Once you turn off Highway 1 onto the winding, downhill slope of Henry Road, your run into Chemainus gathers momentum. You don’t have to think anymore; there can be no other destination. The Matrix seemed to have an inbred sense of the road’s dips and curves, instinctively negotiating the landscaped traffic circle at the bottom, which swung by the Horseshoe Pub, the Best Western Hotel, and the historic MacMillan Bloedel Locomotive No. 1044 on its bit of disconnected track.
Buddy remembered his first entry into Chemainus, a family trip. Robbie and Gloria had complained about being hungry and wanting to pee the closer they got to their destination, Muraltown. Leanne tried to distract them in her accustomed role as tour guide. “Look, guys, that’s the theatre we’re going to this afternoon,” she observed as they drove by the Chemainus Theatre. “Look! There’s a mural!” She pointed to a wall on the other side of the street, which depicted the seeming chaos of a lumber mill. He put the memory back in its box, pulling over opposite an ACE Hardware store, then jogging across the road through a break in traffic.
“Can I help you?” a young man asked cheerfully from behind the counter.
“Yeah,” Buddy said, feeling it would be churlish not to take advantage of the clerk’s expertise. “Do you have any flexible drain pipe?”
“Plumbing’s over there,” the clerk nodded to an aisle behind Buddy. “Longer sections are out front in the yard. Need a hand?”
“Naw. Just picking up a few things for a small job. I’ll be okay.”
The shortest length of hose he could find was ten feet, for $23.99. That’s okay, he reasoned. If it’s too long, just cut off what you need—maybe five feet—and chuck the rest. In the Heating, Cooling, and Ventilation section, he picked up a 27 metre roll of duct tape for $6.49. That oughta do.
“Find everything you need?” the clerk asked when Buddy got back to the counter.
“Yeah.”
“Duct tape, the handyman’s best friend, eh?”
“Just a small job,” Buddy repeated, unnerved by his own evasiveness. “A temporary fix.”
The clerk eyed him with what looked like suspicion, then rang the items in. “Comes to $34.14, with tax,” he said.
Buddy tapped, refused a bag, and said he didn’t need a receipt. “Won’t be bringing any of this stuff back once it’s in the ground,” he joked. “Know a good coffee shop in town?” he asked, heading for the door.
“The Willow. Take your first right, then your first left, and look for a big yellow building on the right-hand side of the street. Can’t miss it.”
“Thanks,” Buddy said curtly, annoyed at the clerk’s vaguely accusatory tone and by his own troublesome addiction to coffee. Well, to coffee shops, actually. Two stops already, and it’s only half past sunrise! he scolded, shrugging off an infesting sense of inadequacy. Just need to get your bearings. Find a place you wanna be.
He followed the clerk’s directions to The Willow, wedged the Matrix into a parking spot in front of the café, then put on a jaunty air, taking the steps two at a time up to the veranda and past the still empty tables and furled umbrellas. He stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him. Its tethered bell jangled.
“Medium coffee, for here,“ he said at the counter. The server took his money, gave him a cup, and pointed to a bank of thermoses against the side wall. Buddy filled it, doctored his coffee up, then took a window seat. Glancing at his iPhone’s screen, he frowned at the growing backlog of messages and texts and decided—again—to ignore them, casting about for something else to do.
He spotted a newspaper, left folded on the next table. Later, Buddy would claim an enhanced sense of destiny guided his glance in that direction, locking onto the front page of The Chemainus Valley Courier. Normally he would have ignored the community sheet, but something provoked me, he would recall. As if there might be an item of interest in there; as if Chemainus might somehow be more than a place I was just passing through.
He scanned the headlines listlessly: Penelakut purchases 49th Parallel; More than $1,300 raised by Wildwood Collective’s hair-cutting fundraiser; Striking workers in Chemainus expect the end isn’t near… To Buddy, it might as well have been news from another planet, but he continued turning the pages.
Why am I reading this stuff? he wondered. No answer pinged back at him. Out of habit, though, he continued scanning headlines and ledes: next, next, next, until he hit the minuscule classifieds section on the last page, and there it was…
Help Wanted – Elderly couple seeks caring handyman-companion. Light chores and non-medical support. Quiet, seaside setting. Flexible, part-time hours in exchange for room & board in private, fully equipped RV-suite. Contact BerniceAndHarrySand@gmail.com
Buddy’s first reaction was panic. This is crazy! he said, looking away from the ad and out the Willow’s window into the swelling light of another home run for God. “Stupid,” he grumbled, aware that he was barely 80 kilometres from Victoria and 1216 Sunnyside Drive. “I can still feel the heat of Leanne’s outrage from here,” he hesitated.
But he tapped the Mail icon at the bottom of his iPhone screen anyway, popping his inbox open. For Christ-sake, stop! he resisted. But his index finger pecked again, opening a new message template. He typed BerniceAndHarrySand into the ‘To’ field, then ‘Caring Tenant Help Wanted’ into the subject line, then…
I’m a 61-year-old, newly-homeless man, passing through Chemainus with no place in particular to go and no timeline to adhere to. Can’t promise how long I might stay or claim any training or experience as a ‘handyman’ or ‘companion’, but if you want someone to take up the position on a trial basis, I’d be happy to meet with you. Regards, Buddy Hope.
He tapped send, then whoosh! launched himself out the café door.
They can’t possibly agree to that, he figured, relieved to be on his way, almost fleeing back to the Matrix and heading north, out of town.
Next: About Face