Page 30 of Wassailing We Will Go
However, on the way to our presumed destination, he pulls over at a side street in front of a small lot whose only features are a lime-green chip truck and a snow-covered plastic picnic table. I look over at him, and he announces, Well, we’ll need snacks since the barbecue situation wasn’t meant to be.
I’m surprised it’s open, I say, eyeballing the truck with suspicion. If it were July, sure, but not 4:00 p.m. on a random Tuesday in November.
I met the owner at karaoke night, and we bonded, he explains. Remember that guy that sang ‘Mr. Brightside’? Anyway, his name is Jeremy, and he and I are going to go snowmobiling sometime. I think that’s what I agreed to, but you may recall that I was a bit drunk at the time. However, he did say that he makes the best chips and to text him anytime if I ever wanted to try them, and he really stressed the ‘anytime’ part. He said he lives across the street. I think maybe that blue house over there?
Wait, is it Jeremy Franks? I ask. I went to high school with that guy—he was in the same grade as my brother. They hung out sometimes. I remember that he mostly got stoned in the men’s washroom, but he was nice, I guess. Or at least, he wasn’t memorably rude.
Well, he sang the Killers with a lot of heart and is apparently now a successful small-business owner, so let’s hope these chips deliver, he says and gets out of the car.
Sure enough, at the window is Jeremy from high school, still recognizable to me as a tall, lanky kid with shaggy hair and freckles, though his skin has cleared up, and his high school stoner aesthetic has calmed down significantly. Looking back, I can’t believe my parents ever let him hang out with Aaron, who wasn’t able to eat poppy seeds, lest he fail a drug test and ruin his promising hockey career. Jeremy gives Harrison an enthusiastic wave and then spots me, and I watch his face go from confusion to recognition.
Kate? he says. Harrison, I didn’t know all of this was to impress Kate Donnelly. I’d have warned you not to waste your time. Takes more than fries to impress her.
Well, you did say they were the best, says Harrison. Jeremy presents us with two little white cardboard boxes filled with very hot, very crispy fries, each with a tiny wooden fork. They smell so good that I am willing to concede that maybe Jeremy is onto something with this new business venture.
Am I so hard to impress? I say, handing over a twenty-dollar bill.
Already paid for, he says. And yes. In high school, like, four people asked you to prom, and you said no. I remember because I was one of them. No hard feelings, but if I’d have known fries were the way to win you over…
You were my little brother’s friend, so it would have been weird at the time if I had said yes! And I didn’t even go to prom because I went to see a concert instead, I say. I was not a ‘prom’ person.
Oh, I remember—and who did you see? asks Jeremy, resting his chin on his hands with a mischievous glint in his eye. Harrison is watching us with some amusement, but mostly contentment as he uses the tiny fork to fling fries into his mouth.
Irrelevant, I say.
Now I need to know, says Harrison. Would Charlie know? I could text him.
I sigh. Yes, he absolutely would. Fine. I went with my parents and Aaron to Shania Twain’s farewell tour, I say. At the time, we really thought it was our last chance to see her! My dad was and remains a little in love with her. My mom, too, for that matter. Also, possibly my brother, because how we got him, at sixteen years of age, to go with us is anyone’s guess.
He was one hundred percent in love with Shania, confirms Jeremy. He knew, like, every song.
Honestly, who isn’t a little bit in love with her? says Harrison. Anyway, we have to keep on going to our next stop here, but thanks again for these! I’ll see you on Thursday for karaoke!
He’s coming back? I whisper as we walk back to the car. That’s great! I wondered how many would.
Oh yeah, he’s got a lot more Killers songs where that came from, says Harrison as he struggles to find a home for his fries. They don’t fit into a cup holder, so I take his and keep it with mine on my lap.
Thanks, he says. Anyway, Jeremy is apparently courting a local young lady who also loves karaoke, and last week’s date went really well, so they’re doing it again this week. She was the one who sang ‘Call Me Maybe.’ Not the best voice, perhaps, but lots of heart. Real commitment to the spirit of 2011 Carly Rae Jepsen, he adds as he backs out of the small, abandoned lot where Jeremy’s Fresh Fries has made its home.
Do you moonlight as an American Idol judge in your spare time? I ask, raising an eyebrow. You seem to have a detailed log of all performances saved up there. Speaking of which, do you want to MC again on Thursday? I think you might be the selling feature for that event.
Sure, sure, he says. And it was a night full of memorable performances, I suppose. But Rodney should really get up there if he wants to expand his DJing business. He needs to get over his stage fright.
How on earth do you know these things? I ask. You spoke to all of these people for maybe five minutes.
He shrugs and keeps his eyes on the road ahead. The falling snow is very light, but I can tell he still has to focus. When I met you, you offered me a job at about the twenty-minute mark, he says with a small grin.
Point taken, I sigh. If you’re actually here in the County to, like, run some kind of long con and steal everyone’s money, we’re all screwed. You should have been a salesman or something.
Nah, wouldn’t work. First, I think people find the accent endearing—between the Wiggles, Steve Irwin (RIP), and Bluey, we Aussies really did the legwork to build trust amongst tiny North American children. I think you’re conditioned to listen to this accent at this point.
We pull into a large, empty parking lot, which would have been maybe concerning had I not known exactly where we were. He parks and turns to give me his attention now that he’s not navigating through snowflakes.
Second, I really like listening to people’s stories. I think it’s easy to tell when someone really cares about what you’re saying versus just humouring you. So, I reel them in with the accent and then finish the job with my active listening skills, and that’s how I acquire all the state secrets, he finishes, grabbing his box of fries.
Ah, a spy. Knew you were too good to be true. I punctuate the thought with a mouthful of french fry. Though, truth be told, the spy thing is not a turnoff either.
I’ll keep that in mind, he says and puts his hood up over the toque he’s wearing and then offers up the green scarf. Sure you don’t want this back?
