The Ambassador of What

by Adrian Michael Kelly

  The Ambassador of What

  Stories

  ADRIAN MICHAEL KELLY

  To B. & D.

  Forward

  Contents

  ONE

  Stragglers

  It Does Not Control You

  Petty Theft

  Dogshit Blues

  Private Function

  MacInney’s Strong

  TWO

  Lure

  The Door Opener

  Mid-Flight

  Animal Cruelty

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  ONE

  Stragglers

  My molar, it hammered me. I groped for the clock and turned the yellow-green glow of its hands away. 3:15 a.m. Go and get some Orajel, or put an aspirin on it, but we had no hallways, only rooms. Dad would hear.

  I waited.

  ~

  We lived behind the Acropolis. Our landlords were the owners, and I could hear them in there now. Elena sang a song in Greek, stacking plates and saucers. Nik fried an onion. He always did that first. The smell of it bustled sharp and strong through the heating vent. I got out of bed. Any normal Saturday, we were already up an hour and slogging down the road.

  ~

  Dad was having apnea. I peed loud and flushed, and had a look at my tooth in the mirror. The gum beneath it bulged. I pressed it and I tasted it, the poison of myself. A pair of aspirins in my palm. One I swallowed at the fridge with skim. The other I wedged in the cavity. My mouth knew to make more spit.

  ~

  Onion filled the flat now. I opened the door and screen. Rain pocked the river. In for a landing on the embankment came a fat and filthy gull. It waddled underneath the deck, where torn-open bags of Acropolis trash filled the stinking big blue bins. Other gulls were scrumming there. That hideous heads-up gape-beak screaming.

  ~

  Dad yawned and did a fart. I went to his door.

  Tea?

  Aye.

  Cream of Wheat?

  Eggs, how bout?

  Hard or soft?

  Soft, mine.

  Soldiers too?

  He did the English: I say, soldiers do sound jolly good.

  I said, Indubitably, but when I filled the kettle up, my hand shook, my whole arm.

  ~

  More tea? I said.

  Time we got that car unloaded.

  Raining pretty hard.

  Made of sugar?

  No.

  Right. Let’s get it done.

  Dad was an odd combination, part-time on the ambulance, full-time painter-decorator. The Bel Air smelt of Varsol. Ladders rode the roof. We took them off and chained them to the railing around the deck. Rain dripped from our noses. Dropsheets big as sails and heavy, gallons and quarts and pints of paint, the machine for stippled ceilings, we unloaded all of that and plunked it on the kitchen floor. I pulled the cling of my T-shirt free.

  Shower now? I said.

  Aye. Don’t dilly-dally.

  I stepped around the tools and gear in soaking wet sock feet. Imagine if I fell. All these hard, edged things.

  ~

  Pink and clean as new pork cutlets. I put on my Wrangler jeans. The brown plaid Western dress shirt. Tomorrow I hadn’t decided. The one was a real Bill Rodgers singlet. It had a blue band across the chest. The famous BR logo. Dad got it me in Boston. The other was from my school. A gift from VP Evans. Heck of a thing you’re doing, son. Hope you’ll be our ambassador. The shirt was yellow as corn on the cob. Halfway down the front it had a tall green pointy star. Skinny letters in the star said p H s. No one would have a clue what they meant, but I had red shorts with a yellowy stripe, and none with any blue. The longest time I stood there, staring at one and then at the other. Finally went with yellow and green. Ambassador of what.

  ~

  Dead leaves plastered Highway 30. We passed the Klaussen farm. Holstein cows, their udders and their arses caked, plodded up a slant of mucky barnyard. High in the air over Pine Ridge, a hawk tilted in the wind and rain. Dad rolled down his window. The wiper had started to stagger. He reached out, and gave it a flick. Then he sniffed.

  Fuck no.

  I looked at the gauge. The lean of the needle.

  He banged the dash. Filthy cunt.

  I sank in my jacket.

  ~

  We pulled in at the Shell near Brighton. Dad got out and popped the hood. Squalls of steam escaped. Round to the back of the wagon he went and swung the tailgate open. Cool air rushed inside the car. He unlatched his first aid kit. Took out tape and gauze and swabs, a pad.

  You, he said. Off your arse.

  I met him round the front.

  He said, Get your coat off. Hold it up and keep this dry.

  The radiator hose had split. He swabbed it like a dirty wound. Applied the sterile pad. Wrapped gauze around it. Then tape. My arms ached. The back of me, soaked. He lowered the hood.

  Wait in the car.

  Came back with a brimming bucket. Uncapped the rad, and filled it.

  To have talons and wings and far-seeing eyes. To think just perfect hawk thoughts.

  ~

  In the slow lane on the 401, he kept it under sixty. Truckers passed and shot us looks. The car was trailing scarves of steam. Up the way on the other side, I saw the yellow Fifth Wheel sign, and I pointed to it. Dad whacked the blinker. At the exit, turned left on a red. Ahead of us, a transport crept, belching black exhaust. Dad pulled out and had a look. Passed on a solid line. We rolled to the edge of the Fifth Wheel lot, and the car let go its last. I stared at wet macadam.

  Needin a pee?

  I shook my head.

  Wait here, then. Won’t be long.

  He walked through a puddle as big as our flat and didn’t seem to notice. The camera was in his Adidas bag. When he had gone inside, I pointed it at my face. I hate this, I said, and I don’t want to be here, but I didn’t press the trigger. I didn’t have the guts. Anyway, it had no mic. I would be a silent movie. Have to read my lips.

  ~

  We split a Kit Kat. I chewed on the side with less decay and waited for him to talk. He only sat there, quiet as crags.

  I said, What’s happening?

  He said, How do you mean?

  We going home?

  He looked at me. Kiddin?

  I didn’t speak.

  Denny’s on his way, he said.

  What about the car?

  It’ll have to be towed.

  Are we getting it back?

  He stared out his side.

  ~

  Not to tell it now was hard, but I had promised her. After the wedding, when we had a few days, Mum took me to the track. Her fat bald bookie gave us tips, but I bet on my hunches. Seven hundred was my half. We opened my first bank account. The balance was earning interest. I thought he would feel it. I thought he would see. My face was scarlet. Words were storming my throat and mouth, but I quelled them. I was rich.

  ~

  He looked at his Seiko.

  Fuck’s Denny?

  The rain had gone for a coffee break. I said, Out and walk?

  Aye. Good idea.

  We swung our arms and stretched. Feeble sun showed its face. Gulls mobbed the Fifth Wheel bins and fought for scraps in the parking lot. Through diesel fumes and fryer grease came whiffs of Lake Ontario, a cold stew of seaweed and half-rotten fish. Then a horn honked. Denny flashed his lights. I waved high and hard.

  Gaw, son, look at the siz
e of ye.

  Iain didn’t come?

  He’s in Long Island. Your dad no tell ye?

  I shook my head.

  Tournament, said Denny. You’ll see him Sunday night. C’mon, hop in. Car’s warm.

  I’ll just get my bag.

  Leave it, son. I’ll get it.

  He and Dad shook hands.

  Pal.

  How are ye?

  It made me want a brother. The history in their eyes.

  ~

  Eighty miles an hour, and the LeSabre felt like CP Air, cruising altitude. A wall ran along the far right lane, and Denny pointed past it. Mud and model homes.

  I’m puttin carpet in half these places.

  Dad only nodded.

  Clamorin for trades.

  No doubt they are.

  I know a guy—Ahmed. His son plays wi’ Iain. Hell of a foot. Anyway, he’s a painter. Remember Joyce McClure?

  No.

  Blond wee thing. Markham Road.

  Peterhead?

  That’s her. Done all right, Joyce has. A.E. LePage. Her youngest plays wi’ Iain too. Along at a game the other day, she says to Ahmed, Come round mine for an estimate, like? He says, You couldn’t afford me. She says, Beg your pardon? He says, You couldn’t afford me. The face on her. Know what I mean? I says to him after, Ahmed, could you no gie her a break? He says, Denny, I get what I’m worth. Take a guess.

  No idea.

  Twenty-five.

  An hour? I said.

  Aye, son. An hour.

  Dad squared his shoulders. Thinkin of backin off on the paintin. Go full-time on the ambulance.

  That right?

  Dunno yet.

  Denny looked in the rear-view mirror. How ’bout you?

  Me?

  Aye. How do you feel?

  About what, Uncle Denny?

  Movin back here.

  I looked at Dad. At his neck, the creases.

  Where we are is fine, I said.

  Talking stopped ’til Agincourt.

  ~

  The street made a circle round a small park, where an old man watched his bony mutt squeeze out spindly turds. We pulled in the drive. Aunty Ag was watching us out the picture window, arms crossed under her big cone breasts.

  Come let me see ye.

  I pecked her cheek.

  Skinny malinky. She looked at Dad. No feed’n this wan?

  Your accent’s fadin.

  She made a fist. Shut that door. Ma heat’s fly’n oot.

  Heat on for?

  Baltic the day. Shoes! Anywan marks ma carpet, I’ll brain him.

  Bet you’ve missed this. Denny winked.

  Have yez had a bit tae eat?

  Could do with a bowl of soup, said Dad.

  Right. Denny’ll take yez doon the stair.

  Into the perfect house we went. Even the basement smelled of Glade.

  ~

  I was allowed an Irn-Bru. The soup was beef and barley. Warm rolls as well. Came a lull in the blether, and Aunty Ag said, Do ye hear from your sister?

  I looked at Dad.

  He was out to Calgary a month ago.

  Thanks. I was ask’n him.

  Dad gave a nod.

  For the wedding, I said.

  Aunty Ag stopped chewing. Whose?

  Janice.

  You’re jok’n.

  No.

  Age is she now?

  Twenty-one?

  God in Heaven. She looked at Dad. Why have you no telt us?

  He shrugged. Forgot.

  Who’s the fella?

  Tim, I said.

  Tim what?

  Troffer.

  What does he do?

  Plays hockey.

  Professional?

  Semi. In Spokane.

  Where’s tha?

  Washington State, said Uncle Denny. Janice movin there?

  I don’t know. Guess so.

  It got quiet, but Aunty Ag said it.

  Was your mum at the wedd’n?

  Yes, I said. My chest was tight. Janice’s dad as well.

  Together ye mean?

  Agnes, said Denny.

  I’m only ask’n.

  No, I said. He has a new wife.

  How is your mum?

  Spoilt him, said Dad.

  Aye, first time she’s seen him in—

  Agnes, said Denny. Leave it.

  We ate. Current hummed in the clock on the wall.

  ~

  In the unfinished part of the basement, I turned on the bare light bulb and knelt in front of the cubby-hole. Evel Knievel, G.I. Joe, Big Jim, Batman, Stretch Armstrong, and Star Wars characters (even the cantina creatures) were jumbled together in two milk crates. I slid them out, and scooched in for a look at the stack of games. Simon was on top. The batteries worked. Cross-legged on the cool grey floor, I began to play. Four coloured tabs, red, yellow, blue, and green, each with its own sound, lit up in random sequence. You had to repeat the sequence by pressing on the tabs. It started slow and easy, say, red, blue, blue, green, but the more you got right, the faster and longer the sequences got, red-red-blue-green-blue-yellow-red, on and on, more and more. There is a kind of trick to it. Don’t stare at the tabs. Let your eyes go soft. Let your hand remember. Only on Level 4 could the computer begin to beat me.

  ~

  Dad thumped down the stairs. Fuck’s that?

  Game.

  Get it off.

  Sorry.

  Togs, he said, and nodded at the finished room.

  We’re going for a run?

  Bit a film is all.

  I thought today was resting.

  Half a wee lap a the street.

  In we went and changed. Wearing my shorts and shirt felt wrong, like premature delivery. I thought they might be angry and take revenge tomorrow, siphon off my strength. In my head I told them sorry. Asked them for permission and promised we wouldn’t be long. I wouldn’t sweat or get them dirty. Right back in the bag they’d go. Resting. ’Til tomorrow.

  ~

  Denny blew on his hands. Sure ye want to do this now?

  Dad shrugged. Sun’s out.

  Give us the camera, then.

  I’ll get the lad on his own first.

  Fine. I’ll scratch my arse.

  Dad ignored him and looked at me. Top of the street. Run back.

  I cut through the park at a medium jog. Rust speckled the swing set. A Becker’s bag blew by and caught in a wobbling bush. Then I stepped in a squish of shit. Scraped my shoe on the curb and retched. Dad was waving, Go. I gave the legs a little gas, but before I entered the final bend, he had taken the camera away from his face, and I saw the disgusted slits of his eyes.

  Back, and do it again.

  Wrong wi’ it? said Denny.

  Again, said Dad. Put some umph in it.

  Have ye asked him if he wants to?

  The face on Dad.

  Denny looked at me. Eh, son? Do ye want to do this now?

  I nodded.

  Just say—

  Uncle Denny. It’s all right.

  This time I got set, and took off like track. A 1500-metre pace. Into the bend I went even harder.

  Okay, kid. Got it.

  I pretended not to hear him.

  Ease up, he said. EASE UP.

  Those half seconds. When both my feet are off the ground. When I’m full-out, and the air is streaming.

  ~

  Downstairs in the finished room, he pointed to the floor.

  Here.

  I stood where he said, and saw it coming. BANG, above the ear.

  What in fuck was that?

  You said put some umph in it.

  Could have pulled a mu
scle.

  We don’t even have a projector.

  BANG, opposite side.

  It’s true.

  BANG, back on the left. Anything else to tell me?

  No.

  Eh?

  Sorry.

  Go and give your face a wash. Comb that hair as well.

  Off he went upstairs. In the basement washroom, I ran the taps awhile and put an aspirin in my molar. It was a lie what he told Uncle Denny. Full-time needed EMCA. He had passed the practical, but completely bombed the written. Could barely even spell.

  ~

  Big spaghetti nosh-up. My belly out to here. I helped Aunty Ag with the dishes, then she and Denny went to get dressed. They were off to a ceilidh come eight o’clock. ShaNaNa would be on telly now, but Dad told me to come downstairs.

  Here, he said. Get this in you.

  It looked like a square of Jersey Milk. I asked him what it was.

  Laxative, he said.

  I’m not bunged up.

  Flushes you out. Won’t have to stop tomorrow.

  We just carbo-loaded.

  So?

  Will I not poo them out?

  Don’t be daft. Mild, that. Works overnight.

  You taking one?

  Course I am.

  I did the English. Down the hatch.

  ~

  In the living room. Full regalia, Denny. The shine of him, the swish. His sporran had a face. I asked him it.

  He said, Stoat, and fiddled with his Pentax. Handed it to Dad. Wait ’til the flash—

  I can manage.

  In came Aunty Ag. A matching kilt and sash.

  I said, You look smashing.

  She curtsied, Thank you, son, and put her arm round Denny. Oor first night oot in ages, pal.

  Dad said, Ready? and counted three. My aunt and uncle smiled. It wasn’t fake, it was married. Away they went trailing aftershave and perfume. Dad put the telly on. I had never seen CHiPs in colour.

  ~

  To tread on the carpet would have been sin. It still had the Hoover marks. No damp towels, twists of ginch. No wrinkles and no dust. Posters of Styx and Kevin Keegan and a Glasgow Celtic scarf and strip were pinned to the walls but perfect, like geometry. On the desk, a globe. Encyclopedia Britannica. Not once had I ever been in this room, even when Iain was here. Wish Book room. Perfect room. I turned off the light. On the ceiling, planets and stars glowed green-yellow. I closed the door and went downstairs, where Dad was gargling Listermint. He didn’t brush at all anymore. It only made him bleed.