pLUMBERS' sMEAR*

David Thompson never wore a hat, cap or toque, preferring to go bare-headed, his navy cut tugging at the corners of his ears. He had a mecano-set with tin I-beams and scaffolding for shimming windows and doorframes. I, on the other hand, had a log cabin set with plastic timbers and copper brads, and a tiny mallet for driving nails into kindling and pretend I-frames. David Thompson almost died from whooping cough, the cilia of his lungs frayed and yellowed with tinker’s shavings, the cold spot on the top of his head allowing too much noise and confusion into his thoughts. David Crab and I set my log cabin set on fire with butane and wooden matches, and sat huddled in the corner of his basement laughing, next to his father’s ratchet set and a barrel of plumbers’ smear.