GREAT BIG TEETH
Eddie Generous
www.severedpress.com
Copyright 2019 by Eddie Generous
Prologue
Tuesday, April 29, 2019: 11:11AM
Going way the hell out there to shoot corporate propaganda garbage was one royal pain in the backside. Still, work was work since everyone with a cellphone suddenly had a high-definition camera and the know-how to record at least half-assed video.
The cameraman panned back from the forest scene, shifting steadily until focusing on the two white men operating Site 282B—a nothing spot a few miles from a place called Happy Village. The men wore blue jean overalls, white, long-sleeved shirts with the word RimRoil down the arms in gold, tanned leather gloves, and plastic hardhats. One donned a blue hardhat and the other a white. Both men had mustaches and beer bellies.
The man with the blue helmet was named Larry Robinson, sometimes he’d tell folks his uncle is also Larry Robinson, the one who played in the NHL—a lie to cover social insecurities, and also because people like a good story.
“This pipe weighs near eighteen hundred pounds and we got to keep on adding pieces so it can get right deep. We usually do two hundred to two hundred and fifty feet down, but this well is being tricky, so we’re going to two-ninety, which is the deepest RimRoil will ever go. Any deeper and there’s a chance of environmental damage and RimRoil’s number one priority is the environment.” Larry said the last bit as if reading from a cue card stashed in his head.
The cameraman turned his lens to the mucky slew at the base of the cordoned square where the drill renewed its spinning. The sound of the machine heightened tenfold when the engine revved. The volume doubled, the ground beneath them rumbling gently.
“That’s about two-fifty now,” Larry said, lying. The drill bit munched crust approximately three hundred twelve feet deep. “Real soon we should—”
The Earth shook, shaking the camera, the men, the world it seemed. The machine above the cordoned patch twisted and shivered. Larry took off without another word, running toward the truck. The man in the white helmet froze, looking at the machine as a wall of steel thrashed around like a high-pressure hose before squashing him into a blood and mud mess. The cameraman took the hint then and flew off a second before the camera ceased collecting an image. The microphone continued its diligent effort.
“Ahhh, fuck! Fuck! Dale? Randy?” Larry’s hands pressed in his spilling guts. Reaching for the cellphone in his pocket meant foregoing holding the boiling coils of intestine, so he couldn’t do it. “Dale? Dale?”
The machine went quiet and the birds in the neighboring trees poured free with noise. Overhead, the sun baked the British Columbia forest—business as usual. The world began to shake again and Larry looked around; either he’d lost his tether on reality or they’d made a big damned mistake with the drill.
Part One
Happy Village
1
Tuesday, April 29, 2019: 8:32AM
“You’re late.” Veronica Robinfeather folded her arms over her ample abdomen. She was shaped like a grenade, complete with a pinhead. “Boss won’t care to hear that.”
Tanya Waggon rolled her eyes. The reason she was late opening the door of the Pick ‘n Save was her boss. Morning sickness thanks to storeroom jaunts. “A little under the weather. Sorry,” Tanya said as she turned, not facing Veronica, but beyond the woman to Wayne Thomas.
Wayne was the kind of guy who put all four hundred ninety-three residents of Happy Village on edge. On TV, they called guys like Wayne preppers. In that speck amidst the woods and mountains of Northern British Columbia, most just called him nuts. He lived on the edge of the original access point to the Happy Mine. A mine officially closed in 1969—by then it was a one-man show, a hobby hope, like playing the lottery…if it hit, millions, but chances were chances and chances were slim. That’s the biggest rule of instant bucks.
A grin spread on Wayne’s face and suddenly Tanya was sure he could see through her, see her pregnancy, see the genetic makeup of the embryo cooking in her womb. What else did he see? Did he know more than the rest? What exactly had he done to that old mine?
She pushed the door and a bell tinkled. “After you.”
Veronica brushed her ass off Tanya’s hip as she passed. Much bigger and she’d have to open both doors at once to get through.
The Pick ‘n Save was a six-aisle grocery, liquor, lotto, and hardware store. The hardware section was small; most the sales came via catalog. Happy Villagers had to wait for everything, but that was life and they hardly noticed, the adults anyway. The kids and teens complained endlessly about the lag.
Veronica grabbed one of the carts and began pushing. They were ancient and the castors squeaked and stuck. The handles were plastic tubes. Within those tubes, the red backdrop had faded to pink and read Zellers. Scout Wallace, owner of the Pick ‘n Save, scored nine carts at auction for nine dollars, plus tax. The shelves were a little more, but worth the price. Hell, it cost more to lug the stuff than the price of the carts, shelves, and enough non-perishable merchandise to wow the locals for months. He’d doled it out in such a way too, kept things exciting.
The first week, the stuffies and water guns for the kids, and the flannel jackets and Vancouver Canucks hats for the adults. The second week, three PS3 systems and nineteen pre-owned games available to rent. The third week, girls’ Polaroid instant cameras and bins of film for the kids, mountable video cameras and a fresh selection of R-rated to softcore porn DVDs for the adults. The fourth week, he brought out the rest in a mishmash of wonders, movies, clothes, pipes, dinnerware, car parts, pots and pans, and balls. Happy Village was hell for balls because balls roll and the town was on the side of a mountain.
Tanya was at the one and only till, counting out change and readying for the first customer. Wayne hid behind a rack of Lay’s, wasn’t the type to bother people, and it was obvious Tanya wasn’t ready. This didn’t stop Veronica who charged her cart of Ding-Dongs, Jos. Louis, Ah Caramels, jug of 2%, carton of eggs, and three on-sale McCain Traditional freezer pizzas right up to the checkout.
Veronica cleared her throat one second after arriving. Tanya didn’t look up from her count, but said, “You ever think about eating healthier?”
“Excuse you.”
“Those cakes’ll make you fatter than you already are.” Tanya lifted her gaze.
“What do I care about fat?” Veronica was red as a tomato. Chicken and the egg, was she naturally a bitch to people and got it back, or was she a bitch because people gave her the business? “Do your job, you skinny little bitch. I can’t wait until you’re my age and twice my size.”
Tanya sneered.
“You’ll see.”
Tanya began tapping the totals into the sun-yellowed computer. An old deal, Windows ‘98. As long as they never tried to run anything post-2005, it would function nice and smooth.
“Forty-two oh six.” Tanya offered a small smile to Wayne who’d lined up behind Veronica.
Veronica waved a red, CIBC debit card. Tanya handed over the terminal. Electronic churning from the phone-line internet connection filled the background, reminding Tanya to flick the radio power button. Adele then drowned out the quiet spots.
The receipt began spitting and Veronica didn’t need a receipt, pushed her cart to the door, and waited as two men stepped through, the second holding the door open, but in such a manner that he was in the way of Veronica’s girth. Eventually she was gone and Tanya turned her attention to Wayne.
“Hey, Wayne. Need to do any hardware orders or just that?” Tanya nodded to the goods spilled onto the counter. Wayne often ordered things in, strange things: air compressors, duct work, generators, pallets of steel, fake grass, copper wire
, HEPA filters of a dozen different sizes, flashlights, and so on.
“Just this.” Wayne was quiet on top of being weird and spooky. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Uh, sure.” Tanya scanned the chips, a jug of orange juice, a sixer of Pabst, and the two bootleg DVDs: Running Man and Thelma and Louise.
“How come you’re so mean to that woman?” He nodded to the window and into the parking lot, to Veronica loading her beat-up F-150.
“Mean? Oh, she’s my mom. She remarried when I was sixteen, that’s how come we have different names.”
Wayne wore a mask of alarm and then began laughing. The sound was loud and throaty. Wayne wasn’t a local, bought the mine and the cabin on the same patch of land in 2009. He stopped abruptly, maybe sensing it might be impolite. “Don’t know her name.”
“She’s Robinfeather and I’m Waggon.”
“She’s married to an Indian then?” Wayne was expressionless, had his items pinched between perma-stained fingers.
“Was. He’s dead.”
Outside, a shout cut the sky, “Dang it!”
Tanya turned to look. Not only balls, but shopping carts too; Happy Village was a hell to anything round without a running engine. The old mine was at the top of town and everything ran down the hillside, onto the only road in or out. The road was wide enough for a big rig and was in fine repair. Had to be or they’d never get anything.
Veronica ran three steps behind the cart, but it was already gone. Further down the street, rubber squealed on asphalt and the squeaking cart castors quiet singing. There was a rattle and a bang. A voice carried on the calm air, but not well enough to come through the closed door of the Pick ‘n Save.
“Thank you, have a good day.” Tanya offered a smile to Wayne.
He looked at her, nodded, and headed for the door.
The two men stepped up to the till, both had egg salad sandwiches from the fridge and cans of Red Bull. “That happen a lot?” one asked. They dressed the same: black slacks, white button-ups, like Latter-Day Saints or Mormons or Jehovah’s Witnesses who’ve come to spread their version of the good word.
The one who’d spoken had red hair. The other had brown hair with a salt and pepper beard.
“Regular enough. That all you need?” Tanya rang through the first two items. The second man kept hold of the next two.
“No. What do you know about a man named Dr. Richard Sapperstein?” the man closest to Tanya asked.
“Dick Sapperstein’s a doctor? A doctor a what?” Tanya had scrunched her face, incredulous. Dick Sapperstein ran the local excuse for a theatre—a bunch of chairs set in the basement of the former Lutheran Church, pointed at a blank wall where a projector would toss a movie—and lived in the bush to the west of the mine, not far from Wayne Thomas’ property line in fact.
“Paleontology. Fossils. Flora mostly.” This came from the one with the beard.
Tanya relaxed her mouth, but furrowed her brows. Dick was a good guy, despite his movie nerdiness. “Who are you guys?”
“My name is Dr. Herbert and he’s Dr. Whitley. Dick, Doctor Sapperstein, called us up to look at something he found. He mailed a sample and frankly, it’s absurd, but we came because he’s persistent, even if he faked the findings.” This was the closer of the two, the red-haired man. He spoke with an ivory stick lodged somewhere in his rear.
“I’m here because I wanted to see how he did it. I mean if it wasn’t absolutely impossible, I’d have bought it,” Dr. Whitley said.
Dr. Herbert nodded once. “So, what’s he like? Jokes, games, things of that order?”
“Dick? Jokes? God no. He’s near as stiff as you. He likes movies lots. Four sixteen, please.” Tanya held out her left hand, palm up.
Dr. Whitley sniggered. “Dick’s stiff is he?”
Dr. Herbert turned to his lab partner and frowned. Uncouth man. He turned back to Tanya, had a credit card out. “Can you—?”
“Credit card minimum is ten bucks.” Tanya had grown bored of these men. Shame, out-of-towners were usually interesting.
“What?”
“You need to buy ten bucks worth of stuff to use a credit card.”
“But I only want this.”
Tanya shrugged. “Ten bucks for that then or use cash. Debit has only a five-dollar minimum. Up to you.”
Dr. Herbert plucked three Mars bars from the shelf below the counter. “There.”
“Need two more bucks. Those bars are on sale.”
“Geez Louise.” He grabbed two packs of Trident Gum. “Now, do you know how we can get a hold of Dr. Sapperstein? He’s not answering his cell.”
Tanya tallied the total into the system. “Service is spotty for cells. Better to try the radio.”
Dr. Herbert swiped his card. He hadn’t had to swipe his card in years. Happy Village was a time warp. “Which radio?”
“The radio. Dick does the radio too, tells people about the woods sometimes. He’s real interested in wildfires and bears and stuff. Aside from the movies.” Tanya pointed to the two-way system next to the plastic drapes that hid the tobacco products. “You want me to try for him?”
“Yes, please.” Dr. Herbert forced a smile.
“Two bucks.”
“What?”
“Just kidding.” Tanya lifted the microphone and pressed the button on the side. “Dick, you out there?” She waited. “Oh, duh.” She spun the volume control a few notches. “Dick, you there?”
“Yeah. Who’s this? Over.”
“Hey, this is Tanya from the Pick ‘n Save. Got some doctors here. How come you never said you were a doctor?”
Static heavy on his voice, Dick said, “On my way. In the truck now. Tell them to stay put. Over and out.”
2
Tuesday, April 29, 2019: 9:04AM
Charlie Warinka trudged up the sidewalk. She wore yoga pants and a hoodie that hugged her tight, keeping the back hem well above her ass. Hair in a ponytail, it swung left to right, right to left as she powered upward. It was of utmost importance to keep in shape. Being fat and single is a tough route, so she’d heard, good excuse or no.
She passed the CIBC bank. It was one of the only truly firm-looking buildings in Happy Village. Newish brick, cinderblock pillars, stone steps, two steel lions painted gold. It was outlandish given the number who used the place—only those in town and the neighboring First Nations residents. Given that the mine was dead and tourism was nearly nil, most of the town relied on government cheques, at least partly. This meant the bank was only ever busy the last Friday of every month and then only active the trailing days following. Mostly, it was the machine and one teller. The teller was the manager, the financial advisor, the insurance salesman, and the mortgage writer. Some folks used the bank more. They were a mystery, had other money. Big money, comparatively.
Across the street from the bank was the only fast food joint in town, a Dairy Queen that only opened between five and nine, four nights a week. The place featured a window and two steel picnic tables outside next to a big plastic garbage receptacle chained to a handrail.
After the bank was a parking lot, an area smoothed out amidst the constant angle of Happy Village. Charlie paused for a breath, put her hands on the small of her back. From behind her, a male voice called out.
“Baby, baby, you got what I need.”
Charlie grinned because she didn’t recognize the voice. Men had always checked her out, or rather, had always checked her out before. It was lesser when she’d moved to Chilliwack for a few years after high school. She’d never admit it, but being the hottest girl in town was one of the reasons she moved back, the main reason being her sick father. Of course, none of that meant she went for the bullshit lines from men, dudes, bros.
“I do?” Charlie looked over her shoulder to the man, batted her lashes. He was loading a white truck with camera equipment. Two grinning, middle-aged, mustachioed men stood next to him. Both wore overalls, had RimRoil written down their arms. Charlie had seen these two men befo
re; frackers, they stayed in Betty Simpson’s B&B, parked their company truck on the street, ate every night Dairy Queen was open, and drank beer with the locals upstairs at the former Lutheran Church that had since become a social hall.
“Yeah, baby, you got what I need. All day and all night.” The young man set a big, plastic box in the truck’s rear door. “I’m leaving town tomorrow, maybe tonight we could—” His words stopped abruptly as Charlie turned around.
“We could what, sailor?” Charlie said. Her eight months of pregnancy made her big, like she’d swallowed a beach ball big. “Tell me, baby,” she added, teasing, words moist.
“For fuck sakes.” The cameraman swung the door a moment after he got in.
Larry Robinson, fracking specialist for RimRoil, said, “Ma’am,” and pretended to tip a cap.
Charlie laughed and continued on up the hill. The truck passed, and to her surprise, did not honk and nobody shouted out a window.
She made it to the entry of the outdoor hockey pad—a half-sized oblong oval of cement with four-foot boards surrounding it and ten-foot chicken wire rising above. It took ice in the winter and pulled multiple duties in the summer: tennis, lacrosse, ball hockey, and basketball. A second smoothed-over area, one of five.
That pad had ghosts, good memories for Charlie. Boys competed for her attention since she was a girl. They dropped gloves, fired pucks, and stacked pads all in her name. She was Helen of Troy, and what could be better than that. If only she’d been smarter, hadn’t succumbed to the damned persistence and promise of a brighter future.
A shopping cart whined by her down the hill, tearing her from reverie. She spun to watch it. Dale Carver’s Chevy Cavalier screeched to a stop and the cart thumped its bumper before rattling onto its side. Dale looked at Charlie as he swung out his car door and stood. “Hey’a. Wanna ride?”
“No, thanks. Need to keep in shape.”
Great Big Teeth Page 1
