Free Savage by Nathaniel G. Moore Page A

slapped it onto a bagel, prodded at a gooey slice of ham all rubbery from its plastic garrison while Dad’s thin voice said, "Good day," and the receiver returned to the cradle. Throat clearing and the hmmph and sigh and the pivoting of his heel .
    "Hello," Dad said.
    I looked down at the colourful shock of ingredients balanced in between my fingers (mustard, mayo, pickle, tomato, ham) as I squeezed the sandwich together. Mustard painted my hand.
    "Having a snack?" Dad asked, walking slowly towards me.
    I nodded and looked at the half-chewed green pickle, the kind Dad had given us in our stockings just four months ago; the brand’s logo could have been sewn onto our family crest, if we had one. The pickle was our thing; a product that united us, with cheese and cracker dust falling across our pajamas.
    "That was my headhunter. So we’ll see what he comes up with."
    My stomach tingled in uneasy waves. My sinuses still battling toxins, I dropped the bread and ham collision on a small plate. The pickle bite was lodged in my dry throat and my eyes were watering again.
    I swallowed hard, turned my neck towards Dad.
    "That sounds good," I said.
    What would happen? Our whole life, my room, the backyard, Holly’s stuff, my stuff, our bikes, where would we live, would we have to move, put things into storage, live in the woods? I had, on a few occasions, ventured out on long walks in the snow, sat in the dark, even once with Holly when we were pissed off, tired of the yelling, and fantasized, for a millisecond at least, of living out the rest of our days in the icy blue nothing. That was years ago .
    I looked down at my hands...black bits of paint illuminated by the margarine in a strange shellac. All those years ago .
    "How was school?"
    "S’OK."
    "I’m going out for a while," Dad said, snorting as he passed me. He shuffled in the hallway with his coat and hat, taking a cigarette from his pocket and putting it in his mouth, anticipating nicotine. The creak from the front hall closet was jingle-like in its familiarity. "I started to defrost the spaghetti sauce," he said. "It’s on the counter."
    "OK."
    "See you soon," Dad said, a minor winter howl sneaking inside for a second, only to be snipped off by the door closing.
    I stepped towards the front door to see Dad smoking and backing out; our weird two-tone grey second-hand Oldsmobile had trails of exhaust billowing a temporary cloud onto the street. Mom would be home from Community Care East York, where she worked Mondays in a basement office, mostly filing and faxing and calling the elderly and their immediate families.
    I fished around in my corduroy pockets, remembering the clipping I had cut out from a newspaper at the school library. Last night was Wrestlemania VII, and the results were published in Monday’s paper. I pulled it out and read as I chewed my creation.

    Hulk Wins 3rd WWF Title! Plus, Warrior Ends Randy’s Career! More on S15.
    Despite delivering five big top-rope elbow drops on the Warrior, Macho King is no more, as The Ultimate Warrior bested Randy Savage in their career-ending confrontation at Wrestlemania VII last night in Los Angeles. In other big matches, The Hart Foundation (Bret "Hitman" Hart and Jim "The Anvil" Neidhart) lost the WWF tag-team belts to The Nasty Boys, managed by Jimmy Hart, and Hulk Hogan became a three-time WWF Champion when he defeated Sergeant Slaughter (with his advisor Colonel Mustafa, an Iraqi military personality who was rumoured to be a close confidant of Saddam Hussein) in a bloody encounter in which Slaughter got a hefty dose of justice at the hands of Hogan...

    *

    It was Friday evening. After some miserable meatloaf, boiled green beans and a soft-core salad (iceberg lettuce, choke-cut carrots, frayed celery and dressing-drenched raisins), I was in my bedroom watching Holly do laundry. She was back from university in Kingston for the weekend. When she came to the pantry in the basement stairwell