began. “I will tell you something right now, son of mine. That little fucker was looking to get his head kicked in pretty much the moment he poked it out of his mother’s you-know-what. And now I’m going to tell you something else. You didn’t almost kill him, that’s bullshit. It was self-defence and everyone in this town knows it, and has known it, for the past twenty-three years.”
My god. Gord had kept count.
“We did this town a favour, you and me. We were the fucking clean-up squad. Bill Hamm and his keystone cops up there at the detachment couldn’t do anything about it, but oh my Christ, they sure as hell could come after me and mine once we finished doing their goddamn job for them, couldn’t they?”
“Me, Gord,” I said, spastically thrusting my hand into the beer cooler I’d stationed by the couch when the Cup began. But all I got this time was a fistful of ice. “You were in the restaurant. You were on the other side of the glass from where I was.”
But Gord was off. Gord had been coiled and ready too long to slow down now.
“Almost killed the little bastard — if only! How many kids did he almost kill pushing his drugs? Not to mention that knife he was always carrying around for the love of god and everyone and their cousin’s dog saw it. All those half-drunk tools over at the Legion. If that useless lawyer had any kind of clue what she was doing we wouldn’t have . . . ”
I was just digging around in the ice at that point, had been this whole time, my hand was going numb. And I knew I couldn’t do this.
“ Me , Gord,” I said. “You’re all: we we we.”
“Wee wee wee all the way home,” rejoined Gord. “Listen here, son. You did nothing wrong and I will go to my grave with those words on my lips, Gordie, that you can believe.”
“It’s everyone else’s fault, right? The lawyer, the tools at the Legion . . .”
“It was his own goddamn fault! Are you gonna sit there and tell me different? Oh, he had a hard childhood, is that it? Oh boo-hoo, maybe his old man gave him a tap with the hairbrush every once in a while. Oh no, they fed him too much red meat. They didn’t buy him fancy sneakers, wouldn’t get a big screen TV for his bedroom. My god, when you think of it, they should have named a holiday after the little asshole.”
“FUCK, GORD!” I roared into the phone.
“DON’T YOU CURSE AT ME!” he roared back. And here we were at last. “YOU’RE NOT TOO BIG FOR ME TO . . .”
“YES I AM TOO BIG! JESUS! STOP BEING SUCH AN IDIOT! I’M JUST TRYING TO HAVE A CONVERSATION WITH YOU!”
“Well who’s stopping you?” Now he just sounded perplexed. Oh, I remembered this tactic from long ago and far away. Gord switches tracks — shifts with stomach-turning swiftness from wrath to bewilderment. Who, me? Lovable old Dad, screaming, making threats? You’re mistaken, sir. And then you hear yourself panting and feel your face throb as you make rigid your neck tendons in preparation to holler some more at the poor, bewildered old man.
“I knew calling you would ruin my day,” I told him after a while. “You’re a lunatic, Dad.”
“Well you know I always love to hear from you, Gordie.”
And can you believe this, Adam? He was being utterly sincere. Utterly proving my point.
Brazil won, by the way.
9
07/01/09, 10:57 a.m.
WHAT YOU CAN'T ACCOUNT for, when you punch a person in the head, is how they are going to land. You can be as careful as you like. You can account for the fact that the man in front of you is a small man and you are a large man. You can pull your punches, always keeping in mind, however, that the small man is known to enjoy knives so it would be best for all concerned if you laid him out quickly and more or less completely. Also keeping an eye on the surrounding skeezer cohort, any one of whom may hurl themselves at you in wounded outrage the moment their beloved Mickster loses steam. So a single, decisive shot to the head is
My god. Gord had kept count.
“We did this town a favour, you and me. We were the fucking clean-up squad. Bill Hamm and his keystone cops up there at the detachment couldn’t do anything about it, but oh my Christ, they sure as hell could come after me and mine once we finished doing their goddamn job for them, couldn’t they?”
“Me, Gord,” I said, spastically thrusting my hand into the beer cooler I’d stationed by the couch when the Cup began. But all I got this time was a fistful of ice. “You were in the restaurant. You were on the other side of the glass from where I was.”
But Gord was off. Gord had been coiled and ready too long to slow down now.
“Almost killed the little bastard — if only! How many kids did he almost kill pushing his drugs? Not to mention that knife he was always carrying around for the love of god and everyone and their cousin’s dog saw it. All those half-drunk tools over at the Legion. If that useless lawyer had any kind of clue what she was doing we wouldn’t have . . . ”
I was just digging around in the ice at that point, had been this whole time, my hand was going numb. And I knew I couldn’t do this.
“ Me , Gord,” I said. “You’re all: we we we.”
“Wee wee wee all the way home,” rejoined Gord. “Listen here, son. You did nothing wrong and I will go to my grave with those words on my lips, Gordie, that you can believe.”
“It’s everyone else’s fault, right? The lawyer, the tools at the Legion . . .”
“It was his own goddamn fault! Are you gonna sit there and tell me different? Oh, he had a hard childhood, is that it? Oh boo-hoo, maybe his old man gave him a tap with the hairbrush every once in a while. Oh no, they fed him too much red meat. They didn’t buy him fancy sneakers, wouldn’t get a big screen TV for his bedroom. My god, when you think of it, they should have named a holiday after the little asshole.”
“FUCK, GORD!” I roared into the phone.
“DON’T YOU CURSE AT ME!” he roared back. And here we were at last. “YOU’RE NOT TOO BIG FOR ME TO . . .”
“YES I AM TOO BIG! JESUS! STOP BEING SUCH AN IDIOT! I’M JUST TRYING TO HAVE A CONVERSATION WITH YOU!”
“Well who’s stopping you?” Now he just sounded perplexed. Oh, I remembered this tactic from long ago and far away. Gord switches tracks — shifts with stomach-turning swiftness from wrath to bewilderment. Who, me? Lovable old Dad, screaming, making threats? You’re mistaken, sir. And then you hear yourself panting and feel your face throb as you make rigid your neck tendons in preparation to holler some more at the poor, bewildered old man.
“I knew calling you would ruin my day,” I told him after a while. “You’re a lunatic, Dad.”
“Well you know I always love to hear from you, Gordie.”
And can you believe this, Adam? He was being utterly sincere. Utterly proving my point.
Brazil won, by the way.
9
07/01/09, 10:57 a.m.
WHAT YOU CAN'T ACCOUNT for, when you punch a person in the head, is how they are going to land. You can be as careful as you like. You can account for the fact that the man in front of you is a small man and you are a large man. You can pull your punches, always keeping in mind, however, that the small man is known to enjoy knives so it would be best for all concerned if you laid him out quickly and more or less completely. Also keeping an eye on the surrounding skeezer cohort, any one of whom may hurl themselves at you in wounded outrage the moment their beloved Mickster loses steam. So a single, decisive shot to the head is
Similar Books
