The Man Game (29 page)

Clough? Clough, is that you?

Campbell? Campbell, is that you?

Yeah, yeah, you totoosh, you scared me.

What the—. I mean …

Campbell took a breath to relax. It was only Clough, thank God only drunken old Clough. Where are you going,
man
? Campbell asked with practised bullheadedness. Where you off to, man, eh?

Clough said: Where am
I
—? Why, I'm on my way home. I'm on my way right now, home.

Home, eh. A long way to your door, lost lamb. Ha ha. What made ye stray so far?

Nothing,
Father
, said Clough, amused to see Campbell as drunk as himself. No, you see, what happened—.

Let's see the bottle in ye hands, said Campbell, reaching for it.

Clough reluctantly offered up the hair-tonic moonshine bottle hidden behind his back.

Where ye been?

I tell you. I helped bust a fan tan.

That so.

A Chinaman perished during the duty.

Pity. Your work?

No. Speaking a totooshes, though, one who did witness the body was our dear Molly Erwagen.

That so, said Campbell, perking up again.

Damn, after seeing her, I headed straight for Wood's, said Clough. You, where you been, on a stool at the Stag & Pheasant?

Yeah, right, eh. I been to that place, it's nothing special. Oh, except, I did see that lady Erwagen though. Talk aboot your … Campbell took a swig and couldn't disguise his shock at the searing taste. That's
some
poison.

If you got half the troubles I got, you'd drink—.

That's fine, Clough, that's fine. I don't need your confession, thank ye.

Yeah, well, what the fuck
ye
doing?

What's it look like I'm doing? Then in front of Clough's eyes, Campbell finished off the dying embers of his firewater. He gave back the empty bottle, which wasn't of much damn use to Clough now. Campbell licked his lips. I did not mean to interrogate you, eh, he said. And I don't much take to interrogation myself.

You look all shaken up, said Clough. Everything go smoothly in there?

Smooth as stone.

Right.

So, anyway.

Yeah, anyway.

They tested each other out to see who would be the first to say what was on both their minds.

Happy New Year.

Happy New Year.

What time is it?

Was just aboot to ask you the very same.

Hm.

Campbell broke first: … You hear aboot the man game tonight?

Yeah, said Clough. Was just aboot to ask you the very same. When and where? The women I heard it from were soft as candlewax by the time I got to them for the news.

I can't get a good answer from no one either. Before midnight's alls I know. What time's it now?

I don't know. When I left Wood's, it was half past four, according to Peggy.

Half past four? Man, it's been four o'clock for hours.

I agree.

Well, damn, it's going to be a few hours then before we see any action. I'm going to go look for something to eat. See you, said Campbell, and shook Clough's hand vigorously and crushingly.

As always, said Clough.

Clough picked his hat off the ground, and while straightening the hat across his brow he saw that Campbell was already off in some direction or other into the vast, fat darkness. A charge of dynamite some many miles away echoed down the coast from the side of a mountain pass where iron trestles were being fitted by Chinamen.

He started walking through the brush. Up ahead he had to deke left to avoid a wall of blackberry thistle, then switch back to keep travelling west into the forests towards Granville Street. Having nothing else to guide him, he walked towards the orange glow of the celebration's bonfire and the sound of drums ricocheting down the valley. The cedars blocked out the skies above. And with its bears, cougars, and ticks, the forests were not only disorienting but dangerous. But Clough wasn't about to get lost or damaged. Animals never threatened him. Not hemlock nor Fly Agaric had any effect on Clough. He questioned his mortality, he tested it, his life never seemed to hold any meaning unless he pushed at the possibility he was immortal. Eternal as fire, that was Clough. And he
hoped
to run into the notorious mugger. He knew Vancouver better than any man. That's how he felt, and that's why he was so taken aback when he stumbled upon a normally lonesome intersection to see Litz and Pisk round the corner of an old clapboard building that housed an unpopular billiards hall and a half-deceased
notary. Pisk was belly-up beside a tractor wheel and Litz was keeping his balance after the flailing toss
{see
fig. 7.1
}
. He leaped and soon they were rolling and jamboreeing down the alleyway's mossy slope, gasping for air and grunting in pain. They rolled around the corner, gripped to each other, tussling and throttling in a manner that seemed alternately spastic and part of something more. The two men in front of him now, moving in, totally naked and fighting like the dickens.

Good gravy, what in the—is going on? said Moe Dee who happened to be nearby. Who are you? What's this—oh, shoot, that looks like—that must've hurt.
Clough
, my brother, said Moe Dee, what the fuck's going on?

It's a man game, said Clough, smiling broadly. And just our luck to witness it, he said, scratching at the bristle-covered loose flesh of his neck. Thinking to himself, Campbell's going to be pissed he missed it; he looked around, saw many of the usuals among the spectators, but many more who seemed to be congregating out of plain curiosity or rumour.

What's it called? said Moe Dee.

FIGURE 7.1
The Point and Click

Campbell's commentary: If your opponent fails to accomplish his move and finds himself belly up, you are granted a point if you can deliver him a decisive blow to the midsection.

A man game, said Clough for the second time.

A little snow fell. In the moonlight the men were creepy and pale. Clough watched Litz and Pisk shit-kick each other in the most bewildering of ways. No doubt, every time he saw the man game it got more complex. Every time held new surprises, new moves, new counter-moves, unexpected plays, and regularly occurring anomalous gymnastic miracles. To inexpert eyes the moves might have looked spectacularly unplanned, but for anyone like Clough, who'd seen over a dozen of these games, every skip, pirouette, and headbutt was recognizable as one piece in a larger choreography. Nevertheless, the logic of the movements contained a certain antagonism that made it more than just a dance or slapstick routine; it was a fully competitive game. Clough was impressed and still confused. The money he understood, but where were these moves coming from? Where was the coach? Who taught them? No way was Clough going to believe these two woodsmen came up with all this by themselves.

Today there was no preliminary pussyfooting around. First it seemed that—was it?—Litz dragged Pisk by the neck across the mud. Pisk kind of camelwalked backwards to keep up with how fast Litz kept dragging. A gout of mud splashed when they rolled through a leaftclot in some meltwater dribbling across the lane. They hopscotched with their legs locked, commenced to turn right, took a small step back, and, hot-stepping leftwards, swivelled right. What seemed a pause in the snow was mere happenstance.

It looked like a social foxtrot except for how they kept slapping each other in the face. Litz suddenly really turned up the heat on Pisk. He started to hammer blows down on the top of Pisk's head with his fist. His head jerked with each blow. As if this weren't enough, Litz began moving Pisk's torso back and forth, bending and stressing Pisk's leg and lower back until the guy let out with
screams. Your Cherry Tree Clutch
{see fig. 7.2}
was no good, Litz cried out. Now I'll show you a real thing. Litz held Pisk in this position for several seconds, working on the chinhold and bodyscissors. Finally, he hump-tossed Pisk across the lane.

Litz won five points to three. Clough shook their hands, said: Men, that's the most I ever saw.

Thanks, Clough, thanks, said Litz.

That was some spectacular win, Litz. Why, even just this afternoon I scoffed when boys on the chain gang thought you were the lesser player.

Who the fuck thought I was the lesser player? said Litz.

Well, I—wouldn't, I mean, don't expect me to snitch. Alls I know is there's debate every day aboot the man game. You got Moe Dee defending you both. I tell the bohunks around here they need to pay more attention if they want to go debate the man game. How many games I seen you play now? A dozen? How many d'you think you played in town all told, eh?

I don't know. Pisk tested his jaw with his hand; sure enough he rubbed away blood.

How many, more than a dozen?

Litz stretched his shoulders one arm at a time.

Better than any circus, said Clough. Aren't you cold now?

Not really. You work up a sweat.

FIGURE 7.2
The Cherry Tree Clutch, alternative sketch

See Calabi's commentary on
p. 7
.

I get cold, said Pisk. I got bad circulation.

So tell me straight, what kind a game is this? Who else plays this with you?

Nobody, said Pisk. His clothes were in a jumble next to an achingly empty beer barrel (Clough checked). His muddy boots lay nearby, one here, one over there somewhere. He put each item on. He beat the dirt off his pants.

I could coach you, said Clough. I watch this game like astronomy. Listen, if you take this betting, this game could be big blankets, fat chickamin, money out your ears, eh. I don't just spectate like everybody else. I can tell there's a lot a work that's gone into this by you two. And alls you need is a little more coaching and I can see this turning very profitable. With just the two a you playing, there's no one to give you that eagle-eye view.

The men both muttered inaudibly, appearing intent on the more important task of finding all their clothes. Eh? said Clough. Then he let the subject die. The snow was falling faster now, and less steam curled off Litz and Pisk's bare backs with every moment they remained exposed. He watched them dress. He sensed Pisk's mood had changed. During the game he'd looked passionate and cheerful, almost baiting Litz. Now there was a grim inevitability to his face. Must be his loss, thought Clough, the boy doesn't like to lose.

When the two men once again stood before him, dressed in their dungarees and plaid wool jackets, Clough thought they looked surprisingly vulgar. Something about clothes fit ill upon them after what he'd just seen—like dressing up a horse or a bobcat in a man's duds for a laugh.

We tried a new move out, said Litz, squishing his fist around his eye. It just didn't work. Pisk should've got out a the hold.

I still think I can do it.

So do I, nodded Litz. He turned to spit on the ground. Jesus H, I'm thirsty now.

Please be my guest for a drink, said Clough. I was just on my way over to the Sunnyside for a refresher myself.

Sunnyside? Is that an insult?

Excuse me, Clough said, shaking his jowls, I momentarily forgot your predicament. What a shame.

Nobody's going to be there anyways.

Why do you say so?

Everyone'll still be at the New Year's Eve dance.

The New Year's … dance …? Clough stammered. Had no one told him? How did two forest exiles know there was a New Year's Eve dance and he didn't? Was he purposefully uninvited?

I'm going home, said Pisk.

Home, said Clough, where's that?

Pisk shook hands with the other two men without saying another word, turned his back, and started walking.

Where's he going? asked Clough.

Back into exile, where else, said Litz.

Clough watched him vanish into the darkness of the vast, violent forest.

Pisk definitely did not like to lose, and was determined to go home to bed early especially because he didn't like to lose. Apart from that the New Year's Eve dance would only make him feel worse, knowing he wasn't included, and knowing that Molly would be there with her husband. Seeing them together would dampen his mood even more, and he was freezing cold and couldn't feel his toes or fingers or eartips. His muscles were all busted and stretched hypertrophically from the backflip, and if he was in a predicting mood, at this moment, despite it all, he'd be skeptical of seeing any improvement in the year to come. The man game was hardly making them enough money to survive. Furry and Daggett continued to pose a serious threat to their lives. They were still stuck out in the woods in a barely habitable fortress hidden from view. Mrs. Litz, trapped there day in and day out, was going insane. As he walked alone through the ever colder night he said to himself: Maybe I'll shave off
my beard. Maybe I'll take the biggest knife I can find and cut it all off.