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episode 4: In a JAM

Author: Quinn Carew

He’s not very big. Or imposing. But Rumble McCrum has this reputation in town of being a ruffian, a fighter that takes no prisoners. And I’ve seen him in action. Mostly when we were in high school—although he only attended there just over a year—but he still gets into scraps now and then. I remember at school he wouldn’t back down from a fight, even if his opponent was nearly twice his size. And invariably the winner would be Rumble. (His given names are Jamie Dexter. Yup, Dexter, but nobody, other than his mother, calls him that—unless they want to be on the wrong end of a knuckle sandwich.) I don’t know where he came by his toughness and fighting ability. Maybe because his dad beat him when he was an adolescent, growing up in North Battleford. Or, perhaps everyone in North Battleford is tough. (Maybe even I would be tough if I grew up in North Battleford. Ha ha.)

So, when he tells you to do something, you’d better darned well do it. Darned well.

We just finished cleaning and pebbling all four sheets of ice at the local curling club when Rumble yells, “Hey Doodles, clean that up will you?” He points at sheet number two. “And hurry up, we have to report to Mason right away.” He pulls the slip-on rubbers off of his combat boots.

Oh, man, just as I thought we were done, his dog, Titan, leaves a big brown mess on Sheet 2 next to us. I’m the assistant icemaker and custodian (which is just a fancy word for janitor), so I respond, “I got it.” I pick up a scraper and pan to put the poop into. A lot of poop. Then clean it up while Titan watches and Rumble laughs. It was no easy task, because half the big dog’s discharge seeped into one of the hacks (the rubber thingy curlers put their foot into). What a drag. A drag. It’s much easier to pick up Titan’s turds when he defecates on the sand greens of the golf course (the Überdick Regional Golf Course, where Rumble is the groundskeeper, and I his assistant). I deposit the poo into a garbage bag containing other refuse from the rink.

“Doodles,” says Rumble, “Join me in the office. Make it quick, Mason has another job for you. Oh, and bring the bag with you.”

I should explain that he never calls me by my first name, which is Quinn. In fact, most of the townspeople call me by my nickname, Doodles. I hate it. Only my father and my friends, Molly and Edwina, call me by my real name. The reason people call me Doodles is because when I was in school I would always draw figures in my sketch pad. Mostly drawings of cats and cat things: big cats, small kittens, different breeds, cat carriers, cat toys . . . well you get the picture (ha ha). In fact, I still draw and catalogue cats. It’s a bit of a hobby, I guess. I can name all seventy-three cat breeds—in alpha order—on The International Cat Association website, can describe each breed’s origins, colours and traits, and have catalogued nine hundred and sixty-six cats, representing twenty-eight breeds, living in Prairie Fork. I’ve also photographed the majority of them (my other favourite hobby) with my trusty old Pentax. Yup, a Pentax. Not too many people use them now. I’d put the photos into albums except the price of colour printing is prohibitive. So, I just reference digital photos of the town’s cats in the catalogue. I know all their names except for fifty-five, some of which are unhoused, or feral if you prefer).

Rumble marches into Mason Ballard’s office, the rapid tap tap tap of his metal cleats broadcasting his impatience. Titan and I follow (Titan accompanies Rumble pretty much everywhere). Mr. Ballard is the manager of Sir JAM (short for Sir John A. Macdonald Curling Club). It’s a town-owned facility, one of the few big establishments in Prairie Fork not owned by Felix Überdick. The office is filthy and cluttered, as usual. Mr. Ballard has his soiled stocking feet on the desk. The top of his bowling-ball head looks like a big ol’ moon rising behind his feet. Ha ha.

“All done, Mason,” says Rumble, who plants himself on the only available chair in the office.

“Good.”

I drop the garbage bag near the door. “Hello Mr. Ballard,” I say. Rumble, as the head icemaker, can refer to the boss as Mason, but I’ve always addressed him as Mr. Ballard, or boss. I think he likes it, because he has never corrected me when I’ve used the formal style of address. And really, it doesn’t bother me. Besides, I like the sound of the hard ‘B,’ ‘D,’ ‘T’ or ‘P’ at the start of words. Always have. (Sometimes, when by myself, I make up whole sentences with words starting with those letters and say them aloud—you know, like Peter Piper picked a peck, etc. It’s strange, I know, and it’s hard to describe the feeling, but it calms me.)

“Hey Doodles,” says the boss, “Did my man, Rumble, tell you what I wanted?”

“He only mentioned that you had a job for me. He didn’t elaborate.”

Mr. Ballard pulls his feet off the desk, slips into his orange Crocs, then labours to push himself off his chair. He points at the files, coffee mugs, food wrappers and other sundry items covering his desk. “We’re going for some lunch. Have it cleaned before I return.”

“Yes sir.”

“And vacuum the floor while you’re at it, Doodles.”

Rumble and Titan follow the boss through the office door. But they don’t get far before Rumble nearly mounts the boss’s back when the latter suddenly stops. One of them shrieks, “What the—” before a man’s voice says, “Get back inside.” Rumble and Mr. Ballard shuffle backwards into the office, like a pair of ducks.

Crocs, as I learn, don’t like to slide on carpets. When Mr. Ballard’s feet slip out of his now-anchored shoes, his porcine body plops onto the floor. Plop! Happily for the boss, the soft, nearly overflowing, garbage bag softens his landing. Less happily, perhaps, the last-in, first-out principle applies here, and is witnessed by the latest deposit now latching onto his shirt and onto the thicket of hair on the man’s neck: the tacky, yet pulpy mass of Titan’s poo. Pulpy. Poo.

Titan barks then takes a wide route around the supine body of Ballard (who is thrashing his stocking feet about in an attempt to right himself) as he enters the office.

The reason for the quick reversal soon becomes clear to me. A large man wearing a wool overcoat over a black hoodie enters the office and is pointing a revolver at Rumble. He’s wearing a familiar-looking plastic mask: bone white, featuring a disturbing wide smile, an upturned black moustache, and a vertical strip of a beard. “Against the wall. All of you!” he shouts.

Rumble pulls Mr. Ballard to his feet, then joins me against the far wall. Ballard is trembling, like me, yet Rumble seems surprisingly calm.

“How dare you!” says Ballard to the masked intruder.

“Shut up.”

Titan barks at the stranger.

“Shut him up, too.”

Rumble grabs onto the dog’s collar and shushes the dog.

I figure I’ll get into the act too. Despite being extremely anxious, eyes blinking wildly, something puzzles me: “Why are you wearing a Guy Fawkes mask?”

“Shut up!” The intruder points his revolver at me. “Sit on that chair, wanker.”

I comply. Happily. Because that overwhelming rush of panic, all too familiar to me, shoots through my limbs and chest. I pray that I don’t faint.

He mumbles something behind the mask, then says, “How do you know it’s a Guy Fawkes mask, anyway?”

“I, uh, I have an interest in British history.” I take a deep breath to steady my nerves. “So, I, uh, know about the Gunpowder Plot of 1605.” Vocalizing that causes a chill to run down my spine. “You’re not going to blow us up, are you?”

“No . . . Shut your gob! It’s just a mask. I’m here to take the money from the safe.” He points the gun at Ballard. “You, boss man, open the flipping safe. Now.”

“Who are you?” asks Ballard. “And why are you doing this?”

“Who am I? I’m just a bloke behind a mask. A bloke with a gun. A gun with bullets that will riddle your chunky body with holes if you don’t open that flipping safe.”

Interesting that he calls Mr. Ballard chunky. Looking at ‘The Guy’ guy, the word paunchy comes to mind. He’s, at best, marginally less rotund than the boss. Perhaps the extra weight contributes to his unmistakable limp.

“Okay, okay, just give me a minute,” pleads Ballard.

“You got half a minute. Now move it, fat ass!”

Ballard shuffles to the safe, which is on the wall behind his desk. Luckily for the boss, the safe is already unlocked. Looking at his shaky hands, I don’t think he could have managed the combination dial. He opens it then hands a bundle of cash to The Guy. I look over at Rumble. He’s surprisingly placid, given the situation. Placid. I don’t know how he does it. But that’s Rumble; not much scares him.

The Guy looks at it. “That’s all? Where’s the rest of your cash?”

Ballard says, “That’s all there is. And that’s more than we normally have.”

The boss is right. He gets Rumble to do the deposits bi-monthly. Sometimes I accompany him. However, in January, something came up and he missed the final deposit, so nearly three weeks of cash receipts were supposed to get deposited in the bank today.

“I don’t flipping believe you.” He lunges at Ballard and grabs the front of his shirt.

“This isn’t really a cash business, you know,” pleads the boss. “Only the cafeteria deals with cash.”

Titan, seeing the sudden aggression, growls at the intruder, then barks repeatedly.

The Guy wheels around and points the handgun at the dog. He says to Rumble, “Keep that damned dog under control, or I shoot both of you.”

“Okay, okay. Don’t get your frickin’ shit in a knot.” Rumble pulls the dog’s collar and tries to calm him.

Now, the intruder is waving his gun around the office madly. I worry he’ll start shooting all of us. Flashes of television news coverage—school shootings, crazed domestic murder-suicides and the like—storm my mind.

All of a sudden, I’m the sole target. “And you” snarls The Guy. “What the hell are you doing? Have you gone barmy? You’re making me nervous with that bullshit.”

I can’t formulate an answer. Can hardly breathe. And, worse of all, I don’t know what he’s referring to.

Rumble says, “I’ll nip it in the butt.” He steps toward me and slaps the back of my head. “Quit your frickin’ rocking, Doodles.”

I stop the rocking which, in this case, was an involuntary bodily response to the traumatic situation. Had no idea I was doing it. It’s another one of those ‘quirks,’ I guess you call it, that I have. The rhythm of rocking back and forth on the chair is kind of, well, soothing, you know. Perhaps you don’t. Sometimes I do it consciously, but usually not when anyone is around. It helps settle me when I’m stressed. Just like clenching my fists, which is something else I do involuntarily.

“Don’t mind him,” says Rumble. “He ain’t like the rest of us—and he sure won’t give you no trouble.”

“He bloody well better not,” says The Guy, who now limps toward the door and peeks outside. “There has to be more money somewhere in this building.”

I don’t know what he was thinking, I guess he just reacts differently than I do to stress, but the boss rushes up to The Guy and shouts, That’s all there is. Now leave us all alone! Or something to that effect. I guess he didn’t anticipate the reaction he would get, which is a violent backhand smash to his jaw from the butt of the revolver. At the same time Ballard falls to the floor, Titan escapes Rumble’s grasp, barks, then races across the office toward the masked intruder.

What happens next seems to take only about two seconds, but I’m sure it’s more. An ear-piercing blast and a flash comes from The Guy’s Glock. Titan yelps, then falls on the spot.

“What the hell!” yells Rumble. “You weren’t supposed to do that.” Which is kind of an odd response, I’m thinking.

Titan tries, unsuccessfully, to drag himself back to Rumble. The poor dog is yelping and whining as you might expect. Meanwhile, The Guy runs out of the office and towards the exit.

The boss moans then manages to dislodge his fat head from the floor. He pops open his bulbous eyes, protruding like a tree frog, and his mouth gapes, like a hippo emerging from a pool. Drops of blood drizzle off his chin and onto his shirt. Drizzle. “What the . . .” was all he could muster.

I don’t remember standing, or going to the washroom, or returning with a dampened towelette to tend to the boss’s wound, but apparently I do all that. When I enter the office, Mr. Ballard is sitting on my vacated chair, face void of expression of any kind. Rumble is kneeling next to his fallen canine companion, hugging him around the neck. “Poor Titan. Poor little boy, you’ve been hit on your hip.”

I respond, “Could have been deadly. Deadly.”

I forget what happens after that, but I can’t shake two impressions branded on my consciousness: the first being a Guy Fawkes effigy burning over flames—lit by people who’d gathered “a stick and a stake” on Bonfire Night to commemorate the failure of The Gunpowder Plot of 1605); and the second, the chilling words that concluded one particular Victorian era verse written by P.H. Ditchfield:

“Prick his heart and burn his body,

And send his soul to Purgatory.”