The Age of Cities

by Brett Josef Grubisic

  The conversation between the two men progressed with a sporadic rhythm. Dickie asked elaborate questions laced in suggestion. Winston offered terse answers, occasionally wondering with mild alarm whether Dickie was some kind of con man who planned to bilk him. He pictured his wallet and smiled at the minute pay-off it would give to any misguided swindler. When silence loomed Dickie grabbed for fresh topics—his favourite cocktail, the criminal past of the burly waiter carrying the beer tray, his fondness for sunny Doris Day. He apologized for being chatty and yet made no obvious effort to stop. From time to time Winston thought about saying he was tired and needed to return to his hotel room. The man’s determination won him over.

  “Are you a friend of the Queen?”

  “Am I a monarchist?”

  “No, that’s not exactly what I mean.”

  There were moments when Winston was reminded of the podiatrist with the jokes in his voice. The nervous man’s puzzling speech ran in different directions, making one declaration while insinuating that there were other matters that could not be made public, as though Dickie were an anxious spy or an underworld kingpin in some hard-boiled novel with a lurid cover. Trying not to stare at the man’s remarkable features, Winston let his eyes wander the room, booming and festive now with sodden conversations. Snatches of song burst from a distant table. He briefly considered that Dickie might be soft in the head, an example of that odd breed of men who sit at bus depots and café counters and in barbershops and ramble on about nearly anything to anyone within listening range.

  After smoothing down his hair with his palms—a completely unnecessary gesture since not a strand had broken free—Dickie made a sudden announcement: “I’ve got a sight you do not want to miss. C’mon.” He raised and lowered his eyebrows in quick succession, jokingly and yet persuasive.

  Winston hesitated. He could feel the pull of curiosity as well as the force of routine: there was a novel waiting to be read in his hotel room, but it wasn’t going to stand up and walk out the door if he didn’t make time for it that very night. Besides, the room held no other promise. He could not recall the last time he’d met a complete stranger. Certainly no one in years—if ever at all—had asked him to take a walk in the middle of the night to an unknown destination. The thought that he might be shanghaied bubbled up and burst. Dickie could not be a criminal; the idea was laughable. Besides, what use would they have for a librarian with soft hands? Winston told himself that briny ocean air would be a bracing tonic, and marveled at his sudden come-what-may attitude. His mother might be right about getting out and making acquaintances. Perhaps the only trouble had been the Bend’s pool of farmers and loggers.

  They hurried along one busy street and then another, Winston a head taller yet hurrying to keep up with Dickie’s determined stride. After the first two turns, Winston snorted, knowing he was lost; he had no idea if they were heading toward the Pacific or the Atlantic. Now the bet tipped in Alberta’s favour, Winston thought.

  At eight p.m., the Bend would have already turned in for the night. The city’s neon whir of nightlife exhilarated Winston, though he noticed that the flow of traffic eased considerably as they walked further from the beer parlour. Their footfalls echoed. Past the squat russet block of the Woodward’s department store—from a distance its electric W rotated silently in the black sky—the city was older and frugally lit. As Winston grew accustomed to the stillness he began to taste the saltwater air instead of the sooty gasoline fumes that poured from cars.

  Here, the compact brick buildings were not proud and had little apparent vitality to attract respectable businesses. Winston imagined their rents would be modest, enticing to shady pawnshops and struggling family enterprises. The silent men they passed looked as though they were moving toward no place in particular. Vagrants. With a spinning hand gesture, Dickie indicated that they should pick up their pace.

  Dickie proceeded to talk and talk, now effusive and gesturing crazily about any subject. To Winston, the sheer volume of his revelation was incredible. He’d learned more from this man in five minutes than he’d ever heard from Mr. Reynolds, who’d been the principal of the Bend’s high school for over a decade. The outpouring was indiscriminate, promiscuous, manic. Dickie lead Winston through the many facets of working in the men’s department at the Hudson’s Bay Company department store. His voice became particularly intense when he talked about those customers who treated shop clerks like servants—I mean, who do they think they are?—and those nameless others who freely granted themselves five finger discounts. And he gossiped mercilessly about the other men and women employees and even revealed the cloak and dagger troubles upstairs in Management.

  Closer now to Winston, he confided that certain pervy customers would try on suits and then make lewd motions while being measured. In a barrage of squints and raised brows and popped eyes, he said there are ways to determine when a man is not wearing proper undergarments. Dickie was obviously at home in this warehouse of salacious details. Winston decided he would have to be careful about what moments from his life he would share with this odd man.

  After the career peccadilloes, Dickie diverted the gush of thoughts homeward.

  His pets, twin Pomeranians—“the exact colour of cedar chips,” he said, and later, “a hellish hue, I swear to God. Right now they’re gnawing on the legs of my chesterfield, I just know it”—were his pride and yet the very bane of his existence as well. He called them his brats and exclaimed more than once that they need to be taught a lesson. Their high-strung temperaments threatened to drive him to Essondale—and at this moment he shook imaginary iron bars and crossed his eyes as though he already had intimate knowledge of inmate life in that lunatic asylum. No white froth at the corner of his mouth appeared, but Winston would not have been shocked if Dickie’s fervor conjured some.

  Caught off-guard by the performance, Winston did not know if laughter would be a response his acquaintance would welcome. Dickie described his collection of objets, telling his captive audience that such a collection is possible—providing that one is discerning enough—to gather on a modest salary: “You need to train your uncouth eye, that’s all.”

  After Winston told Dickie, “You ought to write a newspaper column called ‘Just Ask Dickie.’ You should be making money off your ideas,” Dickie looked at him askance and retorted, “Are you making a joke?” His tone was cold, as though he’d been subject to a grave insult. Winston decided that Dickie craved attention, not the conversation of equals. He kept mum.

  Dickie was describing his plans for a grand tour through Europe when he gestured around himself with a flourish and pronounced words that sounded like Versailles of the Eastside to Winston’s baffled ears. Winston saw nothing out the ordinary, and conjectured that Dickie might be scared and that his animated chatter was his peculiar variation on whistling in the graveyard; certainly the streets had grown emptier and noticeably unkempt. Dickie pointed to the street’s oyster shell fragment litter and said that it had been dropped there by gulls. “They’re as smart as dogs, you see,” was the vague explanation he gave.

  Dickie announced that at long last they had reached their destination. The Port-Land was no different from the other past-their-prime storefronts on the quiet street. Unprepossessing, Winston thought to say, now there’s the best word. He held his tongue. This man had made a special effort to show him a local sight, after all. And besides, the dull brick face might be just that. A front. Winston looked at its undistinguished proportions and weathered paint and predicted a future of broken windowpanes covered by boards and a perennial For Sale sign that proved magnetic to no one. Even the Belle-Vu, easily the rattiest tavern in the Bend, gave the Port-Land’s forlorn air no competition. The brackish air was its natural complement.

  Dickie had claimed he’d never guess their destination, and now Winston conjured a den of sluggish drug addicts. Ladies of the night seemed unlikely. What else could it be? Despite all the talk, Dickie hadn’t given him the least peep of a clue
. Was there any other possibility? Burlesque dancers? There had been news stories about police raids of narcotic distributors recently. When Alberta did not supply him with the gritty details, he’d read about them himself. That was as unlikely as being shanghaied. The Port-Land’s secret identity was an exciting prospect, immensely more so than the absent elevator operator. Mother would love this story.

  His eyes adjusted to a room aglow as if lit with dwarf jack-o’-lanterns. Winston sighed at the familiar bar decor—mirrors, wood, stains, the pungent residue of beer and cigarettes—and felt keen disappointment. There were no hoarse and colourful women and not even a single wayward reeling drunk, only quiet men at tables or at the bar bench. Though he had no clear picture how a junkie might act, he detected nothing suspicious. A wall of locomotive engine car pictures framed in heavy carved wood was the single unusual element he could spot.

  Dickie led him far from the doors to a murky corner near the back wall.

  “Dickie est arrivé,” an arch voice announced.

  “Mr. Wilson, may I introduce you to the gang? Clockwise from here”—he gestured with an open palm—“Ed Barnes, then Johnny Schmidt. Our last member is Pierre, though we call him La Contessa with utter respect.”

  To Winston’s eye, Dickie’s gang closely resembled a motley crew. If the Port-Land was a front, these men gave no clue to its true purpose, looking neither extraordinary nor mysterious. Ed was a chubby drunk, anyone could see it, no doubt acting the foolish delinquent at parties with lamp shade props and off-colour jokes. He was unshaven and had a drinkhound’s bleary focus. Johnny reminded Winston of Dickie, ill at ease and fussy. He wore too many rings and had hair heavily laden with pomade. Oily charm and an easy smile, like Liberace in Sincerely Yours. Reminiscent of a Saturday matinee gangster, he was shifty-eyed, as though expecting policemen to burst through the doors with tommy-guns ablaze. Older than the other men and wearing a faded and disheveled suit, Pierre appeared to be dozing. The air about their table was thick with aftershave and cigarette smoke. Winston noticed that the table was strewn with glasses, cigarette packages, matchbooks, and ashtrays. The waiter must be lazy, Winston thought, deserving fewer tips than he already received.

  Johnny stood, leaned awkwardly across the table, and offered his hand to Winston. “Welcome aboard,” he said.

  The table was silent, expectant. Winston, who felt that he had already been speaking for hours if not days, also understood that he needed to say still more. He looked around the room.

  “This place is certainly off the beaten track,” he remarked.

  “Yeah, well.… We’ve been loitering in this dump for years. It’s not respectable but we like it. It suits our needs,” Johnny explained.

  Ed stood now and extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wilson. How come we’ve never seen you before?”

  “Call me Winston, please.”

  “Someone forget to look in the mirror today, Ed? Charmant,” Dickie interjected.

  “You know me, Dickie.” Ed’s smile was embarrassed.

  Dickie turned to Winston. “Ed’s a veritable Cro Magnon, been shaving since he was ten. Has to shave his nose, I swear. Honestly, he gets five o’clock shadow at noon.” He made a sweeping gesture. “Almost requires a scythe.” Winston had already noticed Ed’s low hairline.

  Winston could not think of a word to add. To fill the silence he uttered a tentative “Oh.” He borrowed one of the wooden chairs from an adjoining table and sat down.

  “Mr. Wilson is from the Valley. He’s practically a farm hand.” Apparently Dickie tolerated lulls for only so long, Winston concluded. He looked around hoping to catch the waiter’s eye.

  “I’m a librarian, actually. Other than buying the occasional sack of potatoes at the Wong place, I’m afraid I’ve never been much of a farmer. My mother and I made a deal: she tends to the carrots and onions while I look after the dahlias. Every year we promise ourselves we’ll enter the Fall Fair….” He was satisfied that he’d made such a large contribution to the conversation.

  “The very salt of the earth, I tell you. There’s even a Ma Joad.” Dickie couldn’t help himself.

  Winston turned to address the silent Pierre.

  “Don’t worry about her,” Dickie stage-whispered. “She’s just taking a wee nap. In her twilight years and all that. Now, Johnny’s another story. He came to our very own Terminal City from Winterpeg”—he turned to his subject for a moment—“after a little stay down south in Hollywood.” Winston watched Dickie closely. He was puzzled about the man’s regard for his friend with the inexplicable nickname. He found Dickie’s teasing words distasteful, an obscure insult to the dozing man. And yet Dickie’s fondness for him was plain.

  “Is that true?” Winston asked. He’d travelled as far south as Seattle and had never seen a tree east of the Rockies.

  “Truly, it’s Dickie who ought to have jumped on the first train to Hollywood,” Johnny said. He waved his cigarette royally—imitating Dickie’s grand gesturing—and brushed aside Dickie’s sensationalism. “He’d be a natural coming up with scoops for the Enquirer. But, yes, it’s true I am from the Peg and did spend a few years toiling with the near greats in Tinseltown.”

  Dickie leaned close to Winston’s ear and wrapped his arm around the back of his chair: “And he used to be someone else—he was Dot West way back when.” The Port-Land had not been a wasted effort after all, Winston thought.

  Dot West was no stranger to Winston. Housewives between Thunder Bay and Victoria would recognize The Maven of Malkin’s Spices from ten paces way. She was young and shapely and so well organized. It was said her Kitchen Magic hints and ideas had saved many a marriage. Her basic philosophy of Really Tasty Made Really Easy kept men coming home and children strong and gave women some time outside the kitchen. Even Alberta had used Dot’s recipe for Maui Ginger Ribs. Winston had brought a platter of them ringed in halved pineapple slices to a staff Christmas party, and had been happy to return to his mother with glowing reports. When he’d explained to Mrs. Pierce that the recipe had come from Dot West, she’d nodded, “You can’t go wrong with her. You simply cannot. She’s such a smart cookie.” She’d asked Winston to remember to bring her a copy of the recipe.

  “Let me set things straight, alright? The whole truth, so help me God.” As he spoke, Johnny leaned in too, playing up the mock conspiracy. “We had the Art Department sketch us a housewife for our Age of Convenience, nobody too chicken feathers countrified and not too hoity-toity either, a housewife with a little extra going on upstairs. You know?” Johnny tapped his temple. Grabbing his beer, Johnny drank until the glass was drained. He lifted his hand to signal the thick-necked waiter. As the man barrelled toward their table, Winston could see that the true talent of this gruff man would shine whenever a brawl broke out. With a slow circling finger, Johnny ordered another round. The waiter returned promptly with a replenished tray. Coarse but familiar: “Here you go, ladies.” Hearing such slang used by the waiter—not a man of many words, clearly—Winston guessed that like many of the ridiculous expressions uttered by pupils over the years, this citified one would be long forgotten in five years’ time.

  Johnny handed him a stack of coins. “Thank you kindly,” Winston said. Holding up his beer, Johnny nodded a toast. His inky eyes were set and intent. Winston couldn’t imagine what those intentions might be.

  Johnny offered the Camel package to Winston and then lit a cigarette. He spoke again after he exhaled. “So,” he said, leaning back on his chair, “I named her Dot because it’s simple, clean, and easy to remember. The company’s market stretches westward to the Pacific from Winnipeg, so West seemed like a sure bet. That was the concept: a domestic goddess for Western Canada, or some damn thing. Then, at the head office we hired some pretty young wife from Saskatoon to be our Dot in ads and to make public appearances now and again at Malkin’s or sometimes at department stores. We had her take trains out for parades in cities; she tossed little spice canisters from atop the Malkin’
s float. Anyway, she just followed our cues; couldn’t boil an egg to save her life. The household magic was lifted from women’s mags and fancied up a bit. And every recipe was my own.”

  Winston imagined that Johnny was used to speaking to roomfuls of executives in order to pitch ideas. His style of speaking was not hypnotic so much as melodic. The rolling cadence drew the listener in naturally.

  “She really caught on. We thought that we could really capitalize on that popularity, use her as a house brand”—he stopped to swallow some beer—“you know, Dot West Creamed Corn, Dot West Peas. Her pretty face beaming from every damn place. Then the higher ups at Westfair Foods thought Dot had run her course and cleared out the PR department. Of course, they’ve kept her going since I left. I gather they’re going to phase out that campaign more slowly than they had originally planned. Or maybe they just wanted to trim some fat and get rid of us creative types. Pared us right out of their payroll, that’s for sure.”