaking my promise, but I think I’ll be forgiven for my transgression.
I look at the newspaper photo of an enraged Liam Capper as he is led to a police cruiser, his hands cuffed behind his back.
Jesus forgive you, Liam.
Cruisin’ Machine
(Grade ten)
Some of the most significant memories in the hearts of men are their firsts. First dates, first kisses, first drinks, first voyages, and the first tastes of independence; they all represent great steps on the awkward climb to manhood. Today, all of these things seem within my reach. This afternoon, I will purchase my first car.
Unlike most of my buddies, I work weekends and evenings after school as an indentured servant of J.D.’s Gas-O-Rama. Needless to say, the wages are not overly generous, but through perseverance otherwise uncommon to my nature, I have managed to scrape together nine hundred big ones. To do this, I have had to greatly restrain the portion of my income which was normally dedicated to the necessities: rock albums, concert tickets, and twenty-dollar six-packs from Crazy Jack the bootlegger.
I have made many sacrifices, but I am a man with a mission. The focus of my existence has turned to the procurement of the big prize, and nothing is going to stop me. I want a car. And not just any car either. I picture myself behind the wheel of a snarling, snorting, tire-smoking, rock-and-rolling, hundred-and-sixty-mile-an- hour girl-magnet on wheels. I don’t think it’s too much to hope for.
Luckily, my dad was a street racer in the fifties, in his fondly remembered Ford Roadster, so I have an important ally in my quest for mobility. Mom has also grudgingly accepted my proposal, reasoning that I will be available to act as a personal chauffeur to my annoying thirteen-year-old sister, Charlotte (excuse me while I pause to laugh hysterically at Mom’s naiveté). Naturally, all of my buddies are behind me as well — to scoop up the excess babes, no doubt. Everything is looking wonderful; I’m seeing the world through a rose-coloured windshield.
My desire for a cruising machine finally comes to a climax during Friday afternoon’s math class — I’m so exited, I haven’t been able to sleep a wink. As soon as the bell rings, I stride out the door and up the street to Virtuous Vic’s Used Car Corral and Laundromat, my heart full of pride and my faded old Levi’s stuffed with freshly withdrawn twenties.
The moment I pass under the flashing neon sign at the entrance, a greasy, slouching little man materializes in front of me, sporting three days’ worth of facial hair and a sludge-encrusted baseball cap which reads 1989 Detroit Battle of the Monster Trucks. Probably noticing the look of desperation on my face, he asks, “Kin I show yuh somethin’, boy?”
“I want to buy a cruisin’ ma . . . er, a car,” I say with businesslike authority. “What have you got for under nine hundred dollars?”
“Nine hundred, eh . . . ” he ponders, trying to look serious. “Howzabout that nice, clean, Chevrolet Chevette over there? It ain’t got much rust, it’s easy on the gas, and, uh, it’s finished in a nice sporty red. It’s got cool rally rims, too!”
A Chevette? I am deeply offended, and I wonder if this fellow is actually Virtuous Vic, or just some dumb employee who polishes the chrome (on those cars that actually have any). This guy is talking to me like I’m willing to settle for something reliable and economical! I’m not going to stand for such an insult and decide to show this clown just what kind of automotive man he’s dealing with.
“Um, well, have you got anything with a little more, um . . . power?” I ask.
“Well, boy” he slowly and hoarsely whispers, stroking his chin as if deep in thought, “I got a lil’ jobbie out back with more horsepower under the hood than a stray cat’s got fleas . . . but I wouldn’t sell that baby to just anybody.” Then he turns and looks me straight in the eyes. “Do yuh think yuh got what it takes to handle a muscle machine like that? I mean, we’re talkin’ one badass vee-hicle here, boy.”
It doesn’t matter that the salesman’s acting about as convincing as Woody Allen playing Darth Vader; it doesn’t matter that the word “jobbie” is often used by my three-year-old cousin to describe the results of a successful session of potty training; it doesn’t even bother me that I am about to put my life savings into the hands of a guy who likes monster trucks. I ignore all the omens. This is destiny.
My eyes narrow to slits, and my chest expands as I draw a deep breath; I feel like I’m the hero in a Hollywood action film, about to gun down the villain in the final climactic showdown. In my deepest post-pubescent voice, I speak the ominous words: “Let’s have a look at it.”
“It’s out back,” intones the salesman.
It is love at first sight (and we all know how blind love can be). It sits amidst the oil barrels and the overgrown weeds, staring at me provocatively with its twin sets of headlights, its grille sections
formed in a sly, nasty grin. It is . . . Oh, it is sexy. I move in closer.
It is a ‘66 Pontiac Laurentian. Four doors. Metallic lime green. Great big sixteen-inch wheels. A trunk you could park a Chevette in. The entire Canadian Air Force could land on the hood. It has little gouges and scratches all over it, like a battle-scarred warrior, and angular, spear-like protrusions in the front that could rip through a Jeep like a hot bullet through a lump of lard. My heart races. I feel faint.
Suddenly, a voice cuts through my euphoria; “Well, whadda yuh think, boy? She may look a little rough on the outside, but under that there hood — whoo boy, she’s wildfire!”
As if the subliminal imagery of referring to the car as a she isn’t already more than my inflamed young hormones can handle, my shaggy-faced friend looks me straight in the eyes and delivers the final sales blow.
“There’s a bonus involved here, boy.”
What member of the human race can possibly resist a bonus?
“Now I know the thing on the side of the car says `V-8 289 C.I.’ but it ain’t got no wimpy little excuse of an engine like that,” he explains. “Yep, she’s got an overhauled 454 inside. Was put in by the last owner with his own hands. That car there will blow them young mommas’ boys in their Camaros right into next week!”
Although I’ve slept through quite a few math classes, I know that 454 is a much, much larger number than 289; I also relish the image of sending a few mommas’ boys for a some unexpected time travel — particularly that weasel Jimmy Tanner. Naturally, when the salesman tells me I can drive away with this classic muscle car this very day, I practically throw my money at him.
The price, interestingly enough, comes to exactly nine hundred dollars and forty-six cents (including titles, taxes, fees, fuel allowances, licenses, and destination charges, whatever any of that means). As I sign on the dotted line, thanking him for letting me forget about the forty-six cents, I wonder exactly what the phrase AS IS on the contract means. As I thunder away in a great billow of blue-grey smoke and volcanic ash, I am too wrapped up in the enormity of my accomplishment to worry about it much.
Unfortunately, my illusions of fame and grandeur quickly disintegrate under the weight of reality. I’d figured that rolling into the school parking lot in my rumbling, backfiring, smoking, mobile road hazard would fill my life with adoring young females, but I’ve discovered that I actually met more girls when I rode the rumbling, backfiring, smoking school bus. My disillusionment is further amplified by the realization that the money I had previously used to support my weekend six-pack habit is now consumed by my car’s insatiable appetite for gasoline, oil, and engine parts.
Now comes the final blow. Exactly three months have passed since I handed my money over to “Vermin” Vic, and as if to deliver the killing stroke to my critically wounded pride, it happens on the night of my first car date with Zoe Perry.
Zoe agreed to the date on two conditions: We cannot technically refer to the date as a date, since her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend Jimmy might object, and I have to promise that I won’t get her killed on the way there, since I have managed to earn the dubious distinction of being the only guy in the recent history of Faireville High ever to accumulate seven speeding tickets in less than three months. Naturally, being the gentleman that I am, I drive at exactly the speed limit, even going so far as to slow down for stop signs and small children.
Zoe brushes a lock of her silky brown hair from of her face, puts her hand on my shoulder, and smiles at me as we pull up to a stoplight. Everything is going so well. Until, out of the corner of my eye, I see it.
It is a red Camaro. It is in the lane right beside us. And the guy behind the wheel is most certainly a momma’s boy. He looks over at my grizzled Pontiac, and I swear I see him snicker. I have no choice. Road war has been declared.
I survey the Camaro to see what I am up against. The shiny gold letters on the side tell me that it is an I.R.O.C.
“Oh yeah, pal?” I say, more to Zoe than to the Camaro’s driver. “My car’s an I.R.O.C., too. The letters stand for `I Run Over Camaros.’”
The light turns green. I stomp on the accelerator, and my mighty combat machine lurches forward, the magnificent roar of its 454 engine overwhelms the Camaro’s pitiful whine. My fingers grip the steering wheel and I stare straight ahead so confident and undaunted that I barely feel Zoe’s fingernails digging into my arm.
The engine screams like a crazed warrior as the tachometer edges into the red. Slowly, I start pulling ahead of the Camaro. I am winning! I am winning! If I can just hang on to third gear for a few seconds longer I can —
KA-PLOOOOM!
The overwhelming sound of the mighty 454 exploding reverberates through the surrounding farmland. A valve stem shoots through the sheet metal of the hood and lands on the pavement with a sickening clatter.
An eerie silence follows. I feel as if an ice pick has been thrust through my heart.
Despite my horror, I manage to steer my disabled vehicle onto the gravel at the side of the road as it sputters and coughs and spews oily smoke from under the hood. Through tear-filled eyes, I watch the Camaro disappear into the distance.
In one fateful moment my dreams of fame, fortune, and of Zoe Perry grind to a sickening halt. My big race results in weeks of ridicule, courtesy of my buddies who go as far as to put an ad in the local paper for Dak’s Automotive Demolition. I am also forced to suffer the humiliation of being rescued from the scene of devastation by my mom, who spends the trip back into town talking with Zoe, discussing the ridiculous facets of the male ego. I suffer from acute inferiority every time I see a Camaro. Worst of all, Zoe refuses to speak to me, and our study sessions are no more.
Everything I wanted had seemed within my reach. How could I have lost it all so easily?
Thank You, Quentin Alvinstock
(Grade eleven)
It’s the second month of grade eleven, and my life totally sucks. I blew my savings on a car that now rests in pieces in the Faireville Wrecking Yard, and I am stuck riding the school bus with geeky grade nines and tens. I am helplessly in love with Zoe Perry, who acts as if I don’t exist. My annoying sister is in grade nine, and she’s doing better on the romantic front than I am. I might as well put myself out of my misery by joining a monastery.
The only small ray of sunshine in my otherwise dark world is that I did not get stuck in my father’s grade eleven English composition class. Instead, I’ve got the new guy, Quentin Alvinstock. As high school teachers go, he’s a pretty good guy, other than being in desperate need of effective underarm deodorant. Mr. Alvinstock prefers to teach books like Catch 22, Slaughterhouse Five, and The Catcher in the Rye, unlike my father, who feeds his students a strict diet of Shakespeare and Robertson Davies. Dad is now the head of the English Department at Faireville High. He calls the ex-hippie Mr. Alvinstock a slacker and a pinko, and is desperate to find a reason to rid his English Department of such a menace. So naturally, I’ve decided to give Quentin Alvinstock a chance.
At first, I hold it against him that he is making all of us write a poetry mini-collection for part of our term mark. Asking an average grade eleven guy to write at least four meaningful poems is, as school assignments go, nearly equivalent to asking my sister to have a telephone conversation with one of her giggly little friends in fifty words or less.
“Oh, man,” I moan, “not poetry! Anything but poetry!”
This is a comment that would get me thrown out of my own father’s writing class, but Mr. Alvinstock just chuckles and says, “Well, Dak — and any of you other gentlemen who feel the same way — poetry is often an effective means of communicating our feelings to members of the opposite sex.” We interpret this to mean that poetry will get us laid. And, of course, we are all okay with that!
“Write from your heart!” Mr. Alvinstock sings out. “Write what you know! Write what you feel! Write about the tiniest, most beautiful details you’ve noticed! Write about the biggest things you’ve experienced in l
ife! Write, write, write!”
So, I write, write, write. There doesn’t seem to be much choice about it, really, considering Mr. Alvinstock is basing a hefty chunk of our term mark on it. Besides, it isn’t too difficult to peg down my biggest experience as of late. I only have to look as far back as the end of summer, just before school started.
SOMETHING TO TALK ABOUT ON THE FIRST DAY BACK
AT FAIREVILE DISTRICT HIGH SCHOOL, GRADE ELEVEN
It was Saturday
I washed my car
Drove up and down the dock past the ice cream bar
See and Be Seen
It was the Summertime Law
Billy called shotgun Ray back with Dean
Cranked down the windows
Turned up The Max Machine
One-arm-suntan-poses
Were critical
Beach and ocean
Through a rose-coloured windshield
Sun-bronzed bodies
Like wheat in a sand field
If I dare to touch one
Will she die in my hands?
Every day like a pop song
All backbeat, no danger
I steer with my knees
and dream safely of strangers
Speakers thump out bravado
(It’s critical)
The last night of August
When Summertime ends
She leans through my window
It’s half-past ten
No longer pretending
(It’s critical)
She says “Let’s go to the boardwalk”
I say “okay”
The buzz of the radio
And seagulls and waves
I ‘ve got beers in the trunk in a cooler
(Also critical)
My heartbeat thunders
Deep in my ears
It may be passion
It may be fear
The boys will wonder why I was late
I don’t know what I’ll say
Okay, so I stole the rhythm from a tune on an old Joe Walsh album, but I’m still kind of pleased with the way it turned out. And I guess the cool thing is that I didn’t tell anyone, not even Billy or Dean, about what happened that night, which makes the title sort of ironic (which might have got me a higher mark from Mr. Alvinstock if he’d known). Why didn’t I tell my buddies about the one occurrence which almost every guy in the history of grade eleven lies about experiencing? Well, I have my reasons.
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