Blame it on the Wind Chill

Chapter 14

There’s a saying, somewhere, about shopping being retail therapy for the innate posessionistas in all of us. I guess to some a nice sparkly calfskin clutch is a bigger stimulant than a mattress’ worth of trafficked methamphetamine. Or so I’ve heard.

I don’t get it.

And I’m in no way defending my sexuality or masculinity or willing to eat a raw steak in order to prove something stupid and juvenile. There’s something about browsing through a glass panelled hell hole that makes me feel uncomfortable sometimes. Also, I don’t share an affinity for Sue Sylvester track suits with a certain balding uncle under whose roof I currently seek shelter. Who I should probably not ridicule so much if I want to keep such privileges.

Even as a teenager I’ve never been as much into apparel as certain Eminem and Jersey Shore wannabes I see pimping around Anaheim all the time. Bobby Ryan tries. Although to me, Mike Sorrentino more resembles a middle-aged Italian leather-faced fresco dealer than a style icon to America’s high school dropout statistics.

But this situation is different.

No, I’m not trying to pick out fancy négligée things for a girlfriend’s Valentine’s Day present. I hated that, despite the rewards I got to reap. Instead, I’m standing alone in the back of the Beer Store and shifting from one foot to another, not awkwardly at all, as I browse the various lagers and ales surrounding me. It’s all Greek to me. Or, well, Canadian.

So this is nothing like clothes shopping, yet the confusion is all the same. This really should be an easy in-and-out task one does subconsciously on the way home from a shit day at work. Should be, I say, but I’m still underage in America where I’m spending most of my days, or should be, so what do I know?

I like beer. Not in excessive Canadian-women’s-hockey-celebration amounts, but it’s fun for teenage partying ways and occasional sorrow drowning as you watch your favourite sports team take a nosedive on the standings. However, as a first time buyer I’m experiencing a little anxiety and the search for the perfect beer is a little harder than figuring out where in the world is Carmen Sandiego. It kind of makes me feel like Raffi Torres in a china shop, and I definitely don’t want to get the wrong label and have myself labelled as an American square, and all in all…

God, I feel like a virgin.

Touching for the very first time, I reach for a case of Heinekin. Familiar enough. Then I remember Travis jokingly saying something about Heinekin being “so shit it should be illegal” and I kind of wish I could go quickly on ratebeer.com for some advice from the professionals, but that’d be even more pathetic than the fact that I still hoard Mr. Rogers VHS tapes from my early childhood. I don’t even know why. Where in the hell would I find a VCR to play them these days?

I see Coors, Budweiser, Muskoka, and a lot of foreign European brewers I won’t even try to pronounce. A lot of precocious imported stuff. Then there’s gluten free and low carb—I think that’s what Uncle Eric needs.

Accidentally backing into the ghetto cardboard homemade wet floor sign: Caution, bitches be trippin’, I see Becky coming in. She pushes where it says pull before finally spotting the quite obscure fine print. She finds me in the emo corner, trying not to be awkward or suspicious and frankly failing at it, not that the dozing manager seems to care.

“What is taking you so long?” she says impatiently, shivers, and presses her shoulder to my side. “Are you still trying to decide what to get?” She throws her gloved hands in the air. “Eenie meenie miney mo, Curly, and let’s get on with it. Pronto!” I see a plastic bag of takeout containers cradled in her arms. “Like, my ass is real cold,” she whispers candidly like it’s supposed to magically aid me in The Decision and speed up this natural selection process or something.

“Typically is this time of year,” I retort evenly and smile, given how she laughs.

She adjusts her scarf and sticks out her tongue childishly. “Whatever. I would just get the Molson Canadian. It’s standard stuff, strong enough to give you a buzz…but not to the point that Phil Kessel starts to look like a little Amish girl…it happens. ” She nods towards it, offering some advice at last. “We don’t care, really. I think Devan likes Labatt Blue and I mean it’s great for oiling the vocal chords so you can roar on your hockey team, but the aftertaste is too much.”

“Right,” I laugh, not really knowing what to make of that, other than the fact that Canadians really know beer and hockey. “You guys are all underage aren’t you?”

Shrugging and arching an eyebrow ever so slightly, “What are you talking about? My fake ID says I’m twenty,” she winks. I give her a disbelieving look. “Okay, no. I’m eighteen in about a month. Everyone else is already an eligible voter, so it’s not that bad.” Like there’s no harm as being a little bit illegal. “Well, except for Jodie,” she remembers, rolling her eyes. I won’t ask about that again. “She’s the youngest. We’ll some girly wine coolers for her.”

I like wine coolers.

“Are you sure it’s okay though?” I don’t know why I keep pressing, maybe not so much that I care we’re breaking a few laws tonight, but more to pick a banter with her. I wonder if she’s getting that vibe, too.

“In the provinces of Prince Edward Island, Alberta, British Columbia, Ontario and Saskatchewan, an individual who has not yet attained the legal drinking age in Canada, may consume alcohol at home, only under the supervision of a parent or an adult guardian,” she recites exasperated from memory, reminding me of a certain crusty stewardess on American Airlines.

I surprised she knows Canadian law like I don’t know my own Constitution. Okay, I’m not that smart. “I shall stand on guard for thee then.”

“Thank you,” she smiles curtly like it’s settled. She picks up a fancy bottle of Malt liquor. “Who the hell drinks malt anyway?” she says to no in particular, thinking out loud and sets it down with a thud.

“Like, I just feel weird about it all. Isn’t it illegal distribution of some sort?” I’m usually a pretty tame guy. No Staal family bachelor parties for me, not lately, anyway. And I’d like to keep my image as squeaky clean as the Stanley Cup in May since it is only my rookie year.

“Maybe,” she taps a finger on her chin. “But screw the system, right? No? Well, technically you have to be nineteen to drink in Ontario, but it’s eighteen in Quebec and if it’s good enough for the Francophones, it’s good enough for me. That’s the way I see it. And as for you, Cam, I thought you’d be eager to exercise your rights of being newly ninteen.” I must look surprised or something because then she says, “You just celebrated your nineteenth right?”

Yeah, but how do you know?

“December fifth,” declares Becky without blinking, in a freakish Long Island medium way. “Of course I remember. I remember everything.” Smiling, she slightly pinches my cheek in a condescending way and I’m wondering if that’s her way of letting me know she still sees me as that mischievous kid who was blacklisted by Santa for more than a few years in a row.

We’re walking down the aisle—not like that, but you know what I mean. “The first time I had alcohol I was five,” she tells me and I like that she’s warming up to me, even if it is alcohol that brings us together. “I remember we were eating spicy wings on the patio and I accidentally downed my father’s shot of vodka. Needless to say, I was pretty much Patrick Kane in the Cup parade all evening.” I laugh. That’s bad.

“So my dad pulls me aside and tells me, ‘don’t say anything to mom’ and that one day when I’m old enough he’ll give me the combination to the liquor cabinet in the basement. How messed up is that?”

“He sounds mad cool,” I admit honestly, wishing that my own father was as laissez-faire growing up. Then again, what my dad lacked in bad fathering Uncle Eric always made up for, not always in ways that were appreciated.

For a second she looks distant, like she’s thinking really hard about something while a faraway glance freezes over her face. “I guess,” she says wistfully, turning towards me. “Still waiting on that combo.”

We go to checkout where a red-eyed kid man with a rather noticeable brown stain on his white t-shirt a size too small appears to be falling asleep. He’s smiling stupidly which I assume means he’s probably dreaming about Playboy’s latest spread. Or he’s stoned, considering the part of town we’re in.

“Hey bud,” I greet, to which there is no response. I give Becky an ironic shrug. “Uh, buddy, wake up.” I rap my knuckles on the counter, which gives him a bit of a jolt.

“Heeeeeeey,” he responds slowly, stifling a yawn. “WhacanIdoferyouuuuu?” he slurs unintelligibly. I stand with my mouth hanging open for a beat. The man immediately seems to sober up and clears his throat quickly. “What can I do for you?” he says again in a completely different tone.

“Just a two-four of Molson,” I happily chirp, wondering if this guy is buying that I’m Canadian by my proper use of their lingo. I speak your language, brother.

I see the amused look on Becky’s face beside me. Leaning in close, she whispers against my ear, “Two-four! How clever. Way to go above and beyond the call of duty.” I feel her lip graze below my hairline as she pulls away.

I try, I mouth, giving myself a proud pat on the back.

I open my wallet, expecting to see a neat double rainbow, but instead find my crumpled green bills. “Shit. I’m sorry. I totally forgot…” I facepalm and gesture wildly to Becky, a little embarrassed.

“I got it,” she says with a wave of her hand and reaching for her own wallet before I even get half my words out, almost like she expected this to happen. “I’ll pay with my Monopoly money.”

“I owe you a drink.” This is not cool. Way to go, Fowler.

“Yes, you do,” she agrees and I wonder if she’s aware what I’m implying—that I’m making plans to see her again, perhaps one-on-one. “Twenty four of them.” She narrows her almond shaped eyes and I have a bad feeling she’s never going to let me live this one down.

I mock her pout, only when I do it, it doesn’t translate nearly as cute. “You sure you can handle that?”

“I’m free to be as drunk as I want following another Maple Leafs loss,” she jokes, referring to Leaf Nation’s bluesy and for some reason, optimistic anthem. “You owe me though,” she says on a serious note as she pays. “Plus whatever HST where applicable.”

Canadian tax is killer, I know that. “The tax in this country makes me so cheesed sometimes, you don’t even know,” the man jumps in, rolling his eyes and I nod. “You tell it to your American friend,” he says to Becky. “I just got the new simplified tax form for 2010. It was like, Number one: How much money did you make this year? Number two: Send it to us. Greedy bastards, I tell you. BASTARDS.”

“Yeah, times are hard,” Becky agrees, chuckling at his serious, stir-crazy expression. “Thanks pal.”

“Enjoy,” he winks, handing the case to me.

“Wait a second,” I interrupt, then I’m cursing myself for always being so extra. “You’re not going to card me?”

This time both he and Becky laugh like I just told them the I think the Leafs are going to make the playoffs this year. Something ridiculous. “Oh no,” he laughs heartily. “You’re funny. Don’t worry about it. I know you.” He looks me up and down and his face turns somewhat sour for a nanosecond, perhaps realizing that I’m an enemy to him and his country, hockey-wise. “And I know her and she’s twenty.” We all laugh at this and I’m starting to wonder if they really know each other or if it’s just a Canadian joke of some sort.

“Wazzup, girrrrrl?” he turns to Becky, drumming his fingers idlely, and I suppose they really do know each other. “Game today.”

“I know, Sully.” She pats the case of beer and that pretty much says it all. “Still jamming these days?”

“Everyday I’m hustlin’,” he sings before taking out two random drumsticks out of nowhere and starting to bang away at everything while beatboxing as we’re leaving out the door.

“You know that guy?” I ask once we’re outside and the cold air hits me like a charging Shea Weber.

“Yes, he used to hold the stop sign in front of my middle school. And before that he dealt crack around my elementary school. We go way back. You should see his YouTube cover of Smell Yo Dick. He’s a hit alright.”

Yeah, good to know.

We make more small talk about beer for a little bit and she tells me “anything from Milwaukee is a guaranteed shit in the park” and that “French beers are boss”. I simply nod and let her ramble on. Then she’s showing me the food she picked up: cheap sushi for “the girls”, Travis’ favourite Korean ramen noodles, and some Halal food for a Muslim kid named “Omar”.

“My friends. You’ll like them,” she says, admidst the honking and multilingual swearing as we’re trying to get out of the parking lot, which I had no idea would be this difficult. “And maybe despite their better judgement they’ll like you, too.”

I push her resting arm gently as she waits for traffic to clear. “Come on, that’s mean. You’re breaking my heart,” I say light-heartedly.

“There, there, son,” she sympathisizes fakely. “Son of a bitch!”

A dick in a Hyundai Sonata cuts in front of us making Becky a lot livid and myself a little afraid. Of her. “What? His mother could in fact be a bitch, you never know,” she says to me seeing the colour slowly draining from my face. Honking loudly, “Yo, go fuck a fire hydrant!” she yells with all the attitude she can muster, but it somehow comes across less hood and more chipmunk. She can’t help it.

“Should I take that anger for pent up sexual aggression?” I try to calm the situation with a bad joke, but I don’t think it helps.

“Shut the fuck up. I live in Scarborough. That’s my one really black line.”

Oh she went there. “Hey, I take offense to that.” I love the black community. They’re my people; at least I’d like to think so, although they themselves may disagree.

“Go fuck a sandbox.”

“Ah, variety. The spice of life.”

Some nifty weavework and a few rage blackouts later we finally make it out of that damn parking lot. I breathe out a sigh of relief and mentally thank the Hockey Gods. “That was very Pavel Datsyuk of you, by the way,” I compliment sarcastically of her doing a quick two step to avoid the oncoming traffic. I saw white lights flashing for a second there. Those were the headlights.

“He has a big deke.”

“It’s huge.” I cock my eyebrow and she’s totally aware of the dirty joke and slaps my leg hard enough to leave a mark.

"You would know." She shakes her head, then smiles. “God, you’re so immature. I will go Matt Cooke on your ass if you don’t stop it.”

I like the odds of that. “Only if you let me go Alexander Semin on yours.” I drum the dashboard and give her a toothy grin. “Tissue huh?” I pick up the candy striped box after a moment of silence. “That’s smart.”

“Oh my God, we’re not doing this again. I’m turning on the radio.”

I close my eyes, adjust the seat to meet my injured back’s needs and I realize that I’m smiling.

I like that I drive her insane in a way.

After all, I can’t deny that she has the same effect on me.
♠ ♠ ♠
Sorry for the wait! Next chapter will be monstrous, just a warning. Some of my silly references: Alexander Semin song==gets me every time, the fight that started it all, and my man, Daryn Jones