Poison Shy by Stacey Madden Page B

enough. We done?”
    He turned to face the bar. “You betcha.”
    â€œWhat was
that
about?” Farah asked when I returned to the table. Chad looked up from his basket of wings.
    â€œJust some asshole,” I said. “You guys save some for me, or what?”

5
    The following Monday, Bill and I were sent to an old textile warehouse on the west side. They were experiencing the second coming of a pharaoh ant problem that our competition, Eco-Zap, had fucked up royally. The thing about pharaoh ants is, if you don’t eliminate every last one, the colony will split and multiply. Sprays don’t cut it, either. You have to use insecticide baits, and you’ve got to put them
everywhere
.
    I got to work right away while Bill sat on a pile of bricks with his thermos of coffee and a copy of
The Frayne Exchange
. “Listen to this,” he said. “‘Councillor proposes
Sweep the Streets
campaign in effort to reduce prostitution, STD infection.’”
    I was down on my hands and knees, attempting to slide an ant trap into a crack in the wall. “Sounds like they’re talking about small-scale genocide.”
    â€œWe should be so lucky,” he said. “Says here they want to feed and house the freaks. Offer them counselling paid for with
your
tax dollars. Jeez Louise.”
    It was a good half hour before Bill decided to join me. He farted as he squatted to remove the plastic cover on an electrical outlet. I turned to comment and got an eyeful. “You know, Bill, you would have made a good plumber.”
    He responded with another crackling gust.
    â€œChrist, Bill.”
    â€œSorry, kid — why don’t you do us both a favour and get some more coffee? You’ve been working hard, and I’ve been shitting my pants all morning.”
    â€œSure. You want anything else?”
    He struggled to pluck the mini screwdriver out of his Swiss army knife. “No, just a coffee. Lotsa cream, lotsa sugar.”
    I hurried to fetch the coffees from a Tim Hortons across the road, and was almost run over by a minivan on the way back. I lingered outside the warehouse and caught my breath.
    There was something in my back pocket. I reached inside and pulled out the crumpled photograph I’d taken from Melanie’s apartment. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen in it. Drinking vodka. Screaming. Looking at it made me feel like a criminal.
    Bill had done a decent amount of work while I was gone. He’d finished putting traps in the walls and was up on a ladder removing some of the ceiling tiles.
    â€œIs it safe to enter?” I asked.
    â€œAll clear. But things could change after lunch.”
    We spent the rest of the morning stuffing the place with ant traps. We left no floorboard unturned or wall crack unpoisoned. Bill offered to buy lunch, and brought back two ham and Swiss baguettes from Tim Hortons.
    â€œThe price of a sandwich, Jesus,” he said.
    We sat down cross-legged on a small patch of grass outside the building like a couple of kids at a picnic. Bill’s legs cracked as he made himself comfortable. His round, red face smiled at me and then he dug in. He was unmarried and overweight, with IBS and a nose mutilated by too many years of hard Canadian rye. I thought he must be lonely. It struck me that I didn’t know much about Bill. I knew he liked the Maple Leafs. I knew he owned a cottage up north that had been passed down through his family over generations, and that he stayed there when he wanted to do some deer or bear hunting. I knew he didn’t like vegetables unless they were deep fried or sprinkled over nachos. For the most part he was nothing more than my jolly supervisor, as much a mystery to me as any middle-aged stranger I passed on the street. Who was I to assume Bill was lonely? He probably had things figured out far better than I did.
    â€œBefore I forget,” he said, wiping his mouth with his sandwich