Mr. Royce

Based on True Events at the Edmonton Indian Residential School
By Kali Skalan, July 30, 2010


We were washed up, in our jammies, and undercover. The buzz in second dorm subsided when Mr. Royce, twelve-inch club in hand, strode in to once again impose his will on his twenty-six charges. His rotting brown teeth flashed in his scowl, signalling his distaste. His pock-marked face turns red, pumped up for his usual ritual. The small eyes set in his heavy brows and big crew-cut head matched his menacing grin. Marching up and down the length of the dorm, he raises his club and smacks it into his other palm, again and again. His hunch-back is noticeable as he turns. His belly hung over his baggy size forty blue jeans. At twenty feet away, his bad and alcohol breath together with the smell of his sweat and underarms was overwhelming.


On the bottom bunk, in the corner and first in the row of bunks, hands clasped behind my head, I thought, "Where the hell does Mr. McBride get these guys? All we ever get are ex-service men, ex-wrestlers, ex-cops, derelects from Edmonton's skids and they all stink!"


Like the others in the brotherhood, I was sixteen years old. Gitxsan, Nisga'a, Tsimshian, Haida, Inuit, Cree, all thrown together by the Indian agent and the system.


Mr. Royce lurks a while longer then leaves. The latch clicks, locking us in for the night.


Jimmy mumbles loud enough for all to hear, "Fucking asshole! Who the fuck does he think he is? They're all the same. I'm going to kick his fucking ass!" Silence. Nobody responds, knowing the walls have ears. "You smell the booze on him? Prolly too damn thirsty why he didn't pick on anybody tonight!"


To everyone's surprise and delight, "You're always talking tough, Jimmy! Shut the fuck up!," Terry hollers.


With raised eyebrows, I thought, "Finally, someone has the courage to put the bully in his place. And, who better than someone from his own tribe!"


Jimmy snears at Terry, waiting for more. Nothing. "Then shut the fuck up if that's all you got. I'm not the enemy. Mr. Royce is. Remember that!"


After a supervisor makes his rounds, it was standard to wait a few minutes before the boys settled in their usual pre-bed-time routines, wiling away emptiness until we got sleepy. Out of nowhere, Don pulls out the latest Playboy mag. A few boys would huddle around Don as if he was their best friend. Wally tunes in CJCA radio station, loud enough to hear "Walk Don't Run" by the Ventures. I just lay on my bunk remembering and savouring the taste of Coca-Cola and cookies from brother Mel just prior to the big bell signalling an assembly. Earlier, at six, after our mundane chores are done, all seventy-five boys were settling in their after supper routines on a Friday night. Then, the damn bell.


In the common room, we were lined up in three rows, waiting for the supervisor. Ernie asks, "Who is on tonight?" Someone volunteers, "Mr. Royce." As if on cue, everyone choruses, "Oh fuck!" As usual, he always makes a big deal of his entry. He'd put his big hulking frame in the doorway, sneering at us ... he steps in and lumbers his way between the rows. His booze breath put us on alert, more than usual.


During his bull-shit inspection, he stopped in front of Jimmy, almost nose to nose. At first Jimmy doesn't flinch, stares back at him, equalling his challenge. He holds a while. Jimmy cracks first, lowers his head. Mr. Royce celebrates with a tiny victory smile. As Mr. Royce steps back, he totters. Terry snickers, triggering more from the rest of us. A tiny victory! Mr.Royce's face turns beet-red.


Pissed off, Mr. Royce makes his way to the front. He does not face us. He hollers as his big frame goes through the door, "Everybody to bed. NOW!" He steps to one side waiting for us to troop to our dorms. In defiance, we do not move right away. We quickly accept our demise to an early night on a Friday. We all secretly anticipate a chance to get even.


At 7:45 p.m., at once, everyone is on alert, triggered by the noisy door latch rattling. Everyone scrambles to their bunk beds. We all get a whiff of Mr. Royce's bad alcohol breath and stinky body odour before he stumbles in. He was drunk. This time he didn't have his club. He leans on the wall to steady himself. We wait . . . he sneers at everyone. He locates Jimmy . . . "So . . . you're the tough guy eh? . . . As he staggers toward Jimmy, someone hollers, "Gross!" Everyone snickers when they realize Mr. Royce pissed his pants. In his stupor, it was a long few seconds before it sunk in. Like a slow simmer, his white face turns red ... he hesitates . . .


Jimmy jumps down from his bunk and beelines for Mr. Royce. The drunken supervisor turns to leave. Jimmy catches up, sizes him up. Almost toe to toe, Jimmy blockades him. "Get out of the way, asshole, or I'll bring you down a few notches", Mr. Royce stutters. The moment freezes as if someone pressed the stop button . . . then slow-motion.


Mr. Royce lifts his huge arm to push Jimmy aside. Jimmy stands his ground. Jimmy deflects the blow. Mr. Royce stumbles but just manages to regain his balance. He turns to step around Jimmy. Mr. Royce bumps into a bunk bed; tipping it. Wally and Ernie scamble from their beds. Jimmy presses his advantage. Hanging on to the bunk, Mr. Royce pushes back. The bunk tips on its end. The two buys next to Wally and Ernie jump in to stop the bunk from going over. Embarrassed, Mr. Royce gets beligerant and reckless, pushes hard to topple the bunk. Jimmy, Wally, and Ernie jump in to push back. Mr. Royce digs in and holds. The bunk tips on end again and thrown to the side; mattresses, pillows, and blankets slide to the floor.


Mr. Royce and the five boys square off . . . Terry hollers, "You're not so tough without your club eh?" . . . As if well choregraphed and practised, the five advance to pile Mr. Royce. He sets to defend himself. Someone hollers, "Get him!" Another, "We got you now!"


Like a a well-oiled machine, all the other boys jump out of their bunk beds and form a circle around Mr. Royce, then converge. Someone starts stomping the floor. Everyone joins in. A barage of jeers and taunts hit Mr. Royce, "You fucking asshole! . . . How does it feel to be picked on eh asshole! . . . You want to feel what it's like to be hit with your club? . . ."


Fear surfaces on Mr. Royce's face. His hulking body shrinks and cowers. To our surprise, he starts to sob. Pitiful! Caught off guard, the converging circle hesitates.


Jimmy hollers, "Stop! That's enough! Everybody get back to their beds!" Like well-trained regimented soldiers, the boys retreat. Jimmy turns and walks back to his.


Now abandoned, Mr. Royce slowly composes himself, now sober. He straightens up and exits. Nobody says a thing.


The next morning, Mr. McBride, the principal of the Edmonton Indian Residentnial School, was filling in. Mr. royce had packed up and left in the early morning hours. The second dormers walked differently now. Everybody gave Jimmy more room and a big respect.