Slow Ride

By Gus T. Cumberland

I spent my first three months after college on a cattle ranch near Calgary building wood fences from sunrise to lunch and going on long, drug-addled horseback rides in the afternoons. It was a fine lifestyle, and the Swedish immigrant family who employed me was lovely, but as the weather grew cold and my stash of Hashish began to dwindle, I decided to make my way back home to California’s Central Coast. After a goodbye dinner of beef ribs and herring I went for a drink at the only tavern within 200 kilometers, a bar folks called Bud’s because of its extensive beer selection.

Toothless bears crowded booths and townie girls clung like burrs to their flannel sleeves. The men drank beer, the women drowned themselves in eye contact, and even the palest Canadian skin glowed golden in the bar light. I found myself trading whiskeys with a man who looked like Howard Cosell. He fixed his toupee and told me he was General Manager of the local hockey club, the Deertooth Malamutes. These were his boys, and tonight had been a victorious opening night.

“You know Howard, I’ve always wanted to drive a zamboni,” I said.

“Tell you what. We can arrange if you promise to do one small favor for me. Suit up tomorrow night as our mascot, Mario the Malamute. Our regular guy has dysentery.”

“Really?”

“When the bar closes we all head back to the rink for a couple hours. Just come with us, and remember tomorrow night you’re Mario.”

But I never got to be Mario. At 3:00 AM, with Foghat’s Slow Ride bouncing off the arena bleachers, and a goaltender being pleasured in the penalty box, I set out on my zamboni ride. With a beer in my left hand and the steering wheel in my right, it was cold and smooth and glorious until just after 3:03 AM when I lost control of the wheel, spun in three full circles, and crashed through the boards. My skin was mangled in the blades and my knee was nearly ripped from the joint.

I still think twice before putting on shorts. When Slow Ride comes on the radio, I change the station. And sometimes, on cold nights, I see an ominous zamboni amongst the friendly shadows that glide across my bedroom wall.