The Garneau Block (9 page)

 

24

an authentic conversation

F
our out of five Death in Philosophy students arrived for the field trip at West Edmonton Mall's World Waterpark. When Professor Raymond Terletsky arrived at the lobby, one of the men–Matt–was playing Ms. Pac-Man on a wristwatch. The other three–Jess, Dannika, and Paul–watched the action.

“It kicks ass, Dr. T,” said Dannika, a tall, black-haired graduate student from the political science department. She was taking Death in Philosophy as an option. “This baby's from the
eighties
.”

Raymond crowded close to Dannika and feigned interest in the wristwatch game, controlled by a tiny joystick. Dannika
wore a thin, baby-blue button-up sweater that highlighted her collarbone. Around her neck, a gold Saint Christopher pendant. While Dannika watched Ms. Pac-Man, Raymond took the opportunity to peek down at her breasts. Unfortunately, her backpack pulled the shirt up, obscuring the view.

“I got this thing on eBay.” Matt, who wore his hair in a ponytail, shook his head in disbelief. “Sweet deal, too.”

“Cool,” said Raymond, and immediately regretted it. He was walloped with the certainty that the word
cool
stopped being cool 'round about the time
Happy Days
went off the air. Since his son and daughter had moved to Calgary and Seattle, he wasn't regularly exposed to fashionable jargon. Not like Madame Chairperson Claudia Santino, hired because the committee felt she was “edgy” and “plugged in.”

Indeed, Raymond was so smooth and unplugged he didn't understand what eBay was, exactly, or how it worked. Was it an Internet antique dealer of some kind? Why e
Bay
? He felt obliged to add something, to offer a piece of analytical context for Ms. Pac-Man and Matt's high-tech mode of acquisition. However, once he had mentally committed to saying something, he had nothing. So he added, “Really cool.”

The game ended as these games always seemed to end, with Matt's avatar in ruin. “So, Dr. T,” said Matt. “What are we doing here?”

Raymond proceeded to the counter with five hundred dollars in petty cash, and explained. They were going to participate in two of the indoor waterpark's most popular attractions, the Tropical Typhoon and the Bungee jump, in order to better understand the pricey games we play with death. He quoted
Kirilov, a character in Dostoevsky's
The Devils
, who says everyone who desires supreme freedom must kill himself.

“Yet Camus said the refusal to commit suicide gives meaning to life,” said Dannika.

Raymond stopped and faced his four students. Matt, the lazy skateboarder; Paul, the silent veteran of the first Gulf War; Jess, the future lawyer with perfect posture; and Dannika, a polished gem of prairie Polishness. “Exactly, Dannika. That's exactly what I want to get out of this field trip.”

“I just want to see you three fellas in bathing suits,” she said, without allowing a moment to pass. Her three peers laughed, and so did Raymond.

What a coincidence.

In the men's change room, Paul stripped immediately. He scratched at a Tasmanian Devil tattoo on his right arm, pulled some lint out of his coarse orange belly hair, grunted and walked into the bathroom to stand in front of a urinal. Raymond and Matt, who allowed themselves to be naked for all of 1.5 seconds, shared a knowing glance. Now that was supreme freedom.

Matt had the age advantage but each of the three men was at least thirty pounds away from the statue of David. When they met the women on the mock beach, Raymond sucked in his belly. So did Matt. Paul wiped the snot away from under his nose and uttered a rare comment: “Humid in here.”

Of the five, only Dannika had remembered a notebook and a waterproof pen. Raymond was pleased to see that unlike uptight, one-piece Jess, Dannika had also remembered to wear a white bikini. Since they had all just taken showers and the air
in the waterpark was a few degrees cooler than comfortable, they decided to begin in the hot tub.

Raymond got in first, and hurried underwater so he could relax his belly. To his delight, Dannika got in next. It was only then that Raymond understood the strangeness of this field trip, the first he had ever organized. Without the seminar room, the wooden chairs and peeling plastic table, the stained blackboard, nothing bound him to these people. They were near-naked strangers in a hot tub, obliged to speak to one another.

Instead of presenting their thoughts on entrepreneurs who used death to charge exorbitant fees for the illusion of risk, they talked about novels. Then movies. Then horror movies. Then, finally, Raymond had an idea.

“Paul, you must have thought a lot about the meaning of death. During the war.”

“It was pretty remote out there, sir. We did killing, but it was more like Matt's wristwatch than anything you might see on the
TV
.”

“You weren't afraid of getting shot? Or shooting someone?”

Paul lifted himself out of the water and sat on the ledge. “I was more afraid of catching something. And I did catch something.”

“What did you catch?”

“I'm not at liberty to say, sir. I signed a nondisclosure agreement?”

Matt hopped up. “I'll meet you guys back here. I'm gonna slide a couple times, get pumped.”

“Me too,” said Jess.

Even though he wasn't submerged, Paul reached into his trunks and scratched himself. The subject of the military had inspired him. “Folks in the forces these days aren't ready to die. That isn't what it's about, sir. Ma'am. You know, boys in Rio de Janeiro fight to the death in the middle of the street, surrounded by crowds. With knives, bats. One-on-one. Just for honour. Now, from the point of view of our lives here in Canada, sir, ma'am, I think we find that sort of thing real foreign.”

Raymond nodded in pretend-thoughtfulness. He wanted to say something about street fighting but Dannika had turned to face Paul, and one of her velvety knees was touching Raymond's thigh.

There seemed to be no accidental reason for this physical contact. The hot tub was almost empty, and the ambient blend of pop music, screaming schoolchildren, and rushing water in the wave pool wasn't overpowering. It was clear to Raymond that Dannika had crowded into him like this because she wanted to send a message.

An erotic message.

“I used to be into death in a big way,” Dannika said, moving even closer to Raymond. “All black clothes, matte-white face, silver jewellery, Sisters of Mercy, the whole vampire thing.”

Paul scratched his left nipple and grunted but Raymond wasn't really listening to Dannika. He was certain that a silent and more authentic conversation was going on between them.

 

25

a little progressive in that conservative

D
avid Weiss paused for five seconds and smiled. This was the secret to conflict resolution, creating and controlling the tone of the conversation. In his teaching days, David had calmed hundreds of hormonal monsters using this method.

Tonight, his adversary was a harmless dullard called Andrew. The young man stood behind the Metterra Hotel counter with posture that contrasted with the slick surroundings. Poor skin, poor diction, poor manners, brown hair sticking straight up with frosted tips.

“Andrew, there are hundreds of hotels in Edmonton and thousands of conference rooms.”

“Yes, Mr. Weiss, I understand that and we appreciate the fact that you've chosen the Metterra. But our new policy states no dogs. No dogs means no dogs. I don't know what else to say.”

“May I speak with your manager?”

“He's on dinner break. I'm the assistant manager.”

David bent down and lifted Garith on to the counter. The dog shook his head, tinking his bell. “Chinese Cresteds don't shed. They're hypoallergenic. He hardly makes a peep. In the three years since I house-trained him, has he ever had an accident?”

“An accident?”

“A poop or a pee, Andrew. An accident. Well, let me tell you, Andrew, no. This dog is accident-free.”

Andrew cleared his throat and leaned forward so he could take a closer look at Garith. The dog wagged his tail and pulled his lips back, performing his smile trick. Andrew reached forward, tentatively, and ran his hand along Garith's smooth brown back. “I've never seen an animal like this.”

“This dog is more intelligent than your average high-school graduate today, Andrew. He deserves to be treated with respect.”

“But–”

“But nothing, really. We walked here tonight, so I can't leave him in the vehicle. Which would be a sin against decency even if I could do it. And it doesn't seem fair that you should make this decision now, a half-hour before my meeting, with no warning whatsoever. How many meetings have we had here with Garith, with nary a whisper of disapproval from the management? This city shall bring itself to ruin with all these petty regulations designed to bolster the egos of dull bureaucrats. Yes?”

“But–”

“But nothing, Andrew.”

David paused for another five seconds, took Garith in his arms, and walked upstairs to the boardroom on the mezzanine level. For a moment, he remained aware of Andrew. The assistant manager walked around the counter and followed David up the stairs for a few steps. Then Andrew sighed, whispered “Whatever,” to himself, and returned to his perch behind the computer screens.

Everything was ready in the boardroom. On a credenza against the wall, a large Thermos of coffee with various
whiteners and sweeteners. Next to the Thermos, a selection of soft drinks and a box filled with muffins, donuts, and squares.

David sat at the head of the table with Garith on his lap. To warm himself up, he ate a muffin and read the minutes from the final spring meeting aloud to Garith. The Strathcona
PC
Riding Association had raised several motions, including a “no idling” automobile initiative and a resolution supporting a strengthened fine arts curriculum in high schools. These were the sorts of concerns that eroded support for the opposition in central urban ridings. Gosh, the pinkos will think, maybe there
is
a little progressive in that conservative.

The first to arrive was the newest member, Tammy “Sparkle” Davidson, who had just purchased her
PC
card. She sat in the chair nearest David and opened a bottle of water. “I'm so nervous,” she said. “This all seems so important.”

David squinted, a strategy he learned at Toastmasters long ago. “You
should
be nervous, Tammy. Nothing in your life is more important than active citizenry. Congratulations.”

The Terrys, a couple from Gillingham, England, arrived next. Terry and Terry Ashton were two of the most devoted members of the Strathcona
PC
Riding Association, helping with barbecues and softball games in the summer and the family sleigh ride every December. But as far as David could see, they were shameless liberals. All the Terrys ever did was introduce motions about spending the budget surplus. Tax cuts? Not for the Terrys.

Next came Cheese, who stood at the snack table with a coffee. Before he said a word, Cheese–a grown man who insisted on being called Cheese–ate a blueberry-bran muffin and a date square. He was bald and wore a motorcycle jacket. His only
reason for joining the Strathcona
PC
Riding Association was to fight for marijuana legalization and to denounce the federal government in “Taxawa.” Most meetings, Cheese argued against the Terrys until David was able to broker a compromise.

This was everyone, it seemed. Just before the meeting started, Tammy “Sparkle” Davidson walked around the room shaking hands. Then, after relations seemed cozy and Cheese was finished snacking, Tammy sat down and said, “I'm hoping to meet some real power brokers here.”

Woman Terry put up her hand. “Are we to call you Tammy then, or Sparkle?”

“Either way!”

“Well, Sparkle it is then.”

“I love your accent. Is it Australian?”

“No.”

“I love it, Terry. I really do.”

David stood to lead the Strathcona Progressive Conservative Riding Association through a rendition of “O Canada” when the door opened. Barry Strongman walked in, smelling of campfire. “Sorry I'm late,” he said. “I'm the new guy.”

“Dear doctor,” said Man Terry.

Barry removed his poncho, jean jacket, and toque, and sat next to Tammy, who plugged her nose with her muffin napkin. He pulled a sheet of white paper out of his bag, held it up for David to see, and slapped it on the table.

“I'm pumped, David, fellow Conservatives. I'm inspired. Let's Fix It.”

 

26

the newest member of the party

O
nce or twice a year, David Weiss had a nightmare. Since he spent a remarkably small amount of time amassing worries and fears, his nightmares were random instances of humiliation and forgotten responsibilities.

It is 1975 and Abby is giving birth in the Royal Alexandra Hospital, on the verge of dying from a ruptured uterus, and David is playing cards and drinking Cuba Libres with strangers in a smoky hotel bar on Fort Road. David is late for school on his first day as a teacher. He is in the middle of making a speech to like-minded men in suits and every time he opens his mouth, a cuss word comes out. He sleeps through his mother's funeral. A meteor is crashing through the atmosphere, on its way to Old Strathcona, and he's stuck in the middle of Whyte Avenue, naked.

Since he was not well-practised in the art of managing fear, David stood in the conference room on the second floor of the Metterra Hotel and stared silently at Barry Strongman for close to a minute. David understood it was his duty, as riding president and as Barry Strongman's acquaintance, to respond to the intrusion. Yet something–the blueberry muffin, the coffee, the plaque in his arteries left over from twenty-two years of cigarettes and saturated fat–prevented him from acting.

“Do you know this man, David?” There was a hint of pleasure in Woman Terry's voice.

“Well, of course he does.” Barry gathered a bagel and an orange juice from the credenza. “David's one of my best customers and best friends. He's my boy.” He plopped back down beside Tammy “Sparkle” Davidson and elbowed her gently. “How you doin', sweet pea? My name is Barry Strongman and I'm the nephew of the chief.”

The fog of fear began to lift from David, and he regained the power of speech. “What?”

“What what?” Barry chewed.

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh, right. My credentials. I wasn't sure how all this worked.” Barry pulled a card out of his front pocket. “Here's my membership number. They were real understanding about things at head office, even though I'm currently without a permanent dwelling.”

“You can't just barge in on a meeting like this, Barry. Unannounced.”

“Lady on the phone said I could.”

Tammy “Sparkle” Davidson squinted as though something about Barry Strongman stung her eyes. She wheeled away from him. On the other side of her, Cheese seemed unusually jocular. Man Terry's mouth hung open, as though he were preparing to nibble at corn on the cob. His wife flared her nostrils.

At that moment, David wanted to be in a hot-air balloon floating over the river valley. He wanted to be stuck in traffic on Quesnel Bridge in the middle of January. David wanted to be sick with avian flu, back teaching high-school algebra,
eating tofu burgers with Reiki practitioners or attending an Amnesty International convention with Abby in Newfoundland. Anywhere but in the second-floor conference room of the Metterra Hotel, responsible for Barry Strongman.

The newest member of the Strathcona
PC
Riding Association lifted the Let's Fix It sheet high enough for everyone to see. “I trust everyone's read this effer. It's mind-blowing.”

“Barry, I don't think you want to be here.”

“I know what you're saying, David. I know.” Barry called Garith up on his lap, and Garith began licking the homeless man's neck. “But there comes a time in every man's life when he's got to join the system, sick as it is, and try to fix it–to
fix it
–from within. You know what I'm saying?” Barry leaned over the table, extended his hand toward the Terrys. “I'm Barry Strongman. It's a pleasure.”

The Terrys introduced themselves, as did Cheese.

Tammy “Sparkle” Davidson raised her left index finger. “I'm confused.”

At this point, the monthly meeting of the Strathcona
PC
Riding Association could go in one of two directions: David could work to normalize the meeting by making excuses for Barry's appearance and behaviour or he could attempt to remove his debating partner. It was the face of Woman Terry that steeled him in the direction of toughness, the smile in her eyes. David knew Woman Terry wanted to be president and that she enjoyed this breach, this chaos, this display of weakness. It was laudable to work with the homeless, to make public statements about the homeless, to sponsor legislation that might improve the plight of the homeless. However, a
PC
Riding Association
president was not supposed to be a “boy” to the homeless.

“Maybe we can talk about the Association, Barry, before you begin attending meetings.”

“Sure we can talk. Whenever you like. That's what I'm here for, David, to make a contribution. For too long I've been idle, screaming from the fringes.”

David took a deep breath. He would not lose control of the room. As he exhaled, he caught a glimpse of Woman Terry's half-smile.

“I'm asking you to leave, Barry.”

“What do you mean?”

“Please, Barry. Just leave.”

For ten seconds that felt like ten minutes, Barry Strongman stared into the eyes of David Weiss. Then Barry slid the Let's Fix It sheet across the table to Woman Terry, and began gathering his poncho, jacket, toque, and scarf. He bent down and kissed Garith. As Barry passed David at the front of the room he paused. “I didn't know you were this sort of man.”

Woman Terry followed Barry Strongman out of the room. Man Terry nodded at the seat Barry had vacated. “Who is he?”

“He smelled like burning tires,” said Tammy.

David cleared his throat. “Sorry for the interruption. Now, three, two, one,
O Canada
…”

David knew the words so well he didn't have to think about the national anthem. But he wanted to think about the national anthem, deeply, because thinking about the way he had just treated Barry Strongman made him feel unpleasant.

Why did everyone have to be so difficult, and different? There were people who agreed with David: wonderful, superior
people in positions of power. But out here, among the rabble, they were rarer than burrowing owls.

It was obvious, if one sat and considered them, that each of David's values and principles was wholly reasonable. One doesn't just show up unshaven and smelling of burned pork–tires was unfair–at a
PC
Riding Association meeting.

By the end of “O Canada,” as Woman Terry re-entered the room, David had convinced himself that Barry Strongman, not David Weiss, should be cross with himself. The Let's Fix It sheet was on the table before him, covered in stains and marked with barely legible notes in red pen. The date, circled three times, was tomorrow.

Tomorrow night.