a long way to be out for a walk.
I guess.
Eat your pie, kid.
I unzip my backpack and get out a comic book. Flip the pages and eat pie. In the city under the ocean, the Under Queen gets ready to unleash her tidal wave on the Surface. But millions of people live on the coast! She catches the hero and ties him, upside down, above a vent in the molten crust. The Under Queen laughs and laughs. I guess if I ruled the city under the ocean, I wouldn’t much care about the Surface Dwellers either.
I watch the gas jockeys outside, pumping gas. One of the gas jockeys props open the hood of a car, peaks around the side to see if the driver is paying attention. The driver just sits there in his car, drumming his fingers on the wheel. The gas jockey goes back behind the hood, where the driver can’t see him, and yawns. Stretches. Scratches the back of his neck. After a while he closes the hood, gives the driver the thumbs-up.
The gas jockey looks up and makes a face. Drops his squeegee. Points. Truckers put down their forks, look up. Their eyes get big, their mouths drop open. The tidal wave rushes in above the fields, over across the highway. Fence posts and cows and pickup trucks all pushed along in front of the massive, boiling wave. Everybody screams and drops everything, truckers turn and run, and inside we get under the tables and hold our hands over our heads as that wave comes crashing down.
Where were you walking to? asks the waitress.
I shrug, eat some pie. It’s pretty good pie, not too sweet. I guess a lot of people like really sweet pie, but I can only eat so much of it.
Well, I thought I’d go to Calgary. I’m looking for a job.
She chokes. Lays her hand flat on her chest. Takes a deep breath.
How old are you?
I’m ten.
Right. Ten.
The bell above the door rings and in comes Mullen’s dad. I turn around so that he won’t see me, but you just can’t pull one over on Mullen’s dad. The older gas jockeys all stand up to say hello, slap him on the shoulder. He starts to take off his jacket. Sees me and stops laughing.
I play with my pie. Mullen’s dad sits down on the stool beside me, has to pull his long, skinny legs up into the tight space. The waitress sits up. Straightens her apron. Mullen’s dad pulls off his black toque, sets it on the counter beside him.
Having some pie? he asks after a while.
Yeah.
Apple pie?
Yeah.
He looks up at the waitress. Hello, Hoyle. Nods his head toward the coffee pot. She pours him a mug. He pushes away the little bowl of creamers. Has a little sip.
Long way to walk.
I got a ride.
He was asking for a job, says Hoyle the waitress. Starts to say something else and he looks at her and she stops. I play with my pie, tap the crust with the bottom of my fork. He sips his coffee. Then he pushes the cup away.
Finish that last bite, he says. I stab it with my fork. Put it in my mouth. Mullen’s dad pulls out his wallet, unfolds the leather. Hoyle shakes her head. He shrugs and puts five dollars down on the counter. She shakes her head again, and he pushes the bill toward her. Pulls his toque over his hair.
Come on, he says. I zip up my backpack and follow him out the door.
We drive out the back highway, past the old magnesium plant, its dark windows all empty, its chain-link fence locked up. The new Meatco plant is all lit up in the distance, big white lights in the parking lot, the parked trucks, everything new, big. We drive and all the farm lights are out now and it’s just our headlights on the narrow highway, fences, ditch garbage. Mullen’s dad drives with one hand, elbow up against the window, his other hand resting on the gear shift. He whistles to himself. Rolls his shoulders, like his back hurts.
In High River some cowboys sit outside the bowling alley and drink beer out of stubby bottles, their shirts unbuttoned in the cold. We stop at the traffic lights, the only set in town, red.
Hey, open the glovebox, says Mullen’s dad. Get me that pen. I open the glovebox: a map of Calgary, a socket wrench, some crumpled candy wrappers. I hand him a blue-capped ballpoint pen. He puts it in his mouth and grinds the plastic between his teeth. Mullen’s dad is always chewing on something: straws, keys. Sometimes he chews on pencils and gets little flecks of yellow paint on his teeth.
We drive past Lester’s Meats, the parking lot all empty for the night, a few dirty cattle tucks under the single light post. Proud To Be Union Free Since 1977. I wrinkle my nose at the smell.
So I pulled the toboggan out of the garage the other day, he says. It’s not doing so well. Bottom’s all scratched up. Were you guys riding it on ice last winter?
There wasn’t snow for so long, I say.
I was thinking of getting Mullen a new sled for Christmas, he says. You think he’d like that? The sort with runners, that you can steer. You guys could ride one of those anywhere.
Christmas is pretty far away, I say.
Yeah. Christmas is pretty far away.
We drive through the dark, past wooden gates, long driveways. People put wagon wheels on their gates, their names on wooden arches over the road. We drive through the dark and the circles of light, under posts, around driveways. We drive through the snow and onto the highway in the dark. We get back to Marvin and Mullen’s dad drops me off at my house.
You want me to come in and say something?
No, I say, it’ll be okay.
It’s pretty late.
It doesn’t matter.
I close the door of his truck and wave goodbye.
We ought to make the lemonade sweeter, Mullen says.
Most of the leaves are already brown and falling off the trees, all the way up the street. In school we colour pictures of autumn leaves: brown and yellow and red and orange. None of the leaves on Mullen’s street turn red, though, or orange. Just brown and yellow and then they fall off the trees and get wet and soggy and stick in the grates. They stick to the roofs of people’s cars.
We ought to make the lemonade sweeter, says Mullen. Now that it’s fall. I bet people would buy more lemonade if it was sweeter.
That sweet stuff is for kids, I tell him. We’re after the adult audience. Real classy. Mullen pours himself a glass and puckers.
You’re sure out early this morning, says Deke Howitz. Leans on his fence. Deke Howitz hasn’t shaved this morning, and his hair is greasy and not combed. Eyes red like he’s been up all night. Hey, Deke, Mullen says, do you think we ought to put more sugar in the lemonade? Deke shrugs. I don’t know anything about lemonade. Shouldn’t you be in school? School doesn’t start for another forty minutes, Deke. I know I wouldn’t be up this early if I didn’t have to, says Deke.
He waves us over to his fence.
