You know, jacks, like marbles and jacks, little steel jacks. He hit those and his wheels locked and he flew off into the pool and was sitting there, he had jacks stuck in his arms and his jeans all tore up. And then the lights come on and there’s the lawyer, laughing, Come back any time, you punks, he said, and turned off the light. We carried Dave back to the Pinto and drove the hell out of Okotoks.
Paul Grand takes out some cinnamon gum. Unwraps a stick of cinammon gum, then another, puts them both in his mouth.
Well? says Mullen. Did you break his windows? Steal his car? Shit on his doorstep?
Paul puts a third piece of gum in his mouth. Chews and chews. We got him with The Milk Chicken Bomb. He laughs and chews.
Mullen frowns. What’s The Milk Chicken Bomb?
Paul Grand stops laughing. Turns and looks at us, like a grown-up. Kid, he says, The Milk Chicken Bomb is the worst thing. The very worst possible thing. Nobody should ever build The Milk Chicken Bomb. I don’t like even knowing about it. Like, because I know, I might tell somebody, and they’ll build it, and it’ll be my fault. The Milk Chicken Bomb is the worst thing.
What’s The Milk Chicken Bomb?
If I tell you, you’ll build it, says Paul. The Milk Chicken Bomb wrecks everything. You can’t clean it up. You can’t ever get the building back. That lawyer tried to sell his house, and couldn’t. Nobody would buy. We’d drive by and take pictures of the For Sale sign. He couldn’t give that house away. If I told you, you’d build it.
I promise I won’t ever build the Milk Chicken Bomb, says Mullen, I promise. Please please tell me.
Paul Grand gets up, scratches his sideburn. Rolls the skateboard under his foot. I’ll see you kids around, he says. Pushes down the street, sliding around all crazy on the ice. I don’t think he’ll fall off, though. Ollies off the curb into the street, skates down the street. Slow and easy, even on the ice, like he’d never fall off. Like he wouldn’t even know how.
The Russians let us sit in the back of Pavel’s truck on the way to the Marvin Recreation Centre. Pavel keeps hay bales in the back, for weight, he says, and you can lean up against them, looking backward while he drives. Mullen’s pockets are full of elastic bands – we shoot them off our fingers at light posts, stop signs, station wagons.
At the recreation centre people stand around the parking lot, lean on the boxes of their trucks, smoke. Curlers hold their cigarettes with their thumbs and first fingers, except the women from the post office, who smoke between the first and middle finger. Curlers wear heavy jackets with fleece around the collars and no gloves, big round sunglasses like policemen in movies. They smoke their cigarettes and drink beer from coolers in the backs of their trucks. Vaslav unscrews the lid of his flask and takes a long pull, then another. Kids from the church with gym bags hurry to their swimming lessons. Old men come up to the Russians and lean on Pavel’s truck, pat them on the shoulders. Good group this year, eh? No goddamn picnic. Pavel comes back outside with forms on a clipboard. Everybody takes turns signing with a green stub of pencil tied to the clipboard with a string.
Solzhenitsyn is the skip, and Vaslav is the third, and Pavel is the lead. Their new second is a bald man with a moustache, he comes over and shakes their hands and mumbles behind his moustache and they all slap him on the shoulder and shake his hand. He signs the forms with the stubby pencil. Vaslav passes him the flask.
You going to win today, Vaslav? I ask.
Vaslav makes a hacking sound. People in this town, he says, they don’t know from curling. Couldn’t give a damn. They don’t even name their brooms.
Does your broom have a name, Vaslav?
He reaches into the back of the truck and pulls out a curling broom, long and white-handled, a black cloth sock pulled over the bristles. This here, he says, is Anna Petrovna, the best curling broom in southern Alberta.
Hey, Pavel, Mullen says, does your broom have a name? Yeah, Pavel says, Broom. He takes a drink out of the flask and laughs.
Inside it’s hard to hear, with all the overhead fans and people talking, and everything smells like cigarette smoke and chlorine from the swimming pool. Some Dead Kids from the sixth grade stand around the pay phone by the concession stand, take turns listening and snickering. They flip through the phone book and make phone calls with nickels, say things I can’t hear and then laugh and hang up.
In the rink curlers wander around, stretch with their brooms, rub their sliders with the sleeves of their jackets. The United Church curlers stretch on the floor, with purple stickers on the chests of their sweaters: My Name Is and the Alberta Natural Gas genie, like they make us wear at school when we go on field trips. They laugh and eat cookies. And the Golden Oldies hockey team that Mrs. Lampman’s husband plays with, in their high-topped sneakers, laughing and holding their beer guts. Steadman’s Drugstore always has a team and Ackmann’s Arena and Mill Store always has a team. They slide up and down the ice, some of them with flat black-bristled brooms and some of them with yellow long-bristled brooms.
When do you play, Solly? asks Mullen. Solly sits on a bench, stretches out and touches his toes. Touches his forehead against his knees. You know, he says, eventually. Go get some snacks. Go play marbles or something. He sits up, reaches in his pocket. Pulls out fifty cents and catches it back in his fist.
Out-turn, says Solly.
Come on, Solzhenitsyn, just give us the money.
I hold up my arm, like he does when he wants Pavel or Vaslav to throw an out-turn.
Good, he says. Okay, take-out.
Mullen shoos me aside. He sticks out his tongue and pretends like he’s got a curling broom. Taps it on the ground in front of him, then heaves it up like a baseball bat and swings.
Right, perfect, says Solly. He opens his hand and Mullen grabs the quarters. Vaslav and Pavel pass the flask around. Who are you playing? I ask. Solly points over to the RCMP team, all of them drinking coffee out of paper cups. The tips of their moustaches get damp. You going to beat the cops? asks Mullen. Yeah, Solly says, we’re going to beat the cops. Their second’s got no shot and their skip ought to stick to desk work.
What about the United Church? I ask. Will you have to play them? Just one match today. We’ll play them in a few weeks. Today the posties are going to make a mess out of the United Church, says Solly. All that ideological moderation is bad for your concentration. It’s the Pentecostal church you’ve got to watch. Mullen rubs his hands together. Right, the Pentecostals. Right.
Some second-grade kids play marbles over by the water fountain. Flick their glass cat’s eyes and speckled eggs at each other. You hit a marble and it’s yours, and if the other marble is bigger you’ve got to hit it more than once. All the kids keep their marbles in purple bags with drawstrings – they get them from their dads once the rye whisky is all gone.
Mullen watches them playing marbles for a while. He starts flipping one of his quarters. Flips it and catches it, like he’s going to call heads or tails. Eventually the second-graders stop shooting marbles and look up at him.
United Church match is about to get going, says Mullen. Against the posties. Gonna be a good one.
The second-graders look at him funny. What?
They’re just about to start. How many ends do you think it’ll go?
The kids keep on looking at him, really confused. The kid with the most marbles snaps his fingers. Come on, let’s play marbles. Hey, come on.
What are you doing? I whisper to Mullen.
Well, we’ve got a good hand here, he says. We can stand to lose a few until we spot out the way things are going.
What are you talking about?
You know, he says. Covering our bets. Doesn’t Deke always talk about covering bets? All right, he says to me, you’ve got to drum up some interest. You know, get kids running their mouths about the matches. Who’s throwing how many ends and all that stuff. Get their fingers