Fouling Out

by Gregory Walters

  I haven’t thanked my mom for her miraculous, take-charge action plan, and no doubt within twenty-four hours, her superhero costume will be back in mothballs and she’ll be nagging me about the clutter on my desk, the hazards of being a couch potato and the fact that I should be reading something to help my mind grow. Even so, I’m proud she’s my mother. Sometimes you have to be aware of the alternatives to really appreciate how good you’ve got it.

  Twenty-nine

  According to Tom’s original plan, he and Archie were supposed to be long gone from Richmond after breakfast. He planned to meet Jerry at his brother’s job site at the crack of dawn. But that was before the Polar Bear Swim in the Fraser River. Mom has grounded all departures. She made an early morning trip to the meeting spot and informed Jerry that all plans had to be delayed. Jerry protested, but Mom stood her ground. Tom needed at least twenty-four hours of imposed rest.

  After the waffle binge, Tom sleeps on the sofa for the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon. Maybe sleep is part of how you recover from hypothermia, but I think all Tom’s time in a shack without heat, doors or proper meals has finally caught up with him. Archie makes his way onto the sofa, blanketing Tom’s legs and feet.

  It’s kind of a drag having someone asleep in your living room. I never realized how often I pass through it to get somewhere else in the house. At first, I try tiptoeing, but as Tom’s snores rise to a roar, I abandon any attempt at courtesy. I could crank the TV and the stereo, and it wouldn’t make any difference.

  When Mom returns from doing errands, she is toting a couple of bags from the mall. Must’ve been another sale on shoes. As she pulls out a guy’s jacket, I start to complain. I hate when she tries to pick out my clothes!

  “It’s not for you,” she snaps. “You’ve got plenty. That friend of yours can’t go off to Moose Jaw with the one he’s got.”

  “Moose Jaw? He’s going to Moose Jaw?”

  “Well, yes. Didn’t he tell you? What in the world do you two talk about?”

  Funny. Not long ago, she had forbidden me to talk to Tom. Now she seems to think we aren’t talking enough.

  She pulls a couple of packages of underwear, some socks and a sweatshirt out of the other bag. Ick. Who wants your friend’s mother buying you underwear? I know Tom won’t have the tact to pretend to be grateful.

  “Why’s he going to Alberta?”

  “Moose Jaw’s in Saskatchewan, Craig! You see, this is why geography still needs to be a subject in school. I’m going to have a talk with your principal when I’m in next week.” Maybe Mrs. Brewer will lose her cool and tell Mom it’s me, not the school, that’s lacking. “Now go to the car,” she directs as she unpackages items and cuts off tags. “There’s a couple more bags.”

  Well, this is something—Mom’s do-good nature being played out in our own home. On Tom, no less! Getting directly involved in the rescue effort seems to have thawed the icy relationship that had been building over the years. Clearly, Mom’s in her glory, putting all that field experience as a volunteer into action.

  We move to the den when Tom wakes up. Tom holds the remote in his right hand as he flips from channel to channel. He seems to be soaking in as much TV time as possible. Nothing has changed on the tube, but Tom has to figure that out for himself. His left hand repeatedly visits a plate of homemade double-fudge cookies. The bowl of grapes is just decoration. Mom never gives up.

  “So what was in the envelope from Jerry?”

  “Huh?” Tom is so engrossed in the TV screen, I think he forgets I am in the room.

  “The envelope from Jerry—what was that about?”

  “Money. He gave me cash to buy a bus ticket to go to Moose Jaw, but Archie can’t go on the bus. I spent it on food. Man, was he pissed about that!”

  All of a sudden, Tom drops the remote and leans forward. “Nuggets and Mavericks! How’d I miss this? Haven’t seen a game since—well, you know.” It isn’t much of a game. The Mavericks are way ahead. I shut up and watch.

  As the ref confers with the time-clock guy, Tom says, “Can you believe I haven’t played basketball since I took off? I actually forgot about it for a while. How weird is that? They better have a good basketball team in Moose Jaw. I hope it’s not all hockey.”

  “So you’ve seen Jerry?”

  “Yeah. Biked up to where he works and told him to come up with a new plan. He’s got a couple of days off, so he and his girlfriend are driving me there.”

  “Okay, so what’s with Moose Jaw?”

  “Lame, eh? My uncle’s there. He saw me when I was, like, two, but I don’t remember him. Hope he’s cool. He hates my dad, so I guess that’s something.”

  “Is he your dad’s brother?”

  “No way, man! My mom arranged everything. Jerry says she made the calls from church so Dad wouldn’t figure things out.”

  Back at Finn Slough, Tom had said I didn’t know anything about his family. He was right. I guess I didn’t ever want to know much. Moving to a place named after an animal’s mouth doesn’t sound very exciting, but maybe that is the point.

  With the game resuming, Tom focuses on the screen again, and I start to think about how things are going to change. It’s easy to get nostalgic when you know a big change is in the works. I remember how cool Tom thought he was when the grade-seven basketball coach let Tom hang out for after-school practices three years ago. As a tag-along, I was allowed to warm the bench, but Tom got to set up drills and even participate occasionally when they were a man short. His ego got unbearable until Casey Tisdall, the team’s hotshot, pretty much skunked him in a game of 21 after one of the practices. I can admit now that I was cheering for Casey.

  Tom starts yelling at the TV. He’s ticked that the Mavericks are starting to let up and coasting to the win.

  I think about the afternoon we shot free throws for five hours straight. I was proud to hit a streak of eleven in a row, but Tom broke thirty…twice!

  I’m sure I’ll get rusty on my free throws once Tom’s gone. It’s weird. This was the year Tom was supposed to be the star player on the team, and now that dream’s dead. Like Tom, I hope there’s some sort of program in Moose Jaw. If there isn’t, I bet Tom will do something about it. I can’t imagine him giving up basketball.

  I know I began the year wishing I could break away from Tom. Well, that’s a done deal. There’s a lot I won’t miss. I’ve had my fill of trips to see the vice principal. I took a lot of foolish risks with Tom egging me on. And some of Tom’s taunting was just plain cruel. But no one has ever made me laugh as hard. Tom has a knack for getting me to loosen up and just be a kid. Maybe that’s what people mean when they say, “Be careful what you wish for.”

  I wonder if I’ll have any luck in making friends with someone else at school. Even though this is my sixth year there, I don’t know much about my classmates. The problem is I don’t know how to change that. Maybe I’ll have to wait and start over in high school. In a twisted sort of way, Tom may have outdone me one last time. At least his new start begins tomorrow.

  That kind of thinking gets depressing, so I shake it off and do my best to get into the game. Mavericks up by fourteen with a couple of minutes to go. Not a nail-biter, but good enough as a distraction.

  Thirty

  Just after midnight, Tom barges in my room and yanks the pillow out from under my head. “Dude, get up! I can’t sleep.”

  He turns on the light, and, with no pillow to cover my eyes, I pull up the sheets. Another swift yank and the covers are on the floor.

  “Come on!” I complain. “We gotta get up at five to get you to your brother’s work.”

  “Yeah, so? It’s a long drive. I can sleep in the car. Get up! I’m telling you I can’t sleep. The sofa’s cool and all, but I’m starting to worry about my uncle and where I’m going. Let’s play some basketball.”

  I let out a loud sigh and sit up. “You can’t play. If someone sees us, they might report you.”

  “So we won’t dribble. Y
ou suck at it anyway. Just Twenty-One. Don’t let the ball bounce. We don’t even need a light.”

  “You’re crazy!” I say as I get out of bed. I pull on a sweatshirt, and we are outside in less than a minute. Archie pokes around in the hedges before sitting on the driveway and watching us.

  Tom stands staring at me. “Uh, stupid, it’s bad enough that we’re not playing a pickup game, but I’m not gonna pretend with an imaginary ball. Where is it?”

  Hmm, good question. We always played with Tom’s. Something about it being an “official NBA ball.” After about five minutes of snooping around the garage, I find it in a plastic tub with a bunch of other forgotten stuff like a bocce-ball set, a football and a Super Soaker.

  When I reappear, Tom shouts, “About time. Game on!”

  “Shut up. You’ll wake my mom up.”

  “Yeah, you shut up.” He grabs the ball from me and passes it back and forth between his hands. “She’s okay. Can’t believe she bought me undies, but that’s cool. Need ’em.”

  “Hey, no dribbling!” No surprise Tom can’t seem to control himself. I am going to have to be referee and player.

  “So, it’s Twenty-One, right?” I say, wanting to get on with things. “I’m only playing one game and then I’m going back to sleep.”

  “Yeah, yeah. One game. I haven’t played in weeks, but you go first. You need every break you can get.”

  I haven’t played in weeks either, but whatever. I figure once I take the first shot, Tom will get in game mode and shut up.

  I can see well enough from the streetlight as I mentally line up my shot. Aim and miss.

  “You suck!” Okay, so I’ve forgotten. Game mode comes with more talk.

  His first four shots go in. So much for being out of practice. By the time he is up 16–4, I am tired of his putdowns on my every miss. When it is my turn again, I look toward the net and then chuck the ball at Tom’s head. I miss that too.

  “Hey! What’s with you? That is so not cool! Show some sportsmanship, dude.”

  “Sportsmanship? You’re telling me about sportsmanship? You say ‘You suck’ or ‘Girl power’ every time I miss and then there’s ‘Whoosh’ and ‘So pro’ whenever you get one in, and you wanna tell me about sportsmanship?!”

  It is time for me to go back to bed, and I march to the door. I have every right to forfeit the game, guilt-free. Tom runs in front of me and blocks my way. “Come on, man. I was just being funny. Let’s just play. I’ll lay off, I swear.” He has a weird, pleading look in his eyes. One game; his last night in Richmond. I cave.

  We play at least twenty games. I even win a couple. And, yeah, I throw the “You suck” stuff right back at him. So much for taking the high road. At 3:30, we finally turn in. It is a classic Tom occasion—incredibly annoying, but beneath it all, still fun enough to keep it going.

  Two hours later, another visitor tries to kick me out of bed. Mom is easier to ignore than Tom. She goes off in a huff, and a minute or two later a wet tongue drowns out any chance of another dream. Tom howls as I squirm to pull away from Archie.

  “Best dog ever, eh?” he says. “Come on! We gotta get going. If we’re not in the parking lot by six, Jerry might change his mind.”

  It takes five minutes to throw on some clothes, hit the washroom and get in the car. I figure anyone else dumb enough to be up this early on the weekend won’t care what I look like.

  Once Tom loads his bike in the back, we are good to go. Archie seems to sense something is up, and he darts from window to window in the car until my mom orders Tom to grab hold of him. Mom’s serious about her driving. We suffer through a Norah Jones CD that I am beginning to think might be stuck in the car’s CD player. I am too tired to react, but when Archie frantically starts licking as Tom pretends to choke himself, I burst out laughing.

  “Everything okay back there?” Leave it to Mom to think a little laughter might be a problem. Tom reads my mind, and we both laugh even more.

  Jerry’s van is the only vehicle in the parking lot when we pull up. His girlfriend has her head up against the window of the passenger seat, and Jerry stands by the storefront, smoking a cigarette and shaking from the morning chill. He hollers, “Hurry up” as we open the doors.

  I grab the suitcase Mom has dug out from our attic and Tom retrieves his bike. Mom pats Archie and coos a bunch of nonsense in his ear.

  With everything loaded, Tom tugs on the leash, and Mom lets go of Archie. “Oh, Craig,” she calls, “did you give him your email address?” The stunned look on my face is signal enough for her to go digging in the Pathfinder for a pen and paper. She jots my email, our address and phone number on the back of a receipt, hands it to me and shoves me forward.

  Jerry is in the van and has the engine running. “Here,” I say as I hand Tom the paper. Keep in touch would’ve sounded lame.

  Tom looks at me for a second and says, “Thanks.” For the paper, maybe for more. I can’t be sure. As he steps into the van, he adds, “I’ll be in the nba, you know. I’ll get you free tickets one day.”

  I nod and wave as the van pulls out of the parking lot. Tom is moving on, and so am I.

  Thirty-one

  At school the next day, it’s time to read our essays in front of the class. After seeing Tom off and getting a bit of a nap, I’d spent a couple more hours on mine. I even read it to my mom and punched up a few parts based on her suggestions.

  Roger Battersby volunteers to go first. It’s obvious he’s just looking to get it over with. He’s ghostly white as he stands before the class. He clenches his paper tightly, raising it up as some sort of protective shield. I don’t have a clue what his speech is about. He reads it in a speed-mumble. Twice Miss Chang asks him to speak up, but then she too gives up.

  More speeches follow. Mark Tam goes for the heartstrings as he talks about his memories of learning a card game from his now deceased grandfather. Cam Stilwell takes a safe route as he aims to convince us that hockey should be Canada’s official sport. (Isn’t it already?) Taryn takes her place up front and speaks without any notes. As I listen I’m disappointed, but not surprised. She’s abandoned ostracism and instead gives a cutesy talk she calls “The Price of a Smile.” Yeah, it’s predictable. In the end, she says a smile is—get ready for it— priceless. People clap; I groan.

  Finally, it’s my turn. Before beginning, I glance at my audience. Miss Chang offers an encouraging nod. Mark looks intense, like he’s going to be graded on my speech. Mostly though, my peers seem distracted, burned out from the succession of speeches. Strangely, this annoys me. I want to be heard.

  I look down at my paper and pause to make a silent dedication. And then I start.

  I’ve been thinking a lot about cream of celery soup lately. Not craving it. Does anyone? Just thinking about it.

  My voice is a bit scratchy, probably from saying nothing for the past hour. I clear my throat and continue. No more snags. The words pour out. I have purpose, I have passion.

  Cream of celery soup. Ever had it? Sludge in a bowl. A soup whose star ingredient is the symbol of blandness: celery. Stare at a stalk. Even the color lacks impact: watered-down green. And somehow when they mush it up in a blender, it comes out pukey beige.

  We’ve had canned food drives every year I’ve been at school. “Let’s fill the classroom box! Maybe this year we can overwhelm Miss Newman’s car. Maybe it’ll take a van. No candy bars, please.” (We don’t want needy people having any treats now, do we?) Make it healthy foods, non-perishable…and bring lots.

  Cream of celery. Healthy? I suppose. Non-perishable? Check. Lots? Double check. Triple and quadruple check! We have a whole shelf at home in one of the lower kitchen cupboards that is devoted exclusively to cream of celery. Cheap soup, bought on sale, no less. Oh, what a success for each and every food drive!

  Why does no one ever talk about good taste? Are we so cold that we really believe that “beggars can’t be choosers”? To donate phlegm in a can is just plain wrong. When we go for cheap an
d tasteless, we basically put a lesser value on the life of the recipient. We don’t eat it, so why should they? Acts of charity should make a difference, not highlight a difference.

  Have you ever been alone? Completely alone? You and no one. You and nothing. Homeless. I’d like to think that I’ll never face that possibility, but who’s to say? We’ve all seen homeless people. Each one has a unique story about how he or she got to the point of living in a shelter or outside a bank on a couple of ragged blankets discovered on garbage day or in a shack that even the rats have abandoned. Does it really matter how people got there? Why does the street person with a dog by her side get more coins from passersby than the homeless man who talks to himself? Without knowing their life stories, how can we be so quick to judge?

  Perhaps what we all need is an opportunity to meet and understand a person who is down and out. As well as food, clothing, shelter and skills, maybe we need to offer hope. If you get to the point where you are truly alone, all the strength inside you may have been sucked dry, and maybe it takes encouragement and inspiration from others to offer hope that things will get better.

  That inspiration has to come from something more than a can of cream of celery soup.

  I fold my paper in half to signal that I’m done. There is awkward silence. Did I bore everyone into a stupor? Maybe I should’ve said, “The End,” like a half dozen of my classmates. The pause has been too long for that now. I shoot a pleading look at Miss Chang, who starts to applaud. Is she beaming? Others join in. It sounds loud. It feels great.

  I return to my desk and Jenny Tai whispers a simple, “Wow!” Mark gives me a thumbs-up. Others continue to clap and smile. I am able to smile back with confidence. Maybe Taryn was right about the whole smiling thing.