Free Rockets Versus Gravity by Richard Scarsbrook Page B

actually, Mr. Riskey,” James says, “it’s a medical appointment. Um, you know, a follow-up medical appointment.”
    Harry Riskey spins around, strides back over to James’s cubicle. He towers over his son-in-law, raising his chin so that the point on his impeccably trimmed beard is aimed right between James’s eyes, like an ancient king staring down an inept serf. Twice a week, Harry pays more than James earns in a day to have his grey facial hair groomed like the putting greens at his members-only club.
    â€œJimmy,” he says in a stage whisper, “is this about your sperm count?”
    â€œUm, possibly, sir,” James says. “They, uh, wouldn’t say over the phone.”
    â€œWell, for Chrissakes,” Harry says, his eyes wide, “get yourself out of here! Go! Now!”
    In the past two years, Harry Riskey has had three at-fault car accidents, two massive heart attacks, and one rectal polyp removal, all of which have caused him to suspect that he might not live forever. More than anything else in the world, Harry wants a rightful heir to his fortune and legacy, a young man whom he can sculpt after his own great likeness. And it has to be a young man ; Harrison Riskey is a true believer in Patriarchal Lineage. His only legitimate offspring, Sidney, was supposed to be his heir apparent, but of course his wife got one of the chromosomes wrong, and Sidney came out female. So, at Harry’s age, a grandson is really his only hope, and hence Harry’s great interest in the well-being of James’s sperm.
    â€œI’ll call my driver to take you to your appointment,” Harry says.
    â€œOkay,” James says. “Thanks, Mr. Riskey.”
    â€œYou can call me Harry when we’re talking family business, Jimmy. The limo driver will be waiting in the foyer.”
    â€œThanks, um, Harry,” James says.
    James and his sperm have never been invited to ride in the Riskey and Gamble company car before. There is a rare bounce in his step as he zigs and zags around the other putty-grey cubicles to escape for the day.
    Just as the elevator doors slide open, Harry Riskey calls out to James, “Take your laptop with you. You can work on policy forms and answer client emails from the doctor’s waiting room. This isn’t a vacation, Jimmy.”
    James slinks back to his desk to pick up his company-issued laptop, which is embossed with the words Property of Riskey and Gamble .

Maple Leaf Sermon
    G ame Seven, Round Two of the playoffs. Just five bucks a seat to see the Leafs play the Devils on the Sony Jumbotron at the Air Canada Centre. Come one, come all!
    Having paid just one-fiftieth the price of a regular-season live game ticket, the blue-and -white masses converge on The Hangar, from Oshawa, from Pickering, from Mississauga, from Scarborough, from Hamilton, from London, and from between and beyond. For many, it’s the first time they’ve entered the temple; the season tickets are mostly owned by Bay Street business types, who don’t even return to their seats from the bar until the middle of the second period.
    But these are the Faithful, these are the True Fans. Oh, hear the pre-game thunder! Six thousand voices, voices usually confined to suburban basement rec rooms; the roar reaches out into the streets.
    O utside the arena, a man with bone-thin arms and rawhide leather skin is shaking his dreadlocks and a makeshift Stanley Cup, which he has made from a dented public washroom garbage can and a tomato-juice tin crowned with a margarine container.
    The man smells of stale sweat and dust and urine, and he is clothed in dirt-scrubbed robes, like a battle-worn Jesus (or maybe it’s Mohammed, or perhaps these sheets were all he could scavenge to cover himself).
    He shakes the coin-filled trophy replica — schlink-schlink -schlink. A flake of dried spittle flies from his scabbed lower lip as he rhymes:
The Blue and White will win