the rig
My confidant and protection.
If anyone even looks at you wrong, tell me.
Drills wells,
but his rig constantly breaks down.
Uses a dousing rod to find water.
Apparently, there’s an anger management problem, but I never noticed.
Norwegian and Metis.
Dave and me and Roy, standin’ around shootin' the shit.
The three of us would talk about the imaginary Viking crusades we went on.
Dave was quite adamant they were real.
Sperm donor
Personally escorts the unwanted from the island.
No one wanted them here. It was time for them to go.
Told me a thousand and five hilarious stories,
such as:
This one time, I picked serrano peppers in my neighbour’s garden.
Then I picked my nose and got a bad nosebleed. I had to go to the hospital.
Now, I have a deviated septum because I picked my nose.
We spoke in the language of crude.
Occasionally, trying to out-crude each other.
He has a few daughters.
All of them have it together and are beautiful, accomplished humans.
When I’d tell him about a guy I was interested in 9/10 times, he’d say,
So, he has no skills.
There was some sort of dude animosity between him
and a particular gentleman friend.
It was fascinating to witness.
He’s a large man, maybe 6’4” and 300 lbs.
Loves animals. And has a new kitten.
His girlfriend is compassionate, kind and friendly.
She swims back and forth to Denman to raise money for island charities.
Sometimes, I’d go help him out on gigs he had.
Passing wrenches and scrap wood around.
But usually, it was just to give my opinion.
Does this look like shit? Good enough.
His girlfriend would bring lunch.
He wears a dirty head scarf, and his long blond hair‘s always in a ponytail.
His sweatshirts are filthy and always too short.
He drilled the well on my property
and tried to convince me to drink the water.
You won’t get beaver fever. Just try it. It tastes like rotten eggs with bubbles.
Psychic.
It sucks most of the time. Doesn’t it, Stace?
He used to work up North in the oil patch.
Drinks a lot.
I have it under control.
Favours Jamaican rum.
He was born on the island.
His Dad, Pops, recently passed away.
His mom still lives in the house where he was born.
He had four brothers, but two died.
A good friend to me.
He’d drop by every so often just to make sure I was ok.
You went silent, Stace.
He made a moving crate for my 40-year-old Ficus
He helps people in the community,
but most are standoffish
They’d ask me,
Can you talk to Dave about…?
An absolute slob but a good guy with a heart of gold.
We sat on the hood of his pickup and drank a goodbye toast,
a two-six of
Jamaican rum.
