Armand Garnet Ruffo
The Green Chief

My wife comes home from work exhausted, throws off her
coat, collapses into our old plump easychair and tells me that
something has to be done about the traffic. Even though she refus-
es to drive during rush hour, preferring instead to take the bus, the
jam, the noise and stink of it all makes her feel as though she’s the
one in the driver’s seat. Thank goodness she’s not is all I can say,
both for her and the car, not to mention everybody else on the road.
(Imagining her voice a sheet of stilled panic, knuckles white,
clutched to the steering wheel, eyes full of twisted expectation as
the vehicle lunges to a halt.)

“Didn’t someone say that we live in the age of anxiety,” I
ask as [ massage her shoulders, knuckles digging into muscle.

“Age of ignorance,” she answers, while she oohs and aahs.

“I wonder if they’ll ever invent something to replace
them—the cars and trucks, I mean?”

“Not as long as the oil companies have anything to say
about it,” she concludes matter-of-factly.

“Maybe a few more giant oil spills like the Exxon Valdez,
or that one off California, and the public will finally say enough is
enough.”

“Since when has Mr. & Mrs. Citizen had any say?” she
grumbles, the black heat of the street still inside her.

“I was listening to a program the other day on CBC about
some Scot who, something like twenty-five years ago, moved to
Newfoundland because it was one of the few places where they
still used horses... guess he liked horses. The pace, probably.”

“Sounds like a smart man,” she says and indicates, with her
right hand clasped to her left shoulder, that I should massage clos-
er to the left side of spine. Obliging, my knuckle probes deep,
releasing a gasp of relief.

“But they’re almost all gone now,” I feel compelled to add,
realizing too late that such a small comment can shatter so much.

“A shame,” she says, then, after a moment of silence,
“think of it, horses clomping down the road, sleigh rides in winter.”

“The fragrance of horse shit,” I quietly add, again digging
my fingers into the shoulder muscle. “Loosen up.”

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