After a long hot day in the sun, roasting on a roof at 30+ degrees Celsius, Chuck hit the button, and the window of his medium-metallic blue minivan rolled down. The air conditioning wasn’t functioning, and he didn’t want to spend a hundred and eighty bucks for re-charging.
He could taste the flavour of a day’s work as he drove. From that first cup of tea at five-thirty a.m., to the Blim Blorton’s coffee, a large double-double on the ride to London. From there; to the coffee out of the urn at his brother and sister in-law’s place; and the pizza slices for lunch, and the doughnuts at nine a.m. and three-thirty p.m.
A half a dozen doobies, and thirty or so cigarettes. The taste of asphalt, the taste of insulation. The taste of blood, sweat and toil. The taste of grit, washed down with warm water from a plastic jug. The smell of sweat wasn’t overly discernable, but the feel of dried sweat, the damp and tacky feel of the shirt in the armpits and chest areas was a reminder. His nose was full of crust by the end of the day, and probably not working too well.
This time of year, there was often frost on the roof first thing in the morning. On bare plywood, it was very slippery. But you wore long johns, double socks, four or five shirts and sweaters. You warmed up pretty quick. Later, when the sun came out, if you were in a valley oriented to the sun, it got real hot in a big hurry. Sometimes you would peel off a few layers.
Sometimes he brought his shorts and changed in the truck. To be too hot was just plain irritating. Bru absolutely despised the tickle of a ball of sweat, hanging on the end of his nose, wobbling back and forth as he tried to do something.
Such was the lot of a roofer. Yet he liked it well enough. He sucked on a skinned knuckle. That one would heal just fine. When the edges sealed up and began to heal, you had to make sure to let the pus out once in a while. Basically just lift up the edge of the scab with the tip of a clean pocketknife and push out the pus.
Cruising out of London’s north end on his way home, he used the cell phone to make a call. He felt like a good son, although he hated talking on the phone in traffic. After thirty rings or so, as he held on and gritted his teeth, finally the old man answered. Bru glanced at the dash clock as he greeted his father.
“I’ll be home by about six or six-thirty,” Bru reported.
The elder Brubaker hemmed and hawed.
“That’s all right, and I’ll wait until you get here before I start cooking,” the old man finally managed.
Spaghetti night, Bru recalled.
Fuck, why not start now?
But he kept silent.
“There were a couple of cops around here asking about you,” his father told him in a stronger, more lucid voice as his post-nap grogginess dissipated.
“What?” grunted Chuck, unsure if he had heard correctly. “Did they have a warrant? A piece of paper?”
“They said someone was worried about you,” Mr. Brubaker told him clearly, although Chuck’s ears always had a hard time with cell phones.
The wind noise and the sounds of other vehicles interfered with comprehension; and added a level of stress.
“Aw, for fuck’s sakes,” groaned Brubaker. “Okay. I’ll call them and see what it’s about.”
His dad made noises.
“Anyhow, I’ll be home in any case. And don’t worry,” he told his dad in as strong and confident a tone as he could muster.
Then he rang off, mind racing.
“Jesus, fucking, Christ,” he muttered. “That fucking waste-of-skin doctor.”
He briefly considered staying in London. But he simply couldn’t do it. Think of how upset his dad would be. Think of how worried his mom and step-dad would be; or his kid sister Diane, (hard to believe she was hitting forty next month.) He was hit with some kind of inspiration. A man has rights, doesn’t he? Pulling over, he made another quick call.
Predictably, he got a secretary just leaving the office.
“Mr. Hendricks was in court today. He’ll be long gone by now,” the middle-aged female voice advised. “But I will try and contact him.”
Chuck gave her his number and waited by the side of the road, thinking furiously.
What the hell could he do? They’d stick him in for three days for sure, maybe longer.
But he seemed to remember that it took a board hearing or something to keep you any longer than what; ninety days?
“Fucking hell,” he groaned, guts rumbling with hunger and other things.
Within seven or eight minutes his phone rang.
“Hello? Mr. Hendricks?” he asked.
After the briefest of courtesies, they got down to the point.
“I think they have one of those Ministry of Health forms for me,” he told the man, his attorney in a minor brush with the law on a previous occasion.
“Why do you think they’re after you?” asked the lawyer.
“Fuck, Bruce! I just went to the doctor and asked for some pills. I’ve been depressed for like a year and a half, but I went to the man for help. I don’t know what the hell his problem is.”
“You pretty much have to go with them,” Bruce Hendricks said. “Anyway, if you have any other problems give us a call, and uh; maybe in the future, you should be a little more careful of what you tell your doctor!”
Then he rang off.
The decision was Chuck’s and Chuck’s alone.
“Aw, for Christ’s sakes,” he said as he fired up the motor and put it in gear.
Chuck was getting tired of this shit, and that was putting it mildly. Dr. Blatherie, he was at the walk-in clinic. Brubaker would never go back to his old family doctor. Not after that last episode. But he had more important things on his mind right now. Poor Brubaker had a lot to think about, as he drove the hundred and thirty-two kilometres to his home town.
Raging and yelling at the dashboard, he fought against the urge to turn around and go back to London. He calmed himself down as he entered the Lennox surface streets from the superhighway.
He parked in the driveway, shuddering inwardly.
Sure enough, his old man met him at the door.
“Can I have a smoke?” he asked, and Bru impatiently handed him the pack from his left shirt pocket. “Are you going to call the cops?”
“After my shower, I will,” responded Bru in a determined, yet morose fashion.
“I’ll start supper,” the old man said. “As soon as I finish my smoke.”
Might as well, figured Brubaker. It would keep the old man busy. There was no telling if he would actually get to eat it or not. Still, the old man had to eat, being a diabetic and all. He chucked his grubby work clothes onto the laundry room floor and headed for the shower.
By the time he dried off and dressed, the aroma of tomato sauce and hot steam from the kitchen made the place so steamy; it felt like he was back up on the roof again. He reached for the phone, and dialed it. Suddenly his mother was at the door! At that exact moment, the dispatcher came on the line. Cheryl was taking off her coat, putting her shoes by the door, and waiting for her hug. She was suddenly bug-eyed by the one-sided conversation.
“It’s Chuck Brubaker. You sent a couple of officers around to my house today…yes, I’ll wait…”
“Chuck!” she gaped. “Oh, honey, are you in trouble! Have you done something?”
“Argh!”
He waved her away with impatience.
He wasn’t having a good day anymore.
“Where are you calling from, sir?” the dispatcher asked.
“I’m at home,” he told her in resignation.
“The officers will attend to your residence shortly,” she said.
“I know,” said Brubaker, in a kind of quiet, Canadian desperation. “I know.”
Chapter Six
A few weeks previously; the professor took a walk…