I walked into Prairie Credit Union at 10 a.m., hungover and completely broke. Six months ago, I’d fractured the jaw of a man who’d hit my mom. I’d pleaded guilty, and yesterday, my lawyer, Roger Bancroft, had asked for a suspended sentence.

Bancroft said, “Your Honour, my client is the sole caregiver of his mother, Mary Joelsen, who suffers from depression and alcoholism. She’s unable to work, and my client subsidizes the meagre income she gets from the government in the way of social assistance. We ask that Jake be provided with a suspended sentence of at least six months to organize Mary Joelsen’s finances, living conditions, and situation in preparation for his time away. Thank you.”

Judge Evelyn Leaf stared at me like I was a forlorn child, and I wondered if pleading guilty had been the right decision. She put on glasses and read from a paper on the judge’s bench.

“Pursuant to section 731, article one of the criminal code, a suspended sentence is called for when ‘the nature of the offence and the circumstances surrounding its commission make it appropriate,’” Leaf said, looking up from the paper. “Jake, I am providing two weeks from today for you to establish a plan for the care of your mom. I’m not comfortable with any longer than that. As part of this decision, you are required to present yourself here, in Her Majesty’s court, on October twenty-ninth. I suggest you speak with your counsel and act wisely. I will take into consideration how you spend this time.”

Her decision meant I had fourteen days to get my affairs in order and raise enough money to support my mom while I was inside.

Earlier, I’d spoken to a lender at Prairie Credit Union named Jason Bremnar, who was now twenty minutes late. On the phone, when I’d asked him how he was doing, he’d commented that his Sunday ticket had been a winner, and that he’d made nine hundred bucks. I played along like I cared, and he went off. Aaron Rodgers this and Aaron Rodgers that. Interceptions and incompletes. Yards after the catch and team defence. I didn’t watch football, but I knew enough to pretend, so I said how my ticket hadn’t panned out because of the “fucking Vikings.” He seemed to really like that, so along with black Dockers and a brown fitted sweater underneath a navy bomber jacket, I picked up a second-hand Green Bay Packers hat from Value Village. It sat on my head now, faded from heavy use. I also wore a decent pair of Timberland boots.

As I waited for my appointment, I thought about the woes of my city. The summer had been one of the bloodiest in Winnipeg’s history, and the trend had only continued into the fall. The city had just recorded its thirty-second homicide of the year, ten more than all of 2018. In addition to that grisly statistic, I couldn’t go a day without hearing about property crimes, the meth crisis, kids apprehended by child and family services, or a police headquarters that had run eighty million dollars over budget. How does that even happen? I could see eight million, but eighty? Mayor Bowman wanted a full investigation, Premier Pallister did not, and the good citizens just kept on keeping on, trying to survive and pay the bills. Finally, my name was called, and I followed a young woman to Bremnar’s office.

Bremnar stood behind an IKEA desk, trying hard to look younger than someone in their late fifties, and it rubbed me the wrong way. His dark blue suit was stylishly too tight, and when he came around the desk to shake my hand, I noticed he was wearing dress shoes without socks. His crisp white shirt sparkled next to a baby-blue tie, and his close fade had white and grey sprinkled above the ears. The office smelled of Brut aftershave. Behind the desk, a row of built-in cabinets held manuals and binders. Two pictures on his desk showed extended family, his children and grandkids, I presumed.

He asked for my driver’s license, and I hesitated, worried it’d be tarnished with coke residue from last night. I pointed to the pictures on his desk as a distraction.

“Grandkids?” I asked.

The pictures had been taken at a cabin, the sun causing everyone to squint. With his attention elsewhere, I wiped the card on my pants and laid it on the desk.

“Yeah, three and five years old,” he said. “Little hellions, but they’re awesome.”

He chuckled and so did I. It pained me to do so, but I needed this loan.

“You got kids?” he said.

“No, no kids. Maybe one day, though.”

“Well, you have lots of time.” He noticed my hat. “You a fan?”

I perked up. “Lifelong. I came out of the womb wearing the green and gold. You?”

“Die-hard all the way, baby. Third-generation cheesehead.”

“My lucky hat,” I bullshitted, tugging on the beak.

Bremnar and I chatted for another few minutes about the Pack, then he got down to business, reading from two monitors on the desk and frowning like he’d read something of concern. He reminded me of a doctor about to impart a death sentence on a patient, but it seemed like he was acting, playing the role.

“Mr. Joelsen,” he said, “you have a combined thirty thousand dollars of debt on three credit cards, and each is at their limit. We just can’t approve a line of credit or loan at this time.” 

My piss up last night had drained my account and maxed out the last card that had any space. I’d tried to get other cards and secure loans from other banks, but I’d been declined.

“Is there nothing you can do?” I said.

Bremnar shuffled. “I’m afraid not.”

“Your website says ‘Helping people live their best lives.’” 

“Let me take another look.” Bremnar read from the monitors again. He hemmed and hawed and acted like he was reconsidering, but I could tell he wasn’t.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Joelsen,” he said mildly, “but you need to qualify for the services advertised on our website.” 

“Listen,” I said. “I have responsibilities. My mom’s less than fully functional. I don’t need a lot. I could manage with twenty thousand, and I’ll tackle the credit card debt soon.”

Bremnar gathered loose papers and placed them on the corner of his desk as a whiff of Brut smacked me in the face. He mumbled something.

“What’s that?” I said, leaning in.

“Nothing … It’s just—I noticed how many transactions on your account are from the liquor store and two a.m. withdrawals from ATMs.”

My first instinct was to reach across and bang his head off the desk until he approved the loan. Instead, I counted to ten and slowed my breathing. Bremnar stared at me, waiting.

“The Packers suck,” I said, and got up to leave, stopping at the doorway of his office. “And go fuck yourself.”

He looked like I’d slapped him.

—

When I got to my mom’s, she was asleep. I put the groceries away, tossed anything expired or mouldy from the fridge, and then went to the bedroom and sat on a wooden chair in the corner. There was an ashtray full of butts on the night table that looked like a Jenga puzzle, like it could topple over at any second. A litre of cheap wine sat next to the ashtray. I didn’t see a glass. A putrid smell wafted from my mom like a living thing, and as her body rose and fell with each breath, I wondered how the hell she’d manage when I went away.

I closed my eyes.

Then I emptied the ashtray and poured the wine down the drain. I checked on my mom again before leaving.