Slow-Motion Wreck at the Curling Rink

Tony, my apprentice, vouched for his brother-in-law Jack. Jack sold tools out of a warehouse in Mississauga. He swore his rotary hammer was half the price of my Bosch and just as good. "Lifetime warranty," Tony said. "My mother will kill me if you don't at least try it."

I still remember the box. Light as a Styrofoam cooler. The chuck wobbled right out of the gate, but we were already on the clock at the curling rink. Forty-eight ledger board anchors into twelve-inch block. Chemical bond, mechanical torque, the whole prayer.

We punched the holes, mixed the goo, and cinched everything down. Passed inspection by a guy who squinted more than he measured. I took Brenda to Swiss Chalet that night, feeling like a genius who just saved the club five hundred bucks.

That was 2019.

Now I drive past slow, every single time. The ledger board's wandering. Pullin' away from the block like a loose tooth. The anchors are spinning in their half-made holes, the mortar's cracking, and the only thing holding that steel track is frozen regret and a few rust flakes. A hundred-anchored ghost I can't bury.

My knee locks up when the weather turns, same as that board. Brenda asks why I tighten my jaw when we pass the rink. I just point. She knows. Jack from Mississauga is a name I curse every time the ice resurfacer hums.

Stick with Bosch. Three hundred dollars more, and a lifetime of sleep. Now I slow down and mark my failure with every frost heave.