“Listen to this Mal. This one reminds me of your mother.”
The song is slower and the words are easier to understand as the singer sings about, her golden blonde hair shining in the sun.
“Crazy, I know, but it makes me think of her every time. Man, that blonde hair sure turns heads, Mal, that golden blonde hair.” He’s smiling as he says it and obviously thinking about my mother, but the laughter is gone now and he doesn’t look at me. His gaze is firmly on the road ahead of us as he puts another tape into the stereo.
Then, I hear it and I don’t have to tell him. I know that somehow, he knows. He just seems to know.
“Aha, you little bugger. You little Scottish bugger,” he laughs. “I knew that you’d get it. You can feel it can’t you? You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
All of the other sounds in the world have stopped. I know that the car is running and I can see George laughing and hear his words, but nothing else can dampen the music coming from the stereo. It seems to move effortlessly from a thunderous blast of guitars and piano with the singer not singing but yelling, pleading almost, to a softer melody where he’s talking, whispering the story of the song, while the piano plays beautifully in the background. It makes me feel something inside that I’ve never felt before. I feel happy and angry at the same time. There really is no other way to describe it other than that, just happy and angry, all at the same time.
I’m smiling as the song ends and George turns the volume down. Looking at me, then looking at the road, he’s hardly able to contain himself.
“You see kid, that’s what I mean. That’s the music that you can’t describe with words.”
He’s right. I’ve never heard anything that made me feel that way before. “How did you know, George? How did you know that was the one for me?”
“You stopped nodding, Mal. You stopped nodding and you got a real serious look on your face, as though something important just happened.”
“Maybe it did,” I laugh, pleased with myself, “maybe something important did just happen, George.”
“Yeah, kid, no maybes about it. Something important did just happen.”
We reach our destination and George pulls into the entranceway of a large lot filled with cars of all different shapes and sizes. I wince at the glare coming from the windows on the building in front of us. The windows are huge and behind them, inside the building, there are even more cars. As he turns the vehicle off and parks, in my head I can still hear Bruce Springsteen singing about fast cars and pretty girls, and running away from everything. I smile and think about how the music makes me feel, and when I look over at George, he ruffles my hair and grins back as though he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
CHAPTER 6
The basics of car washing are easy to learn. One-and-a-half scoops of the green powdered soap are mixed with one full bucket of water. This leaves the soap strong enough to take any grime off the cars without wasting any of the expensive green powder. The hoses and soap powder are kept in our shed that is at the rear of the lot, and the shed door must be kept locked at all times. The hose is to be coiled and uncoiled very carefully from the steel spool that holds it. By doing this, there is little chance that the end of the hose could fly up and scratch one of Mr Allister’s cars. They are all Mr Allister, or Bill Allister’s cars. He owns the dealership. I work with Terry. Terry is Bill’s son, and he calls him Dad. I decide to call him Mr Allister, and thank him for giving me a job.
“You’re very welcome, Malcolm. Terry will show you the ropes. Just listen to Terry and you’ll be fine, and don’t worry if the salesmen squawk at you; they’re all vermin anyway. They just like to show what assholes they are once in a while.” He smiles at Terry in a way that seems to say that they’ve had this conversation before. Terry grins and hands me a brush, nodding and smirking, while leading me towards the little shed at the back where we keep the cherished green soap.
Terry fills me in on what it means to be a Lot Lizard. The main part of the job is washing. We’re always washing cars. The important thing is to start from the top down and rinse more than you scrub, and always remember to rinse thoroughly. We unload any deliveries that arrive also. They have to be unloaded at the back door, then, you knock and wait for someone in the office to let you in. Never, ever, ever go in the front part of the office or showroom. We are lot staff, and can only enter the building from the back shop, or the door at the rear. Always listen to the salesmen or the mechanics, but if there’s something that they ask you to do, and you’re not sure that it should be done, then ask Mr Allister whether he’d like it done.
The washing part is easy and I catch on quickly. It takes the rest of my first day for Terry to show me around the dealership and train me on the additional duties that we have, but it only takes an hour before he fills me in on all the different personalities that make up the dealership.
“He’s Marvin, Starvin’ Marvin. That’s what we call him. Don’t look; just keep pulling the hose out towards the centre of the lot.” Terry stifles a laugh as we both glance at a tall skinny man, wearing a suit that seems to be several sizes too large for him.
“I’m watching you, both of you. That blue Chevy looked like shit when I test-drove it last night. Try a little elbow grease, boys, a little hard work never hurt nobody. You got Snottish Boy to help you now, Terrance, so no excuses, elbow grease, lots of elbow grease.” Marvin is waving his arms as he yells at us, the sleeve of his suit jacket flapping in the wind almost in time with the wide flaps at the bottoms of his pants.
Terry ignores the name that I’ve been called, and just laughs, as Marvin turns and walks away. He doesn’t have to tell me that this is one of the assholes his father warned me about.
“He bangs his customers, the women ones anyways. He’s our top producer, but he’s always got a jealous husband or two trying to find him. Once he came in all bruised and battered after a close call.”
“A jealous husband caught him?”
“No, but it was close. He had to jump out of a bathroom window when he heard the front door opening, and then he fell two stories into a dumpster. True story, true story.” Terry’s eyes light up in a way that they never lit up when he explained to me how to mix the soap.
“And they call him Starvin’ because he’s so skinny?” I realize that it’s an obvious question right after I ask it, but Terry has no interest in mocking me, none at all.
“Yep, they call him that because he’s so skinny. He only eats once a day and the rest of the time he sells cars or talks about women. I think he’s banging Sylvia. I almost caught him once, coming out of our shed, dirty old man, still pulling his pants up. I know he’s got a key; I just haven’t caught him with it yet. He tried to look all innocent and kept walking towards me with his arms out so that I couldn’t see behind him, but I know I saw someone and I know Marvin. I know what he’s up to.”
“Sylvia is someone else’s wife? She has a husband?”
Terry lets his brush drop to the ground and stares at me for a moment before answering, his face almost bursting open with a childish look of delight. “That’s right, you haven’t met Sylvia yet. Well buddy, you’re in for a treat. Sylvia works in the office. Sylvia and Gloria work together. Gloria does all of the work but Sylvia, well Sylvia has assets.” He cups his hands in front of his chest, as he says the word and gives me a devilish look. Immediately, I can’t wait to find out more about Sylvia’s assets.
We spend our coffee and lunch breaks sitting on buckets in front of our little shed, watching the rest of the dealership at work, everyone doing their part to try and sell cars. Sometimes Mr Allister comes and stands beside us, visiting. He carefully eats his orange or peach, while slightly leaning forward to avoid spilling any juice on his shirt and tie. It amuses me to see the two of them, father and son, interacting, one a smaller younger version of the other, both of them so similar. While both are short, Mr Allister is wide and stocky where Terry is narrow and lean. Both are strong pe
ople. You can see it in the way that they touch things or lift items with little or no effort.
Terry and his Dad speak almost in code about a secret project that Terry has been working on. Every time he visits us, Mr Allister asks his son the same question, with the same smirk on his face. “Is it ready yet? Is it done?”
And every day he gets the same answer, “still some quirks, Dad, still some things that I’m trying to work out. It’ll be done soon.” Terry gives his father his version of the Allister smirk and continues munching on his sandwich while the three of us watch Starvin’ Marvin trying to entice a middle aged woman to get into the driver’s seat of a shiny red convertible.
“Well,” Mr Allister stretches out the well, while finishing his fruit and winking at us both before returning to his office in the showroom, “you be sure and let me know when it’s done, son. I’m looking forward to seeing it. You boys have a good afternoon.”
I never ask what it is and they never offer. After hearing the conversation a few times, I begin to wonder if there really is a secret project or if it’s just some kind of an inside joke that Canadian fathers play with their sons. I always nod politely and smile when they have their conversation just in case I’m supposed to know what it is, and that somehow, with all the new information that I’m learning, I’ve managed to forget.
We always wait right until the end of our lunch break before resuming work. It’s not because we want to maximize our break before getting back to car washing and moving and loading supplies. It’s because at three minutes before our break ends, Gloria and Sylvia, with her assets, sneak out the back door of the office and smoke their cigarettes. Gloria wears large, dark rimmed glasses that she’s constantly taking off and cleaning. She’s small and dark haired and seems to almost cower against the wall as she smokes, while Sylvia is exactly the opposite. Sylvia has large, wild, red hair and cannot talk without excitedly waving her arms in the air. With every movement that she makes, her tremendous assets fly up in the air, before gravity takes them back to their resting place.
“Red, she’s wearing red again. Shit. Why does it always have to be red? Red drives me mental. It really does. And look at the cleavage, Malcolm. I’ll bet you don’t see cleavage like that in Scotland, do you?”
From our spots in front of the shed, peering between the rows of parked cars that await our attention, we watch her, but of course we’re not really watching her at all. She seems to be almost twirling around, cigarette in one hand, and her free arm waving, while talking to Gloria. “I don’t think so, Terry. I can’t remember ever seeing cleavage like that in Scotland.”
As though she’s been listening, she immediately turns, and her bright, make-upped face is staring directly towards us. “Whatcha starin’ at, Scottie? You never seen a couple of girls having a smoke before?” When she says the word Scottie, she poorly imitates my accent, drawing the word out, mocking me.
I can feel my face redden and my insides shrink all at the same time. I try to move, to speak, to do anything, but I’m glued to the bucket that I’m sitting on. Sylvia shows no mercy as she continues to stare us down across the parking lot, her arms raised, as though she’s waiting for an answer. Her assets are still there, and are every bit as prominent, but it’s her look and the way she called me Scottie, that have rendered me speechless.
Minutes pass in my head, as she continues to stare me down before Terry rescues me. “Just enjoying the day, ladies. Just enjoying the day.” He’s on his feet, and has his lunch kit inside the shed; before it occurs to me that I can actually stand up and don’t have to keep staring at the woman across the parking lot, whose arms are still up in the air as her cigarette smokes from her hand.
“You boys be careful in that shed back there. You never know what’s going on in a cute little hiding place like that.” I daren’t look back, but I hear her laughing and know that she’s turned away and is looking at Gloria. I decide that I like Gloria and am sorry that she has to witness my humiliation. I can’t imagine that she’s laughing too. I can’t tell though, as I do everything in my power to ignore my burning face and try to completely concentrate on pouring one and a half scoops of green powdered soap into the full bucket of water that Terry has mercifully placed in front of me.
CHAPTER 7
I’ve become a master at identifying the differences between the rains of Kilmarnock and the rains of Vancouver. In Kilmarnock, the rain is cold and often horizontal. It comes at you from the strangest of angles and instantly feels as though it’s soaked, not just through your clothes, but through you entire body. Vancouver’s rain is warmer and friendlier. Both can be constant and aggravating. And although I experience Vancouver’s only in the summer, it’s still often relentless.
Terry and I wash cars between rainstorms, and in the times in between, we busy ourselves tidying our shed, or helping George and the other mechanics in the shop. I love the physical nature of the work. Even on weekends, when I’m trying to stay out of my mother’s way, I think about the feeling of carrying the heavy hose around, or lifting boxes of supplies from the truck to the loading area at the rear of the office.
My body begins to feel different. As I drive home in the evenings, with George singing along to the radio, or as the three of us are eating dinner, I can feel differences in the oddest places. My shoulders go from being stiff and sore to being solid. I run the palm of my hand along my shoulder blades and notice how hard they’ve become. My hands and forearms and wrists change too. Instead of being firm and functional, they are now solid and strong. Even when I tie my shoelaces, my fingers feel different, bigger, tougher. And of course I am growing. My mother and I were able to stand shoulder to shoulder the previous summer but now I feel taller and certainly broader than her small frame.
We settle into a routine of jovial drives to work and evenings eating my mother’s special casserole. Occasionally, she’ll have Chinese take-out ready for us, laid out in large styrofoam containers. When George asks her about her day she tells him that she’s busy, working on herself. Neither of us understand what this means, but we still gratefully eat her casseroles or take-out food.
Every Friday, on payday, we pay her. George takes some of his money and puts it into the jar on the top of the fridge, then slips some bills into her hands, or when he thinks that I’m not watching, down the front of her blouse. I can’t remember my father ever giving her money in quite the same way, but I like George, and I appreciate the fact that he waits until he thinks that I’m not watching before he does it. I wait until he’s in the other room, turning on the television, and then sign my own paycheque over to her. It’s for room and board and to help pay for my airline flights, she tells me. Then she takes one of the bills that George has given her and hands it over to me for pocket money. It’s more money than I ever have in Kilmarnock, and I’m glad to have it, so I don’t feel the need to remind her that it’s my father’s overtime hours that pay for my flights back and forth.
On weekends, it’s George’s job to cook, and he barbecues hamburgers and hotdogs, or sometimes even salmon in the backyard. The salmon is cooked in a foil and covered in pieces of onion and lemon, then sprinkled with lots of salt and pepper. It’s unlike any fish that I’ve ever tasted, and my appetite for it is almost insatiable.
“If you don’t stop eating all that salmon you’re going to bust your gut through that tee-shirt, Malcolm. Slow down for heaven’s sake.” My mother is reclining in a lawn chair, her oversized sunglasses jiggling as she laughs, and scolds me at the same time.
George has placed another piece of fish on the barbecue and the sweet smell mixed with the odour of the charcoal is making me salivate. He’s trying to watch the hockey game on the living room television through the patio doors while re-arranging the fish on the grill. “Grab me some of them there briquettes that are in the hallway cupboard, Mal. Hurry, we don’t want your fish going cold.”
My mother and I share a strange moment as we glance at each other, knowing that George doesn’
t seem to be in need of briquettes, and that they certainly aren’t kept in the hallway cupboard. It isn’t until she nods at me with a puzzled look on her face, that I get up from my place at the outdoor table and shuffle my way into the house.
There are no briquettes in the cupboard. In fact, there is very little in there other than a pile of clothing folded and sitting neatly in the middle of the floor. George’s voice comes booming from the backyard as I stand motionless in front of the open door, “Pick them up, Mal. Pick them up and bring them out here.”
With the exception of my school uniforms I can’t remember ever having worn new clothes, but these ones are certainly new. They have labels and pins in them and some of them are covered in plastic wrapping. Twice a year, my father and I scour the local church jumble sale to find the best hardly worn work clothes for him and casual clothes for me. These are different though. They have a smell about them, a smell that says they’ve never been worn.
My Temporary Life Page 4
