A Vile Insinuation

A Vile Insinuation

By Mitchell Toews

First published on CommuterLit, July 2016

I sat on a picnic table in the beer garden. The ball tournament was over and we had lost in the final to a team from the States. My head spun a bit and my lips and cheeks felt numb - too much July sun followed by too much beer.

"Manna from heaven!" a voice behind me said as four plastic cups of beer arrived on the table top. It was Marty, the do-it-all shortstop from the other team. He had been buying beer for our table all evening, using the bundle of tens and singles that had been his winner's share. He reminded me of Mark Belanger from the Orioles - big and tall, a smooth infielder.

"Marty the party," I said, sliding one of the foamy cups back towards him. "I have to drive, you know. All the way to Hartplatz." We were near the US border, in Vita, Manitoba.

"Nothing to it," he said. "Ain't no bulls on the highway from here to Hartplatz."

"True. And once we get there, my cousin is on patrol. As long as the RCs are not cruisin' around, I should be OK."

"Roman Catholics?" he asked, his face screwed up. "You Mennonites take adult baptism seriously!"

Our shortstop, Cornie Driedger, did an exaggerated spit take, misting the table with malty spray.

"Hey! Quit wasting beer there, Milton Berle! It don't grow on trees." Marty said, pulling out his thick wallet.

"RCs are police - Royal Canadian Mounted Police. R-C-M-P or RCs for short," Cornie explained. "In our town, we have both town cops and RCs. The RCs are jerks; the town cops are guys we know. The town cops stop us and confiscate our beer. The RCs stop us and steal our beer."

Marty stopped fiddling with his wallet. "Why does one 'confiscate' and the other 'steal'?" he asked.

"Because the town cops share the beer with us later and the RCs don't," I answered, Cornie chiming in with a loud, "Right on!"

Marty chuckled and went through his wallet. "Well, dudn't matter anyhow - the bank is about empty." He flipped assorted cards and pictures out as he searched for another dollar bill.

"It dudn't, dud it?" said Cornie, an eyebrow arched theatrically. "I got a buck but I think Zehen is gonna need that for gas. Right, Matt?"

"Don't ask me those complicated mechanical questions, Corn-pone, I am just a lowly driver, not an oil-change caddy and part-time service technician trainee," I replied.

"Ok, Zehen. I accept your limitations. And also, kleiwe de!" Cornie replied, a bit drunkenly, staring at me over a poised cup of Labatt's Light.

Marty finished lighting one of my DuMauriers and tossed the Bic back at me. (I was smoking his Marlies, so it was an even trade.) "Aww Geez, what the hell is KLIVE DEE?" he asked.

Cornie laughed. "OK, you Yankee Martin Luther, here's what: 'Kliewe de' is 'Plautdietsch' - low German. It is my way of suggesting politely to Mattheus here, our stoic backcatcher and fearless late night chauffeur, that he go scratch himself. It further insinuates to claw oneself in an inappropriate place and manner. Fe'stone? Verstanden sie?" (Understand?)

Marty, with a straight face, answered. "Kliewe de, hunt!"

We all laughed. Marty - his last name was Schroeder, not Luther - then admitted that his Mom was a Mennonite, a Fast, originally from Winkler in Manitoba and that he spoke a few words of God's own language. Like hunt (dog). We nodded appreciatively, toasting him into the brethren, "with sacramental suds," Cornie offered, gravely. As always, his spotte (scornful banter) was mildly over-the-top, but entertaining.