Flin Flon

We parked the two white Ford F-350s in the back of the Co-Op parking lot, the only store that carried produce in Flin Flon, Manitoba. I watched the crew file through the sliding doors from the middle seat in the back. The primarily Indigenous population pushed their shopping carts home down sidewalks, while a select few piled themselves and anyone else who would fit into a singular car. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another car, one that drove slower than the rest down the main road. It was an all black Maserati, sunlight glinting off the trident blazoned on the front grill. I couldn’t take my eyes off the tinted windows, but the locals barely seemed to notice. 

I jumped when one of the guys opened the passenger door. He piled his plastic bags on the ground and tucked his legs between them. 

“Did you see the Maserati?” he asked. 

“Yeah.” I watched it turn the corner and loop back past the parking lot. My stomach rolled as slowly as the tires. 

“Probably one of the mine managers or something, no one else has a car like that around here,” Sam continued, oblivious to the nausea that tied my stomach in knots. He bent over awkwardly to grab a box of Kraft dinner out the bag followed by an apple. He held them both up to me. “Fucking annoying,” he said, “these cost like twelve dollars.” 

“It’s back,” I said, watching as the Maserati completed its circle around the Co-Op. 

“Guess there’s nothing else to do in this shit hole,” he said, taking a bite out of the apple, “Nice fucking car though.”

Paul came out of the Co-Op, putting a cigarette up to his mouth for the walk across the street to the liquor store. He waved at us when he walked past. The parking lot there was just as full. One car stood out. Parked across two spots, the RCMP SUV was white against the run down backdrop. The driver ate a sandwich in the front seat while the passenger leaned against the hood, her arms crossed, surveying those across the street. She watched with a furrowed brow, eyes darting from families to singular people carrying too many bags to loiterers in the back of the lot, smoking and laughing together. The pedestrians gave nearly indiscernible looks their way. She appeared to have been standing there long enough to burn the tops of her white cheeks. Her eyes barely touched our trucks, instead focusing on the rusted ones nearly overfull. Paul tilted his camo hat in acknowledgement when he passed the officer. She returned the gesture, her brow relaxing for a moment, returning Paul’s yellow smile with pristine white teeth. 

The officer walked to the driver’s window, tapping on it and indicating for him to roll it down. He did, and they spoke for a moment. I couldn’t hear what they said from the car, but I watched the people in the lot still. Mothers took the hands of their children and the smokers pit disbanded. Even from inside the confines of the cab of the truck I could feel tension thicken the air. When she looked back at the parking lots, her brow furrowed again. The locals tried to act like movement of the officers hadn’t changed anything, but they walked with straighter backs and deadpan faces. 

We drove further north to find the planting camp. We were staying in a lodge, frequented by fishermen and hunters. I stared out the window at the water that peeked between trees. 

“My cottage is out here,” Sam said, “It’s beautiful on the water.” 

Nothing about the water was beautiful to me.