by Ian Williams
Army
Expansion
Two weeks of the summer had gone by. Army’s business underwent a series of expansions that began with a short-lived lucrative franchise in the backyard, thanks to Oliver’s unearthed barbecue.
People don’t need haircuts every day, he had said to Felicia. But you know what they need?
What?
Food. He parted his hands over his face as if unveiling a marquee.
Army’s BBQ was cheaper than the patty shop in the mall and offered a greater selection. He barbecued hotdogs and burgers and topped them with crushed ketchup chips. He also sold house specialties such as barbecued patty and the extremely popular grilled grilled-cheese sandwich also known as g2 or broke man’s beef. At first, Oliver didn’t want anyone touching his barbecue and insisted on doing the barbecuing himself. But within a few days, Army wore him down with ill-timed demands—once waking him from a nap in the backyard—until Oliver handed over rights to the spatula.
Someone had a bright idea to barbecue chocolate bars. It wasn’t that Army didn’t understand the basics of thermodynamics. The intent was to merge all chocolate bars into one mega chocolate bar with a signature smoked flavour. After a mall run, they emptied every brand unto the hot grill and waited. Some guys were tossing a football around in the backyard as well. It got tossed too far, a guy jumped to catch it. As he was in the air another guy tackled him into Oliver’s wooden fence. The fence got busted. Oliver came out when he heard the commotion. The boys scattered, leaving Army and Hendrix to explain the fence, a trampled tomato plant, and the melted chocolate in his barbecue.
I offered to pay for the fence, Army said to Felicia later.
What kind of man takes money from a child?
It’s all right. I offered. But he refused anyway. I think he just likes to suffer and complain.
That was more or the less the end of barbecuing on Oliver’s grill for the summer. But not the end of quote dollar dollar bill y’all unquote.
* * *
+
Army was usually outside when the mail arrived mid-morning. He and the postwoman were tight.
He did his customary check for a letter from Publishers Clearing House. The envelopes were usually big and brown. Felicia had told him not to get his hopes up. He told her he was getting closer. His friends laughed at him. He thought their disdain would make for a good story when he received the final Congratulations! You’ve won! He thought the final Congratulations! You’ve won! letter might be disguised in a plain white envelope with more time-sensitive information to trick the winner into not opening and thereby forfeiting the prize.
No Congratulations! You’ve won! letter today, but there was a letter for Felicia from a place called Paperplane, which word was emerging from the fold of a paper airplane in profile. She had received a similar letter last Friday, exactly a week ago. A ruse. Another ploy from Publishers Clearing House. He was on to them. They had discovered he was under eighteen and addressed the letter to his guardian from one of their subsidiary addresses.
He put the letter on the coffee table for Felicia but, oh, he’d be home when she opened it.
* * *
+
It was the deadzone in the middle of the day. Most of the parents were at work. Most of his friends were indoors. Heather was off somewhere, passed out in a cocktail of moody sixteen-year-old hormones probably. No, that’s unkind. She could be as cruel as she wanted to him, but he would always love her with the high, delirious pitch of Whitney Houston.
Army could only find Hendrix for company. They had spent almost an hour trying to break their own speed record. They were determined to ride the length of Newcourt without toppling. They tried it with Hendrix on the handlebars for a while, then with Hendrix on the seat while Army pedalled standing up, sprinting. They were about to try again.
You ready? Army asked Hendrix.
Hendrix stopped sucking the knuckle of his thumb, climbed on the saddle, and held on to Army’s waist.
Army pushed off. The first few metres were wobbly. They corrected quickly. The faster they went, the easier it was to balance.
About a week ago, early July, Heather had come back from the mall and caused a scene in his shop, reminding him that he lived in the basement and needed to have a little respect for everyone else, that maybe he should stop selling his piss and get a real job like most people. And Army had to save face in front of his one customer and Hendrix so he pointed out that she didn’t have a job herself and wouldn’t know anybody on this street if it wasn’t for him. Then she rolled her eyes and said, Mr. Social. You’re so cool. I just want to hang with you all summer. And he asked her why she was being such a cunt all of a sudden. And she started for the stairs. Don’t go around acting like you own the place, she said. He opened his palms to Hendrix and asked, What was that about? PMS, Hendrix said. She’s like that with Mom. He didn’t know what the letters stood for or the biological reasons for it. Hendrix sometimes applied it to himself, as in I feel PMSey today.
Army and Hendrix accelerated down the slight incline toward the corner. It felt faster than last time.
Slow down, Hendrix called out.
Hold on.
Army felt Hendrix’s little hands squeeze his waist.
At the speed they were travelling, Army couldn’t stop easily. He couldn’t keep going straight either, else he would crash into a green electrical box. He had to turn and follow the curve of the sidewalk. Yet they had never made it this far before and Army was unprepared for the weight calculations of rounding the corner.
The bike kicked up at the back. Hendrix spilled off. Army toppled sideways and the bike skidded out from under him. He lay on someone’s lawn a moment and closed his eyes. Heather.
He had tried to be the adult with her. He knocked on the upstairs front door the morning following her tiff. She answered with her hair up, wearing an oversized T-shirt that slipped off her shoulder. She was still smoking. He apologized, specifically for calling her a cunt. She said nothing. Then Oliver came to the door with his eyebrows up and when he realized there was no tenant-landlord issue, shooed Army back down the stairs. And since then there had been a lot of sunglasses and gum chewing between them—mostly from her; he felt himself looking longingly after her while trying not to look. Maybe Heather found her crowd, Army didn’t know.
Army opened his eyes. Hendrix was holding his digital watch above Army.
I broke the band. The silver thing’s gone, he said. A rivulet of blood was running from Hendrix’s knee down his shins.
Army sat up and took the watch from him. It still worked. He could fix it. They walked to retrieve the bicycle. When Army looked up from the watch, he beheld the future of his business on the other side of the street. He left the bicycle on the ground and stood, holding his wrists. His bottom lip slackened.
Hendrix followed his eyes. You’re gonna take them?
Hell yeah.
They left the bike behind and crossed the street.
Grab one, Army said.
* * *
+
Their find consisted of a set of weights: two fifty-pound flat metal weights, four plastic-shelled twenty-fives, four tens, two fives. The weights and bench weren’t in great condition. The bar was rusted, the vinyl on the bench was ripped and stuffing was coming out but Army could duct tape that new.
Someone in that house had given up on fitness. Hendrix and Army also scored a belt for around the waist that had electrodes in it. Army figured patrons could just use it as a weight belt.
With that lucky garbage find, Army’s business expanded yet again from barbershop to BBQ stand to gym. By the end of the summer, most of the boys would have V-shaped torsos and tiny legs, like martini glasses.
He spent the afternoon cleaning the weights, and singing under his breath for Heather. Bleach didn’t work but CLR and a scrubbing brush did. The rust came off, ran down the driveway. Within a few hours, he’d set up the bench at the front of the barbershop, almost dire
ctly under the garage door. He lined up the free weights along the wall with the recycling bin. He found a ThighMaster from Oliver’s ex in the divorce rubble. That would be good for the girls. He imagined Heather squeezing her thighs together with a little arch of her back, a push of her tush, then opening them, her nipples straining in a leotard, and had to think about basketball immediately to avoid the erection. The thought of basketball wasn’t strong enough. He had to play.
* * *
+
Army missed Felicia’s arrival home because he was out playing ball and drumming up clients for the soon to be launched Army’s Gym. When he got back, the letter was no longer on the coffee table.
Did you open your mail? Army asked.
Nothing came for you.
The corporate letter, what was that?
A notification. They received my change of address.
Twice?
Yes, twice. Processing error.
What’s the business?
Some magazine subscription promotion thing from work.
Can I see it?
I ripped it up. What’s the matter with you?
Army wondered. Would his own mother—? Naw. Would she? Nah. But would she though? No.
Mom, I’m going to be straight with you here.
Yes, be straight with me.
I’m expecting a cheque. From my sweepstakes.
You have to give up that foolishness.
Hear me out. It should come any day now and I’d like to be sure that you, my own mother, wouldn’t— He stopped short with enough suggestion in his voice.
You accusing me now?
If you accidentally destroyed the first one, I won’t be angry. We’ll just contact them.
The letter was not for you, Army.
* * *
+
The gym was immediately popular. Testosterone was at an all-time high. You could smell it—exactly like elk anus.
It was a chest, bicep and abs day. There were only two days: the other was shoulder, triceps, lats, abs. They made a half-hearted attempt at calf raises and squats but it didn’t feel like much work on the equipment. They worked their legs with basketball anyway. The muscle magazines with men with veins as big as their fingers advised them not to work the same body part every day, to take a rest. That advice was for old people. They were all going to get Van-Damme jacked before the end of the summer and get girls next school year. That was the plan in complete detail.
The pricing structure of the gym was a failure, though.
Patrons paid a one-time five-dollar membership fee. Army would come to realize that he should have monetized it differently—on a subscription basis, five bucks a month, or five bucks for twenty-inch biceps, whatever would guarantee steady cash inflow. For now, one-time fee. He’d take some of the money and buy more free weights at Zellers. The message was, Look, the money comes right back to you.
Money slowed down. He couldn’t go back to his customers with a new pricing model for the gym when he had promised a flat fee. At that point in the summer, he decided it was time to use his secret weapon. Before Oliver had cleaned out the garage, Army had found a few girlie magazines buried in an unlabelled box. Juggs. He did not store them between his mattress and box spring because Felicia rotated mattresses by the season. Instead, he slipped the magazines into some folded T-shirts and stored them in an inside pocket of the suitcase he used for a counter.
He couldn’t run the girlie mag business openly from the garage and he couldn’t advertise it either. One-on-one, in private, and only to select trusted, undoubtedly horny friends, he said, I’ve got something to show you. He took the magazines up to his room and together they read the articles.
That business provided daily income.
Heather
Exposure
Oliver’s truck was gone when Heather returned from a mall run. She was a bit miffed with Skinnyboy. Everything was about him, the music, constantly topping her in conversation, and she wanted things to be about, well, her. No one was in the garage, except for Army, adjusting the Velcro of his—everybody’s—weight gloves, though not actually lifting weights. She acknowledged him today.
So you think my dad’s a truck driver? he said.
Okay, she said, unsure of what she had stepped into.
Not that I have to prove anything to you or to anybody.
She shrugged and was going to go her way, but the way he was flexing his hands, so earnestly, so simply, made her pity him. She said, You have to admit this lovechild business—
I don’t have to admit nothing.
She tried again, Where’s Dad?
Hm. Army put his finger to his chin. His truck’s gone. Maybe he’s driving it.
Hendrix must have blabbed. But come to think of it, she wasn’t even sure she said the truck driver bit. It might have been Oliver. No, it was her. Hendrix said Army’s father was a millionaire and Heather said the truck driver bit and then Oliver started talking about his former life as a bus driver. In any event, she’d said that a long time ago, when she just arrived.
Yeah, whatever, Heather said and started to leave.
Are you still mad at me? Army asked to stop her.
He looked at her, baby-don’t-hurt-me in his eyes. Oh, she could tell, he had it bad. She remembered something she heard about him recently.
She looked both ways before she said, I have something to show you.
He took off the gloves and held his wrists.
Go inside and open the door when I tell you to.
There was a deadbolt on each side of the black door so mutual consent was necessary for a member of one household to enter the other. No one ever consented. All transactions were made at the respective front doors: the door inside the garage for the Shaw residence or the upstairs door for the Soares residence.
She undid the bolt on her side.
You ready?
She heard him undo the bolt on his side.
Okay, open the door, she said.
When he did, she was standing with her plaid shirt unbuttoned, her bra unhooked and lowered beneath her breasts. She leaned forward, crossed her elbows so her breasts spilled between her arms. Then she closed the door on Army’s opening eyes. It was about twenty years ahead of Snapchat.
* * *
+
The first time Heather laid her lips on Skinnyboy, she was on the trunk of his car, after he drove them to Port Credit on the lake and played her songs until she was bored with the music and with giving him compliments, so to end it all she beckoned to him and kissed him while he was still singing, the guitar pressed between their bodies, his hand still attempting to strum but getting stuck under her breasts.
* * *
+
Immediately, Army tried to duplicate the event. Oliver and Hendrix were not back yet.
He knocked on the black door. I have something to show you.
I don’t want to see, Heather said.
A few moments later, he knocked again. Do you have something else to show me?
Heather remembered his type in Grade 9. Dressed in Fubu with the fade and the gold chain, awash in cologne, frenching girls at basement parties, fingering them in the pool, grinding against them on their little beds, twitching out their orgasm.
She went to the black door again and turned the knob. Army was sitting on the floor in a position of desolation, one foot resting flat on the inside of the other, elbow on the raised knee, forehead on elbow. When she stepped over the threshold, he stood up with his back against the hallwall.
You ever kissed a girl? She took another step.
A bunch of times. He nodded. I I I think you mean how many honeys, you know, you know?
How many honeys?
How many honeys? How many?
Yeah, how many? Heather took one more step and let her hair fall into her face. Ballpark, how many?
Too many. Lost track. You’re asking me to count the stars. After graduation we made out in the parking lot. Army’s body stiff
ened, all of it. I have to—
Go on. I’m listening.
Heather’s breasts grazed his chest then she set them firmly against him like the paddles of a defibrillator. The very tips of Army’s body stiffened. She perceived the contrary forces of his hope and suspicion, that she might kiss him or tease him, that he already saw himself in the aftermath, made ridiculous, played.
Army swallowed. So many I have to— Army started and swallowed again. Have to, like, beat them off. With a stick.
Heather didn’t have to tell him to close his eyes. His eyes lowered themselves to her lips and closed automatically. His head was craned forward. She pushed his hips against the wall with the heels of her palms. She could feel the heat from his hands hovering around her cheeks but afraid to make contact. She opened his mouth with her mouth. His tongue had all the exploratory zeal of a hamster sniffing out a new cage. He was trying to impress her now. To settle him, she pinned his neck against the wall in the web between her thumb and index finger. He went limp, as if she were an alien sucking the life force out of him, rendered with the graphics of blue mint breath in a gum commercial. But in a lower country, she sensed an insurrection so she withdrew through the black door before the riot.
* * *
+
The first time Skinnyboy laid his body on Heather was in his basement room one afternoon after his shift. They entered through the side entrance. The house was air-conditioned. Heather already imagined herself living there. She looked through his things with her fingertips, as if in a store, politely, not too much probing, while he poured a Coke elsewhere. A ukelele came out—in that respect, Skinnyboy was ahead of his time—and again with the singing. Heather liked his lyrics, Heather liked his voice, but somehow that didn’t make for good music. She drank the Coke and while he was singing, fell asleep on his futon and woke up hours later. He was still playing and making notes on a music stand with a pencil from behind his ear, as if he was trying to get as much work done as he could while the baby was napping. He seemed both unaware that she had fallen asleep and consciously drawing inspiration from her as resting muse.