How Far We Go and How Fast by Nora Decter

Author:Nora Decter
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781459816909
Publisher: Orca Book Publishers
Published: 2018-06-30T16:00:00+00:00

An empty king can of Coors rolls by, the Winnipeg equivalent of a tumbleweed. It’s so eerily balmy out that even the bums outside the Windsor Hotel seem jolly and carefree. All along Main people are out in droves, drinking on stoops, calling out to each other, letting their bare limbs breathe. I catch myself smiling and force it off my face. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m joining the freak-spring party, but a block later the smile creeps back into place.

As I make my way downtown I’m stopped by various street-side entrepreneurs and offered crack, weed, a yellow plastic flower, a deal on tube socks that fell off the back of the truck, and three rides anywhere I want to go. I politely decline them all. I catch a fistfight in front of the Woodbine and stop in at Earl’s. He’s reading an old National Geographic. I stand over the case of watches and wait for him to realize it’s going to be one of those days. Eventually he sighs. “What?”

“I was just wondering…”

“What now?”

“How far away would a TV get me?”

“What kind?”

“I dunno. An old one.”

“You’d be lucky to get to Brandon.” He flips a page.

“What if I throw in a clock radio?”

“Still Brandon.”

“A toaster oven?”

“Bran-don,” he says it slowly, so I catch his drift.

“How about a TV, clock radio, toaster oven and a DVD player?”

“Saskatoon, maybe. If you caught me in a good mood.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t have many good moods,” he warns while I’m on my way out. Very few things in life reassure me the way Earl’s detailed knowledge of Greyhound’s ticket pricing does.

Despite my vow not to give in to the temptations of freak spring, I decide to take myself out for ice cream. Well, I don’t decide so much as I realize I’m starving, and the nearest food establishment is an ice-cream place. I take it for a sign and go in.

I stand at the counter and wait for the employee to look up from his phone. He’s a short guy with Buddy Holly glasses and greasy hair pulled back into the sort of man-ponytail Jim would call a dink knob. “You decide?” he asks after a minute.

“Can I get a scoop of that?” I ask, pointing into the freezer at something that looks like chocolate.

“Chocolate praline swirl? Or the Skor brownie?”

“The Skor one.”

“Cup or cone?”

“Cup, please.”

He rings me through indifferently, but as he’s handing over my change he stops and squints at me from behind his thick black frames. “Hey, I know you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Yeah, I do! You went to Crescentwood, right?”

I grab my ice cream and put my wallet away. My stomach feels funny. I haven’t eaten in too long. I need to get out of here. It’s almost time to get to work. “No. I must have one of those faces. You know, like, a common face,” I say moronically.

“I know!” He smacks the counter with his palm. “You’re Matt Tucker’s little sister, right? I’m Pete. I used to jam in your basement.

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