I remembered asking my mother what had become of the clock. She had told me it was still over at the old house, still with my grandmother. Probably still losing eight minutes every twelve hours.
I heard a stone being kicked and the tell-tale thuck of it hitting a tree. I hadn’t missed him. He had officially ended this summer day. From behind the window screen, I saw him passing the house as he normally did: head hung low, eyes on the ground, shoulders slouched, his knees perpetually bent, like his legs could never make a full commitment to walk. His shiny hair was combed back in its usual style, vaguely reminiscent of a fifties’ ducktail.
Old Tommy Hazel was at least sixty, but looked twice that age. So did his clothes. Every morning, as long as we’d been here in this house, he would make his way along the road into the village, usually to get drunk, if he wasn’t drunk already. And every evening, his mission completed, he would retrace his steps back to his place of origin; somewhere in the northern part of the reserve, which is largely swamp. The place has a Native name, but it’s hard to spell and harder to pronounce, unless you’ve been born speaking the language. And the name’s not really that translatable. It might be loosely interpreted as: “The kind of place white people like to explore for no practical reason except to say ‘because it’s there!’”
Old Tommy Hazel was a local legend, a mystery, verging on a bogeyman. Even though the man had lived in Otter Lake all his life and everybody knew him, nobody actually knew where he lived, other than the fact that it was deep in the swamp somewhere. And nobody really wanted to know, either. Except me.
I was curious. After watching this man walk by my house for the last twenty-odd years, I couldn’t help wondering where his daily journey began and ended. I had no logical reason for wanting to see with my own eyes where he lay his head down at night. What little I’d seen of his life didn’t interest me much. In my life, I’d said perhaps a hundred words to him. We were supposedly distantly related, but that’s nothing. Everybody in Otter Lake is.
Still, the question of Old Tommy Hazel—where dawn found him every morning and where day left him every night—nagged me. Nagged me to the point where I would listen more intently than I should every morning as he walked by, and every night as he staggered home. I would imagine how long he had been walking. How winded were his sixty-year-old lungs? He was an old man, with an alcoholic’s body; he couldn’t walk that far. But then again, you can’t always judge an alcoholic by the standards we apply to ourselves. My grandmother used to say that God loves fools and children, and that drunks could be classified as fools for the lifestyle they’ve chosen. It does, however, seem that drunks have a unique ability to survive what they do to their bodies, and whatever the fates decide to throw at them. I’ve heard about drunks falling asleep in snowbanks, getting hit by cars, falling off hills, committing numerous other atrocities against themselves, then getting up and walking away. No worse for wear.
Old Tommy Hazel had a home somewhere out in the swamp, and for no reason other than curiosity, stupidity, and perhaps a little of that “because it’s there!” philosophy, I wanted to see it.
I slipped out of my bedroom and went to the back door, as I’d been waiting to do. I allowed him a few minutes’ head start. I ran silent, I ran deep, as I exited the house on my mission. I didn’t have to see him to follow him. He had a noisy, shuffling walk, as if the effort of lifting his boots more than an inch off the ground was a waste of time. I, on the other hand, in an effort to walk like a ghost through the forest, dug deep into my soul, determined to find that “inner-Indian” many in the white world think we automatically possess. I found myself dodging thorn branches, hanging vines, bushes that grabbed at me like one of those black holes scientists are always talking about. The further Old Tommy Hazel got into the swamp, the wetter my sneakers (and I use the term loosely) became. My “inner-Indian” was evidently on vacation.
But the marshy ground allowed me to drop back another hundred feet or so. Tracking became easier. The footprints from those big, industrial workboots he favoured left deep and unmistakable tracks in the soft, wet ground. They were easy to follow, sponge-like impressions slowly filling up with water, leaving behind oblong puddles through the bush. Even at this distance I could hear him huffing, his blood straining to turn the oxygen and alcohol into usable fuel for his trek through the swamp. Still he kept walking.
I trudged along behind him for about half an hour, careful not to get too close or curse too loudly when my sneakers were sucked off my feet by the oozing mud. I was also aware of the growing darkness, and the emergence of night noises. The sun had set not that long ago, but the twilight that happens on lazy summer days always gives the impression that it will last longer than it really does. This is not good when you’re in a swamp, a fair distance from home, in the dark, following the town drunk to God knows where. Puddles in the ground are hard to follow home by moonlight. In retrospect, the whole evening might not have been such a good idea. I should have known better.
So, lost in my increasing concern over my situation, I didn’t notice that the thwuck, thwuck, thwuck sound of Old Tommy Hazel’s big old work boots had stopped. Only the sounds of the night accompanied my heavy breathing. Suddenly realizing this, I held my breath and kneeled down behind a half-dead cedar tree. I immediately noticed two things: first, I could just barely make out Old Tommy Hazel’s laboured breathing, now more calm, hovering somewhere to my right. Second, my right knee was wet from kneeling in a swamp.
The tell-tale sound and flare of a match being lit drew my attention to the old man’s location. Just a couple of dozen feet ahead of me, beside what appeared to be a small lake. In actuality it was no more than a less-treed opening in the swamp around us.
As he lit his cigarette, I saw that he was sitting comfortably on a weathered log jammed into the fork of two trees growing side by side. The top of the log was shaved or hacked off into a level platform, making for a comfy bench.
The light went out, and he disappeared back into the growing gloom. He sat there, probably just looking out over the water, thinking his Old Tommy Hazel thoughts. As he thought, I kneeled, first on one knee, then the other, then back again, the fallen cedar offering me scant cover, even in the growing darkness.
I had long ago given up maintaining any semblance of dryness, and accepted the growing dampness with resignation. Time passed and still he sat there.
I must have counted over a dozen cigarettes, with no signs of movement from Tommy. A lot of time had passed, but I had long since lost track of it. Instead, I found my attention and frustration turn towards the minute denizens of every swamp which were quickly becoming infatuated with me. I no longer heard Old Tommy Hazel’s breathing. The only noise I was conscious of was the whining and buzzing of probably a thousand skimmag, better known as mosquitoes, all calling my name.
If I slapped at them like every fibre in my body was telling me to, I would certainly alert Old Tommy Hazel. If I let them bite me, I would look like I had chicken pox the next morning. The only solution was to move an available arm slowly, hoping to crush the little biters without generating enough sound to travel the thirty feet or so to the old man. Of course, half of them escaped before being crushed, leaving behind red polka dots. And my slow movements allowed a dozen others to land in the meantime. Evidently, my only recourse was not a viable one. The evening was not turning out the way I had anticipated.
With my body soggy on the lower half and itchy on the top half, I had had just about enough discomfort for one night and was more than willing to announce my presence to Old Man Hazel and the whole swamp, and to follow up that announcement with a speedy retreat home. Provided I could find the direction of home.
Swearing to myself in misery, I stood up, shaking my arms and head violently in an attempt to dislodge the mosquitoes from my body. It was then that I noticed Old Tommy Hazel standing in front of me. Actually, slouching in front of me would be a better description. He was watching me. And still more mosquitoes c
ame.
But they didn’t seem to be bothering him. By the light of the three-quarter moon, I couldn’t see one flying insect on his tanned and lined face; his hands never moved to destroy a single annoying skimmag. It seemed that the pungent aroma emanating from him, an odour derived from a lifetime of drinking which seeped through his skin, appealed to the mosquitos even less than to me.
His eyes squinted in the dimness. Self-conscious, I could do little but squirm.
“Hi.” What else does one say in such a situation?
He looked at me closer, then turned away without even a shrug, returning to his seat by the lake, silent as the image of the fading moon reflected in the water.
I saw the strike of a match. I guess meeting me in a swamp meant time for another cigarette. Studying the situation, debating in my mind, reaching a decision, I joined Old Tommy Hazel. He didn’t look up. Just gazed out onto the open swamp. Over by the water there seemed to be more of a breeze, giving me a brief respite from the mosquitoes.
“I don’t know if you know who I am but you walk by my house every day. Actually twice a day.” Options for starting a conversation in a swamp can be limited.
Old Tommy Hazel switched the cigarette from his right hand to his left, and then reached into his coat pocket, bringing out what looked like an unopened mickey of rye. Not one of the more popular brands, either. With a surprisingly quick flick of his wrist, he broke the seal and unscrewed the cap. Raising it halfway to his mouth, he paused, and for the second time looked at me.
I don’t know if it was the moonlight, but his eyes looked like they had a transparent film covering them. My grandmother used to say eyes like that were covered in memories. He raised up the freshly-opened bottle that smelled so similar to the old man himself, offering it to me. Realizing this was a potential test, I accepted the bottle and took a drink. Again, I should have known better. It burned. More than burned. I normally like rye, but with a little Coke and a lot of ice. And a better, smoother, more expensive brand. Trying not to cough, I handed it back, my eyes tearing.
He took the bottle and drained a good half of its contents, his eyes never leaving the water, his hand never shaking. Old Tommy Hazel then offered it back to me, his saliva still wet on the bottle. Not caring about tests anymore, I declined.
“So, you live around here?” I actually sounded casual.
He looked up at the stars. “Time. I’ve lost track of the time.” He spoke in Ojibway.
“It’s a little after ten, I think.” I answered in English since, as my mother and grandmother complain, my Ojibway is too rusty to be called conversational. But I could understand it well enough.
He shook his head. “No. How old am I?”
I blinked at him for a second, trying to make sure I understood what he said.
“How old are you? Is that what you asked?”
He nodded and finished off the last half of the rye, again without blinking an eye. With a grunt, he leaned back and tossed the bottle out into the water. It landed almost dead centre in the small lake. The ripples patterned outwards, making the moon dance in front of us. Somewhere at the bottom of that tiny expanse of water, I wondered how big a pile of empty bottles there was.
I cleared my throat. “I think you’re somewhere in your sixties. Maybe sixty-five. You don’t know?”
His attention returned to his cigarette. “I forgot. You forget so much. Or try to. Or try not to. So much depends … ” Silence. Even the mosquitoes were quiet. “So old,” he added.
“You know something else? I could have been somebody. I wanted to. Had plans. Had dreams. Wanted a wife and children. Could have had them. Could have. But I don’t. Sixty-five.” His head leaned slightly to one side, the thoughts weighing too much.
In my travels I had discovered there are two types of drunks: the aggressive variety who are easy to identify, and the passive, emotional kind. The belligerent kind force their drunkenness onto the world, whether the world wants it or not. They are outgoing. The more placid drunk works in the opposite manner. They invite or welcome the world into their reality, often trying to fill a hole in their existence with whoever happens to be around. They smile, joke and sometimes cry.
One tends to view town drunks as caricatures, seldom as people with a history or a soul. It must have been a long time since Old Tommy Hazel had talked to anybody other than a liquor store clerk. Who was willing to listen? As it was, I was feeling uncomfortable. “Old To … I mean Mr. Hazel, sorry for … ”
“It wasn’t so wrong. I know it. The Bible makes exceptions. It wasn’t wrong, was it?” For the third time he looked at me, searching for an answer I didn’t know.
“I’m not sure … ”
“It wasn’t!” This time his voice was more insistent. Whatever was or wasn’t wrong was the core of this man. Cheap amateur psychology would also suggest maybe this was at the root of his drinking, too. Some people are born drunks, others become them for a variety of reasons, most of which are listed in a million country songs. Old Tommy Hazel had a sign on him a mile wide that said this life was chosen for him, not embraced by choice.
“It wasn’t.” Softer this time. “Wasn’t.” Smaller, almost silent, his voice seemed to falter.
“Mr. Hazel, what wasn’t so wrong?”
Out of nowhere, a coughing spasm hit the old man. He leaned over, his chest and body wracked by fits of deep coughing that didn’t sound healthy. For three or four minutes he was plagued by continuous phlegmy upheavals which finally subsided. Staggering to his feet though still out of breath, he pushed me aside and continued his journey into the swamp. “It’s late,” I heard him mumble to himself. He quickly disappeared into the gloom, leaving me behind with as much of a mystery as before, perhaps even a bigger one.
On my long and confused journey home through the quagmire, I thought I heard a sudden splash far off in the direction I’d come from. I found myself hoping it wasn’t Old Tommy Hazel.
The next morning and a bottle of calamine lotion later, I asked my mother about Old Tommy Hazel. She didn’t know any more than I did about him, but she did have one important suggestion.
“Ask your grandmother. This was a much smaller place back then, and everybody of her generation grew up together. She can probably help you more than I’m able to.” A good idea. One I decided to pursue.
My grandmother lived alone in the old house I grew up in. When I arrived, she was sitting out on the porch, watching the cars pass, an adored pastime of hers. She had always told me I was her favourite grandchild, but then again, she told that to my sister and about a dozen other cousins of mine. She was a very diplomatic grandmother.
She squinted when she saw me. I itched all over. “What happened to your face? Got a couple bites there. Out late last night, were ya?”
“Kind of. Just being stupid. Granny, what do you know about Old Tommy Hazel?”
“Old Tommy Hazel?!” My grandmother let out a short, throaty laugh. “Stupid things and Tommy Hazel go together. He’s a drunk. What more do you need to know?”
“Where does he live?” I asked.
She looked at me. As best as I could tell, trying to figure me out. She took the most direct route. “What’s it to you? You been talking to him? What did he say to you?”
I started to answer when I heard a sliver of my childhood coming from an open window just behind her. It was the familiar tick, tick, tick. I visit my grandmother quite frequently, but I’m always five years old when I hear that sound, or see that clock on that ledge looking down at me. And when I hear that ticking I have to fight to stay awake. Pavlov has nothing on that clock.
“I’m talking to you, boy,” said my grandmother. I was awake again.
“Can’t a guy just be curious?”
“Raccoons don’t root in your garbage unless they smell something. What are you smelling?”
I gave her my best exasperated look. She gave me a better one. I tried a different tack: “Nobody in the village knows where he lives. All anybody s
ays is it’s somewhere back in the swamp. I just want to know if he has a house back there or does he sleep in a tree or something. I’m not up to mischief or anything. I’m just curious. Mom thought you might know. That’s all. Really!”
My grandmother was silent for a moment. Two cars went by and her eyes quickly scanned them. “You pick the weirdest things to get curious about. I mean, where Old Tommy Hazel spends his nights? You have too much time on your hands.”
A large cloud passed overhead, plunging everything into shade. My grandmother’s eyes returned to me.
“Did you know him? You two are about the same age, aren’t you?”
She leaned back in her chair. “I knew Old Tommy Hazel way back, before you, your mother, even before I married your grandfather. Except he wasn’t called Old Tommy Hazel then. Just Thomas Hazel. He was named after one of the Apostles. A good name for a good man.” Another car went by but she never saw it. I’m not sure she saw me.
“But Grandma, you just said he was a loser.”
“He was a good looking man back then. Tall, hard worker, even went to church. Sure wasn’t the man you see today. Not by a long shot.”
“Did something happen?”
She smiled. “I guess you could say that. For a while, a long time ago, we were bus’gems.”
It took a moment for the translation and the reality of that sentence to filter into my consciousness. Bus’gem is an Ojibway word for boyfriend or girlfriend. The path to Old Tommy Hazel’s home was taking me along a few unusual stops.
My reaction must have caught her eye because she gave one of those throaty little laughs of hers. “Don’t look so surprised, you. When I was young, I was young!” She threw off the final word of that sentence with more enthusiasm than I’d seen from her in a long time. I tried to see her being “young”! The shawl and rocking chair didn’t help.
“And Thomas Hazel was young too. I always thought we were a good match. He made me laugh, and I made him work harder than he ever did in his life. He was always buying me presents, you see. Always blamed his bad back on me. Like I held a gun to his head to make him work so hard.” She laughed again, but it wasn’t as joyful as it should have been.
Fearless Warriors Page 6