THE GREATEST HITS OF WANDA JAYNES
THE
GREATEST
HITS
of
WANDA
JAYNES
BRIDGET CANNING
BREAKWATER
P.O. Box 2188, St. John’s, NL, Canada, A1C 6E6
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Copyright © 2017 Bridget Canning
ISBN 978-1-55081-670-9
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FOR JON WEIR
1
THERE are not enough people in the hallway. When Wanda Jaynes leaves class, she tends to slap on her excuse-me-I’m-a-very-busy-instructor face as she manoeuvres past students on the way to her office. But right now, it is an unencumbered path.
Silhouettes of hunched shoulders line the exit by the employee parking lot. Lots of faculty out for a smoke when it isn’t break time, and no one’s laughing or carrying on. She passes students staring into their phones, muttering to each other. Whatever’s happened has the stink of fresh injustice and old exasperation.
In her office, she locks the door and refreshes her computer screen. One new email with that tiny, terrifying red flag. Subject: New Budgetary Changes for the Newfoundland Institute of Learning. Here we go.
Wanda sits and reads. And even as the bile within her alters the barometric pressure of her core, it’s hard not to be impressed with the political wording. Pretty slick. Just last week, she taught a lesson for English 3102, “Jargon and Clarity.” Something like that. The students had to paraphrase technical terminology into everyday speech. And this section of the email is prime for translation: Due to the provincial government’s budgetary shortfall, the service delivery model for Adult Basic Education will become the responsibility of our partner colleges in the private sector.
“So, class, one way we reword this is,” Wanda says, “due to mismanaging tax dollars, we’re getting out of paying instructors money to teach poor people, like you. Privatization, bitches.”
And more words: The current ABE program will continue until the semester’s end with no renewal for the fall. The term and her contract end in less than six weeks. They’ll finish up and gut the place. Her office is closet-sized, they’ll use it for storage. She’ll be packed up with the GED guidebooks and grade-twelve curriculum guides, all forced to drop out together.
She spins her chair away from the monitor. On the wall before her, the shape of her head reflects in the glass frame of her Bachelor of Education. When she received her first contract at the institute, displaying her credentials seemed like a good idea. A professional idea. Look, see how qualified Wanda is. In the glass, her bangs have separated in the middle, the way they do when she gets frazzled. Her head now resembles one of those toy Lego people she played with as a child, with the snap-on plastic hair, the kind she could pry off and replace with a hat or helmet. Look, see how interchangeable Wanda is.
Not that anyone gave a shit about her credentials. Andrea once admired the wooden placard hanging by her teaching certificate: Teacher, You May Not See The Fruit Of Today’s Work, But You Have Seeded A Lifetime Of Knowledge. A convocation gift from somebody, maybe Ivan’s sister. She remembers a twinge of annoyance on how all the first letters are unnecessarily capitalized. But it was nice to think someone could consider her effective. A potential, successful educator.
Wanda closes her eyes. She will not cry. She will not exit this building in front of students and colleagues looking like a sad, soon-to-be-sacked, sack. Because people don’t look at trees and wonder who planted them. And has she really Seeded Knowledge? Assisting grown men as they compose argumentative essays on which ATV is the best. Twenty-two zero grades distributed so far for plagiarized papers, many where the students didn’t even bother to change the font, straight cut and paste from Wikipedia. Ignoring the twitch of hands as they text under desktops. She flinches at the thought. So much easier to say nothing, keep on going, pretend she doesn’t notice.
She fishes out her cellphone to text Ivan. One missed call from Mom. Nope, not returning this call today. When Mom hears the news, it will be a full-on fret through the Could List: Maybe you could do a Special Education degree. Maybe you could get a job at Stella Maris and move back home to Trepassey. Maybe Ivan could get something more reliable. If you got pregnant now, you could just go on maternity leave.
And then the phone will pass to Dad to deliver warnings: Make sure you keep up your work until the end. Don’t burn any bridges—one program shuts down, they start another. You want to stay in their good books. You’re over thirty now, you need to focus on stability. Ivan says it’s because she’s an only child. “If I didn’t have a sister to share the brunt of my mother’s insanity,” he says, “I’d be a hermit on a hill.”
The computer dings. A second email: Meeting Request, from Trevor Dowden, Department Head. Subject: Upcoming changes and their impact. The impact means laying off contract employees everywhere, so permanent ABE staff can take over positions in programs not being privatized. Andrea has permanent status and already teaches in degree programs. An image of Andrea hugging a rock-climbing wall pops into her head: teeth bared, fingers dug deep into handholds. Seeds of knowledge or not, it really doesn’t matter how good or bad a job anyone does. Seniority first.
The meeting is scheduled for Monday. Maybe it’s policy to give bad news on Fridays, so everyone goes home, drowns their sorrows all weekend and are too strung out by Monday to make a nuisance. She clicks “yes” to the invitation, then texts Ivan.
They will be okay. And poor. Her fingers drum the desk to the rhythm of their bills: mortgage, house insurance, student loans, car payment, car insurance, health insurance, phone bill, power bill, oil bill, credit-card bill, security-system bill, food, parking, house repairs. Her parents’ anniversary at the end of the summer. Ivan’s niece’s birthday. Summer in general with invitations for patio beers, barbeques, festivals, concerts, trips. Ivan gets private renovation projects with carpentry and repairs, plus gigs with the band. Those bring in about half the bills. Groceries here and there. This autumn will bring EI and insecurity. She hugs her belly. It clenches and releases like a sweaty fist.
Come home outta it indeed. Why not. It’s Friday, no one can expect her to stay and do teaching prep in the wake of this shit storm. She’ll print the email and leave. When Trish and Leo are over later, it will be easier if they read it for themselves. She won’t have to explain her situation over and over, like it’s an anecdote to be perfected. And Ivan will be angry enough for everyone. He’s good at that.
A knock on her door.
Andrea. Here we go. Wanda takes a deep breath and opens up. Andrea leans into the office. Her arms make a tee stance bracing the door frame. In the small office, Andrea is an Amazon who doesn’t mind blocking an exit.
Andrea tilts her head in sympathy. “Did you read the email?”
“Oh yes.”
“Hard old stuff.”
“Yep.”
“Everyone’s already getting out the seniority list to check their status.” Andrea shakes her head. Her earrings make little tingling sounds. They are cats with tiny bells on their tails “Human Resources are coming next week. This kind of thing freaks people out. Bad for morale.”
“Well, they should come,” Wanda says. “That’s their job.”
“What will you do?” Her head towers over Wanda. Andrea’s hair is cropped short with frosted tips, creating a mesh of stripes through her dark-blond hair, like tabby-cat markings. Maybe she has a cat fixation. Maybe she wears whiskers and a clip-on tail around the house. An image from The Jungle Book flashes in Wanda’s head: Bagheera the jaguar, high on a tree branch, watching Mowgli below. But Bagheera was a mentor and Wanda should stop telling herself she has Mowgli hair.
“There’s not much I can do if they don’t have a spot for me,” Wanda says.
“But you’ve been here, what, three years?”
“Four.”
“You’ll have recall rights. I imagine there’s a bunch who would rather retire or take sick leave than start over in a different program.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea,” Wanda says. Recall rights still go to permanent staff first. Andrea knows this. Wanda clasps her purse and jacket. Time to go home, have a drink, and process all this noise. “Sorry, but I have to run. And I’ve got something out on the printer.”
“Yes, get your résumé done, my dear,” Andrea says. “No one can say how you spend your time now.” She leans back and fills Wanda’s office with her trademark gut-laugh: ha-ha-ha-Ha! A laugh that could come with its own slogan: When Andrea’s amused, everyone knows it.
Wanda shuffles out, maintaining her neutral expression. Easy for Andrea to empathize when she knows her job is safe. Andrea likes to brag about how her practical science and math background is always in demand. “I don’t have to worry about being replaced by spell-check,” she said last year. And then poked her thorny elbow into Wanda’s arm and let loose big guffaws, ha-ha-ha-Ha! She glares at the Wet Floor sign by the copy-room door. It’s been there for as long as she can remember. Andrea will keep her job, Wanda will lose hers, and still, none of the leaks around the building will get repaired.
In the copy room, Mona crouches by the photocopier, clearing a paper jam. Her white hair is swept back in a braid, but stray wisps give her a frizz halo.
“This stupid thing,” Mona says. “If you don’t turn every knob, it doesn’t co-operate.” She yanks a crimped sheet from the copier’s bowels. “It wanted to make paper dolls with this one.”
“I guess they won’t be replacing it anytime soon,” Wanda says.
“Have you heard anything?” Mona says.
“I’m not holding out hope. You?”
“Oh yes. I’m gone. My position will be made redundant at the end of the school year,” Mona says. She tries to shut the front panel, but it jars.
This is a surprise. Mona has been a technology instructor with ABE for twelve years. Every day, her warbling voice echoes in the classroom next to Wanda’s, like fingertips chirping on fresh-washed dishes.
“Is there anything you can do?” Wanda says.
“I’m writing a letter. There are too many things I don’t understand about this decision. They say the program isn’t successful. But how do they gage success?” Mona opens a side panel and tugs out a crumpled piece of paper. “I didn’t realize teaching computer skills to high-school dropouts and single mothers was for profit.”
“It’s disgusting.” And Wanda feels it, a hot grain of disgust, like the pea in the princess’s bed. Unavoidable, but too far buried to reach.
“It’s just…God. You get so fucking angry.” Mona flicks up the side panel so it clicks into place. The copier hums in response. Her cloud of white hair seems to crackle in the air.
Wanda nods and keeps her face even. Mona said fuck. Mona sticks with darns and hecks. But there it is, fucking, all wrapped up in Mona’s warble. She should respond with something kind. Something with equal passion. “It makes you wonder how politicians come up with these decisions,” she says. “I mean, to sit in a room and vote on this kind of thing...you have to think people get bullied into it on some level.”
“All politicians are bullies,” Mona says. “They make horrible decisions, all the time, with no regard for anyone.”
“It’s terrible.”
Mona looks up. Her eyes are dark and even. “Every time I drive by the Confederation Building, I think about Haliday’s farm. You know where that is?”
“I think so? I think I used to know.”
“It’s way in back,” Mona says. “Sam and I used to take the kids there.” She presses a square on the touch screen. The copier’s insides purr. “Sometimes, I think about that farm and its distance from the Confederation Building. I bet there are certain points where you’d have a clear shot at the top two floors. It wouldn’t take much.” Her finger hovers over the touch screen. “I wonder if I should pause this.”
Wanda swallows. How to respond? Laugh? No, she should say something to match Mona’s intensity. Ivan would know what to say, like last weekend, during one of his antigovernment rants. “Ever hate someone so much,” Ivan said, “you know that if you murdered them, you’d spend the rest of your life masturbating about it?” Trish did a spit-take and they all laughed. Then again, they were super high at the time.
“They probably already have bulletproof windows,” Wanda says.
“Yes. Probably first thing passed in the budget.”
They both chuckle. Ho-ho, indeed. Neat sheets of paper start to pile out the side of the copier. “I’m making copies of the seniority list for a few people,” Mona says. “It’s long. But everyone wants to take it home for the weekend.”
“Understandable.”
“How about you?” Mona says. “Forming a plan?”
“Just do up my résumé, I guess.” She shrugs. “I’m sorry, Mona.”
“It’s all you can do,” Mona says. “I’m writing letters though. The union needs to step in. And students are angry. There will be protests.”
“Well, let me know what you do,” Wanda says. Then suddenly, “I’d be interested in writing letters.” Really? A neat, organized, expressive letter to those in charge? She can do it—she teaches people how to do it in Business English. But now, with the idea voiced and airborne, it’s clearly fruitless. A student uprising? Most are on income support with subsidized tuition. They’ll wander over to a private college, fill out a form. Any letter she writes will receive a polite response. They’ll suggest she find work at a private college. Maybe she’ll make half her salary there.
“Will do. Thanks, Wanda,” Mona says. She picks up the stacks of paper: “Oh, they’re nice and warm.” She hugs them to her chest and exits, her shoulders high with forced pride. Her collapsing white braid flaps against her back just enough to break Wanda’s heart a little.
Wanda makes it out of the building without interceptions from students or coworkers. The parking lot is nearly barren. Everyone is gettin’ gone. She drives out of the lot and onto the highway. The sky is polished blue with wisps of clouds, like scuff marks. The sky doesn’t care she’s losing her job. Smug-ass sky.
Half a tank of gas left. Gas—another expense to be trimmed. But if she’s not commuting to a regular job, they won’t burn much gas. Unless she returns to subbing. Fucking hell. Early mornings in starchy dress pants, wondering what kind of fire she’ll be thrown into today. If she gets a job teaching high school, there’
s the expectation to volunteer after work: We need a teacher guide for the prom committee. We need someone to help with Student Council. And she’ll have to deal with parents again. She can still hear Cody Grant’s mom’s cigarette tongue over the phone, the call home to discuss his expletive-laden tantrum when his iPhone smashed on the grade-nine classroom floor: “It’s no wonder he don’t behave right,” Mrs. Grant growled. “All he eats is junk.”
And all these things, they were par for the course when she first became a teacher, when it seemed the easiest way to do something good. “On your way to battle the massive, naked onslaught of stupidity,” Ivan likes to say. But he just enjoys quoting Werner Herzog.
Maybe she should get out of it. Be part of the teacher statistics, the fifty percent who quit after five years. But it’s been seven years and she’s reached comfortable, that rhythm they told her about in university, when lessons are developed and time management is a friend. Sure, the ABE students are all over the place: addicts required to prove they’re enrolled to keep their welfare, young men who live in their parents’ basements, single mothers fighting exhaustion and defeat. But Wanda showed up every day and gave them things to do and it felt like enough. Then again, maybe it’s the Generation X in her: Find the easiest, least shitty job. Do it with minimal effort. Pat self on back.
Home. Ivan’s jean jacket hanging in the front porch is instant solace. The house smells like chili—he’s warmed up the batch she made earlier in the week. He comes out to greet her.
“There’s beer in the fridge and wine on the table,” he says. “I’m glad you’re home.” She lets her face rest in his neck. His skin exhales outside air and kitchen heat. She runs her hands down his side and along his belt, under his navel.
“Hi, Wanda!” Trish waves from the doorway of the living room.
“Oh. Hey,” Wanda says.
Ivan presses her to him. “You should see the ideas Trish has for the album cover. It’s going to be beautiful,” he says. He kisses her neck and releases her. “But later. Let’s get you sorted.”
The Greatest Hits of Wanda Jaynes Page 1