The Man Game (52 page)

Needles, oh my. Acupunctures, I've heard a it.

Yes, acupuncture.

I'm not sure. I'm deathly afraid a needles. But Toronto, what should he do with himself?

The doctor say Toronto must now see own people's doctor, Indian doctor. Chinese remedy not solve all Toronto ailments. Much risk to health for Toronto. Piles worsening greatly. Imperative Toronto visit own Indian tribe doctor or risk death.

TWELVE

I know I'm part of history, just a tiny stone in a very big wall.

–
LOUISE BOURGEOIS

A man game's broke out, said a squirrelly young kid whose head popped in and out the door of the Hastings Mill store to share the news. That's where Clough was, a bit drunk, a bit lonely, staring at saddles he'd never live to afford. Gorgeous nubuck calfskin saddles in the milkiest browns in the spectrum, smooth as a lady's inner thighs, with pure merino wool sweatbands.

A man game, cried the dirtiest men in the store, and just as quick shoes and boots scraped and honked across the hardwood floor and all these bums rushed out onto Powell Street, asking: Where, where?

Whoever it was playing, Clough thought, their timing was spot on. What with everybody still jawing on about the man game and a month gone by without a sign of any players, no one wanted to miss this chance to see what was all the fuss. He saw more harsh sailors and plain thugs lurch out of door stoops and saloons on the corners and add their scent and heft to the growing mob. The dirt road underneath Clough's feet was stamped solid and flat and made for relatively easy running despite the occasional rock and people choosing different speeds and no small amount of jostling and shoving to get there. The Indians stayed by the corners, watching, disappearing. By the time the man game rumour was fully spread across town the message was so garbled no one knew anything for sure. So after Calabi and Yau's initial panic at
seeing a red-faced mob of Whitemans descend upon their humble shop unannounced—no small worry for two prosperous Chinamans, mind you (a rifle under the counter said it all)—their bakery became an impromptu meeting point. Who else but the chefs would know for certain where the man game was, especially considering Calabi was often the Chinamen's bookie? The first wave of men who stormed the doors stopped short, and instead of plunging in, just the first guy, the fastest, most eager of them all, dingled the bell and opened the door, knocked back by the warm aroma of fresh pastry.

Where's the man game do you know where the man game is? said the dude, with a squeak of childish alto in his throat.

Yau, alone in his shop, flour-speckled and sweating as he wiped his hands on his apron, came to the counter from where he was working the Dutch oven in the back room. He looked at the man, and at the men on the street crowding at the windows. He kept his hands below the counter on the rifle and calmly said: The man game at False Creek shantytown.

False Creek shanties, the young man called out to the bohunks, and at least seventy maybe a hundred men took off at a sprint, while another mob of ten-twenty ironworkers and lumbermen lagging behind came to confirm with Yau the words they were pretty sure they'd just overheard. Even the fact that Yau was up in front at the counter signalled that the rumours were true. Calabi was obviously already at the site of the game.

So, it's true, said Clough.

As he and hundreds of other men clogged the blocks, the windows opened in the businesses down Cordova Street, and not a few moustaches poked their noses out to watch the rabble. The printmakers and copy editors took pause from their toil to see what the fuck was all the commotion. What's the scoop? A man game. A man game, eh? calling inside to his union men: Hey, boys, let's go, it's a man game.

The spirit of Vancouver is goddamn invincible, thought Clough, walking at a brisker and brisker pace. He wasn't much
of a runner, what with the chronic stomach pains, emphysema, and recurring indolence to contend with. But today more than yesteryear, Clough believed, the noble pioneer must speed to his proud fate. A man even rode by on a penny ha'-penny bike. What a marvel, a two-wheeled transporter. How the devil did he climb aboard that thing? Vancouver's men were boisterous and thick-skinned. They cursed each other out of respect. Vancouver wasn't just a city, it was a kind of fate, a destiny rock for dreams that needed ledges. Why, even the new buildings on Cordova were damn solid, why, he helped brick some of them himself. These buildings could last for an eternity if God and civics allowed.

I hate to go through Chinatown, said a man with a burn scar across a clouded eye.

Why don't you complain aboot it then? replied Clough. I mean Jesus.

What's stuck in your craw, eh?

I don't see no reason to grouse on like that when you know well enough as anybody what we're aboot to see.

They saw now, approaching the shore, that the Chinamen had built up full buildings and worse shanties on the beaches of False Creek across from Dupont where the ladies of the night used to enjoy an unobstructed view of the water. Now a block of fragrant buildings sat above the tideline, chop suey cafés and laundry houses disguising tong offices, fan tans, gambling and opium dens.

With RH Alexander's help, local capitalist John McDougall had hired Chinamen from the California snakehead to help clear land on the northeast side of the Burrard Bridge. And already every room in Chinatown was rented. Some of those apartments were sleeping fifteen-twenty men per room. So when MacDougall's employees arrived from their weeks-long transoceanic voyage, this vacant space beside an already expanding Chinatown at the base of the railroad tracks on the beaches of False Creek became an overnight slum.

The outward appearance was of a leprous hive of tents made of scrap wood, cloth, leaves, bark—whatever could be
found. They looked no better than rat holes, where these young male immigrants from Sze-Yap lived, on this skewback, with one knee up, their rice steampots sneezing over log fires. As the Whitemans crested the sandhills and saw the size of the village, it came as a small horror.

The Whitemans were uneasy. They were an uneasy people. For their part, the Chinamen were quiet, heads down, meant no trouble, not proud of their fleas. They were here to work, and more specifically, ready to place their bets. The crowd was thoroughly mixed, half Chinamen, half Whitemen. Shouldering up to one another left everyone stiff, assessing their collective safety. The sun touched upon the men's hats; their faces were shaded masks. They spread out along the beach and up the incline. Many were cockeyed, some were browbeaten, others merely young. There was an unashamed grizzliness to them all, a clear sign of the times. Clough picked his way through the crowd, shaking hands monotonously as he passed. Holy smoke, he said to himself, this's an even bigger crowd than January. In the distance he squinted to see one naked guy, definitely Campbell.

Move out a the way, get out a my way, Clough said, elbowing ribs and more, pushing his way through the men to get to his player. That was unmistakably Campbell, but until he was closer, the other physique wasn't ringing bells. Didn't look like Litz so far as his bloodshot glaucoma could tell. But he knew one thing. This time his boy had to win or they might as well leave town.

He walked directly up to Campbell and patted him on the back; then he saw the other man.

Is that you, Bud Hoss? he said. What the fuck you doing here?

To Clough's eyes, it looked as though Hoss was built like the bear at the bottom of the totem pole. Fat, stout, solid, the last thing you'd expect to see topple.

Hoss said: I'm going to man game this dude until he looks like my sister.

Haw, said Clough. Not my man Campbell, you're not.

Listen here, said Hoss, clearly incapable of moving in natural motions while naked, pointing at Clough while turning and taking two steps. Campbell made us wait a quarter hour for you all to show up. What the fuck's all that aboot? Everyone was ready to say he forfeited. It's luck you showed up when you did, eh.

Pointing his only index finger back at Hoss, Clough said: Hold on to your ponies, tough guy.

Let's hear it for Hoss versus Campbell, shouted that spitter Moe Dee. Who thinks this game don't look a little lopsided? he spat, raising and lowering his hands in the air to show the discrepancies between Hoss's size and Campbell's gnomish stuntedness. A dozen men with no role models applauded with wolfhowls, hat spins, and handclaps. Yeah, said Moe Dee, let's see some new moves, he said, and the crowd duly roared.

Campbell groomed his licey beard, leaned on Clough's shoulder to talk in private. Man, I'm glad you're here, he whispered. This motherfucker Hoss was trying to start a man game with RD Pitt.

RD Pitt, said Clough with bugged-out eyes. Who thinks he'd play? I saw him in the crowd just now.

I know. So I'm eating some jerked beef over by George Black's and minding my own business. One fucking hour ago, eh? I hear this news aboot what's happening and run down the street to catch him. Because you and Furry and Daggett agreed I'd be the one to go first and take every opportunity I could.

Clough gave him a slap on the cheek in a loving, fatherly way. Good kid, Campbell, good kid. So what did Pitt think a that?

Didn't give him a chance to think. I could see that fool cowboy Pitt wanted a way out and I just came in spitting mud and I knew from talking to him this morning that all Hoss wanted was to play, so easy.

Good to hear, said Clough. Hey, now say, you talked to Hoss this morning?

Yeah, and he was ready to fight me then and there, I swear.

Why didn't you? You should a called him out.

Well, I …

Cold feet, eh.

No, I …

Forget it. No time for that now. Listen, I got something to tell
you
…

Are we going to fucking play this or what? cried Hoss from across the pitch.

Give us a minute, will ya? You can dump the routine.

Who are you, Clough? Do the books if you want in my stead, but what's with all the gossip?

Why, hold on, son, said Clough, I'm just talking to the man here.

What difference does that make to me? Might as well talk to me if you feel like conversating.

Listen, Hoss, who's seen as many or more man games than you? I have. I'm your local expert on this. Campbell, let me tell you, Clough said, pulling Campbell back into a huddle, this is going to be easy. Let's grease him, let's grease him good. Look, you and me together, said Clough. We been training. Maybe not as long as Litz and Pisk, but has Hoss even practised once? No. This is what for. This is a chance for you to swagger with the man game. What, do you think Hoss can do this? You think he's been tr
ai
ning like we have?

No. Hell, no. Hoss likes the attention. He wants to be more than a bookie is all.

That's what I figure. All right then. Let's get me some meaty bets and take gold teeth out like the dentist's in, all right?

All right.

Coach and player shook hands.

Calabi, said Clough. How's bets?

Calabi nodded, closed the book, slipped it into his coat pocket, and nodded again.

Okay, said Clough in the buffalo roar voice he used for crowds, we're ready to go.

Finally, said Hoss, cracking his neck and hup-hupping his legs.

In the middle distance, on a crinkled scaffold at an abandoned factory, Molly espied the whole scene from beneath the word
BLUE i
n BLUE RIBBON TEA CO
.

Let's fucking showtime, said Moe Dee, the loudest voice in British Columbia.

That lean pale cowboy, RD Pitt, driven by a powerful cause that wedged him between men and their idle time, walked through the crowd around the man game catching Whitemans' eyes, saying in his most amicable and least honest-sounding voice: Oh, say now, hey, I'd like to invite you all to a very special meeting in the community we're having down at the City Hall next Sunday afternoon.

Terry Berry, already instinctually backing away, said: What's this all aboot?