by Shilo Jones
“Not my company. Not my problem.”
“Your site though. When’s Clint coming?”
“Look, I don’t know what my brother told you, but Clint doesn’t work on site anymore. Your phone’s not getting topped up. You stay hired, it’s me making the call.”
Ryan stuffs a handful of potato chips in his mouth. “He’ll top up my phone. Clint and me hang out. Even went to Whistler.”
“Meaning what? That you and my brother are besties and I can’t fire you?”
“How long you gonna be around? Because you look…what happened to your leg?”
“I worked with Clint for seven years, off and on. After high school. Then in university. So I might be around longer than you think.”
Damn. Didn’t mean to mention school.
“University?” Ryan asks, curious but cautious. “Doing what?”
“Lotsa shit.”
“Then why you here? In the rain?”
I take a long drag. It’s obvious Ryan loves this work. Was made for it. It’s not cool to slag someone’s work because it doesn’t suit you, especially when that work might be the best and only thing the guy has. “It’s all right,” I say, only half lying. “Working outside, no bullshit, can say what I want, piss in the yard. There’s a lot to be said for it.”
Ryan looks satisfied. “I like it too. Fresh air. Smoke when I want. Sometimes girls walk by.”
I clench my hands on my lap to keep from cradling my ruined leg. “How old are you, Ryan?”
“Eighteen.”
“For real. Lie and you’ll never see that concrete saw.”
“Fifteen.”
“Just turned?”
Ryan doesn’t answer.
What sends a fifteen-year-old kid out of school and across the country? Nothing I want to think on for too long.
A few minutes later we’re in the yard. We spend two hours levelling sand and laying the paving-stone patio. It’s circular, about fifteen feet across. The entire outside edge has to be cut on a symmetrical curve, stone by stone so each cut line matches with the next, or else the whole thing looks like dogshit. This is not easy to accomplish with a concrete saw. The thing weighs thirty pounds and takes two hands to hold, so you have to cut bent over awkwardly, with the toe of your boot holding the stone in place as you cut. The saw’s attached to a hose that sprays water at the blade to keep the dust down, which means you’re soaked and constantly tripping over the hose while holding the saw. The blade’s twelve inches diameter. Teeth lined with diamonds. One slip and you’re getting cut, even with steel-toes. But worst of all’s the fucking noise. A diamond blade ripping through concrete is louder than any chainsaw, a piercing high-pitched scream audible ten blocks away.
Ryan uses a pallet and a piece of plywood to set up a cutting station clear of tripping hazards. Checks the saw blade, the dust filter, and fuel. Turns on the water and is about to yank the pull cord up when I stop him, ask about ear protection. He shrugs. I call him an idiot. He laughs. I tell him he’s wearing ear protection and hand him a set of earmuffs from the toolbox. He puts them on and fires up the saw.
“You want me to measure and mark your cuts?” I yell.
Ryan gives me a look like what the fuck?
“Measure the cuts?”
Ryan shakes his head no, grabs a stone from the stack, sets it on the cutting station, eyes the patio, settles the spinning diamond blade gently onto the stone while I move away from the spraying water. The kid makes the first cut, then another, then another, and one by one the stones slip together and line up perfectly and fifteen minutes later there’s a graceful arc of cut stones curving along the edge of the patio. Ryan isn’t even marking his cuts with a soapstone pencil, just eyeballing each one, visualizing where the blade needs to set down and hitting the curve exactly right every time, something I’ve only seen one other guy—a fifty-five-year-old German stonemason named Jurgen—be able to do.
An hour later I’ve smoked five cigarettes, munched a bag of sours, popped an Oxy or two, and the patio’s finished, a perfect circle, each stone cut crisp with the ones beside it. I figure Ryan just made Clint around five grand, tell him the patio looks sweet. Tell him he’s a mean bastard on the concrete saw. Ryan, soaked and covered in muddy grey dust up to his waist, flashes me a real open smile, says okay but what about another smoke since you know I’m good for it?
I spend an unaccounted-for while sitting in the Ford, watching Ryan bail muck-water out of the trench, running my fingers over the weird hole in my thigh where a chunk of me got burned and blasted off. Scar-heat carries through my Carhartts. Breathing not very regular. Chest too tight. Set an Oxy between my molars and crunch down, adding a bit of tooth pressure to the pill every time the clock on my phone rolls over to a fresh minute, ignoring the bitter chemical taste, and in this way it takes me eighteen minutes to get the whole pill in my gut, which I figure is okay in terms of self-enforced time release and limiting the risk of overdose, stopped breathing, skin turning a pretty robin’s-egg blue.
At one point I try to adjust how I’m sitting and my leg smacks the steering wheel and my shriek makes Ryan climb out of the trench and stare at the truck until I roll down the window, yell hey, dogfucker, back to work with you. Slump against the seat, use my index finger to clear a four-inch-square viewing window in the condensation, watch Ryan struggle in the ditch beside that huge house, partially obscured by rhododendron, dogwood, see him wrestling with a piece-of-shit water pump that keeps getting clogged and overheating so he has to use buckets to get the water out of the trench, scrambling up the slick, muddy sides, a losing battle, dug in, wartime, OPFOR. Feeling lousy for deserting the kid but knowing I couldn’t make it across the yard, what a fucking waste, a living embarrassment, Canadian Armed Forces QOL (Quality of Life) Level Determination Private Basic Mark Patrick Ward Level One: Mild interference with the ability to carry out the usual and accustomed activities of independent living, recreational and community activities, and/or personal relationships due to the entitled condition or bracketed entitled conditions and so fucking on, made my own bed, no one’s fault but mine, tough shit. I put the cellphones Clint gave me on the seat, moving slow and careful, thinking I might need to call someone, who can I call, reach out to, say I’M HERE HELP ME I’M STILL HERE—
Mind stuttering, detonators and dusty roads, Daree, Sarah, my brother making bank, zero risk, it always goes up and the heat from my leg creeps into my chest, makes my heart go zippity-pop and now I’m too hot but shivering, wiping sweat from my face when my phone beeps, a text, and when I open it I see a list of numbers 85-142/86-36.7 and for a few seconds I stare at the screen, moaning, not knowing what the fuck while—whoosh-ffft—my breathing full-on fucking stops, chest seizes, like getting kicked in the solar plexus but worse, game over for Marky, thrashing around, forgetting where or what I am, lungs not inhaling, smacking for the door handle, suffocating, dying, locked inside a smouldering metal cage, piled against the door burning, leaving Ryan alone in the trench fighting an invisible enemy and after a while of this free-floating breathless terror I realize the numbers on the cellphone aren’t an IED detonation code. I’m looking at my father’s vitals.
Dave Ward. The old man.
Air rushes into my lungs. Gasping. Clutching at the wheel. Biodata sent from Clint’s fucking app. Stabilize, get a few breaths, trash the text and call Daree for the first time since I got to Vancity. Daree answers quick thank holy fuck and the first thing she says is my name, pronounced wrong, Maak instead of Mark which makes me sad for no specific reason and I ask is Sarah there, can I talk to my baby daughter and Daree says it’s late, she’s sleeping.
I say well fuck sakes wake her up, it’s important. I need to hear Sarah breathe and Daree says it’s late here, asks if I’m okay and I say sure, fuck yeah. Missing my daughter is all, why won’t you wake her up she’s a baby she’ll fall back asleep quick even if she’s crying I need to hear her breathe, please, it’s important, my voice rising now, shouting why are
you keeping her from me. Forcing myself to calm down, realizing this was a shit idea, wanting to hang up but feeling shit about that too, saying I miss you guys over and over, Daree saying my name over and over, both of us drowning in this shitty frantic energy and me asking her to come to Vancouver, bring Sarah, it’ll be okay we’ll make it work and Daree finally going quiet so I say, “Please change your mind. Come to Canada. It doesn’t have to be forever.”
“No. My mind won’t change—”
“You don’t want—”
“We do want—”
“Then why the fuck—”
“Because do you want? Really us there?”
Which is when I say no, fuck it, you’re right, you know what I want more than anything and Daree asks what tell me please even though she’s crying, like she needs to hear me say it, tell her and the baby to fuck right off, that I’ll never see them again, but instead of giving her the satisfaction I say, “I want my name in lights. Like in front of a stadium. Big bright lights for everyone to see.”
And then I hang up. Drag my hood over my head and limp into the rain, help Ryan in the trench, lay and level thirty feet of drainage pipe. At the end of the day I offer the kid a ride home. Ryan says he lives in Burnaby and I say well fuck that I’m not sitting in traffic for two hours. I end up dropping him off at the Commercial SkyTrain station. It’s crowded, packed with commuters, black and grey umbrellas brushing against one another, people looking sullen, trapped beneath something bigger than the weather, rain hammering down, spraying off the pavement, pretty only because I’m warm and dry inside the truck.
Ryan shoves through the crowd, goes to the ticket machine, presses a few buttons but doesn’t put any money in, glances over his shoulder. On a hunch I drive away, circle, park down an alley. Ryan slinks out of the station a few minutes later, looking super cagey, sidestepping around commuters who refuse to acknowledge his right to be on a sidewalk. He heads south down Commercial, hops a fence, vanishes into a blackberry thicket covering a steep hill leading down to the SkyTrain tracks. There’s an overpass down there. It’ll be dry. Ryan’s going home.
Jasminder Bansal
Driving the Stanley Park loop, stressed about not selling Unit 304. Feeling put off by the mountains and ocean, wishing for a Mumbai slum even though I’ve never been, hope springing eternal in smog and snarled traffic. Anything instead of all this too-perfect natural blech beauty. Thinking about people from high school and Langara; knowing I’ll never call them or go to class reunions. Thinking about networking, how to become a more productive person, sell more units. Thinking extroverts have it easier, that I need to pay more attention when meeting people, cultivate connections. Questioning my relationship with Eric, why I chickened out from calling it off last night. Deliberately not thinking about Sim or Vincent Peele or my brother. Marvelling that consciously not thinking about something is more draining than simply thinking about it.
The clouds have lifted over the city but are still hanging stubbornly against the North Shore Mountains, threading through green-grey trees, fuck off pretty Vancouver sky, fuck off happy Vancouver people jogging on the seawall. The road is damp and slick, coated in algae in the shady spots beneath hemlock and cedar. Worried I’m going to fail at selling condos. What can I do differently?
The Honda’s back end slides out, a rear tire bumps the curb, a quick grinding sound that’ll cost a few hundred bucks to fix, and I ease off the gas and straighten the car, glance in the rear-view, feeling looked down on. Worried I’ve forgotten the real reason I’m at Marigold. Maybe I’ve already failed and the inevitable personal realization and self-reckoning is lagging behind the current available evidence, and everyone knows it but me—
It’s started and I have no idea where to begin.
My phone rings. I pull over and answer. Vincent says he’s sorry, wow, terrible idea to ask me to host an open house on such short notice, huge imposition but success never sleeps and neither does he now that he’s doing a soft-launch trial for a new wearable nutrition patch called Verve, have I heard of it? Staying super loose dermally absorbing white willow bark, garcinia, green coffee bean plus sixteen hundred per cent of his daily recommended B12 which he can totally feel so he was up all night killing it trading mega-volatile junior oils and anyway how am I?
Struggle to compose myself, find a vantage point, high ground. “Honestly? I’ve been better. I think I let the stress of the open house get to me? Terrible sleep.”
“Yeah? Gotta try these food patches, no time for being tired, but the reason I’m calling is that unit should’ve been a lock—”
Dig through my purse, pop a preventative Advil, watch a toddler in a blue rain slicker throw a handful of sand at a Canada goose, decide to borrow an idea from Eric Hull, get in front of this mess and tell Vincent I know, I was having trouble connecting and I’m working on using eye contact more effectively?
“Eye contact? Excellent! But to expand on what we talked about during your interview? In terms of presentation? Someone had this conversation with me early in my career and it was quite helpful. Our clients, local and international, all of them very well…ah…heeled? Wealthy clients. Lots of them! So there’s an expectation of—”
I switch the phone to my other ear. “You’re saying I need to dress—”
“Better. Attire? Okay? Casual is good? Chillaxed, always. But business casual…or even better…West Coast casual. Techies, designers? Find your own personal but appropriate style. With flair, like: wow! How about this? For inspiration? Think…a chrome Mies table with like tiny pink cherry blossoms in an antique Japanese vase? Or maybe something, you know, culturally appropriate to your uniqueness? And, uh, heritage?”
“Oh, sure, heritage. I get it. As in how? Exactly?”
Vincent grinds his teeth. “Um, you’re the one who’s…wait! Let you speak! How about you tell me? What I mean?”
“Oh, okay. You mean like a lotus flower resting on the dash of a tinted Ford Mustang parked in front of Caprice Nightclub?”
“Totally on the same page. Personally expressive, but within strictly predetermined parameters. Just a sec…ugh…this trading platform is stuuupid slooow. My traaade is taking foooreverrr. Come on you stuuupid thiiing…there! It went through! Two hundred grand to an Albertan with an eye patch and a pickaxe! Gotta play to win. That’s my balanced, long-term investment strategy. Anyway, okay? No biggie. We don’t need to spend any more of my time on your problem, Jasminder. I’m looking forward to seeing you…do better?”
Dude’s not getting off that easy. “Vincent? Wait a sec? I’m sorry, but could you give me a few more examples? Of what you expect?”
“Now? On my way out the door. Sorry. Did I mention my gruelling training ride? What don’t you get?”
My mood’s improving. Is the Advil kicking in? Or maybe it’s the opportunity to manoeuvre Vincent into saying something he really doesn’t want to say—
“I guess I need clarification on how you interpret business casual? Because for me—”
“Something a bit more tailored? And pressed? And also…neutral?”
“Neutral? Help me with that?”
“It’s just…I’m out the door in ninety seconds. Sustained endurance phase. Very serious about having fun mountain biking. Grinding it out! You like donuts?”
“Yes but, trying to eat, y’know—”
“Eat clean? You should definitely do that. Can’t out-train a poor diet. I’m a honey cruller guy myself. After a ride, I can eat a dozen of the things. I don’t, because I’m disciplined and way better than that. Burn four thousand calories this morning. Poof! Gonna have to wear some more nutrition—”
“Do they make those patches in honey cruller?”
“Honey…ha! Jasminder? Easy to like! Anyway, take home: busy week ahead of you, dress more appropriately, mega-wealthy clients, do better, awesome.”
“Vincent? You keep saying appropriate. You clearly have an idea of appropriate in mind. Could you communicate that to me, clea
rly?”
A long pause. “I mean…greys and blacks?”
“Oh. Got it. So no striped knee socks and plaid skirts or corduroy pants or red cardigans? No more of those?”
“Not no more, just…less? Not a company rule. Ugh! No way. A friendly suggestion? This isn’t some crony old-boys’ business club. This is Marigold! In Vancouver! In 2011! Of course I’d never tell you, directly, how to dress. That would suck! You being gifted the power to guess how to please me is way better than me telling you how to do it, don’t you think? But many of your colleagues, the females like you, I think they like black? Because it’s slimming? And easy?”
It’s not easy if I need to buy a whole new wardrobe. I force a smile so the bastard hears it in my voice. “Business casual in grey and black. I’ll work on that. Vincent? I’m really grateful—”
“Sure. Of course. Listen. I affirm lifelong learning. I went through the same thing, and now look at me. Dominating! Exciting times! There’s a whole city out there…”
He’s gone, leaves me wanting to throw my phone into traffic, hating the fact he can call whenever he wants.
* * *
I spend the rest of a lousy Saturday searching second-hand stores for business outfits I can afford, then drive to my sister’s house in Shaughnessy at seven. Meeta’s late. No one’s home. The house is a restored Southern colonial perched on a half-acre of rolling lawn and obsessively sheared topiary. I settle on the porch swing, listen to water percolate through a stacked slate fountain, check my phone. No messages. Check my email. Nothing. Spend a few minutes watching YouTube music compilations, liking how the Dead Kennedys singing let’s lynch the landlord contrasts with the sea-breeze twill linens on Meeta’s porch swing. The music makes me think of my mother in a vague, semi-conscious way, as if she’s the one who’s gone, not Amar. A half-hour slips by and I’m freezing, irritated. Grab a shawl from my Honda, wrap it over my shoulders, and when the car door slams closed I wonder what it would be like if I didn’t have Meeta and instead of sleeping at her place when I don’t have the strength to go home I had to—