Cheeseburger Subversive (13 page)

“This is an important job,” he says. “Call me if you have any problems.”

When I arrive at the tiny bungalow where I am to install the new antenna, I can't resist peeking at the bill. Nine hundred bucks for a TV antenna? Two hundred for a roll of cable?
A three hundred and fifty dollar charge for
labour
? Even at
double
minimum wage, Liam seems to be grossly overcharging for my services.

“Oh, I am so glad you're here!” says the lady who answers the door.

Her brown skin is creased with deep laugh lines, and from the small dot in the center of her forehead, I surmise that she is probably one of those rare Searchlight TV customers who doesn't attend the Church of the Lord's Holy Command. Perhaps this was why she is getting fleeced even worse than the suckers in Reverend Rathburn's congregation.

“My reception was very clear until a few days ago,” she explains, “when it suddenly turned all snowy! Other than my kitten Ari, my television is the only company I have.”

The lady and I walk around to the side of the little house, and I peer up at her old antenna. My eyes follow the line of flat wire down the side of the house, and then I see the problem. Near the ground, a kitten is batting at the wire that hangs disconnected from the house. Closer observation reveals that the kitten has probably chewed through the wire.

“Oh, Ari!” the lady gently scolds the kitten as she carries it inside, “you naughty little baby, you!”

I pull some slack wire from inside the house, use my jackknife to strip the casing back from the loose ends and twist the wire strands together. I double-wrap the repair with electrical tape from the toolbox, which hopefully will dissuade the kitten from chewing the wire again.

Inside the house, the television reception is crystal clear. The lady is very pleased and thanks me repeatedly.

The cell phone Liam gave me is a cheap Sany product that won't work inside the house. So I go back outside to inform him of my success.

“It turns out that she doesn't need a new antenna after all,” I explain. “A kitten chewed through the antenna wire. I fixed it, and her reception is fine now. Should I just charge her a few bucks for my time?”

“No,” Liam answers, “you were sent to replace her antenna and cable, and that is what you are going to do.”

“But she doesn't need any of that stuff.”

“She signed a
contract
for the stuff, so you are going to
install
it, and she is going to
pay
for it. Get her to pay
cash
if you can.”

“This doesn't seem right, Liam. I don't think she has a lot of money.”

“ARE YOU QUESTIONING MY AUTHORITY?” he thunders. “DO THE JOB I SENT YOU TO DO, OR I WILL . . . ”

“
Jesus
wouldn't rip off an old lady,” I say, and hang up the phone. It rings almost immediately. I switch it off.

I go back into the house and tell the lady there will be no charge for the repair. Then I drive back to Searchlight TV. As I walk in through the back door, my body is pulsing with angry blood, but I try to stay cool. Behind the closed door of his office, I can hear Liam Capper barking, “It is your
duty
to obey your loving master, Wanda, and
I
am your loving master! You
will
obey me!”

Without knocking, I push the office door open and walk in. Liam jumps out of his desk chair. Wanda, who is on her knees beside the desk, also jumps up, babbling, “Oh! Oh!” She runs from the room, her hands over her face to conceal her tears.

“What the hell are you doing back here so soon? I told you to . . . ”

“I'm not ripping off an old woman, Liam.”

“HOW DARE YOU!” he sputters, “I
COMMAND
YOU TO — ”

“You can't
command
me to do anything, you crook. I
quit
. Pay me, and I'll be on my way.”

“SCREW YOU, HEATHEN! I OWE YOU
NOTHING
!”

“I think the law might disagree with you, there, Liam.”

“FINE!” he bellows. I guess he doesn't like the idea of the police poking around in his store. He throws himself onto his chair, scribbles out a cheque, and throws it in my direction.

“
Twenty bucks
?” I cry out. “
Twenty bucks
for fourteen hours work?”

Liam Capper leans back in his chair, grinning.

“Well,” he says smugly, “we don't pay delivery employees for time spent on the road. And we don't pay for work done for the church since that's considered charity work. And we deduct two hours pay for lunch and dinner each day . . . ”

“But I didn't take lunch or dinner breaks! And you never told me about any of that other stuff!”

“PROVE I didn't!” he says. He puts his feet up on his desk and folds his hands behind his head. “Now you better get out of here before I discover that you've been stealing from us.”

“WHAT? I haven't — “

“Numbers on a computer are easy to change. I can make it look like stock suddenly began disappearing as soon as you started working here.”

I tear up his cheque and toss the shreds on his desk.

“Keep your dirty money, you thief,” I say.

“
Jesus forgive you
!” Liam calls out in a saccharine-sweet voice, as I stomp out the back door.

What I do next happens almost independent of my will, as if my body is on autopilot. It is like an outside force is guiding me along. It is almost like I'm dreaming.

I am walking towards home when I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. I spin and walk back to the front of Searchlight TV. When I peek through the store's front window, I can hear Liam calling loudly for Wanda. “I'm not finished with you, Wanda! Get back here!”

As Wanda drags herself into the backroom again, I step into the store and walk to the sales counter. From a ledge beneath the countertop, I pluck two computer disks, respectively labelled
Inventory and Sales – April
(Gov't)
and
Inventory and Sales – April (CLHC)
— one set of books for the government, another set for the church. I slide the disks into my back pocket and leave the store. As simple as that.

It is a couple of weeks later, my parents are out of town, and Zoe is over at my place. Naturally, being alone for the evening we go straight to my bedroom — to read the newspaper. I have the sports pages and Zoe has the national news section.

“OH MY GOD!” she shrieks. “Listen to this!”

She begins reading out loud:

Bad Books Bring Down CLHC Ministry
(Faireville - CP)

Liam Capper, a Faireville businessman with links to the
Church of the Lord's Holy Command (CLHC) was
arrested Monday in an early morning raid on his appliance
store, Searchlight TV. Based on several anonymously
sent computer disks containing incriminating
evidence of tax evasion and fraud, police obtained
warrants to search the premises.

Upon entering the store, police allegedly discovered
Mr. Capper engaged in abusive behaviour with an
unnamed female employee, also a member of the CLHC.
Mr. Capper then became violent, allegedly attacking a
police officer with a symbol of the CLHC — a steel cross
with a lightning bolt. Police used force to subdue him.

The female employee later led police to further
evidence of illegal activities by Capper and other
deacons of the CLHC. She gave additional testimony
concerning the long-suspected manipulative and
abusive practices of the organization. Other female
members of the congregation are said to be coming forth
with testimony.

Police also searched the office of Ignaceous Rathburn,
leader of the Faireville CLHC, and former singer of the
punk rock band, Ejaculator. Rathburn, who has been
linked to fraudulent activities documented in records
from Searchlight TV, has apparently fled. His office was
found emptied of all documents, frustrating attempts
by investigators to further infiltrate the CLHC organization
. . .

“I'll bet his wife got sick of being treated like a slave and sent those computer disks in herself,” Zoe says.

“That would be poetic, wouldn't it?” I say.

I am considering telling her how the disks really got to the police, when Zoe says, “I'll bet you're glad I made you promise to never go back there, eh?”

She winks at me when she says that, and kisses my cheek. I feel a little twinge of guilt for breaking my promise, but I think I'll be forgiven for my transgression.

I look at the newspaper photo of an enraged Liam Capper as he is led to a police cruiser, his hands cuffed behind his back.

Jesus forgive you, Liam.

Cruisin' Machine

(Grade ten)

S
ome of the most significant memories in the hearts of men are their firsts. First dates, first kisses, first drinks, first voyages, and the first tastes of independence; they all represent great steps on the awkward climb to manhood. Today, all of these things seem within my reach. This afternoon, I will purchase my first car.

Unlike most of my buddies, I work weekends and evenings after school as an indentured servant of J.D.'s Gas-O-Rama. Needless to say, the wages are not overly generous, but through perseverance otherwise uncommon to my nature, I have managed to scrape together nine hundred big ones. To do this, I have had to greatly restrain the portion of my income which was normally dedicated to the necessities: rock albums, concert tickets, and twenty-dollar six-packs from Crazy Jack the bootlegger.

I have made many sacrifices, but I am a man with a mission. The focus of my existence has turned to the procurement of the big prize, and nothing is going to stop me. I want a car. And not just any car either. I picture myself behind the wheel of a snarling, snorting, tire-smoking, rock-and-rolling, hundred-and-sixty-mile-an- hour girl-magnet on wheels. I don't think it's too much to hope for.

Luckily, my dad was a street racer in the fifties, in his fondly remembered Ford Roadster, so I have an important ally in my quest for mobility. Mom has also grudgingly accepted my proposal, reasoning that I will be available to act as a personal chauffeur to my annoying thirteen-year-old sister, Charlotte (excuse me while I pause to laugh hysterically at Mom's naiveté). Naturally, all of my buddies are behind me as well — to scoop up the excess babes, no doubt. Everything is looking wonderful; I'm seeing the world through a rose-coloured windshield.

My desire for a cruising machine finally comes to a climax during Friday afternoon's math class — I'm so exited, I haven't been able to sleep a wink. As soon as the bell rings, I stride out the door and up the street to Virtuous Vic's Used Car Corral and Laundromat, my heart full of pride and my faded old Levi's stuffed with freshly withdrawn twenties.

The moment I pass under the flashing neon sign at the entrance, a greasy, slouching little man materializes in front of me, sporting three days' worth of facial hair and a sludge-encrusted baseball cap which reads
1989 Detroit
Battle of the Monster Trucks
. Probably noticing the look of desperation on my face, he asks, “Kin I show yuh somethin', boy?”

“I want to buy a cruisin' ma . . . er, a car,” I say with businesslike authority. “What have you got for under nine hundred dollars?”

“Nine hundred, eh . . . ” he ponders, trying to look serious. “Howzabout that nice, clean, Chevrolet Chevette over there? It ain't got much rust, it's easy on the gas, and, uh, it's finished in a nice sporty red. It's got cool rally rims, too!”

A
Chevette
? I am deeply offended, and I wonder if this fellow is actually Virtuous Vic, or just some dumb employee who polishes the chrome (on those cars that actually have any). This guy is talking to me like I'm willing to settle for something reliable and economical! I'm not going to stand for such an insult and decide to show this clown just what kind of automotive man he's dealing with.

“Um, well, have you got anything with a little more, um . . . power?” I ask.

“Well, boy” he slowly and hoarsely whispers, stroking his chin as if deep in thought, “I got a lil' jobbie out back with more horsepower under the hood than a stray cat's got fleas . . . but I wouldn't sell that baby to just anybody.” Then he turns and looks me straight in the eyes. “Do yuh think yuh got what it takes to handle a muscle machine like that? I mean, we're talkin' one badass vee-hicle here, boy.”

It doesn't matter that the salesman's acting about as convincing as Woody Allen playing Darth Vader; it doesn't matter that the word “jobbie” is often used by my three-year-old cousin to describe the results of a successful session of potty training; it doesn't even bother me that I am about to put my life savings into the hands of a guy who likes monster trucks. I ignore all the omens. This is destiny.

My eyes narrow to slits, and my chest expands as I draw a deep breath; I feel like I'm the hero in a Hollywood action film, about to gun down the villain in the final climactic showdown. In my deepest post-pubescent voice, I speak the ominous words: “Let's have a look at it.”

“It's out back,” intones the salesman.

It is love at first sight (and we all know how blind love can be). It sits amidst the oil barrels and the overgrown weeds, staring at me provocatively with its twin sets of headlights, its grille sections formed in a sly, nasty grin. It is . . . Oh, it is sexy. I move in closer.

It is a ‘66 Pontiac Laurentian. Four doors. Metallic lime green. Great big sixteen-inch wheels. A trunk you could park a Chevette in. The entire Canadian Air Force could land on the hood. It has little gouges and scratches all over it, like a battle-scarred warrior, and angular, spear-like protrusions in the front that could rip through a Jeep like a hot bullet through a lump of lard. My heart races. I feel faint.