Poles Apart

by Terry Fallis

  “Well, although I promised I’d never attempt it, given your father’s blind but rock-solid support for all things patriarchal, he does represent a formidable challenge,” she began. “And somehow, I guess he just got my competitive juices flowing. So I’m now in full Pygmalion mode.”

  My father turned to me and offered a sheepish smile while Beverley barrelled on.

  “My mission is to turn this apparently unreconstructed mass of male ego into someone who, if he looks very far in the distance just might envision a time when women have more to offer this world than cleaning, cooking, sewing, child care, and the free and frequent use of the anatomical parts that always precede the need for the aforementioned child care.”

  Dad looked at me again and smiled, but this time there was some tension beneath the bonhomie.

  “Wow, Beverley. That is one great line. Don’t anyone say anything. I want to write it down before I forget it,” I said patting my pockets for some kind of a writing utensil. “I’m serious. Can I borrow your pen and pad for a moment?”

  She didn’t move.

  “Beverley, I mean it. It was a brilliant one-line summation of the stone-age man’s mind, and I can use that. I mean I know someone who can use it, somewhere.”

  She reached into her bag and handed me her pad and pen. I wrote down what I could remember, with Beverley looking over my shoulder.

  “You forgot ‘sewing’ right there, and add ‘and frequent’ right there,” she said, pointing.

  “Right. That strengthens it.”

  I ripped the page from the pad, folded it up, and slipped it in my pocket before returning the pen and paper to Beverley.

  “Thanks,” I said. “So, um, where were we?”

  “Beverley was in the middle of taking all the fun out of courting,” Dad replied. “I think I’m closer to making it to first base with Kenny than with her.”

  “Billy, we’re not courting,” she snapped. “You and I are simply engaged in intellectual discourse about an age-old question. And no matter what everyone else says, I do think you’re capable of rational thought and rudimentary reasoning.”

  “I like the way you say ‘intellectual discourse,’ ” Dad teased. “It reminds me of another word.”

  She rolled her eyes. Then she turned to me.

  “You see what I’m up against?”

  “Well, I sure know what I want to be up against,” Dad cut in.

  “So now you’re resorting to ribald double entendres?” she asked. “Unbelievable.”

  “I have no idea what those words mean, ma’am, but what I do know is you can’t fight biology,” Dad said.

  “Christ. That’s the best you can do? Trot out biology?” She sighed. “Billy boy, we have a long way to go. But we’ll get there. You could not have turned out this boy without harbouring somewhere deep inside a closeted feminist just waiting to burst forth.”

  “Ma’am, I can assure you, I have always only had eyes, and other parts of my body, for women. There’s no closet anywhere inside me. On the hetero gauge, I’m an eleven,” Dad protested.

  Beverley looked up and exhaled in a way that startled the sparrows in the trees above us. I reached over and held her hand.

  “Are you starting to get a sense of the magnitude of this challenge?”

  Dad smiled and promptly stood up.

  “Well, ladies, my work here is done,” he said. “I need a drink, and Kenny needs to back up his stupid idea that the first Camaro was better than the first Mustang. Yeah, good luck with that.”

  He shuffled off down the path toward Kenny’s wheelchair.

  “That man is incorrigible,” Beverley said when Dad had moved out of earshot.

  “Yes. Yes, he is,” I replied. “So what’s your strategy?”

  “Well, I was hoping to let the power of logic and reason prevail, but he’s been somewhat impervious to that approach thus far.”

  “I tried to tell you. He’s locked in a very different time. He’s Ozzie and Harriet, Leave It to Beaver, and Father Knows Best, all rolled into one. And that show plays in his head 24-7.”

  “I might have to bring out the big gun sooner than expected,” she said.

  “What’s the big gun?”

  “It’s hard to fire it with fathers who only have sons, or in this case, son. But I might have to try to get him to imagine what it would be like to have a daughter. He’d really have to dig deep to think of himself as the father of a daughter. Then I’d hit him hard with what she would surely encounter – the obstacles placed in her way – over the course of her life.”

  “Hmmm. That sounds serious.”

  We sat in silence for a time.

  “If I can get him to imagine what it would be like to love a daughter, I might be able to nudge him along the path toward a very modest state of enlightenment.”

  “I concluded years ago that he’s a lost cause. And his performance today does little to change my view. But never has he confronted a motivated and energized Beverley Tanner. I wouldn’t bet against you.”

  “Thank you, Everett,” she replied, squeezing my hand. “Now, if my enunciation suffers in the coming weeks, blame the bit between my teeth.”

  From my window, I could see them gathering in twos and threes across the street. There weren’t many of them initially, but in time, the crowd was quite impressive. I watched from my second-floor window. It became clear soon enough what was happening. Many of them brought signs to hold aloft shorthand for their thoughts and voices.

  XY NOT IN MY BACKYARD!

  THERE ARE CHILDREN IN THIS HOOD!

  SILVER SPOON MISOGYNY IS STILL MISOGYNY.

  MISOGYNY WITH SECURITY IS STILL MISOGYNY.

  MASON BENNINGTON IS NO SAVIOR.

  Some protestors even pushed strollers bearing cute occupants in various states of consciousness, with juice boxes and Cheerios stowed beneath their seats. The community had come together. The neighbourhood was speaking out.

  Wisely, they stayed on the far side of the street, creating a kind of demilitarized zone between them and Brawn, patrolling his beat on this side. As dusk faded into evening, placards started pumping, and voices started chanting. A fuzzy-buzzy megaphone made it feel authentic, with a real sixties protest rally vibe. It was fascinating to watch. I wanted to rush across the street and embrace each one of them. But I wasn’t sure it was wise to reveal publicly that the person who shared a building with Mason Bennington was out to bring him down. So I stayed where I was and cheered them on privately.

  The chants were simple and to the point:

  “One, two, three, four, let’s show Mason B the door!”

  “Five, six, seven, eight, close the doors and leave the state!”

  What they lacked in creativity, they made up for in clarity.

  The group started marching up the sidewalk until they were beyond the front door of XY, before turning and marching right back again. As darkness fell, I heard the music start up through the floor below me. Fancy cars started to arrive for the night’s festivities. The protest group employed another interesting tactic whenever a Jaguar or a Benz pulled up to the front door and disgorged more wealthy and fashionably attired men. Immediately, the chanting would stop. The placards were flipped to reveal different slogans on the other side:

  SHOULDN’T YOU BE HOME WITH YOUR WIFE?

  WHAT WOULD YOUR KIDS THINK?

  THINK AGAIN, AND GO HOME.

  At the same time, a dozen cameras would emerge from protestors’ pockets, and a new refrain would echo across the street.

  “Smile, you’re on Candid Camera!”

  “And on YouTube, Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.”

  “Great shot! Looking good!”

  Welcome to Shame-apalooza. The effect was quite startling. On several occasions, men ducked back into their cars and peeled away. Some others pulled their suit jackets up over their heads for what looked like a classic perp walk into the club. Still others didn’t even stop their cars. They would slow down, see the protes
tors and placards, and speed on by. Brawn was getting visibly steamed. Business was slower than usual, due in no small part to the effective antics of this neighbourhood group. By this time, there was a police cruiser there to keep the peace and to keep Brawn from going completely ballistic.

  At nine, a local news station satellite truck pulled up. Ten minutes later, a rival station arrived. This was getting interesting. I had a perfect, front-row seat for all the action. If I craned my neck, I could just see Brawn below me talking into his sleeve and pressing his earphone a little deeper into his ear canal to block out the boisterous chants. I figured he was in touch with the big man himself. Twenty minutes later, that suspicion was confirmed when the big black Bentley eased up to the curb. I couldn’t see who was driving, but the back door opened and a young, attractive, well-dressed woman, with tied-back dark brown hair, emerged, followed almost immediately by Mason Bennington himself. He turned to face the protestors and held his hand up to quiet them. He took a step forward so that he was standing right at the curb.

  “Give me five minutes to set up a microphone here and then I’ll be out to respond formally to your concerns,” he shouted across the street.

  With that, he turned and walked into the club. The Bentley pulled away and was gone.

  This momentarily flummoxed the protestors, but they soon renewed their marching and chanting, and even seemed to kick it up a notch. I was supposed to be writing a new blog post and responding to emails but I was glued to my front window. A few minutes later, a smiling Lewis Small carried out two PA speakers and mounted them on tripods to give them some elevation. Finally, he wheeled out a handcart bearing a small PA board and a microphone and stand. In a matter of moments, he had the microphone and the two speakers plugged into the board. He plugged the whole thing into the exterior wall outlet and the red light on the board lit up.

  “Test, test,” he said into the mike, adjusting the volume until he was satisfied. Then he disappeared back into the club. Another police cruiser had pulled up. Three police officers stayed with the protestors to make sure no one got out of hand and started across the street. A fourth officer stood on the XY side of the street, but well out of reach of Brawn. Probably wise. There were now three camera operators and several reporters with microphones and digital recorders gathered around the microphone in a tight semicircle. To get that kind of a media response, I suspect Mason Bennington’s publicity team had swung into action hoping to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.

  Right on cue the big double doors opened and out walked Mason Bennington, as usual dressed for an awards gala, the young woman by his side. She looked a little like a deer in the headlights. But she stepped smartly up to the microphone. I slid my window open a little more to ensure I heard everything.

  “Hello, hello. Is this thing on?” she asked.

  For some reason, I liked her immediately.

  “We can hear you just fine,” someone shouted from across the street.

  “Oh, right. Okay, then. Well, I’m Megan Cook. I’m on Mr. Bennington’s legal team. And Mr. Bennington would like to say a few words.”

  She then lowered the microphone slightly and stepped aside with some alacrity. Mason Bennington took his place. The bright lights mounted on the cameras all clicked on, blinding anyone in a two-mile radius, including yours truly. Mason Bennington raised his hands in front of his face until he grew somewhat accustomed to the lasers shining in his eyes. Then he lowered them and tried to smile. The reporters pushed in to seize the prime real estate around the microphone.

  “Good evening. I want to address this to the people who have assembled across the street, I assume to protest the recent opening of the newest private, members-only XY Club. I know you’re concerned that we’re located just across the way from a residential neighbourhood, your neighbourhood. I want to assure you that we will never give you cause for concern.”

  “We’re already concerned! You’ve opened a sleazy smut shack in my backyard!” a voice shouted.

  “With these lights in my eyes, I can’t see who said that, but let me address your concern. The only part of XY that will ever be visible to anyone who is not a member is this beautiful hand-carved wooden door. There are no windows. The employee entrance is at the back of the building. I’ve invested nearly $2.5 million in this property, employing dozens of local tradespeople and creating more than a hundred permanent jobs. I’m committed to cleaning up what has been a notoriously corrupt and immoral industry and replacing it with a clean, well-managed, safe, and secure operation that I hope will see the end of the sleazy strip clubs that have dominated the business for decades. The young women who perform within these walls are paid, on average, thirty per cent more than the industry standard. They have access to financial planning counsel, a jointly managed retirement fund, full health benefits, and many other perks, including tuition support if they pursue higher education. No one touches anybody in this club. The performers are separated from the club members at all times. This, my friends, is the future of men’s entertainment.”

  “You don’t fool us for a second!” a woman’s voice shouted. “You can dress it up all you want, but women are still undressing for men’s pleasure, right in our neighbourhood!”

  “I admire you all for coming to express your concern and promote your community,” Bennington said, trying to regain the floor.

  “Don’t give us all that crap about community. You’re only after more money, made on the backs of women who have nowhere else to turn. It’s a disgrace! You’re a disgrace!”

  I’m not sure I’d have phrased it quite that way, but the protestor’s point was valid.

  Bennington held his hand up for silence. It looked to me like he was working hard to maintain his civil exterior.

  “Please, could I just finish?” he started again. “I can see you’re upset. But I want you to know that you do not have a monopoly on concern for this neighbourhood. This is now my community, too, and I’m going to invest in it and make it even better. Jackson Park, a few blocks north of here, will soon have all-new state-of-the-art playground equipment, and the pool will be refurbished within the month. The in-line skating trails will also be repaved. I’m trying to do my part.”

  “You can’t buy us!” a man shouted. “We’ll be here every night. We’re not going away until you do!”

  Bennington seemed about to lose it then. He turned his back on the crowd, looked to the sky, and clenched his fists and his jaw. Then he relaxed and turned back to the microphone. The reporters were getting edgy, positioning themselves to hurl the first question.

  “Thank you again for coming. We’ll keep you all updated as our community investment program progresses. I hope I’ve assuaged your fears, a least a bit, tonight. My attorney will handle any reporters’ questions. Good night.”

  “Why don’t you say goodbye instead, you reprobate!”

  Bennington waved, stepped back, and then leaned in to Brawn.

  I was so close, just above him, that I heard him say, “Shut down the PA. We’re done.”

  Bennington then brushed past Megan Cook and back into the security of the club, the heavy doors closing silently behind him. She was clearly caught off-guard when he threw her to the media scrum. She looked around, I’m not sure for what – perhaps deliverance – but then inched back up to the microphone. I know nerves when I see them.

  Just as she was about to open her mouth, Brawn snatched the microphone and unplugged the board, leaving her facing just the array of reporters’ microphones. My window was just above where she stood, so I could easily hear what she was saying.

  “Um, yes, are there any questions I can try to answer for you?”

  “Does Bennington always travel with a lawyer?”

  “Of course not,” she replied. “I flew in from Washington for meetings with Mr. Bennington on other matters unrelated to this XY location.”

  “Are there local bylaws being contravened by this so-called private men’s club? You can’t just
open any kind of business wherever you want, can you?”

  “I can assure you that all local, county, state, and federal rules, regulations, laws, bylaws, legislation, and statutes have been scrupulously observed in choosing all XY locations. Moreover, as Mr. Bennington himself stated, this operation has created dozens of new and lasting jobs, caused a significant increase in business for local contractors and suppliers, and cleaned up what was a moribund block of real estate.”

  I thought she was doing pretty well, under the circumstances.

  “Yeah, but there are still naked women shaking their moneymakers inside,” a reporter noted.

  “Be that as it may, this business is completely legal, has secured all of the appropriate approvals, respects all laws, and exceeds all legislative employment standards. And he’s investing in this community in ways that really only benefit this neighbourhood and have no real return on his own balance sheet.”

  As the questions flowed, Megan seemed to find her feet, in a strictly legal way. I wouldn’t say she was comfortable with everything she was saying, but she knew her stuff and spoke well.

  By this time, the protestors had started to disperse. There were kids to bathe and put to bed.

  “How long have you been Mason Bennington’s lawyer?” an older woman reporter asked. “You can’t have been practising that long.”

  “I’m just one of a team of lawyers at Mackenzie Martin serving Mason Bennington’s legal needs. I just happened to be here in Orlando today.”

  A few of the reporters drifted away then to make sure they snagged a few interviews with the protestors. As the final reporter withdrew her microphone, Megan Cook turned around and bolted through the big wooden doors that Brawn had just opened for her.

  I thought about Mason Bennington’s bold move to step into the fray and address the protestors directly, however briefly. Wise move? Not sure. I decided that Mason Bennington was accustomed to being the most persuasive guy in the room. He was used to getting his own way. He had a nearly spotless track record of convincing people to agree with him, to do it his way, to succumb to his charms, or his money, or his “Brawn,” as the case may be. What he was most certainly not accustomed to, if he’d ever experienced it at all, was a group of protestors who ignored his rhetoric, rejected his vision, and saw right through his grand gestures. This night had not unfolded as he had expected, so he bailed and left his lawyer to mop up after him. I think this knocked him for a loop. Maybe what made it doubly troubling for him was that fewer than fifty savvy protestors, armed only with handwritten signs, some rhythmic chants, and their cellphone cameras, had managed to dampen his business, at least for this one night.