45. Junk Trunk

I owe you a massive apology for not updating sooner, it's been nearly a week which is absolutely terrible - I've been ridiculously busy with summer plans, new boyfriend and a weekend in Quebec City that I haven't been anywhere near my laptop. So I've had to wait until today to bosh out this one, but more to come soon. Anyway this is inspired from this clip. I didn't know if it was possible to write a story about Jordan (or indeed any of the other Staals) that didn't include that snippet.


System of a Down - Chop Suey


JORDAN'S POV


Eric looked at me as I lay crashed out on the sofa watching some shitty reruns on TV. He cocked his head to one side and gave me that look – the look which kind of asks why I’m being a lazy bones when it’s such a nice day outside. On a day like today I should probably be out helping Dad not watching CSI or the Sopranos. Right now, this is exactly what I needed. I can’t bear to be stuck inside all day but Marc’s constant sniping at my new found singledom was really getting on my nerves so I’d escaped the scorching sun and headed inside for some mindnumbing TV. I didn’t say anything to him; I just closed my eyes and sighed, willing him to go away. I had told Mom, who had not so discreetly told the rest of the family, that I was now single so by now, the rest of Thunder Bay would probably already now know - Mom should have had a career in broadcast journalism or something, not here in sod central.

“You wanna shoot some pucks at crap?”

“Have we got any?” I asked referring to our annual summer tradition.

Eric nodded as a grin slowly spread over my face.


Every summer since I was about sixteen, Mom has her annual clear out of the house going from top to bottom. She hates clutter and forces Dad – who’s a hoarder – to liberally chuck everything away that we no longer use or need. Mom used to put all of the items in the barn for Dad to load them onto a trailer and take them to the rubbish dump in town. One year, Eric and I set all the items up in the barn and shot pucks at them. Since then it’s become an annual tradition which has turned into a friendly competition between the four of us – always Eric and me against Marc and Jared. The items in our affectionately named ‘Junk Trunk’ which comes from the trunk in the attic full of old crap, usually consists of old faded plates; hideous china ornaments that Mom and Dad have received as presents at one point or another, and anything that’s breakable that lies around the house. If we’re really stuck we go through the recycling for wine and beer bottles but usually Mom gets enough junk for us to smash us.

Dad used to be worried that we might hit holes in the barn wall, but none of us have a hard enough shot to punch a puck through wood and corrugated metal even if we tried.

"What time do you make it?” I asked as I went upstairs to find a stick in my kit bag.
“Four, I’ll go get the carrots,” Eric said referring to Marc and Jared.

Together we noisily made our way out to the barn to see the assortment of accumulated junk Mom had put together for us this summer. There were a few beer bottles lined up on top of the shelf as well as some plate that I’d never seen before. Mom always put these things away for a rainy day, or just a day in the summer as she’s dejunking the house.

“Dude, Mom got two of these!” Jared said holding up an evil looking Santa who used to light up. The other one had been destroyed a couple of summers ago so I’m guessing either someone knows we destroyed the first and kindly gave her another one, not knowing it would come to the same fate as the first – or Mom deliberately held back Santa number 2 back so Santa bashing could recommence this year. He carefully put him back on his perch and started looking at the other items.
After deciding on the same teams as always, Marc went to the chalk board and rubbed off last year’s score.

“He buried it, dude!” I shouted as the can fell noisily to the ground.

“You surprised or something?” Eric said turning to me. What can I say? Yeah? Normally he takes a few misses before he hits something, but he’s better than Marc. And he got a can too, but they fall pretty easily. The best thing about the junk trunk has got to be the thrilling sound of glass or china smashing.

“Yeah, a little surprised,” I said.

We all stood around laughing as Marc took two pucks and missed with both. He’s got bad aim – which is why we used to make him play defence – he hasn’t got the hands for anything else. When we go play golf he takes a few swipes before he even manages to tee off – always way behind us in scoring. Out of all of us he sucks the most at this game.

As Jared stepped forward we watched as he swung like a maniac and sent the puck whistling through the air – not what he aimed for but he’s got a destructive streak and he’s one up on Marc so Eric and I will let it go.

Feeling the pressure from Eric not to let our team down – I took my first shot which ricocheted off the back wall with a resounding thud. Picking out another target, I buried the plate as it smashed to smithereens on the barn floor. I wanted to keep going and Eric said I could have his go. What the hell was that? I squinted trying to make out the item in the dim light of the barn. I didn’t want to pick one of the wine bottles as they were too small and high up for me to be accurate. I needed a safe pick, something low down and big.

“I’m going to go for Santa,” I said feeling triumphant that I could wipe the smug grin off his painted face. I drew the puck back and forth, taking aim before I was ready to go. Santa was going down.

“That old thing,” Marc said as I tried to focus on the target and nothing else. I can’t have the gingers distracting me – they never win Junk Trunk and I’m damned if they’re going to put me off. Shooting quickly I knocked his head off, as his chirpy Christmas face was blasted to the floor.

“He knocked his head right off!” Eric said. I took one look at the headless Santa before looking at Marc, daring him and Jared to beat me.

The rules of the junk trunk state that if you hit something you or your team mate get another go. As I’d just decapitated Santa, it was now Eric’s turn. He went for the lightbulb. That’s so typical of Eric to choose something tiny – always setting himself the hardest challenge possible. With the grittiest look of determination possible on his face, he launched the puck towards the pile, bouncing off the back wall and hitting a pole with what looked like an old lantern on it.

Eric went for the plate but only chipped off the top half so we moved the plate down for Marc to make it easier for him. The guy’s got no aim, he needs all the help he can get. Eric and I watched, willing Marc to miss, which he did, no surprises there, hitting the back wall and knocking into the back of the cupboard.

I always hope Jared has more luck – he gets so much stick from us for not making it into the NHL earlier like us and he tells me and Eric there’s so much pressure to live up to that he worries he’s not good enough. I have no idea why he worries so much – he’s hands down better than Marc; Jared could be blindfolded and be better than Marc.

Jared picked his big target of some blue vase Aunt Meredith had given her one Christmas and missed, smashing two other items behind. However he got it on the second, exchanging high fives with Marc.

“The door,” Eric said referring to an old wooden door leaning against the back wall that used to be the old side entrance into the house. The peeling blue paint was clear enough for me to see from here. The top half of the door was divided into nine small panes of clear glass, each separated by a thin strip of wood. I looked back at Eric. He had just said the door, nothing more specific, and I wasn’t going to specify which pane I was going for.

“Deal,” I said, flicking a puck towards me as I lined up. I stood side on, focusing on the old door in front of me.

“Not going to do it.”

“You suck.”

“Fail, fail, fail.” I heard Jared and Marc trash talking me as I prepared to take the shot. Blocking them out of my mind like I did against Carcillo, when we played the Flyers, I closed my eyes and lifted my stick.


“No fucking way!” Jared said as if Marc had just told him Jesus was a Mexican. I opened my eyes at the noise of glass shattering to see where my puck had gone, looking at the door in disbelief. I couldn’t believe it – but I had done it – the middle pane of glass shattered as the door gently shook from the impact. I felt Eric pat me on the back as I raised my stick in the air. This felt almost as good as beating the fucking Flyers.

“I know, I know, I’m too good,” I said as I threw my stick in the air to being hit by Marc and Jared who I’m pretty sure were going to do their best to bring me down.


After Eric and I had safely sealed our victory, by 7-4, we went for a free for all seeing as there weren’t many remaining unbroken things.

“You outta your slump now?” Eric said as he began clearing the pieces up as the carrots slumped back to the house in defeat. You can tell he’s the oldest, he’s the most responsible as he always clears up and rounds the rest of us up.

“Yeah, think so,” I replied. Smashing things up had been a good mood lifter.

“You wanna tell me about it?” Eric said as he lifted part of Santa’s head out of the straw.

“Maybe tomorrow,” I replied, “I have a phone call to make now.”