Meet The Devil Spinners: edge-dwellers, poets and lovable scoundrels who bluster, blunder and bellow their way to redemption—or not—between stops at Crawley's Pub. Each faces a moment of life-bafflement, brief or prolonged, that finds resolution through a shift in perception, an unexpected intervention, a kind word, or in one case, an insect.

  
The stories are set on the B.C. coast in an indeterminate era when screens, though present, have not yet dominated every public place. At Crawley's, live conversation rules and a haphazard harmony prevails as bartender Gabe and her co-workers serve a ragtag assortment of neighbourhood regulars. Over the course of fifteen stories, we find Mike the lawyer advising Sam the towboat man on his faulty DUI charge, Haley the musician describing to Gabe how a detour in his travels led to lessons in devil spinning, the mad Professor Weibel refereeing the Great Debate over the ethics of Dutch the Greek, and the hapless Fredrik being bullied by a beetle. At a table against the wall, Beets the poet ruminates on the tyrannies of self-awareness, while down the road, ex-server Erin hatches a wicked plot for severing ties with Edward... 

According to Haley, everyone is a devil spinner, though not every formula is freeing: "Sometimes we spin to make the needle skip, sometimes we spin for the comfort of the groove." 

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Whether they favour the skips or the grooves, readers who appreciate a novel twist in a well-spun yarn, liberally laced with humour and heart, will find congenial company in The Devil Spinners. 

 

Read on for the opening lines of the first three stories.

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                           THE STICKINESS FACTOR

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     The day begins with great promise. I have a story to write and I’m ready to go. The plants are watered, the dishes are done, the place is neat as a pin. I have five whole hours before I have to leave for work—and I even have an idea.

     I’ve been studying residual stickiness in dead relationships—the kind that are over but never quite end. I work in a bar, so I witness real-life stickiness every day. The effects are self-evident: no one gets on with their lives. The causes are more mysterious. Why is it that some people can’t bring themselves to pull the final pin? Is it the inconvenience of change? Inertia? Fierce attachment? Or is it the times? Are their minds so scattered by devices that they simply forget they were breaking up?

     My plan is to throw a few characters together, see who sticks once the thrill is gone, and document my observations.

     I write STORY at the top of the page and consider my opening line. The tense is holding me up. Past or present—always a challenge. Past carries more authority; present packs more of a punch.

     I have just decided on present when there’s a knock on my door. I am briefly jolted, but resolute. I have learned to ignore the door.

     Another knock, more assertive this time. Damn. I tiptoe to the peephole: Two policemen. What the...?

                      ____________________________________

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                                 DUTCH THE GREEK

 

     Vigorous debates are not uncommon in bars, and they sometimes go on for days. They can be volatile, entertaining, and occasionally enlightening—if the debaters have civil tongues and reasonably sound positions. 

     The Great Debate over the ethics of Dutch the Greek is by far the most heated and longstanding war-of-the-words in the history of Crawley’s. It began on a Thursday some months ago in the section I happened to be serving and it has continued in that section every Thursday since.

     Because the section requires a level of attention that goes above and beyond the usual call, none of my co-workers have wanted to serve it. So I’ve been the designated server from the get-go. I agreed to this initially to avoid bickering, but later because I found the entertainment value to be worth the added effort.

     With one caveat:

     Since the attendance and identities of the debaters vary considerably from week to week and mine do not, I have inadvertently become the constant in a diverse and ever-expanding sea of variables. This in itself is not a problem. However, with it has come the laughable assumption that along with taking orders and serving beer at warp-speed, I am also keeping track of every key point that has been raised, ratified, defeated, or dismissed...

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                                THE DEVIL SPINNERS

 

     Haley’s back in town. I saw him today, in front of the old Virgin Records store on Robson and Burrard. It must be eight months since I saw him last, maybe even nine. I remember it was late summer, and a super-hot afternoon.    

     I tend bar at Crawley’s—officially The Crow’s Gate Pub—on West Fourth Avenue in Vancouver. When Haley’s in town, he usually comes in around 3:00 p.m., and you always hear him before you see him. "All you need is love!" he’ll boom as he walks in the door. He’ll come straight to the bar, shouting out greetings to the regulars, and then he’ll yell, "A pint of the Pale, Gabe!" even though I’m standing right in front of him.

     I remember there were only two other people standing at the bar that day last summer, and the tables were half empty. But still he sounded like he was shouting over an eight-lane freeway at rush hour.

     Haley’s boom is not aggressive, though. There are people who talk loudly and fill the place up to make themselves important, but with Haley it’s something else. Haley definitely fills the place up, but it’s not like he’s after attention. He’s a good-looking guy, about five-eleven and well-built. Regular features, thick mass of curly brown hair and a great sideways grin. So he’s not exactly starved for attention, especially from the ladies. It’s more like he’s trying to out-shout his own background roar. Even when he tones it down, he sounds like he’s shouting over heavy traffic...

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