The Monitor

by Janice Macdonald

  “Well, there’s you.”

  “Right. I am always made up to the nines in low-cut velour. Steve, you only see me that way because you know me. For all we know, the fellow over there leaning on the piano thinks I’m a kindergarten teacher and the woman by the bar sees me as a underworld spy.”

  “No, I see you because you are absolutely open in your outlook and attitude. Whatever you are involved in, you throw yourself into entirely. You lean into people you care to talk to, and slant back from those you instinctively don’t trust. You smile with your whole body and, when you laugh, the whole room feels like it missed out on a really great dirty joke. That’s Randy Craig. That’s who I see.”

  The entire room, aside from the center of my vision where Steve’s face smiled at me, went fuzzy, as if Frank Capra had jumped into my head to start directing. I halfway expected little bells to start ringing in the corners of the screens.

  “You think you can win your point by utterly disarming your opponent, I see.”

  “I only tell it like I see it,” he whispered, leaning in to kiss my forehead.

  It was getting difficult to recall whatever it was I had been about to say to Steve, because my mind was definitely moving out of the concept of general community and into the more rarified world of nuclear unit. There had been something, though, and danged if I could remember what it was. Something Steve had said that triggered a thought.

  Oh well, he’d triggered a whole bunch of nerve endings, too, and these were far more interesting. Denise chose that moment to bustle up.

  “So, tell me, is it the most magnificent event you’ve ever attended? The best time you’ve had since the pigs ate your sister? Better than a monster truck rally or a poetry slam?” She collapsed gracefully onto the square stool in front of us. “If I take one more trip up those stairs, I swear I’ll collapse. I’ve been wandering around, trying to add up bids in my head and calculating how far that would take us into the year for the program.”

  “Does the department put any money at all toward the writer-in-residence program? Or the province?” I asked.

  Denise grimaced. “Well, there are a few bequests that have gone into the pot designated for the residency, and the province usually coughs up a partial grant through the Arts Foundation, but we really have to beat the ­bushes to keep it going. At least we can fund it the entire year. Grant MacEwan College can only support a writer-in-residence for three months of the year, and usually at a time when most of the students are up to their ears in assignments and exams or have disappeared.”

  I had a feeling I’d tapped in to one of Denise’s high-powered “campaigning for donations” set pieces. She hardly needed to take a breath as she continued. “One of the best things about our program is that the writer is here throughout the school term, and can be a resource for instructors as well as one-on-one sessions. Sometimes, if they have the qualifications, one of them can teach a class, too, which helps defray the costs of the program.” She looked around the room, which was successfully crowded with beautiful people, or reasonable facsimiles thereof. I figured she had to be pleased with herself. I looked where her eyes traveled and realized there were whole segments of Edmonton society that I would never lay eyes on in the course of an average day. Where did these folks come from? How did they know to turn up, all gleaming and gorgeous? Maybe there was some special signal, too high a pitch for the average ear.

  “How widely did you advertise this, Denise?” There was likely a more reasonable explanation than the one I’d come up with.

  She wrinkled her forehead. “We put out an ad on CKUA and a notice on CBC radio. Then we had some coverage on the books page of the paper, and some leaflets on bulletin boards, and at bookstores. I took posters to Roberston-Wesley United and St. Joseph’s Basilica, too, thinking to locate money as well as bibliophiles. The thing is, while the silent auction is just good fun, there is a tax receipt for all straight donations to the fund, so it’s got its appeal.”

  I wondered just how Sanders had heard about it. Maybe if I knew that, I’d know a bit more about him. Three more fellows in blue suits walked past me. What was it with blue suits?

  Steve stood up, and Denise and I did, too. Someone was approaching.

  “Steve Browning?” A man in, what else, a navy suit was smiling with a touch of incredulity. “Of all the folks I thought I might run into, I never suspected you. How are you?”

  “Chick! Man oh man! Randy, Denise, I’d like you to meet Chick Anderson. We were in residence together. Chick, this is Denise Wolff, who is in charge of this whole evening, and my friend, Randy Craig, who is bidding on the library, so be warned.”

  Denise gave Chick one of her most dazzling smiles, so I figured he must be one of the people she’d been targeting with her sponsorship campaign.

  “I’ve heard of you, of course. It’s so nice to actually meet you. So, you know our Steve, do you? We’d love to hear stories of his wicked youth.” No man is immune to Denise at any time, but now she was turning on the high beams, and Chick was a goner. He moved toward her the way sunflowers follow the sun, and I caught the amused look in Steve’s face.

  “Don’t you dare, Chick. Actually, I wasn’t joking about the library bidding. Would you mind if Randy and I dashed up to check the bidding sheet and left you here to keep Denise company?”

  Chick nodded vigorously, and I laughed lightly as we climbed the stairs to the silent auction level. As if Denise would ever lack for company.

  “So who exactly is Chick Anderson?”

  “Have you ever heard of Anderson Fryers?” Steve answered.

  “You mean the poultry barns on the way to Morinville?”

  Steve nodded. “Yep, and more by Red Deer, and I think some in Saskatchewan somewhere. Well, that’s Chick’s family. Hence the nickname. His real name is, uh, David, I think.”

  “No wonder Denise is cultivating him. That’s got to be some sponsor, if she can land him.”

  “No doubt. I can’t figure out what he’s doing here, unless he’s just a representative for the family at all these shindigs. Chick avoided books throughout university, as I recall. He mainly went to football games and house parties. Of course, that was several, ahem, years ago. People change, I suppose. Chick may have discovered the joys of Robertson Davies since I last knew him.”

  I looked over the balcony to see Chick still gravitating toward Denise’s aura. “I have a feeling he’s being converted to literature as we speak.” Steve laughed, too.

  We got to the library table, and, sure enough, there had been a few more bids, but only upping the ante by five dollars at a time. I scribbled down a bid of $70, and we pushed along toward the opera tickets. Alex Danvers and Valerie Bock were standing nearby, and it was my turn to introduce Steve. Valerie worked full-time at Grant MacEwan College, and Alex was a part-timer doing distance courses and one evening session of English 101. I’d met them at the start of the term department meeting and we’d clicked. I’d known Valerie vaguely when I was working on my thesis, and I’d heard of Alex, but we’d never had any classes together. I wasn’t surprised they were here, though. Both of them seemed dedicated to their field, and funding contemporary writers seemed to feed right into that concern.

  Besides, they really were beautiful people in their own right. Valerie’s auburn curls were dusted with sparkles that twinkled in the lights. There was a shimmery thread in her wine-colored dress, too. Alex was wearing the requisite blue suit, with a Bugs Bunny tie. I supposed it was his mark of rebellion against authority.

  “How did you get roped into this bunfight, Randy?” Alex asked. I pointed Denise-ward and mentioned our connection. He nodded and admitted that Valerie was on the Grant MacEwan College writer-in-residence committee. I had thought there might be something romantic between them, but it’s hard to gauge these things in general department meetings. Here, it was obvious, as Valerie tugged on his suit sleeve and asked if he’d get them more drinks.

  “I’ve heard the U’s getting Ya
nn Martel next year,” she said wistfully. Apparently, when you can only offer three-month stints, you can’t attract the high flyers. I shrugged, admitting I knew nothing more than that funding was in place for at least one more year, and perhaps more if the take from this evening’s fundraiser was high.

  “Would you like to meet Denise?” I asked. Valerie nodded, making her sparkly hair shoot lights all over. Steve and I threaded our way back through the auction tables with her in tow. Denise and Chick were still close to the bottom of the staircase, and Denise seemed genuinely happy to meet Valerie. I left Steve with them and went over to the bar area, where Alex was getting more drinks. I intercepted him just as he was headed for the back stairs. We were stopped, just looking for the path of least resistance back to our people, when a voice at my side spoke to Alex.

  “Professor Danvers?” Alex turned, and so did I. The fellow speaking looked slightly older than Alex, which I figured made him at least ten years older than I. His hair was a little bit longer than fashionable, but stylish in a classic way. I was no longer surprised that he, too, was wearing a blue suit. It seemed that only the bartenders and Rudy Wiebe were wearing black at this do. Alex smiled at him and introduced me by gesturing toward me with the hand carrying the Manhattan rather than the one carrying the beer.

  “Winston! Nice to see you. Winston Graham, I’d like you to meet Randy Craig.” To me, gesturing toward Winston with the bottle hand, he continued. “Winston was in my very first class of English 101, years ago. He’s one of the true remaining Renaissance men or polymaths, as far as I can tell. Learns for the sake of learning. Are you still taking courses, Win?”

  Winston bowed his head to me, acknowledging the introduction and the reputation. “For my pains, yes. I’ve moved toward the sciences in the last few years, although I am still dabbling in comparative religion, and, for fun, I’m taking an art history class this year.”

  “I don’t know how you do it, but I envy you the ability to do it,” said Alex.

  “You just have to decide on your priorities, Professor Danvers.”

  “Call me Alex, please.”

  “Alex. I decided a long time ago that achieving success according to the societal norm wasn’t something I cared very much about. Once that came clear, things got much simpler. Now, all I have to deal with is subsistence and tuition.”

  “It sounds ideal,” I admitted.

  He smiled at me. “I grant that it’s not the route for everyone, but I find it very fulfilling. Well, it’s been delightful to run into you, Alex, and to meet you, Ms Craig.” He tilted his head in that mini-bow again, bringing to mind some Prussian officer in a Shaw play, and turned back into the crowd of blue-suited beautiful people.

  Alex and I got back to Steve, Valerie, Denise, and Chick just as the band was starting into “Love Letters in the Sand.”

  “They’ve played ‘Who Wrote the Book of Love’ and Three Dog Night’s ‘Black and White’ already,” Steve laughed. “What do you bet they’ll play ‘I Write the Songs’ and ‘Paperback Writer’ before the night is through?”

  “Maybe they’ll get around to that Moxy Fruvous song, ‘My Baby Likes a Bunch of Authors’,” I added.

  Alex was telling Valerie that we’d run into Winston the Perpetual Student.

  “Isn’t he odd?” she responded. “I mean, I realize none of us has technically left academe, either, but just to hang about taking course after course seems a bit warped to me.”

  “Not all of us are still in academe, either,” I reminded her, gesturing to Steve and Chick.

  “Well, you know what I mean. We all went to university for a purpose, right?”

  “I don’t know,” said Denise. “If we keep advocating a liberal arts education as the way to go, rather than a technical market-driven training ground, surely we have to support this fellow’s life work.”

  She turned to Alex. “When did you have him in your class?”

  “It was my first class—I was TAing while writing up my MA thesis. That must have been what, sixteen, seventeen years ago? Yikes.” Alex shook his head, obviously startled. Valerie patted his shoulder comfortingly.

  “And this fellow, Winston, has been steadily taking courses since then? I assume he couldn’t have started earlier, or he’d be beyond freshman English, right?”

  “Well, maybe he’d been at things a year or two before getting around to English. He was a mature student then, as I recall.”

  “How does he avoid graduating, I wonder,” I added.

  “I suppose that’s not impossible, if there is no real advisor assigned to the student within a program. The part I can’t figure out is how he keeps afloat. After all, tuition has doubled and tripled since he started, and rents have increased. Unless he inherited a house and annual income, I can’t figure out how he keeps going.”

  Chick looked a bit bemused at this, but I expect that chicken heirs never have to think about where their next drumsticks are coming from. Denise smiled brightly and excused herself from our circle. It was time to shut down the first half of the silent auction, and she had to make her way to a microphone to let folks know. I watched Chick’s face grow even more distant. It looked as if Denise had made another conquest. I wonder if she cared.

  Alex and Valerie were talking to Steve about a great Vietnamese restaurant and Steve claimed to be always in the mood for noodles. I excused myself to run up and check one more time on the library and opera bid sheets. The opera sheet was closed, and I was the last bid at $60. It was a darned good thing I’d bought the gray dress, too. I decided to let the bids on the library go and settle for just this prize. I popped back downstairs to let Steve know I was going to stand in the line to pay for my tickets. He was still talking to Alex and Valerie and Chick. Winston, the odd student, was being introduced to them by Alex, and two other fellows, both in blue suits, had also joined the group. It turned out they were members of Chick’s golf club, and Steve, too, knew them slightly from his youth, as well.

  I mentioned the opera tickets, kissed Steve lightly on the cheek, and went off to the cash table near the coat check to redeem my prize. After what seemed like an hour, I paid my dues, received the envelope containing my tickets, and turned to find Steve again. There he was, three feet away from me, coats in hand. The band was still playing, but things were beginning to wind down. Steve had to work the next morning, and I had essays to mark and e-mail back to a couple of students.

  We waved to Denise and made our way out into the chill evening. Even though it was cold, there was no wind, and it was a pleasant walk home. The walk, coming on the heels of all the reminiscing during the evening, gave me a sense of déjà vu, shifting me back to my first days on a university campus, walking home across the quad with a handsome boy. No, wait, that was Barbra Streisand in The Way We Were. Easy mistake to make.

  22

  Steve hadn’t been able to spend the night because he had to be up early for the morning watch, so I was all alone, still buzzing away, sitting in my bathrobe with eye makeup remover stinging my eyes. There was no way I was going to get any sleep in the near future, despite the two drinks I’d had at the gala. The crisp night air on the walk home had cleared my head and invigorated me. I was ready to settle in for a good gossip about everything folks had been wearing and what had been said, but I was all on my lonesome. Denise would still be at the Timms Centre clearing up, and, if she wasn’t there, she’d be flitting off somewhere with her committee to celebrate, I was sure.

  I leaned over to the desk and pushed the mouse with my fingertips, setting the screen of my monitor alight. Three clicks and a password would get me to a whole slew of folks. I pulled out my desk chair. No wonder there was such a boom of involvement in the Internet. I couldn’t be the only person out there with no one to talk to late on a Thursday night.

  It was technically my night off, since I’d traded with Alchemist, so I logged in and showed up on-screen as Chimera, without checking the room or any notes for my next shift. Things were hopping
, from what I could see. A round of hellos came my way from some of the regulars, and Button, a university student in Melbourne, bounced up to tell me about her trip to the Great Barrier Reef.

  Button: Oh, it was absolutely brilliant. I was snorkeling at one point and a tiger shark came right up to my mask. Not a very big one. Maybe two metres long.

  Chimera: Yikes. I’m about two metres long. I don’t think I’d want a shark that big anywhere near me.

  Button: Well, they’re not very bright.

  Chimera: They don’t have to be bright when they’ve got teeth like that.

  Button: Doh.

  Dion: You know, that reminds me of something I read by Desmond Morris about human babies. He said that human babies have to smile early and be adorable and charming and coo because their mothers don’t have furry bodies.

  Tracy: Say what?

  Gandalf: What do you mean? Like they used to have fur?

  Dion: No. Monkey babies grab their mothers and don’t let go, so they aren’t left behind. Human babies can’t do that, so they compensate by being charming and therefore tricking their mothers into picking them up and carrying them along.

  Chimera: That makes a certain odd sense.

  Sanders: Of course, it would be handier if they could put them in a convenient pocket.

  Hmmm, Sanders obviously couldn’t just crawl into bed after getting home, either. I didn’t feel so flighty, after all.

  Maia: Sanders! How was your gala affair?

  Gandalf: Sanders is having an affair? :)

  Maia: He was at a fundraiser tonight.

  Sanders: Well, in the words of Noel Coward, “I have been to a mah-vellous party!”

  Maia: Spill all the details. The most excitement I’ve had tonight was trying to get the kitchen window opened to clear the fumes from the spray-on oven cleaner. I need to live vicariously.