Free The Book of Stanley by Todd Babiak

weak one, which had always disturbed Kal in a way he knew was unfair. It was a miserable instinct, to dislike a man according to the strength of his chin. Now he saw the sorrow and wretchedness at the core of Dale Loont.
    â€œYou’re hungover I expect?”
    â€œNo, actually.”
    â€œYou’re supposed to be a model for these kids, Mack.”
    Kal was twenty-four, which made him only five or six years older than the average player. How much wisdom was expected of him, really? “Sorry, Dale.”
    â€œWhat are you sorry for, exactly? For being a slob and a boozer? For throwing away your talent? For being a goddamn zombie out there when I need you on fire?”
    Around the lips of Dale Loont, the remnants of toothpaste. Kal looked away. “That’s exactly what I’m sorry for, Dale. All of that.”
    â€œGood. Now, what are you gonna do about it?”
    Kal knew what Dale Loont wanted to hear. Bons mots about passion, sacrifice, one hundred and ten percent. Instead, he gripped Dale Loont’s fleshy arm and pulled him away from the rattling bus. The weak chin was getting to him. Kal was careful not to raise his voice or squint as he spoke. “You don’t have to tell me what’s not important, Dale, because I’m an expert in that field. So let’s just get on the bus and avoid each other for the next, I don’t know,” Kal looked down at his watch, “three hours. Okay?”
    On the bus, Kal sat next to Gordon Yang. “Where’d you go last night?” said Gordon, whose eyes were darkand puffy. “I waited for you at Showgirls and then I waited for you next door. For a while I was hoping you scored with Rupi.”
    â€œWho’s Rupi?”
    â€œThe Arabian Nights? The fucking lap dance I spent twenty bucks on, thanks for saying thanks?”
    â€œSorry, Gord, thanks.”
    â€œBut then I saw her later, in the bar, and you know what she said?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThat you’re clinically depressed.”
    The driver plopped into his bouncy seat. “Winnipeg or bust.”
    As the Yellowhead flattened into the sunny east, Gordon Yang fell asleep. It felt wrong to Kal, this direction. A few kilometres out of Saskatoon, he shook Gordon.
    â€œWhat? What? Please, Kal, I am so, so tired.”
    â€œRemember your uncle, who owns that place in Banff?”
    â€œI remember my uncle, Kal. What do you want?”
    â€œYou think he’d give me a job?”
    â€œYou got a job.” Gordon sighed and sat up. “You wanna be a dishwasher now or something?”
    â€œYes. I want to be a dishwasher.”
    â€œPiss off.”
    â€œGord.” Kal shook his friend’s head, and then manoeuvred his face so they looked into each other’s eyes. “When we stop for gas in Viscount, I’m getting off this bus.”
    â€œWhat if we stop in Yorkton? We sometimes stop in Yorkton.”
    â€œForget Yorkton. Just promise me something. When you get to Winnipeg, I want you to call your uncle and tell him I’m coming. Tell him I’m a good worker.”
    â€œAll you’ve ever done is play hockey.”
    â€œTell him I’m a very good worker.”
    â€œThis is stupid.”
    â€œPhone your uncle.”
    Gordon closed his eyes. “Fine. I’ll phone my uncle and say the finest dishwasher in Saskatchewan is on his way west.”
    â€œGood. Thank you.”
    â€œIdiot.”
    Gordon drifted back to sleep and a familiar quiet settled over the bus, broken only by Dale Loont’s cellphone conversation with his wife. Kal wondered why Rupi the stripper had diagnosed him with clinical depression. Was it the atmosphere of failure in Showgirls seeping into him? The question of God? Kal couldn’t recall why he had asked a stripper about God or what he had expected to learn from her. A number of people would have been better suited to exploring the notion with him. Priests, for