EVERYONE TALKED ABOUT “boat people” in 1979. Video clips of rickety vessels chugging toward Malaysia and the Philippines dominated the evening news. Cameras focused on rows of unwanted Vietnamese refugees standing elbow to elbow on deck, awaiting admission to overcrowded, unsanitary migrant camps. The footage played most often was a grim shot of an infant’s abandoned denim overalls washing ashore.
Earlier that year the Canadian government implemented a refugee sponsorship program. Churches and private groups were encouraged to join. Many heeded the call.
From the pulpit, our minister spoke of finding homes for those fleeing the repressive, communist regime. “They’re adrift on leaking boats,” Father Fithian intoned, “battling rough seas, pirates, and starvation. But twenty-five dollars from every person seated within these walls would rescue a family of four – a tireless mother, a proud father, and two little loved ones – rescue them from the brink of damnation and deliver them here, to bask in our community of faith and love.”
I interpreted his words literally. The twelve dollars and seventeen cents in my piggy bank – I counted twice – didn’t come halfway to keeping that family alive. My parents had their own target, so I couldn’t ask them. My grandmother might be good for five dollars but that wasn’t enough.
My best friend had money – but different priorities. Gary Lutton had everything and wanted more, a trait he inherited from his parents who upgraded their car every September, and wardrobe every season. Gary collected shiny new loot each Christmas and birthday, plus his dad often went away on business and could be counted on to return with presents. Whenever his mom spoiled herself with new shoes and bags, she never failed to purchase something for the boy, as well.
On Fridays after school, Gary’s mom drove us to Quint’s Used Goods Emporium on King Street. Mrs. Lutton, who had dark, wavy hair and was never without bright lipstick and a string of pearls, always gave Gary a purple ten-dollar bill – a budgetary line item, separate from his allowance.
An Asian market occupies the property today but, in 1979, the Emporium was a dreamland. Whatever else they sold, all Gary and I cared about were toys: Lego, Star Wars action figures, and, especially, Matchbox and Hot Wheels die-cast, scale model cars.
Gary ached for the palm-sized wonders. Quint enabled and encouraged him. Every Friday the shrewd dealer smoothed his long brown hair and adjusted his round glasses before revealing the items he’d set aside for Gary – older, rarer cars we couldn’t find in the Sears catalogue: a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow with opening trunk, a peach BMC 1800 Pininfarina. Gary kept buying until his money was gone. Leftover coins went toward penny candy at the variety store two doors down (now part of the same Asian supermarket).
We walked six blocks up and over Cedar Hill and I said goodbye to Gary in front of his recently repainted house on Peter Street. I lived around the corner in a much older, smaller home on Whitney Place, where one shutter on my bedroom window had been missing for years.
Before parting, I asked Gary if he could spare a dollar to help sponsor a refugee family.
“Jimmy, please. I already pay taxes.” We both knew he didn’t. “Why would I give money to people who don’t belong here? What’s in it for me?”
There was nothing in it for Gary.
The Luttons weren’t rich, in fact their home was modest but, compared to my parents who watched every dime, the Luttons had a revenue stream they could dip champagne flutes into anytime they wanted. Undeterred by Gary’s refusal, I devised another plan.
Every Friday after dinner, Gary’s dad took him for swimming lessons at Cameron Heights. While they were out, I knocked on their door, hoping Mrs. Lutton would be generous. She answered without making eye contact and blurted, in a condescending sing-song, “Gary isn’t in, I’m afraid.”
“Mrs. Lutton, I’m collecting money for Vietnamese refugees.”
She blinked, peered over her slender glasses, then shook her head with sadness. “Oh no. I couldn’t. I’m afraid things are tight right now.” She waved me away and wedged her body between door and frame, as though I might slip through and steal one of the Fabergé eggs lining the mantle.
“I need eight more dollars and eighty cents to rescue a family of four.” My grandmother had only been good for four bucks, and I’d found three pennies on the sidewalk in front of the Chinese restaurant on Courtland Avenue.
“Well, you can’t feed a family on that, young man.”
Mrs. Lutton either didn’t recognize me or couldn’t remember my name. That hurt. Three hours earlier she’d given me a ride with her son. Gary and I played in her basement one or two nights a week, plus Saturdays. A few months back, when my mother was sick, Mrs. Lutton sent me home with a potted Easter lily.
“But Father Fithian says more refugees will die if we don’t help. If everyone collects twenty-five dollars, we can save an entire family.”
She pointed a shaky finger. “That’s socialism. The government’s already raised taxes to bring them here, so I’m paying my share without even a thank you. The boat people can stay where they are, if you ask me.”
She slammed the door.
The next morning, I returned and Gary led me upstairs, past his mom, who gave no sign of recognizing me from the night before.
Larger than my living room, Gary’s bedroom resembled a toy store. He had a Formula One bedspread and superhero wallpaper. Four gigantic treasure chests, so full their lids wouldn’t close, contained action figures, Meccano sets, racetrack pieces, and battery-operated games. Orange shelving units, crammed with board games, puzzles, model airplanes, and stuffed animals, dominated two walls.
Matchbox and Hot Wheels cars were everywhere. He owned a thousand. Probably more. Fifty prized gems, unscratched and unscathed, rested on a special shelf above his bed. The remainder, showing various stages of wear, were stored in boxes, barrels, and Tupperware containers, but most simply lined the floor, which was so crowded it resembled the mall parking lot on the day before Christmas.
In his closet, Gary kept four royal blue, vinyl carrying cases. Each held five removable, yellow plastic racks designed to prevent dinky cars from bumping against each other. Twenty-five miniature vehicles fit in each tray.
“We gotta make sure they’re completely full, Jimmy,” Gary insisted. “You won’t believe the fun we’re gonna have. My cousin gave me an idea for an outdoor street race. Elimination style. We’ll turn Peter Street,” he deepened his voice to mimic an announcer for monster truck commercials, “into a super-highway of mayhem.”
I had no idea what he meant but happily went along with whatever he said.
Carrying two Hot Wheels cases each, we stepped into the sunlight and walked half a block up his sloping street. Gary was exuberant. “See, we’ll race downhill.” Between the curb and black asphalt was a flat, concrete gutter, wide as my forearm. “This cement strip is the racetrack and we’ll line cars ten across, fifty rows deep – and see who wins.”
Positioning cars took forever. Gary talked constantly. “Look at this green Hovercraft with tiny wheels hidden underneath. I traded my cousin a Baja Breaker and an Emergency Squad truck for it. And my grandmother gave me this Wildlife Truck the day I started kindergarten. See the caged lion run in circles when the wheels turn? When I asked if that was the only car she brought, she opened her wallet and handed me twenty dollars.”
The race started when Gary raised his arm and fired a cap gun – which he threw on the lawn and left there for days. The hill wasn’t steep, cars wouldn’t roll on their own, so we pushed four at a time. I imagined roaring engines and smelled burning rubber. Cars crashed, engines failed. We left vehicles behind as they exited the race.
Now and then, Gary said I’d moved one contender too far and I reversed it until he approved.
Three evenly spaced, cast iron sewer grates extended clear across our racetrack. A grid of rectangular holes, four rows by seven, dominated each rust-coloured surface. The openings were roughly the same length and width as Gary’s cars.
“What happens when we come to the sewers?”
“That’s the best part. We’ll fling cars across and see who survives.”
I was horrified. “Won’t some fall in?”
“That’s the whole point. The ‘hole’ point, get it?” He punched his own shoulder, congratulating his wit. “It’s an elimination race. Of course, there’s risk. My cousin does it all the time.”
“But you love these cars. Those grates are too heavy to lift.” I walked to the nearest storm drain and peered through darkness. “And they’re full of water. You’ll never get your cars back.”
“Survival of the fittest. It wouldn’t be fun if the stakes weren’t high. Besides, cars are replaceable.”
“It doesn’t seem right.” I’d said the same thing when Gary left coins and small plastic farm animals on the railroad tracks, to see how they’d look flattened.
(They looked flattened.)
“Just watch.” Gary crouched on his hands and knees. A red, Rola-matics No. 69 Turbo Fury sat an arm’s length from the first sewer. He placed his forefinger over the front of the car and his thumb over the spinning turbo fins at the rear. Bending his elbow instead of his wrist, he flung the car forward.
The Fury skimmed over concrete before reaching the sewer grate. It hit the edge of a hole in the second row and flipped end over end before bouncing high in the air. It landed, upside down, on the pavement.
“Cool, huh?!”
I sighed with relief. “Sure.”
My friend tried again with another Rola-matics – a purple dune buggy whose driver bounced when the wheels spun. Gary didn’t fling the Beach Hopper as hard. It rolled from concrete onto metal and cruised halfway across before tilting into a hole and splashing below.
My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe he actually did it.
“I don’t like purple cars, anyway,” Gary said, “and what was the point of him bouncing like that? Nobody bounces when they drive.”
We raced on, flinging a steady stream of cars over the sewers. Maybe one in thirty drove straight across the metal bridge. The rest put on a dramatic show. It became funny. Cars with bad alignment veered off course and missed the grate altogether but most flipped or cartwheeled over the storm drain. Many tumbled to safety. One in ten disappeared into each abyss.
As losses mounted, my mood changed. A silver Greyhound Coach went down and I said, “This is a waste. We’re throwing away good toys.”
“A bus didn’t belong in the race anyway. Besides, you look like you’re having fun.”
“Yeah, but I’d never risk my Hot Wheels. My parents would have a fit if I lost one car down the sewer.”
“Mine won’t even notice.” Gary and I looked toward his house. The navy, velvet living room curtains were closed. “This is a tiny percentage of what I own and we’ll bring most back. Plus, many are doubles or triples. Who cares?”
“What if you lose one of your favourites?”
“Them’s the breaks. Hah. ‘Brakes.’ Get it?” He punched himself again.
An idea surfaced. “Didn’t Quint say he’d buy your unwanted cars for fifty cents each?”
“So what?”
“Instead of throwing cars down the sewer, we could sell them and make enough to save a refugee family.”
“Jeez Louise, you and your refugees.” Gary threw his head back, put a hand to his chest, and laughed at his rhyme. “This is way more fun than selling cars to Quint.”
“Not everything is about fun. People are dying.”
“That’s not my problem. Why make it yours? We’ve got a race to run.”
On our hands and knees, we continued pushing cars. Gary mocked me by repeating “Vietnamese Refugees” until it turned into a song. One verse went, “Vietnamese Refugees. Help me, please. I cut the cheese.”
In the final stretch, Gary favoured the glittery Ferrari Race Bait 308. It was the only car he “drove” safely over the sewers. Far ahead of the pack, it was destined to win.
As I handled the racers, I pondered returning after dark, to retrieve sunken cars using a heavy magnet and the fishing rod my dad inherited from his uncle – until I remembered my dad sold his fishing gear to Quint, last November.
Gary lost interest in the cars I looked after, the ones in the back half of the field. He didn’t notice me flinging them harder. Odds of survival increased with speed, so I hatched a plan to save as many as possible, then sneak into Gary’s room, during his next swim lesson, and collect whatever cars I’d spared. I’d never stolen anything and had no clue how to break in but was determined to do my part. A family’s life was at stake.
At the third and final grate, the green Hovercraft went down. That surprised Gary because it was wider than the others. He blinked and stuttered, “W-w-whaaat? Hovercraft can’t sink. That one must be defective.” He stared into the sewer. “Hey, know why it sank?”
“Because steel is heavier than water.”
“No. It was overcrowded with boat people. Hah.” Gary’s laugh was loud and fake. He patted himself on the back before singing another verse of his idiotic song.
When the race ended, we refilled two carrying cases and couldn’t quite fill the third. The fourth remained empty.
Gary walked ahead with the lightest containers. He climbed six steps to his porch while I stopped on the lawn. The beating sun gave me courage. My toes tingled with the knowledge that I could outrun him. Once he reached his screen door, I made a decision. I set one Hot Wheels carryall on the ground, clutched the other to my chest, and bolted down Peter Street.
“Jimmy?” Gary shouted. Confused and betrayed, he realized he was being robbed. “Mummy,” he screamed, then ran after me, still clutching his cases.
I crossed the street, ducked between two houses, and sprinted toward Schneider Creek. These days the creek is at the bottom of a deep concrete channel but, in 1979, it was a fat muddy stream that overflowed every spring. Our Hot Wheels race took place in early fall; it hadn’t rained recently, so I figured I could jump the waterway and that Gary, being heavier, wouldn’t try.
Without a giant hand flinging me across the dark and mossy, knee-deep creek, I leapt and was on my own. The case was light, so I stretched my arms like wings and recalled the Turbo Fury somersaulting above the treacherous grate. I imagined the Hovercraft sinking through black, underworld sewage.
One foot hit the water and I tumbled onto the weedy lawn on the far side. The Hot Wheels storage container bashed against a rock and popped open. The top tray burst skyward and retraced the case’s flight path until it lost altitude and splashed into the creek, taking with it twenty-five collectible automobiles. Half the ones in the next rack also became airborne but didn’t fly as far.
I scrambled to collect cars from the grass. Gary stopped at the waterway. Eyes swollen with fury, he stared at the spot where his yellow tray went down.
“You’re in trouble now, mister.”
I resealed the carryall and kept running.
“Run all you want,” Gary yelled after me, “I’m one step ahead.”
I took the long way around Cedar Hill and jogged for ten minutes to the used goods store. Quint expected me.
“Gary called two minutes ago, Jimmy.” Quint shook his head. “He says you’re carrying stolen goods. Mr. Lutton insisted I call the cops if I saw you.”
Out of breath and sweating, I sputtered an incoherent protest, “Pbt-bdt-ta.” Quint lifted the black receiver of his old rotary phone and dialed. I turned and ran.
My choices limited, I headed home, hoping my parents would understand. Maybe they’d negotiate an exchange – toy cars for the safe passage of a Vietnamese family.
Dad sat on the front steps – waiting. He looked old and tired, his hair prematurely grey, the knees of his suit worn to a shine.
He stood and sighed. “James Alexander, I’m extremely disappointed in you. I’ve been on the phone with Mr. Lutton.”
I wiped my forehead and pictured our Vietnamese family on a boat, sinking in black sewage. Stoic and passive they stared, as disillusioned as my father.
“But Gary was just throwing cars away. Why shouldn’t I rescue some and sell them to Quint? I did it for the refugees.”
“That’s not how it works, son.”
“It’s not fair.”
“You’re right, it isn’t but nothing justifies stealing.”
Dad marched me to the Lutton house, the Hot Wheels case burning my hand. Gary smirked throughout my forced apology. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Mr. Lutton stood behind him, his sturdy arms also crossed. Their brush cuts were identical.
My left shoe was still wet. I wiggled my cold toes.
“Now shake hands with Gary,” my dad instructed.
Tasting bile, I did as I was told. Moisture transferred from Gary’s palm to mine. I wiped it on my jeans.
“How many cars are missing, Gary?” Mr. Lutton wore a bright red tracksuit. Three white stripes raced down each side.
Gary took the case and counted empty slots. He was painfully slow, no different from when I helped with his math homework.
“There’s thirty-eight missing,” he said.
That number seemed high – but Gary wasn’t finished. From behind the door, he moved another blue vinyl case into view, covered in mud as though it had been dredged from Schneider Creek.
“And this is the crate Jimmy dropped in the water. All one hundred and twenty-five cars sank to the bottom.”
I exploded. “That’s the empty case you carried. You threw it in the creek so it’d look . . .”
“Jimmy.” My father gripped my shoulder, to silence me.
Gary’s tone was defiant. “We each carried two full crates. Mine are over there,” he pointed toward the living room, “and they’re still full but this is all that’s left of the other two.”
“He’s lying, Dad. Gary threw more than a hundred cars down the sewer and now . . .”
Dad shot me that look he gave anytime I was out of line, like when I asked for a third cookie for dessert. Mom imposed a strict limit of two.
“I think you’re mistaken, lad,” Mr. Lutton said. “Gary tells me he lost one car in the storm drain today. A hovercraft of some sort. He says you threw it there. I’ve no way to verify but you are a proven thief, and many cars are missing, so I’ll take my son’s word over yours. Wouldn’t you agree that’s reasonable?”
He directed the question at my father. His answer betrayed me. “Of course. What are the damages?”
Mr. Lutton looked to his son. “Gary?”
“Cars vary in price but the average is one dollar and twenty-five cents.”
“Quint wouldn’t pay more than fifty cents for any of those,” I protested.
Dad said, “Don’t argue, Jimmy. You’ve done something terribly wrong today. Theft. Criminal theft. The Luttons could prosecute but all they ask is compensation for the damage you’ve caused. We have to trust them to be reasonable. Isn’t that right?”
I lowered my head, kicked the porch, and kept everyone waiting.
“Jimmy!”
Resigned to my fate, with the whole world against me, I replied, “Yes. That’s right.”
“Mr. Quint is irrelevant, little youngster. My son is entitled to replacement costs.”
Gary attempted the math. “So, thirty-eight cars from one crate, one hundred and twenty-five from the other,” he hesitated, “plus the Hovercraft, adds up to one fifty- . . .”
Mr. Lutton corrected him, “One hundred and sixty-four vehicles.”
Gary closed his eyes and continued, “One sixty-four at a dollar twenty-five . . .”
I wanted to wish Gary luck with his calculation but Mr. Lutton said, “That totals two hundred and five dollars, Jimmy. Quite a lot of money but here’s where I can be charitable. You can pay for the stolen cars by delivering brochures for my personal loan business. I’m prepared to offer one penny per flyer.”
I wiped sweat from my upper lip and staggered under the crushing weight of my sentence: twenty thousand and five hundred flyers. Dad caught my arm to keep me from falling.
That was my final visit to Gary’s house. Back home, my dad said he hoped I’d learned a lesson. I nodded, wiggled my cold, damp toes and savoured the bitterness which lingers to this day.
Mr. Lutton also owned two pawn shops on King Street, and sold fire insurance, so there was no end of promotional material to distribute. Gary’s dad released his Portuguese courier and I took over. Every evening until Christmas, while the weather grew colder and the days shorter, I delivered ads to the poorest parts of town. No one wanted them. In apartment buildings, I’d fold the leaflets and slide them into mail slots, only to find them littering the lobby when I delivered the next batch. Homeowners taped notices to their mailboxes prohibiting junk mail.
In return, my humble wages went straight into Gary’s pocket.
Gary Lutton is a corporate lawyer today. He lives in a massive house near the ski hill. Last time I drove by, five full-size luxury cars and one black Hummer cluttered his driveway. I can only imagine what he throws down sewers these days.
As for the refugee sponsorship program, I put my sixteen dollars and twenty cents into an envelope. Pictures of charming Vietnamese children decorated a wooden box near the church’s main entrance. I slipped my life savings inside.
The following spring, the Hoang family arrived. Our congregation planned a church social to meet the mother, father, and their three-year-old twins, who were more photogenic than any children I’d ever met. It was a joyful event. Strawberry shortcake was served.
Father Fithian made a speech thanking everyone. Top donors were invited onstage to meet the family and my name was announced as the third highest contributor under age sixteen. I felt like a fraud for not raising enough. I shook Mr. Hoang’s hand but was too ashamed to look him in the eye.
Three decades later, Anh Hoang got married in that same church. My dad saw the announcement in the local paper and called to ask if I’d seen it. “Isn’t it amazing how far the Hoangs have come since the refugee crisis?”
“It’s wonderful. I still feel bad, though. Not about stealing for them – but about stealing and still being almost nine dollars short.”
“What? You reached your goal.”
I scratched my head. “No, I definitely didn’t.”
My father cleared his throat. “I guess I never told you about Quint.”
“Quint? The used goods guy? What about him?”
“Remember how we saw him after the Hot Wheels incident, told him the circumstances and made sure you were still welcome in his store?”
“Of course, I remember. That was humiliating.”
“But it made an impression. The next time I met him, Quint gave me ten dollars and asked me to donate it, in your name, to the church refugee fund.”
Dave Gregory is a Canadian writer, a retired sailor, and an associate editor with the Los Angeles-based literary journal Exposition Review. His fiction has appeared in Existere, FreeFall, White Wall Review, Pulp Literature, & The Temz Review. Please follow him on Twitter @CourtlandAvenue.