Barry Squires, Full Tilt

by Heather Smith

  Maybe, I thought, I could sell the stuff. I’d start by collecting empty spray bottles from all the neighbors on York Street and label them: ST. JOHN’S MIST! CLEARS HEADS INSTANTLY! SATISFACTION GUARANTEED OR YOUR MONEY BACK! Once filled, I’d sell them to tourists for five dollars a bottle. I could become a bloody millionaire!

  I made a pit stop at Duckworth and Cochrane to tell Uneven Steven all about it. “Squire,” he said, “you won’t be a millionaire. You’ll be a billionaire. You’ll be rolling in the bread and honey.”

  “Bread and honey, money,” I said. “I’m practically bilingual now!”

  I walked home with a spring in my step.

  “Mudder!” I said as I burst through the door. “I need some spray bottles. Pronto.”

  Nan’s face said it all. Sorry, my duck. She’s back in her room again.

  The mist evaporated into thin air.

  “But it was some day on clothes.”

  Nan smiled. “Hormones are a funny thing.”

  “There’s nothing funny about hormones,” I said.

  Except for that joke Pius told me during church last week:

  How do you make a hormone?

  Pinch her tit.

  Hilarious.

  Nan pushed herself up from her rocker. “Let’s find you some spray bottles.”

  I headed upstairs. “Forget it.”

  Gord was asleep on his side. I sat on the floor and leaned against his cot rails. His chubby cheeks sagged forward and there was a patch of drool on his Humpty Dumpty crib sheet.

  I didn’t get it. Mom could find happiness on a clothesline but she couldn’t find it in Gord’s face?

  I reached through the slats and put my hand on his arm.

  “Wake up, Gord. It’s time to get up to no good.”

  I lifted him out of his crib. The weight of him, it was everything.

  I breathed him in. He was a flower I couldn’t stop smelling. Even with a soaking wet diaper.

  Nan freshened him up.

  “Don’t take him far.”

  “I won’t.”

  “One hour.”

  “I know, I know.”

  I was well aware of the one-hour poop window. I didn’t want to be caught out with a smelly baby just as much as Nan didn’t want Gord sitting in a shitty diaper. As for Gord, I don’t think he cared either way.

  We named the homeowners and house colors on York, then headed downtown.

  “Give us a cuddle,” said Uneven Steven when we reached his corner.

  I passed Gord over like he was one of Nan’s buns.

  “Here ya go,” I said. “Give him a squeeze.”

  I noticed Steven’s sleeping bag. “You sleep out here last night?”

  He nodded. “There was a fight down at the shelter over some Persian rugs.”

  It took a few seconds to register. “Hugs?”

  He shook his head. “I thought you were bilingual.”

  “I am,” I said, “but I’m not fluent.”

  “Drugs,” he said. “Anyway, I left when the old bottles and stoppers showed up.”

  “Coppers,” I said. “See? I really get you, Steven.”

  His eyes welled up.

  “Oh, come on,” I said. “No need to get all emotional.”

  Then I realized.

  “Gord! Let go of that beard!”

  He didn’t listen. Babies can’t follow simple instructions until they’re twelve to fifteen months old. I reached into the hairy unknown and untangled Gord’s fingers.

  Steven rubbed his chin. “Ta for that, Squire.”

  We continued on. When we reached Fred’s Records, I parked Gord on the sidewalk and went inside. Standing in the front window, I put my lips to the glass and blew. When my cheeks puffed out, Gord laughed.

  “Stop drooling on the goddamn glass.”

  It was the guy behind the counter.

  “It’s my brother,” I said, pointing out the window. “He’s only got a few months left to live. I was only trying to give him a few last laughs.”

  The guy came over with some Windex and a cloth. “You shouldn’t joke about things like that.”

  “It wasn’t a joke,” I said. “It was a lie.”

  I pointed at the Windex. “When that bottle’s empty can you save it for me?”

  He shrugged. “Sure. Why?”

  “I’m gonna bottle and sell me some St. John’s Mist.”

  “You’re going to sell it to yourself?” he said. “That’s a terrible business plan.”

  “Don’t be obtuse,” I said.

  He snorted. “Like you know what that means.”

  “Annoyingly insensitive or slow to understand,” I said. “It’s what my English teacher called me when I asked him how Shake’s pear could have possibly written Romeo and Juliet. A piece of fruit can’t write a book. It doesn’t even have hands. When he called me obtuse, I thought he was calling me fat but that’s obese. If it wasn’t for the dictionary, I’d have probably got him fired.”

  Windex guy laughed. “You’re funny, kid.”

  “I called my brother fermented once. What I actually meant was de-mented. Fer-mented means slowly turning into alcohol. Although he did smell like beer once. After a school dance. He threatened to punch my lights out if I told Mom and Dad. I like words. If only they weren’t so easily confused.”

  The guy put down his cleaning supplies and stuck out his hand. “I’m Tony.”

  I ignored his hand and sang, “Tony Chestnut Knows I Love You.” I pointed to all the right body parts at all the right times: toe, knee, chest, head, nose, eyes, and heart. I ended with a big double-point at Tony.

  “You’re weird, kid.”

  “I sing that one to Gord all the time.”

  I looked out the window.

  “God almighty!”

  I ran outside to find Gord rolling down Duckworth.

  “Somebody catch that baby!”

  I caught him just as he rolled onto Prescott.

  I said, “Don’t cry, Gord,” but he wasn’t crying—he was laughing his sweet baby belly laugh.

  I laughed too. “You’re cracked, Gord.”

  We continued on, passing a tourist shop full of T-shirts and souvenirs. I pictured St. John’s Mist in the front window. It could be a bestseller.

  Down at the harbor there was a cruise ship as tall as Atlantic Place. It had been in Ireland and Florida and New York. I hoped they weren’t expecting spring weather. I could almost see my breath today. Gord and I smiled as the passengers filed off. “Go to Caines if you want a real Newfoundland experience,” I told them. “Boo makes a mean Jiggs Dinner.”

  An older woman in a yellow leisure suit stopped. “What’s a Jiggs Dinner?” she asked.

  “Salt beef, cabbage, potatoes, turnip, and carrots,” I said. “All boiled together into a delicious concoction of salty goodness.”

  She smiled at her husband. “These Newfies sure are friendly.”

  Nan hated the word Newfie. She said it was a slur. Mom, on the other hand, didn’t mind it at all. I was about to tell the woman to be careful, that using the term could cause offense, when her husband passed me a five-dollar bill. “Here ya go, champ.” I tucked the money into my pocket. Five dollars’ worth of candy at Caines was worth way more than giving a lesson on social justice. I gave the husband a wink. “Thanks, skipper.”

  Next to the cruise ship was a navy ship offering tours. The sign said ALL CHILDREN MUST BE ACCOMPANIED BY AN ADULT, so Gord and I quickly slipped on behind a blue-eyed family of four. We were heading up the gangplank when another kid tagged along behind us. I gave his brown skin a once-over. “Take a hike. You’re going to blow our cover.”

  “Frig off, b’y,” he said. “I’ll do what I likes, how I likes, whenever I likes it.”

 
His Newfoundland accent was thicker than mine. “Sorry. I thought—”

  “I knows what ya thought,” he said. “It’s called stereotyping. Give me a cut of that money you fleeced off that tourist and we’ll forget all about it.”

  I liked this kid. He was a sly one. A real sleveen. Like me.

  “How about we go to Caines after the tour?” I said. “I’ll buy you a bag of roast chicken chips.”

  “Throw in a bottle of birch beer and you’ve got a deal.”

  I gave him a wink. “Done.”

  The blond family was moving to the upper deck. “Come on,” he said. “Mom and Dad will wonder where we’re to.”

  I laughed. “Like anyone’s gonna believe you belong to them.”

  “Whatever,” he said. “If we gets kicked off, we gets kicked off. There’s plenty of other no good to get up to today.”

  I grinned. “I’m Finbar. You can call me Barry.”

  “Saibal,” he said. “Saibal Sharma.”

  “Sigh-bull,” I repeated. “Bulls don’t sigh.”

  “That’s because they’re too busy running around china shops,” he said.

  “Ha!” I said. “Good one.”

  I tried to pull Gord out of his stroller. “Come on, fatso.”

  Saibal helped.

  We sang the Village People’s “In the Navy” as we climbed the stairs to the upper deck. We were met with disapproving frowns.

  A navy man glared at us. “Could you keep it down? I’m trying to give a presentation here.”

  I gave him a jaunty salute. “Aye, aye, captain.”

  The presentation was boring. Saibal rolled his eyes. I pretended to yawn. The navy man asked if there were any questions. I raised my hand.

  “What’s long and hard and full of seamen?”

  Except for Saibal’s snort beside me, the deck fell silent.

  “That’s very inappropriate,” said the navy man.

  “Inappropriate how?” asked Saibal. “The answer’s ‘a submarine.’ ”

  I spoke to Gord in a baby voice. “Some people have the dirtiest minds, don’t they?”

  The navy man growled. “Where are your parents?”

  I looked at the family nearby. The father looked away. “Dad,” I said. “How could you?”

  The navy man moved toward us.

  “Run!” said Saibal.

  We took off down the stairs. Saibal snatched the stroller for a quick getaway. When we got out of sight, he set it back down.

  “You, sir,” I said, “are a scholar and a gentleman.”

  Saibal looked impressed.

  We settled Gord into his seat and headed down Water Street.

  At the war memorial, Saibal paused. “Hang on.”

  He approached a couple of tourists and spoke in a singsong-y accent. “Can you spare some change for a poor refugee? I am so verrry, verrry hungry.”

  He came back with a handful of coins.

  “Geez, b’y,” I said. “If you rolled your r’s any harder, you’d break your tongue.”

  “Nah,” he said. “My mother tongue is so thick, you’d need a sledgehammer to break it.”

  At Caines, Boo thanked me for sending tourists his way and gave us 20 percent off. Saibal used his change to buy a bowl of turkey soup, and when we got outside he gave it to a woman begging on the corner.

  We sat on the cold, brown grass near the war memorial. Saibal held Gord in his lap.

  “You know,” I said, opening my birch beer, “you were kind of stereotyping yourself with those tourists.”

  “Hey,” he said, “if people are going to assume I’m a refugee, I might as well work it to my advantage.”

  “People around here wouldn’t assume that,” I said.

  He gave Gord a lick of his chip. “You did.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did. When you told me to take a hike, you made a walking gesture with your fingers because you figured I didn’t speak English.”

  “I did?”

  He popped the Gord-licked chip into his mouth. “Yep.”

  “Oh. Sorry about that. But, for the most part, I think Newfoundlanders are pretty open to people of different races.”

  “Do me a favor, Finbar,” he said. “Don’t act like you know what it’s like to be brown in this town, because you don’t.”

  “Ha! Brown in this town. That rhymes.”

  Saibal grinned. “Yeah. I’m a poet and didn’t even comprehend that that was the case.”

  I laughed. “You can call me Barry, by the way.”

  “I think I’ll stick with Finbar,” he said.

  “Why?”

  He drained the last of his birch beer. “Because only a Finbar would call me a scholar and a gentleman. A Barry could never be so distinguished.”

  “Righty-ho,” I said, standing up and dusting myself off. “Finbar it is.”

  I put Gord back in his stroller and tipped an imaginary hat to Saibal. “Now I must bid you good day. See you tomorrow?”

  He smiled. “I’ll be here.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Back at home, I watched Riverdance for ten minutes. I didn’t feel the need to watch any more. After all, I had the technical side of Irish step dancing down pat. What I needed to work on was balance and light-footedness. Mom said if I broke one more of her grandmother’s teacups, she’d nail my feet to the floor. I said, “You’d crucify me over a broken cup?” and she said, “Those cups are bone china, you know.”

  I decided that in order to dance with lightness and grace, I’d need to dress the part. I went to Nan’s closet. It was full of possibilities. (And lacy garments I’d never unsee.) I tried on a white blouse with frilly sleeves. In a move that could only be described as bold, I left the bottom few buttons undone so that I could tie the ends together just above my belly button. A button fell off, but that was okay. Nan said being an artiste was about breaking boundaries and I was awesome at breaking things.

  Michael Flatley would never wear polyester slacks from Kmart, so I moved from Nan’s closet to my sister’s, where I borrowed on a permanent basis a pair of her black leggings. For the first time in my life I was jealous of the female sex. They could keep their periods and maxi-pads and cramps and bras…but leggings? They were like a second skin. I knew without a doubt that these super-stretchy wonder pants were going to make my wildest dreams possible. I, Finbar T. Squires, was going to end my routine with the splittiest splits in the history of dance.

  It was time to put the training program I’d dreamt up the night before into action. It was really quite good. Groundbreaking, even. Someday I’d make an instructional video for other dancers. I mean, why keep such a secret weapon to myself? But sharing my untested-but-sure-to-be-brilliant idea with the masses would have to wait—I had the performance of a lifetime to prepare for.

  I went to the basement and put on the footwear that would revolutionize the dance world.

  Hockey skates.

  I walked around and around in circles.

  The blades made a satisfying click on the concrete floor.

  I was a bit wobbly at first but by the tenth lap I was feeling incredibly stable. It was as if I was wearing a pair of Nan’s orthopedic shoes. I stood on one foot for forty-five seconds, then switched to the other. Incredibly, both my core and butt muscles were engaged.

  This was SO going to work as a training program for dancers. I mean, everyone could get their hands on a pair of skates, and now I could claim proven results in only five minutes!

  If only my training program had a name.

  I walked around in circles and thought some more.

  I needed something catchy. Something fierce.

  Then it hit me.

  The Balance and Stability Training Academy 4 Real Dancers.

  BAST
ARD for short.

  I decided it was time for a dress rehearsal. I mean, why hide my talent away in a basement?

  I floated up the stairs with Shelagh’s portable CD player in tow and went out to the road where there were no china cabinets to shake or teacups to break. I was feeling pretty positive. If I could Irish step dance in hockey skates, just imagine what I could do in the tap shoes I was planning to borrow on a permanent basis from Billy Walsh!

  Little Len from next door came outside and watched as I set up in the middle of the road. I gave him a wink. “Enjoy the show.”

  I pressed Play, not really caring what came on (I could dance to anything), and got into my opening position (the matador one). When Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” blasted through the speakers, I moon-skated from the Coadys’ front door to the Merchants’. The blades screeched against the pavement like nails on a chalkboard. I told Little Len to turn up the music. Neighbors emerged from their front doors. I pinned my arms to my sides and broke out into a mighty fine step dance. As a nod to the King of Pop, I interspersed the Irishness of my performance with a few crotch grabs and pelvic thrusts. I grabbed the sky and when I brought it to my heart, I saw faces filling the second-floor windows, and by God those faces were smiling. Not only was I breaking barriers in the dance world, I was singlehandedly bringing happiness to the people of York Street.

  It was time for my big finish.

  I waited for the music to end.

  Then—

  R-i-i-i-i-i-p.

  The splittiest splits really were the splittiest.

  A cold blast of air wafted through the arse of my wonder pants.

  I quickly sat on my knees and smiled at God.

  In the silence that followed, I heard a scream.

  “Get my bloody skates off your bloody feet!”

  I turned around. As Pius got closer, his anger turned to horror. “What the hell are you wearing?”

  I rolled onto my arse and tried to bum-scootch away, but Pius pulled me along by the blades.

  “Pius! Stop! I’m getting road burn!”

  He dragged me to the sidewalk and roughly tugged off the skates.

  “Good God, Barry. You’re such an embarrassment.”

  I followed him, stocking-footed, toward the house. Nan and Gord were in the doorway. Nan started to clap. Good ol’ Nan. One person clapping was always followed by another, then another…that’s how it worked. I looked around. The neighbors just stood there like a bunch of bastards.