Collar Yoke Sleeve Sleeve

Collar, yoke, sleeve, sleeve… side, back, side.

Collar, yoke, sleeve, sleeve… side, back, side.

The little mantra ran through Jake’s head, over and over, setting the rhythm of his careful work.

Collar, yoke, sleeve, sleeve… side, back, side.

When he was 15, Jake had joined an army cadet corps. He didn’t last long – through the fall and winter months and then, after turning 16, six weeks of summer camp that confirmed in him a lifelong loathing of authority.

Appointing cadet officers who could rush about demanding you salute them had been the last straw. Saluting just felt silly.

“It’s not the man you’re saluting; it’s the Queen.”

“Queen’s not here."

“She’s represented by the cap badge!”

“Well, fuck the Queen!”

“You smart-mouth little shit. Drop and give me 20.”

“I can’t.”

“Then give me 10.”

“I can’t.”

“Well, you weak shit, how many pushups can you do?”

“None. I’m wearing clean pants. My mom will kill me if I get them dirty.”

The next week he turned in his uniform. But his time as a cadet hadn’t been totally wasted.

First, his mother had taught him the shirt mantra, introducing it by saying: “I’m not going to be ironing your army shirts for you. I do enough ironing as it is, so I’ll show you how to do it properly.”

“First the collar, from the back, so if the iron is too hot you won’t scorch anything where people can see.”

Then she took the shirt by the seam below the shoulders and flip-folded the shirt under it.

“This is the yoke. It joins the front and back of the shirt. You iron that next. Then you do the sleeves. That’s because they get in the way and if you iron them last, you’ll end up ironing new wrinkles into the back and sides. After you do the sleeves, just rotate the shirt over the board: side, back, side. And then you’re done.”

Collar. Yoke. Sleeve. Sleeve… Side. Back. Side.

All these years later, Jake still put on a neatly ironed shirt every morning. It made him feel… accomplished… crisp… ready for the day.

Being a cadet had also drilled into him the need for speed and accuracy in shooting and handling guns of all kinds. He’d learned both starting with the .22 caliber bolt-action rifles at the range in the basement of the drill hall. That was the part of being a cadet he loved the most, that and graduating to heavier weapons at the military range on the North Shore. At 30 meters he could snap shoot a coke can off a fence post with any type of pistol. At 75 meters he could methodically place an even line of rifle shots into the edge of a two-by-four, from any shooting position. And, with very little more than a beanbag rest and a sniper scope to help him, he could drill a hole through man’s head at 800 meters – almost half a mile.

His skill at this more than paid the rent.

The shirt he was ironing was still damp from the spin cycle but it would be quicker to iron it dry than wait for the dryer – and then he’d still have to iron it anyway. Too bad about his other blue shirt. He hated having to throw it away, but what would he do with the brown stain that wouldn’t come out? Cover it with a tie? Good job he’d put a laundry on earlier. This was Saturday, normally a blue shirt day, but a nice white shirt will always do.

Collar. Yoke. Sleeve. Sleeve… Side. Back. Side.

He had to hand it to his mother, having a system made ironing his shirts quick and easy. What a bitch she was!

“Clean your room! Are you going out looking like that? All that girl wants is a free ride with a man who’ll pay the bills. You don’t want to turn out like your father… nag, nag, nag.” She never, ever shut up. She talked just to move air about. Talked to shut out the silence. Talked to fill the emptiness she must have had inside. Still, she was his mother and deserved a decent send-off.

Jake set aside his shirt. He was standing naked at the ironing board. Hmph! He should have been naked for the job! But you know… his mother. Wouldn’t be right.

He started to iron a blouse for his mother. Like Jake, she couldn’t stand going out in public in wrinkled clothes. She always went out in style. But this was where his mother’s mantra broke down. Most women’s shirts and blouses don’t have a yoke. And they’re often cut on a bias and have darts to cinch them in. Or they have embroidery on them, and beads, and crap like that. You couldn’t flip them around handily on the ironing board the way you could a man’s shirt.

Shit! He’d just ironed a big crease into the front when he tried ironing the sleeve.

“I’ll start over,” he thought. “Trying to fix it piecemeal just makes twice as much work. Thank you, Mother!”

He sighed and began ironing the collar – from the back – again.

He paused for a moment to look at the small TV on the kitchen counter. It was tuned to CNN and there was a banner on the screen that screamed “Breaking News!”

The crawl read: “Environmental Leader Shot Dead at Rally.”

He loved his job. Business was a pleasure for him.

But this one had been a tricky one. The rally was outdoors, in a large field up on Burnaby Mountain, where natural cover was sparse. Earlier that day, Jake had been lying concealed in a shallow ditch about 500 meters from the makeshift podium. He’d been there since before dawn, preparing his position. He’d moved a few rocks and clumps of grass to conceal his rifle – a Lobaev .408 Cheyenne Tactical sniper rifle. The rifle along with several boxes of ammunition had come from a gun fair in Arizona several years earlier. He liked the Lobaev because it was simple and clean. No fussiness about it. If he had to, he could remove the scope and detach the barrel in a matter of seconds. With proper ammunition, it was also reputed to be the most accurate sniper rifle in the world. At 2,000 meters, the Lobaev had a margin of error of less than three centimeters. Accurate enough for a lethal head shot.

Making a shot in the open was tricky. You had a few moments of confusion on your side and then everybody would be scanning in every direction for the shooter. Jake made the shot and, without bothering to look at the results, had crawled quickly along the ditch, keeping his head low. The ditch ran to a steep ravine with a creek at the bottom. He rappelled down the rope he’d tied to a solid tree earlier that day, using a quick release tumble hitch. Retrieving the rope meant anyone looking for where he’d gone wouldn’t settle on the ravine too quickly. After wading a couple of hundred meters along the creek, far enough to be sure he was well out of sight, he paused long enough to take apart his Lobaev and shove it in his duffel, along with the rope.

Everything was going well until Jake stepped out of the ravine onto the small service road where he’d parked the Fiat he’d stolen for his getaway. There was a cop checking out the car. The cop saw him and beckoned him over.

“Is this your vehicle, sir.”

Jake put on a quizzical expression.

“No, officer, I’m just out on a hike. Is there some kind of problem?”

“You have any ID?” said the cop.

Jake reached into his jacket pocket with his left hand and slowly pulled out his wallet. “It’s right here. Take a look if you want? It’s not my car, though.”

As the cop reached for the wallet, he moved a step closer. Jake suddenly swung his duffel at the cop’s head and kicked out at the cop’s left knee. The cop fell heavily with a shout of surprise. Jake moved quickly to him and delivered another kick, this one to his head. The cop was out cold. Jake stripped him of his service weapon, a nice, efficient Glock 17. He looked it over quickly, released the slide, activated it and pumped one round into the cop’s head, near the top of his ear. Damn! Some blood had splattered on the front of his shirt. He zipped his jacket to hide it, then put the gun in his duffel, rolled the cop into a shallow ditch and drove off in the stolen Fiat. Half a mile from his home he abandoned the car and walked the rest of the way at a casual pace.

That should have been the end of it.

He should be relaxing now with a beer, watching a hockey game or an old noir film on Turner Classic Movies. Actually, he had decided on the hockey game. Here it was, June, and the Stanley Cup playoffs were just starting! He spread out on the sofa, beer in hand, and cheered on the Blackhawks. Just as the first period ended, his doorbell rang. There at the door was… Mother!

“Mother? What brings you by?”

“Jacob, I need you to come with me to the neighbour’s. Their dog just barks all day and half the night. My nerves are frayed. And when I complained they shut the door in my face.”

“Well, if you complained the way I know you do, I’d have shut the door on you, too. What did you threaten them with? The law? Damnation? Aren’t those reserved for real villains and sinners?”

“I threatened them with you, Jacob. I told them my son would come around and shoot their dog if it didn’t shut up.”

“Animal Control doesn’t shoot dogs for barking. We don’t even shoot bears or cougars if we don’t have to.”

Animal control was the lie he’d told his mother. It explained the gun collection in his den.

“Let me make you a cup of tea. Then I’ll drive you home. And I’ll talk to them about the dog.”

He’d gone into the kitchen to make the tea, and was as precise about that as he was about most things: One rounded teaspoon of leaves, water stopped just short of a full boil, steep for two and a half minutes. Having to shoot the cop must have put him off his game, however, because he hadn’t been precise about putting away his gear when he got home. Which meant that his snoopy mother had gone through the bag, seen the rifle, the scope, and the Glock. She’d also seen the between-periods newsbreak on TV. She did the math.

“Jacob. You killed that policeman, didn’t you and that man… that environmental man? Is that what I’ve raised? A killer?”

“No, Mother! I was tracking down a cougar that’s been hanging around an elementary school. Cougars are sneaky, so I carry my handgun to get off a quick shot if it surprises me.”

“Oh, don’t think you can fool me that easily. You were always lazy, and a sneak. What should I do now, Jacob? Call the authorities?”

“There’s no point calling them because I haven’t done what you think. I was hunting a cougar.”

“Don’t lie. You’re not with animal control. I bet you don’t even have a uniform.”

“For heaven’s sake, Mother, drop it. I’ve made you a nice cup of tea. I'll just go get some sugar for it.”

Jake was finished his shirt now, and it was gloriously white, crisp and wrinkle free. He started on his pants humming tunelessly, “hmm huhuhu hu hmm.” Too bad his mother didn’t have a catchy phrase for trousers. Leg. Leg. Nothing in that.

When the pants were done, black with a razor crease, he sat down and donned a pair of plain wool-acrylic socks, also black. He put on clean underwear and a clean singlet, then stood and slipped the pants on over his fresh tighty-whiteys. Now it was time for the shirt: the pinnacle of his ironing prowess, the highlight of this very satisfying day. He buttoned it slowly, tucked it carefully into his pants and put on his favourite red tie, fixing it with a precise half-Windsor knot. He checked himself out in the mirror, then picked up his simple, black Samsonite suitcase. He donned a fedora adjusted it and stepped into the living room.

He was off overnight for another job. He would figure out what to do about the mess when he got back.

Mother sat in the chair, head back. She had a surprised, wide-eyed look and her pupils were fully dilated. A small amount of drool and vomit trickled down her chin. There was a faint smell of almonds in the air.

“Well Mother,” Jake said. “How do I look?”