On the third day, things were quite different. The ‘druggies’ were no longer there: they were to take the same circuit under the influence of pot, Matthew assumed, later in the day. He saw no more of Baz, to his relief. The ‘alkies’ had to drink a flask of particularly vile-tasting orange-flavoured alcohol before they attempted the circuit. Cones were being scattered with alarming frequency, as was only to be expected. Not for the first time did Matthew wonder why public money was being squandered on the blindingly obvious results of inebriation. Surely it had been known long before Islamic law proscribed the drinking of demon drink—al-kohol was, after all, a centuries-old Arabic word—ever since drunken carters toppled off horse-drawn wagons, in fact, that it was unwise to drink and drive. When he asked Greg, he was told that the government needed Canadian statistics, and he accepted the explanation by reminding himself that the project was paying him pocket money. When it came his turn to drive the circuit, Matthew was discomfited to discover just how much his impairment had compromised his skill. He displaced several cones that day, to his embarrassment. He was no longer the best driver on the circuit, but he determined to remedy that later that day. He knew where the project stored the cones…
The airfield was deserted by mid-afternoon. Back home, feeling sufficiently recovered, Matthew called Zachary, who borrowed his mother’s Pontiac Parisienne, and they drove back to the circuit. As the correct placing of the cones was marked on the concrete, it was a simple, if time-consuming, exercise to replace them, and soon Matthew was beating his earlier times. “But you’re not drunk now,” protested Zak. “Let me try!” Unfortunately, Zak had more ambition than talent. He screeched to a stop so loudly that the attention of a passing RCMP cruiser was attracted to the boys. Zak, mercifully, had a glib tongue. “We knew there were time trials here,” he said. “I was just trying to see how long it would take me to do the circuit.” The officer was a good-humoured older man who let them off with a warning not to trespass again on federal government property. “No, sir; I won’t,” said Zak as the policeman left. “We’d better not,” added Matthew.” Let’s put the cones back.”
The next day, after consuming, as directed, more of the prescribed drink than before, Matthew acquitted himself reasonably well. “You seem to be handling booze better,” Greg told him. “But don’t get too cocky about it. You don’t want to end up as roadkill.” That warning again…
On the final day, Matthew found it very difficult to consume the increased amount set aside for him. He had never felt so reluctant to drink, stifling an urge to retch. He was the last one to climb into an Impala and take it round the circuit. His hands and feet did not seem to fit him, but his eagerness to prove that he could do well had trumped all other considerations. He shot off at speed, supremely confident that he could handle the course. Every displaced cone filled him with a solemn resolution not to knock the next one down. Yet the harder he tried, the more disastrous was the result. All his motions seemed controlled, but the car swerved erratically, apparently of its own accord, he believed, scattering cones in all directions. He wasn’t steering, merely sawing the air wildly with great swings of the wheel. At the end of his third circuit, Greg beckoned him in. He lurched to an ungraceful stop, climbed unsteadily out, and staggered to the taxi, talking loudly and uncharacteristically boastfully. He had a splitting headache. On the trip home, he knew he had never felt so ill, and went to bed. He slept for twelve hours straight. He vowed never to drink to excess again, and was to keep his promise for the rest of his long life.
