The Greatest Hits of Wanda Jaynes

by Bridget Canning

  “You’re her.”

  The voice is right behind Wanda, a bug in her hair. She wheels around. The man is short and rotund. He stands close enough that she can see the dust on his glasses—they’re quite filthy, actually—thick lenses over greyish eyes. A smudge of a moustache ridges his upper lip. His hairline is making a run for it, receding up a stretch of shiny forehead.

  “You’re Wanda Jaynes,” he says. He has a lisp and “Jaynes” comes out with a little squish at the end. Jaynish.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Karl Prendergast.” Prendergash. He extends a hand and Wanda shakes it. His hand is hot and damp. She fights the urge to twitch. He pumps her arm. “I jush want to shay, thank you. I think you are very brave.” He pushes up his glasses with his other hand and keeps pumping. “Ish a real pleashure.”

  “Thank you, Karl.”

  “I…I wrote the mayor about you,” Karl says. “I shaid you should have the key to the city” Shitty. “The lash time they gave away the key, it wash to shome hockey playersh.” Karl shakes his head with vigor. “Why a bunch of overpaid atheletsh should have it and not you confoundsh me.” He holds his elbow into his side and as he bops her arm up and down, Wanda has to lean forward into him. There’s something sour on his breath, some intestinal disagreement.

  “Wow, thanks,” she says. “Everyone loves hockey, though.”

  “What ish your ward?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Which ward do you live in?” There is a formation of spittle in the corner of his mouth. And another smell, something musty and pungent about him. Mothballs in a bag of old sneakers. She keeps her face neutral. His eyes swarm behind the filmy lenses. They slide down to her chest, widen slightly, then jerk back up to her face.

  She gently pulls her hand out of his and resists the urge to wipe it on her pants. Also, to check the top buttons on her blouse. She pulls her jacket together. “Which ward?” Hospital ward? Psychiatric ward?

  “What area of Shaint Johnsh? I’ll write your shitty councillor to put the presshure on.”

  “Oh, um, ward two.”

  “Ward two.” His eyes shine. “That’s alsho my ward. Downtown to Georgetown and around Shaint Clare’s, that’s all ward two. I live by Bannerman Park.”

  “Oh, that’s a good area.” Wanda says.

  “It’s pretty good I guesh.” Karl tilts his head slightly. Like it’s her turn. Now she’s supposed to give her address. Good luck with that, buddy.

  “Ready?” Andrea appears by Karl’s shoulder and barges her shopping cart between them. Wanda has never been so happy to see her.

  “Sorry, I have to go,” Wanda says. “Nice to meet you, Karl.” She gives him a little wave and walks down the aisle with Andrea.

  “Niysh to meet you too. I’ll keep talking to the shitty!” Karl says. He continues standing in the aisle, watching them leave.

  “Hey, you got quite the fan base,” Andrea says. “Ha, don’t mind me, I’m some bad.”

  “You really, really are,” Wanda says.

  At home, she finds Ivan and Leo at the computer with Trish standing over them. She wears a black, silky, off-the-shoulder top and it sags enough to expose a polka-dot push-up bra in soft pink. “Hi Wanda!” Trish says. She dashes over for the hello hug. Wanda’s hands have nowhere to go but Trish’s hips. Does she rest her hands there? Give them a squeeze? She gives Trish’s narrow hips two quick pats.

  “Hey baby,” says Ivan. “Leo is the man. He’s been digging around on that email.”

  “Yepper,” Leo says. He grins up at her and taps the empty seat next to him. “Come see.”

  She sits down in the leather office chair. Trish stands behind her and inserts her fingers in the hair at the nape of Wanda’s neck. “Did you get your hair done lately? So nice.” It’s like being massaged with a garden tool.

  “So, there are websites that run services called Who Is. It’s a way of finding out ownership of an IP address. I used one on the address from the email and it belongs to the university.”

  “Really? Do you know where in the university?”

  “No. The university buys their addresses in bulk. You’d need to talk to an administrator to find out the specific computer used,” Leo says, “but it’s a start if you want to nag the cops about it.”

  So, it could be anyone. Students from both the institute and the university share apartments, houses. Many study at the university library. Biggest university east of Montreal, thousands of people.

  “Jesus,” she says. She leans against the desk, away from Trish’s touch. There is a note pad next to the monitor. Ivan has made a list.

  Options/Offers

  Hero-vs-Hero—reality TV show. “Real-life heroes face off in a variety of challenges” (CTV).

  Weekly/Biweekly blog? Huffpost can pay by popularity.

  Rick Mercer Report—can she meet Rick? Can they go shopping together or something?

  Interviews—most Canadian media won’t pay, but British media does. Email back Sam at the BBC.

  Buzzfeed Listicles—a real quote from Wanda? They can pay.

  Big Brothers/Big Sisters—can she throw out the first softball of the season?

  “Real Life Lucky”—Bio, interview, and re-enactment of “Dominion Day.”

  Interview requests from Juanita at The Reason Rally, canadianatheist.com, atheistalliance.org.

  CBC, CTV, VOCM want W’s response to Joseph Workman statements.

  T-shirts? Threadless.com wants permission, maybe signature on grocery store meme shirts and merchandise

  Check domain names: wandajaynes.com, wandajaynes.ca.

  The list goes on to the next page. “What is this?” she says.

  “Those are your offers!” Trish says. “Can you believe it?”

  “Offers?”

  “They’ve been coming in since last week,” Ivan says. “It’s a long list.”

  “They’ve been coming to you?”

  “Well, the media outside our door had to be funnelled somewhere.” He brings his knee up and hugs it into his chest. “Where did you think all your celebrity enquiries were going?” He smiles at her. If she put both her hands on his knee and gave one hard push, the chair would topple backwards. Hovering Trish would take a tumble as well.

  “Hero-vs-Hero? What does that entail? A three-legged race?”

  “They say it’s a variety of challenges involving real people who have committed acts of bravery.”

  “So, what, like, Trivial Pursuit with firefighters?” Wanda says. “Or a scavenger hunt with some kid who saved a drowning cat?” Her voice is edging up. Trish’s gaze switches to the computer monitor. Great, Trish and Leo get to witness a Wanda meltdown for the second time this week. “Anyway,” she says, “we can talk about it later.”

  “K,” Ivan says. His eyes flick away from hers. He clicks the mouse and stares at the screen.

  She walks to the kitchen, pulls a beer from the fridge, wrings off the cap, and pours most of it straight down her throat. A long list. How much help did he have making that? She flings the cap towards the garbage can. It hits the edge with a ping and bounces on the floor. “For fuck sakes,” Wanda says. She bends and hooks the cap off the floor with her fingers. Her eyes heat up with tears. She can’t make the shot when she wants to, of course. So stupid.

  The fridge door smacks closed. Leo opens a beer for himself. “Hey Jaynes.”

  “Hey.”

  “You alright?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  He reaches out and takes the cap from her. “You don’t have to be.”

  “Offers and options? Like I won the jackpot or something.”

  “I know,” Leo says. He takes a sip. “Some pretty crazy things on that list.”

  “I can’t believe they’ve actually been written down.”

  �
��Well, everything seems more important when someone writes it down. You teach writing, you know that.”

  “I know. I just...what am I supposed to do with this?”

  “I don’t know. But people are talking about you anyway. If you can get comfortable with it, why not turn it to something positive?”

  “Reality TV? I don’t think so.”

  “Yeah, it’s so cheap. When reality, real reality, is not.” He reaches forwards and clinks his bottle against hers. “I think Wanda should take care of Wanda. And we’ll all take care of Wanda too.” Half his mouth shrugs up in a smile. His hair, the colour of wet sand, hangs in his face so only one blue-green eye is visible. It shines at her with affection.

  “You’re sweet, Leo.”

  “I try my best.”

  Laughter ripples out of the next room. Wanda and Leo go to the doorway and glance in. Ivan and Trish are watching a video on the computer. Their voices match each other in pitch and enthusiasm. Wanda takes the final swig from her beer and regards the empty bottle.

  11

  To: JaynesWanda@nlil.ca From: Holdenshat@mail.com Subject: Just thinking

  U might not believe in god but u r an angle weather u believe it or not.

  PACK right off. Wanda narrows her eyes at the screen. Angle indeed. Feeling pretty obtuse at the moment. This message and another Workers for Modern Christianity brochure in today’s mail. This one includes a cartoon titled “The Descent of the Modernists.” The picture depicts men descending a staircase, each step labelled with a foreboding statement: Christianity at the top and down to Bible Not Infallible to No Miracles to No Resurrection to Agnosticism to the bottom level of Atheism, written in a black scrawl on the floor. And now, their address has been printed on a sticker and attached to the back. Shit gets official when people make labels.

  Ivan comes in from the kitchen with a plate of cheese and crackers. Over two hours since Leo and Trish left and he’s been puttering around outside, raking things, chatting with neighbours. Doing the avoid-dance. Stir some soil, cha-cha-cha. Chat with neighbours, chat-chat-chat.

  “I got another one.” Wanda points at the screen.

  He leans over her to read. “Nice spelling. Think it’s a student?”

  “If it is, it could be any of them. No one can spell anymore.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t received more stuff like this. There were over a thousand references when I Googled you last night.” Ivan stuffs a wad of cheese in his mouth.

  Wanda watches him chew. His skin glows from outdoor exposure. He always radiates health. Has he ever had a zit? Even his good looks are annoying, especially since they haven’t had sex since the week before the shooting. Over two weeks now and he’s only interested in probing her online.

  “Why were you Googling me?”

  “Curiosity. Gauging the climate.”

  “Climate of what?”

  “The climate around you. You know, what people are saying.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  He sighs. “I know you’re annoyed with me about all this. But some of these offers might be good for you.”

  “Like what? Some cheesy reality TV show? You hate that shit. We watched The Bachelorette once and you said you could physically feel your IQ decreasing.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a reality show.” Ivan points to the list. “Look. People want to interview you on their podcasts. Or, you could blog. You teach writing, you’re good at it. You’d be better than most of them out there, for sure.”

  “What would I write about? ‘Hi, I’m Wanda. I threw a can once. Now I can’t drive my own car to work.’”

  “Why not? You think you’re the only person to ever feel this way? Lots of people can relate to what’s happening to you.”

  “How can you say that?” she says. “I did one interview and was called names.”

  “By a few wacked-out evangelists. Ninety-eight percent of the stuff out there on you is really positive.”

  “But the two percent is terrifying. And organized with their propaganda and ominous emails.”

  “You could write about that. You could talk about that.” Ivan points to the bottom of the sheet. “Look at the organizations who want to speak to you. Jezebel Magazine. You read it all the time.”

  She picks up the list. Jezebel, holy shit. “Their reach is huge,” she says.

  “It is. It could really be something.”

  What approach would Jezebel take? What if she stuck her foot in her mouth and it was retweeted into infinity? There would be shitty little analyses of her looks, her dialect, her lack of cool. And then, a backlash against the criticism of her, accusations of misogyny towards those who would break her down into elements. After all, she’s a fucking hero.

  “I explained what happened in the CBC interview,” she says. “People should be concerned with more important things. No one asks about the people who were actually fucking shot.”

  “You’re right. And you could do that, point that out to people. And people would listen.”

  “But I’m nobody.”

  “But that’s just it. That’s why you’re interesting, it’s why they want you.”

  Wanda contemplates Ivan with his snack plate balanced on his palm. One cracker hovers on the edge looking suicidal. It probably just voiced how it feels like nobody and had its partner agree.

  “I want to show you something,” he says. He rests the plate on the desk and leans over her. He opens up YouTube, types “grocery shooter” in the search engine and brings up a user profile. The channel belongs to someone called Pikeitalot. “Grocery Shooter Take-Down!” is first on the list. It’s been viewed over two million times. Pikeitalot’s profile photo shows a pale-faced man in a black toque, arms crossed menacingly, but flexed. He has facial piercings and a neck tattoo. She squints at his face. The neck tattoo reads infinity. He’s the Dominion deli guy she asked for help finding the can of coconut milk. The most recent video he has posted is titled “Me being interviewed—what it was REALLY like that day.” 3263 views so far. Ivan clicks play.

  Pikeitalot/infinity strolls into a living room—beige couch, brass lamps, family pictures on the wall. The voice of Genevieve Davey narrates: “Darryl Pike worked in the deli section of the now infamous Dominion store. He was on shift the day Edward Rumstead entered and opened fire on staff and customers. When the shooting began, Darryl, like others, found a place to hide. He locked himself in an upstairs security office with a small window overlooking the store. But before he hid, he held his phone in the window and, this way, filmed what is now the famous video of Wanda Jaynes stopping Edward Rumstead in his tracks.”

  Darryl Pike sits with wide-open legs. Major manspreading. He wears slouchy blue jeans, a tight white t-shirt, thick gold chains and a backward ball cap. He scratches his chest absently as he speaks:

  “When I heard the shots, I wanted to run for it, but the exits was blocked solid with people. So I said to myself, Pike, you gotta get high up somewhere, keep an eye out. So I run up to the security room. Blocked myself in and got down on the floor. That’s how we used to do it for lockdown procedures back in high school.”

  “What made you decide to film what was going on?”

  “Well, I didn’t want to look right out the window in case I was seen. So I turned on the camera on my phone and keep my eyes on that. And I said to myself, Pike, b’y, this might be it. This might be the end. Might as well press record.” Darryl Pike looks into the camera and grins.

  “Okay, so he’s a skeet,” Wanda says. “What’s your point?”

  “Just watch,” Ivan says.

  Genevieve’s narration continues. “Darryl says he is deeply saddened by the shootings and the death of his friend and co-worker, Michael Snow. However, the video has changed his life in many positive ways.”

  “Yeah, so I’ve been a YouTube member
for a few years, right? Me and my buddies are always filmin’ videos of us skateboardin’ or rap songs we make up. So with this one, once it got over so many views, they started payin’ me. There’s been a few offers. Commercials, things like that. But I want to give something back, you know? To the victims. To the memory of Mike.” Pike drops his head at this. He regards his clasped hands with their thick chunky rings.

  Genevieve’s voice trails off. “Darryl Pike plans to use some video proceeds for a fundraising concert to raise money for victims of violent crime. He says his own group, the hip-hop band Infinite Finds, will headline.”

  Ivan presses pause. “So. What do you make of that?” he says.

  “Gross toast. That’s what I make of that.”

  “Why?”

  “He decided to be reckless and make that video—a video which could have ended up showing me getting my brains shot out— and he’s profiting.” She exhales. Fucking idiots everywhere. “And promoting his ‘music.’”

  “Oh, he’s a bottom feeder, for sure.” Ivan reaches out to touch her shoulder. She leans away.

  “It’s blatantly opportunistic, Ivan. Either that or he’s about to get sued for posting the video and this is how he’s paying his lawyers.”

  “I agree with you. But, and I’m just being straightforward here, it’s working for him. He’s making money because of you.” He selects a slice of cheese from the plate and cracks it in half. “If you were to, say, join YouTube, start a video-blog, people would watch anything you put up.”

  “A video-blog. Yeah, I’ll set up the webcam and wear something low cut.”

  “I’m just giving YouTube as an example. Wanda, you’ve said before that you got into teaching because you wanted to help people do something with their lives. The position you’re in lets you really do something.”

  “Oh yes. Finally.”

  “You know what I mean. It’s rare to have a spotlight. You’ve been given this. It’s literally fallen in your lap.”

  “This isn’t a gift. And you’re misusing the word literally.” She could bounce his cheese plate off the wall.