The Lesser Blessed (4 page)

Johnny was about my height, but I had spaghetti arms and daddylonglegs. My clothes just hung on me. I wasn’t a threat to anyone and, in turn, people just looked past me when they were looking for a fight. Believe me, this was a blessing. I pulled a chair out and sat on it like a tough guy, sticking my ass out and plopping down really hard.

“How’s she going?” he asked.

“Not bad. How come you decided to call?”

Johnny’s hair was picture perfect and he wore a muscle T-shirt even though it was almost October and only two above. He took a sip
of his coffee and smiled. “Well, Lare, if you must know, the Big Kahoona has the strangest urge to hump the skinniest boy in town!”

“Oh, man,” I laughed, “you’re rude.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I’m a Leonard.”

“How’s Donny?”

“Donny’s Donny,” he said. “Guy’s already reading porno mags. I found his stash yesterday. Man, I wanted that guy to be a kid just a little bit longer.”

“Hmmm,” I said, trying to think of a way to change the subject. “Did you know that if you lie really still at night and listen to your tummy—if you just listen, you can hear all sorts of machinery?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, and if you lie there long enough your asshole will start to itch.”

“Really?”

“Really, and if your asshole starts to itch, that’s your tapeworm peeking out!”

“Ha ha!” he laughed. “You’re bent.”

“Hey,” I said. “Don’t laugh at my tapeworm. At night he comes out and we play.”

That broke the ice. We must have talked all afternoon. He told me about Hay River, the place he just came from. He went on and on about what a party town it was, and I asked why he had left.

He winked. “There was no one left to fuck.”

He went on again about how he hated Simmer and how he couldn’t wait to live with his dad when things settled down with his parents’ divorce. His dad was trying to get a job in Yellowknife, and if he got it, he was gonna come get his boys before moving on. I had a coffee and we shared a plate of fries. After the conversation that afternoon, we were inseparable.

“Take your tongue out of my mouth,” he said.

“I’m trying to kiss you good-bye.”

The ketchup bottle farted onto the plate.

“When are you going to get us a moose?” my mom asked. She had already downed half a pot of coffee.

“Take it easy. I just got up.”

“When Jed gets here I want you two to go hunting.”

“What? The last time we went hunting I almost got shot in the ass!”

“Larry, he didn’t know he had dropped shells by the fire. They were in his shirt pocket and fell out. Give him a break.”

“So he says!”

“Larry, I’m serious. Get us a moose or some caribou.”

“We’ll see,” I said. “We’ll see.”

Don’t ask me why, but every high school across the land has had at one time or another an initiation process. Some schools call it Hazing. I call it Hell. At our school, all new students and teachers had to go on stage and be auctioned off like slaves. The money was raised for the graduating class and paid for the dance and booze. A lot of yard work got done throughout the town and a lot of cars got cleaned, but any survivor of the ordeal would tell you a lot of grievances got settled that week and a lot of kids got hurt. Johnny Beck, newcomer to town, was the hottest commodity to come to Fort Simmer in a long time.

I had already gone through my slave day when I entered the school in grade eight. Garth Chaplin bought me. I had to paint the ten-inch cock on the eight-foot plastic horse on top of Harv’s Resort a lovely lullaby red. What was I thinking? Trauma, that’s what.

The slave auction was held about a month after school got settled. By that time, people had already made up their minds who they wanted. I think half the school wanted Johnny. The other half wanted
Sean McMannus, Darcy’s younger brother. Because they couldn’t beat up Darcy and they suffered under his rule, his younger brother was a heat-score. And you can bet that whoever got him would make him suffer.

I got there after the auction was already rolling. The gymnasium was alive with yelling and laughter. People were throwing their hands in the air trying to attract the eyes of the judges while the silent lambs waited up on stage to be led off. I sat back and watched people buy and claim souls. I saw people get ugly when they were outbid and I saw the guppy eyes of the lambs widen when they saw who they had been sold to. I kept thinking what a tragic waste of energy and love it was. After all, I could have been doing it doggy-style!

It was about an hour before they brought out Johnny. It was no mistake he was the last to be sold. His hands were tied and his shirt was off for the slavelike effect. People roared and cheered when he was led out onto the stage. The lights were turned down throughout the gymnasium and the spotlight focussed on him. He glared at the audience.

“All right, buyers and sellers of souls,” called the auctioneer, “we have before us the young man who’s raised a lot of eyebrows lately, coming from Hay River and attending grade eleven. Let’s give Johnny Beck a warm welcome.”

The floor and walls shook. People were stomping their feet and whistling all around me.

The auctioneer smiled and said, “Let’s start the bidding.”

The lights were turned on and people fell silent. They were reaching into their pockets and striking bets.

“Do I hear ten dollars?” the auctioneer called.

“Twelve dollars!” somebody shouted.

“Ooooooooooooo,” the crowd responded, and we all laughed.

“Do I hear fifteen?”

“Twenty!” someone hollered. The bidding had begun.

People who were broke or satisfied with their purchases left for
deeds that needed to be done. There were quite a few of us left, though, mostly people with their arms crossed eyeing the buyers.

The price rose and rose. People stomped off mad and sweaty when the pot got too high, and soon it was at a hundred and ten dollars.

“Do I hear a hundred and fifteen?”

We all looked around. A hundred and fifteen? This was a record.

“A hundred and fifteen!” somebody called from the back of the gym. It was Darcy McMannus. He stood in his old Timber Wolves jacket with his thick moose cock jutting under his track pants. His big ape face had a smile on it that was the meanest I’ve ever seen.

“A hundred and twenty!” another voice called out. We all craned our necks and stood up to see who it was. It was Mister Harris, standing by the water fountain. His smile wasn’t as big as Darcy’s but it was just as ugly.

The auctioneer howled, “Do I hear a hundred and thirty?”

“One hundred and forty!”

“One hundred and fifty!”

“One hundred and fifty-five!”

“One hundred and sixty!”

“One hundred and sixty-five!”

Our goose-necks were snapping left and right trying to keep up with the haggling. When it got to one hundred and ninety-five, we all looked at Darcy. He stood alone. I could tell he was broke. His knuckles were white and his jaw tensed. He turned and slammed the gym door behind him.

We looked at Mister Harris. He pulled out his chequebook and ran his hand over his scalp.

“A hundred and ninety-five going once,” the auctioneer yelled. There was a pause. Mister Harris was the last bidder. It looked like he might get Johnny after all.

“Going twice—”

“Two hundred!” a girl’s voice called out. This time, we all stood on our chairs to see who it was. We fell silent. It was Juliet Hope.

Juliet stood off to the side of the crowd, right where Darcy had been. She was carrying her black purse and wearing her tight black pants, the ones I liked her in best. She had on a light blue shirt that wasn’t tucked in, which was a shame because it meant we couldn’t see her ass, and her ass was a marvellous thing. It was not an ass that you could honour with words. If you’ve ever seen sand dunes in the Sahara, that was her ass. It was not a bubble butt (which is protruding) or a bannock butt (which is flat); instead, it was an ass that sank into the legs after a brief but admirable lift. My hands ached and sang for the chance to grab it!

P.S.

I heard she liked it doggy-style!

But, alas, enough of her ass. It’s really her face I want to talk about. Juliet Hope was white and pure. She had the face of an angel, with dark green eyes the colour of grass on a rainy day. She could suck a man dry with those eyes of hers—and her teeth! They were perfect and straight, and her lips, oh her lips, were thin but erotic. After the nuclear war, when we all turned cannibal and started to eat one another, she would not be involved. Her mouth and teeth would not eat dead things. She would be above all that.

I have never understood women and their noses. Personally, I have a huge nose. It’s quite bionic when you see it from the side. But girls have these perfect noses, petite, and Juliet’s was no exception. Her skin was perfect, not like mine. No blemishes, no greasy forehead, no cracks or lizard skin. There was only her, Juliet. And I adored her seven dreams deep.

If you’ve ever heard “High School Confidential” by Rough Trade, it was written for Juliet Hope. She stood about five foot four and her feet were small, like the porcelain-perfect feet of Jesus on the cross. She wore men’s shirts that were too big for her, and her dark brown
hair was as light as the air that lifted it. She had trimmed it a while ago and kept it loose, to the bottoms of her shoulder blades.

When Juliet was standing off school property, having a smoke, I’d watch her from my English, French and Social Studies classrooms. Every time I went to a dance, I sat where I could see her. When she bent over in her miniskirt to snub out her smoke, I would sit up and moan. When I spied her taking a breath, I breathed deep and held it like a child or a memory. If only she’d show me her breasts, she would make my life’s journey so much easier.

In school, Juliet sat like a boy: legs spread, leaning back. In the halls she strutted like an on-duty lifeguard. If she ever decided to put out all the fires she’d started, all the boys would be using crutches. Speaking of which, when I first came here, Juliet was on crutches. I heard a girl saying on the bus that the reason Juliet had to use them was because she had herpes. I never believed it, though. I never did.

A pause from the auctioneer brought me back to the gym. I guess I had faded away and had a series of minor strokes.

“Sold!” he yelled. “It’s all over but the crying! My name is Kevin Garner. That concludes this year’s Slave Day Auction. Get fucked, get laid, mony mony!”

Holy shit. Everybody laughed and howled. I couldn’t believe he had said that. But there were no teachers left. They’d waddled off to the staff room to bloat and stink and die.

Johnny was led offstage to where Juliet stood smiling and happy. As he put on his white T-shirt, I saw Juliet blushing and checking him out. I mean, her eyes touched him all the way up and all the way down. Johnny looked serious as he walked up to her, and she said something to him that made him smile. Somebody said that she paid cash for him and would have paid more.

Because my love for Juliet has claimed me, I must tell you more. She had a reputation for being easy. I heard her called every name in the book. Clarence Jarome once told me in gym class that you could
get the dose just by looking at her. Girls talked about her in hushed tones and boys dragged her name out real slow, but to me she was like the first crocus of spring, a gift for everyone.

She was the first girl in grade school to swear at a teacher, break up with a boy and wear make-up. Like 98 per cent of the school population, she was into drugs and alcohol, but it was who she partied with that gave her a reputation. She partied with guys like Darcy “Hose Cock” McMannus and Jazz the Jackal in places across the Alberta border where you could drink without showing ID. Everyone agreed they were pretty cool for trekking all the way out there to get hamburgered. (That’s Raven talk for “drunk.”)

I think in another life I was a great Dogrib hunter who had Juliet in my sights. She was a white caribou, pure. I believe I let her go out of respect and awe.

That night I walked down to where Old Man Ferguson kept his dogs, and with my feet I created two incredible hearts in the snow. I’m talking as big as Miami. I had to jump across the outline of the hearts to make letters inside them, and I did a little jig when I was finished. One heart said, “JED + MOM T.L.F.E.” with a huge arrow slicing through it. T.L.F.E. equalled “True Love Forever.” The other heart, the bigger one, said, “LARRY + JULIET T.I.D.” T.I.D. equalled “True If Destroyed.”

T.I.D. was a subclause in the contract of love. It meant that any act of God, dog or melting that destroyed the snow I drew the heart on would make it so. With that, I prayed that a squirrel would run across the heart or a spruce bough would fall upon it or an owl would butcher something, anything, in the middle of the heart to break the spell and make it real.

Johnny had that “Hello! I just fucked your wife!” smile on his face the next day when he waltzed into the locker room. All the boys surrounded him.

“C’mon, man,” Moustache Sammy said, “we saw what happened yesterday. How was she? Is she a scratcher or a screamer?”

“Yeah,” Leon pried. “Come on.”

Johnny smiled slyly. “Gentlemen, she was pretty decent.”

Clarence Jarome watched him. “Nice buds or what?”

Johnny tilted his head back, smiled, and flicked up both thumbs. “Playboy.”

“Ya hoo!” we yelled. “All right! Way to go.”

Johnny marched around the locker room in full plume glory. His feathered hair was bouncing with him and his blue eyes glittered with glee. He looked at me and winked; I hollered louder than anyone else and followed the king as he strutted out the door.

When I saw Juliet in the hallway by her locker, I stopped. She had so many purple hickeys on her neck it looked as if someone had tried to strangle her. I turned and walked away.

Nice fuckin’ deal...