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by D. Grant DeMan
Things won are done, joy's soul lies in the doing - William Shakespeare
"Come bring the fish to the kitchen." Whispered the young housewife, her negligee parting in all the right places, raising expectations in my fifteen-year-old hormones, while my mind pondered reasons my buddies gave for becoming milkmen. Now, nearly fifty years later, I recall her still in that beach house where Vanty and I hawked fish."Wash up in the sink. Bet you could do with a nice cup of coffee....."
Last week I tweaked to one of the street-names involved in a Times-Colonist article, that of my old friend, spawn of a prominent clan. "I'm the black sheep in the family woodpile." Vanty claimed. Ostensibly a mechanic, he maintained a portfolio of dubious trades to rent a stool at the Atlas Cafe where we first met. Such was his idea of the fish. "Fish!" He exclaimed. "There's money in them scaly critters." He sucked hard at his upper right canine, snapping a forefinger while his eyes bugged out like when you squeeze a frog too hard - a sure sign he'd conjured up yet another brilliant financial concept.
From the clutter of grease-mumified vehicles in his Cook Street garage, he fired up a Reo van which hadn't seen service since the Depression. "Now we gotta get us some appurtenances." At an auction for a fin he bought an old store icebox, a spring scale and a couple of knives, while seizing up a twenty-year-old roll of wrapping paper which had been laying around.
"Looka here. I worked out six routes through Saanich and Oak Bay. I don't figure they've got as many po-lice as Victoria. Keep the plates muddy just in case, okay?"
Naturally I was enthralled with the prospect of high adventure into the shady world of illicit trade.
"What are we going to use for fish?"
"Oh did I neglect to tell ya? Ya see, we run a bill fer fish and ice down at Canada Packers. Pays it off later when we sells 'em. At the end of the route, leftovers we unloads half-price in Chinatown, an' gits a free meal to boot."
Sounded like a plan to me.
Next day I skipped school for our venture into the fishmongering trade. Things went along just about as they should, the scales registering near-accurate weight as the day progressed. The first problem lay in definition.Vanty had told me: "All the fish are fresh, even the frozen which softens up as we proceed. If its never been frozen, it's called 'live' fish. Got that." Sure enough we ran smack dab into an old codger who wasn't having any of that "fresh-live" crap and let us know it.
"Frozen ain't fresh, and that's a fact. And if you charge me these prices, I'll have the law on you!" So we lose four-bits on the deal. So re-adjust the scales accordingly for the next two blocks.
Then there was the sweet home-maker in the translucent duster with whom I 'd tarried, promising to return in a week. "Where ya been all this time." Vanty queried sucking his tooth. I blushed. "Oh yeah, I mighta known. Babes. I reckon I was born too soon." He wailed rubbing his perpetually black five o'clock shadow while adjusting a greasy peaked cap. "C'mon, we gotta make tracks to finish before sundown."
And so it progressed that week, zigzagging around the Saanich Peninsula. Next Monday my hooky-playing caught up with me, and Mr. Wallace had me out in Victoria High field digging holes for the jumping sand pits. Subsequently I ran into Vanty at the Atlas: "How's the route going?"
"Trouble outrunning license inspectors; had to go into hiding for a spell. Seems my reckoning wasn't too good either; credit ran out at the fish plant. The Reo broke down, and I gotta git to that sometime."
"So, whatcha goin' to do?"
"Elsie the ticket-taker has given me this here roll of movie tickets. See how they got different numbers on each one. I'm thinkin' of selling them ten cents each, three for a quarter. Ya know, a raffle."
"But don't you need a prize or something?"
"Well there's that '31 Buick that gits but seven miles to the gallon."
Back on the road we went: from beer parlor and cafe, to garages and door-to-door. Ten cents a ticket, though rumor has it that Vanty sold the vehicle long before the raffle finished. Who's to know?
Last time I saw him he was driving cab on Broad Street. It was '63 and I was a cop. "How's the fish business?" I called.
He smiled. "Ya don't think I'm tellin' no fuz, do ya? Anyways, it's whiskey and broads now, if ya must know!" That reminds me: I never did make it back to that pretty little young Saanich housewife. One of these days... They say you never really lose the aromatic romantic allure of the fishmonger, don't they? At least that's what Vanty told me.
Reckon she's still waiting?
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