“Go see her.”
“Why this one?”
“Because she’s the dentist for people who are afraid to go to the dentist.”
I nodded. I didn’t say anything. My tongue found the jagged edge of the broken tooth and I took the business card, although I held it between my thumb and index finger, away from my body like a Kleenex containing something communicable. Sam let out a slight grunt as she picked up Ramone and carried him up the steps and onto the porch.
During the recess, as I sit in the overheated hallway making these notes, I see Justice Remington waiting for the elevator. I wait beside him. When it arrives, we both step inside. He doesn’t recognize me. We travel to the main floor, ignoring each other. I walk toward the washroom, then at the last minute do an about-face and follow him into the small cafeteria. Sitting on the other side of the room, I watch him order a coffee, add two sugars, then sit down at a table and read the Wheels section of the Toronto Star, which someone has left behind.
Justice Remington gives his full attention to the newspaper. At this moment, the only act of serious contemplation concerning him is the purchase of a new Honda. While everyone involved in the trial thinks he’s locked himself inside some book-lined room, weighing the evidence, he’s here drinking coffee in a cafeteria with orange plastic chairs and a display fridge that offers four different brands of bottled water. Is he wrong to do this? Or is he brilliant? Is he aware that calling a forty-five-minute recess is just as important as his black robes and the elevation of the desk he sits behind? He must be. You can say that it’s all theatre, artifice, but those are necessary to construct and maintain authority. Yes, it’s all manufactured, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t real. Has no one else ever noticed that most people use the word authentic as a synonym for harder? Just what is it that makes being poor more authentic than being rich? Sadness more authentic than joy? How exactly is living on the seventeenth floor of a condo less authentic than living in a slum next to a dump? One is fantastic and the other is horrible, but both have equal claim to the adjective in question.
To me, it all smacks of the self-hating middle class, those who feel guilty about living in never-before-seen comfort, for having good nutrition, health care, and relative safety for their children. We shouldn’t be calling this inauthentic: we should be honouring it, praising this tiny slice in our species’ history, this handful of years where it’s at least unlikely to have to watch your children starve to death, or die before age ten of some otherwise curable disease, or get lynched for being gay or black or capable of giving birth. Where the ideas of murder and rape are slightly less fashionable. The sin is that the whole world doesn’t have these privileges, and that we’re not fighting harder to make this happen. The idea that a comfortable life isn’t an authentic one is nothing but a remnant of Christianity, a dysfunctional devotion sustained through a belief that suffering brings redemption. Which it doesn’t. It’s just suffering. All suffering brings is more suffering.
Justice Remington finishes his coffee, takes a silver pen out of his inner pocket, and makes notes in a black pocket-sized Moleskine. I use my phone to time him. It takes him two minutes and thirty-six seconds to compose his verdict. Leaving the Wheels section behind, he takes the elevator to the third floor and returns to courtroom 337 forty-seven minutes after he left it. The clock CLICKS. We all stand, and then we sit, and then he takes the black Moleskine from his pocket. Lance looks surprisingly confident. Frank’s finger worries against the nail of his thumb. Brad smiles in anticipation, as if this is a Hollywood blockbuster he’s waited all summer to see.
“The plaintiff presents a position that I find completely unaccountable, completely without merit. No rule of law, no proof, no cause of action requiring lost time. It is so far-fetched that I cannot give it any credence and I have no hesitation in dismissing this claim. I am awarding the defendants $300 each for costs incurred from self-representation. Is there anything further?”
“No,” says Frank.
“No,” says Brad.
Lance doesn’t reply. Then he nods. Justice Remington does the hand shrug thing again and leaves. The three of them sit alongside each other, waiting for copies of the verdict. They don’t talk. The clock CLICKS three times before the court reporter returns and hands each of them a piece of paper, which they all use both hands to hold, like schoolchildren.
“Good work,” Lance says. “Congratulations.”
There doesn’t seem to be any irony or sarcasm in Lance’s voice. He’s sincere. Lance stands there for a couple of CLICKS. If a hand had been extended, he would gladly have shaken it. But no hand is extended. With confident motions that indicate a firm belief the world is still on his side, Lance folds the verdict length-wise, puts it in his manila envelope, and leaves.
Brad slaps his buddy on the back.
“What an asshole,” Frank says.
07. Luke & Leia
It’s been eighty-three days.
Eighty-three days since what? Where are you?
Since we’ve slept in the same bed.
Where are you?
I’m not exactly sure how to respond to this. Does she really think I’m out of the house? That I’ve decided to hit the town instead of falling asleep with the TV on, then sneaking shoeless up the stairs, as quietly as possible, pausing in front of our bedroom, taking the closed door as a physical manifestation of all that is still between us and moving on to the guest room? It’s so obvious to me that I’m still in the house that her question provokes a flash of anger.
Do you mean physically or emotionally?
Downstairs.
You’re counting?
Don’t you think it’s romantic of me?
I think it’s sad.
I do, too.
Why don’t we stop it?
The screen displays no new words. The cursor flashes. I count to thirty. I check my email. I have no new messages. When I return to our conversation, the three lines are blinking, indicating that she’s typing.
She types for a very long time
It’s not up to me.
I wonder what her original response was, the one she decided not to send, that she censored. Since it was made of ones and zeroes, it technically never existed in the first place, and is now lost forever. Or maybe that’s a perspective provided by my age, a residue of ink on paper, the idea that something only truly exists if it can be touched, experienced, which would also explain why the idea of us sleeping next to each other is so important to me.
It’s up to me?
I really don’t want to get into this. I’m tired.
Okay.
There’s a green dot beside her name so I know she’s still online. I check my email again. I google my name. I look up the lyrics of a Pixies song that’s been in my head for days and days. When I go back to our conversation, the green dot is still there.
Want to hear something crazy?
Hey?
Did I tell you about my teeth?
Your teeth?
A big hunk came out of the side of my wisdom tooth.
I’m going to the dentist for the first
time in years tomorrow morning.
How much is this costing?
Really?
Honestly?
That’s what you want to know?
It’s expensive. That’s all.
That doesn’t impress you?
That I faced my fear?
If you’d done it in the nineties.
I throw the phone, but not hard. It lands at the end of the bed. I turn out the lamp, pull up the covers, and stare at the ceiling. A rectangular-based cone of cellphone light illuminates the room. It is unnatural, the colour blue trapped inside ice. I feel unsafe, like my marriage is a loose tooth hanging by a thread that my tongue can’t stop playing with. The light disappears, but I’m still awake. I know that it’s a mistake to have let visiting the dentist slide for so long. I know it’s indicative of all the mistakes I’ve made. That when I was
offered a full-time job at CBC, I didn’t take it. That when my first book had the moderate success it did, I didn’t write a sequel, hubris promoting me to write something deeper and harder and vastly less popular instead. When our children were born, I didn’t scrounge for a stable job but continued working freelance, providing an insufficient and unstable income for our growing family, a significant financial slack that Julie was forced to pick up. And, vastly more significant, when she did go out and find work and make something of herself, I did not tell her how wonderful she was to do this, how proud and frankly in awe of her it made me. I sit up in bed, reach for my phone, and turn it back on. There’s a message waiting.
I wish you’d faced all your fears years ago.
This is what makes me believe we should continue trying to work this out. Beyond any psychological damage a divorce would do to Jack and Jenny, surpassing the expense of lawyers or the depression brought on by basement apartments filled with new disposable furniture, what really makes me believe that Julie and I should fight to stay together is the fact that we are still fighting, that we still so effectively get under each other’s skin.
What I don’t know is whether holding this up, giving it the significance of some kind of holy relic of matrimony, is derived from strength or weakness. Am I revering the power of love or denying the knowledge that ours has devolved into a brother-and-sister relationship, Luke and Leia, something as devoid of passion as it is filled with bickering and rivalries? While I’m still trying to put all of these things into a text, one from her arrives.
I need you to be stronger. More confident. I can’t take care of you all the time. That’s what I’m doing. You think I’m retreating but I’m not. I’m learning how to take care of myself. That’s all. That’s it. To be there for myself.
Because I can’t be there for you?
Yes.
That’s pretty harsh.
Is it?
I’m there for you. All the time. I feel like I live my life for you.
You’re there when you want to be there for me. When it’s easy. When it’s something that you want to do. You’re there in the ways that you want to be there. But you’re not there for me, like I need you to be, not really.
One hundred days.
Hey?
If we haven’t figured this out in one hundred days,
we should call it quits.
You know what you’ve just done, right?
Do you?
What? Tell me what horrible thing I’ve done.
You’ve made sure it won’t ever happen.
Good night.
Don’t come up.
Wasn’t planning on it.
08. Chuck Yeager’s Dreams
The defendant, Monica, has covered the long wooden table on the left with pages of lined three-ring loose-leaf paper. She moves them around, stacks them in piles, staples them together in clumps. She makes notes on them with a disposable pen. Her handwriting is flowery, full of loops and flourishes, a style that could very well include a tendency to dot her i’s with hearts. Monica is so preoccupied with her note-making that she doesn’t notice Justice Royal’s arrival. The rest of us are already standing when she raises her head. She begins to rise as we sit down. For a second, maybe even two, Monica stands all on her own.
Diane, the plaintiff, wears no earrings, necklaces, or jewellery of any kind. The only object on the surface of the long wooden table she sits behind is a tabbed document, six inches thick. Her posture is worthy of a caryatid and she stares straight ahead. She doesn’t look bored exactly; rather, her expression indicates she’s concentrating on a menial task, perhaps composing a list of phone calls that need to be returned.
“How many witnesses?” Justice Royal asks Monica.
“Just me.”
“And you, Ms. Davison?”
“One. Mr. Ted Winters.”
“Very well.”
Ted Winters walks from among the spectators to the witness stand. He’s tall, but keeps his shoulders hunched as he gets sworn in, as if he’s trying to make himself smaller.
Diane smiles. She opens the bound document and flips to the green tab about an inch and a half from the cover. In a brisk, efficient voice, Diane begins a line of questioning, which quickly establishes that Ted works for Mutual Benefits and his specialty is securing retroactive income tax credits.
“Was Monica Rhonda your client?”
“She was.”
“Did you meet with her in June of last year?”
“Yes.”
“What was this meeting about?”
“A disability tax credit.”
“About Ms. Rhonda getting one?”
“Yes.”
“How did you help her?”
“We assisted her doctor…”
“Dr. David Wellington?”
“Right. That’s right.”
“Please continue.”
“We assisted Dr. David Wellington with filling out a beneficiary claim, which we then submitted.”
“What was the purpose of this form?”
“To prove that Ms. Rhonda was eligible for a disability credit refund.”
“On her taxes?”
“Correct.”
“What happened on May 13 of this year?”
“We were no longer authorized to view Monica’s account.”
“Who originally gave you permission to view her account?”
“She did.”
“She?”
“Ms. Rhonda.”
“Who revoked this permission?”
“Monica…Ms. Rhonda.”
“What happened on May 15?”
“Revenue Canada granted her a disability credit and issued a refund of $4,378.11.”
“Do you feel this refund was the result of your work?”
“Definitely. We filled out the form. We sent it in.”
“Did you receive any remuneration for this work?”
“We did not.”
“Thank you.”
Using the tip of an unpainted fingernail, Diane closes her tabbed document. Her only witness widens his stance and pulls back his shoulders as he prepares to be cross-examined. The only thing that stops Monica from asking her first question is the sound of Justice Royal clearing his throat.
“What is your percentage?” Justice Royal’s voice and eyebrows rise as he asks this question.
Ted looks at Diane. She nods. Ted hunches his shoulders before he answers. “Twenty-five percent.”
“I see.”
Let me point out right here that this case, which requires a justice, a bailiff, a court reporter, a courtroom, furniture, lights, heat and electricity, a building, someone to vacuum the carpets and empty the wastepaper basket, professionals educated through a heavily subsidized secondary educational system, not to mention the roads, subways, and buses we all used to get to this out-of-the-way location, is being fought over $1,149.23, including GST.
“No further questions.”
Diane sits as Monica stands, their heads moving like kids on a see-saw. Monica picks up several different pieces of paper, all of which she sets back down. She attempts a smile, but the effort is forced and only succeeds at revealing her crooked yellow teeth.
“What I’m— Asking— Isn’t it— What— I’m really nervous,” Monica says.
“The majority of us are nervous.”
It seems like a strange thing for Justice Royal to say, but it’s also what Monica needs to hear. She closes her eyes. Her face expresses determination as she pulls in a deep breath. Moving her left hand behind her back, she crosses her fingers. Whether this is for luck or to enable her to lie remains unseen.
Three other people are waiting with me, but I have been here the longest. It surprises me that I’ve lasted this long without grabbing my coat and running east down Queen Street, laughing manically at my newfound freedom. It seems unlikely that I will manage to contain my fear and continue sitting in this vinyl-covered, armless chair until the pretty dental a
ssistant with the curly black hair calls my name, then leads me down some unnaturally sterile hallway to a room I’m sure will be windowless, where a tilting leather chair sits in the exact centre, beside a tray where sharp silver instruments have been set out in rows like dead soldiers made of shiny metal.
I am a coward, but here’s what I’ve learned about heroes: every single one of them is a con man. I admit that heroes are better than I am, that they’re stronger, tougher, more worthy of respect and admiration and love than I ever will be. But they are not without fear. When encountering danger, the self-preservation instinct inside them yells that they should run away and flee to safety just as loudly as it does in me. Heroes are simply capable of pushing this voice down, smothering it beneath layers of self-discipline and denial, until it’s silenced completely. This is what gives them the ability to continue on toward danger instead of away from it.
Chuck Yeager, the first man to break the sound barrier in an experimental plane called the X-1, was plagued by nightmares. There are a couple of things you need to know about the X-1 to fully understand the significance of Chuck Yeager’s dreams. The first is that it was designed in the shape of a bullet, which didn’t allow for an escape hatch—it would have ruined the aerodynamics. The second is that the X-1 burned so much fuel that the vast majority of the plane’s body doubled as a gas tank. Some people describe the X-1 as a bullet with wings: in reality, it was a gas tank with wings. Yet every day Yeager flew it, pushing the plane beyond its limits, trying to make it go faster and faster. And each time Yeager went up into the sky, he knew he was sitting on top of a bomb, and that should anything go wrong, he had no escape route.
Every night Yeager went home and slept beside his beautiful wife and was woken up by horrible nightmares, wherein the X-1 burst into flame and he was burned alive inside it. It’s not that Yeager felt safe inside that cockpit—he just didn’t get around to feeling his fear until much later. I’ve done that in reverse. Whereas Yeager used his ability to ignore, or at least temporary redirect, his fear in order to achieve greatness, I’ve used that very same technique to achieve mediocrity. I’ve used it to sustain my denial of decay—in my teeth, my marriage, and my life. I’ve used the strategies of a hero to become a coward.
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