The Man Game (39 page)

FIGURE 9.1
Beat the Fish

Calabi's commentary: When the great coho spawn every autumn finds you kicking at the fish beneath your feet, concentrate on your movements and repeat them in your next game.

Concentrate, Pisk said to himself. Look at each one a the men in the face. Every man. Look at him. He is your opponent. Fear not the opponent. Destroy him. See every man for who he is and destroy what makes him real. Who am I? I am Pisk, the greatest athlete the world has ever known. I swing the moon on the end a my rope. I am not going to sit here forever in the mud. Look at every man. Stare at his eyes. The dancing Chinamen. The woodsmen twirling their hats in the air, the old faces, familiar voices. There was Bud Hoss and Calabi with the books keeping track of bets. Bud Hoss beamed at Pisk with a son's admiration. Get up, get up, Hoss seemed to say with his expression. Calabi was unmoved. His focus was the chickamin in his hands, conscious of potential pickpockets. There were so many men. Loudmouthed Moe Dee, and that ol' so-and-so Terry Berry talking and talking with his bud Vicars; the cowboy RD Pitt with his arms crossed looking unimpressed. He heard Pitt say in his weak Alberta accent: Where's the fucking whisky seller Miguel Calderón? He's supposed to be here with his Bar Rústico, no?—all these
Chinamen
here,
damn
, it spooks me out—I need a fucking drink. Standing next to the cowboy was the dipso Clough, all laughs, slapping his knee: A man should always bring something in case a emergency, eh. Clough showed the cowboy a bottle full of liquid clearer than the very firmament that exposed the spilling stars. He passed Pitt the bottle. He took a swig and reeling, almost falling over, hooted with a squeaky voice: Oh, that's fucking good hooch. And between RD Pitt and a twenty-foot-tall stack of wet two-by-fours stood three of the bohunks who worked for Furry & Daggett. The tall one with the monobrow, Boyd. At his side, Pisk saw that little seal pup Campbell, as usual. That boy never missed a single game. But it was unusual to see his woodsmen colleagues here. Smith with the balding scalp. Meier, the giant one. Were the others here too? Were Furry and Daggett in attendance then?

As he studied the crowd, Pisk remained seated in the cold black mud. All the attention was on Litz who was flapping
his arms to get everyone more and more riled. The rabble of the canneries, the shipmates, the loggers, they were here too. Pisk spotted Joe Fortes with the little Snauq boy Jack Khatsahlahno sitting on his shoulders. These people weren't so special. Pisk knew because he was one himself.

He smeared his icy feet with mud and leaves to insulate them then scraped off his crusted soles. He rubbed the heels dry. He loved the soles of his feet. You couldn't get a nail through those calluses. But his feet were so cold that when he tried to make a fist of the toes he couldn't do it. He blamed his feet for why he was losing. Far too early in the game to have lost sensation in his toes. He dusted off, clutched his nuts, scratched his beard, caught his wind.

I got a score to settle with you, he called out to Litz.

Wa, cried the coolies in the crowd, whipping their pigtails in every direction. The bohunks who rooted for Pisk made some dog noise when they saw their man spit to emphasize he was open for business.

Yeah, said Litz, you got a score to settle? So that mean you going to make my last point easy or what? You been beating me for too long, buddy. It's time to move over. Or are you still going to be a real fucking pain in the ass?

I'm going to kick
your
ass straight to Ontario, and put your face on the next train to meet up with it two weeks later.

That right?

There's still a lot more man left in Pisk before this day's over.

Really, said Litz, where'd Pisk go then? I heard he's pretty tough.

Ha ha ha, said the mob. Wa, wa, wa.

Even your ma's going to be jealous a the whipping I'm aboot to give you.

Swells of boo wove through the crowd. It was undeniable. Litz did not have the same body as other lumberjacks. Speculations ran the spectrum, but one thing was for sure: Litz
was the specimen of a peak athletic regimen, every muscle at its most versatile.

His game is strong tonight, said Hoss.

Looks to me like odds is riding on those
mu
scles, said Moe Dee.

Litz is swift.

Pisk is a fucking pillar a marble. You can't break that man. Woo-ee, I do love me a man game. Moe Dee took a moment to unpucker the dome of his bowler hat, study the interior; then, fixing the hat again on his skull, he said: If I was Pisk, I think what I'd do is grab Litz by the hair on his head, pull him down, knee him in the face. Then when he's dazed, spin him around and pull a dance on him.

Litz has muscles, he's stretchy, he's loose and limber, but he'll bruise up fast.

A loud voice cut through: You're shit, the
both
a you.

And then another: I'm going to tear you a new—.

A third: You guys're nothing but liars, cheats, and fire-starters.

Litz, recognizing all three voices, withdrew his arrogance and dropped his shoulders, said: Aw, shit.

Three voices. Count four men. Furry & Daggett's toughest, swaggering into view in their plaid lumberjack coats and greasy moustaches. They stepped out from the crowd and into the circle with Litz and Pisk, crossed their arms. Within spitting distance. Campbell—all these months the peaceful spy—stood the closest, too short for comfort. The second man was a blushing behemoth, Smith. His hair was as transparent as celery strands. Beside him, the monobrow named Boyd. Where was Meier? Ah, Litz saw him finally, bringing up the rear, towering over them like an obelisk, wobbling with a bottle in his fist and a wet-lipped drunk on. His watery eyes caught the flickering torchlight. The entire crowd fell silent.

What a you bohunks want? asked Pisk, standing upright
and brushing the muck and dead leaves off his body. His arms were as massive as coho, covered in scrapes, open bleeding cuts, old white scars, and finished off with two sets of massively swollen fingers throbbing as if each digit carried its own heart pumping in tandem.

Interrupt a man game, said Pisk, you might get your throat slit. Lot a chickamin on the line tonight.

Why I oughtta …, said Boyd.

Easy easy, said Campbell, holding back his friend. He pointed to Pisk, said: We're here to challenge you.

Challenge us, ha ha? In what?

In this, in
this
, you fucking poltroon. In the man game. What I been watching you do for the last fucking months.

Pisk scrunched his features, clawed at his beard, and thought carefully about the guys in front of him. Since when d'you all know how to play? This isn't something you make up as you go. Maybe you think what we're doing is nothing but a waltz with a clap in the face, but it's not.

You going to take the challenge or what? said Campbell. Let's play. Let's do it. You know me, Pisk. I'm going to kick your fucking teeth out.

Said Pisk: I thought you wanted to play the man game.

Said Campbell: That's right. We're going to show
all
these folks how to really play.

How to
really
play? What the fuck do you know aboot how to really play?

We learned. It's easy.

Since when's it easy? said Pisk.

Since we came along, said Campbell.

Who the fuck coaches you?

Should ask you the same fucking thing, said Campbell.

Okay then fine, fuck, said Pisk, taking a step back. We're waiting. We're all waiting. Strip. Let's go. Let's get this over with. Strip.

Campbell turned to his crew with a cocked eyebrow. The other three shifted and touched their necks and sleeves noncommittally.

What are you waiting for? It's fucking cold out, said Pisk, dancing in place, hugging himself to reiterate, a steamcloud with every breath. You're wasting time. Hurry the fuck up.

Campbell swallowed, said: All right, yeesh, we're getting undressed, already. Come on, boys. We're used to it now, remember?

At Campbell's lead, throwing away his monkeyjacket, skinning off his bowtie and collar, and unbuttoning his longsleeve undershirt, the other three men, if a touch reluctantly, also started to peel off layers of wool sweaters, shirts, hats and suspenders, mildewed undershirts; off with the pants, wads of socks in bootheads. Standing in a naked row with their white knees pinched together, they were enduring it no better than well-trained altar boys, and Pisk was going to fuck them all.

I'm going to come at you and just keep coming and coming, said Pisk. Don't think I take pity on a novice.

Tomorrow? said Campbell. You're going to be picking teeth out a your morning poo.

With one pant leg on and one off, Meier hopped around drunkenly trying to get his stovepipe free of a bony heel.

Yeah, yeah, just hurry up. What we're going to do, said Pisk, is you each get one shot. One-point games. Whoever wins gets to play another round. Whoever loses, they're out. I don't want to waste time with you. This is our game. You're interrupting a real match. Until I see some proof you know what you're doing, there's no point giving you time. Agreed?

Campbell switched to mouth-breathing, said: Uhh …, and looking around, waited for some kind of message he expected to find in the crowd, Pisk couldn't tell from whom exactly but he had a pretty good idea. F&D.

Can't make your own decisions, little man? said Pisk.

Fuck you. Yeah, yeah, agreed, fuck, okay, what?

The way you guys look, said Pisk, pacing in a small circle, rubbing his palms together then scratching his beard, I think this'll take me and Litz aboot ten minutes. You motherfuckers interrupted a
man
game. Calabi? said Pisk, looking for the baker.

Yes, said Calabi with a nod, I'm ready.

Hoss, too, signalled that he was prepared to take new bets. What aboot the game you and Litz were playing?

Pisk waved a hand as if to slap the subject out of the air around him. It's over. An interruption ends a game. Whoever has the most points wins. Smooth as a mink. It's Litz.

Who's your first? said Litz. Me, I'm the first. Pisk plays second.

I am, said Campbell.

Fine. Everyone here going to bet on Litz? Cause otherwise your blankets aren't going home with you. And I promise if we see any funny business, Pisk said, pointing his finger at each and every man in the crew, everybody here today is going to rip you apart. Am I right?

Campbell agreed to the terms.

Wa, cried the audience.

The Chinamen lined up in front of Calabi and the Whitemen in front of Hoss and the betting began again in earnest. As the money followed its paths of hope, Pisk stood by, disgruntled on the whole, though he did enjoy seeing Campbell's legs tremble. Pisk was not trembling even though he couldn't even feel his feet, his persistent bad circulation. No matter; his legs were as steady as cedars. He watched Litz put his hand out to greet his first new competitor.

I don't care if Litz wins this game because he will. I want a chance. I want the next guy.

Suits me, said Litz, and turned back to Campbell. Klahowya, he said and held out his hand.

Klahowya. Litz noted that Campbell's hand was cold as an iron hammer, while his own was still raging hot and
slippery from the last game.

The woodsmen in the crowd boot-hooked up the trees for bird views, sat two or three per branch up the pillars of two-thousand-year-old cypresses, firs, cedars—in all directions Pisk saw the forest was covered in lumberjacks. Behind them, blinking in the dark: Salish Indians, uncertain if they should enter the inner circle.

A man's hat fell from a high branch, spinning and flipping before swooping down into Pisk's hands. He read the ink on the inside of the rim: Terry Berry.

The instant the game started Litz's eyes shrank out anything that didn't pertain to Campbell. If the ground was uneven, he registered unbudging sticks and natural lumps with a blind man's memory. He noticed Campbell's sweaty wet sideburns and how his shallow breathing was restricted to his upper chest and neck, saw Campbell's uncertainty over the uneven terrain and the firelight shadows flickering in and out of sequence. But what spooked Campbell most of all was the disapproving snarl of the men in the audience who'd come here of their own volition in order to hate and despise the players they bet on. For Campbell, as Litz saw, this was the hardest relationship to comprehend. Whoever coached them, if anyone did, hadn't trained them for this moment. Campbell shrank even as he came towards him, like a wool sweater drying out.

Do it, Campbell, said a bleak voice of encouragement from the branches above their heads.

Let's see some fight.

Yeah, Campbell. Do so
m
ething.

A drop of water fell from a needle on high and landed on Litz's shoulder.

Hear the people? said Litz. Isn't that nice. Don't give up, little Campbell, said Litz in a swooning feminine sing-song, don't be afraid, little mink Campbell. In his own voice: It won't take long, just close your eyes.