Milk Chicken Bomb

by Andrew Wedderburn

  But we can drink way more, says Mullen.

  You’ll throw up if you drink too much milk, she says. She wipes the counter with a cloth.

  We sit down in the hallway by the library. Kids in gym shorts head into the gym for intramural floor hockey. You can hear the rubber balls slapping against the walls inside.

  Hey, I bet I could eat that plant over there, says Dwayne.

  Forget it, Klatz, says Mullen.

  Come on, he says. That big spider plant. I’ll even eat the dirt.

  Forget it.

  The Glue Men come down out of the sky in their yellow parachutes. Legs out wide, hooting and hollering. Uh-oh. That’s the last thing I need today: the Glue Men. They land on Main Street and their parachutes blow up behind them in the wind; they pull the cords and their parachutes blow off. Like sails, disappearing up into the sky. The Glue Men hoot and laugh and drip their thick yellow glue everywhere. They go to take a step and they can’t, ’cause their gluey feet are stuck to the pavement, and they all howl and laugh and strain and then pull chunks of asphalt right up out of the street. Now we’re in trouble. Everybody in town runs away shouting, confused, while the Glue Men stomp around town on their new asphalt shoes. They stick to everything. They stick to stop signs and drag them along behind. They stick to car doors, yapping dogs, teenagers on mountain bikes. They stomp around dragging everything that gets caught in the sticky glue. Laughing and slobbering – everything sure is funny to the Glue Men.

  The only good thing about the Glue Men is that you’ve just got to wait it out. Eventually each of them has so many tires and mailboxes and bowling trophies and garage-sale fliers stuck all over that they can’t even move. The overloaded Glue Men struggle to take that one last step, then fall over and sit in the street. They keep laughing for a while, but it doesn’t sound so funny anymore, and pretty soon the streets are full of sobbing Glue Men, and all the scared, crying kids and little old ladies stuck to their sides. Yep, the Glue Men are the last thing anybody needs.

  This time we do it right, says Mullen. Right, I say. Right.

  Curlers carry their gym bags into the recreation centre, brooms over their shoulders, every broom with a little bag over the bristles. Mullen and I get to carry the Russians’ brooms, which is pretty fun, although you’ve got to be careful. You wouldn’t want anything to happen on the day of a big match like today.

  We watch the Pentecostals warm up in the next rink, stretching and sliding up and down the ice. The reverend takes a minute to talk to each of the players. He’ll whisper something close to them, then the two of them will grab each other’s hands, close their eyes and move their lips.

  Do you have to play them today? I ask.

  Today we play the Golden Oldies, says Solzhenitsyn. And it’s a good goddamn thing too. The Pentecostals really made a mess of us last year, in the big Okotoks bonspiel. Just a complete disaster. We’d cleaned up all the other rinks, here in Marvin, and in High River too. Then we go to Okotoks and these holy rollers here just cream us. That minister there, he’s inhuman. You’d think he was some kind of hydraulic curling robot. Every movement the man makes, it’s uncanny. Like he’s not even real.

  Well, God chooses his instruments, or something like that, says Vaslav.

  Maybe God should go join some bigger league, says Solzhenitsyn. Give the rest of us a sporting chance.

  Come on. You don’t want to get soft, do you?

  It’s rubbing off on you. That Prairie Protestant zeal.

  I’ll see you in Hell, says Vaslav.

  You’re going to spend a lot of time in Hell, says Solzhenitsyn. Seeing all these people.

  Come on, Mullen says, we need to find a can.

  The second-graders play their marble game just like always, their duffle bags full of swimsuits and towels piled up against the wall. Some of them have already had their swimming lessons; their eyes are red and their wet hair sticks to their foreheads. Marbles clack into each other.

  A Dead Kid from our grade winds up and throws his giant king cobb steelie. The biggest marble ever. He pitches it underhand like a bowling ball. Rolls over marbles and scoops them into his purple whisky bag. The kids watch the big steel marble roll around with hungry eyes, they flinch every time it smashes one of theirs. His purple marble bag strains at the seams.

  We watch them play marbles. Mullen uncaps his pen, writes OLDIES/RUSSIANS on the pad. Four to one on the Russians, says Mullen. They’ve got those old-timers cold.

  You don’t know anything about curling, says the kid with the marbles. He’s tall and has hair down in his face. Pulls chocolate-covered peanuts out of a bag and pops them into his mouth. You’re full of it.

  I’m telling you, says Mullen, no one on the Golden Oldies rink has any shot at all. The skip, he calls shots like a choir-boy. Yeah, I say, a choirboy.

  You’re that Mullen, whose dad works at the shithouse.

  You’re that Ed Carter, who’s going to be doing community service, like the last kid who said that.

  Hockey players, says Ed Carter. You think a bunch of downtown deadbeats are going to beat hockey players at anything? Come on.

  Mullen shrugs. Put you down for what, fifty cents? Seventy-five? You can get one of those roller hot dogs when you win.

  How much are you putting in?

  Mullen reaches into his pocket. Pulls out a handful of quarters. Pushes them around in his palm. I’ve got three … nope, four dollars. Feeling pretty good here. I think I might put the whole thing down.

  Four dollars on deadbeat Russians against hockey players.

  Mullen pours all the quarters out into his tin can. Lets each one ring.

  Here, says one of the second-graders, I’ve got fifty cents. Is that enough?

  Sure thing, says Mullen. We take all comers.

  I’ve got a dollar, says another kid. They all dig in their pockets, pull out dimes and quarters. Ed wrinkles his nose, then pulls two two-dollar bills out of his pocket. Drops them in the can.

  Hockey players, he says.

  Sure thing, Ed. Sure thing.

  The Golden Oldies throw some pretty good rocks. They puff along with their brooms, sweeping when their skip tells them to, stopping when he tells them to. They get rocks right inside the eight-foot line. Their second even puts a guard rock up, just outside the house. The second-graders all point. What’s happening? asks a kid. Is that good? Yeah, says another kid, that means we’re winning.

  Vaslav smirks. He holds Anna Petrovna out with both hands and kisses her right in the yellow bristles. Heaves himself down into the hack – he looks like he could fall over any time. At the other end of the rink, Solly stands beside the cluster of rocks in the house. Swings his broom above them like a baseball bat, points to the back of the room. Then he walks up a little further and puts his broom near the guard rock. Raises an arm for the turn he wants.

  Vaslav creaks back, his rock comes right up off the ice, and he pushes out of the hack. The rock curls gently down the ice. Pavel and the second shuffle along sideways just in front of it, sweeping when Solly tells them to. Kids get right up close to the glass. The rock passes by the guard, nearly touches it. Sweep! we hear Solly shout, as loud as he can. Pavel and the second lean into their brooms and sweep as hard as they can. The rock curls right inside, like they’re drawing it along with their brooms, and crash, knocks right through both the Golden Oldie rocks, sends them spinning out against the boards.

  Hey, he hit all of our rocks, says one of the second-graders. Is he allowed to do that? Ed Carter puffs out his cheeks.

  After a few more ends the Russians are way out in front. Every time the Oldies get a few carefully inside, Vaslav lumbers into the hack and knocks them all out. Every time he does it Ed Carter swears under his breath.

  Hey, Ed, Mullen says, rattling the tin can. They’re about to get going on that next rink there. Who do you like, the Chamber of Commerce or the Pentecostals?

  Haven’t got any money left, dickhead.

  That’s too ba
d, ’cause I figure the Pentecostals will make a real mess of the Chamber. Throw them around.

  You’re full of it, Shithouse Boy. Mullen shrugs, rattles the can.

  You could bet your marbles, one of the other kids says. The other kids are up or down a quarter maybe, or a dollar, but the can is full of Ed’s bills. Ed throws some more chocolate into his mouth. He opens the drawstring and pours a handful of cat’s eyes, a giant creamy, into his palm.

  Mullen looks at me. What do you figure?

  I figure those aren’t worth shit.

  He’s right, says one of the second-graders, those aren’t worth shit.

  Mullen rattles the can. Come on, they’re about to start. In or out?

  The king cobb steelie clangs in the can. Almost knocks it out of Mullen’s hand. Churches can’t curl, says Ed.

  Yeah, says Mullen, churches.

  The Pentecostals curl like robots, like someone built them in a factory just to win at curling. They curl better than the Russians. Other curlers, their matches finished, stand around not talking, leaning on their brooms. The Chamber of Commerce curlers shut their eyes at every crash. They turn away when the Pentecostals throw. They cover their faces when the Pentecostals sweep. Out here on our side of the glass, all you can hear is the muffled bang of rocks knocking into one another, the Pentecostal skip barking, hand held up rigidly, finger pointed in the air.

  Your dad works at the shithouse, Mullen.

  Yeah, well, look at all the money in this can here, Ed. You see that? Here, listen to it rattle. You hear that? A shithouse. Next time I’ll take your goddamn running shoes. You can walk home barefoot.

  Mullen goes to the concession, buys a pack of chocolate cigarettes. Peels off some of the paper, pops one in his mouth.

  In the second-floor lounge the curlers laugh and shout at each other, and smoke cigarettes and drink beer. The air is clogged with cigarette smoke, and if you sit inside too long you smell like a wet ashtray, but it’s fun to sit at the big windows and watch them curling down on the ice. Mullen and Pete Leakie and I sit on the carpet by the window and pull at the loose threads around cigarette-burn holes.

  Hey, hey! shouts Vaslav. Hey, everybody, give me a second. One! somebody shouts. Everybody laughs. Vaslav waves his arms. The crowd quiets down and he picks up his plastic cup, splashes a bit of beer foam over the side.

  My friends, says Vaslav in his loudest voice, my excellent good friends. Today I am a very happy guy. Everybody claps and whistles. He holds his hands up. Very happy! Firstly, and not least because myself and my prodigious friends are one step closer today to being the best curlers, not just in this town, but across the region. Everybody hoots and claps and people knock their plastic cups together and slosh beer. The whole room smells like beer, that doughy, wheaty smell.

  Vaslav raises his hands again. Yes, today would have been a good enough day for all of that. But, my friends, today I am doubly blessed. Now, I don’t often talk about my work. But as a few of you know, I am an author of books. People whistle. Although I’ve never liked to use that term, author, says Vaslav, because it’s usually affixed to writers who have actually had their work published, which does not describe me. Everybody laughs. It’s okay, somebody shouts, we’d still call you a curler even if you didn’t win.

  Vaslav’s smile takes up his whole red face. He spreads his arms open wide. Today I heard from Toronto. From the publisher in Toronto. And they said yes! A tentative yes!

  People stamp, slap their hands on the tables. More beer splashes everywhere.

  So here’s to next month in Okotoks, when we cross brooms with Their Holinesses. We can only hope that the Good Lord is otherwise occupied that day.

  The door opens and Jarvis Lester comes in. Everybody quiets down a bit to watch him hobble across the room, his steel cane thumping heavily on the floor. Solzhenitsyn gets up and pulls over a couple of chairs.

  Much obliged, says Jarvis. Grunts and settles himself down in the chair, then reaches down and pulls his leg up onto the other chair. Jarvis Lester is the only black man in High River, and when he comes to Marvin, he’s the only black man here too. Wears a white shirt and blue tie, his pants pulled up over the wooden leg to the middle of his thigh. The leg is ashy, a steel joint in the knee, more steel at the ankle disappearing into his sock. Hard to Kill is written down the front of his calf in woodburnt letters, like on a baseball bat.

  Somebody get me a drink, he says.

  Who is that? whispers Pete Leakie. That’s my dad’s boss, says Mullen. He owns the meat-packing plant. What happened to his leg? asks Pete. The hide-ripping machine, says Mullen. Pete makes a face. What’s a hide-ripping machine? I don’t know, says Mullen, but that’s what it did.

  Here you go, boss, says Solzhenitsyn. Hands Jarvis a plastic cup of beer. Why, thank you. Jarvis has a long drink, then sets the cup down on the flat top of his leg, like it’s a table.

  Well, we’re one step closer to our new career as professional curlers, says Vaslav. You’ll have to find yourself a new pipe-twister. We’re going to take him away from you.

  Solly laughs. I wouldn’t worry too much about it, boss. That’s the least of your worries, I imagine.

  Jarvis’s face gets really serious, really hard. Closes his eyes and rubs his forehead. The least of my worries, he says.

  Everybody standing around gets quiet. Jarvis has another long drink of beer. The Russians all lean in a little closer.

  What do I have to do to keep you hicks from dismembering yourselves? asks Jarvis. We make meat. We kill animals and chop them up. We chop them up and square them and steak them and rib them. We freeze and boil them. It’s not the post office. You have to pay attention.

  What’s going on, Jarvis? Come on, spill it.

  Jarvis sighs, a really heavy sigh. Milo Foreman fell in the rendering vat, he says.

  Nobody says anything for a long time.

  What do you mean, fell in the –

  I mean, fell in the rendering vat, says Jarvis. This afternoon, the weekend shift. Slipped on the flyover, went right through the railing, you know how heavy he is. Plop, into the rendering vat.

  You can’t fall into the rendering vat from the flyover, says Solzhenitsyn, it doesn’t even go overtop.

  Plop, says Jarvis. He finishes off his beer in one more long drink. Holds up the empty cup. Somebody takes it from him. Somebody hands him a new one.

  Did you see him?

  I saw him, says Jarvis. Makes a whistling sound. Splash.

  And you couldn’t –

  You know how high the sides of that vat are, someone says. Everybody thinks about it. Everybody gives Jarvis’s wooden leg a long look. People slurp down their beer. At the counter the bartender is already setting out cups and cups full of beer.

  Last week, Milo comes into my office, says Jarvis.

  Solzhenitsyn holds up his hands, shaking his head. You can’t fall into that vat, he says. The flyover doesn’t go anywhere near over the top of it. You just couldn’t.

  You’d have to take a run at it, says someone in the back of the crowd.

  A run? You’d have to climb into the rafters, shimmy out jungle-gym style above the air intake, walk along the duct and then drop straight down, says Solzhenitsyn.

  Let me just say, Jarvis points a long finger at all of them, that I will stand on the roof and pour hot pitch on the heads of the first sons of bitches that talk union. This is a freakish, aberrant incident. I’ll brick up the doors. The merest mention of any three-letter acronyms will be met with gunfire.

  So, Milo comes into your office.

  I recall every detail, says Jarvis. Sharp, like it had happened to me. You know when someone tells a story, and it sticks? The details? This thing happened to a friend, you always start out. And as the years go by you start to change this or that, because this detail makes it funnier, a better story like so. And eventually you don’t start with This thing happened to a friend, because by then it’s happened to you.

  Milo comes into my
office and says, Jarvis, I have this dream.

  We should get these kids out of here, says Pavel. They don’t want to hear this.

  We can stay, says Mullen. We don’t mind.

  Vaslav slaps Solzhenitsyn on the shoulder. Solly leans forward, elbows on his knees, fists out in front of him, clenched tight. Eyes wide, not blinking. We’ll take the kids home, says Vaslav. Solzhenitsyn nods. Jarvis turns in his seat and waves to the bartender. We’re going to need a lot of beer here, he says. The bartender nods.

  I dunno, I say. That snow is pretty heavy. I think we’ll get stuck.

  Mullen thumps the bottom of the old toboggan on the ground, knocks snow out of the seams. Don’t worry, I greased it up good. He runs a thumb over the wood, it comes off shiny. Mullen’s Secret Toboggan Grease, he says. It’s the best ever. One coat makes it all new, like it’d never ridden over any gravel or ice or spent time in a garage. I figure I’ll make up a few buckets and sell them to McClaghan. He could have a display, you know, a cardboard sign next to the sleds.

  McClaghan will just rip you off. Don’t you pay attention? McClaghan sticks it to everybody, ’cause he owns everything. He already owns your house, you want him to get his hands on your toboggan grease?

  My toboggan grease is pretty fantastic, says Mullen.

  The snow is too heavy. We’ll get stuck halfway.

  Mullen sits in the front and wraps the yellow rope in loose loops around his fists. Take a running start, he says.

  Lift your arms, I need room to get my legs under there.

  I cough on my mitt and sniffle. Some kids try to slide down the hill on plastic carpets and get stuck halfway down in the heavy snow. Sit there dug into a drift. I take a deep breath and run at the sled.

  I hit Mullen’s back with both arms outstretched, his head whips back and he whoops. The sled pushes over the lip of the hill. I keep pushing, expecting the sled to bog in the snow, but it shoots away, I have to jump forward to catch up. I land on top of the toboggan, stick out my legs, and Mullen grabs one and gets it around under his armpit in his lap. The other drags out in the snow and the sled veers to the right.