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Gil decides that in order to pursue his goals he needs to ask a favour of a tormentor from his past. This opens old wounds that he thought had healed, and creates new ones. Sort of. 

Transcript

A lot of months had passed since I started trying to learn how to cook and I had not improved much. I tried my hand at burgers and fries a few times, but every time the fries turned out like mush and the burger paddies fell apart in the pan. Even Dan wouldn’t eat it (well, not at first anyway). I could have watched some YouTube or Craftcourse videos on it, but I needed an excuse to get Reverend Tom over. When I asked him, he was more than happy, because he probably thought I was still a bit angry with him. Which I had been. Not that I ever came out and told him. For a while I had figured out that I was probably never going to speak to him again, or even go back to his church again. But that didn’t last, probably because I ended up being the coyote. I liked and respected Tom too much. And he liked me too.

When he got to the house he had a half bag of Russet spuds. 

Sorry,” he said, “red potatoes are fine for certain things, but if you’re making fries it has to be Russet.” 

All I grew in my garden was reds. I even had a little root cellar which had been there ever since my ancestor stole it.  

I don’t care if they’re blue,” I said, “as long as you shows me how to cook them.”

He put his bag of potatoes on the table, asked for a pairing knife, and started to peel them. I didn’t know how to peel spuds either so he showed me that. I was pretty clumsy, but I slowly started to get the hang of it, even if half the peels were a quarter-inch thick. A two-pound spud would turn into a one-pounder after I was finished with it.  

At my third spud I said, “So that thing we did. I was wondering if you were interested in doing it again?” 

He stopped peeling and looked at me in shock. “Seriously?”

I am.”

Sure you were more afraid than I was,” he said, laughing.

Yeah, but I wasn’t glued to the bottom of the boat like you, I said to myself, but to him I said, “I might have been afraid, but I got through it. It’s the only way that I can see to accomplish what I want.” 

You can’t sell  —?“ he pointed around at the house instead of saying it. 

It turned out not to be as easy as I thought.” 

With all the Americans pouring over our borders I thought it would be sold in a day.” 

Yes, but interest rates are sky-high.” 

I know. That damn war screwed up so many things. How long is it going to drag on?” 

I don’t even watch news on it anymore. I’m sick of it. Who’s winning these days?” 

Well, the Republic is always technically winning, but there’s talks of secession of a half dozen states. Who knows maybe they’ll let them. Anything is better than this.”

True,” I said. “At what heat do I put the fries in the fat?” 

Around 185 Celsius.”  

The temperature hand said 140, so he showed me how to mold the burger paddies. Mine looked more like balls than paddies, and when I tried to flatten them out they were huge. He put the cast iron frying pan on the stove and turned the heat on medium-high. 

Would you be interested in doing it again?” I said.

Sorry, Gil, but I didn’t actually realize how afraid I was of the —“ he mouthed the word, water. “I used to be nervous, but now apparently, I have a full-blown phobia.”  

Can you give me —“ Contacts, I mouthed, “then?”  

He stared at me. “What?” 

Con-tacts, I mouthed again.

I don’t know what you’re saying.” 

CON. TACTS.

He mouthed back at me, con-victs?

I grabbed a piece of paper and pen, and wrote it down. Contacks.

He stared at it for a moment. “I still don’t —oh! It’s t, s, not k, s, but anyway, I can’t. I swore that I wouldn’t tell anyone.” 

But I was with you!” I said. 

You weren’t supposed to be.” 

Do Melvin know?” 

No, Melvin only knew…knew…” he grabbed the paper and wrote down, The passenger contact info. I was sworn to secrecy as to the people who actually provided me with the contact info of the American smugglers. I will tell you it’s all part of the church, but obviously I can’t say anymore than that. 

I wrote, You mean congregashion or managment?

He smiled at my spelling and answered, Management.

Theres nothing you can do to help me? I wrote. You were ready to smugle half of America across the border before but now you cant help me at all? What about helping them? 

He wrote, Lets be honest, Gil. We were probably quite literally the worst smugglers in the history of human trafficking. I wanted to do something good for the world and I did. I wish I could do more, but the ocean paralyzes me with fear. And being honest again, you had an accident, so you were probably even more afraid than me. Do you really think you can do this? It’s more dangerous than I realized dealing with these smugglers, and it is a lengthy prison sentence, especially considering you will be doing it for the money. Smuggle has two g’s. 

Im not just doing it for the money! 

You just said you were!

I shit myself because I always have to go to the washroom when I get nervus, but that time I was really nervus. I think you were more afraid than me though. You wouldnt even get up from the bottom of the boat. I laughed when I wrote that last part so he wouldn’t take it too seriously, even though I was serious. It was easier to be honest with Reverend Tom writing it down. Even though we were standing right in front of each other. It took some of the sting off.  Even though I couldn’t spell, part of me wished I could talk to people like this all the time. Oh right, texting. Not quite the same though. Sort of. 

We both noticed the smoke at the same time and saw that the paddies were burning onto the frying pan, and the fat was also smoking. The Reverend ran over and snatched the pot of fat off the stovetop. 

"312 degrees,” he said. “A few more and it would have ignited. My Lord, that was close.”

“How close?” I asked. 

“Four more degrees close for vegetable oil. Roundabout.” 

“Even when I got a good cook next to me something goes wrong.” 

“I’m sorry, I should have been paying closer attention. I’m supposed to be the teacher here. When that cools down we’ll put the fries in. Just make sure they are as dry as possible, be careful of how many you put in. If you throw in too many the fat will bubble up and over the pot, possibly igniting on the top. Then you’ve got a pool of burning fat on your kitchen floor that won’t douse with water. The only thing that will doubt it is either a fire extinguisher or flower. Not good. Maybe a blanket could smother it? I’m not sure.” 

“So you really can’t tell me?” I said. 

“I’m sorry, Gil. This is a serious business. There are dangerous people involved, as you already found out.” 

“He seemed more stupid than dangerous,” I said. 

“Stupid is dangerous in that kind of situation.”

I sighed and started slowly putting the fries into the fat one by one. “A part of me wishes the shot had never been invented.” 

“It changes so many things it’s hard to comprehend. I’m not even convinced it’s real yet. A lot of people still think the whole thing was some kind of elaborate hoax to drive up the share price of his company.” 

“Why would he do that? If it was a lie, people would find out eventually. Wouldn’t they?” 

“Well, if that’s what happened, it wasn’t him. That would be securities fraud. I’m saying if it was some kind of deepfake.”

“Why would he call me then?”  

“That story still amazes me…are you sure it was him?” he said, with a little grin on his face. I wasn’t too fond of that grin. It made me feel stupid.  

“It seemed like it, but as time goes on I can’t say for sure. He never did call back. I’m going to act like the call was real, until next year. If it turns out it was a hoax then so be it.” 

“Yes, but if you are considering what you’re considering then –“ he grabbed the paper and pencil again – what if you go to jail in your quest to get more money, and it will all have been for a hoax? For nothing? Then he smiled and put more fries in the oil. “I said you should be careful, but you don’t need to fry one french-fry at a time.” 

Im willing to take that chance, I wrote. And, How much do you want for them spuds? 

Nothing. 

You must want something. What kind is that anyway? I never saw them before. 

Ordered them off Alibaba. He stopped. “Why are we writing about potatoes?” Then he moved the fries around with a steel spatula. 

I kept writing, I even thought about asking Frank, seeing as he was there.

He’s not going to tell you anything, he wrote. He would be putting himself at risk.  

I’m not a big fan of him anyway, I wrote. So I probably wont anyway. 

Why not? 

Frank gave me a hard time in high school.

“How hard?” Reverend Tom said. 

“He did so many things to me I can’t even remember half of it,” I said. But that wasn’t true. I remembered it all, every insult, every slap up the back of my head, every snap of an elastic band at the back of my big ears, every practical joke at my expense, every squeal of mean laughter from a female classmate, and every friend who stopped hanging around with me until eventually I had no friends at all. All because I was ugly, small and shy, and had what I later found out was a thing called “social anxiety.” When they were poking fun at me I used to try to pick up for myself, but I was so paralyzed by anxiety that it was like someone had put a three-hundred-pound weight on my chest. All the breath would go out of me. I had the words in my head, but I literally could not get them out. At least that’s one good thing about social. I didn’t even know what social anxiety was until I read it online one day. I just thought I was nuts. Or maybe I got the social anxiety from the bullying. Either way, having a classroom full of people laugh at you for years and years takes a toll. And Frank was usually the instigator. One of the teachers even seemed to get a kick out of it. I know it was a long time ago, but some things you don’t forget.  

“Why don’t you report him to the police? That’s what I did.” 

“The police? That was a long time ago.” 

“There’s no statute of limitations on bullying anymore. They changed the laws years ago.”

“Hash up that old stuff now? What in the name of God would I want to do that for? We’re grown men — we’re old men. The past is the past.”  

“I’m just saying it’s an option. You obviously still have issues with him or you wouldn’t have brought it up.” 

“Well…it’s hard to forget when someone makes your life a living hell, but…people can change. He wasn’t a man. He was a boy. A teenager —same thing. And what did you mean, you did?” 

“I reported a bully I had in grade three.” 

“Grade three!” 

“That’s right. Used to eat my crayons and spit them into my book bag. The only ones she didn’t eat were the white ones. Probably racist too.” 

“Maybe she just didn’t like the taste of them.” 

“All colours of crayons taste the same, Gil.”

“I’m no expert on eating crayons, but —" 

“They all taste the same.”  

“Okay, okay. Whatever you say. When did you report her?” 

“When she ran for mayor. Needless to say that monster wasn’t going to run my town.” 

"Were they expensive crayons?”

"Are you making light of this, Gil?” 

"No, but…I mean…how old are you in grade three? Eight? Nine?” 

"No excuse.”

"Was it right on up through school?” 

"No, she moved to another one in grade six.”  

"What did the cops say?” 

"They took it very serious of course, but they couldn’t get the charges to stick. The Crown was some crotchety old Nazi who said that it was a ridiculous charge, and he would never bring it to court.” 

 "What was the name of the charge?” 

  "First-degree bullying.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing.” 

“Now you do. She didn’t get the mayorship so it all worked out in the end anyway. I made sure everyone on social knew about it. I doubt if she could book a hotel now, let alone become mayor.” 

“Well…good for you?” 

“That’s right. So you’re sure you don’t want to report him? At least put it on social.” 

“No. No, I got no interest in any of that. I don’t want to ruin the man’s life because he was a jerk when he was a teenager.” 

“I don’t know if he’s a jerk anymore, but he certainly is arrogant.” 

“Probably, but I don’t really know him anymore. He might go to church but we still don’t talk hardly.” 

“Bullies are cowards.”

“Well, we can’t really say that about him now. Not by the way he talked to that fella with the gun.”

“Just because he stood up for what he believed in the face of danger doesn’t make him brave.” 

I nodded my head a smiled like I always do when educated people say things I don’t understand. I thought that’s what brave meant. But what do I know? 

Anyway, the fries turned out good, but the burgers were a little tough on one side. He showed me how the best way to do the buns was in the pan. I figured steaming them would be best. That’s how Amy used to do it, but no, he was right. In the pan they are crisp on one side, but fluffy and soft and a little steamed on the other. I’ve never done a bun any different since. 

After we ate, I asked the Reverend to dart out for a walktalk to the wharf. 

“So how are the new roommates doing?” I asked. 

He looked about cautiously.

“My Lord,” I said, “if we can’t talk here we can’t talk anywhere.” 

“You can never be too careful. Border patrol might have mics or cameras in the trees.” He craned his head around some more and continued in a low voice, “The roommates are adjusting.”  

“When are they moving on?” 

“They’re almost ready.”

“Are they staying around here?” 

“Normally it’s risky in small towns unless you’re a documented immigrant, but they’re going to be getting new identities so it won’t matter. It’s not cheap, but if you’ve got the yuan it’s possible. I guess that’s what makes a lot of these desperate immigrants different than most in the past, and around the world, they’re not poor. Some of them are downright rich.”

“What are the two ladies going to work at once they get settled away?” 

“One is an accountant, and the other is a financial advisor. They’re thinking about starting their own business.” 

“That missus was acting like Melvin took all their money?” 

“They have family here, and they can always get a loan. Apparently, they’re going to have great credit scores with their new identities. These Russian hackers can do anything. The miracles of modern technology…” 

“Well, can’t the hackers just put money into their bank accounts?” 

“Yes, but it’s too expensive.” 

That one was a head-scratcher, but what did I know about computer hacking?

“How are you feeling lately?” the Reverend asked. 

“I get lonely sometimes, but Park is over a lot. I’m doing okay.” 

“Melvin is gone back?” 

“Yes. I’m hoping he’s going to pay down on his mortgage, but who knows. Don’t say this to anyone, but he’s in a lot of financial trouble.” 

“You know you can trust me, Gil. How’s his arm?”

“He re-broke it, but it’s okay now as far as I know.”

“Rebroke it how?” 

“I think he was doing something on his palm and not paying attention. He wouldn’t tell me or Park the details because he knew how much Park would poke fun at him. Unlike his father, Park got a clue, but he’s just as bad for poking fun. Maybe a shade worse, because he’s so smart.” 

“I’m glad you went instead of Melvin. Not that I don’t like Melvin, but I have a feeling that incident with the lunatic on the boat would have turned out worse if I had been with Melvin.” 

Part of me wanted to be offended because he was talking about my son, but the other part of me knew he was right, so I just nodded. 

                                                 _______________________

I didn’t want to talk to Frank, but I didn’t see what choice I had, and to make matters worse I had to talk to him in person. I didn’t grow up with texting, but when I got used to it, having hard conversations became a lot easier. But this was something that had to be discussed in person, hard or not. And without the house listening. 

Frank’s sons were building a piece onto his garage when I pulled in his long driveway. He only lived about a mile down the road from me, but for the amount we actually talked to each other after high school, he could have lived on the moon. We would nod our heads at each other in church, and that was about it. The garage was already the size of a barn so I couldn’t imagine why he wanted to make it any bigger, but as the saying goes, no matter how big a garage is you’ll always find a way to fill it. With this extra piece added on it was actually bigger than his house, which was, I would say, a good three thousand square feet for sure. Gross I know, but my generation didn’t really get the memo when it comes to carbon footprints and all that stuff. 

What can I say? The man did well for himself. He was a fisherman all his life, with a million-yuan boat and a 60-ton red-fish quota, a 50-ton sea cucumber quota, and a 10-ton white shark quota. He fished crab when he was younger, but that was long caught up by the time he retired. If I had told my grandfather that you could make money off shark in Newfoundland, he wouldn’t have believed me, but after the ocean warmed up a bit they came around in droves. Cod is gone, but what odds? I like redfish better anyway. When I can afford it. 

Of course now, DelicateOcean Corp bought out Frank’s enterprise when he retired, and he made a raw fortune. Our generation was the last of the rich fishermen. Of course, they’re all working for a little better than minimum wage on corporate-owned boats now. The boats drive themselves, so they don’t even have skippers anymore, just a foreman who makes a dollar more an hour than the crew, and can take over if something goes wrong. Apparently, some young fella on the Northern Peninsula got so seasick on his first trip that he just about died from dehydration, but because it was the last day of the season and they didn’t have their quota, the boat wouldn’t let them come back ashore. The fish plant said it was a computer error in the AI, but they crew said bullshit. Anyway, when the Mary-Jane was at the wharf one night, someone snuck on her and set her on fire. She tried to put herself out by sinking herself, but that didn’t really work out either.  

Frank was pointing at the nearly completed garage addition and talking to one of his sons when I pulled up next to his house. He glanced at me, for a moment, and then went back to talking to his son as if I wasn’t there. Age had not shriveled him much. He was still a big man and carried himself like he was even bigger. 

When I got out and walked up to him he turned from his conversation and grinned at me. “How did you get on with them magas?” he said. I was speechless for a moment because I wasn’t expecting him to just blurt it out in the open like that.

He must have read my face because he said, “You haven’t got to worry around here.”  

“Good,” I croaked. 

“That young fella. Got some mouth on him don’t he? Lucky I didn’t wrap that gun around his head.” 

“Yeah,” I said. “He needed a gun wrapped around him alright…yeah…wrapped around him good and tight.” I know that makes no sense, but being around Frank always made me nervous. 

Frank frowned at my response, then said, “You been out since?” 

“No. That’s why I’m here.”

“Oh, I see…” 

“You got your palm on you?” 

“No point in being paranoid. If they decides they’re going to get you they’re going to get you and that’s it. All that stuff about our devices snitches us out is a pile of shit. Now I wont text, but talking? It’s against the law for the palm to be listening in anyway. They probably knows everyone that’s at it anyway. Luck of the draw I says, if they decides to target you.”  

“I don’t know…,” I said “I left my palm in the car.”

He rolled his eyes. “You haven’t changed, Gil. Fine.” He yanked the palm out of his pocket and tossed it on a pile of two-by-fours about twenty feet away from where we were standing. 

“Now,” he said, when he came back, “what is it you wants? I don’t need no help if that’s what you’re going to ask me.”

“No…” 

“Spit it out, don’t be shy.” 

“I wants to go at it myself, but I got no contacts…” 

“Oh? You must have contacts already if you was already at it.” 

“Those contacts are gone now. So I needs new ones.” 

“They don’t trust you. Or they weren’t impressed with your performance. I got to be honest, Gil. I was shocked to see you out on the water that night. I didn’t think you had it in you. Is this all about you getting the shot?”

“That and other things,” I said. 

“What other things?” 

“Well, mostly just the shot, yes.”  

“I heard about that charity site you’re on. Can’t get enough money or what? Aren’t you supposed to be selling your house too? That’s a fine piece of land you got over there. Better than I got here sure. Can’t sell it?”

“Not having much luck yet.” 

“That’s strange. How much you want for it?” 

“830,000 dollars.” 

“Oh, well that’s the problem. You’re not going to get that around here. Not saying it’s not worth it now, but even the magas aren’t going to pay that. The banks aren’t dishing out mortgages like years ago.” 

I wasn’t in the mood for talking about my house so I brought the subject back. “So you think you can set me up with somebody?” 

“I’d like to help you,” he said, as he led me in the direction of his greenhouse that was almost the size of my shed, “but if I gives you the contact info and they asks you where you got it, they’ll be finished with me. Even if I am the best coyote in Newfoundland.” 

 “It don’t have to be the same boat. I wouldn’t be fond of working with them anymore anyway. That fella with the gun was nuts. Is he always like that?” 

“I’m going to get it for the wife if I can,” Frank said, like I wasn’t talking. “The shot. Her Alzheimer’s is getting worse. But the weird thing is, I did a bit of research, and they don’t know if the shot will clear it up or not. She could go from an old woman losing her mind to a young woman losing her mind. That won’t be much good either. That's even if we can get it in time. There’s a big queue, but I’m sure if you know the right people. Which I don’t. I got the money, but I don’t have the connections.” 

“It can’t be easy.” 

“Put her sneakers on the wrong feet yesterday. I never seen her do that in my life. It wouldn’t be so bad if she just put them on and realized it right away, but I had to tell her. I actually had to point at her feet and say ‘Look down my dear.’ If she had been in a normal frame of mind I would have poked fun at her, but knowing what we know I almost…I felt like…” 

He wanted to say crying, but he was too embarrassed. 

“It’s a bad disease,” I said.  

“What do you have if you don’t have your mind? Nothing. Even if you stayed in shape and could jump over the moon, it’s all for nothing if you haven’t got your mind.” 

“True enough.” 

“It never ends. You never gets a break.” He shook his head and stared at the trees, and I felt truly sorry for him. After everything he put me through in high school, I still felt sorry for him. 

“Anyway,” he said, “enough talking about Jennifer. That’s all I thinks about and it’s going to make me lose my mind. We can’t afford to have two lost minds because one got to keep finding the other one.”

“What if you asked your contacts if you could give me their information?” I asked.

He stopped and stared at me. “I’m here telling you about my poor sick wife, and all you can think about is money!” 

My face reddened. “I thought you wanted to change the subject?”

He laughed and slapped me on the back. “I’m getting you going!”

“So can you do it?” 

“Not a chance. Look my buddy, I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t think you’re cut out for this racket. Plus, you’re a nice guy and I don’t want to see you get in trouble.” 

“Is it because you don’t think I’d be careful?”

“No, you’d be too careful.”

“How can anyone be too careful?”

“Nervous people don’t make good decisions on the fly. And if you got caught it would fuck it up for all of us.” 

“Us?”

“I meant all of me.” 

“All?” 

“Me. I meant me.”

I didn’t believe him. Obviously. I was starting to think there was a lot of people in the community onto this coyote racket. 

“Well…can you tell me how you found out about it? Can you point me in a general direction?” 

He laughed. “You’re not going to give up on this is you?” 

“Nobody wants to die. You don’t. I don’t. Nobody do.” 

“I don’t know about that...”

“So can you help me? At all? Any small way I would appreciate. Maybe there’s some way I could do a favour for you?” I said and winked. 

He stared at me, confused. “What are you getting at, Gil?” 

“I don’t know. I just thought if I winked you might think I had something you wanted.” 

He shook his head. “I can’t help you, Gilly -Gil. Sorry.”

“Do you know anyone else who could help me?” 

“Jesus, buddy, no. I can’t help you. That’s all I can do.” He turned towards his garage. “I got to get back at the garage. If I’m not watching, God only knows what the boys might do. They’re good carpenters but they’re always in a rush.” 

He left me standing there.   

On the way home I tried to figure out if he said sorry for calling me Gilly, or if he meant sorry he couldn’t help me. Silly Gilly was my nickname in high school, and he was the one who branded me with it. I’m sure there’s been worse nicknames in the world than Silly Gilly,  but when you hear that same stupid nickname every time someone calls out for you or at you, every time you’re called up in class and everyone whispers it at you behind your back as you make your way up through the seats, every time you miss the net playing sports, every time you get on the school bus, every time you get off the school bus, and every time you pass a group of them as you walk down the hallway, alone, with no friends to have your back. Silly Gilly. Every fucking time. Motherfucker. How about someone made up some dumb goddamn nickname for you? What if everyone started calling you Spanky Franky? What do you think? How would that feel you fucking piece of shit! ANSWER ME YOU GODDAMN COCKSUCKER!  

Not that I’m angry about it. 

Eventually, after high school, when everyone started to grow up a bit, I can at least say that they dropped the “Silly” part of the nickname, but “Gilly” stayed for years. I never really got alright with it, but I got used to it, if that makes any sense. 

The car asked me where I wanted to go, and I said, “Home. Where the hell do you think I want to go?” 

“We will arrive home in approximately one minute, Gil.” 

“Pull up Giimme.com,” I said and checked how my donation level was doing. It was getting slower every day. Some people had donated millions of Taint-tokens but that crypto was worthless now anyway, according to Park. 

I put my head in my hands and tried to consider my options. But there weren’t any. Human smuggling was the only way to make big, quick money. 

Dan was at the door when I got home. It was getting harder and harder for him to move about, and I had just let him out to pee before I left, so I couldn’t understand his problem. Then I remembered I had not fed him yet. I never forgot to feed him in my life, and I felt awfully bad. It wasn’t enough that he was a frail old boi, but then he had to go the whole day without a meal. Instead of giving him dog food, I felt so guilty that I took him to McDonald’s in the car and fed him a Big Mac meal. I had one too. I already told you about my cooking. 

On the way home I dropped in the liquor store and bought some nice wine. The label looked nice anyway. Amy used to pick out the wine, for the odd time that we would drink it. A bottle might last us months. I tried to find the one she used to buy but gave up and bought one called Gavin’s. It was a great price and came in a two-liter box like apple juice, which I figured was convenient. At least I didn’t have to worry about breaking it.   

 At home I opened it and poured myself a glass. I won’t lie, the taste wasn’t as good as I expected. The kind that Amy used to buy was sweeter. This was more like apple cider vinegar with twenty percent alcohol. But I kept on drinking it anyway. Throwing it away would have been an awful waste. 

If Frank had not called me Gilly I don’t think all those bad memories would have come back. I thought I had forgiven him and everyone else who made my life miserable back in those days. Maybe I didn’t. 

As I’ve already said, high school was a nightmare for me, so once I quit I felt like I escaped from a prison only to realize the doors weren’t locked. I almost felt foolish for not quitting sooner. The funny thing was I was in grade 12, and I only had a few months left, and the worst of the bullying was over. Or so I thought. But I was just done. I didn’t care. Mom and Dad kicked up a bit of a stink, but not like they should have. I told them I was going to work, so to them, as long as I was employed at something, they didn’t care. 

Strange as it was for a man who became as successful as Frank, he didn’t get his high school diploma either. I think he finished the year, but back then we got marks and credits, and I don’t think he got enough. He didn’t care because he knew he was going straight into the fishery anyway. And as I said, he wasn’t done with me quite yet. I had been out of high school for a couple years and was around twenty years old when Frank made a fool of me one more time. 

See, in high school Frank could play the guitar better than anyone. So he started up a band called Blind Moose. Frank was on lead guitar. They had a bass player, drummer, and rhythm guitarist. The only thing they didn’t have was a singer. Eventually they found Delilah. She had a beautiful voice and probably could have been a professional, but she took her education very seriously and eventually quit because it was cutting in on her studying. 

The problem with Delilah quitting was that it was just before the Lion’s Club Christmas concert. It was usually packed to the doors every year, and it hosted only local talent, with usually a mix of five-to-ten-minute comedy skits, and music. Only the Lion’s members took part in the comedy skits, but anyone could get up and play if they had talent. Or even if they thought they did. 

Frank was in his glory when he was on stage, but he was smart enough to know that he couldn’t sing. Therefore, he had to find someone who could. So he threw a party in his parent's basement, with his band providing the music, but the real reason for the party was not only to have a good drunk but to find a good singer. The house was packed, and anyone who wanted to get up to the mic and give it a shot was more than welcome. 

By that time I had managed to get a few friends to hang around with, even if all of them were my younger cousins. I also had a tiny bit more confidence, and could even manage to strike up a conversation with a girl without my face turning ten shades of red. Actually, I still blushed, but at least I could get words to come out of my mouth. Now I still didn’t have a girlfriend, and would not for a few more years, but I was learning how to talk at least. 

So I somehow ended up at the party. By then I had told myself that everything Frank and his friends did to me was water under the bridge. I was just happy enough that they weren’t making a fool out of me anymore. I could tell they still saw me as a joke, but now they were just distant and arrogant towards me. They didn’t poke fun at me anymore, because they hardly seemed to know I was alive. Pretty much the same way the girls in my class always treated me. Either way I was relieved. It was just so awesome that I didn’t cry myself to sleep every night anymore. See, everything is relative.  

So I’m at the party, and at first no one got up. Frank sang a few songs by some of the big bands at the time like Bush, Creed, Nickelback, and Our Lady Peace. But after he finished every song he poked fun at himself, and how he couldn’t sing. Then the booze started to take hold and it was almost a lineup to the mike. I have to be honest, they all sounded good to me. 

Then my cousin Eric passed me a beer. Up until then I had never actually drunk a full beer. I had a few mouthfuls here and there, but not a full beer. I didn’t like the taste of it, and I was nervous about getting drunk anyway. I saw the way other people acted when they were drunk, and it scared me. Even if they were in the best kind of mood, hugging, laughing, and carrying on, it still creeped me out. It was just the way their personality changed, like they became a different person. And when they got rowdy, well I had no time for that at all. I always stayed clear of rowdy drunks, or rowdy sobers. Rowdy dogs. Anything rowdy. I don’t like fighting. I don’t even like arguing. Hard to like anything you’re no good at. One time an elderly lady backed into my parked car, so I jumped out and apologized for having the car so close to the line. She said she wouldn’t report it to insurance this time, but to be more careful in the future. It wasn’t until I told Amy that I realized it was the lady’s fault. I didn’t get her license plate or her name, and she wasn’t from around town. And the scuff in the bumper would have cost more than I made in two weeks to fix. So needless to say the scuff stayed scuffed.

Maybe it was because Dad had liked drinking so much that it turned me off from it. I had two extremes growing up. Mom, a real churchgoer, and Dad, three sheets to the wind every weekend. And the more hungover he was, the more she insisted he had to go to the service with her on Sunday. He knew if he said no she would stick into him for his drinking, so he just dealt with it, and if he didn’t complain at all, that meant he was still drunk. More than once I saw him fumble into his church clothes, reeking of beer and pale as a ghost. Like the time the minister of what was just called The United Church at the time asked at the Christmas service for a hymn request. My brother Scott mumbled “Last Christmas by Wham” under his breath. But he said it loud enough for Mom and Dad to hear. Mom elbowed him, but Dad shouted out, “Last Christmas by Wham!” 

But the reverend one-upped Dad and my brother. He simply smiled and said, “Good enough. Last Christmas it is.” He turned to the organ player and began to sing it until she found the basic chords. Then he turned to the mic, smiling from ear to ear, and cut in with a church version of Last Christmas, and just about everyone sang along. He only sang the chorus twice, until he couldn’t stop laughing. Everyone else was laughing too. Then he launched into the most beautiful sermon I ever heard in my life. He said that even though he knew Wham’s song had nothing directly to do with Jesus, it was the fun and laughter he was after. Because laughter, love, and joy were what we should feel this time of year for God’s gift to us of his only son. He also said that Jesus gave us his heart, like in the song, but a lot of us gave that away too, for idols. Not the old idols like in the Bible, but the new ones, fancy cars and big houses. That was only the beginning, and you could tell that every word that was coming out of his mouth was from the heart. Come to think of it, I think it was that sermon that made me decide to follow the church for the rest of my life. 

Anyway, Reverend Simon was kicked out of our church not long after that and ended up preaching somewhere on the west coast. I guess the church elders weren’t big George Michael fans. 

The whole drive home, Mom never said a word. Not a good sign for the old man. But he was still drunk, and when she finally barked that he made a fool of himself and his family, he said, “The only one makes a fool of their self in our family every Sunday is you.”

“Me?” Mom said. “What do I do?”

“You sings,” Dad said, and everyone in the car started to laugh. Then Mom started to cry. 

I guess I got my “talent” from her.  

But on that night, at that party, at that time, for whatever reason, I took that beer. Maybe it was because I finally felt like I was starting to fit in at parties, so I didn’t want to screw it up. Beer always tasted like liquid hay to me (after a horse shat on it), so I chugged it down to get it over with. 

It was only one beer, but in five minutes I could feel that tingly glow. And I’m not going to lie, I liked it. Then, of course, my cousin Eric didn’t have to ask me did I want another beer. I took one from his box. And I chugged that one too. And another. And as I was reaching for the fourth Eric pushed me out of the way. “Woah! That’s enough free beer for you ol’ cock! If you wants to get soused for once, go buy your own. You’re not drinking all mine.” 

 Now I understood. So this was the reason people drank alcohol. It all made sense! And want to know something else that made sense? Getting up to that mic. With the confident mood I was in, I could have gotten up to that mic in front of a thousand people, let alone the forty or fifty that were at that party. I wasn’t Silly Gilly anymore. I was Gifted Gil. I was going to show them what singing was all about. Maybe I didn’t have much practice, but I loved music, and I loved to sing along with the radio. That counted, didn’t it? If the rest of these people could get up to the mike and give it a shot, why couldn’t I? It felt so good to have that kind of confidence for once. To not be afraid. 

The boys in the band didn’t seem as excited though. 

Frank leaned over his guitar and looked annoyed. “What are you doing Gil? Get away from the mic.” 

As drunk as I was, as soon as he spoke I felt my confidence shrivel. I just smiled and nodded my head and stepped away from the stand. But the crowd put up a stink and shouted at the band to let me sing. 

“Oh come on!” Frank’s girlfriend, Sarah, shouted at him. “If you let everyone else try, why not him?” Then everyone started in supporting her and booing the band, so Blind Moose called me back up to the mike. But they still looked annoyed. 

“What do you want to play?” the bass player, Alvin, asked me. 

“What?” I said. “I don’t know.” 

“We don’t know what songs you know,” the bass player said. “We can’t play for you if don’t tell us what to play. What do you know the words to?”  

 I started to panic then. I just sang along with a scattered song on the radio, and even then I usually could only remember the chorus. I scanned my brain while the band stared at me like I was an idiot, and I could feel all the other eyes in the party on my back. 

“You know any Def Leppard?” I said. 

“Do we look like the type of band that plays Def fuckin’ Leppard?” the drummer, Chuck Ralph, said. 

“Hold on,” Frank said, holding up one of his big paws. “I don’t mind Def Leppard. I knows a few of their tunes. What one?” 

“Imma Gettin It?” I said.

“What album is that on?” Frank said.  

The guitarist rubbed his temples. “Are you trying to say Armageddon It, Gilly? Jezus, I hates the band and even I knows the right name of their songs.” 

“Pour Some Sugar on Me, then,” I said.

Frank nodded and smiled. I think it was probably the first time he ever smiled at me in a way that wasn’t mocking. Truth be told, I don’t think he was that impressed with all the singers that had got up so far, and maybe he was hoping I would surprise him. And surprise him I did, along with everyone else. 

He told the rest of the band that it wasn’t a complicated song, and to just follow his lead. So they did, and I began to sing:

Lovin like a bomb, baby come and get it on

Lovin like a lover in a ready phone.

Lovin like a champ, like a video man.

Demolition woman, can I be a man.

Masser little, dasher little, prancer little light.

Television woman make me cones all night.

Some time, anytime, sugar me sweet.

Little mister innocent, sugar me. 

Take the Bible, shake it up.

Break the Bible, break it up. 

Pour some sugar on me! 

I didn’t know if I was getting the words right, so I tried to make up for it with my voice. All the band members were laughing and smiling. They were really getting into it. During the chorus Frank jumped up to the mic and joined in. When I looked back at Chuck he had his eyes closed like he was in a trance, and when he opened his eyes and saw me staring at him, he gave me a big wink. 

Like I said, I couldn’t remember all the words, so I mumbled half of it, and when I was done, Frank leaped up to the mic. “Ladies and gentlemen, I think we know who our new singer is for the Lion’s Club Christmas concert!” Everyone yelled and yahooed in approval. 

“Marry me!” someone in the crowd yelled. 

“You’re not getting him, he’s all mine!” Frank yelled back, and everyone laughed. “I think we’ve found the best singer in Newfoundland, ladies and gentlemen.” 

  I laughed along. I might have been drunk, but of course I knew I wasn’t the best singer in Newfoundland. 

“Who wants to hear this man sing another one?” Frank said into the mic, and it was met with nothing but hollers and hoots. By this point the beer was really starting to kick in, and I couldn’t much tell if they were mocking or serious. All I knew was that I really wanted to sing another. I wanted to sing all night if I could. I had never been the center of attention in a good way, and I liked it. I liked it a lot. 

“Know any more kickass Def Leppard tunes?” I said to Frank. 

“Fuck Def Leppard,” Frank said. “That’s a waste of your talent. You need to sing a classic. You need to rock it out, man!” 

“What about ACDC?” I said.

“ACDC?” Frank said. “The eighties was bad enough. Now you’re going back to the seventies!” 

“ACDC is still around though,” I said. 

“I’m sick of ACDC, but I’ll take them over Def Leppard any day,” Chuck said.  

“Okay, what song?” Frank asked.

“Dirty Deeds?” 

They started in and I turned back to the mic. I had never felt this good in my life. Make no wonder people loved alcohol. How could they not? I wasn’t shy anymore. People were staring at me. Who cares? I might not know the words. Who cares? I just tripped over an amp and fell on top of the mic and out onto the floor. Who cares? I laughed along with them while I was lying on the floor. I laughed even more than they did. Because everything was funny. Life was funny, wasn’t it? Sheldon Sutton, who played the bass helped me up off the floor with a big smile, but when I stood up he spoke into my ear, telling me that if the mic stand was broken he was going to shove it up my ass sideways. I even thought that was funny. He wasn’t laughing as much. 

You’ve got to remember, getting lyrics wasn’t as easy then in small-town Newfoundland as it is now. The internet was only just getting on the go, and most people in our little town didn’t have access to it anyway, and the ones who did only had dial-up. You would put the address in the bar, go make a cup of tea, and by the time you got back, half the page might be loaded up. I wasn’t into computers back then anyway. So the only way I could get the lyrics was to buy the tape or CD and hope they were printed inside, or listen to the song and try to figure it out.  

Lucky for me, most of the lyrics in Dirty Deeds are easy to understand, but it was when I got to the chorus that I thought something might be wrong: 

“Dirty deeds, Thunder Chief! 

Dirty deeds, Thunder Chief!

Dirty deeds, Thunder Chief. 

Dirty deeds and the Thunder Chief. 

Dirty deeds and the Thunder Chief.”  

The band fell into hysterics. I mean they literally collapsed on the floor in laughter, and the only instrument left playing was the drums, because I don’t think Chuck heard what I said. He was staring at his bandmates as confused as I was. So all you could hear was the drums beating out a rhythm to nothing except laughter, squealing mic feedback, and me who just kept on singing like no one had stopped. I knew they were laughing because I must have got the lyrics in the chorus wrong. But who cares? I was drunk! 

The second chorus I didn’t know so well, so I just mixed words up with sounds that sounded like words. 

“You want a lady but you gonnagun.

But you aimgottaguts. 

She keeps naggin ayalladay

Enufyou drive some nuts”

The band had tried to start in with me, but when I sang the chorus, they half collapsed on the floor again. This time Chuck had heard me and he completely lost the rhythm from laughing, but as I started in on the third verse, Frank had managed to strum his guitar again. I just repeated the first verse over again. And when I sang the third chorus again the band laughed so hard they were crying, and so was most everyone else. I didn’t care. I was drunk for the first time in my life. And I was having fun. 

When I finished I got a standing ovation and all the band took turns slapping me on the back. Again Frank said in the mic, “Ladies and gentlemen, the next singer to appear on Late Night, Gil “Silly Gilly” Abrams!” And then he added, “After the Christmas Concert of course!”

I didn’t drink any more beer that night, but I was the center of attention. I didn’t want to look stupid so I took an empty beer bottle, and every time I went to the washroom for a leak, I filled it up with water. I didn’t need more beer anyway. I was drunk enough. My face looked different in the bathroom mirror. Not a lot. Like I was looking at a twin brother with certain parts of my face that were slightly different. I was amazed at what a weird and wonderful drug alcohol was. 

I didn’t even have a hangover the next day. I guess I didn’t drink enough. I was only a young fella anyway, so maybe if I had drank a dozen I wouldn’t have been sick the next day. Back in those days I could fall out of a tree and the next morning get up without an ache or pain. That changes after forty. 

The phone rang the next evening, and believe it or not my parents still had the same dial phone they bought in the eighties, so I didn’t have a clue who was calling me. You just had to pick it up and hope for the best. When I did I didn’t even recognize the voice, because I had never been talking to him on the phone before. It was Frank.

“What are you at buddy? I just wanted to call you to tell you that you were awesome last night. We didn’t think we’d get a replacement for Delilah, but you proved us wrong. So I called the Lion’s Club and we’re going up on stage around 8:30.”

“Thanks,” I said. “On stage? You mean the Christmas concert?”

“That’s right. We’re doing Dirty Deeds. You sang that one the best.” 

“You pulling my leg?”  

“No sir. Not pulling your leg or anything else. Everybody loved you last night. They was talking about you for a hour after you left the party.”

“Sure all everyone did was laugh.” 

“Yeah, because some of the words was wrong, but your voice sounded like a million bucks.”  

“Really? Dad tells me I wouldn’t sing for my breakfast.” 

“What do old people know? Everybody says Bob Dylan can’t sing either, and he’s the most popular folk singer in the world. Trust me, buddy. I got an ear for a good voice. And fuck the words. As long as you’re close is all that matters. The band voted and we thought you was the best singer of the night.” 

“I don’t know if I got the nerve. I was drunk last night.” I was going to say “drunk for the first time,” but I didn’t want him to look down on me any more than he already did. 

“Drunk? Sure how do you think everyone else gets the nerve to get up on stage? Especially the skits. Two-thirds of everyone who gets on stage is half in the bag. I never been on stage in my life without being three sheets to the wind.” 

“I don’t know...”

“Fuck, you can’t back down now, Gil. I already booked us a spot.” 

“But you didn’t tell me.” 

“If you got up to try last night then I figured that was the whole point,” he said, with the cheer gone out of his voice. 

“I just got up because I was drunk.”

“That’s no excuse. I already signed us up. Don’t worry about it, buddy. You’ll be best kind. I got faith in you. I wouldn’t have signed us up if I didn’t.” 

“I suppose…” 

“Yes. Perfect! You be won’t sorry buddy. After people sees us they’ll be talking about it for years.” 

“But…what about practice? Don’t you practice for this kind of stuff?” 

“Practice what? We already knows how to play the song, and you can already sing it like a bird.” 

“Is there anywhere I can get the right words? Do you know anyone got the tape?” 

“No, you don’t need to do that. The way you sang it was perfect. People don’t heed if the lyrics is wrong. Half of what’s there will be old farts anyway.”   

 “Okay,” I said. “You knows more about this stuff than I do.” 

“You’re damn right I do. I’ll see you Friday evening at the Lion’s Club. Don’t disappoint us. The whole band is counting on you, and if we haves to get up on that stage with no singer I might just be a little upset.” 

“No, I’ll be there. I wouldn’t do that to you, Frank.” 

“Okay, buddy. Thanks!” 

When he hung up I took a big sigh, and within five minutes I had to go to the washroom. And I didn’t care what he said about the lyrics, I was going to figure out what they really were, not what I was singing at the party. If I was going to get up on that stage, then I was at least going to be a professional about it. 

When I told Mom and Dad about it, Dad said, “You? Sing? Sure you can’t sing to save your life.”

“Oh leave him alone,” Mom said. “He sounds alright to me.”

“The boys seemed to like me,” I said. 

“What boys?” Dad said. 

“Frank Vaders’ band.”

“Sure ain’t he the one used to be picking on you?” Dad asked. 

“We’re all growed up now. He don’t be at that anymore.”

“About time for him to be growed up I’d say,” Mom said. “What song is you singing?” 

“Dirty Deeds.” 

“Dirty what?” Dad asked. 

“Deeds.” 

“Better not be dirty,” Mom said. 

“It’s not a dirty song.” 

“I’m going to be there,” Mom said. “You better not embarrass me with no dirty words or nothing. Why don’t you sing a nice Harry Hibbs song? Or Hank Williams?” 

Dad laughed. “The wind whistling through Hank Williams bones got more tune than Gil.”

“There’s no wind six feet under the ground,” Mom said. 

“He won’t stay underground when he hears that young fella singing his songs.” 

“I’m not singing Hank Williams!” I said.

“Sing it for him,” Mom said. “Sing the song you’re going to sing.” 

“Yes, strike up a tune for us,” Dad said, grinning. 

“I don’t know all the words.” 

“Well how do you know if it’s not dirty then?” Mom asked.  

“I’m going to find out the words, and then I’ll show them to you.” 

“Sing the chorus then,” Dad said. 

“Alright,” I said, but as soon the word was out of my mouth I wished I hadn’t. I don’t know what was worse, Dad waiting for me to fail, or Mom waiting for me to prove to Dad that I was the next Freddie Mercury. Not that she had a clue who Freddie Mercury was. Actually, I didn’t have a clue who he was either back then. Anyway, the point is that I was under pressure. I can even remember taking a big cartoon swallow before I started.  

 “Dirty deeds,” I croaked in an awkward half-hearted voice. “Thunder chief. 

Dirty deeds, thunder chief.

Dirty deeds, thunder chief. 

Dirty deeds, and the thunder…chief,” I trailed off, all red in the face. 

“Dirty deeds, thunder chief?” Dad said. “Who in the name of God wrote that?” 

“Sounded good to me,” Mom said. 

“I don’t know if it was good or not,” Dad said, “because the words don’t make sense, and I never heard the song before anyway. Not that I would recognize it with Gil singing it. Makes sense I suppose. Most of them rock stars can’t sing either. All they knows how to do is jump around on stage like someone half foolish.”

“You don’t understand music,” I said. 

So I went to the Walmart and bought the tape. On the cover was a bunch of men and women with their eyes blocked out with black bars, like they were being censored for something. One guy had a business suit on, another looked like a porn star, another in all black leather. One lady with red hair looked like she might be a hooker. The lady right at the front looked like a retired school teacher. In pink letters on top it said, “ACDC.” But on the bottom it said “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.” What? Done dirt cheap? That had to be a mistake. It had to be, “Thunder Chief.” I heard the song a thousand times at parties and on the radio. So on the way home with Mom I put it in the car tape player. It was the first song. It still sounded like Thunder Chief the first time Bon Scott sang the chorus, but on the second go I realized why everyone at the party had been laughing. It was “done dirt cheap.” 

“Is that the song you’re singing?” Mom asked. 

“Yes. I wants to get the lyrics right,” I said. 

She tut-tutted. “What a racket. Can you squeal like that?” 

“The band liked me, so I must do a half-decent job.” 

When I got home I went straight to my room and played it over and over on my JVC Ghetto Blaster. 

“Ghetto Blaster?” Park said to me the first time I told him I used to own one. “Is that what it was actually called?” 

“Why?” 

“That was the actual name written on the box. Ghetto.” 

“Yes.”

“Pop, that would be the same thing if Cuisinart made a toaster called the Trailer Trash Bread Burner.” 

I could see his point.  

Oh well. I listened carefully so I got every word as best as I could, and wrote them all down in a notebook. Then I practiced for hours. At one point Dad poked his head in the door and said, “If you’re going to sing you might as well sing the same song that’s playing.” 

“I am singing that song.” 

“Will you leave him alone!” Mom shouted from the kitchen. Dad laughed and closed the door again.   

                                                    ____________________ 

Friday came quick. And when it did I spent half the day running to the toilet. I flushed it so many times that Dad told me off for wasting water. The house didn’t have an artesian well back then. Getting up at a house party where everyone was around my age, and half of them were too drunk to even pay attention was one thing, but getting up in front of hundreds of cold sober people at the local Lion’s Club was something else. Half of them were going to be my parent’s generation, including my actual parents.

It was three o’clock Friday evening while Mom was getting Jiggs dinner ready when she said, “Is you really doing this?” 

“Yes,” I said. “I am. I’m nervous but I’m going to do it.” 

“What are you wearing? I suppose you haven’t even thought about that yet.”

She was right, but truth be told, my only option was my Sunday church clothes. I didn’t really think it would work with the band, who were all dressing in grunge. Well, Frank didn’t dress grunge, but the rest of the band did, with their baggy sweaters and torn-up jeans. But he was the leader of the band and the one with the most talent, so I guess he could dress however he wanted. He was just a blue Levis and t-shirt bayman like me. That was probably the only thing we had in common. 

I had learned the words by heart, but I was so afraid I would forget that I brought a sheet of paper with them written on it anyway. Frank had called me on Thursday to make sure I was going to show up and I promised him I would. The show started at seven pm, but I showed up at six just to be careful. Frank and his band weren’t there. Although I still found it interesting watching everyone all excited and getting ready for the big show. People were going over their lines, tuning their guitars, helping put out seating, and testing sound, but most importantly many were at the bar making sure they had enough courage in their system. 

I had not planned on getting drunk again, but when I saw my fellow showbiz players pounding back the booze, remembered what a great time I had at the party, and remembered how easy getting in front of a crowd felt compared to now, I decided it would be just downright dumb not to. I’d just have to make sure I didn’t get too tangly. 

When I ordered the beer and she told me the price I said, “No, just one.” 

“That is one,” she said. 

What a dear price! That was my introduction to the price of alcohol in a club as compared to at the store. So I asked her if I could buy it by the case and she laughed out loud, and so did the guy standing next to me. They thought I was joking, so I played along. When she stopped laughing and asked me what kind I looked at the fridge and named the first thing I saw, Dominion Ale.  

The beer I had at the party seemed different. It went down easier. It didn’t taste like barley. And it didn’t smell like a dog’s asshole. Looking back it was probably Molson Canadian I had at Franks. This Dominion Ale had an aftertaste like seal meat, but not so good. I forced it down anyway. Slowly. No one likes the taste of beer in the beginning anyway, I don’t care who you are. Now liquor with a bit of mix is different, but I’ll get to that later. 

By the time I was gagging down the last drop in the beer bottle, Frank’s band arrived, all of them dressed in drag. It would be considered a very offensive thing to do these days, but back then, in a small town in Newfoundland, there was nothing more likely to get a good roaring laugh from the crowd then men dressed as women. I wasn’t dressed as a woman, but I might as well be honest, I would have if the boys had told me that was the plan.

I was so confused by what they were wearing that I seriously wondered if the whole idea of their song with me had been scrapped, and maybe they’re planning on doing a skit instead? The beer had given me enough courage to go up to them and say hello, but they didn’t really seem that excited to see me. Frank smiled and said, “You all ready to go or what?”

“Are we still doing the song?” I said. 

“Yes man, you knows.” 

“Okay, but…why is you dressed up like that?” 

“Just having a bit of fun,” Frank said, putting on a smile and slapping me on the back. He didn’t realize how strong he was because I nearly fell over.

“Was I supposed to dress like that too?” I asked. 

He pointed at me. “No that’s best kind. You looking normal and we dressed like women will make it even better. Like black and white.” 

I could tell they were already drinking because I could smell it. 

“When is our turn to go up?” I said. 

“We’re the last band,” Chuck said. 

It wasn’t long before the audience started pouring in, so everyone taking part went “backstage,” which was basically the kitchen next to the stage. The band all drank and talked with each other and the other people taking part. I was on my second beer by then so I had enough nerve to occasionally try to join in, but they barely acknowledged me. To be honest, they seemed embarrassed that I was even standing there next to them. 

At one point, about halfway through the night, I asked, “So when are we getting together to practice more songs?”

They didn’t even answer at first, so I asked again. Alvin looked at me all confused. “What?” he said.  

“I said when is we going to get together to practice more songs? I knows Dirty Deeds off by heart, so I suppose we should start practicing some more now.”

Frank took his beer from his mouth and stared at me. “What do you mean, off by heart?” 

“I learned all the words,” I said, grinning. “I’ve been glued to my Ghetto Blaster all week.” I took the piece of paper out of my back pocket and showed it to him, all proud of myself. “I might have gotten a few words wrong, but I think I got most of it right.” 

He snatched the paper out of my hands, balled it up, and threw it on the floor. “No! Fuck sakes, I told you not to do that. Sing it like you did at the party! Remember when I said that?” 

“Jesus, Frank, take it easy,” Chuck said. 

Frank ignored him, and laughed angrily. For some reason the lipstick and eye-liner made him even more intimidating. I know that doesn’t make sense, but it did. “How did I know you was going to find some way to fuck this up,” he said to me. “Sing the goddamn song exactly like you did at the party. Can you do that? Can you just not be a useless dumbass for once in your life?   

“Why do you want me to sing it the wrong way?” I said.

“You can’t see how we’re dressed?” he said. “It’s all for a laugh. We just going to have a bit of fun, that’s all.”

“You didn’t tell him?” Chuck said to Frank. “Jesus, make no wonder he’s dressed up like he’s going to a wedding.”

“Oh fuck off, Chuck,” Frank said, “I told him. You knows I told him.” 

But he didn’t. 

“It’ll still be funny,” the guitarist, Darryl Stoyles, said. “Us dressed up like women and he dressed like he’s a clergyman from the fifties.” 

Frank turned to me again and I shrank under his dark eyeliner. “Listen, I don’t give a shit what words you sings as long as when it gets to the part with, ‘Dirty Deeds” you says “Thunder Chief.’ Okay? The rest I don’t care. Just get that part right…wrong, fuck, you knows what I means.”  

 “Okay,” I said. “But what about after this? Am I still in the band?” 

Chuck started to respond, but Frank shut him up. “Yes man! Like I told you on the phone, I never heard anyone sing like you in my life.” 

And so, fifteen minutes later, we were up. I had forced down a third beer in the last ten minutes, but I was still so afraid when I walked out on stage that my knees were trembling. The crowd started to roar with laughter right away. Frank did a few sashes around the stage and blew kisses to the audience, but when I turned around there was no one at the drum kit, and there would not be for the whole song. So Frank picked up his guitar and cut into the song, and I began to sing. 

See, here’s the problem with being as tone-deaf as I am. If no one told me I couldn’t sing, I would never know. I’m not joking. Even to this day when I’m singing along with a song, it sounds fine to me. I mean, I don’t think I’m Vince Neil or anything, but it sounds okay. But I’ve realized, and especially that night I realized, just how bad my voice must be. From what I’ve been told, it’s not just the fact that my voice doesn’t sound pleasing, but that I never seem to change chords. Park was listening to me singing along in church one day and he told me that whatever chord the song starts in, say D Major, that’s the chord I sing the whole song. “At least you get the first chord right,” he said. When he imitates me singing I can hear what he’s saying, I realize then how awful I must sound. But that night at the Lion’s Club I just plowed on through. At first I thought all the laughter was directed at the boys in drag, but every time I hit the chorus, and a new wave of laughter would sweep over the crowd, then I knew it was at my expense. I also realized how stupid I had been to think that Frank actually wanted me in his band, to not realize by the rest of the band’s reaction that this had all been a joke from the beginning, to not realize that everyone at Frank’s party had been laughing at me, and most importantly, to have been stupid enough to think I actually had talent. Coming to these realizations in a quiet room would have been had enough, but realizing this at center stage while a hundred and fifty people laughed at you, was something else. 

To make matters worse I had tried so hard to memorize the correct lyrics that I couldn’t even sing the wrong ones. I was so drunk, nervous, and embarrassed, that the right words just kept pouring out of my mouth. I heard about out-of-body experiences before, but I thought that was only supposed to be when you were really dying, not dying inside from embarrassment. I remember at one point it really felt like I was standing behind myself. Actually, no, that’s not right. It was more like…instead of looking out of my eyes, my mind was pushed back a bit, so I was looking through the eye-holes in a mask. But it wasn’t just the mask. My whole body belonged to someone else.   

When I did come back to my body I almost burst out in tears right there in front of everyone, but I managed to hold it back and keep that frozen smile. Knowing that most of the crowd thought I was in on the joke, and singing badly on purpose, was the only thing that held me together. 

Meanwhile, Frank was so irritated that I was singing the song correctly that whenever I would sing that famous line, “done dirt cheap,” he would come over and yell over me into the mic, “Thunder Chief!” 

The song went on for an eternity, and when it was over I rushed off the stage and to the bar. To hell with beer. I was going to find out what the wonderful world of hard liquor was all about. And boy did I ever. 

The bartender brought over a drink to someone that looked like orange juice, so I asked her what it was, and found out it was called a “screwdriver.” I ordered one. Drank that in five minutes. And ordered another. And another. And another. Another. Within a half hour I had slammed six screwdrivers down my gullet. On my sixth Frank meandered over to the bar and I apologized over and over for not screwing up the lyrics. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, slapping me hard on the back. “Everyone loved it anyway. They’ll be talking about this for years. Bon Scott wouldn’t hold a candle to you. If he was alive.”

“What happened to him?” 

“Got drunk and choked on his puke.” 

Lig is telling me this was a common myth, but inaccurate. It was a heroin overdose. Friggin ol’ drugs.

But anyway, for a guy who just drank six screwdrivers I was surprised how it didn’t seem to affect me much. So when Frank called the band over — the drummer still wasn’t there — and he ordered a round of tequila, I swallowed it down, honey sweet (well, to be honest I threw up in my mouth a little, but I did get it down).   

  Around an hour later I found out the difference between liquor and beer. You can feel the buzz slowly piling on when you drink beer, but hard liquor is not the same. Probably because it’s so easy to drink with mix. So you drink it faster, and you don’t feel drunk right away, so you keep drinking. Six screwdrivers and a shot of tequila later and you still don’t feel too bad. 

Then you don’t feel too good. 

Then you’re stumbling down the road, crying and feeling sorry for yourself, waking up in a snow bank two o’clock in the morning, shivering your ass off in the first stages of hypothermia, with jiggs-dinner vomit freezing to your clothes. 

Needless to say I never got drunk again. Well, not really. It was a while though.  

So now you understand why I don’t like Frank. Now you might understand why I went back to his place later that night. I’m talking in the present now. The present now as in the present in this story, not the real present, because this happened in the past. You get the point. 

As I said, I picked up a carton of wine on the way home, but it wasn’t until I poured the first glass that I realized I was getting ready for something. I wasn’t even sure what that something was, but I knew it involved Frank again. I knew I had to convince him to help me, but I didn’t know how I was going to do it. What I did know, was that this wine was going to give me the nerve to do it. 

Wine is somewhere in between beer and hard liquor. So I made sure I took my time and gauged how drunk I was after every glass. Although it wasn’t just that I needed to get drunk, I needed to get drunk enough. Enough to confront Frank. 

Not like what a lot of people believe, it doesn’t actually say in the Bible that a man can’t drink alcohol. I mean Jesus himself drank wine. What it says is that you shouldn’t get drunk, because drunkenness leads to orgies. Yes, it actually says “orgy” in the good book. Maybe back in those days it did lead to that, but not now. Besides, everyone knows it’s that Devil’s lettuce that leads to orgies. Either way, I had no intention of starting an elderly orgy. 

Enough about orgies.  

Anyway, around eight o’clock I hopped (fell) in the car with the dog and told it to go to Frank’s place again. This was the first time I was truly drunk since that night at the Lion’s Club. And I would be with Frank yet again.   

I got there at eight-thirty, probably closer to nine because I must have given the car the wrong address again, and I was too drunk to pay attention. I ended up in some dark driveway staring at some house I didn’t recognize staring at some 100-pound dog barking at my car door. With Dan barking back.  

So when I did get to Frank’s house I had to go squat in the woods first. That shouldn’t be any surprise to you by now. I didn’t have to ring the doorbell because I’m sure he had security cameras and his palm told him I was there. 

When he came towards me in his driveway this time he wasn’t as friendly. “I hope to God you’re not here about the same shit as today,” were the first words out of his mouth. I was too afraid to answer at first. The only answer was a squirrel that started chirping in one of the trees.   

He stared at me. “Well?” 

“Either I’m going to work with you, or you’re going to give me some contacts for smuggling.” 

“Keep your voice down,” he growled under his breath.

“I’ll talk as loud as I wants,” I said.  

He stepped towards me, and stopped as if he had brought up in something. I guess it was the smell. “You’re drunk,” he said. “Since when did you start drinking?”

“You want to know the last time I was drunk?” I said. “When you made a fool of me at the Lion’s Club.”

“What?” 

“The Lion’s Club. That Christmas Concert.” 

“What is you talking about? When?”

“When we got up on stage and sang Dirty Deeds Thund -Done Dirt Cheap that time.” 

“Gil, is you gone off your palm?” 

“You told me I was a good singer and you knew I was shit. You knew it! You know I couldn’t even welcome my own daughter-in-law into the family when Melvin got married? They’re divorced now, but that don’t matter. Every time I got to get up in front of people I remembers that night and I can’t do it. 

Frank sighed. “Gil, look, I’m sorry okay? When you’re that age you don’t think about things. I just wanted to have a laugh and I suppose I didn’t care that it was at your expense. I could be bit of a hard case back then.” 

“Hard case? That night was only tip. You made my life a living hell for all of high school. Why do you think I didn’t finish?” 

“You didn’t finish school because you was lazy. Don’t blame that on me. And I don’t remember being any harder on you than I was on anyone else in our class.” 

“Don’t remember? You saw my penis one day in the bathroom at the urinals, and every day for about a month when I walked into class you’d say, “Make way ladies and gentleman, Wild Gil Smallcock has entered the room!”

“I don’t remember anything about that,” Frank said, laughing. “That’s pretty funny though.” 

“Or you and the boys shooting spitballs at me for the whole goddamn day, day after day after day. They used to be stuck in hair and everything. I suppose you don’t remember that either.” 

“I remembers shooting spitballs, but not only at you. I used to shoot them at everybody.”

“Yes, but you all ganged up on me. How is a fella supposed to pick up for himself when ten people is picking on him at once?” 

“You made it easy, Gil. I’m not saying that’s a good reason, but you was shy, and small, and awkward, and for a kid like me at the time, I couldn’t resist…I’m sorry. But let me tell you, I wasn’t as happy-go-lucky as I looked. I had my problems too.” 

“And what about when—“ 

“Shut up, Gil. I’m not going to keep apologizing. We was boys. Everyone does stupid shit at that age. Especially when they’re trying to make their buddies laugh. Is that what you came here for tonight, to get on with this shit? Because if it is you can get the fuck off my property before I calls the cops. I got enough to deal with.”  

 “Go ahead and call them. I might have something else to say when they gets here.” 

He marched forward and jabbed his finger in my face. “I had enough of you threatening me tonight. You forget that you’ve been at the same thing I’ve been doing?” 

As hard as I tried to couldn’t keep the pitch of my voice from rising. That always happens when I’m afraid. “I only did it once, and there’s no proof anymore.” 

“No proof? The cops can prove whatever the fuck they wants these days. Unless you was paddling that boat, the engine will tell them exactly where and when you was out on the water.” 

“I don’t care. I got nothing to lose.” 

“You’ll be losing your teeth if you threaten me again!” he said, and pushed me back. “You think I haven’t go enough trouble with the wife in there don’t know if she coming or going? You know what I got to deal with now? All week she’s been waking me up two and three o’clock in the morning, in the dark, thinking that me and she are twenty years old again, and wants to do nothing only have sex all night. I can’t deal with that at my age now. I knows it’s not her fault, but I can’t deal with it. She just about tears the cock off me trying to get at me. I mean the first night, I thought fuck it, why not. It was probably a year since we had sex. But just as soon as we’re done, she wants to go at it again! And the next night she’s the same thing. And the next and the next all week. What am I going to do? That’s just how contrary this goddamn world is, the very time my wife wants to have sex all the time, I’m too goddamn old to enjoy it. It never ends do it? It Never. Fucking. Ends.”

“I’m sorry…” I said. 

“Well, alright then, and I’m sorry too. So go home. I’m tired. And you’re drunk.“ 

“…but I’m not going away.” 

“What?” 

“I’m not going away. You got the money to get that shot, but I don’t. So it’s either I blackmails you or I dies. What would you choose?”

“These aren’t people to be fucked with, Gil. Do you understand?”

“Again, what have I got to lose?” 

“You don’t have the guts to call the cops on me,” he said. “Go home and sober up.” He started walking back to his house. 

“Lig, contact the local RCMP,” I said. Frank stopped walking, but he didn’t turn around.

“Are you in danger, Gil?” the palm said from my pocket. 

“No, but I need to report something.” 

“Okay, just checking. Calling now.” 

It was on speaker so Frank could hear the palm calling. He whizzed and around and started marching towards me again. The light from the pole reflected in the pools of his eyes and I could see that this time I might be more likely to get my teeth knocked out. 

“Forgetithangup!” I said. 

“Are you sure?” the palm asked. 

“YesyesyesImsurehangupthedamn—”

I didn’t feel much pain when I woke up on the ground. It was mostly confusion. For a moment I had no idea where I was. I could hear Dan barking wildly in the car. It was an angry bark, one I had not heard from that dog in a long time. He barely had the energy to bark at all anymore, so he must have had some in his reserve tank. I also started to figure out I was being smacked lightly in the face.

“Gil! Goddamn it, Gil! Wake up!” Frank was saying. He sighed with relief when I started to stir. 

“You punched me!” I said.

“No I didn’t.”

“I’m on the ground so you must have, unless I had a stroke.” 

“I slapped you. Jesus, I never seen anyone get knocked out from a slap before.”

“Well, you’re not a small man.” 

“You’re lucky. I used to be a lot bigger. And one time I would have made a fist. Do you realize the trouble that you might have gotten us in by just making that call, by just letting those rings go in?”

“No one answered,” I said. 

“It don’t matter! You know how Big G monitors everything now. Especially since the war.” 

“I’m not going to stop,” I said. “I’ll come here every day until you says yes. I came this far I’m not stopping now. Even if it means I got to get drunk every day to get the nerve.” 

The dog was still barking its head off. That’s right, ol’ Dan wasn’t too fond of seeing his master being pummeled to the ground by a man twice his size. Even dogs don’t like bullies. I grinned and told Lig to open the car doors. Out jumps Dan, all cripple gone now, barreling towards Frank. Then past Frank, past me, and up to the light pole where a squirrel was climbing halfway down. It stood its ground though, and chirped back, just as angry. Only for that squirrel I’m sure he would have protected me. Maybe. 

Frank shook his head in disgust at the dog, almost disappointed that he hadn’t been attacked, then he turned back to me. “Look at you,” he said, jabbing both his hands towards me lying on the ground. “Look at you! How am I supposed be partnered up with you? You’re a fuckup. Lying on the ground like a little bitch just because I slapped you. How the hell can I do this job with someone like you? You always was a fuckup and you’ll always be a fuckup. Even your dog is useless.” 

“It’s not his fault he got his teeth gone. And If I’m a loser it’s your fault!” 

He laughed. “Because I bullied you a lifetime ago?” 

“Yes! That’s right. Because you and your friends picked on me so much that I started to believe what you said about me. I gave up on everything, and I never got over it. You owes it to me. I got a chance to start over now because I knows I got it in me to do more. I wasted my life believing that I was nothing and so I acted like it. But I’m not nothing, because I’m here, and I’m willing to lose everything. I don’t care if you punches me in the face ten more times.”

“Fuck sakes, I didn’t punch you, I —did you say that dog got no teeth?” he said, bursting into laughter. “Some guard dog. What’s he going to do if someone breaks in your house, gum the ankles off ‘em?”

“He got a disease and he only got one tooth left. I don’t have him for a guard—"   

“The only reason you had the nerve to come here and face me is because you’re drunk.”

We stared at each other in the pole light. The dog kept barking at the squirrel. 

“I’m not that druck,” I said.

“Well I’m not druck or drunk. Listen, If I let you help me, that would mean less profit for me, and less for you. The only option is a contact. But have a guess what? My contact is your contact.” 

“The—“ 

“Yes, him.” 

“But he said it was his first—“ 

“There’s a lot of things about him you don’t know —will you tell that goddamn dog to shut up?” 

“Dan! Dan! Come here!” He didn’t listen. The squirrel was just as stubborn.  

“There’s a lot of things about the…that organization, you don’t know,” Frank continued. “So if you wants to be at this racket, contact him. Not me. I wouldn’t have told you this if you had not already been on the water with him. You already knows he’s involved. It’s just more than you realize.”

“But he already told me he didn’t want anything more to do with it.” 

“I guess that means you failed. Can’t say I’m shocked.” 

“Failed what?” 

“The test. You was too nervous. See? You’re not cut out for this. It’s like I already told you. I knew it, and now he knows it.” 

“I’m too nervous? Sure he was terrified. He wouldn’t get out of the bottom of the boat!” 

Frank laughed. “Yeah, he’s good at that. Put on a good show for me too. I don’t know what he saw in you, but I guess he found out he was wrong.”

I was too shocked to respond. I only turned around and walked back to the car. Imagine, a man of God lying? It almost seemed impossible.  

I stumbled into the car and was about to leave when I remembered the dog, who was still barking at the squirrel. I called him, but he wouldn’t come, so I had to go and take him by the collar and drag him back, with Frank slowly shaking his head at us both.