Flirt: The Interviews Read Free
Author: Lorna Jackson
Tags: Fiction, Fantasy, Short Stories, Language Arts & Disciplines, Short Stories (Single Author), Communication Studies
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No. I donât need that.
âYes, you do, you need to walk.
âWhatâs your favourite crop?
âI mean it. Letâs walk. Weâll be the dogâs flock. Those shoes are fine. Wear my big sweater. Put the pencil down.
I Flirt with BOBBY ORR
âYour knees are like Popeyeâs biceps after spinach.
âI canât get slacks that fit.
âIâve never been in a Cadillac. Does this one have a name?
âEscalade.
âThatâs a pretty word for a car. A pretty idea.
âI had a Corvette years ago. I love them, theyâre beautiful, but I have trouble with my legs, so getting in and out . . . getting in and out of the Escalade is much easier. I wouldnât call it a car.
ââHe has an Austinâs motor in a Cadillacâs chassis.â
âWho does?
âThey said that about Jean Béliveau. Six foot three with a Tin Woodsmanâs too-small heart. Drive, Bobby. Should I call you Bob? Now, do they still call you Bobby?
âSome do. The fans, the fansâ kids, the bogus websites. To them, Iâm always twenty-two and flying through the air. Call me what you want. Not on the floor; thereâs a trash can in your armrest.
âI hope I donât make you nervous. Just drive. I suppose youâre a defensive driver. Get it? Defensive? Your hands are trembling like a compass. Whatâs that steering wheel made of?
âLeather and wood. Itâs already starting to change with my hands. See there? Like a putter, or a hand-me-down axe. You should know Iâm scared skinny of talking like this. Iâm no shucks as a talker. Donât do that. Iâll turn up the defog, but please donât use your hand. The grease.
âIâve lived in apartments smaller than this car. First time away from home â 1974 â off to the university across the water, I rented a little bachelor joint down 82 stairs to the rocky beach on Shoal Bay in Victoria. Thatâs 82 down and 82 back up.
âThatâs 81 more than I could handle.
âEven then? Even the year you scored more points than Esposito? Than everyone?
âEspecially then.
âMe too, turns out. Iâd had a bad fall in 1969. January, the streets of Vancouver fluffed with snow, and after school the rough boys â the Meraloma rugby players, the boys I liked, their cowlicks and white teeth and ski jackets and perpetual running shoes â chased us with snowballs in the wide-open frozen streets, between cold-arched chestnut trees. I ran hard â I was twelve, long-legged and fast, happy to be chased by those boys
â and then I slipped on the hidden ice â a boy named Paul winging an ice-ball at my bare head â and fell to my knees and slid hard and fast into the curb. My kneecap hit first. My elbow hurt most, but when I tried to get up a whole joint had disappeared.
âSports injuries often happen this way: you think itâs one limb but thatâs a trick, turns out to be another. Prompt and professional diagnosis is key to successful rehabilitation. Now, did you shatter it, crack it or what?
âStay with me, Bobby, you sound like a pamphlet. Cracked across. Swelled to three times by dark. I lay in the den with my leg on pillows, my mother annoyed, inattentive, chain-smoking Black Cats, rum and Cokes; our dog barked at icicles falling from the eaves. My older sister was giving parts of herself to Hodgkinâs Disease. My father was missing.
âMissing what?
âIn November 1968 â two months before my fall â he had disappeared, left a note in his Pontiac Parisienne under the Burrard Street Bridge saying gone for good â suicide â and . . . Donât worry, Bobby, donât do that with your eyebrows: he came back, itâs not like that, the storyâs not sad, he sat out a season, thatâs all. He had a little Soldierâs Heart, a little Post-Traumatic Stress from WWII and a crash in Germany, a
âYes, you do, you need to walk.
âWhatâs your favourite crop?
âI mean it. Letâs walk. Weâll be the dogâs flock. Those shoes are fine. Wear my big sweater. Put the pencil down.
I Flirt with BOBBY ORR
âYour knees are like Popeyeâs biceps after spinach.
âI canât get slacks that fit.
âIâve never been in a Cadillac. Does this one have a name?
âEscalade.
âThatâs a pretty word for a car. A pretty idea.
âI had a Corvette years ago. I love them, theyâre beautiful, but I have trouble with my legs, so getting in and out . . . getting in and out of the Escalade is much easier. I wouldnât call it a car.
ââHe has an Austinâs motor in a Cadillacâs chassis.â
âWho does?
âThey said that about Jean Béliveau. Six foot three with a Tin Woodsmanâs too-small heart. Drive, Bobby. Should I call you Bob? Now, do they still call you Bobby?
âSome do. The fans, the fansâ kids, the bogus websites. To them, Iâm always twenty-two and flying through the air. Call me what you want. Not on the floor; thereâs a trash can in your armrest.
âI hope I donât make you nervous. Just drive. I suppose youâre a defensive driver. Get it? Defensive? Your hands are trembling like a compass. Whatâs that steering wheel made of?
âLeather and wood. Itâs already starting to change with my hands. See there? Like a putter, or a hand-me-down axe. You should know Iâm scared skinny of talking like this. Iâm no shucks as a talker. Donât do that. Iâll turn up the defog, but please donât use your hand. The grease.
âIâve lived in apartments smaller than this car. First time away from home â 1974 â off to the university across the water, I rented a little bachelor joint down 82 stairs to the rocky beach on Shoal Bay in Victoria. Thatâs 82 down and 82 back up.
âThatâs 81 more than I could handle.
âEven then? Even the year you scored more points than Esposito? Than everyone?
âEspecially then.
âMe too, turns out. Iâd had a bad fall in 1969. January, the streets of Vancouver fluffed with snow, and after school the rough boys â the Meraloma rugby players, the boys I liked, their cowlicks and white teeth and ski jackets and perpetual running shoes â chased us with snowballs in the wide-open frozen streets, between cold-arched chestnut trees. I ran hard â I was twelve, long-legged and fast, happy to be chased by those boys
â and then I slipped on the hidden ice â a boy named Paul winging an ice-ball at my bare head â and fell to my knees and slid hard and fast into the curb. My kneecap hit first. My elbow hurt most, but when I tried to get up a whole joint had disappeared.
âSports injuries often happen this way: you think itâs one limb but thatâs a trick, turns out to be another. Prompt and professional diagnosis is key to successful rehabilitation. Now, did you shatter it, crack it or what?
âStay with me, Bobby, you sound like a pamphlet. Cracked across. Swelled to three times by dark. I lay in the den with my leg on pillows, my mother annoyed, inattentive, chain-smoking Black Cats, rum and Cokes; our dog barked at icicles falling from the eaves. My older sister was giving parts of herself to Hodgkinâs Disease. My father was missing.
âMissing what?
âIn November 1968 â two months before my fall â he had disappeared, left a note in his Pontiac Parisienne under the Burrard Street Bridge saying gone for good â suicide â and . . . Donât worry, Bobby, donât do that with your eyebrows: he came back, itâs not like that, the storyâs not sad, he sat out a season, thatâs all. He had a little Soldierâs Heart, a little Post-Traumatic Stress from WWII and a crash in Germany, a
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