“And you,” he added, pointing to an expectant Claude. “You do absolutely nothing. I will duct tape you to this chair if I have to, so help me god.”
Tracy said, “Can we at least get a drink first?”
“I could really use something,” Claude said. His hands were shaking.
Alex sighed. “Fine. But ditch the dress, would you? And as soon as we get back downstairs, it’s duct tape time.”
They headed upstairs and found a circle of seats near the pool tables. To everyone’s surprise, a chipper server appeared with menus, and nervously laughed while taking a drink order big enough to fill an entire page in her little notebook. The Pub must’ve been hiring again.
During the first lull in conversation, Alex snuck away to the bar, where Saul was wiping down pint glasses in anticipation of the dinner rush. “Buddy!” the manager called. “How’re we feeling today?”
“You tell me,” Alex said. “Listen: you didn’t happen to find a backpack around last night, did you?”
Saul pointed over Alex’s shoulder. “You mean that one?” And there it sat, in the same exact place, pinned against the wall by a chair. “It’s been there all day,” he said. “I just haven’t had time to go pick it up yet.”
“Perfect.” Alex turned to leave, then hesitated. “Actually, there’s something else.”
“Your tab.”
He nodded sheepishly. “I don’t suppose—”
“I can’t refund the leftover part,” Saul said. “It’s already on the books. Sorry, man.”
“Actually, I was thinking … how much is left over?”
Saul consulted a piece of scrap paper taped to the register. “About forty bucks. Just under.”
Alex pointed to the Peak table below. “It’s been a rough day. Can you just turn the rest into beer and send it down to them?”
“Sure thing. Coming right up.”
“Thanks, Saul. Also?”
“I won’t tell them where it came from.”
Alex nodded. “Thank you.”
He went over and picked up the backpack, its black sheen now muddy with liquor stains. The Pym novel was still inside. It was a little warped from the chair, but otherwise intact—his bookmark was even in the right place. Alex pulled the book out, then stuffed the backpack and all of its fake supplies into the nearest garbage can. He was about to head back to the Peak table when a low voice called out to him.
“Hey, kid.”
Mack Holloway beckoned Alex over to his table and motioned for him to sit down. Alex looked back—none of the other editors had even noticed he’d left. He carefully edged into the chair across from the journalist.
“I’m glad I caught you here,” Mack said. He had a pile of notebooks next to him. Each was thoroughly pummelled with use. There were probably a dozen of them, stacked precariously. “Listen. I just want to apologize for how a lot of this nonsense has played itself out. Fact is, we’re all in a tough spot right now. The whole industry’s a mess—hence my current gig, chasing around teenagers.” He laughed a dry, salty laugh and took a sip of his beer. “Of course, you sure don’t help yourselves with that stunt your guy pulled today. Man, that was something.”
Alex couldn’t think to do anything but keep nodding. He had so much to ask a guy like Holloway, he didn’t know where to start. And it was already starting to feel like a wasted opportunity.
A confused cheer erupted from the Peak table as a couple of mystery pitchers arrived.
“So what’s your story?” Mack said. “Do you want to do this for a living?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe. Why? What do you think?”
“Honestly? I think some of you guys have talent. That story you broke about Holtz’s queue-jumping was nice.” Alex’s eyes lit up. “Don’t get me wrong: you’re all lazy as hell. And my God, you can taste how much you guys despise your audience. You can’t keep a straight face about it, either. Every story has to have some little meta-commentary on how ridiculous it is that you’re even writing a story. That stuff might be fun to write, but it is absolute torture to read.” Mack paused. “Tell me if I’m way off.”
“No, no, not at all. I’ve actually been thinking the same thing lately.”
“You know, the last thing the world needs is more writing. We’re full up as it is, and most of it is useless. So if you’re not in it to really connect with someone, then do us all a favour and pack it in. Let the rest of us have a go at it instead. I know my paper doesn’t exactly have a lot of credibility around here, but at least we’re trying. I’m trying. Are you?”
There was a long pause. Alex’s head was swimming, trying to absorb all of it. Then he remembered he still hadn’t said anything. He blurted out, “What do you guys call house ads?”
“What?”
“You know, those little ads that advertise other parts of the newspaper. I heard somewhere you call them fills. Is that true?”
“Yeah,” Mack said slowly. “That’s what they’re called.”
Alex tapped his fist against the edge of the table. “Oh. Cool. I always wondered.”
“I don’t want to keep you from your friends,” Mack said. “I just wanted to tell you that, you know, none of this is personal. So good luck to you—I got my start at university, too, actually. I’d never have written my book were it not for a couple of people I met there.”
That’s right, Alex thought. Mack had published a novel a few years back. It was one of those polite, small-town Saskatchewan things, with lots of flowery descriptions of gravel roads. Part of it took place in a post office full of gently eccentric customers. Alex hadn’t read it, only a few of the equally polite reviews.
“Let me ask you something,” he said to Mack. “When they stocked your book in stores, weren’t you worried about who you’d be sitting next to on the shelf? I mean, who would pick you over a guy like Hemingway? No offense.”
Mack considered it. “Was I worried?” he asked. “No. Not at all. What a strange thing to think about. And besides.” He smiled. “My book wasn’t anywhere near Hemingway. There’s a little section called ‘Canadian fiction.’ Trust me, nobody gets too riled up about anything over there.”
Alex shook his hand and got up. He tried to gather his thoughts and shape them into something coherent. Then it came to him.
Again, he thanked Mack for the advice.
“Sure, sure,” he said. “And hey.” He pointed at the Pym paperback, stuffed under Alex’s armpit. “How’s the book? I heard she’s pretty good.”
“Yeah,” Alex said. “She’s pretty good.”
He slunk along the wall, trying to get past the Peak table. The editors had poured most of their free beer and were locked in a heated argument about whether the sofa on The Big Comfy Couch could talk, or if it just wiggled its eyebrows. Tracy had an arm around Claude’s shoulder, and was telling him to lie low for the summer. Then, when everyone had time to forget all about his stunt, he could come back and apply for an editorship. Alex chuckled quietly as he slipped past.
He skipped down the concrete stairwell and pushed through the front door of the office (left unlocked, as usual), walking straight past the remaining computers and stacks of election flyers and silhouettes of all the stuff that had been stripped for parts, way back into the archive room—where he pulled out the volume marked 2005. He sat down and leafed through the pages, eventually coming to the first story he ever wrote for The Peak, back as a bright-eyed, eighteen-year-old volunteer.
It wasn’t anything flashy: four hundred words on a new effort to clean the scum from the AQ pond. There was a typo in the headline (initative). Alex remembered how his recorder hadn’t worked properly during his interview. He hadn’t known how to adjust the volume, either, and so had to press the machine to his ear while transcribing later on, a few garbled words at a time.
But after the news editor had read it, peering over Alex’s shoulder at his computer screen, he’d clapped Alex on the back and said, “Not bad.”
Edmonton, 2008–2011
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you to the professionals: Kelsey Attard, Meghan Macdonald, JoAnn McCaig, Natalie Olsen, Barbara Scott, and J.C. Sutcliffe.
To the early readers: Delia Byrnes, Laura Drake, Warren Haas, Mark Little, Cameron Maitland, Paul Matwychuk, Stephanie Orford, Matt Smith, and Rob Taylor. (I did bribe you with spots on this page, after all—the least I can do is follow through.)
To the insiders: Derrick Harder and Larry Van Kampen.
To the professors: Susan Brook (for Amis), Michael Everton (for Melville), and Paulo Horta (for the rest of the world).
And to my family: Bridget, Finn, and especially Kate.
Michael Hingston is the books columnist for the Edmonton Journal. His writing has also appeared in the National Post, Alberta Views magazine, and McSweeney’s Internet Tendency. Born and raised in North Vancouver, Hingston now lives in Edmonton with his partner and two kids. The Dilettantes is his first novel.
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