Provider's Son (9 page)

“I better get back in the security office,” Jon said. “That wont be the last busload.”

“Yeah, I guess Ill dart back to me room,” Levi said. “Im missing me shed more every day.”

“I wonder what a rocking chair carving would look like?” Jon asked.

“A what?”

“A rocking chair piece. It might work. Ive always wanted to try working art. Something that is beautiful but practical, like your rocking chairs. Theres a real flow to your chairs. It looks as if theyre all one piece. Something that followed the flow of the grain could work. I dont mean the usual flowers and leaves, but something different. Something human.”

Levi pictured the last rocking chair he finished, the one with the walnut splats, with intricately carved designs interwoven with the grain. No. The crest rail was the best place for carvings. And the legs. Yes. The legs. That would work. The carvings on the crest rail would have to part in the center where the head rested back. He liked art, but would never sacrifice practicality. A rocking chair is made to be rocked in. The designs could run across the crest rail, and seeing as the carvings had to follow the grain anyway it would work.

“I think itd be spot on,” Levi said.

“Yeah, we should try it sometime,” Jon said, but Levi couldnt tell if he was just being polite.

Music and Friends

It was Friday and Will Walters would be playing at the bar that night. Or so Caprice the bartender told Levi as he sipped on his beer. She looked somewhat native but her blue eyes confused him. He could not help looking at her behind every time she got a beer.

Back home he had never gone drinking after work. A good drunk on the weekend was well enough, but the stress of this job for the last week made him make that right turn into the bar every day after he got a shower and ate his supper. If he were home it would have been out the door and to his workshop, back to the grain.

The job itself wasn't hard at all. It was the embarrassment of being a middle-aged welder's helper, and his fear of heights that came with it, that made him consider quitting every day. As a fisherman he was an old hand, experienced and confident in not only his abilities, but his very identity. To go from that to handing welding rods and carrying around tools for a journeyman all day was almost more than he could bear. He had managed to get Anita on the phone the night before, and told her about how he was feeling on the job. She had been the only person with whom he talked to about his problems for over the last twenty years, and even though she had betrayed him, he still needed to talk to her. She understood, but not really, as most women don't understand how important it is for a man to feel admired, or at least respected, by other men.

The same men sat at the bar every day. They were all white like himself, even though Camp Wisti had people from around the world.

“You wouldnt believe the fucking pigs in this place,” Morey from Ontario was telling Caprice.

“Oh I can believe it,” Caprice said. “I work here dont I?”

“You know what I had to do today?” he said, his words slurring even more than usual for this time in the day. “I had to clean shit off of a stall wall. I almost quit.”

Caprice laughed. “Id love to see you scraping shit off a wall.”

Levi felt sorry for Caprice having to pretend to listen to men like Morey day after day. In truth, however, she didn't pretend very hard. But either way, she was forced to hear it.

“The Newfies are the dirtiest,” Morey said to Caprice.

“I finds that hard to believe,” said Levi.

“Call them as I see them, buddy.”

“Whats your background anyway?”

“Im a real Canadian, born in Brampton, Ontario. Or fucking Bramladesh, as it should be called now. Those stinking pakis got the place took over. Im moving north soon. Cant take it.”

“I suppose Im a squaw when Im not standing in front of you,” Caprice said. Four men standing near the pool table glanced over.

“No,” Morey said, grinning. “You are whether youre standing in front of me or not.”

Caprice reached over the snatched the beer out of his hand. “Get the fuck out.”

“Im just kidding, Caprice. Come on.”

“If I wanted I could get you kicked out of this camp for that. Get out.”

“I apologize. Seriously. Its been a bad day.”

“Get out!”

“You know I love you.”

“GET OUT!”

Morey got off his stool and walked out, sulking like a child with each step towards the door.

As soon as Morey left the angry expression melted off Caprice's face and she giggled. “Finally, an excuse to get him out of here.”

Levi looked surprised.

“You think I havent been called a squaw before? I just wanted to get rid of him. Comes in here every day with the same boring stories, and I have to listen to it. Hopefully hell stay away now.”

“So if I called you a squaw you wouldnt care?”

“Id bitch slap you across that barstool. What if I called you Dumb Newfie?”

“Im sure you do when Im not around.”

“No.”

“Youve never uttered the words ‘dumb Newfie.'”

She giggled. “Not very often. Not towards you. Dont try to tell me youve never used the word ‘squaw' before.”

“Honestly, Ive never used that word.”

“Newfie is not the same anyway. Theres no skin colour attached to it. The only thing attached to it is bad moustaches. Ha!”

“Bad moustaches?”

“Yeah, like yours. Lot of cute guys from Newfoundland, but whats with the moustaches? You look like cops and eighties porn stars.”

“You got your culture. We got ours.”

“Youre not a bad-looking guy for an old fart, but you would look a lot younger if you shaved that soup strainer off.”

Levi felt heat in his cheeks. “Would I now. Everything comes full circle. One of these days youll be seeing rock stars with big moustaches again. ‘Old fart'...Jesus, Im only in me fifties.”

Will Walters came in the bar at seven o'clock. Everyone watched him as he took his instruments out of the cases. He was a popular Newfoundland folk singer in the seventies, but alcohol had gotten the best of him, and only in the last ten years when he had gone clean had he been making somewhat of a comeback. He was a one man band, with music that was a blend of traditional, Irish, and Americana. And even though he showed every one of his years, and perhaps a few more, he looked content as he went about his business.

Gradually the men came through the door, and once in a while a woman. At nine o'clock the bar was packed. Sinead showed up with Jon and a fellow co-worker. Levi sat with them.

“So youve already met Jon,” Sinead said. “No need for introductions.”

“Jonathan actually,” he said, “but people wont stop calling me Jon.”

In the bar there were ten times as many women as usual, but still less than Levi expected for something like this. After all, F dorm was the women's dorm, and it was full, not including those who drove in from Fort McMurray, and the co-ed camp crew dorms. For an industry dominated by men Levi was surprised by the amount of women, and good-looking women, he saw in the hallways. Apparently most of them stayed in their rooms at night. Not that he could blame them.

Will struck up one of his more popular, humorous songs, Riding The Pogey Express, and all the Newfoundlanders, which was the majority of the audience, flooded the dance floor. Sinead kept trying to drag Jon out on the floor, but he wouldn't budge. Levi would have enjoyed the song had he been back home, but on the mainland he felt embarrassed by it. Did he really need to sing that here? One of Sinead's coworkers took her hand but Sinead held back, saying she was too tired. Her friend didn't give up though, and finally Sinead gave in, looking back nervously at Levi and Jon as she went out.

“Did you finish your carving, the basket?”

“Not quite.”

And that was all either said until Sinead came back to the table.

“So what do you drink?” Levi said to Jon, noticing that he was almost finished the cooler he was nursing.

“Jon is not much of a drinker,” Sinead said.

“Oh,” Levi said, “good for you then.” He tried to hide the condescension in his voice, but it came through anyway.

“I can drink,” Jon said. “I just dont like the hangovers.”

“Have a shot with me then,” Levi said, signalling Caprice, who happened to be walking by. “The mix is what gives you the hangover.”

“No, Dad,” Sinead said, waving her away.

“Why not,” Jon said, signalling Caprice back.

“Do you want a fucking shot or not?” Caprice said.

“Yes,” Jon said, “give me two shots of Sourpuss.”

“Ill pay for that,” Levi said, handing over two twenties. “Give us two rounds.”

“What about me?” Sinead said.

“Youve had enough already, by the looks of it,” Levi said.

“No doubt old man. I could drink you under the table any day.”

“Drink an alcoholic like me under the table? I dare say.”

“I didnt call you an alcoholic.”

Caprice handed over the four shots and Levi and Jon downed them in succession, handing back the empty shot glasses.

“Sure theres nothing in that!” Levi said. “Tasted like sour candy. Here Caprice, give us a round of tequila. A mans drink.”

“What, no Newfie Screech?” Jon said.

“The only people drinks that is the tourists.”

“Its called
Newfoundland
Screech now,” Sinead said.

Caprice handed over the round.

“What about the lemon and salt?” Sinead said.

“Dont be so foolish!” Levi said.

Levi forced it down without flinching, even though he wanted to gag. Jon tried to put on a brave face as well as he threw it in the back of his mouth, but his eyelids fluttered helplessly as it went down his throat.

“How was that?” Levi asked. “Better than that old Piss-ass.”

“Sourpuss.”

“Whatever.”

“Not bad,” Jon said. “A bit yeasty for my tastes.”

Levi laughed. Sinead was still staring at Jon in shock. “Jon, youre not going to be able to keep up with Dad.”

Levi was proud of her warning at first, but it would bother him later.

It might have looked like a normal bar, but it wasn't. It closed at eleven pm. In the real world eleven was when most people started calling cabs to go out. Here, people either got drunk before they went to the bar, drank too quickly at the bar, or hardly drank at all. Regardless, everyone there had to get up early the next morning. There are no Sabbaths in the oil sands.

After the tequila settled Levi felt new energy buzzing through his bones. And with that an urgent need to get out on the floor. Will struck up one of his two-steps and Levi took his daughter out. A two-step was difficult to navigate on the floor, however, with seven other pairs doing the same thing, and all in random directions.

“So did you guys talk at all?” Sinead said as they waltzed about the dance floor.

“A bit,” Levi said. “I dont think hes that fond of me anyway.”

“Hes just a bit shy.”

“Oh come on now, Sinead. He might be quiet but hes not shy.”

“Believe me, under the surface, he is. Hes a bit defensive too. I think when you asked him about the drink he probably thought you were inferring something.”

“Jesus, Im not allowed to ask a Indian if he wants a drink?”

“I know, Dad, but just put yourself in his shoes...and they dont really liked being called ‘Indians,' by the way. Native or aboriginal.”

Levi scoffed. “I cant keep up with that political correct stuff, Sinead. I read the word ‘Indian' in books when I was in school, so it cant be that bad.”

“Dad, the history books you had in school were Anglo-Saxon trash.”

“Anglo-what?”

“Never mind. Listen, just be careful about those kinds of things around Jon, will you?”

“What, is you embarrassed of your old man?”

“No Dad.”

As soon as they returned to the table Sinead was dragged to the floor again by another friend.

“So what kind of wood do you work with?” Jon asked Levi.

“I started off using anything I could get me hands on, but except white birch Newfoundland dont have a lot of great hardwoods for furniture. And birch dont hold stains very good. You almost got to paint it. Most of me wood I gets from the store.

And thats usually white oak from the mainland. You?”

“Well, the go-to for carvers is basswood, but I like to branch out sometimes, try different things. A nice traditional Alberta wood like say…”

“Lodgepole pine?”

“Yes.”

“You make them dream catchers, and stuff like that too? I got one in the truck. The wife bought it for me.”

“That tacky junk is made to sell to white trash in souvenir shops.”

“I hope that dont mean Im white trash?”

“No. Im just telling the truth. I make real art, not souvenirs.”

“Telling the truth about what?”

“About that whole industry.”

“Well, whats your problem with me then?”

Jon took a sip of the beer that Levi bought for him.

“Its not so much with you, Levi, as it is with...all of you, as a whole.”

“What, Newfies?”

“No...Canadians. Those here anyway.”

“I dont know if you took notice, but Sinead is a Canadian...I think you might be one too, if Im not mistaken there young fella.”

“No. Im a Native, a descendant of a First Nation. And I said as a whole about Canadians. Not individuals.”

“Oh, I see,” Levi said.

“This whole place is a fucking disgrace,” Jon said, swinging his arm around.

“Well, its a bit of a dive, but what do you expect in a camp.”

“Im not talking about the bar. Im talking about everything here. The camp, the project, all of it.”