{"id":1637,"date":"2020-11-26T01:25:08","date_gmt":"2020-11-26T01:25:08","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/?page_id=1637"},"modified":"2020-11-26T01:25:08","modified_gmt":"2020-11-26T01:25:08","slug":"chouinard","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/?page_id=1637","title":{"rendered":"Michael Chouinard"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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Seventies Celebrities<\/em>, Chris Gavaler<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n
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In the land of the dairy queen<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Van der Boor breaks our lunchtime pact. Even though it\u2019s not his turn, he goes ahead and picks the place anyway. It\u2019s very important that on this day we go for particular fast food, though I\u2019m not fooling myself\u2014I\u2019d probably pick something similarly greasy. Today he\u2019s insistent, like he\u2019s amped up on coke, though coke\u2019s way out of his price range, unless we\u2019re talking soft drinks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou picked last time,\u201d I point out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDave, Dave-Dave, you choose next three lunches, dude,\u201d he says, knowing how much I hate it when he calls me \u201cdude.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I nod, and he slaps me on the back. I\u2019m also not keen on the back slap, or touching as a general rule. He\u2019s a couple of inches shorter than me but more ripped. I also know he fights dirty, so I let these things go.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All morning we\u2019ve been doing scut work in a sketchy part of Vancouver, pulling off old stucco and the wire that girdles several old bungalows and ugly \u201cVancouver specials\u201d\u2014those two-level white stucco brick-front boxes with brick fences. Usually topped by mysterious ornaments like artichokes, lions, balls and other inexplicable objects. They\u2019re in an area of the east side that some hot-shit investor wants to redevelop and sell to Hong Kong buyers. In the year or two since Expo \u201986, everyone seems to want to sell off this city to the highest bidder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The developer has got this Serbian shark, who runs a painting company, as the general contractor to oversee the project. In other words, paint the insides and let some subcontractors doing the exterior\u2019s aluminum siding. Those guys are the real tradesmen, the ones that actually build and repair things. I\u2019m lucky if I get the right tools to do my job. Sometimes, I have to use a tire iron kept in my car to pry off old stucco\u2014that\u2019s whenever the Serb has extra grunts on somewhere and not enough gear to go around.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To do this project, the Serb first needs some of us untouchables to take the old shit off the outsides, break it up and dispose of the remains. That\u2019s where Kyle Van der Boor and I come in. I\u2019m doing this to save some money for community college in the fall, after pissing away the last two years of high school and the few years since with a murky mixture of dime bags and cases of Kokanee. I\u2019m hoping our Yugoslav overlord might actually hire me to paint, which would be a step up, meaning a few bucks more and a chance to work inside on rainy days.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Van der Boor is definitely not saving for school. He\u2019s one of those guys who\u2019s always bouncing between things. He hassles me any time he sees me reading a book on coffee break. When I tell him about Lolita<\/em>, he calls me a perv. I respond with words like \u201cantihero\u201d as an explanation. He still calls me a perv.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We\u2019ve been moving around the Vancouver area to different sites, and we eat lunch out a couple days a week. Van der Boor picked last time, and as we get ready to grab some grub, he lightly slaps me on the side of the head. \u201cWe\u2019re going to the DQ down the road. I drove today, so I say where we eat.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCan\u2019t argue with that logic.\u201d I know when to pick my battles. A quick scan of the neighborhood reveals few other places where we could eat and be back on the job in time to dodge the Serb\u2019s oppressive frown and aggressive tapping of the wrist watch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We turn off Hastings Street into the lot of the restaurant, which looks like it\u2019s seen better days, but so does everything on this stretch. Inside, we get in the line-up, order our burgers, fries, drinks, stand around waiting for our number to be called and grab a table. The brazier aroma of slowly burning meat and stale deep fryer oil overwhelms my nostrils, and I can already taste a faint tang. I take my place, and my boot soles pucker up to the sticky floor tiles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My ass has barely touched my seat when Van der Boor lights up. \u201cHey, this is it,\u201d he says, giving me kind of a leer. \u201cDave-Dave, this is the place! I\u2019m fucking sure, man. This is where she worked.\u201d Van der Boor has a habit of blurting out my name numerous times in machine gun bursts and slapping me when he\u2019s worked up about something. He also always assumes I know what he\u2019s talking about, even though he might be picking up on some conversation he had in junior high.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I push for more information, though I\u2019ll likely regret the answer. \u201cWho worked here?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDorothy. That\u2019s who,\u201d he says, slapping me on the arm. \u201cDuh!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Of course, I should\u2019ve seen this one coming. This is going to turn into a conversation from the eighth grade. \u201cMan, Kyle, let that shit go,\u201d I tell him. \u201cIt\u2019s just creepy now. She\u2019s been dead for like almost ten years.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe was fucking awesome, Dave. Hottest babe ever. So sweet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd you\u2019re basing this on?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He ignores the question. He only ever answers the ones he wants.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The object of his obsession, even now, is the late Dorothy Stratten. Any boy with a newly breaking voice and exploding gonads growing up near Vancouver in 1980 knew who Dorothy was, even if they\u2019d never seen the spread in Playboy<\/em>. The local girl who became a star, like something you\u2019d hear in a movie, as Carson told her on The Tonight Show<\/em>. Playmate of the Year. Miss August 1979, dead a year later, shot in the face by the greasy pimp who\u2019d found her in the Dairy Queen in 1978, then launched the rocket to the moon that made her a star but didn\u2019t know when it was time to get off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s cool when anyone from Canada, especially our little outpost on the coast, finds fame in the States. Having Americans give us attention is like having the hottest girl in school talk to you in class. In front of everyone. Nicely. At least I\u2019m guessing that\u2019s what it\u2019s like because such a tectonic event has never happened to me. I grew up surrounded by sisters yet didn\u2019t have the first clue about girls. Shit, I have a hard time making eye contact, let alone having an actual conversation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Van der Boor doesn\u2019t have much better luck, though you couldn\u2019t tell by the way he talks about girls. You\u2019d swear he\u2019s Warren Beatty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d known him since elementary school. He was one of those people you inherit as a friend without really knowing how. He\u2019d always been able to sneak Playboys<\/em> and Penthouses<\/em> from his older brother or his stepdad without their knowledge, so naturally a bunch of us would head over to rifle through the mags down in the Van der Boor rec room. There had to be some incentive for being the guy\u2019s friend.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

While Van der Boor had a hard-on for pretty much any girl with or without clothes, he was gaga over Dorothy. Still. After he\u2019d found out her real last name was Hoogstraten, he figured she was Dutch, like him, and started fantasizing about turning her into some milk maid and having them take over his aunt and uncle\u2019s dairy farm out in the valley. \u201cI could show her a thing or two about milking those teats,\u201d he told me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s udder nonsense,\u201d I replied, but the pun sailed over his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stratten was the kind of gorgeous so distracting if she passed by, you would\u2019ve been caught frozen in the middle of a Hastings crosswalk, long enough to be taken out by a city bus. Sure, I saw the spread in Playboy<\/em>. It was a rite of passage for any West Coast teenage boy, right up there with sneaking out of bed late at night when the local TV station played Emmanuelle<\/em>, in the flesh. It wasn\u2019t Dorothy unclothed that stuck with you though, not the tits or that flash of pubic hair south of her 49th<\/sup> parallel. It was those eyes that haunted you, not clich\u00e9d jewels, or the \u201calmond eyes\u201d favored by more serious writers, but upstairs bedroom windows late in the night, out of which she would give you the quickest peek before flicking out the light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We were told she grew up in our backyard, once upon a time, but for most of us, she was a mythical creature that never existed. And most of us knew she was mere glossy printing paper. But Van der Boor\u2019s obsession seemed out of proportion. I once joked that he was a necrophiliac. He glared back at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He hadn\u2019t mentioned Dorothy in ages, but clearly he\u2019s still obsessed, which explains his choice of lunch. I\u2019d driven by this DQ before and never once made the connection. \u201cSo, this is why we\u2019re here?\u201d I ask. \u201cNot for the burgers.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSure, the food,\u201d he says, his mouth full of burger. \u201cBut I thought it\u2019d be mega cool to come here to see where she was discovered.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah, by that asshole husband of hers.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t spoil this for me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSpoil what? This is some historic site,\u201d I say, dabbing up some ketchup with a fry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019d expect them to have a plaque.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFuck off, Dave.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We eat without a peep for several minutes until Van der Boor snaps out of it and throws a fry at me. \u201cHey, Dave-Dave, Dave, how about those two chicks working the till?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One of them is petite, perky, with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. The other is taller, gangly, freckled with feathered red hair. They\u2019re cute enough but look a bit young. I shake my head. \u201cI don\u2019t know. Aren\u2019t they a bit too high schoolish?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI like \u2019em farm fresh. I\u2019m gonna get me a Peanut Buster Parfait,\u201d he says, pronouncing the silent T. He makes his way to the counter, leering back at me, which tells me he\u2019s in full pick-up mode. The thing with Van der Boor is that girls do kind of like him, at first. Tall, handsome, Euro blonde, confident. He\u2019s also stupid, vain, egocentric, and he only just got rid of his perm. After working his charm with the two counter girls, he returns, Royal Treat in hand, and plunks down a piece of paper. At first I think it\u2019s another order, until I see a phone number. \u201cWe got a date tonight,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre we potentially facing charges?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Van der Boor shrugs, then laughs. \u201cThey\u2019re eighteen. Plus they got fake IDs for the bar.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWait, they\u2019re each eighteen, or eighteen if you add them together?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHa, you\u2019re funny, man. The blonde\u2019s mine. Fire crotch is yours.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGive me a taste of your parfait,\u201d I say, not<\/em> pronouncing the last consonant.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He sticks his shoulder out like he\u2019s setting a block in football, so I can\u2019t touch his ice cream. \u201cPiss off! Sharing\u2019s for chicks\u2014and fags.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou missed that lesson in kindergarten, huh?\u201d He ignores me, spooning another scoop of sundae into his mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That night we wait out front of the club for the girls, who show up in a taxi, and after a quick flash of IDs we\u2019re inside. The place is like every other club. Dark under purple light, bass-heavy electronic noise thumping from the PA, strobes flashing. It\u2019s all enough to throw an epileptic into seizure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Van der Boor, who\u2019s still in his leather tie phase, and the blonde seem to be hitting it off on the dance floor, even though the guy has no rhythm. I make a joke to the redhead. \u201cKyle does that chicken wing thing when he dances, like he\u2019s drying out his armpits.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The girl giggles a little, though I\u2019m not sure she hears me through the noise. Truth is I hate these cattle auctions. I assume strangers only come to hook up, so I\u2019m a blank as to what we are doing here when we\u2019ve already got dates. Certainly not for the canned music or conversation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We try to find a corner of the place where we can hear each other, but the only places even close to quiet are the toilets. All we can do is hammer sentence fragments into each other\u2019s ear at maximum volume. I\u2019m not learning much, only that she\u2019s got one brother, her parents are divorced, and she likes chemistry. I try a joke. \u201cAny chemistry here?\u201d The joke fizzles. Then again, maybe she didn\u2019t hear. She only half-grins and nods. When I ask what her plans are for the fall, I expect to hear about university classes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSame stuff as Grade 10 pretty much,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI thought you guys were eighteen.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, my God, is that what she told you guys? I\u2019m so embarrassed! Though it\u2019s kinda cool you believed it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On instinct, I back away, and I break the news that maybe we can hang around to finish our drinks but that I should get her home. At this point, I don\u2019t even want to make contact or do anything that can be construed as a come-on. Suddenly, I\u2019m all brotherly. Actually, I always seem brotherly. That\u2019s my problem.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At this point, Van der Boor sidles up to me, with a smug look that suggests he\u2019s about to score, but before I can reply that this is a bad idea, he simply leans into my ear to say he\u2019s going to catch a cab with the hot blonde. \u201cKyle, wait\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Too late. He\u2019s receded into some corner of the bar, no doubt looking for the blonde to steer out front and into the nearest waiting taxi.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A minute later, a minor drama unfolds under strobe light when I catch sight of the blonde slapping Van der Boor across the face. She\u2019s frowning, her nose bunched up in disgust. \u201cLet go of me, asshole,\u201d she tells him, pushing his hand away. I\u2019m surprised Van der Boor isn\u2019t trying to negotiate, but he\u2019s attracted the attention of the bouncer now, who\u2019s built like he plays offensive line in the pros. Maybe he does.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The blonde grabs her redheaded friend and issues the order that they\u2019re leaving. The redhead and I give each other awkward waves, and I try to finish my drink on the assumption that we\u2019re leaving too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cScrew it, Dave. I\u2019m staying. There\u2019s plenty of bush in here. I\u2019m not going home empty-handed.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLook, man, I\u2019ll give you a lift, but it\u2019s a work night. I don\u2019t want to go in shit-faced tomorrow, especially if the Serb comes breathing down our backs bright and early. What the hell did you say to her anyway?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Van der Boor starts walking to the bar to grab another drink, though I think he\u2019s trying to avoid eye contact with me. \u201cShit, all I expected was a hand job.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I know there\u2019s more to the story, but even so. \u201cSo you didn\u2019t wait until maybe you\u2019re at her place or even in the cab? Just dive right in, huh?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe seemed into me, man.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe\u2019s a kid playing grown-up.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTurns out they\u2019re in Grade 10. Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Smooth move, stud.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Van der Boor mouth drops open, like he\u2019s just realized his wallet\u2019s been stolen, then looks all pissed off. \u201cWell, shit, that\u2019s not what she told me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Of course not, I think, never is. I mean who would ever think a girl working in a fast-food joint could still be in high school? Of course, I\u2019m just as stupid as Van der Boor, which is maybe why I don\u2019t turn sarcastic on him. \u201cSeriously, man, I\u2019ll give you a lift home.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNah, I\u2019m staying,\u201d he says, sipping from the drink just handed to him. \u201cTime to get back in the saddle and ride,\u201d he adds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIf you say so. See you at work tomorrow. Don\u2019t get too wrecked,\u201d I tell him. On the way out, I look back towards the bar and see him drinking alone. For a second I feel sympathy, or maybe it\u2019s the simple pity of seeing a guy, even Van der Boor, have to face the fact that he\u2019s not quite the man he thinks he is.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The next day at work, there\u2019s no sign of the whites, or reds, of Van der Boor\u2019s eyes, and only later do I find out from the Serb that Van der Boor is feeling sick, stomach flu apparently. Flu, my ass, I think. In any case, the Serb is cranky and barking at me like somehow Kyle is my responsibility. \u201cDavey, you work extra hard,\u201d he says. I know better than to argue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s still morning, but the day is already hot as ass and my T-shirt is drenched as I lug around hunks of old stucco, keeping an eye peeled for any sign of Van der Boor to help lessen the load. The chicken wire\u2019s scratching the hell out of my forearms to the point where I look like I\u2019ve gone twelve rounds with a feral cat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No one is currently living in the old bungalow I\u2019m tearing up, but the young mom next door waves to see if I want some water or lemonade. \u201cSure, lemonade would be great. Thanks.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The mom has an obvious blonde-dye job with waves of hair falling all over her face. She\u2019s wearing too much eyeliner, especially for a weekday at home. The bubblegum-colored Spandex top she\u2019s got on shows off a body that\u2019s a few years past being able to squeeze into that thing. I can tell life is hard and isn\u2019t going to get easier. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

When she returns, her little girl is in tow, hanging around like she wants something but hasn\u2019t figured out what. \u201cSure is a scorcher today. You be careful working in the sun,\u201d the mom says. \u201cI saw something on the tube about that greenhouse effect, or whatever, you know, the sun.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOzone layer,\u201d I say, instantly wondering why I bother to correct the woman. \u201cYeah, I\u2019ve got sun block with me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019ll be nice when they get these shitholes fixed up,\u201d she says, pointing to the adjacent house. \u201cThis neighborhood could use some classing up.\u201d Her own place is marked by crumbling stucco that looks like month-old frosting on a cake.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As I chug down the drink and hand the glass back to her, she adds, \u201cYou let me know if you need anything. Bathroom or whatever.\u201d She goes inside, leaving her daughter to play in the front yard. The girl is maybe five, six, seven. I can never tell little kids\u2019 ages\u2014or teenagers apparently. I hear the mom yell from inside the house. \u201cSweetheart, you leave the man alone. He\u2019s working.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The girl has been busy skipping rope, paying me no attention, until the mom mentions me. Suddenly, I\u2019m the most interesting thing in the world. I continue to toss old stucco into a wheelbarrow and roll it over to a huge dumpster on site, warning the girl not to come into the yard or she could cut herself. The kid stays on her side of the fence and launches into a monologue about how much she doesn\u2019t like baloney, how much she likes Kraft Dinner, how her favorite restaurant used to be Dog n Suds when she was small but now it\u2019s Burger King, what the \u201cthird-, second- and first-best\u201d cartoons are, how much she doesn\u2019t like school, except for drawing and colouring. I pay limited attention. Then she starts talking about her mom\u2019s current boyfriend. At first, it\u2019s more of the same stream of consciousness chatter that little kids love, but then she says something that disarms me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s got a wiener.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d I ask reflexively, hoping the kid is talking about frankfurters.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s got a wiener. Its name is Penis. That\u2019s a stupid name. Mom doesn\u2019t have a wiener, and I don\u2019t have a wiener,\u201d she says, twisting some strands of hair in a way that shows she\u2019s bored, but if she were older, could seem provocative. \u201cBut that\u2019s why my mommy\u2019s his girlfriend. Because he has a wiener.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI really need to finish this job,\u201d I said, then start lugging the old stucco away in double time, quickly wearing a path with the wheelbarrow between the house and the bin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The kid keeps on talking. \u201cI don\u2019t know what I\u2019ve got,\u201d she says. \u201cI don\u2019t think I want a wiener.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How she\u2019s seen one I don\u2019t want to know. Maybe an innocent game of doctor with another kid. I didn\u2019t get anything resembling sex ed until Grade 6. My only aim now is to finish up at this site and get away from this kid. Even being seen near her seems like potential trouble. She keeps talking though, oblivious to the fact I\u2019m trying to ignore her. \u201cYou\u2019ve got a wiener because you\u2019re a boy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I drop what I\u2019m doing and walk over to the fence. In a firm voice, I say, \u201cYou shouldn\u2019t say stuff like that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From inside the house, the mother barks, \u201cGoddamn it, leave him alone, you hear?\u201d She pokes her head out the front door, scowls and runs over to yank the kid back in the house. In the background, I can see a guy looking out the door, scowling in our direction. He\u2019s all biceps and triceps, wears lambchops and a Fu Manchu on his face. Long, black greasy hair. He looks like the skids in my high school that would boot-fuck you if you weren\u2019t careful around them. I get the sense this guy knows where at least one body is buried.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As it happens, my bladder needs to be emptied and there\u2019s no porta-potty. I think about the mom\u2019s offer to use the toilet, but there\u2019s no way I\u2019m going inside that house. There aren\u2019t any bushes, so my only option is to jump in the bin and close the gate behind me so no one can see. I unzip, take a whiz and hope the Serb doesn\u2019t drive up at this moment. He doesn\u2019t, and even though the kid is back in the house next door, I work like hell to finish removing the last of the stucco.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I can\u2019t stop thinking about the girl. Part of me wants to go knock on the door and tell the mom she should warn her daughter about predators, but that part loses out to the part that wants to get the hell away. Before I leave, I do go over and when the mom answers the door, I thank her again for the drink and say, \u201cYour little girl, you should keep an eye on her. Just to be safe.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Frowning, the woman steps back into the house. \u201cWhat\u2019s that supposed to mean?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I almost tell her about the conversation but turn chickenshit. \u201cNo, I just mean that it\u2019s a worksite. She wasn\u2019t bothering me or anything, but it\u2019s probably best she steers clear.\u201d As if to clarify that I\u2019ll be nowhere near this place ever again, I add, \u201cI\u2019m done here, but there\u2019ll be some siding guys working next door soon.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That afternoon, I\u2019m working at another site with Van der Boor, who\u2019s risen from the dead after all. He catches a lift home with me, having been too hung over that morning to drive himself. In mid-commute I tell him about what happened with the little girl, and he starts laughing as soon as I say wiener.<\/em> He can\u2019t stop, repeats the word a few times, then laughs harder. When he calms down, he slaps my shoulder and asks me a question. \u201cSo what did you tell her?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re an idiot, Kyle.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDave, Dave-Dave, Jesus, I\u2019m just joking man. Seriously, that\u2019s pretty fucked up. What did the mom say when you told her?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat maybe someone needs to check out her kid. See if she\u2019s okay.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t say anything about the conversation. I mean, what do I actually know?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAw, Dave. Something\u2019s going on there. It\u2019s got to be the stepdad.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s just talk she picked up on the playground.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah, yeah, you tell yourself that. Someone should cut that motherfucker.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe don\u2019t have proof of anything. When did you become such a moralist?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Van der Boor calms down, takes a swig of coffee but spits it out the passenger window. \u201cMorals got nothing to do with it. This guy\u2019s a sick fuck, I bet you, and someone needs to do something,\u201d he says. \u201cPull over. Now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWait, what?\u201d I steer the car toward the curb. \u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d Van der Boor gets out of the car and starts strutting back in the direction of the work site, so I get out and yell, \u201cWhere are you going?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m gonna go find that prick,\u201d he says, without looking back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cKyle, you don\u2019t even know the house. Or what the guy looks like.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He stops and shrugs, then turns around and walks back to the car. \u201cShut up,\u201d he says under his breath as he gets back in. \u201cDon\u2019t say a word.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The whole way home there\u2019s silence, not even music in the car, but as I get close to dropping him off, he starts to mutter, at first unintelligibly, then so I can hear him, which is clearly his intent. \u201cSomeone at least needs to let that diddler know people are watching him,\u201d he says almost to himself as much as me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When I pull up in front of his place, he gets out of the car immediately. \u201cDave, you can\u2019t be a pussy all your life,\u201d he says, again without looking at me. He leans back in through the passenger window and punches me in the shoulder. \u201cSee you tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His parting words piss me off the whole evening. No matter how much I try to drown them out by cranking the TV or stereo, shooting baskets at a nearby playground court, even jerking off before bed, I can\u2019t let it go. When I try to sleep, I keep rolling around like I\u2019m roasting on a spit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Finally, I get up. It\u2019s not even that late, and within a few minutes I\u2019m dressed, out the door and cruising back into the city, to the east side, like I\u2019m in some dialogue-free scene of a thriller, cruising past the familiar red ellipse of the DQ sign, urging me on like the luscious red lips of its murdered pin-up queen Dorothy. Do it<\/em>, she whispers in my ear, as if leaning over from the passenger seat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In what seems like five minutes and five hours, I\u2019m parked on the street near the month-old frosting house, staring inside for some clue as to what goes on inside its walls. I sit waiting for something to happen, but all I can see is the TV\u2019s faint, fiery glow from the living room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When I least expect it, there\u2019s a yell, which makes me realize I could\u2019ve easily fallen asleep there in the driver\u2019s seat. I wait for the sound of broken windows, woman\u2019s pleas, screaming, crying, lamps being thrown, the ripe-blue, bruising smacks of a breakdown, but there\u2019s nothing to hear but a few quick masculine growls followed by a slamming door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Through the dim porchlight I see the guy with the lamb chops and Fu Manchu bolting toward his pick-up, jumping in and squealing away from the crumbing house. A monster, even worse than some predatory pimp husband, he\u2019s the one in need of a shotgun blast to the face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Without thinking, I start my ignition and begin to follow his trail along Powell Street and into the heart of the Downtown Eastside, where he slows down. A young woman\u2014no, still a girl\u2014approaches his passenger window. After some conversation, haggling I assume, she starts to get into his car. I slow down right behind him, and he turns, glaring through his back window toward my headlights.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I too turn my head, checking over my shoulder to think what I\u2019ve got in my hatch, to see if maybe that tire iron is where it\u2019s supposed to be, because in that moment I have to accept that I have no idea what will happen next.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Michael Chouinard\u2019s<\/strong><\/strong> first job was at a Dairy Queen at age 14. These days, he lives on Vancouver Island in British Columbia with his girlfriend Carie and their two cats, Alice and Iris. Since that first job, he\u2019s worked at many things but mostly as a newspaper reporter. His fiction has been published in print and online journals in Canada and the U.S. He\u2019s looking for a good home for one novel and completing the first draft of another.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

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