by Mark Critch
“What are you, crazy?” I hissed in the best mix of shout and whisper I could muster. “We’re not old enough to get that, either.”
“Exactly,” he said. There was only a very slim chance that she’d sell us the beer. Lee figured if we doubled down and ordered an adult movie too it would seem as if we did this all the time. Plus, if we looked nervous, she’d think it was because we were embarrassed to rent a dirty movie from a woman and, wanting the awkward situation to pass as quickly as we did, would ring us through just to get it over with. The plan was just crazy enough to work.
“Fine,” I said, “but I already had my turn. I’m not going up to the counter.” We decided that since it was Lee’s plan, he should be the one to try it out. Kevin’s stepfather had a movie-rental account at the store, so we could use his name. The three of us slipped back behind a rack of Hostess Chips to watch our friend try to buy a half-case of beer and rent a dirty movie. This was the stuff of legend.
Lee sauntered up to the front of the store as if his last name was Molson. He put both items on the counter and looked the girl right in the eyes. I realized that I was squeezing Gary’s arm. The anticipation was too much for me and I started to feel a little faint.
The young lady flipped open the scribbler that acted as the rental log and asked Lee for his phone number. This was more action than Lee had ever gotten from a woman. He gave Kevin’s phone number and she dutifully wrote the name of the movie in the appropriate column next to it. I couldn’t believe my eyes! The plan seemed to be working.
“Hot and Horny Harley Babes,” she recited as she pressed her Bic pen onto the page, recording this historic moment for posterity. “I haven’t seen that one yet.”
“Me neither,” Lee said. This was not the time for small talk, but I admired his determination to stay in the game. He was as cool as a cucumber and we were all moments away from porn and drunkenness. Then she turned to look directly at the boys and me.
“I’ll rent you kids the dirty movie but I’m not selling you asswipes beer.” At this we all split apart like geese from a flying V after a hunter’s shot. We wandered the aisles, perusing random things as if trying to determine whether this was the exact item we needed. I picked up a package of light bulbs, pretending I was trying to remember if Mom wanted a forty or a sixty watt. I stared at those light bulbs like a bomb technician staring at wires, making the crucial decision as to which one to cut—the red or the black.
Lee paid for the movie and ran out the door as if he’d stolen it. We all quickly followed after him. I could feel my face burn as the blood rushed to my head, proving to the girl that I really was as embarrassed as she must have imagined. We gathered at the other side of the gas pumps to block ourselves from view.
“Crap! So close,” Gary lamented as Kevin patted Lee on the back.
“Good work in there,” I added. Lee seemed to calm down a little, loosening his death grip on the movie. Just then a man dressed in denim on denim staggered onto the parking lot. We watched him swerve all the way to the left and then all the way to the right, correcting himself in the middle before swerving back the other way again. He was steeling himself to appear sober enough to buy more beer. We felt an immediate kinship: here was a fellow traveller in the night, about to be denied access to his dream weekend by the same gatekeeper who’d rejected us.
“Hey, mister,” Lee shouted across the parking lot, spying a golden opportunity. “Will you buy us some beer?” The man in the Canadian tuxedo stopped, spun on his heels, and started lurching toward us, his head seeming to pull his body behind it and his legs dancing to keep up. He looked like one of the sperm animations we’d been shown in health class.
“You want me to buy you beer?” he asked incredulously, exhibiting all the moral authority and outrage of the very drunk. We nodded silently, figuring we’d be like Christ after the Last Supper, denied for the third time. “You’re friggin’ right I will!” he shouted into the night. “There was a guy back home that used to buy us beer when I was a young fella. He was an old rummy. We’d give him a beer out of every half-case he bought us. I’m gonna buy you crowd beer in memory of him.” We were about to receive a sort of beer scholarship. “Got the money?”
We handed it over. He lit a cigarette and made for the store. “What if he rips us off like the cab driver?” Kevin asked. “No,” I thought, “he would not.” There was something about this man I trusted. He had a sense of tradition, of honouring those who went before and ensuring that the old ways were passed on to the next generation. Our money was safe with him.
Through the glass walls of the gas station we watched our envoy knock items from the shelves as he bounced from aisle to aisle like a pinball played in a high-score breaking game. After moving back and forth from the beer cooler to the cash register several times he began waving his arms at the girl as if either guiding a plane to its gate or signalling a passing ship from a desert island. For a moment I worried that he was ratting us out. Then he emerged pushing a hand truck loaded with four beer cases. “Had to convince her to let me borrow this baby,” he explained. “I couldn’t carry it all myself. I was gonna ask you guys to help me, but then I figured she’d know I was buying for you. I don’t only buy the beer—I deliver! Now, where’s the party?”
We headed up the hill with our guardian beer-angel following behind. He huffed and puffed his way along, walking backward and pulling enough beer for a rec-league hockey team season-ender party. His face turned from red to purple as he honoured the memory of his town drunk. I started to wonder if he’d have a heart attack and that one day I’d find myself buying beer for some junior high kids in memorial. Lest We Forget.
“This is it,” Kevin announced as we finally reached the house. There was an awkward moment as we tried to avoid the obvious question. “So,” Gary asked hesitantly, “coming in?”
“No thanks, young fellas,” our Sherpa said to our great relief. “I’m not a pervert or nothing. Just wouldn’t want to see a group of young fellas stuck, is all.” He started to unload his cart. “Just a half-case for you crowd,” he said. “That’s all you gave me money for and I’m not a frigging charity.” Ah, but he was. He was the Red Cross of drunks. A Meals On Wheels bringing cold beer to the young. This man was doing God’s work.
We thanked him as we gathered our well-earned spoils and watched him ease his way down the hill with his weekend’s worth of brew. We didn’t get his name and I never saw him again. He was like the Lone Ranger or the Littlest Hobo. Maybe tomorrow he’d want to settle down. Until tomorrow, he’d just keep moving on.
There was much high-fiving and cheering as we celebrated our success. We had the house to ourselves. We were down one pack of smokes, but we were up six beers and a skin flick. This was junior high heaven. Lee loaded up the VCR as Kevin looked for an opener. We all marvelled at the wondrous pssst sound of the bottle opening. The genie had escaped. There was no going back now. Kevin passed us each a beer as the warning flickered onto the TV screen. But what fear had we of fines for illegally duplicating movies? Hell, we might as well remove the tags from the mattresses while we were at it. We were criminals now.
The film opened on a canyon road. Beautiful mountains rose in the distance, perhaps to foreshadow those we had come to see. I made a mental note to remember the name of the director. This guy knew his stuff. The scenery reminded me of the type Wile E. Coyote would paint on the side of a wall to try to trick the Road Runner. But this was no cartoon.
My mouth grew dry and I instinctively took a sip of beer—my very first. I recoiled. It tasted like I imagined a bog would taste. I glanced around the room to see how the other boys were doing and they all wore the expression of someone pretending to enjoy a conversation with their spouse’s boss. The sound of motorcycles drew my attention back to the screen, where, through an atmospheric shot of haze rising from a hot desert road, four women drove into view on motorcycles.
These weren’t ordinary motorcycle enthusiasts, however. These women we
re topless. Their breasts jiggled with the vibration of the engines, a sight far more intoxicating than the beer. The boys leaned forward slightly to get a better view and to hide whatever was happening inside their cords. I used the opportunity to pour half my beer into a potted plant. The women rode on, desert sky reflected in their mirrored sunglasses. This was the 80s, and their hairsprayed manes remained perfectly still despite the wind. They rode on like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse except they were women, on motorcycles, and they did not foretell the end of the world. They were the harbingers of puberty.
“When are they going to do something else?” Gary asked, revealing his ignorance of great cinema.
“Yeah,” Kevin added. “Are they just going to ride around with their tops off for the whole movie or what?”
“Give it time,” Lee said, defending his pick. “It’s just getting going.” Half an hour and three more inebriated plants later, the women were still riding.
I found the whole thing a little implausible. “Surely they’ll run out of gas soon,” I critiqued. I picked up the VHS case to read the back. “Beautiful topless girls ride their hogs down the highway. The only thing hotter than these bikes is the women on them.” Hot and Horny Harley Babes seemed to be exactly as advertised. “I think they just do this for the whole movie, guys.”
“This sucks, Lee!” The boys turned on Lee for his selection, but it wasn’t his fault. It’s not like he’d had the time to read the back of every adult film on offer. Although this was the one time when you actually could judge a book by its cover (or a tape by its case).
Time to change the subject. “I’m getting another beer,” I announced, turning my bottle on end to prove it was empty. “Anyone else?” The other boys shook their heads and returned their gaze to the four women and their eight breasts on their never-ending journey. In the kitchen I popped the cap off my second beer, eyeing a completely sober fern by the window. I poured a third of the bottle into its pot, content to hold on to the last vestiges of childhood for as long as I possibly could.
11
SINS OF THE FATHERS
IN MY LAST YEAR at St. Teresa’s, the world as I knew it suddenly imploded. It had been unravelling little by little over the previous year. And the more I pulled curiously at the threads, the more the dark truth underneath was revealed.
I began to look away, preferring that the walls of my world be covered in the beautiful wallpaper of youth. But the pretty patterns, it turned out, hid a festering rot. The darkness within was home to the type of terrifying monsters children imagine as they drift off to sleep. Not only were the monsters real, but there was no use crying out to be saved: the people you’d expect to save you were the very ones who’d hidden the monsters in the first place. Those you ran to for protection were often worse than the monsters lurking under your bed. And soon all of Newfoundland would know it.
There were signs that something was wrong. I was writing a test in my classroom when the PA system beeped, signalling an announcement from the office. We all put our pencils down and stared at the speaker next to the crucifix on the wall. I don’t know why we did that. There was nothing to see. We’d hear it just as well if we were staring down at our desks or out the window. But just as Dad stared at the radio when he listened to the news, we’d stare at the speaker to hear the announcements.
“May I have your attention, students?” the principal began. “Would anyone who knows who…” Sister Ryan’s voice sounded peculiar. She sounded distracted, even disturbed. She stopped mid-sentence and then, steeling herself, began again. “If anyone knows who took a, a, I—” and with that the transmission ended with a click. We looked around the room at one another and then at Mr. Abbott.
“All right, class,” he snapped, “never mind that now. Eyes back down at your tests, please. Not much time left.” My eyes darted up to the ticking hands of the clock. It was fascinating the way their speed could change depending on your situation. At the beginning or the end of the day the second hand would tick-tick-tick at an interminable pace. But if one of the boys had told you you were “dead after school,” the hands would spin like a windmill in October.
I’d already finished my test, meaning the seconds were eking by like drips from a faucet, when the broadcast light on the speaker suddenly lit up again. Nun radio was back “on the air.”
“Pardon the interruption, students,” Sister Ryan began for the second time. “In my time here at this school I have never had to make an announcement like the one I am about to make.” Every bum in the classroom shifted forward in its seat. This was to be a historic announcement, like Churchill’s “We will fight them on the beaches” or FDR’s “We have nothing to fear.” St. Teresa’s was about to have its own “I have a dream” moment à la Martin Luther King, and we did not want to miss a second of it.
“I don’t know how to say this, but—” Once again the red light went dark as the speaker shut off. Then, just as suddenly, it lit up bright as a lighthouse before suddenly turning dark again. Was the message in Morse code? Even Mr. Abbott was staring at the speaker now, his mouth agape. For us, too, the test was far out of mind—we didn’t even use the opportunity to cheat off our neighbours.
The light flicked on and off several more times like the end of a chain smoker’s cigarette before finally burning a brilliant red for a second or two of silence. Then Sister Ryan took a breath and found her courage. “If anyone knows who wiped the bowel movement along the wall of the grade three corridor, could they please come down to the office. Thank you.”
We all sat in stunned silence. Even the hands of the clock seemed to stop turning. Mr. Abbott’s jaw dropped to a never-before-seen depth and we all sat staring at the extinguished light, desperate for it to burn again, like the phoenix, and impart some explanation. Alas, it was extinguished for good.
Nobody moved. Someone had rubbed poop along the grade three wall? What would their purpose be? Had it been splattered, or had it been applied in a straight, even line along the entire length like some fine woodworking detail? Had the vandal worn gloves? Surely they’d had to. Or was it an accident? Perhaps the person who originated the stool had been trying to make it to the toilet, but being a grade three, had had an accident and then tried to hide their poop? Maybe they slipped trying to get their pants back up and lost their balance, smearing the turd at elementary-student height along the wall?
Or had the miscreant spread their poop on the grade three corridor as a distraction? Maybe they were a grade five or a grade six and did their business on a different floor to throw off suspicion. But surely they wouldn’t have had time to go to another floor, empty their bowels, “paint,” clean up, and return to their own classroom without a teacher asking them why they’d been gone so long?
But wait! Perhaps the culprit was a teacher! Maybe our own Mr. Abbott, unhappy with his placement that year, had decided to act out in the same way a monkey might when threatened in the jungle. I eyed him suspiciously, trying to ascertain if his disgust was genuine or if his fear of being found out was masquerading as repulsion. Then I remembered that he’d been in this room the whole time. I reluctantly crossed him off my list.
The speaker’s light lit up again and we let out an audible gasp the way you would when you’re watching a horror movie and the killer, thought dead, suddenly pops up again with a knife.
“Would Mr. Madden please report to the grade three corridor?” Mr. Madden was the school janitor. He’d certainly be earning his pay that day. What drives a kid to do something like that? They’d have to be so angry or so stressed that something inside them broke. For that kid, there would forever be a “before I rubbed poop on the wall” and an “after I rubbed poop on the wall.”
But the Phantom Pooper would be the canary in the coal mine.
Looking back, there was a tension in the air I wasn’t aware of at the time. It was as if the brakes had stopped working, and no matter how hard you pumped your foot you kept speeding forward until you crashed.
* * *
—
One day, weeks later, as the lunch bell rang, I dropped to my knees in search of a book in my desk. Throughout the year, more and more pages and textbooks, scribblers, and comics had been haphazardly wedged into my desk’s cubbyhole until they seemed to have formed a solid, immovable block. And encased there, like a fly in amber, was the science textbook I needed for next period. Releasing it would require all of the expertise I’d gained from playing Jenga and Tetris instead of studying science. I crouched down with my feet on either side of the desk, grabbed the soft spine of the hardcover book, and tugged with all my might.
On their way out the other kids stepped over and around me as I kept pulling like an ant with a rubber tree plant, as Mr. Sinatra once sang. Soon only one kid remained: Fox. He sat at his desk, carving something into its top with his compass. We were equally lost in our tasks when a deep voice drop-kicked our concentration.
“There you are, wuss.” I peeked over the top of my desk like a turtle reluctantly emerging from my shell. Who was calling me a wuss? A tall brute of a teenager stood in the doorway, blocking the light from the classroom across the hall. Even in silhouette, I recognized him as Jason. He was a kid who’d always been around, who’d always been a year or two older than the other kids in his grade. He seemed to have been built with the place, like the statues of the saints that peppered the hallways. A visitor might even think he was a student teacher sent to audit a class. I’d thought it was me he was calling a wuss. After all, I was one. But it was Fox he was looking at. I pulled my head back into the safety of my shell.