The Joker
That was it. When Steve closed his eyes he could still see the front bumper of the kid’s Zamboni inching in front of his. His sciatic nerve screaming out in hot pain as he punched on the gas, trying desperately to make up the lead. But like that, it was over. The kid’s Zamboni inched over the finish line and the crowd swarmed onto the ice, flashing pictures and cheering.
“Sorry, brother,” Travis said, as he clapped Steve on the shoulder, “You had a good run. But that kid…well he’s been here every morning the last year or so, a lot of the time he’d show up after school-”
“It’s okay, man,” Steve reassured his friend, “Remember when I used to be like that?”
“Sure do, brother, sure do.”
More than eight years had passed since Steve was the one moving up the qualifying ranks in the North American Ice Resurfacing Short Course Championship, and now here he was, walking out to his pickup by himself in the far corner of the parking lot. While that kid was smoothing ice at six am, Steve had been pulling himself together after one too many whiskeys, just trying to make it to work on time.
Minot. Bemidji. Steinback. Steve had seen all the cities that competitive ice resurfacing had to offer. He had smoked all the cigarettes. Played “The Joker” on every jukebox. Now all that was left to do was head south, to a place where no one knew how to ice skate or play hockey. Where they’d never even heard of a Zamboni.
Steve left that night without even saying goodbye to Travis, who would always wonder what had happened to his old friend, one of the greatest that Pequot Lakes had ever seen. The next day, as the air grew warmer and sweeter, Steve threw his racing gloves out the pickup window. They fluttered up into the air like two frantic doves before falling to the side of the highway, unable to fly any longer.
For Ellen
