Muriel Gray - The Trickster

The New Yorker looked at this man with distaste. An Indian. He might have known. He leaned on his pole and waited for the figure to reach the place he was paid to be. When Sam got there, his line of travel heading for the hut, a lemon-yellow arm with a pole barred his way.

‘Hey, buddy. Don’t you think you should shut the chair down if you want to take a leak?’

Sam stopped and looked into the man’s face. Cold grey eyes looked back, full of contempt and aggression.

Sam found his voice, and his manners, in that turmoil that was still churning in his chest and stomach. He took a breath. ‘Sorry, mister. Got sick back there,’ he gasped.

The man was unimpressed. ‘Sick huh?’

‘Yeah. Sick.’

‘Sick as in ill, or sick as in loaded?’

Sam swallowed. He fought back that dark feeling coming from the base of his spine and clenched his fists inside his work gauntlets. Not now. No hassle now. Please.

‘Just plain sick. Want a chair?’

The man remained leaning on his pole, in the manner of a ski tutor instructing a class. ‘No, buddy. I want an apology.’

Sam said nothing. He looked back up at the trees, his mind wandering back to what had happened to him. With his eyes still on the close-packed pines he said absently, ‘Sorry for any inconvenience. Have a nice day.’

No use. Not enough. Lemon Yellow wasn’t budging. ‘You call that an apology?’

Sam looked back into his scowling face. ‘Sure I call that an apology.’

The man stood up straight, taking his weight off the pole, and pulled back his shoulders like a bodyguard defending the hut. ‘Maybe you people don’t understand English so good. When white folks say apology they mean saying sorry for something.’

Sam’s brow darkened. He spoke softly. ‘Gee. So that’s what white folks mean. Tell me, what do they mean when they say fuck off you fat asshole?’

The New Yorker’s voice was bubbling with controlled rage when he replied. ‘Okay buddy. I’m not leaving this resort today until you’re out of a job. You sure picked the wrong wagon to burn.’

He turned and skied off down the hill, clearly indicating he was off to the base lodge. Half-way up the Beaver-chair his abandoned wife and child swung their way back up the mountain, unaware that they were on their own for the rest of the day. Sam watched the yellow suit disappear down the hill and lurched into his hut. Right now, he didn’t care about his job. He cared about his head. Sam Hunt didn’t want to die.

Slumping heavily down on the folding plastic seat inside the hut, Sam bent forward and held his aching head in his hands. A brain tumour could be treated. He just needed a scan, that was all. Something to look in there and see what was wrong. Because Sam now admitted to himself something was very wrong indeed. Would he have to go to the hospital in Calgary, he wondered. What if he never came out? It was time to tell Katie just how bad things were. He sat up. If that guy in the yellow suit did what Sam suspected he was going to do, he might have to tell Katie they were short of one salary, too. What did that matter, compared to the possibility that her husband, Jess and Billy’s father, might be dying of a brain tumour?

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been in trouble for losing his rag at a moron. His own mouth had been his biggest enemy back in the days of driving for Fox Line. The depot manager, Jim Henderson, had often pulled Sam in and had a word in his ear. He was a nice guy, Jim. Gave Sam the job in the first place. Meant well. But he didn’t know what he was talking about.

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