Vicar again mentally corrected his grammar, feeling suddenly uncomfortable with this lopsided dynamic.
“Do you wanna come in next Monday? It should only take a coupla hours for you. But I had one kid who never got it. The whole thing was, ahh” — he paused to gather the words — “beneath his apprehension, dere.”
Vicar looked up and to the right a little, accessing the part of his brain that might decipher that doozy. Click, click, click. Beyond his comprehension. Oh God, thought Vicar, he’s illiterate.
---
Vicar cast his eyes over the equipment and shook his head. It was old, even by his standards. No wonder Poutine couldn’t keep any kids in his employ. He might as well have had them shoeing horses out back. The most difficult part of this job was going to be constantly reorganizing the cooler as stock moved through.
“So, I guess you’re not taking online orders, huh?” Vicar asked.
“Huh?”
“Online. Customers go to your website and place their orders …” He trailed off, realizing how ridiculous the question was.
“Huh?” This time Poutine’s brow was crinkled in annoyance.
Glumly, Vicar envisioned himself blithely finding the right “flow” for the deck chairs on the Titanic. “Ross, buddy, you don’t even take credit cards. You might as well be trading for pelts.”
Poutine gruffly looked away.
Trying a new tack, Vicar said, “Young people don’t even use the phone anymore.”
Staring down at the counter, Poutine grumbled, “I’m going to reframe from comment.”
Vicar instantly began to itch. He scratched his arm violently in response to this last malapropism.
The cash register had to go. The customer display had broken off numerous times and was held in place with yellowing Scotch tape. After a week in his new job, Vicar broke the news to Poutine, who was manhandling a heavy dolly stacked with champagne. He simply had to get a computer system. Vicar couldn’t believe that he’d stayed afloat this long without one. Even geriatrics shopped on Amazon now.
Poutine had a big heart, but he was shipwrecked in a distant time. For him, the purchase of a new pair of pants would have been an emotional mountain to climb. It seemed, though, that for all his grumbling, he would have been happy to give the shop a facelift. He just didn’t have the imagination, didn’t know where to start. The whole concept aggravated him, wore on the tiny reserve of patience he had. Now, if somebody could have waved a magic wand and just made all that shit appear …
A few days later, and strongly against his will, Vicar was instructed to make a delivery in the precious Chevelle, to “keep up my image,” Poutine insisted. It felt more like mounting an expedition; driving this car would be like attempting to saddle and break a rhino.
“Just go ginger with the gas, Tony, don’t mat the whore, you’ll be all over da place.”
Vicar, stressed out and distracted, still spent an instant marvelling at Poutine’s signature lingo.
“And watch the brakes. This baby’s heavy, so she don’ slow down so good. Gotta baby ’er a bit.”
“Ross, I really don’t feel safe in this thing. It’s too much for me.”
Too much for a grown man? Poutine looked aghast, as if Vicar had just requested a tender and loving hand job.
Vicar attempted to justify his reluctance. “I don’t want to wreck your beautiful car.”
“I don’ want ya to wreck my beautiful car, either. But it’s worth th’ risk. Your car is for schoolgirls. You can’t deliver booze in that damn Barbie Camper.” He gestured dismissively at the blocky Peugeot.
Vicar sighed, trying to find the right angle of approach. “If I were to cause an accident while I was delivering for you, the store’s reputation would be trashed. You’d lose all your delivery business.” He knew his argument made no sense, but he was looking for any excuse not to use the Chevelle. He could not connect with Poutine’s notion that booze had to be delivered in a muscle car.
“Don’ gimme yer goddamn societal tissues, just git this booze over to Mrs. Hall’s place on Sloop Road.”
Vicar chuckled. Sometimes Poutine was so far off the mark that he did a spin-o-rama and nailed it by accident.
Poutine stood back, and Vicar, as advised, gingerly tapped the gas. Nothing happened. He tried again. Nothing. He looked questioningly at Poutine through the open window.
“Give ’er, ya fuckin’ pansy!” Poutine admonished.
He put his foot down on the pedal and the big fat BF Goodrich 60s at the back left a streak of rubber thirty feet long, the car’s rear end fishtailing as he desperately tried to keep the front wheels corrected. They both howled, Poutine with glee, Vicar with terror as he screamed onto the main road, nearly putting the car nose first into Mrs. Kanashiro’s koi pond.
Vicar slowed down and rumbled menacingly toward his destination, trying to enjoy the spectacular view while wrestling with this, the most powerful car he’d ever operated. It was a beautiful showpiece, but about as relaxing as snakes in your sleeping bag. Its brakes may or may not have been functioning; it accelerated like the Space Shuttle or else didn’t move at all. When it idled, it sounded like boulders in a cement mixer. It was ridiculous. What possible reason was there to use a car as powerful as a bulldozer only for light deliveries? Car guys were so weird, like gun guys, or airplane guys. Vicar didn’t even think about including music guys.
The sky was puffy with low clouds moving noticeably at low altitude, but when he got to the bend with the good ocean view, he could see no whitecaps. Right above him was a huge, impressive-looking bird. It gracefully followed the Chevelle down the road. It was golden brown and had a massive wingspan. Juvenile bald eagle? Golden eagle? Bald eagles were abundant here, probably to the chagrin of American tourists, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a golden; they came only to breed.
At the very top of the highest ground in town, on a switchback curve leading to what must have been the deadliest driveway turnoff in all Tyee Lagoon, he found the house of Mrs. Frankie Hall. He rolled down her driveway and pulled up near the garage door.
An elderly man with a splotchy tan and the skinniest legs Vicar had ever seen answered her door. He wore tight beige shorts hiked up to his nipples. His balls were hanging out one leg hole, dripping down like a long thread of sap covered in pine needles. Vicar didn’t know how to react when he saw the dangling tackle.
As Frankie Hall slowly shuffled to the door, purse in hand, she saw his surprise and deduced the problem. “Oh, Pasquale, your whatnots are showing again,” she said chirpily, pronouncing it Pusk-Wally. She turned to Vicar with a lopsided grin and stage-whispered, “I call him the Sack of Rome.”
Vicar presented her wine in a box.
“Could you just take it into the garage, dear? There’s a shelf for my hooch. You’ll see it there.”
Smiling, Vicar said, “Of course, of course.”
Upon entering the huge garage, he found the parked hulk of the longest black Cadillac he’d ever seen. Amend that, he twigged, I saw it once before, when it almost killed me.
He reported back to Frankie when he was done. Glancing at her white hair, he realized that it was she who’d so badly navigated the huge death ship when it had nearly sunk him.
“Here you are, dear.” She handed him a tip.
Vicar stood there for just a moment and then said, “That big old Cadillac looks hard to get in and out of the garage. Do you drive it very often?”
“Oh no, I only go out once in a while.”
“Hmm, I have a feeling it might go through gas pretty quickly.”
“Well, it ain’t no economy car,” she quipped brightly.
“Tell ya what, Mrs. Hall, I have a proposition for you. If you call me down at Liquor, I can run all your deliveries up here, not just your vino. Your groceries or maybe something from the drugstore. It might be a lot easier than driving. Anything you need.”
“Well, isn’t that nice, but I already have a boyfriend.”
She crooked her thumb over her shoulder toward Pasquale, who had shuffled to the counter and was currently trying to outsmart the lid of a coffee can.
“No, ma’am. I don’t mean it that way, although now that you mention it, it is mighty tempting.” He winked outrageously at her, and she glowed in response. “I just think that your car is awfully large, and your needs are probably pretty small. Someone from the shop drives past here several times a day. You just call me, and we’ll drop stuff up here, no problem. ’Kay?”
She patted his hand gently. “Shall do, handsome,” she flirted through the crack of the door, obviously pleased, as Vicar looked down at his seventy-five-cent tip.
Six / Randy with the Weak
Handshake
A lovely, wholesome girl with Margaret Keane big eyes and carefully plaited strawberry hair sweetly answered the door. Tony Vicar’s mind flashed back to Grade 7, when his heart had melted at the sight of a classmate who’d looked much like her. He had given up hope that young ladies like this still existed and half expected Huck Finn to peek out from behind her.
Instead, a man padded out from a side room. It was that poodle-haired surf bum from the other day, flashy sunglasses pushed up on his forehead. Ol’ Catchya on the Flip-Flop. What was it? Randy? With one limp hand, he took delivery of the wine, and with the other, weakly grasped Vicar’s fingers in an overtly stylized, unnecessary greeting, like a self-appointed Sultan of Skeeve in a receiving line. “I just gotta get my cash, dude. Hang tight.” Infuriatingly, he said dude with a raspy, affected, faux-Californian drawl. Vicar’s eyes began to water slightly at the sound of his voice.
Randy the Poodle poked around, presumably looking for his missing wallet. He barked crudely for Becky, the girl who had answered the door. Vicar blinked once or twice … her name was actually Becky. How strange. Becky with the Good Hair, mused Vicar, but Randy with the Weak Handshake. He was riffing poorly as a result of the uncomfortable feeling in the house; he was put off by the mere sight of the man. Through bedrock belief, passed down from father to son for many generations in his lineage, Vicar knew with certainty that a wet-fish grasp portended wickedness.
Becky timidly presented herself, and Randy made a show of giving her hell for moving his wallet while she mumbled vain protests. Vicar felt the whole performance was for his benefit. The poodle-coiffed dick lecturing that young, sweet snapshot of Vicar’s youth was the embodiment of layabout boyfriend masquerading as stepdad. He was showing off his power over the defenceless to a total stranger who waited uncomfortably at the door to be paid so he could just get outta there.
Finally, Randy spied the missing wallet over on the kitchen counter. Grabbing it, he checked its contents and accused her of getting light-fingered with his cash. Her mother came creeping in, her eyes frightened, looking bedraggled and — oddly for this time of day — wearing a tattered terry housecoat large enough to use as a boat tarp. Vicar noticed a chopstick in her hair holding up her bun. Young Becky’s eyes flicked over to Vicar in embarrassment as Randy the Increasingly Offensive Surfer Poodle amped up his tirade.
“I want to talk to you outside. Right now.”
Becky followed compliantly, shuffling past with her eyes cast down. Vicar deliberately fixated on the chopstick to ignore the pall of awkwardness that fell on the scene. The mother gazed past him and chewed her lip nervously. Behind him he heard muttering. Randy the Poodle Douche raised his voice and began to sound very aggressive. Alarmed, Vicar stepped back from the door and turned toward them to see what domestic mess was brewing up.
Young Becky was finally getting angry at her treatment, and she raised her voice. “No, I did not take your money! Leave me alone, Randy.” Her strawberry plaits twisted as she shook her head, face flushing, voice shrill with apprehension. Randy, blithely unaware that he was one bad decision away from entering a deadly situation, grabbed Becky by the arm and started shaking her roughly, a truly ominous glare on his face.
Vicar watched with surging anxiety for a moment as klaxons went off in his brain. “Let her go!” he commanded sharply.
Randy with the Poor Hair and Poorer Judgment rounded on him. “Get the fuck off my property, you sonofabitch. This is none of your fuckin’ business.” His eyes looked psychotic. It was as if someone had flipped a switch in Randy, turning him from laughable caricature to monster with one click. Vicar’s senses were ratcheted sky high, and he thought he could see watery, unpleasant colours swirling around this guy’s face. Vicar was like that sometimes.
He put his hands up, palms out, but stood his ground. “Let her go and calm down, and then I’ll leave.”
Randy released his grip on Becky, approached threateningly, and growled, “You’ll leave now.”
Still maintaining his ground, with his torso twisted, his right arm slyly cocked back, Vicar spoke with menacing calm. “No real man roughs up a little girl. You wanna dance with me, you cocksucker?”
Poodle Hair sneered and reached toward Vicar, saying, “Chillax, brah,” with venom.
The word chillax triggered a full-on rage in Vicar. No grown man who used that bastardized pseudo-word could go without ruthless punishment. It indicated a wilful embrace of cultural retardation, of linguistic vandalism that was bringing society down to unsustainably Kardashian levels. Randy the Human Poodle illustrated his vileness with that one odious utterance. And, oh yeah, he also beat up girls. The order was given: Smite the filthy cur.
Vicar lashed out powerfully, the heel of his hand smashing at Randy the Speed Bag right under the nose, nearly shearing it right off his stupid face. The hit was terrible, a thunderous knockout blow, with shoulder, hips, knees, and ankles leveraging its fierce impact. Vicar followed through like George Foreman, his body bent over halfway, his arm extended as he connected.
Randy the Frizzy-Wigged Crash Test Dummy rocketed backward, brutally cracking his head on the sharp corner of the wall, and hemorrhaging all over his very own custom-made Peckinpah tableau. His ridiculous yacht rock aviator shades flew off in a high parabola, clattering down into a spreading pool of red next to his too-seldom-used head.
Mother and daughter gasped and then stood in silent awe for several heartbeats. The mother began sobbing. Calmly, Vicar smoothed his jacket and looked down at the bleeding, unconscious turd at his feet. He said quietly, “I am chillaxed.”
Seven / Con-Con
Officially, she was Constable Hayley Constanz, but her pals all called her Con-Con. She knew practically everyone in town pretty well.
“What happened?” She was simple and direct without any of the formality police normally used in such a situation.
“He was roughing up the girl, Becky. I stopped him.”
Con-Con dropped her head and turned it sideways. “Oh, you stopped him, all right,” she said wryly. “He spent the night in the hospital.”
“Good,” Vicar said.
“You realize you could end up in a lot of trouble, Tony?”
“Yeah, but I’d rather deal with that than be the chickenshit who watched an innocent girl get roughed up.”
She glanced up as impassively as she could manage and tried to stay professional. Con-Con was already almost six feet in her stocking feet; with her forage cap on, she was even taller. One of the few Mounties around and the only one born in Tyee Lagoon, she had somehow finally gotten a posting here, after stints in Nunavut and the most barren stretches of Northern Saskatchewan. She lived close by her mother, who peppered her voice mail with messages along the lines of, “Please tell Hayley her mother called.”
She’d tried to teach her mother how to text, but it was hopeless. Mom could seldom locate the cellphone, and when she did, the battery would be dead, or she wouldn’t be able to find her readers to see the keypad, or she’d get flustered and call 911 by accident. How had she ever worked a job and raised a daughter all by herself out here in the country? Now she couldn’t even work the TV remote.
“So, how did it go down?” Con-Con asked. Vicar told her, in a precise and economical ma
nner. She took notes, once or twice asking for clarifications and murmuring “Mm-hmm.”
About ten minutes later, she said, “He claims you attacked him, and it was unprovoked.”
“Con-Con,” Vicar said defensively, “he is a douche-bag. He told me to chillax.”
“Ah.” She pursed her lips. “Not sure that’s a reason to give a guy brain damage.”
“If he uses that word he’s already brain damaged,” he shot back.
“You might wanna watch what you say during your statement, Tone.” Her chuckle was a warning.
“Is he actually brain damaged?”
Concern flooded his face. Seeing this, Con-Con’s tone changed. She let her face soften.
“How in the hell could anyone tell?” she muttered derisively. “We’ll have to see, I guess. Look, thanks for your co-operation.” She put her notebook back into her shirt pocket.
“Am I in trouble?” he asked.
“Well, he may want to press charges, and his face is pretty good evidence against you at this point. It’s going to be some time before he can stop and smell the roses.” She raised her eyebrows, gave him a tight, curt smile, and departed.
Eight / Hardware Store Epiphany
Vicar lumbered into Lagoon Hardware Store like a persecuted bear, licking a chocolate-dipped cone and not giving a shit about the sign that said, No Food Please. The cashier looked apprehensively at his ice cream. Vicar gave her a flinty stare, fairly begging her to say something. But she demurred, and he wandered slowly down the paint aisle.
There, to his right, was a salesclerk. It was the lady in dusty-rose chiffon from the wedding, that awful wedding — the lady who couldn’t keep time. She was yet another reminder of how slippery his slope seemed to be. He rounded the corner behind her and watched dully as she awkwardly demonstrated how to use “the Clapper” with a bedroom lamp. She vainly clapped and clapped and clapped, growing increasingly flustered.
The Liquor Vicar Page 3