Pure Olsonomics

French gave us a fine display of high school economics today in the staffroom  He mentioned that he had overheard a student who had a little financial operation going.  The students would cut a deck of cards in half on the bandsaw.  Then he would sell the cut cards for two bucks a pop as tickets.  This student would collect at least $104 dollars - more if he sold the jokers.  At the end of the day on Friday he'd pull a card out of a hat and give the winner, who held the matching half, a 20 ounce bottle of booze that he had stashed in his locker.

Solid economics - the kid would clear around $80 - depending on sales.  Underagers would gladly gamble two bucks for the chance to win some hard to come by liquor.

All the teachers that heard French tell this story reacted in disgust and proclaimed the fall of humanity.  One teacher even said: "I weep for the future".

The bell rung and they all left.  I burst out laughing.

French said: "Good on yah...keeping a straight face".

This story of the card cutting booze supplier was fully biographical in nature.  French pulled this deal whenever he was low on cash in his high school days.

Lonesome 50 and the Big One

We were having a few beers with the usual crew: Sweaty, French, Bruce Fish, Pancake, Lonesome 50 and me, Old Ollie. Usual group, usual place, usual beers - until sweaty finally coaxed Lonesome 50 to tell a story from World War 2.

Sweaty kept buying Lonesome 50 his favourite, and namesake, Labatt 50 quarts. He just jumped into the story after being silent for most of the night:

I was in Italy, and damned tired of walking.  The Captain asked if anyone knew how to drive a motorcycle.  They needed a new FOO (forward observational officer).  The former one had been taken out by sniper fire.  I put up my hand and went up and took the bike.  I didn't know how to drive it, being a poor farm kid, but I learned that night.

My job was to drive up ahead and do a bit of scouting; avoid German and Italian troops and report back.  I'd go ahead to the next village and buy up all the wine and spirits, and hide it.  I'd resell it to our lads as they caught up. 

By the end of the war I was a liquor tycoon.  I'd just repeat that process over and over.  I just tried to survive, make a bit of coin, and supply me brethren with fine booze. When the war was over I went straight, worked the trains; but that was a damn fine business.

We bought him another round after that fine tale.

Bench Seat

 A strange pick-up truck pulled into my driveway tonight.  It looked old, but clean; rust free.  The horn honked and French got out grinning.

"So whadya think?", he said.

"Cool old truck...but why?", I replied.

He explained that he had bought it off Lonesome 50.  He had lost his licence because his sight had faded.  French promised to drive him around, and had paid him a healthy market value.  French went on with his explanation.  I'll paraphrase: "This is the important part...it has a bench seat.  And nothing makes picking up girls easier than a bench seat.  You put a solid mix; these days it is Taylor Swift along with a few old classics.  Your lady friend can slide right over.   This is the beauty of the bench seat."

He pulled out soon after to pick up his current girl; the one with the Johnny Cash tattoo.

I think I need a new old truck.

This is a Bombtrack

I was about to watch a very early morning hockey game last weekend.  French and I were sipping a cup of coffee, topped up with just a dash of Canadian Club, up in the chilly stands of the local arena.

French pulled out an earphone splitter jack and plugged in his headphones.  He told me to plug mine in as well.  French had made a mix for the game.

He waited for the exact moment for the kids to step out on to the ice and start skating their warm-up.  When the first kid touched the ice the words: "bring that shit out" nailed me.  French continued the audio assault with a crazy mix of Rage Against the Machine hits and a smattering of P.O.D.

It was sweet when my son scored on a massive slap shot during the ripping power chords of Bombtrack.

When the game wrapped up and the kids were shaking hands French said: "that is pretty much the only time rap-rock is acceptable".

38 years old

Phone rang early ... real early.  All I could hear on the other end was the sound of 38 Years Old by the Tragically Hip.  The line "never kissed a girl" was sung with massive gusto.

This was followed by whoops and hollers from Sweaty, Pancake and Bruce Fish.  The song ended and French said: "happy birthday yah fucker".

They had stayed up till 4 am just to "get me".

I was up giving Gunnar a bottle  - jokes on them.  Good lads though...good lads.

Lock Down

There is a series of codes, forms, and protocols that swing into effect in case the school gets threatened.  The trend seems to be to throw a mountain of bureaucracy at the threat to vanquish it.  In fact, tomorrow we have a Lock Down Drill.  French deals with these "threats" in his own way.

A young guy in his early twenties came in to our computer lab a while back.  This intruder was soaking wet with sweat, his hair was long and stuck to his face; the worst part was that his knuckles were bleeding.  He came in, sat down at a computer and started to check his email.  He acted like this was the most normal thing in the world; very casual.

This young fella had been spotted coming in and had taken off from the admin team.  The school went into full lock down: doors locked, windows covered, huddle in the corner...police on their way.  French stepped up.

French went right up to the guy and asked to speak to him in the hall.  They talked like they were old buds.  French handed him a handkerchief for his bloody hands and walked him to the back door.  The intruder left the building and French locked the door behind him.

Once a school is in lock down it is a long process to get it off that designation.  As we waited for the official all clear French regaled everyone with "the story" (even though it was "all clear").  Everyone asked: "What did you do?"  He answered each question the same way: "I talked to him".

The lock down and police sweep continued for three hours.  I like French's direct method better.


Posted to this fine site: Imperfect Prose

The Rules

French has been in a lot of trouble in his days.  I've been there as an observer, witness, participant; in those fist swinging moments.  I've waved to French as he waves back from the back of a cop car, but he has stayed out of trouble for the longest stint I can remember.

He still looks the rebel: sleeved, punkish hair, cowboy boots, and he sticks a cigarette behind his ear and ducks out for a butt as the bell rings at school.

I asked him - what gives? - How come he has kept it on the level the last few months?  He replied "the rules".  He continued:  "When I see trouble brewing I follow them religiously".

THE RULES

1.  Look surprised.
2.  Deny everything.
3.  Seem sincere.

I asked: "Those are the rules of life?"

French said: "No those rules are totally fucked for life, but they are to be followed at all times at work".

Fair Enough.