It's going to be a long night. The boards are flying off the head rig, coming at us like a hardwood floor. Over on the two-by side the boys are barely keeping up. Gordie and I would normally find this amusing, but we've got problems of our own; waterlogged Hemlock, twenty foot long, and a shit load of them. Don't get me wrong, I'm not afraid of hard work. It's just that these buggers are heavy. Takes both of us to get them rolling and laying into the pile right.

Gordie stops the chain, hops onto the deck and strides toward the head end. The Tower, that's what they call him, and he looks every inch. Over the summer he's widened across the shoulders and narrowed through the hips. His baby fat has melted away, leaving nothing but muscle slab. When he gets to the end he pulls out a roll of surveyors tape. He'll use this to tag each of our timbers. It isn't something we always do, but like I said there's a shit load. On his way back the boys start up with their 'One for the Gipper' routine.

"You go get him, Tower!"

"Show'em how we do it in a mill town lad!"

"There's any extra pussy, you know where to send'em boy!"

On it goes and it won't stop for nothing, not on his last night. Tomorrow Gordie flies out to Philadelphia for training camp. He's the first local kid ever to sign an NHL contract. In Charlton Point this puts him somewhere between Elvis and Jesus Christ. But he still works the chain. All our boys do.

The Flyers threw in a Corvette to boot, yellow as a banana, with custom plates that read "See ya". He must have racked up fifty thousand miles in that thing, bouncing like a pinball between both ends of town. You'd figure this might rub people the wrong way; the money, the car and whatnot. Nobody seems to mind. He is, as they say here, 'a good kid,' meaning he's a hell of a hockey player and hasn't been to jail yet.

Over the spring I'd seen him tooling down Main street. He was hard to miss, blond hair flying, waving like a monkey at everyone in sight. You'd have thought he'd won the lottery or something, which I guess he had. People wanted to be close to him. They wanted some of the magic to rub off, as if it were a fresh coat of paint. Particularly the women. Rumor had it he'd spun every town girl over fifteen through the shotgun seat of that Vette. No one seemed to mind that either. I'd also heard one of the mill bosses found Gordie curled up with his daughter one Saturday morning. No shit, right under his own roof, the two of them naked as jaybirds and her still in junior high. He invited the kid to stay for breakfast is how the story goes. Just a "how do ya like your eggs old son" and not another word said. The landings are always smooth when you're a bona fide local hero.

Me, I've worked in the mill coming on twenty years. All of them pulling timbers on the graveyard shift. The company has done what they can to get me the hell out. Every carrot you can imagine, from buy-outs to promotions. They'd like to tuck me away somewhere and lose the key.

"This is a young man's game George," they say, "how about a security job?"

"Fuck right off." I tell them, "I got a union."

They don't like me much, that's a fact. I figure big men make people nervous. Big men who don't say much, well they're not to be trusted at all. The clincher though, what really riles up these pot-bellied bigwigs is that I remind them how far over the hill they are. While they sail their desks into the sunset, I'm down here doing twice the work of men half my age.

Each June we take on a few kids from the high school. Most of them are leaving to the university of whatever in the fall, or they're just leaving. Some stay, not many. Once they get a load of the chain, any doubts they've had about post secondary education seem to disappear.

A couple of months back they brought Gordie and three greenhorns down. After all the backslapping and atta boys they put him to work on the two by four pile. Everyone starts there. Gets them used to the pulling while they figure out a ten from a twelve footer. For the next few hours Gordie does the work while the other three slouch against the piles smoking cigarettes. I'd seen this kind come and go. All scowls and reed thin arms. They don't care what keeps a roof over their heads, didn't want to know where the money came from. The big kid is different. Just keeps pulling, doesn't bitch at the other three at all. After first whistle he crosses the deck.

He wasn't the first to try. I poured myself some coffee and sat back to watch the fun. That's what I do when I get unwanted company; sit my ass down until they give up, which they always do.

What happens next reminds me of this old I love Lucy episode. Lucy and Ethel Mertz hire on at Kramer's Kandy Kitchen. Their job is to dip and wrap chocolates on a conveyer belt. Everything goes smooth at first. Then the belt starts to speed up, the chocolates are coming faster and faster. Lucy and Ethel can't keep up. Finally they're cramming chocolates into their pockets, stuffing them into their cheeks until they look like a pair of chipmunks. That's what the timber side gets like. The wood keeps coming and coming. Then again, you can't eat a four by four.

The kid starts off all right. Seems to know the wood, so it's just a matter of keeping up. He does for a while. Yanks a few off the head end, charges past me and pulls three off the tail. Avoids my stare the whole time, but he's getting it down. Lets six or seven big ones go by while he grabs a sandwich from his bucket. This time he saunters by and picks them off like he's been doing it all his life. Gives me a little grin. I grin back. What he'd seen were a few drops from the ocean.

Within ten minutes he's humping up and down the chain like a mad man. Soaked clean through his shirt and pants. His pants for Christ's sake! That was a new one. The grin is long gone and he's starting to miss some wood. Jocko Frazer, the night foreman and an insufferable prick, stands and watches, arms crossed, shaking his bald head. After a minute or two he trips the chain and walks to where Gordie is catching his breath. He says something too quiet to hear, then struts back to me.

"You ruin the superstar, George, there'll be hell to pay," he says.

"Send him back over then Jock."

"Tried, he won't go."

"Ah well then."

"Stay where you are, he'll quit sooner or later," Jocko says.

"Fuck right off." I tell him.

"I know, George, I know. You got a union."

Well, that made up my mind. There's only one thing I like less than having to work with someone, and that's being told what to do by the likes of Jocko Frazer. I threw on my gear and went back to pulling. After twenty years seems I got myself a partner.

The cat calls keep coming, "Say hello to Bobbie Clarke, Gordo!"

You can't blame them. These boys were all teethed on Hockey Night in Canada. The thought of seeing one of their own patrolling an NHL blue line is too good to be true. So they hoot and holler, convince each other it's more than just a chance thing. That somehow they all played a part in the kid's success. It's as likely the fluoride in the water if you ask me.

As for Gordie, he's got that 'aw shucks' look on his face. The one I used to think turned him into a twelve year old kid. The one that looks a bit different lately, like a mask he slips on for the occasion.

The saws up on the head rig whine to life again. Aprons are strapped, gloves are pulled back on. Everyone waits. This is my favorite time of day. The sun pitches a blood-red beam across the yard. Men move, shadows behind swirling sawdust as the chain lurches forward.

Sometimes, sleeping through hot afternoons, I dream about this scene. It's all in flames, the whole place, even I'm on fire. Only the boards are untouched. They come rolling out of this inferno and I toss them back in, one by one. There is no panic. It's just work, another day at the office. Until I wake up with my heart going off like a grenade in my chest.

On these days I stalk like a tiger, lunging and tearing at the wood. The fire is still with me, smoldering under my skin. I see the looks from across the chain. I want to believe it's respect, but I'll settle for the fear in their eyes. It keeps them away. It keeps everyone away.

These mill towns are all the same, I guess. A whisper in the morning ends up sky written above town by noon; old George has a head full of bad wiring. The man ain't all there. I see it in their too-friendly smiles, the way conversations lull down and stoke back up after I pass. I'm the monster under their beds, the thing that keeps them from having to look at themselves.

"What are you staring at old man?"

Gordie is holding out my apron and gloves. His crooked grin says it all. He's a world-beater. A heart breaking, life taking force of nature and that's all there is to it. He'll make the grade. I know it, just the way everyone in this whistle stop of a town knows it, and we all have since he tied on a pair of skates.

"Time to go to work rookie."

"We'll see who the rookie is!" he gushes.

Gordie latches onto the first six by six and I plant my hands just behind his. It's all telepathy from this point. We lean and heave together, let the timber rumble through our gloves, sail out over the roller. When the butt end swings as high as it can, I reach out and hurl it downward onto the pile.

"And repeat 10,000 times, eh George?" the kid chuckles.

In the next four hours, we pull enough Hemlock to build a bridge. It goes quickly. No time to think about places you'd rather be, no time for old enemies, or new ones either. You let your brain shut down. Leave it on just enough to do the job. If you can't do that, you won't be around to draw your first cheque. Or they'll pack you out on a stretcher.

The lunch horn sounds, breaking the crew in two. The older men squeeze into the dog shack where they'll play poker and bitch about their wives for the next half hour. Someone might have a bottle. The younger guys stick around the chain and smoke weed. Both groups want Gordie for show and tell tonight. He looks to me and I hook a thumb back over my shoulder. We grab our pails, cross the darkened yard to the log pond.

It's about twenty feet down to a clearing just above the water. In the center of all this squashed grass are two seats. One salvaged from a loader eight years ago, the other dragged from the scrap heap a month back. Between these crude thrones an electrical spool has been knocked on it's side to make a table.

We settle into our chairs. The dark pools around us as we unpack our lunches, listening to the men splashing and cursing out on the pond. There are no stars, only the lights of the boom boats scribbling against the night. After eating I pull out a flask of whiskey.

"We're all gonna go for some beers tonight," Gordie says, "I was hoping you'd come this time."

"You don't give up, do you?"

"Nope."

I pass the bottle and Gordie flips it up. He lets out a small whistle and passes it back. I split the rest between our two thermoses.

"Nervous?" I ask.

"A little."

"It's hockey kid, not rocket science."

He extends his arm towards me, holding an envelope between his fingers. I open it, turning into the thin beam of light from the yard. Inside are two airline tickets to Philadelphia and two more for the home opener against Boston. I fan them out like cards, knowing I'll never use them.

"Why in the hell would you….why two pairs?"

"Maybe you bring someone."

I snort at that. "Who's going to tag along with a big, ugly bastard like me?"

"You got a point there, George." he says, "Keep them just in case."

We don't say much more through lunch. The kid knows enough to leave me be when I want it that way.

Back at work the hemlock is still coming, but not so regular now. We keep up easily. There's only an hour left in the shift and the kid has been chattering non-stop since lunch. The spiked coffee has got his tongue moving, that's for sure. He can't keep it in anymore. I try to imagine how he must feel, so close now. To climb on that plane, rise into the air until this place shrinks to a map. To know each day coming will swell into something new. Something good.

"If I hit my bonuses I could clear half a million this year, George. Half a million, think of it"

"That's great kid."

"I could make you a loan, get you out of this one horse town."

"Uh huh, sounds good." I say.

But none of it sounds good. I feel my chest tightening. The lights above the chain sizzle and the cloying stink of ripe lumber fills my nostrils like rising water.

"George? You don't look so hot." he says, "Maybe you should take a load off. I'll cover."

"Think I will."

Slowly I walk up the chain, hands on my hips, gulping for air. I would kill for a breeze right now, but there isn't a whisper. The muggy heat leans in, slowing everything with its weight.

My basement apartment is cool even on the really hot days. I've tacked furniture blankets against all the windows to keep the sun out, and set up fans to move the air. Sometimes I imagine I live in a cave above the sea somewhere. Mexico maybe. No one would question a man alone in a place as beautiful as that. No one.

"George!" It's Jocko Frazer, his face floating like an ugly red balloon inches from mine. "Are you fuckin deaf man! Get down there and help the kid!"

I look past his shoulder. There's nothing but hemlock right from the cutting deck down to where Gordie is pulling. I push past Jocko, who's still going on about my hearing, and head towards the tail end.

The kid is in the zone, his shoulders bulging and jumping. The whole chain shakes with each timber. His grunts ring out like the exhaust of some machine. My footsteps slow until I'm standing, watching. He's keeping up. In twenty years, no one but me has ever kept up to this much wood. The other guys start to take notice too, tapping and pointing. Soon enough, they're pumping their fists in the air, clapping and cheering.

"Go Gordie!"

"Tower rules!"

The fuckers are going on like they've never seen anything so magnificent. Like it was something new. I'm half way there when that sick feeling rolls through me again. "What do you want, George, an engraved invitation!"

I turn to see Jocko bearing down on me, churning up clouds of sawdust. He's rasping with one hand at his iron fringe of hair, that 'Lord give me strength' look written all over his face. When he gets within a few feet, he puts the brakes on hard. The blood has dropped from his face. He lifts his arm and points a trembling finger.

"You just settle down there, George."

I have no idea what the man's talking about. Maybe he's finally having that heart attack I'd wished for him all these years. That's what I'm thinking when I notice both my hands are curled into shaking fists. I make myself relax, shaking each arm out. Tracers of fire spit from my sleeves.

"You start pulling George, or you'll be kicking horse shit down Main street by tomorrow, he says in a low voice, almost a whisper, "Union or no."

He turns to check if anyone has seen our little showdown. When he's satisfied no one has, he jams a cigarette in his teeth and disappears between the stacks.

I make my way slowly down to Gordie. Out of the corner of my eye, I see filmy wisps of smoke starting to rise off everything. The heat, it's got to be, but I can smell the sharp tang of burning wood and it's getting stronger.

The kid is down setting up for a new lift. He's bent over, his back to me, lugging the rear block into place. I reach out for the next timber. It's hemlock of course, huge, still steaming from the bite of the saw. I set my feet and thrust forward for all I'm worth. It's only when the thing is half way across the roller that I notice there isn't much room on the outside row. I let her go any way, using gentle taps to nudge it out even further. By the time I lower the back end, the whole length is sitting as much off as on the pile.

You get to know a guy when you work with him. It doesn't take long to figure out how he does things. And this job isn't like most jobs. It's like putting your clothes on in the morning, or driving a car. Everybody has their own way of doing it, but they do it the same way every time.

Gordie will finish setting his blocks. He will come out of his squat and shoot an arm out to pull himself up. He will do it with his left arm. I know all this. I know it for fact, but I still jump when the scream comes.

It rises bright as a flare and is swallowed into the pounding music of the mill.

§ § §

Phil Jones lives in White Rock, BC. He has published stories in Zygote magazine, The Danforth Review and Words literary journal. He currently has a short story selected for possible inclusion in e2ink2, a best of the web anthology.

He can be reached at philcoj@shaw.ca.

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This piece was first published in INK POT #1 - 2003, a literary journal.