King. Tanya Chapman

      Published with the assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council. We also acknowledge the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit Program and the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program.

      LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

      Chapman, Tanya, 1971-

      King / Tanya Chapman.

      ISBN-13:978-1-55245-173-1

      ISBN-10:1-55245-173-9

      I. Title.

      PS8605.H365K46 2006 C813’.6 C2006-905282-4

       For Fraser, of course

      It’s been King and Hazel for months now, always together. King found me just after I found the trailer park. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe the park found me and I found King. Chicken and egg.

      Our best friends are Spiney and Sissy – they live just down the road from us. King and Hazel and Spiney are all earned names, but Sissy is a given name. Sissy exactly fits her, not in a bad way like what the word means, but more how it sounds: Sissy. Sissy’s parents smoked a lot of pot, so maybe they picked the name for the sound and not the meaning. Her mom was dosed on acid when Sissy was born, so Sissy isn’t exactly like everyone else. The main thing about Sissy is that she talks -a lot.

      Spiney got his name because he’s the exact opposite of Sissy: quiet. His quietness comes off to strangers as cool and tough, but the truth is that he’s a real softie. He wouldn’t want anyone to know that, though. If he doesn’t know the exact right thing to say, he doesn’t talk at all. He just stands there and looks at everyone until someone else talks, usually Sissy. It makes everything that does come out of his mouth even better because you know that he figured it was worth saying.

      And King got his name because he just is, well, King.

      What I love best about the four of us is that we’re happy just hanging out and being ourselves. It’s always a good time when we go on a tear together.

      Old Joe’s is the only bar in town that isn’t depressing in that fading, alcoholic kind of way, so we always end up there and we have a blast.

      The bar is country – there are country songs on the juke and sawdust on the floor that might really be just covering a lot of dirt. There’s neon beer signs hanging all over the place and a clock that runs backwards just to mess with your head. Country isn’t really our thing, but we do it up anyway.

      The greatest part of Old Joe’s is Old Joe himself; he’s one of the best guys in town. When we come in all grinning and ready for fun, he rolls his eyes and says, ‘Here we go again,’ and he starts pouring the beer. We don’t have to order all night because when our glasses get low he’s there with another jug. Sometimes he charges us and sometimes he doesn’t. He says that we drink more in one night than the whole town does all week, so he can afford to share the wealth.

      Old Joe says brilliant things like ‘When there’s no place else to go then you’ve found your home’ and ‘There’s always a bit of truth in a lie but only for the teller.’ He says the kinds of things that pop into your head later at the strangest times. And he tells us great stories about hunting and fishing and riding motorbikes across the country. King is all blown up about motorbikes – that’s what he does, fixes motorcycles and lawn mowers and any other thing with an engine that can break. So when Old Joe starts in on a motorbike story, we can kiss King goodbye.

      It’s funny to see King and Old Joe talk to one another. You can tell by looking at them that they like each other. Old Joe tells me that King is a prince among men. King tells me that Old Joe is a sage and that you can figure out everything in the world just by talking to him about engines.

      The four of us are great drinkers. We can drink anyone in town under the table. But King can top us all. He is always the last one standing, so he’s in charge of the night. I come in second, though – a fact I’m very proud of. Even though I’m small, I can keep up pretty good. It’s tough to drink like that. It takes diligence, concentration and daily training – not to mention the constitution of a Spartan soldier.

      Sissy talks constantly whether she drinks or not. She is the most honest person I’ve ever met – you know she’s really honest and it’s not just a put-on because she says every little thing that comes into her head. You can’t hide anything when you’re running like that. I figure it has something to do with the acid birth. She talks so much that her voice is always low and raspy like a two-pack-a-day smoker. I’ve never seen her go very long without talking and I’ve never, ever seen her sit still. Most times I try and listen and say things back to her like ‘Oh yeah’ or ‘Tell me about it.’ But sometimes I get overloaded, and then I go into my own head for a while and just tune out and listen to the sound of her voice but not the words. She doesn’t seem to mind.

      I’m having a relaxing moment of tuning out when this drunk guy beside me stands up and yells, ‘Wet T-shirt contest – yeehaw!’ And sloshes a whole mug of beer down my front. I’m not sure if he meant to spill so much beer on me but I don’t care. I stare at him, deciding on the best way to get my revenge, and then Sissy is back in focus, talking me down.

      ‘And you know, Hazel,’ she says, ‘there’s just nothing you can do with a person like that. You have to let it all roll because if you start letting those bad vibes come into your life, then you may as well give up now. You have to control everything around you so you can make your own life into what you want it to be.’

      ‘Cheers, Sissy,’ I say.

      The only time Sissy shuts up is when you cheers her. She gives me a big smile and says, ‘Cheers, baby,’ and takes a drink. I cheers Sissy a lot. If I was as nice and as patient as Sissy, I would listen to her all the time, but I’m not, so I don’t. So I cheers her and use the pause while she’s drinking to get away from the wet T-shirt guy and look for King.

      Everyone loves King, and King loves drinking games. So when he says, ‘Let’s play caps,’ you can bet that everyone is in for the fun. Right now there are ten people sitting on the hardwood floor engaged in a caps tournament to the death. The idea is that you and your partner sit across from each other and set a beer cap upside down on top of your bottles, and then you take turns shooting caps at each other’s bottle to try and knock off the cap. If someone knocks off your cap, you have to take a drink and they get another shot. The game is stupid easy. I guess all drinking games have to be stupid easy.

      There’s a specific tech to caps, a certain way to flick so that you have the aim and the force to take out the other person’s cap. I never bothered to learn it so I don’t play the game. King plays, though, and he’s also the judge of the whole floor. People in caps disputes are always yelling, ‘Hey, King, I think I should get another chance.’

      And he yells at the top of his lungs, ‘Do-over, baby!’

      King’s in a good mood tonight. When he’s not in such a good mood, he yells, ‘All’s fair in love and caps, baby!’ And there’s no do-overs for anyone.

      King’s caps partner is this chick I’ve never seen before. She keeps grinning at him and making a pouty face like a baby when she misses. He’s giving her more do-overs than anyone.

      I walk right into the middle of their game and look down at King. He grins at me and says, ‘How you doing, light of my life?’

      ‘Just checking in.’

      ‘You’re a star.’

      ‘I am,’ I say and turn to look at the girl he’s playing against. I telepathically beam my