Claude

IT'S SUNDAY AFTERNOON AND WE'RE HANGING OUT under the clock tower in the middle of town. Jimmy, Todd and me, sitting in a row like three baggy-jeaned crows on a power line, perched on the back of the park bench, feet on the seat, skateboards across our laps, waiting for something to happen.

Jimmy pulls out a cigarette and lights it with the silver flip-top lighter he stole off the dresser in Crystal Richards' parents' bedroom. He says Crystal and him got all cozy in there last Tuesday night while her parents were out at the movies. But I think he just swiped it at her house party on Friday. Girls like Crystal don't usually have a lot to say to guys like us.

He takes a long drag and hisses out a stream of white smoke. "This fuckin' town. There's nothing going on." He passes the cigarette to Todd and glares up and down the street. A handful of people are out, walking slowly along the sidewalk. The stores are open, but nobody's going in. Across the street, Joey Pavan's dad stands outside his clothing store, arms crossed, staring at the river. Most people around here travel up the road to the 1000 Island Mall in Brockville if they want to shop, or over the hill to the new Loblaws near the turn off to the highway. Downtown is nothing but a few shops along an uneven road on the way to somewhere else.

We're sitting under the clock tower, four rectangular slabs of concrete with a clock-face jammed on top. It's about two stories high and there's glass near the bottom so you can see its mechanical guts churning over the hours. For some reason they built it on the edge of a parking lot. The lot used to belong to Adams' Grocery, but the Loblaws put it out of business a couple of years ago. Now it's just a place for guys like us to hang out and skate. Which is exactly what we'd usually be doing, but Jimmy's not in the mood for skating. Instead, we're sitting here on the bench passing around a Player's Light with our boards flat across our laps, wheels in the air.

Todd passes me the cigarette, the top of the filter pinched between his thumb and forefinger. "Man, I wish this was a joint." I nod in agreement and take the cigarette. "Fuck, yes," says Jimmy who's watching a short, stocky figure lurch down the street towards us. He snorts and elbows Todd in the ribs. "It's Claude," he says. "Crazy Claude!"

I look over at Jimmy and try to read his mind. His eyes are narrow, and he's smiling but not showing any teeth. He blows a blast of air out his nose, and looks at Todd and me. "Claude fuckin' Giroux," he says and turns back. Claude's moving pretty slow, like usual, but he's only a block away.

I hold the cigarette out, and try to pass it back to Jimmy. "Here, man."

Jimmy doesn't break his gaze. He raises his hand and waves. "Hey Claude! How's it going, buddy?"

I reach across Todd and tap Jimmy on the shoulder. "Here. Cigarette." He looks at me real quick, grabs the cigarette and puts it in his mouth. He turns back and keeps yelling, the cig caught lightly between his lips. "Claude!"

I look at Todd and he shrugs.

"Hey, Jimmy. Just leave him alone," I say.

Jimmy turns to me, and he's grinning from ear to ear now. He shakes his head. "No, it's cool." He waves again. "Hey Claude. How are the legs?"

I look up the street. Joey's dad has gone back inside his store, and everyone else seems to have disappeared. Claude has almost reached us now, and Jimmy is a dog with a big juicy steak in his jaws.

"Leave him alone," I say again. But Jimmy just stares down the street, grinning. He's not letting go.

Claude Giroux is about 10 years older than us, and would have probably moved away by now like everybody else, but he got hit by a car when he was 15. He lost both his legs and messed up his head pretty bad. Now he just wanders around town with this goofy smile on his face. He used to bag groceries at Adams' Grocery, but, like I said, it's closed now.

I didn't see the accident. Most of what I remember is snips of adult conversations, as they sat around our kitchen table, smoking, drinking Ex and speaking in hushed voices. But Todd was there when it happened. He was shopping with his mom at Adams', hanging off the front of the grocery cart while his mom thumped watermelons by the big glass window at the front of the store. He told me he saw Claude on the other side of the street. He waved at someone and started across in a slow jog. He was an athlete then, a hockey player. He was big and strong, and a real tough guy on the ice. People say he could have made the NHL, and it might be true. But I think, all things considered, people say a lot of things just to be nice.

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