There's a Shark in My Hockey Pool

by Dave Belisle

  Sylvie was definitely an out-in-the-open coaster girl.

  "Uh ... yeah. Do you want the demographics or background info?"

  "Whichever is more user-friendly."

  Derek smiled at how close Sylvie was without knowing it. When it came right down to it, Helen was a computer that needed upgrading. She processed information that was given her ... and she was handy to have around. But a week would sometimes pass before she'd tell him something he didn't know.

  "She's 34, a good cook and does needlepoint."

  "So why are you here with me tonight?"

  "She's 34, a good cook and does ..." He turned serious. "We've been living together for eight years now. For the past two I've been comfortably numb. Before that was a year of anemia. But that was a step up from being just plain unconscious."

  That was good enough for the boys in the bar. It got a laugh and they went back to the game on the big screen. With Sylvie however, he knew he'd already said too much and she was lining up follow-up questions like a news-ed sophomore who's just bumped into Salmon Rushdie.

  They looked at each other. She could almost sense the crushed carpet beneath their feet vibrating, ever so slightly. The carpet's dirt settled in deeper as she prepared to examine the dirt on Derek. This was heavy shit. She had one foot inside his emotional closet. The quickness and ease wasn't too surprising however, given Derek's penchant for hitting problem areas head on. He wasn't pulling any punches. Men were barbarians when it came to emotions.

  "Comfortably numb? Unconscious? Are we talking about an overdose or a car wreck here?

  "A little of both actually, " Derek said. "Helen was there when I needed her. She had the kind of bedside manner that made it too easy to get used to her. I think she liked me better when I was sick. We just don't seem to connect. Once my knee healed, our relationship -- hell, my life -- reads like the Mudville nine. Nothin' but strikeouts and storm clouds."

  "Storm clouds?"

  "When I was a kid I had this picture book of Casey at the Bat. At the end -- after he strikes out -- it starts to rain with big dark clouds and everyone in the stadium goes home. I always wondered if the storm clouds were meant to provide more pity for Casey ... or just to save the artist from having to draw the bleachers full of fans again."

  "Lazy artist," Sylvie said, hoping her remark would spark a silver lining in one of those clouds. For them.

  "So I'm taking one last stab at stardom to exorcise my devil once and for all."

  "You shouldn't talk about Helen that way."

  "I'm not. I was referring to Victor Erskine."

  Sylvie stopped in her tracks.

  "You're gambling your company because of Victor Erskine?

  Derek told her of the game where Erskine had chopped his knee in half, felling his NHL dream. How Helen had been a pseudo-Red Cross envoy, caring for him as if he'd had gangrene-ravaged trench foot. And how his recovery, their relationship and his seething revenge traded spots daily on his mental marquee.

  When he was done, Derek lowered his head and looked at the crushed carpet. He rolled his glass between his hands. Getting this out in the open was good therapy, he supposed. He felt a huge weight being lifted off his shoulders ... or perhaps it was the buzz from the hickory-soaked bark of the Pack o' Spaniels.

  Sylvie had peeked long enough between his ears. She took a sip from her drink and placed it on the table.

  "Come over here," she said.

  "Are we going to do what I think we're going to do?" Derek asked.

  "And what's that?"

  "Share a non-stop ride on the tunnel of love?"

  She looked at him coyly. Such coyness came from knowing poutine was better than french fries.

  "I've got my ticket," she said. "Have you got yours?"

  "It's here somewhere," he said, leaning over to unbutton her blouse. "Oops. Wrong shirt." He sheepishly withdrew and began unbuttoning his own.

  Derek's mind was racing like a furnace that's just figured out it's February. Loverboy's quick, up-tempo song "Get Lucky" danced through his head as he watched Sylvie pick up where he'd left off. Without missing a beat, she continued unbuttoning her blouse. Derek hit the pause button on Loverboy when he realized he was getting ahead of her in the unbuttoning stage.

  Shirts aside, they reached for each other, closing in a warm embrace. Sylvie's skin was soft, smooth, and Holstein white. Derek wanted to nestle in it for a few weeks. But his heart was running on all ventricles. He snapped to. Bra. Bra strap. Must remove. He was from a long line of tit men.

  He was about to go to work on it when Sylvie pulled away. He groaned.

  "Are you okay?" she asked.

  "Well ... yeah. I mean ... I think so." He gave her a strange look.

  "I thought you might be having a heart attack. You're shaking."

  "I, uh ... I ... always shake when I take off my shirt. It's a rapid, uh ... flexing of the muscles. It keeps me limber." Derek flexed his pectorals for good measure.

  "Well, stop it. You're scaring me."

  Derek looked at her Wonderbra-encased breasts staring back at him. He reached for his drink. It was a Catch-22 situation. Another belt and he'd incur serious downtime in the mission at hand. But if he didn't take a drink, his goose bumps would restart their jackhammers and the nearby treasure chest would be buried deep ... hidden away for the night. He swallowed quickly and congratulated himself for remembering to offer her a drink as well.

  Sylvie sipped slowly, not taking her eyes off him. She was on the verge of a nervous giggle but didn't want to sink the good ship Passion.

  Derek set his drink down.

  "Now then, where were we?"

  "I think it's still referred to as foreplay," Sylvie said.

  "Only if your roommate arrives with a friend."

  She smiled and moved closer to him. They kissed. As Derek locked lips with her, he closed his eyes while his hands quickly embarked on a double flank maneuver against her bra strap. The bra. Brassiere. Titty bag. Over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder. The final bastion of femininity. It was one of those every day devices that few cultures studied closely. The French had mastered the double-hook clasp. The Italians fathered the famous "push & pull" mechanism. North Americans however, had entered the game late. As teenagers they wore blindfolds and practised the delicate art by removing their mothers' pilfered bras from her mannequin's bust. Once mastered, they spent the remainder of their lives in search of women who compared favorably with the mannequin.

  Marcotte was well versed in the various signs to watch for when attempting "the removal". A girl was playing hard to get when she had to wheel her own bra around her body to get it off. If she couldn't get it undone from behind, what chance did any horny, red-blooded male have? Most men questioned the scruples of a girl who wore a bra with the hook in the front. Too easy. Like shooting fish in a barrel.

  Derek desperately needed one of those front and center howitzer-hitches at this point. The Pack o' Spaniels reminded him he couldn't master this particular bra strap. Derek longed for Marcy ... his mother's mannequin. Marcy didn't mind when his knuckles dug into her back when he was in the middle of an "attempt." Marcy didn't yelp when the strap snapped back.

  Derek had been going at it for a War and Peace-like twenty seconds. Sylvie's shoulders shifted, signaling her hands would soon arrive as allies.

  "No, no. I can do it," he said mentally.

  Now the whole world was watching. He bit his lip, wondering if neurosurgeons had off days like this. Perhaps ... if they were suffering from third degree frostbite. It was a single hook. It had to be. No, wait. Was that another hook or merely a metal wire thrown into this tricky maze? The theme song from Final Jeopardy had long since ended and Derek knew Sylvie would sound the buzzer of humiliation any second. There had been a couple of teenage dates with his mother's mannequin worthy of the Gong Show.

  As a last resort he tried his famous up-down-all-around, in-out-don't you-pout maneuver. It was tricky, but dangerous. There was a fifty
-fifty chance the bra would never see the light of another cotton blouse. He wondered if it was possible to accidentally crack a rib. Just as Sylvie uttered a sigh ... the clasp unhooked.

  Derek backed away so she could slip out of it. He smiled at her triumphantly.

  She lowered her eyes graciously.

  "Gotta admit ... it put up one helluva fight," he said.

  He took it from her and inspected it closely, stopping short of taking a whiff.

  "Wow. Triple hook. I thought these went out in the last referendum."

  They hugged and rolled off the sofa onto the floor.

  It was 2:00 a.m. Derek lay awake, staring at the flickers the fake fireplace cast off the ceiling. Sylvie slept beside him, facing away. Her horizontal figure cut an innocent-enough looking terrain. Only an hour before it had been peaking at seven on the Richter erotic scale. It was his first affair since he started playing house with Helen. It's not that he didn't look at other women. If he was going to burn any bridges however, it would be with the hottest thing around. The torch he carried for Helen couldn't turn a marshmallow brown. The second he buried himself in Sylvie's pair of opulent orbs, Helen became about as significant as Jupiter's ninth moon.

  The difference between a one-night stand and the one-to-take-home-to-Mom was that you had to get out of bed sometime. Helen preferred him in bed -- but for all the wrong reasons. In soda shoppe parlance, Sylvie was a double scoop of bodacious beauty smothered in chic-intellect sauce and sprinkled with nutty humor. Helen was the root beer float that often went begging for a tall, dark, second straw.

  Derek struggled with it. Helen had indeed nursed him back. But now he was fit as a fiddle with a Stradivarius lying beside him. It was the best Beethoven's Ninth he'd played in ages. Derek's eyes strained deeper into the flames dancing on the ceiling, half-expecting Nero to appear.

  The next morning Sylvie rolled over in bed, reaching for him. But there was no one there. Derek was gone.

  ... 4 ...

  Derek sat on the edge of his bed, punching numbers on his cellular phone. Helen was still asleep. She laid on the bed with her back to him. It was 9:00 a.m.

  "Aunt Rita. It's me, Derek."

  Aunt Rita was his mother's 54-year-old sister. She was a jolly sort, brightening up a large Victorian house on Kennedy Road. Aunt Rita sang in the local Presbyterian choir, digested Agatha Christie novels like after-school cookies, and was a fund raising fanatic. From the United Wage-Cut to diseases yet to be named, Rita pounded the pavement and burned up the phone lines to pick a person's conscience clean. If she banged doors for Jehovah's Witness, their watchtower would be a Swiss timepiece museum. She flogged philanthropists and floozies alike. Aunt Rita had a way of doing it that, once the person made the donation, they felt like they owed her a favor. Thirty-odd years of glad handing had left her with enough contacts to fill the Gardens. All Derek needed was enough to stock one player's bench. He quickly filled her in on the hockey pool.

  "Names, I need names, Aunt Rita. Amateurs ... juniors ... whatever. Get the phones ringing. Everybody has a relative playing in the NHL. I'll settle for friends of friends. Oh, and would you mind taking a few of them in? How many? Twelve. Thanks. Say hello to Uncle Roger for me. Bye."

  Derek punched the "END" button on the phone. Helen rolled over and propped herself up on one arm. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

  "Aunt Rita? What were you calling her for? Is something wrong?"

  "Go back to bed. Everything's alright." Derek hated how Helen appeared to be helpful even while half asleep. He was having second thoughts about the night before. He steeled those thoughts to remain blissful, not blasphemous.

  He stood up and finished buttoning his shirt.

  "I never heard you come in," Helen said. "You and Artie have a good time last night?"

  "S'okay. Leafs pulled it out late, 5-4." At least that's what he heard on the radio when he was driving back from Sylvie's. He knew Helen wasn't going to pursue the game summary any further than the final score. Sometimes he made a game of it. He'd make up nicknames of opposing teams to see how far he could string her along. She could have busted him a couple of times ... with the Charlotte Charlatans and the Kalamazoo Kazoos ... but neglected to follow it up with a sports page confirmation.

  Helen got up and put on her housecoat. Derek watched her move across the room. He wished she wasn't so shy about her body. It was too bad. Her one-time hour glass figure was slowly counting down. He hadn't really expected her to go from co-ed to cover girl in the eight years they'd been together. She draped herself in sweat shirts, bulky sweaters and loose-fitting slacks. She'd unwittingly started the grunge fad.

  "Can I fix you something?"

  "Nah. No time. I'll grab a bite on the way."

  Derek paused in the doorway. He went back to her, cupped her high cheekbones in his hands and kissed her on the forehead.

  ... 5 ...

  Ominous-looking, dark-coloured, non-descript flags flew from the top floor of the Yonge Street skyscraper. Gargoyles wouldn't have been out of place. Toronto needed more gargoyles on its buildings. If only to wipe the golden, gaping grins off the ludicrous louses hanging from the corners of SkyDome's exterior. The Herculean building meanwhile, cast a menacing presence amidst the adjacent structures.

  Inside, a half dozen Herculean employees, including Hal Henderson and Jim MacIlroy, cowered over their keyboards. They worked feverishly, hoping one more keystroke would spring the magic solution onto the screen. There wasn't a screen saver in sight. Victor Erskine entered the room.

  "Alright everyone! Stop whatever you're doing and listen up."

  Screens froze and faces turned as one.

  "Sure, sniffing through the latest player database is one way to put together a team. Or some ten-dollar tout sheet." Erskine picked a hockey magazine off a desktop and held it high.

  "The fox is afoot, gentlemen, and we're chained to the doghouse." He threw the magazine at a wastebasket fifteen feet away. The magazine battered the inside of the can, almost knocking it over. The can skidded three feet, but decided to stand up and fight. The young secretary beside the can wanted to have Erskine's children. Two men quickly hid hockey magazines that had been on their desks.

  Erskine reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of tickets.

  "These tickets are for first class. Henderson, you're off to the west coast. MacIlroy, pack your bags for the Maritimes. And remember ... no cod fishing!"

  Henderson, MacIlroy and others soon followed, picking up their marching orders to begin scouting trips for the Erskine empire.

  The glass doors of the Loyal Bank featured a logo with a smiling lion. The lion had a bandaged foot. He was patting a small mouse on the head with one hand -- and giving money with the other. Herculean had won the bank's marketing campaign and turned heads with an Aesopic approach. Any investor who thought the lion was kindhearted only had to miss one mortgage payment to hear it roar.

  Derek sat across the desk from the bespectacled loan officer, Mr. Dolby. Marcotte managed to keep his twiddling fingers in low gear while Dolby alternated glances between the form in front of him and Derek. This paradoxical peeping took place every other line. While Dolby was giving Marcotte's well-sculptured jaw line and cracked credit rating the once over, the loan officer was also mulling over whether he should opt for Andrea from Mississauga or Megan from York. Theirs were the personal classified ads he'd scored during his 20-minute coffee break.

  Dolby looked up from the form. Andrea was the lucky winner. She hadn't specifically requested a male with a sense of humor.

  Derek brightened. He couldn't know of course that Dolby's decision on Marcotte's loan application had less to do with Derek's credit rating than the fact that Dolby's parents didn't have a well-sculptured jaw line gene between them.

  "You want a $50,000 line of credit ... for a hockey game?" Dolby asked, visibly perplexed.

  "But it's a ... a ... special game."

  "For $50,000 it had better be ...
special."

  Dolby pronounced "special" in the sarcastically sweet tone as Dana Carvey's Church Lady character from Sunday Morning Live. Derek bemoaned the fact he was reduced to dignified begging. He wouldn't have to get down on his knees, but he might have to say please. Dolby had dealt with Marcotte's sort before. The loan officer reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a nasal spray.

  "No, no," Derek said. "I have a chance ... uh, the opportunity ... to recover this investment many times over."

  Dolby massaged his chin, mulling it over. He then fired a round of mist into each nostril. Marcotte hoped Dolby had double pneumonia.

  "I'm afraid our company policy has a certain rigidness regarding loans for gambling, Mr. Marcotte." Dolby paused to look from side to side. He leaned forward. His arms rested in front of him on the desk. There was almost a frankness to his approach.

  "Nevertheless, uh ... exactly how much is that in dollars and cents?" he asked Marcotte.

  "200,000."

  "I see. And may I ask how you are going to manage that?"

  "Simple. We beat Herculean in the game and a very large advertising contract is ours."

  Derek looked hopefully at Dolby. Dolby stood up. He didn't have a pulpit and his tablets were slightly thinner than Moses', but the judgement had the same negative overtones. The pit wallowing in Derek's stomach was growing hair. He hated rejection.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Marcotte. This has gone far enough. We simply can't follow through with this. I'm afraid you'll have to look elsewhere."

  "But ..."

  Dolby wasn't listening. He was already gathering up papers from his desk, trying to look busy. Derek wished a hundred paper cuts on the mealy-mouthed money manager. Dolby looked up again, feigning surprise that Derek was still there.