Barry Squires, Full Tilt

by Heather Smith

  “I hope the Full Tilt Dancers can count on your support,” he said. “The prize money will go toward new flooring, of which we’re in desperate need.”

  The audience nodded and clapped.

  I asked Nan if she could make her way home alone. When she said yes, I ran like the dickens to the nursing home.

  “Six hundred dollars?” said Buster. “Where do we sign up?”

  “We could get a new sound system!” said Edie.

  “We could buy tap shoes for all!” said Buster.

  I cleared my throat.

  “I have a different idea.”

  It was weird to see their faces light up at the mention of SIDS. But six hundred dollars toward research was something to smile about.

  I called Saibal when I got home. “You’d better make up some more bhangra moves,” I said. “We’ve got a dance to choreograph.”

  When I hung up the phone, I went to find Mom. She was in Gord’s room. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the medal.

  “Saint Liz,” I said.

  Mom’s eyes crinkled when she laughed. “Oh, Barry.”

  Big Gord was right. Little things did bring comfort.

  We only had a week, so we practiced every day. Uneven Steven came because he said he had a lot of expertise in the area. He even brought two fellas from the Harbour­ Light Centre—one played guitar and one played accordion. We decided on Great Big Sea’s “Goin’ Up” because it was super lively but not too fast. Our choreography was very unique. Wheelchairs, walkers, canes, and a piece of plywood all played a part. (The plywood was for my solo.) Saibal made up some more bhangra moves, which added an element of the exotic.

  On the day before the regatta, Uneven Steven brought in a VHS tape. He wanted to inspire us with a montage of his moves from back in the day. I was curious as to what kind of video proof he could have for what was surely a fictitious life. We sat around a small TV and watched as he popped in the tape and pressed Play. Our jaws dropped as a string of musical clips came to life on the screen. We watched as Steven performed onstage with Jagger, Bowie, Mercury, and McCartney.

  Afterwards he said, “I know you didn’t Adam and Eve me but it was all true.” He gave his shorter leg a hearty slap. “This old girl has never let me down.”

  “Your leg’s a girl?” I said.

  “Eileen,” he said. “Get it?”

  It took me a second. “Ha! Good one!”

  He stood up to leave.

  “Hey,” I said. “Want to join our troupe?”

  He grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Royal St. John’s Regatta was held on the first Wednesday of August, weather permitting. The night before, Mom and Dad played what the locals called Regatta Roulette—partying all night down on George Street hoping to God the next day would be a holiday. Mom wasn’t sure she’d be up for it but Nan said it would do her and Dad good. They must have had a decent time because they stayed out real late. I know this because they made a racket coming home, laughing and knocking things over. Turns out, their gamble paid off. The next morning the sun was shining and the probability of precipitation was low. Mom and Dad went back to bed but I headed down to Quidi Vidi Lake with a pocketful of coins and a boatload of excitement.

  Saibal and I joined the crowds around the lake. The fixed-seat rowing races had already begun but we cared more about the games of chance. We went from stall to stall, throwing darts at balloons, gambling on the money wheels, and placing bets on Crown and Anchor. Our change was going fast but we were having a blast. With my last quarter, I bought a single ticket at the Knights of Columbus booth. It spun around and around, fast then slow. When it stopped, the man called the winner’s number. “Five-zero-three!”

  I looked at my ticket. Five-zero-three.

  Saibal raised my hand into the air. “Over here! Over here!”

  There were lots of stuffed toys to choose from. I picked a stuffed monkey.

  “You okay?” said Saibal.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m okay.”

  The food smells made our stomachs growl.

  “I could eat the arse off a low-flying duck,” said Saibal.

  “Me too,” I said.

  We bumped into Pius. He bought us a plate of fish and chips with dressing and gravy.

  “Ugh,” said Saibal. “Freddie Fudge is here.”

  I looked around. “Where?”

  Saibal pointed to a kid with spiky hair.

  “He looks like a broom,” I said.

  “Who’s Freddie Fudge?” asked Pius.

  “Saibal’s bully,” I said.

  “Finbar has a bully too,” said Saibal.

  “Don’t worry, b’ys,” said Pius. “Bullies always get their comeuppance.”

  Pius left us to eat our food by the bandstand. The CLB Band played “Up the Pond” and it filled me up.

  “Look,” I said. “It’s that guy from This Hour Has 22 Minutes. The one who’s always rantin’ and ravin’ at the camera.”

  “Rick Mercer,” said Saibal. “Dad thinks he’s a tool but Mudder thinks he’s gorgeous.”

  “We could get his autograph for her,” I said.

  “Okay,” said Saibal. “He can sign this empty container.”

  As we approached him I was struck with an amazing idea. “Instead of an autograph,” I said, “we should ask him to lick the gravy. That way your mom will have his DNA.”

  “Brilliant,” said Saibal.

  Rick Mercer was in the middle of a conversation, but celebrities were used to getting interrupted, so I said, “Excuse me there, buddy. You wouldn’t mind giving this gravy a lick, would ya?”

  He looked at the congealed globs on the cardboard.

  “My mom’s a fan,” said Saibal. “We’d like to give her some of your DNA.”

  “Oh, well in that case,” said Rick Mercer.

  He stuck out his tongue and dipped it in the gravy.

  “Anything else?” he said. “You need a kidney or anything?”

  “I have a question,” I said. “Why are you always screamin’ and bawlin’ on TV?”

  “A good rant is cathartic,” he said.

  “I’d love to get paid for shouting my opinions,” said Saibal. “But I’m too brown for TV.”

  “You never know,” he said. “Give it a few years and someone like you might be the star of 22 Minutes.”

  “You really think so?” said Saibal.

  Rick Mercer nodded. “I really do.”

  And with that, he walked away.

  “Wow,” I said. “Giving away DNA just like that. That man’s a national treasure.”

  “He’s a scholar and gentleman,” said Saibal. “That’s for sure.”

  We weaved our way through the crowds, watching kids on bouncy castles and riding ponies.

  “We’re too old for that stuff, aren’t we, Finbar?” said Saibal.

  “Indeed we are,” I said.

  We continued down the lakeside.

  “Look,” I said. “Coming out of the beer tent. It’s the lead singer of Great Big Sea.”

  “Jesus,” said Saibal. “Who are we gonna see next? Joey Smallwood?”

  “Not unless he’s rose from the dead,” I said.

  I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled in the direction of the beer tent.

  “Alan Doyle!”

  When he looked over, I said, “Stay where you’re to till we comes where you’re at!”

  A moment later, we were face to face.

  “We’ll be singing ‘Goin’ Up’ at the talent show tonight,” said Saibal.

  Alan Doyle let out a laugh. “Will ye now?”

  “We’ll be dancing too,” I said. “You should come watch.”

  “All right, b’ys,” he said. “I’
ll see what I can do.”

  I held up the chip container. “Listen, me ol’ trout. We’re collecting celebrity DNA. Rick Mercer gave it a lick. We’d be honored if you did too.”

  Alan Doyle shoved his face in the container and dragged his tongue from one side of the cardboard to the other.

  “Mmmm,” he said. “Fee and chee with D and G. You can’t beat it.”

  I wondered if he was drunk but rumor had it Alan Doyle was the happiest fella in Newfoundland.

  As we walked away I said, “He could tell what we ate by the gravy.”

  “The man’s a genius,” said Saibal.

  “Let’s see who else we can find,” I said.

  “If we see Gordon Pinsent, I’ll shit me pants,” said Saibal.

  “Nan would kill for some of his DNA,” I said.

  We spent another two hours at the regatta but saw no one else famous. We did find a five-dollar bill, though. We spent it on bouncy castles and pony rides.

  We hid the chip container and the stuffed monkey in some bushes and went to the nursing home for a quick practice. Soon after, we were piling into the One Step Closer to God minibus. There were twenty-three of us all together, including Uneven Steven, the two musician fellas from the Harbour Light Centre, and an actual licensed minibus driver. Quidi Vidi Lake was a different place than it had been earlier. The stalls and stands were broken down and litter covered the ground. A stage had been erected downhill from the bandstand and a good-sized crowd sat on the hill facing it. At 6 p.m., the emcee took the stage. There were twelve acts in total, including Alfie Bragg and His Agony Bag and a dog named Upright who could walk on two legs. Both acts were big hits. Alfie’s droning version of “Danny Boy” was powerful enough to bring a tear to a glass eye, and the two legs Upright could walk on were his front ones—no one saw that coming. As usual, the Full Tilt Dancers were standing-­ovation amazing.

  When the emcee announced our name—the Oldies but Goodies—a cheer erupted from the crowd. I followed the sound till I saw them. There they were, all five of them, sitting on the grass. Across Mom’s lap was the Humpty Dumpty blanket. I swallowed a lump in my throat.

  When the two fellas from the Harbour Light Centre started playing “Goin’ Up,” the crowd sang along. Every­one in Newfoundland knew Great Big Sea.

  Our choreography was going as planned until Edie started a striptease. Thankfully she was having trouble with her buttons. Buster tried to distract the audience by twirling his cane. Old people, they’ve got no grip strength. Uneven Steven got it in the head. As he lay bleeding on the stage, Saibal executed his bhangra moves with extra oomph. The audience didn’t know where to look. When Uneven Steven was taken off the stage, Alan Doyle hopped on. He strummed the hell out of his guitar. He didn’t sing, he belted. We were lockin’ the world outside, which was fine by me because who needs the world when you’re havin’ a time down at Quidi Vidi Lake.

  Steven made it back onstage for the last few moments. He had a bandage on his forehead and blood dribbled down his cheek. When it came time for my solo, Alan Doyle said, “Take it away, me ol’ trout.” My pennies echoed all the way to Signal Hill. When the song ended, we didn’t need a standing ovation because everyone was already on their feet.

  Mom hugged me tight. Nan said I was a grand boy. Dad said it didn’t matter if we won and I said, “But what about the money for SIDS?” Pius said, “It’s the thought that counts.” Shelagh placed her hands on her belly. There was a pain in my heart. It was sudden and strange and the ache was for her.

  The audience was given ballots. Alan Doyle entertained the crowd by playing a few tunes with the Harbour Light fellas while the votes were being counted. Between songs Pius went up onstage and made an announcement. “Could Freddie Fudge please make his way to the stage? His prescription genital wart cream was found by the seniors’ tent.” I looked over at Saibal, who was sitting on the hill with his parents. We laughed our arses off telepathically.

  Alan Doyle played a few more tunes while we waited for the contest results. It was a good half hour before the emcee was back on the stage. The Oldies but Goodies gathered to hear the results.

  “And the winner is…”

  “I’m gonna piss myself,” said Saibal.

  “The Full Tilt Dancers.”

  I forced my hands together until they made a noise that sounded like clapping.

  “I demand a recount,” yelled Edie. “This election’s been rigged.”

  I was starting to think her earlier visit to the porta-potty had been a trip to the beer tent instead.

  Father O’Flaherty was presented with a giant check. He thanked the audience and said that the money had been intended for a new floor.

  “Boo! Hiss!” yelled Edie.

  He cleared his throat. “But it’s come to my attention that there is a better, more deserving cause.”

  “Get off the stage, you old fool!”

  “Edie. Shush!” I said.

  “Finbar Squires, would you make your way to the stage?”

  Saibal pushed me forward because I was frozen.

  “Had the Oldies but Goodies won, this money would have been donated to SIDS research,” said Father O’Flaherty. “The Full Tilt Dancers think this is a worthy cause and would like to present this check to the Squires family.”

  Father O’Flaherty shook my hand. I could barely look him in the eye.

  “The anger,” I whispered. “It’s passing.”

  He passed me the check. “God bless you, Finbar.”

  I turned to the audience and held the check in triumph.

  “One question,” I said. “How am I going to fit this in the deposit envelope?”

  The crowd laughed.

  I jumped off the stage and grabbed Saibal. I picked him up and swung him around.

  “This is the best day ever!”

  Then I stopped.

  Saibal hung in midair.

  “You’re allowed to be happy,” he said.

  I set him down. “Thanks, Saibal.”

  After a group hug with the Oldies but Goodies, Saibal ran to the bushes and got the chip container and the monkey. We brought the container to Steven.

  “Will you give this a lick?” I said. “We’re collecting celebrity spit.”

  “And seeing as you performed with the likes of Jagger,” said Saibal.

  Steven puffed out his chest. “I’d be honored.”

  He licked up a glob of gravy and grimaced.

  “How’s the ol’ loaf of bread?” I asked.

  He adjusted the bandage across his forehead. “I’ve got a bangin’ headache, Squire. But I’ll be all right.”

  Mom and Dad waved to us from the hill. Saibal and I joined them on the Humpty Dumpty blanket.

  I sat next to Shelagh.

  “Six hundred dollars,” said Mom. “Wow.”

  The sun was going down over Quidi Vidi Lake. Ducks squabbled in the distance. A lone rower paddled toward the boathouse.

  Dad looked at his watch. “We’ve been here two hours already.”

  Mom put her hand over the clock face. “Time slips away, love. Whether you count it or not.”

  “That it does,” said Nan.

  I put the stuffed monkey in Shelagh’s lap.

  “Here you go, Shelagh.”

  Pius laid a hand on my back.

  “Gord would have liked the regatta,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said. “He would have.”

  That night, only a few weeks after the first ruckus, there was another. Pius jumped out of bed. This time I followed.

  Shelagh was standing in the hall, a puddle underneath her on the floor.

  “God almighty,” I said. “She’s leaking!”

  Mom shooed us away. “Go wake your father. Tell him to start the car.”

  Shelagh was as white a
s a ghost.

  “Don’t be scared,” said Nan. “We’ve all been through it.”

  “I haven’t,” said Pius.

  “I told you to go get your father!” said Mom.

  “Barry,” said Nan. “Grab some towels and wipe this up while we help Shelagh change.”

  “I’m not touching that,” I said. “It came out of her hoo-ha.”

  “He needs another month,” said Shelagh as she shuffled to her room. “He’ll be too small.”

  “He?” I said.

  Dad helped me clean up the puddle.

  “Amniotic fluid,” he said. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  A pained shriek came from Shelagh’s bedroom.

  “Breathe,” said Mom. “Breathe.”

  They bustled her down the stairs and out to the car.

  “I can’t do this,” she cried.

  Pius and I stood in the doorway.

  “Good luck, Shelagh,” I said.

  Shelagh looked back. “Thanks, Barry.”

  We drank tea and ate a whole tin of shortbread.

  “What time is it?” I asked every ten minutes.

  Pius put on Fawlty Towers to pass the time. The sign outside the hotel said FLOWERY TWATS.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  It was 6:23 a.m. when the phone rang. Pius answered.

  “Wow,” he said into the phone.

  He hung up.

  “It’s a girl.”

  Dad drove us to the Health Sciences Centre. All around us, the world ticked along. People went about their business and I thought, “Don’t they know? A baby was born today.”

  Everyone took turns holding her. I sat in a chair and waited. No one wanted to give her up.

  When Pius placed her in my arms, he said, “She doesn’t have a big schnoz at all.”

  Ten little fingers. Ten little toes. Cute little dimples where the knuckles should be.

  I said, “You should call her Regatta.”