Pure Spring (5 page)

It's the Gray Man, again.

It's also the man I saw today signing the Pure Spring bill at the Russian Embassy!

What Happened • Two

Y
OU WERE
walking with your father across Angel Square. Then down York Street and to the corner of Friel Street where Horrors Leblanc lived.

Your father was talking most of the way about how Phil was getting worse. The older Phil got the harder he was to handle. He'll never be right, you have to face that.

You always knew that. You wondered was your father only just finding that out now? Hadn't you known that ever since you could remember?

“Since the baby died your mother's never been the same,” your father said. “It's getting harder and harder to take care of Phil. He's a handful and more.”

Then he changed the subject. He didn't want to talk about this any more.

Your mother always told you that Phil was born at five to midnight at the end of the day, and you came into
this world ten minutes later at five after midnight at the beginning of the day.

The end. The beginning. Poor Phil.

Your father worked in the same office as his friend Horrors Leblanc.

“Horrors was always a good sport,” your father started, changing the subject. “Once we took a fish, a catfish, and nailed it with a half a dozen roofing nails, the short nails with the big heads, to the underside of Horrors Leblanc's wooden chair that he sat in every day at his desk.

“Soon the fish began to rot and stink and everybody in the big office who came up to Horrors' desk would wonder why it was that Horrors smelled so bad.

“Horrors searched everywhere — all through his desk, emptied out all the drawers, and even took up the rug and looked — but couldn't find out where the horrible smell was coming from. He never thought to turn his chair upside down and look there...and for days and days everybody in the office was saying, ‘Why is it that Horrors smells so horrible?'”

He wanted you to see the humor. But you wouldn't.

“Was it funny?” you said.

“Yes, it was FUNNY!” he said. “Anyway, Horrors is lending us his car because of this very important trip we have to take.”

You were silent.

“Very important trip,” he repeated.

You were still silent. You knew that if you asked what it was, he wouldn't tell you. You looked at the scar on his forehead right between the eyes.

“Most important trip this family will ever take.”

“What trip? Where are we going?” you asked.

“You'll see,” he said.

6

I'
M IN
the truck waiting for Randy.

Grampa was okay this morning. Because he slept so nice. Sometimes when the slippage is on he doesn't sleep so calm. Sleeps like a freight train. Last night he didn't know who I was. But he knew me this morning very well. That was good.

“Revelly! Revelly!” he shouted me awake. Imitating a bugle. “Revelly! Up, Martin! Up, my lad!

“Clay lies still but blood's a rover;
Breath's a ware that will not keep.
Up lad; when the journey's over
There'll be time enough for sleep.”

He has called out this poem many times to get me up. I know it off by heart. Grampa Rip loves poems.

Back to me in the truck.

We're moving now and Randy's silent for quite a while.

Then, “Know what a coincidence is, Boy? A coincidence? It's two things that happen together and turn out to be a big surprise.”

Here we go.

“Looked at yer job application. Seen yer address. Somerset Street. Number 511, Apartment 4. Right across from Dumb Donald Park. Here's what you call a coincidence! I used to live there! Right across the hall. Apartment three. Right across the hall from four! Can you imagine?

“I lived there before I got married. Before I worked for Pure Spring.

“And do you know who lived right where yer livin now, with yer grandfather what's his name — a funny name, Mr. Rip is it? You know who lived there? Can you guess? Guess. Guess who lived there!”

How am I supposed to guess this? What does he want?

“Esther Williams?” I say.

“Ya can't guess? I'll give you a hint. It's something to do with where we were yesterday.”

Yesterday! Gerty. Gerty McDowell. McDowell's Grocery and Lunch on Sweetland. Sweet Gerty.

Gerty lived where I live now?

“Was it Gerty McDowell?”

“Gerty McDowell! Who the hell is Gerty McDowell? What kind of a guess is that? No! Yesterday. The Russian Embassy!”

I'm thinking was it pumpkin head, the guard?

“No guess, pretty boy? Well I'll tell ya! It was
Igor
. Igor,
the famous Russian spy guy. Igor Gouzenko! Yeah! He lived right where yer livin' now! Blew the whistle on a bunch of Commies in Ottawa! Big scandal. The RCMP came. The Russians came. They wanted to kill him because he ratted on them. He worked at the Russian Embassy. He was a cipher clerk. Figured out code messages. Secret stuff. And he
lived
right where yer livin' now! He's famous. And ya never heard of him! Kids these days! Don't know anything. It's all they can do, some of them, like my last helper, to get to work before 7:00 A.M. in the morning!”

I think I do remember something I heard on the radio about Igor. Igor the Russian who changed sides. He wasn't exactly a spy. But I don't want to argue.

“You don't say 7:00 A.M. in the morning. A.M.
is
the morning. A is for ante. M is for meridiem which means
noon
. It's Latin. You say 7:00 in the morning or you say 7:00 A.M. You don't say both. It's
redundant
to say both.”

“Latin. Smarty boy, eh, Boy! Yer not one of
those
, are ya, pretty boy? A smarty pants sissy, you know what I'm sayin'? A homo, a faggy, a fruity fruit, an airy fairy, a little pansy wansy nancy, a queer duck?...”

Randy smells like Aqua Velva shaving lotion and BO. His fingernails are dirty. His ears are scaly. His skin is rough. His teeth are brown and crooked. His voice is high and hoarse. He's skinny and he always looks like he could use a bath. His hair is full of Wildroot Cream-Oil grease. His hair is big and there's a fat coil of it hanging down the middle of his forehead that bounces up and down when he's excited. Like now.

Randy's always telling me about himself. What a great dancer he is. What a great lover he is...

“Anyway, he escaped, Igor did, and to this day — that was six years ago, nobody knows where he went. And the Ruskies, they're still lookin' for him. Fer a long time they had agents conducting surveying at the apartment building, sittin' in the park across the street all day...”

He means surveillance, not surveying.

“Those were the days when I lived there. Right across the hall from where you live now! Single guy like me. All the women I wanted.

“Those were the days. Boy! Every job I had there'd be women around who wanted Randy. I did roofing for a while. Doing a roof one time in Rockcliffe Village where all the rich people live, a woman took me right off the roof right into her bedroom window. Randy the roofer! Right into the rich woman's bed! How ‘bout that?

“And I delivered bread fer a time. When the sign in the window said NO BREAD TODAY, that was the sign that her husband was away...Randy the breadman...And for a while I was a driving instructor teaching people, women, how to drive a car. They'd be so scared driving around the Experimental Farm I'd take them into the backseat and calm them down. ‘Oh, Randy!' they'd say. ‘When do I get my next lesson?' And another time I was a door-to-door vacuum-cleaner salesman. Boy, you wouldn't believe it. ‘Come on in, Randy, and demonstrate yer vacuum!' Right there on the living-room rug if you know what I mean. Those were the days...”

While Randy is babbling away about himself I'm thinking about Gerty, her eyes. Did I see my own eyes in hers? How is that possible, how can that be? Does that mean I love myself?

My window is open. There's a warm spring breeze. I've got the shirt-sleeves of my Pure Spring shirt rolled up. With my elbow out the window like this, my biceps muscle shows the rolled-up sleeve tight around it.

Grampa Rip showed me how to build up my biceps. With two cans of Habitant pea soup. Large size. One for each hand. You lift the cans from your waist up to your chin — left, right, left, right — one hundred times each.

I wonder if Gerty will notice my muscles. Habitant soup muscles.

We pull into the yard of Persephone's Grocery, a big store on Beechwood Avenue.

Randy gives me my instructions. Many instructions. Instructions to steal.

Looks like I'm doing
all
the work this time.
All
the stealing.

“What are you going to do while I'm carrying all of these cases?” I say.

Randy looks at me. Squints his eyes. Looks at me hard.

“See the guy standing, waiting at that big shed there? He's in charge of what goes in and what comes out of that shed. He's gonna want cream soda, Honee Orange, Grapefruit 'N Lime, Minted Grape and, of course, ginger ale. First I'll go in with him and check it out. Then we'll come out. He'll have it written down. He'll tell you how
many. Here's what you do. You'll put
one
less full case than he says.
One
full case less of
each
color. Got it?”

“I don't want to do this...”

He squints hard at me again.

“Mr. Mirsky's going to be very, very disappointed in you, pretty boy, when I have a little chat with him. Show him your birth certificate.”

I tear the wallet out of my pocket, unzip it.

No birth certificate. He has stolen my birth certificate!

“Don't worry,” says Randy, real friendly. “It's safe with me for now. You'll get it back later. I promise. Now, let's go! Partner.”

“He's going to see me...”

“He won't be lookin' at you...”

“Why not? That's his job, isn't it?”

“He won't be doin' his job.”

“What do you mean?”

“He'll be looking at these...” Randy takes a handful of photographs out of his shirt pocket. “I'm going to show him my wedding pictures...” says Randy.

He wants three cases of cream soda, three of Grapefruit 'N Lime. On the dolly, I deliver two of each into the shed, pile them on some already full cases. He wants four Minted Grape, he gets three. Six Honee Orange, he gets five. He wants ten cases of ginger ale, he gets nine. The ten cases are piled up on top of the other colors, burying them. You can't tell how much has been delivered.

The whole time Randy and the guy in charge of shipping
have their backs to me whooping and ho-ho-ing and giggling. Not seeing me at all, not watching.

Time to take out the empties. Now Randy's helping. Even the shipping guy is helping. And we're all counting — counting twice, double-checking, seeing everything is accurate. Twenty-six cases exactly...oh, Randy, you are so honest...the
exact
amount of empties.

The shipper pays Randy for twenty-six cases of drinks. He doesn't know it but he only got twenty-one.

Time to go. The shipper shakes hands with Randy and even slaps him on the back! Good old Randy. See you next time!

We're on St. Patrick Street heading west. Randy's telling me all about how he is like a fisherman's lure to women. He is bait! A juicy worm. And when they'd bite, he'd hook them and pull them in, right in the boat, all the women...

“You see, I've got the charm, the wavy hair, the teeth, the muscles, the aftershave. I'm a great dancer. I've got the know-how. They can't resist. I'm bait...”

I'm looking at the pictures...wedding pictures?

Naked men and women. Dozens of photographs of real people doing everything you could think of to each other — lying down, standing up, upside down, up on ladders, two men and a woman, two women and a man, two men and two women. Sticking, licking, dripping. A woman with a donkey, a man with a sheep...

I look up. An empty logging truck is slowing down in front of us. I'm yelling, “Watch out! STOP!”

Randy's pushing me. “What's wrong with you! Don't
you think I know how to drive! What's wrong with you! Smarten up! Straighten up! What ‘r' ya afraid of...I'm going to run into somebody?...”

He's yelling stuff at me. I feel sick. I lean out my window and throw up on to the pavement. Randy pulls over. I get out. I'm hanging on to a foot rail on a telephone pole. I'm retching. The wedding pictures are all over the sidewalk.

“Hey, you puked all over my pictures!”

Randy is trying to help me stand up.

When I was small, my friend Billy Batson and I used to climb up telephone poles like this one. But Billy's gone now from Papineau Street where we used to live and it's a secret where he went because his mother wants to live where his crazy father will never find them.

Up and up those foot rails we'd climb so high, Billy and me, almost to the wires on top and look out, pretending we were on the mast of a tall ship at sea, and we'd shout, “Ship ahoy! Ship ahoy! Pirate ship ahoy!...”

Like we were heroes in a pirate movie and nothing, nothing could ever hurt us.

7

C
HEAP ‘S FUR
is ruffling and his eyes are half closed and his only ear is flapping in the wind. He's in the basket of my bicycle. We're heading to Sweetland Avenue on this Sunday in the spring. Watch out we don't get the front wheel of the bicycle caught in the streetcar track, eh, Cheap!

We're on Laurier Avenue heading toward the Sweetland Grocery and Lunch and Gerty McDowell.

The bells of St. Joseph's Church are dinging and donging. You can see the bells up there swinging. And the clap-per in each bell waiting to hit each pretty curved side.