The Man Game (54 page)

Calabi's commentary: It is in our appreciation a the barbarism, the irrational genius, that we see how the man game has reinvented the wheel.

Okay, that aboot does it, said Hoss, I'm sick a you. He ran up and aimed his kick for Campbell's face, who dodged it and crossfaced him in mid-air. It was almost a kicking version of the Pisk, and people all through the crowd tucked the same bright ideas under their hats—future plans for their own attempts at the man game. On the ground, Hoss struggled through Campbell's legs and arms. These axemen fought with Athenian formality, coming up with the same cliché reactions and stolen opportunities three times over until it was clear what they really wanted to do was compare versions of a move called the Cobra. The Cobra was a move Pisk did best, a kind of snaking helix on his hands, rolling on his shoulder and head every twist to keep up the momentum, his legs swooning through the air above like the winged head of a spinning cobra.

These men got
bad
brains, said a dude who worked at Sprigman's & Co. He'd never seen the man game before today and after all the noise he'd expected something different. What are you all trying to do? he hollered. Come on, Campbell, smack the bohunk and give him what's what.

Nah, said his neighbour. They want to do their Cobra Twists in the exact same spot. I seen Litz and Pisk do this. They try to get two Cobras going in the same spot, but so
the legs spinning don't hit each other and they don't trip each other.

FIGURE 12.4
The Ballpeen Hammer

Calabi's commentary: This powerful move will ring soundly familiar to all the men working for the CPR on the railroad.

You seen that? Pretty tricky. Impossible, I'd a thought.

It's been done. I seen it. Double Cobras.

Double Cobras. Nice. Who gets the point?

Whoever falls first loses the point.

Nice. Come on, Campbell, he screamed. Double Cobras, he yelled.

Where the fuck
is
Litz and Pisk? asked another fellow.

They ain't here, said another.

Think Pisk kicked it?

Dead? Nah, he can't be. I don't want to believe that.

He ain't here.

True, but still …

Double Cobras, chanted the crowd in rhythm to the men's legs spinning in such proximity, four feet narrowly avoiding mishaps and collisions in the wingspans of their rotations. It was a matter of trial and error to get here and now the men had to deliver serious. The longer they sustained Double Cobras the more hectic the crowd wanted to get. People were jumping in the air. The loser here, especially Hoss, was going to kick himself. If anything was going to throw Campbell off his rhythm, it was his incredulity. He'd practised for a week to perfect a Cobra, and here he was jumping way ahead in training with someone he didn't even know knew how to play at all. And Hoss was keeping up with him. He was losing, but he could do the moves. Where had he learned. Who taught him. Campbell was winning, but it was not as assured as his coach Clough had guessed.

It wasn't just Campbell who was a little stunned by Hoss's abilities. If this was from practice, Hoss's training was a total secret. And if it was beginner's luck, Campbell was going to be furious. The Cobra. It was baffling enough when Litz and Pisk did it. The possibility that any other man could compete in the game at this level instantly roused the minds of these impressionable Vancouverites, these lost men, lonely souls, angry labourers, unemployable crazies.

The Cobras lasted all of ten seconds. But when counted aloud—while these two men spun their legs in the air clockwise and counterclockwise, going through each other's orbit without knocking legs or feet, neither man known as anywhere near an expert—it didn't really matter who won, it was mind and eye boggling. Thousands were present, yet the silence was such that all could hear the two men grunt and huff as the seagulls called out dibs, casting shadows over the stones by the water.

Hoss was flopped on the ground with an arm stuck beneath him as he scrabbled to a dirty stop. Ouch-f
uc
k, he said, and hoisted his face up from the muck to confirm he'd lost the point
{see
fig. 12.5
}
.

Yes, he had.

What was he thinking? He beat his fist on the muck. He looked as far away from the crowds as possible and saw the Blue Ribbon Tea Co. building. It was with a shock that he recognized Molly, seated on the staircase outside the empty factory with her dress pulled up over her knees. From a great distance, even the distance of different orbits, seeing her tan exotic limbs was enough to blow Hoss's concentration for the second time.

The audience, but for one important guy, was really in a ruckus for the point. Calabi was giving Campbell a stern
gesture, an alert. Campbell knew just what to do.

FIGURE 12.5
Double Cobras

Calabi's commentary: Two skilled players must continue to spin three-sixties on their shoulder blades while each man attempts to knock his opponent off balance by slashing at him viperishly with the nails a his big toes.

Hoss, with his eyes still firmly set on Molly, heard something swish and felt a hand take his wrist and grip it hard, yoink it harder back, almost whiplashing him as he stumbled to catch up with its pace. He heard Campbell say: The
brass
.

People scattered. The po-lice arrived in a bluster of apprehensions, entrapments, and near-misses, reaching out their arms to collar a few guys in every row and moving in quickly to get at Hoss and Campbell, whose escape route had been planned to the step. By the time the law reached the sandy muck even their belts and spurs were gone. The money box was gone. Clough sat on a pale driftwood husk and rolled a cigarette. What he really needed was—

Okay, buddy, 'fess up. What's going on?

—a drink. A group of eight sullen men waited in their boots to find out what the po-lice would do with them. Drifters. Hobos. Inebriants. These were runts among runts, buttonless, hats so cheap Clough guessed they were made of paper. He recognized their attitudes but no faces. Good thing, too; it meant Campbell had done as he was told and used the tunnels to escape.

What're you doing wound up in this mess? asked Constable Miller, rubbing his moustache. I don't know what to do with you, buddy. No matter where I look. I give you the benefit a the doubt and the responsibility and what a I get in return.

Now listen, I didn't do a thing, friend, said Clough. I'm just here all by my lonesome smoking when these bohunks show up, start performing this—

All right, all right, if that's your story, then maybe we can knock some sense into all your guys' brains about man gaming. Come on, boys, let's get these lowlifes back to the mews.

The po-lice turned to the men they'd rounded up and said: It's illegal now and these crowds gotta go. No more. We don't want to see any a your guys' faces at more a these man games ever again, you hear?

And Clough, said Constable Miller, who stood silently beside the po-lice as usual. I want to see you help
end
it, not
bolster its numbers, you kumtuks or what?

I kumtuks but I got nothing to do with this, said Clough.

Then why's it you're the one I want to arrest?

Clough shrugged, said: Force a habit?

Remember, I don't got to be so nice, eh. I'm sure no one's going to complain if I take you all in and fine you a dollar. What a you think a that? No laughing matter, eh. Hup to it then, buddy, you come with me.

Clough massaged his neck and tossed the butt on the sand, stood up and said afternoon to the goblins and walked with the po-lice back to the station.

I remember when it was trees here, said the po-lice beside him, and none a these houses existed. Big black cedars right up to Dupont Street or damn near close if I recollect. This whole area was forest.

Clough wasn't in a talkative mood as they walked the boardwalk on Cambie Street, where the occasional slat, slippery from greenish sea bacterium, caused him to lose his footing. And the pale crosses every twenty paces remained wireless for the time being, nothing more than empty totems. It creeped him out.

Clough said: You should be worried aboot that mugger.

The mugger. Humph, said Constable Miller. A myth more like.

A myth? Hardly. I'm disappointed. I'll catch that mugger and show you wrong. That's my mission in life as a today.

Stick to mutts and mules.

Mugger's no different than a missing animal. It's all aboot your nose and your instinct. I got both in good order. You see how on his trail I am. I smell him. Any day now. Last time I almost caught him.

When was that?

I never told you? Oh, I had him almost. When you're guilty like he is, sooner or later you let yourself get caught. It feels pretty bad otherwise, to feel unwanted.

That's no strategy, eh. That's just you talking big fish. I'm trained for this.

My strategy is to feign indifference.

Yeah, right, what my wife pulls on me.

Same principle. I apply it to the mugger. Why, in this wife-forsaken place, what counts for desire is simply what I can't get. And so far this mugger I can't get. So, what a I do, I lay low, pretend I'm interested in a different game.

Oh, I
see
…

I'm not sincerely … you think I'm involved in the man game? Oh, buddy, ha ha, you really got me all wrong. I'm just an observer. I'm hiding in the crowd to catch the mugger.

Sure, so why's it that I heard you're involved on a more executive level?

Executive level, Clough yipped, looking at Constable Miller, who was staring back at him hard. Clough put his fingers to his nicotine-yellowed beard and scratched with fury. No, no, sir, you heard all wrong. Who told you that?

Streets talk.

They walked another block without further conversation until the po-lice sighed long and hard, and said finally: This city's changing. Used to be the po-lice and the crime weren't all that unsimilar. Now I got to punish people I don't even understand, eh. I know you Clough, but I got to lock you up for reasons above my head.

It's true, said Clough. Why, three years ago the treeline was that close.

Tell us who started the man game and we let you go. That's simple, right?

You want to know who started it?

If you don't tell us we arrest our prime suspect.

Who's that then?

You.

Right, said the po-lice.

They returned to the jail with Clough and locked him up. Eating the first of a dozen candied-salmon Calabi&Yaus, the po-lice talked with his mouthful: You know where they're hiding?

Litz and Pisk?

Is that who started it?

I didn't say that, no.

Who?

Mrs. Erwagen started it.

The po-lice paused mid-bite, regarded Clough's sleepy mien, and swallowed. Fingering a second pastry, the po-lice said: Nice try. I don't think so. You'd think that was real funny us banging on Mr. Erwagen's door. That'd be a riot. No, I don't think so. Ah, Clough, he said, and wiped his pinkish forehead, sat down on his chair, and crossed his legs. You know the law—. If it weren't illegal, happy to turn the other cheek.

Let the boys have their games.

I don't get you, Clough. Ever think it's not always your job to stick your nose in?

This isn't no crime.

We ought to revoke your job here.

Ah, you don't want to do that dirty work.

Listen. Look where you are again. The wrong side a the clink. You're supposed to be guarding the chain gang, instead look, you're one a them, eh.

If I didn't sleep on your flea-bit cots most nights you think the boys in chains would pay me a lick a respect at a ditch or cracking stones? I can keep them working because they respect me. They see what I must swallow every day just to survive. They see into my face. They see that life is hellish tough out here and they better start to shape up now or they won't survive another year.

Well, alls I meant is it's a shame to see you drink away all your good fortune.