The Age of Cities (6 page)

Johnny handed him a stack of coins. “Thank you kindly,” Winston said. Holding up his beer, Johnny nodded a toast. His inky eyes were set and intent. Winston couldn't imagine what those intentions might be.

Johnny offered the Camel package to Winston and then lit a cigarette. He spoke again after he exhaled. “So,” he said, leaning back on his chair, “I named her Dot because it's simple, clean, and easy to remember. The company's market stretches westward to the Pacific from Winnipeg, so West seemed like a sure bet. That was the concept: a domestic goddess for Western Canada, or some damn thing. Then, at the head office we hired some pretty young wife from Saskatoon to be our Dot in ads and to make public appearances now and again at Malkin's or sometimes at department stores. We had her take trains out for parades in cities; she tossed little spice canisters from atop the Malkin's float. Anyway, she just followed our cues; couldn't boil an egg to save her life. The household magic was lifted from women's mags and fancied up a bit. And every recipe was my own.”

Winston imagined that Johnny was used to speaking to roomfuls of executives in order to pitch ideas. His style of speaking was not hypnotic so much as melodic. The rolling cadence drew the listener in naturally.

“She really caught on. We thought that we could really capitalize on that popularity, use her as a house brand”—he stopped to swallow some beer—“you know, Dot West Creamed Corn, Dot West Peas. Her pretty face beaming from every damn place. Then the higher ups at Westfair Foods thought Dot had run her course and cleared out the PR department. Of course, they've kept her going since I left. I gather they're going to phase out that campaign more slowly than they had originally planned. Or maybe they just wanted to trim some fat and get rid of us creative types. Pared us right out of their payroll, that's for sure.”

Listening to Johnny, Winston felt once again like a rube. Along with Mrs. Pierce, he had thought of Dot West as a capable woman, remarkable—an actual woman to admire—because she was able to organize herself so well that she could have the extra time—and pluck—to tell a company like Malkin's about her recipes and household ideas, and then sign a contract with them. What a sham. It was like being dazzled by Santa Claus because he could reach all those chimneys during one night. Only children and half-wits can do so for long.

“And you went to Hollywood after that?” Winston asked. Beneath the nervous wariness, Winston was pleased to find Johnny's charm.

“Oh dear, we've heard this soap opera before. Don't get him started. There'll be a river of tears here in no time,” Dickie interjected.

Johnny said, “If you visit our fair city again, Mr. Wilson, I'll tell you a story of powerful and glamorous men and women and of gut-wrenching despair.” Winston smiled at the radio play melodrama.

“Count me out, fellas,” said Dickie, evidently feeling left out of the limelight.

“Richard.” Johnny was getting angry.

“Let's change the topic before you two make a scene,” Ed said. Husky yet small-featured, he uneasily surveyed the room. Clearly timid, he smiled and said nothing else. He rotated his pinkie ring when he spoke.

“With the exception of the timid tortoise here”—Dickie's glance at Ed was not kind—“we're born tellers of tall tales here, Winston.”

Winston could not guess whether Dickie planned to unravel a story. After long seconds of silence, he prompted Dickie. “I see,” he said.

“In fact, when he's had a few too many, even Ed here will describe hair-raising scenes from some of our city's finest establishments,” Dickie said, looking around and then leaning toward Winston. “He's one of the inspectors for the Liquor Control Board. He makes reports, you see, and jots down what goes on behind closed doors. And it's not only bug infestations and watered-down booze like you'd expect. It's scandalous. Far worse than all that.”

Winston had never before dedicated a second of thought to the secret lives of cocktail lounges and beer parlours. Were they like Dot West, something other than what they appeared? After hearing Dickie's revelations about perversion and managerial backstabbing at the Hudson's Bay, he guessed it was possible; nothing was impervious. Winston felt suddenly eager to hear vignettes of cocktail lounge confidential.

But the silence hinted that now was not the time for Ed's revelations. Winston turned to the silent Contessa. He lurched slightly, eyes still closed.

 

 

Winston was unable to keep pace with the thoroughbred conversationalists who surrounded him. He felt tongue-tied. As always that trait worried him; but he soon discovered that while he was frequently the object of attention—“Hush now, we'll give the farmer a bad impression,” “Listen up, Hayseed”—he needed only appear alert and engaged. It was enjoyable listening to the racy talk that cemented their strange fraternity. The experience was reminiscent of sitting in a movie theatre and watching outlandishly bad characters interact with supremely heroic ones. Part of the pleasure came from knowing that their moral extremes bore little relation to the daily life of ordinary men.

Besides, Winston could feel that his throat was scratchy from all the cigarette smoke; speaking at their rate would render him hoarse in short order. He envisioned them transplanted to the staff room and smiled at the quiet outraged responses they'd inspire. Mrs. Pierce would be beside herself, huffing and completely outgunned.

“Well, we'd better get you back to your hotel before they lock up this town and throw away the key.” Dickie was already sliding back his chair so that he could stand. “Okay, boys, it was
enchantant
as ever. I'll be seeing you.”

Winston followed. “It was a pleasure to meet you all. Depending on my foot, it may be that we'll meet again soon.”

“The pleasure was ours,” Johnny said intently, then smiled. “See you, Hayseed.”

“Au revoir.” Pierre's eyes remained closed as he mumbled the words, “To be divine is your task and mine.”

Ed stood and shook Winston's hand energetically.

The air outside was brisk and sharp with seashore decay. The breeze had picked up. Dickie told Winston that they would never find a taxicab; had they chosen to, they could have walked along the middle of the street without a single car passing them by. After he assured his guest that the fifteen-minute walk would be over in no time, Dickie offered up no additional words.

“Ed's a bit of a lush, hey?” Winston said, trying on Dickie's cattiness for size.

“He's a close friend,” Dickie said. “I prefer not to speak of him in that way. He can't help himself; he's had a tough time of it.”

Winston waited, thinking that Dickie was soon to launch into a fresh salvo of gossip. A dead or delinquent child maybe, lost jobs, or a wife who'd cruelly abandoned him. Dickie chose to elaborate no further.

“I'm sorry, I didn't know.” That was all Winston could think to say.

“It's nothing. We go a long way back, that's all.”

Winston felt confused like a bounding breed of dog with a master who let him roam free and then abruptly kept him tightly leashed. He was itching for Dickie to entice him with another story of epic misdeeds, but could never guess when one might surface.

“It's their benediction, in case you're wondering.”

“Pardon me?” Winston was relieved, glad to offer encouragement.

“The Contessa belongs to the Queen For A Day Club, and corresponds with other winners in the States. When they have their luncheons they chant, ‘To be divine is your task and mine' before they eat.”

“But how can he be … a Queen?” Winston imagined he was getting entangled in Dickie's double entendres.

“Well, that's a funny story, actually. He had a neighbour, some frumpy tragedy named Mrs. Claribel Spivak—that was her name, honest to God—who won a few years ago, before when it was on the radio only. It was the usual miserable story: flat broke, brats and bills and a loser of a husband who drank away their money and got rough when things didn't go his way. Maybe she had goiter and gallstones too, I can't remember. Anyway.”

Dickie was enjoying drawing out the details, Winston could see. He had grown animated once again as he recalled the dregs of this woman's marriage, creating cartoon pantomimes of the feckless husband guzzling from a bottle and children bawling in feverish rages. They walked in halting steps along Hastings Street, Dickie stopping now and again to look in windows of ladies wear shops and jewellery stores or else pausing to emphasize an element of the La Contessa biography.

“The applause-o-meter was loudest after she trotted out her disasters, and so Mrs. Spivak got the grand prize. Must have been a slow week, I suppose. A few weeks later some ancient American relic who was a Queen in 1948 or something wrote to her and said she was eligible to join their special Club. Mrs. Spivak didn't read so well and brought the letter to the Contessa. He explained it to her and offered to write back and see what benefits Spivak might get from belonging.” Dickie slowed his pace and looked directly at Winston. “But then—and here's the kicker—Mr.-Spivak-the-boozer sold her things and abandoned his Queen of Misery. She couldn't even make the rent and did a midnight move herself, kids in tow. The Contessa wrote back anyway and decided to play at being Mrs. Claribel Spivak for a while, sort of a member by proxy. He was even the Club's Treasurer for a year. He sent a photograph of his mother to them after they asked for a memento for their scrapbook. Now, I think that when she's had a few too many, the Contessa's living through a little Club luncheon in her mind.”

“That's incredible. You gentlemen have
lived
so much more than I.” Winston felt as though he should say so, but he wasn't entirely convinced.

As Winston reached familiar sights at Granville Street, he felt himself being comforted by the sight of traffic, lights, and occasional after-hours revelers. The scarlet scallop promoting SHELL oil was radiant, a beacon that served no purpose other than announcing its being at the very centre of things. The clock faces below, glowing hotly, warned latecomers in four directions. Winston was tired out. He realized that at his advanced age his taste for adventure had diminished. Not that he'd been much of a rebel when he was young. Still, an evening spent in the company of those eccentric men would become valuable, a curio for Alberta and something he could recall fondly whenever he chose. It was like nothing he had ever done before.

“Here you are, Mr. Wilson.” Dickie's upturned palms meant “
Voilà
.”

Winston slowly surveyed his hotel, ground floor to roofline. “Well. That was quite an experience, Dickie. I can honestly say I have never occupied an evening quite this way.”

“I aim to please, you know.” Dickie had to speak more loudly than usual because he'd stepped back from the hotel's main doors. “I have the feeling we'll be seeing you soon. Ta-ta.” Dickie turned away without the flourish Winston had come to expect. Winston watched until he disappeared around a corner, and then walked inside the brightly lit lobby. With a start, Dickie's exclamation
I've got a sight you do not want to miss
, came to mind. The Port-Land could not have been the promised sight, Winston imagined. Perhaps Dickie was waylaid by that impromptu visit with his friends and they'd never arrived at the actual destination. It didn't matter, Winston thought. The evening had been an adventure all the same.

 

 

Only after gathering in the staff room did the assembled teachers realize their cramped sanctuary—chock-a-block with two chesterfields of advanced years and an assortment of mismatched chairs, tables, ashtrays, and cups for tea and coffee—would not serve them well. Cameron McKay suggested his classroom with its broad plain of black-topped work stations cluttered with sinks and Bunsen burners. “Plenty of surface area, it'll do the trick,” he said, already standing up to leave.

They strode down the empty halls, a gaggle of professional talkers now keen to begin one of their last get-togethers before the summer vacation. Close to Winston, Delilah thanked him once again for being so obliging with her special requests. She spoke quietly: “I don't mean to impose, and yet that is what I seem to be doing whenever I walk through your door.”

The Curriculum Committee had been asked to produce a list of recommended books for the new Family Life Education unit that would start up in September. Delilah had explained that the committee needed to act with haste since it had left this matter until so late in the year. She reminded him that he did not have to help them to make a decision, but his expertise with the materials and overview of their merit would be thoroughly welcome.

Winston could hear McKay's one-way conversation with dimple-cheeked Mrs. Pratt, the chubby Guidance Counselor whose flat expression and perennial drab woollens belied her happy-go-lucky disposition. Winston turned to see Mr. Westburn talking to his wife Mary and Miss Mittchel. It was plain that the Vice-Principal was telling them a joke; the man lived for them, or so he liked to say whenever Winston stood within earshot. Like whistling and gum chewing, joking was positioned high on Winston's list of unsavoury characteristics.

Now McKay was grumbling about woeful parents (“They should be required to get a license”) and the School Board's passing the buck yet again.

“Who will teach the darned course?,” he asked. “You? Miss Mittchel in Biology? Phys Ed? Ought we to bring someone in?” The enthused voice dragged in Winston and Delilah.

“We used to have that dour nurse lady from the Canadian Social Hygiene Council come in. Delilah, you remember Mrs. Pitt, don't you? She was like a Sherman tank or that sour Salvation Army matron who rings her bells in front of Eaton's over the Christmas holidays. She did fine work, I imagine. No nonsense.” While talking he had scurried ahead of the group and now walked backwards to address them.