Barry Squires, Full Tilt

by Heather Smith

  “The what?”

  “The Last Chance Saloon. It’s what the residents call the special events lounge.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, mate, it might be the last time they get to see great entertainers such as yourself. They’re no spring chickens, you know.”

  I stood up and put my backpack on. “So no pressure, then.”

  He swallowed the last bite of bun and patted his stomach. “Ta for this, Squire. It really filled a hole in me old Auntie Nelly.”

  Michael Whelan rushed past me as I made my way toward school. “Better get going, Wine-bar. Bell’s gonna go.”

  I sighed. Mr. McGraw had meant well by telling the class the scientific name for the birthmark across my cheek, but hearing the words “port-wine stain” only gave the bastards more inventive ways to insult me. Wine-bar, a play on my full name, Finbar, quickly caught on. So did Merlot and Cabernet, which were types of wine, not port, so not only were my classmates bastards, they were stupid bastards.

  Nanny Squires told me to be confident about my birthmark. She said I was as good as the next person. Better, even. She said, “When you walk into that school you need to act like you own the place.” It was good advice. Because when I walked around all cocky and bold, the names bounced off me. But on the bad days, when I woke up wishing I had a different face, I was suddenly an arsehole magnet. It wasn’t just “Hey, Merlot,” it was “Hey, Barry, you’ve got a little something on your face,” or a chorus of “Freaks Come Out at Night.” Damian Clarke and Thomas Budgell were the worst. When we’d moved to junior high, they’d spread the rumor that I was highly contagious and anyone within three feet would be afflicted. They called me Moses for a while after that because of the way I parted the crowd in the hallway like it was the Red Sea. Yep, on the bad days my face was as attention-getting as Frankie McCall’s neon sign. It was a beacon for bastards.

  I stood outside school for another ten minutes, then went straight to the principal’s office.

  “Mornin’, Judy,” I said, slinging my schoolbag around the wooden desk she kept in the corner. “Aren’t you a vision of loveliness today? Green is really your color—reminds me of the rolling hills of the Emerald Isle.”

  “Who sent you here, Barry?” she said. “Whoever it was gave up way too early.”

  “Well, Judes—”

  “That’s Mrs. Muckle to you, Mr. Squires.”

  I smiled. “I think we know each other far too well for silly formaldehydes, don’t you?”

  “The word you are looking for is formalities.”

  I shrugged. “Ehh, close enough. Starts with an f, ends in an s.”

  It was tricky, this balancing act I did each day. The key was to be disruptive enough to be kept out of class, while not being too hard on poor old Judy—it wasn’t her fault my face was a beacon for bastards.

  “Well?” she said. “Who sent you here?”

  “No one. I sent myself.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “I was extremely late this morning.”

  She looked at the clock. “For the love of God, Barry, it’s not even 9:15. And don’t you have English with Mr. McGraw first period? Of all the classes you shouldn’t be missing.”

  I picked up the nameplate on her desk. It was shaped like a Toblerone. “The thing is, Judes, and I’m just being honest with you, I have a feeling if I go to class, I might punch someone in the face. So it’s best I stay here.”

  “What do you mean you have a feeling?”

  “It’s, like, deep down in my bones. I’m feeling a punch coming on—like how Nanny Squires knows when it’s going to rain.”

  “For goodness sake, Barry. Can’t you just ignore it?”

  “Nanny Squires says I should never deny my feelings. She says us Catholics are repressed enough as it is.” I took off my jacket and sat down. “Don’t worry. I’ll just sit here at my desk and do my work.”

  “That is not your desk.”

  I wanted to say, Well, my name’s on it, but thought better of pointing out the FTS I’d carved into the wood with the metal pointy thing from my math set.

  “I’m practically the only one that uses it. In fact,” I said, waving her nameplate through the air, “I could use one of these bad boys myself.”

  She came around from behind her desk.

  “Hiding in here all day won’t help,” she said.

  I stared at her shoes. They were high heels and red. Nan would call them “fantabulous.” Mom would call them “slutty.”

  “You’re letting them win, Barry. You deserve to be in the classroom just as much as anyone else. Don’t let them drive you away.” She looked at me and smiled. “Now get to class.”

  I looked up. “Judes?”

  “Yes?”

  “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I like your shoes. They’re really fantabulous.”

  “Mr. Squires?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If I hear you calling me Judes again, you’ll get detention for a week.”

  I shrugged. “Fair enough.”

  Thomas Budgell passed me on my way to class. He called me Pinot Noir in an exaggerated French accent. I could have just ignored him, but how could I deny that feeling deep in my bones? It was a short walk back to the principal’s office. I said I didn’t lay a finger on him but his bloody lip proved otherwise. Thomas was sent back to class but I stayed with Mrs. Muckle. She said, “What am I going to do with you, Barry?” I suggested a game of Go Fish. It was a joke but she took a pack of cards from her desk. “Crazy Eights,” she said. “Go Fish drives me cracked.”

  Funny thing happened at gym class that day. Mr. Nolan had us doing the dreaded Canada Fitness Test. We took turns doing flexed-arm hangs, standing long jumps, and sit-ups while Nolan timed, measured, and counted. Only a few people did well at it and I wasn’t one of them. Suddenly, I wasn’t Wine-bar. I was “Jesus, Barry, this is hell,” and “Christ, Squires, Nolan’s going to kill us.” For forty minutes, we were all frayed, and I wished hell lasted forever.

  After school I headed for the nursing home. I passed Uneven Steven on my way.

  “How’s Judes?” he asked. (He loved my tales from the principal’s office.)

  “She had a face on her like a smacked arse,” I said. “That woman is as crooked as sin.”

  Steven laughed. “Maybe she’d lighten up if you weren’t in so much Barney Rubble all the time.”

  I passed him what was left of my lunch. “Don’t worry,” I said. “She’ll light up like a Christmas tree when she finds I’m going to perform for the oldies at the nursing home. I’m going there now to set it up.”

  He unzipped my lunch bag. “Make sure to tell ’em you’re good friends with Alfie Bragg,” he said, trying to open an Oreo with his sausage-sized fingers. “That way you’ll be a shoo-in.”

  “But I barely know Alfie Bragg.”

  The Oreo crumbled to bits. “Tell ’em anyway. One little porky pie won’t do no harm.”

  I twisted my last cookie in half and handed it to him. “You’re right. Honesty is never the best policy. Remember when I told Judes she’d put on a few over Christmas?”

  Steven’s grin emerged through his thick beard like the sun coming through a black cloud.

  “I tried to warn her,” I continued. “I said, ‘Judith, my duck, you’d better tell those students you’ll only accept non-edible gifts.’ But would she listen? No. She kept stuffing her face with Pot of Gold. I knew she’d come back the size of a house.”

  I waited for Steven to laugh his big, deep ha-ha-ha, and when he did, I felt like I’d just scored the winning goal in the biggest sporting event in the world. He slapped his knee and said, “You kill me, Squire, you really kill me.” Inside, I was bursting—because laughter is the best medicine and Steven once said he was sick in the head.

 
“Well, I gotta go,” I said. “Cheerio and ta-ta and all that other bullcrap you Brits get on with.”

  He was still chuckling as I walked away. Not only had I scored the winning goal, I was the MVP.

  Heading off to the nursing home meant missing my favorite part of the day—getting Gord up from his nap. Nanny Squires liked him up by 3:30, so I always made sure to be home by 3:20. That way I could spend ten minutes on the floor next to his crib, watching him breathe. Breathing with Gord calmed the army men down. The army men marched through my brain all day long. I didn’t know who or what they were fighting but they were angry. They ransacked my thoughts, tossing them aside and breaking them in two. It was hard to explain the army men to Mrs. Muckle or Mr. McGraw. It was easier to let them think I was too lazy to live up to my potential. I loved watching Gord sleep. His little pink lips and rosy-pink cheeks hypnotized me. The army men too. With each fall and rise of the breath, they marched to the barracks and climbed into their cots for a nap.

  I’d miss Gord today. Breathing wasn’t the same without him.

  The One Step Closer to God Nursing Home was part hotel, part hospital. Its lobby was impressive, with fancy armchairs and a grand fireplace, but it smelled like Gord’s room after a diaper change—strongly deodorized with an underlying scent of bodily functions. Some residents lounged in their Sunday best, others wore pajamas and slippers. One old fella wore a top hat and tails. They all had one thing in common, though: they were ancient. Still, I liked this ragtag group of wrinklies. I mean, who doesn’t like old people? They spend their days giving out Werther’s and wisdom by the bucketloads, all with a twinkle in their eye. Maybe, I thought, this wasn’t about getting noticed by Father O’Flaherty. Maybe, just maybe, this was about giving back. I puffed out my chest and made a beeline for the reception desk. It was time to arrange the performance of a lifetime.

  As I crossed the room, a sweet old lady in a bright yellow dress and a flowery sunhat caught my eye. I crouched before her, resting my hands on the armrests of her wheelchair.

  “If I may be so bold as to say,” I said, gazing into the deep crevices of her old-iferous face, “you are the epiphany of a blooming daffodil on a summer’s day.”

  “It’s epitome,” said the old fella in the top hat and tails. “Epiphany is an entirely different animal.”

  The old lady’s voice was a croak. “I wandered lonely as a cloud, that floats on high o’er vales and hills, when all at once I saw a crowd, a host, of golden daffodils.”

  Wandering? Not with those withered old legs. I wanted to compliment her poem but it wasn’t very good, so I said, “I must say, you have the perfect voice for a cartoon witch.”

  Giving back felt amazing.

  I continued on, tipping an imaginary hat to Mr. Top Hat and Tails, who swiftly stuck his cane in my path. I flew into the welcoming arms of an overly made-up woman. “Well, well. Aren’t you a handsome young man?” Before I could react, she planted a rather slob-iferous kiss on my cheek. In the spirit of giving, I said, “You’re not too bad yourself,” but to be honest, she had a face only a mother could love.

  I continued on my journey to the reception desk. An old woman in a lavender pantsuit shuffled toward me. Her eyes twinkled like stars. She stopped in front of me. “Why, hello there, sonny.”

  She opened up a large purse and reached inside. She dug this way and that. Slippery little devils, those Werther’s. When her eyes lit up, I put out my hand. A moment later, a crumpled old tissue fluttered toward it. I pulled my hand away in disgust. As I walked onward, I pictured the shiny taps on the bottom of Billy Walsh’s shoes. It was the only thing that kept me going.

  Finally, I’d arrived. The receptionist smiled. Her name­tag said Patsy, and even though she was old, her hair was dyed purple, like the punks down on Water Street. I was starting to give her the ins and outs of my performance when she said, “We’re not fussy, my duck. I’m sure you’ll be delightful.”

  “Shall we say 7 p.m., then?” I said. “Thursday evening?”

  “Sure,” she said, penciling me in on her empty desk calendar. “Why not?”

  I asked if I could see the Last Chance Saloon, and she frowned and said, “If you mean the special events room, it’s down the hall and to the left.”

  There were doors down both sides of the hallway, and in the room behind each one was an old person. I made sure to give each and every one of them a nod and a wink because Nan always told me not to tar people with the same brush and just because three wrinklies tried to kill me—one with a cane, one with a kiss, and one with a germ-filled snot-rag—I shouldn’t assume they were all a bunch of bastards. My open-mindedness paid off when a little old lady looked up from a book and winked back. I popped my head in her door. “How ya doin’ today, missus?”

  She said, “Not too bad, considering.”

  “Considering what?”

  She threw her hands up in the air. I took that to mean everything.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Edie.”

  “Don’t let the bastards get you down, Edie.”

  She smiled. Good ol’ Nan—her words of wisdom were quickly becoming the most useful phrase in my whole vocabulary.

  “I’m Barry Squires,” I said.

  She cocked her head like a dog hearing the word walk.

  “Aren’t you the youngster who punched a hole through the confessional screen?”

  “The one and only.” I grinned.

  She grinned back. I liked this Edie. Even if she was half drunk on the whiskey she was hiding behind her book.

  “Whatcha reading?” I asked.

  She peered over the book. The fact that it was upside down should have worked in her favor, but she seemed unable to focus on the title. “I, er—”

  “Never mind, Edie,” I said. “It’s what’s on the inside that counts.”

  I winked again and continued on to the Last Chance Saloon.

  The X was there, just like Uneven Steven had said. I surveyed the area with my hands clasped behind my back. Yes, I murmured. This will do very well. Very well indeed. All I needed was to check out the click-ability of the floor. Acoustics were very important in step dancing. Or so I supposed. I didn’t have any pennies to tape to my shoes, so I looked around for something metal I could hit against the floor to mimic the clicks. There was a wheelchair in the corner but that would be too big. I went back to the lobby, where Mr. Top Hat and Tails was sitting. He was snoring now, the bastard. His cane was resting against the arm of the chair. He obviously didn’t need it, so I took it.

  The cane had a rubber stop on the bottom, but the top part was silver and in the shape of a lion’s head. I felt quite grand walking back down the hallway with it. When I walked past Edie’s room, I said, “Hello, m’lady.”

  “What are you doing with Buster’s cane?” she asked.

  “Buster?” I said. “Sounds like a dog.”

  “Looks like one too,” she said. “A bulldog.”

  I wagged a finger at her and smiled. “You’re a cheeky old devil, Eeds.”

  When I got back to the saloon, I turned the cane upside down and tapped the lion’s head against the floor. Not as echo-y as pennies. But not bad. Satisfied with the click-ability of the venue, I decided to have a quick practice. I did the routine I’d performed for my family and then, in a moment of brilliance, decided to incorporate the cane. I leaned on it with both hands. I clicked my heels to the left, then to the right. Maybe, I thought, I could blend Irish step dancing with old-fashioned tap. I held the lion’s head with one hand and walked rhythmically around it. If I combined the classiness of Fred Astaire with the cockiness of Michael Flatley, I could be the creator of a whole new genre of dance. I gave it a try. Instead of keeping my arms pinned to my sides, I added some visual interest by holding the cane in front of me—the lion head in my left hand, the rubber stop in my right. Mo
ving the cane in a circular motion, I proceeded to kick the shit out of the floor while singing “Tea for Two” in an Irish accent.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Buster the bulldog tore across the room, his jowls flapping in the wind. When he made a grab for the cane, I swept it up into the air, then hid it behind my back.

  “Whoa there, Buster,” I said. “Looks to me like someone doesn’t really need a cane at all. How’s about I borrow it for a week?”

  “Borrow it? Absolutely not! That is my cane and I need it to walk.”

  I put on my patient-but-firm Judy Muckle face. “Now, Buster,” I said. “I think we both know that’s not true.”

  His face turned as purple as Patsy’s hair. “What the hell are you talking about? Of course it’s true. I need that cane! I’m eighty-one years old, you know.”

  I smiled. “Don’t you mean eighty-one years young?”

  I hoped he could see the kindness I was forcing into my eyes.

  “Isn’t age but a number?” I said. “Don’t you think this cane is holding you back from who you really want to be? Don’t you think that maybe, just maybe, you’re using this cane as a crutch—an emotional crutch?”

  God, I was good.

  He lurched forward and snatched the cane from behind my back. “I don’t know who you are, kid, but you’re a lunatic. I can see it in your eyes. A raving, psychotic lunatic.”

  “A lunatic?” I said. “I’m not the one dressed like Mr. bloody Peanut.”

  “If I was Mr. Peanut,” he sputtered, “I’d be wearing a monocle.”

  I nodded in agreement. “You’d be wearing spats too.”

  His eyebrows moved halfway up his forehead. “You know what spats are?”

  “My nan’s favorite movie is Puttin’ On the Ritz. She has a thing for Fred Astaire.”

  Buster looked off into the distance. “Don’t we all?”

  “I’ll be dancing here Thursday night,” I said. “Wanna come?”

  His face filled with even more wrinkles. “Dancing?”