I bite my tongue, holding backwhat I feel like telling him. He’s in no hurry. He probably goeshome to a case of beer and the TV.
By the time Mr. Slow As Fuckgets his shit together and fixes the pump and I complete Tim’s andmy jobs for the day, I’m running way behind. The moment I’mfinished, I sprint out the entrance and to my truck, the tiresspraying gravel before I even get the door closed.
As I drive, I notice my hands onthe wheel. They’re covered in sludge and dirt. That’s okay, I tellmyself. I’ll have time to clean up when I’m on the ferry. PoorAnnie. She’ll go from the sight of glammed-up fashionistas to thesight of me, ponytail mussed and loose, looking and smelling like ariver dweller in my coveralls and hiking boots.
When I lean forward to get mysmokes out of the glove compartment, the truck swerves a little andhits the edge of the road before I correct it. About a minutelater, I notice the truck is veering. Great. What now?
I stop the truck and quickly runaround to check. On the front passenger tire, I see a huge bentnail, half buried between the tread.
This can’t be happening to meright now. It’s already 8 PM. The last ferry leaves in three hoursand I don’t have a spare tire. I think about limping the truck backto the hatchery, but it’s too far to try and make it with one tirecompromised. I’m on my own, miles away from any shop.
I get back into my truck andspark up a smoke, trying to figure out what to do. The only thingthat comes to mind is to call Tim. He’s the only co-worker I canthink of that has mentioned knowing anything about cars. I’m notsure how ill he is, so I’m not feeling too optimistic.
I scroll down my contacts untilI see his name and push the call button. After three long rings, araspy, weak voice answers. “Hello.”
“Tim?”
“Hey, Jade. What’s up girl?” Idetect a slight slur in his voice.
“Tim, are you pissed? I thoughtyou were sick.”
“Well, I actually am sick. Idecided to chase it away with vodka. Drown a flu. So far, I’vegotten some pretty good results. I feel a lot better.”
“Tim. You’re an ass. Youliterally picked the worst time to make me cover yourresponsibilities at work.”
“I’m telling you, I should be adoctor. I am almost completely cured. I’ll be ready for action onMonday, I promise.”
I want to light into him, but Idon’t have the time. “I’m in a bit of a jam,” I say, before fillinghim in. To my surprise, he offers to come by—his roommate Hank willdrive. I thank him profusely and then hang up, a spark of hopeblossoming in my gut.
As I wait in my truck, I decideto call Annie to find out if she’s back and to tell her that I’llbe taking a later ferry than intended. I dial her number and wait.It rings five times before an automated recording comes on andtells me to leave a message. I think about the call that morning,but I push it away. She’s probably driving or stuck in a ferrylineup. It’s always crazy before a weekend.
I jack up the truck and take mytire off, trying to do as much as possible before Tim shows. Ittakes another half an hour before Hank and Tim show up.
Tim gets out of the passenger’sside of an old white pick-up and staggers my way. Hank followsbehind, much steadier on his feet.
“Thanks for showing up,” I tellthem. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.”
“Nah, we were just at the FogHead, having dinner and a couple of beers.”
Tim is about sixty and skinny asa rail. He wears his hair however it falls in the morning andalways looks like he’s slept in his clothes, but he’s got a greatheart and he’s been my pal since I started working at the hatchery.Hank is much younger and fat. By the look of his dirty, wornclothes and unbrushed hair, they share the same fashionconsultant.
Hank rolls my tire to the backof his pick-up and hurls it into the box. “We’ll take it down to mycousin’s, he’s got a shop in his garage.”
I hesitate. For some reason, Ipicture an old farmhouse with broken down ringer washers and oldcar carcasses out front.
“You might as well come withus,” Tim says. I grab my bag because leaving it in the truck wouldjust invite someone to break in.
The three of us squeeze into theold relic and head north on the highway, the opposite way from theferry terminal. The truck is cluttered like a grandmother’s livingroom; the floor is packed with stuff that crunches under my feet,and the dashboard is laden like a fireplace mantle. I’m distractedby this, because every time Hank turns, the debris shifts and rollsoff into my lap or onto the floor.
Two minutes into the drive Timand Hank get into an argument about Sasquatch. At first, I thinkthey’re joking, but after a few more minutes it becomes painfullyobvious that they’re serious.
“Sasquatches do exist, but noton the island,” Tim argues. “They’ve only been spotted up theFraser Valley, like in Harrison Hot Springs or towns aroundthere.”
“I’m not buying that. They couldhave easily swam across from the mainland and ended up here.”
Tim leans in front of me,raising his voice. “You seriously can’t believe that a Sasquatchcould swim all that way.”
I can’t help it. I have to saysomething. “Maybe it rode the Loch Ness Monster over.”
Neither of them laughs. Hankswerves around a pothole and a small grey case slides off the dashand lands on my lap. “What’s this?” I ask Tim.
He glances down. “It’s myinsulin case.”
“It’s not a good thing to havesliding around, is it?”
“I need to have it in front ofme, or I’ll forget it. It’s Hank’s truck.” He looks at me, then atmy bag. I sigh and stuff the case inside. Men need purses more thanwomen do-I swear to God.
We pull into an old townhousecomplex. The once white structures are old and stained from timeand neglect. Hank pulls up in front of the
