Tim McGregor - Killing Down the Roman Line

Keefe told them it was an emergency road resurfacing and got the crew moving. He told Davie to bring around the dumptruck, the old Mac, not the big tri-axle. Hook up the small trailer and load up the small backhoe. He tossed keys at Reggie, said they’d swing by Third Line Road to pick the grader where they’d left it at the last jobsite.

Tools were loaded into the pickup and, as always, no one could locate the orange vests they were required to wear on all jobs. Keefe loaded two coolers of chipped ice and bottled water into the box. The day’s forecast was hot and sticky with a chance of thunderstorms on towards evening. It was going to get worse before it got better.

The convoy rolled out of the yard onto Harvester Road and then north on the Orange Line Road. The yellow crewcab eating dust from Keefe’s shiny F10. The dumptruck rumbling after them, hauling the backhoe on a float. Reggie hopped out on 3rd Line and fired up the grader. The convoy continued on up 3rd Line road and swung west on the next road. Keefe pulled over at the intersection while the crew rumbled on. Once the grader had followed the turn, Keefe pulled pylons from the box and planted three of them at the entrance to the road, blocking access to the old Roman Line.

The festival began at noon. Constable Ray Bauer, along with a handful of volunteers from the fire department and Knights of Columbus, closed down Galway Road for the parade route. Melissa and Charles did a quick head count of the gathered masses. Almost seventy people turned out to the official start here at the war memorial west of the river. The air was already steaming and the Black Guard Pipers wilted in their kilts waiting for their cue.

Kate gave a short speech about celebrating their community and how a proud sense of history and accomplishments of the past built a foundation to move boldly into the future. Rather than cutting a ribbon, Kate produced a bottle of champagne to break over the corner of the granite war memorial. That honour was given to old Johnny Dinsmore, Pennyluck’s oldest war veteran. Johnny Reb to his friends. A permanent, if foul-mouthed, fixture of the Legion Hall, branch 540. Johnny had fought his way through Italy as an infantryman in the 48th Highlanders, losing two fingers in the bloodbath of Ortona. Weighed under by his medals, the champagne bottle slipped from Johnny’s grip on the first try and rolled in the grass. He muttered something about ‘fucking Fritz’ and then smashed the bottle good and proper on the second attempt. A cheer went up. Pipe Major Bob Wills mistook the cheer for his cue and ordered his pipers to fire up and roll out. A small bit of confusion as Kate’s wrap up speech was culled under the blast of the band and old Johnny was almost trampled under the juggernaut of marching kilts.

Charles and Melissa scrambled as the proceedings went to hell, brandishing their timetables at the marching bagpipers. Kate told them to just run with it and to get Johnny out of the way before he was run over by the tartan marchers.

The miscue in the itinerary threw off the volunteers on the parade route. Jake Walton, pissed at the blocked access to the main drag, drove down one alley and then another to sneak back onto Galway. Slipping past the volunteers, Walton swung east and came bumper to knee with the pipers.

“Holy Jesus,” he said.

Pipe Major Bob shot him a dirty look and swung around the vehicle. Walton sat cowed and shamefaced behind the wheel as the parade flowed around him like a current against a rock, the cacophony of the pipes splitting his ears.

The pipers paraded smartly down Galway and snaked down Newcastle to the fair grounds. Pennyluckers lined the sidewalks, waving. They laughed and jeered at the idiot Walton caught in the middle of the marchers. Kate, the few councilmen in attendance and the rest of the crowd fell in line behind the marching band.

Travis straddled his bike at the corner of Galway and Blackthorn, watching the pipers. Given the day off from his chores, he’d been allowed to pedal into town to see the parade. Not an easy thing given his condition. His parents would meet him later that afternoon. His friends, Owen and Felix, said they’d show up later to cruise the fair grounds on their bikes. With any luck, Brenna would be there too. Travis leaned over the handle bars as the band blasted away. A flash of colour caught his eyes on the other side of the parade and his balls shrivelled up. Brant Coogan sat atop a mail box, huffing a cigarette and sneering at the pipers. He flicked his smoke at the marchers, slipped down and disappeared.

Travis’s knees went numb but his fingers dug into a pocket and slipped free the object hidden there. He slid the brass knuckles on and made a fist and then hid the tooth-smasher away again. God willing, he’d get a chance to try them out on that dickless bastard.

Marching rearguard of the pipers, Kate waved at the droll mugs on the sidewalk. She fanned her face with a program, the heat of the day already coming on and the humidity rising. It was going to be a gorgeous day. A reception awaited them at the bandstand with coffee and donuts provided by the Murdy family’s bakery. A full day of events and ceremonies were planned for the fair grounds and here along Pennyluck’s main drag. It was going to be glorious.

Rounding the turn at Newcastle, Kate caught sight of the only fly in the ointment. He stood on a flower box, plastering one of his damn flyers to the brick side of Fisher’s Pro Sports shop. As if psychic, Corrigan turned and narrowed his gaze directly at her. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted something at her that she could not make out. She ignored him, waving to people on the other side of the street. When she turned back, he was gone.

Will Corrigan held no love for the bagpipes. No swelling of the heart at their music, no tug of nostalgic reverie at their blast. An instrument fit for devils and sloe-eyed dullards by his reckoning. Scots, in fact.

Once the cacophony of evil had passed, he steered his FJ over to the farmers co-op and pinned up one last flyer to the community corkboard. It wouldn’t last long up there. Some halfwit would tear it down and crush it into a ball in moral outrage. Ah well.

He loaded groceries into the back, along with seven bags of ice and a new cooler. One last stop at the Beer Store, then back home. Today he’d go all out. When the tourists arrived for the Corrigan Horrorshow, he’d treat them to a barbecue under the shade of the willow trees. Burgers and corn on the cob. Ice tubs of beer and soda. Popsicles for the kids. Best of all were the little Canadian flags he’d bought. A hundred of them, planted into the ground on little sticks, marking out the path from the house out to the graves. It was almost perverse and the thought of it made him laugh.

Travelling back up Clapton towards home, he saw the dust cloud rising over the tree line. Then the yellow pickup parked on his road, a skinny kid snoozing on the tailgate. Three orange pylons blocking access to the Roman Line.

“Jesus on a pogo stick, what now.”

Corrigan turned onto his road and took out as many pylons as he could, knocking one into the ditch and crushing the others under his tires. The kid in the truck snapped awake and hopped down, swinging his little stop sign.

Corrigan climbed out. Further up the road, he could see the grader skimming off the road surface, the beeping dumptruck as it reversed. The kid was hollering at him, something about the road being closed for maintenance. No one in or out.

Corrigan wanted to know why he wasn’t notified and who ordered this bullshit. The kid didn’t know, he was just the flagman. Corrigan clocked the crew truck and the company logo on the door. Keefe’s Konstruction .