Twenty Miles (7 page)

‘So sure enough, a bear walks out onto the path, right in front of Kristjan and Elskin, a giant bear, bigger than any we’ve seen, kiddo. Likely about ten times the size of Grandpa. Maybe more. Just huge, with paws the size of your head, and teeth the length of your hand. And Kristjan stands there with Elskin still growling beside him. Remember, he’s just small. And the bear staring them both down. Kristjan – he’s thinking of everything everyone has told him to do at this moment. You know, play dead, cover your neck, clap your hands, make yourself big. And he doesn’t have much time, he can see the bear’s eyes turning red and his neck tensing up like a spring, and so, in that second, he just does it. He’s small, but he makes himself big. He raises his arms out like this and thinks himself big, and something happens. He grows tall, up and up until he’s looking down on the bear. And he sees the bear’s scared, trembling. Bear’s the one thinking now, How do I get out of this alive? He’s met his match. So he takes a swipe at Kristjan, real quick, and hits him on the shoulder before he disappears back into the bushes, whimpering like a little pup. Kristjan had a scar after that, looked like a sliver moon hung there on his little shoulder. And he was different in other ways too, I’m telling you.

‘Next time he plays hockey, couple days later, he’s still small, smaller than you, but he’s playing big, he’s playing gigantic. He’s the star of the team now, no one can believe it. They start calling him the Norse Giant. And then that’s all they call him. On the ice – “Norse! Norse!” And he really is giant. He’s huge out there. Something of the bear in him after that day, I’d guess.’

T
ipsy Cups: one table, longish. Ten plastic beer cups in total, the cheap kind but not too flimsy, five lined up on each side of the table.
Three inches of beer in each. The first people on each team do a cheers, then chug the beer. Empty cup is placed face down on the edge of the table, a fraction of the cup’s rim hanging over the side. Using your pointer finger, lightly flick the cup upward. When the cup lands upright, the next person chugs. Flicks the cup. Lands it. And on down the line. First team to finish wins, obviously. Winning was the point – it was the point for most things when it came to the team. Eating, drinking, pranks. And hockey.

I mounted these details in my mind with the urgency of a physics student about to take a pop quiz. I watched Boz’s technique carefully. The placement of the cup on the table. How much rim hanging over. How light the flick.

Boz’s basement apartment was an amber-filled cave. The kitchen walls surrounding the Tipsy Cups table were painted dark orange, round lanterns of yellow paper hung in the corners, dribbling out muted light. On the wall above the crooked pyramid of beer boxes across the room: a framed painting of an African woman in a colourful dress, grinning and barefoot. On the adjoining wall, a huge poster of Mario Lemieux. A trophy towered in the centre of the table, complicated scaffolding of flaking gold leading to a bowling man. A piece of masking tape with the title
Rookie of the Year
taped over the nameplate on the trophy’s base. Boz assured our group of dubious, slouching rookies that this title didn’t rest on the outcome of Tipsy Cups. The trophy was present instead, I assumed, to remind us of our continuing obligation to compete.

Hal placed me second in line on Boz’s team. Up first versus Toad’s team. Hal took her position as ref at the head of the table, raising her whistle. This triggered a rash of shouts and cheers, team members strung along both sides, encouragement shouted down to number one. Subs swarming around the table, the friction of bodies in Boz’s cramped kitchen, not enough elbow room. The competitive lean of my teammates’ faces down the line was as heavy as if they were sitting on me. I was going to choke, I could feel it. How far over the edge? How light the flick? My hands didn’t know this game.

‘And the losers each have to say something real nice about Toad’s daddy,’ Heezer said, performing some deep knee bends, a
pre-competition stretch. ‘Eh, buddy?’ She grinned across the table at Toad, who stirred the air with her hand and then cupped her ear like Hulk Hogan.

‘Oh, sorry! I didn’t catch that, sport. I don’t speak Asshole.’

‘All right, on your marks, ladies,’ Hal boomed. The chatter rose to a din. Adrenalin burned the back of my throat. Pelly, first in line on the opposite team, cracked her knuckles. Boz, our number one, cleared her throat, looked at me.

‘All set, babe?’ she said.

‘What if I can’t do the flick thing right?’

Boz laughed. ‘You’ll get it. No prob.’

Hal put the whistle in her mouth. I bent my knees a bit.

Whistle.

Boz and Pelly crashed their cups together, then threw the beer back. Pelly spluttered a bit and belched, but got the cup down quicker than Boz and fumbled her first attempt at the flick, the cup over-rotating and landing on its side with a hollow clatter.

‘Shit!’ she shrieked.

‘Light as a feather, Pell!’ Toad yelled next to her. ‘Light as a feather!’

Boz fumbled her first try too – the landing was almost there, but not quite, the cup catching too much of an edge, and my pulse picked up on the cusp of my turn. Boz reset the cup, calm in her speed, while Pelly’s bounced on its side again.

‘Mother of, mother of – ’

You could tell Boz’s second try was going to be it, the smooth, arcing flow, and it landed firm, my hands in motion on its landing, to the laughing chants of my teammates. Choked the beer back in two gulps, the raw tickle of it in the back of my nostrils, holding back a cough while I swooped the cup down to the edge of the table. That’s when the hands kicked in. I could feel the cup’s centre of gravity in my palm as I moved it swift into place over the edge. The weight of it, how it would fly. I flicked the rim like turning on a light switch and knew the way it would go even as I made contact, like hitting a baseball in the sweet spot of the bat, and it soared up smooth and landed solid. First try. Boz and Pelly yelped
congratulations, Boz grabbing my shoulder, and relief flooded the tension in my arms, cheers swelling over the table, over me. Thank God.

Another rookie, Roxy, flubbed six times at the end of our line and I felt a bump of sympathy and validation every time she screwed up. We lost, but not because of me, so I didn’t care.

But then, immediately, the next obstacle: saying something about Toad’s dad, a heavy red-headed man with a sarcastic smile who picked her up after practice in a rusted K-Car and called her Toots.

‘Mo is a silver fox,’ Boz said. Toad gave an uninterested shrug.

‘Iz?’ Heezer said, pointing like a director. I didn’t have enough time.

‘Well,’ I stammered. Toad faux-glared at me. I looked at Pelly. She flexed a bicep and tapped it furtively. ‘Mo has nice muscles?’

‘Clearly, she’s drunk and confused,’ Toad said, and that was it. Another pass. Heezer pointed to Tillsy, the goalie.

‘Uh, okay, Mo. Well.’ Tillsy looked at the floor, deep in thought, then grinned up at Toad. ‘Mo wears extra large bikini briefs.’ Mild groans and Toad gave an exaggerated
so what?
shrug. Tillsy followed it up: ‘And I know this because we do it every weekend.’

Heezer grabbed the whistle hanging around Hal’s neck and gave a couple of supportive bursts. Light applause around the table.

‘You know what, Tillsy?’ Toad shouted, her face reddening. ‘You can say whatever you want and it will roll off my fucking back. It’s extremely unconvincing, frankly. Not to mention disturbing that you would sacrifice your gay fucking pride for a childish game. Honestly.’ Toad shook her head in disgust and Tillsy shrieked with delight, hands clasped, like Toad had just surprised her with a present.

‘So if any more lesbians,’ Toad continued, ‘would like to jump in and testify on behalf of my dad’s sexiness? Then step right the fuck up. I will open the door for you.’

Heezer blew the whistle again and Hal wrenched it out of her hand. I examined Tillsy uncertainly. I couldn’t tell whether Toad was countering Tillsy’s burn with a false accusation, or if Tillsy really was gay. In the dressing room, lines between burns and
reality were perpetually blurred. Tillsy seemed thrilled with the exchange, red-cheeked and laughing.

‘Toady, drop the F-bomb a little more, champ,’ Hal said. ‘We’re not convinced you’re rattled yet.’

‘Oh, Toad,’ Tillsy giggled. ‘I’d sacrifice my gay pride any day to rattle you.’

‘You have no pride,’ Toad shot back. ‘This has become alarmingly evident in the last few minutes, friend. I don’t like what I’m seeing here.’

‘Heez, you’re up,’ Hal boomed, raising her voice over the room, a seasoned team orator.

‘Excellent,’ Heezer said, rubbing her hands together. ‘Okay, well, the other night, when Mo and I were taking turns fondling each other’s C cups, he said – ’

‘Fuck you guys, fuck this game,’ Toad exploded, fighting a smile. ‘I’m leaving now. I’m going to get you assholes some chips because none of you thoughtless pricks brought any and I’m a benevolent entity and you’re all a bunch of heinous, bush-league peasants.’ She stalked to the door as the room breathed
ohhhhh
and, as an afterthought, she turned back and grabbed my arm. ‘And I’m taking a rookie.’

Boz’s
7
-Eleven was mine too – the one just off campus. This was essential in Winnipeg – that everyone have a Sev they could claim as their own. This one teeming with Rez-bians, as Toad called them, a vigil of the drunk and hungover circling the Slurpee machine around the clock.

We entered the Sev’s searing light and made a beeline to the chip section. The radio blared through speakers, every aisle inhabited with students, friends shouting to each other from opposite sides of the store.

‘I like All-Dressed,’ Toad said, clutching two giant bags to her chest. ‘I’m devoted to All-Dressed. I can’t believe those sows didn’t bring any chips. What’s your fancy?’

I felt a tap on my back then and turned to find Jacob, clasping, like a bouquet, three long pieces of red licorice that bowed flaccidly over his hands. He thrust them toward me.

‘Pour vous,’ he said and Toad squeaked beside me. My cheek skin itched.

‘Oh wow,’ I said. Bad acting. I darted a glance at Toad.

‘What’s this, kiddies?’ she said. ‘Sweets for your sweet, Copes, or what?’

Jacob grinned at me, eyebrows raised. I took the licorice reluctantly.

‘Jacob and I played hockey together back home,’ I explained to Toad.

‘Well, everyone wants a piece of our Barbie, don’t they?’ Toad said. ‘She’s good shit.’

‘Barbie?’ Jacob said. ‘Like the doll?’

‘No.’ Toad paused. ‘Her real name’s Barbarella.’

I grabbed a bag of chips from Toad’s arms and wagged it at Jacob and then moved toward the cashier. ‘We better get going, eh Toad?’

‘See you tomorrow, Isabel,’ Jacob called at our backs.

I turned and held the licorice toward him like something dead. ‘Did you pay for these already?’

He laughed and shook his head. I could hear him laughing again as we walked out the door.

‘Wow. Boy can giggle,’ Toad said.

It had rained at some point during Tipsy Cups. The asphalt gleamed darkly, air thick with the smell of wet gravel.

‘Isabel, eh?’ Toad kicked a rock like it was a soccer ball. Followed through. ‘You guys are all Victorian with each other or something, eh? Can’t imagine that translates well in the bedroom.’ She stopped suddenly and swung the plastic bag, hitting me on the hip. I stopped and waited while she opened the All-Dressed chips, the bag wafting a smell of vinegar and socks. She stuffed a handful in her mouth, sighing dreamily, shoulders sinking like a heroin addict finally getting a hit. ‘You sitting on it yet?’ she said thickly, mouth full.

I felt like I’d been spinning around and around and was now trying to walk a straight line.

‘Sitting on what?’ I said.

‘That’s what I thought.’ Toad nodded sagely and we kept walking. ‘Watch out for those dudes, though. Seriously. The guys’ team.
Know what they started calling us last year? The Scarlet-ettes. First of all, what? Second of all, they have their panties all tied up in knots ’cause they think our team’s going to end up taking away their money from the program. Um, have you seen their dressing room compared to ours? Have you seen their equipment compared to ours? I say lick my bone, princesses. They’re the Scarlet-ettes.’

She chewed the chips angrily for a bit.

‘That sucks,’ I said. ‘But Jacob and I – ’

‘Keepin’ it in the Scarlet family though, eh Barb? Classic tale of incest. Not that our team’s never dabbled in theirs if you know what I mean. I won’t tell on you, though. Secret’s safe with me.’

‘Well, it’s not a secret,’ I said. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘Fuck, it’s cold out. Chips?’

‘Yeah.’

We could hear them laughing from down the street.

About three minutes after we walked through Boz’s door, Toad announced, ‘Well, you know what they say. You learn something new every trip to Sev. I’d like to announce that Barbie’s a slut – in the best sense of the term, of course. But I can’t reveal who the lucky guy is at this juncture – yeah, sorry, it’s a guy, Tillsy. I’m not at liberty to say. Although it’s fascinating.’

A
t the Rec Centre back home I had dressing room number three every game. Buck used to carry my bag for me when I was young. On his big shoulder, it looked like an oversized purse and echoed a thick clatter when he dropped it on the floor from up there. When he and Sig left the room for the social mixer around the canteen, the door sucked closed behind them and sealed me into the staleness of the room. As though the dark breath from the inside of every hockey bag opened in there had escaped and been trapped between the walls. As I dressed, I listened to the sound next door, tried to pull words from the dulled jumble of boys’ voices. This was my team, this mess of laughter and words thickened by the wall, the timbre of their voices taking on weight, as though they were speaking through water.

I could remember a period as a kid when I absorbed all the intimacies of my private dressing rooms – crushed beer cans from rec league the night before, tape balls, empty shampoo bottles, small graffiti scattered over the benches and walls – with archaeological pleasure. My teammates’ voices inflating my anticipation. I’d perfected the seven-minute change over the years, though, so by the end of Midget, I arrived before each game with just enough time. Then the coach would poke his head in before he went to talk to the boys and I’d walk over to their room and sit in for the two-minute speech and then we’d play.