The Age of Cities

by Brett Josef Grubisic

At the front door, Winston yelled out, “Hello, Mother,” and walked to his bedroom. He felt eager to discard the visible signs of the day. Even in his room, the air was redolent with Alberta’s Lapsang Souchung.

  Once his cardigan was buttoned up and his feet were inside slippers, Winston was looking forward to tea and conversation in the kitchen’s soft light.

  “It’s coming down in buckets,” Alberta said as she was looking out the window above the sink.

  “Thought I’d get caught in it.” Winston picked up Grendel and cradled him upside down. The cat, he knew, would stay relaxed for well under a minute.

  “You got a letter from the city.”

  Winston looked at her and thought he saw a trace of Delilah Pierce’s pursed lips. Alberta disapproved of this friendship, he understood. They had exchanged no words over it, though she had remarked about their apparent frivolity—based solely on what he selected to tell her—and his travel extravagance more than once. She believed they ought to at least make the effort of visiting him. For Winston, their visit to the country was anathema; he did not want Dickie and Alberta to ever share tea and biscuits and idle conversation. Here was another rock and a hard place, he sighed.

  Winston strode to the front hall. The envelope was from Dickie, of course—at some time he’d been voted in as the gang’s official secretary of correspondence.

  The note’s tone was slapdash and teasing:

  April 24, 1965

  Farmer—

  We miss the pleasure of your company. We’ve discovered a new haunt, The Embassy (The Fembassy, actually, if you catch my drift). It’s a stone’s throw from the respectable part of town. And right next to a greaser hang out. What luck!! It’s a delight, in short. We’re heading out tonight.

  Yours,

  Dickie & Co.

  A trip to the city might be just the tonic that would fix what ailed him, he thought. Next weekend, perhaps.

  “I stopped in and talked with Mr. Bryson today. He gave me a few new brochures.” She slid them across the table. Her excitement about their long-deferred bus tour to Nevada had grown visible as the date loomed closer. Winston looked at the tiny, inviting pictures—a cactus-shaped swimming pool, a young couple holding fancy cocktails, a stage of sequined performers, and a golden room the size of a warehouse filled with gamblers swathed in shimmering Hollywood glamour. High Rollers! exclaimed the cover of another pamphlet. Winston reached down when he felt Grendel butt up against his calf; he’d rebounded from the humiliation of not five minutes before.

  His picture of the craggy, sun-blasted state—so tidy, pristine, and rectilinear on the map—was now overrun with frantic gamblers in man-made oases and cigarette-smoking crooners speeding through their rote-smooth patter night after night. The incongruity of the elements perplexed him. Atomic bomb test explosions and carrion birds crowded their way into his vision. Picturing a frost-crusted D.E.W. outpost, he guessed that the desert could also be a place where the American military kept their arsenal of missiles stored away. No one would suspect a thing. It was the middle of nowhere; one might hide a whole fleet of B-52 bombers there with no fear of being found out.

  Standing at the table, Alberta was reading a brochure. “It will be such marvelous fun,” she said.

  Winston wondered whether any of the gang—Johnny, most probably—might know of any special places he might visit while there. There must be some cocktail lounge. Alberta would want to spend one or two afternoons gambling. He’d oblige her and find something else to occupy his time.

  “You’re right, Mother, it will,” he said.

  Winston watched the crows gathering on the clothesline. They were silent for the moment, but he knew that soon enough they’d begin to caw.

  Appendix I:

  The Reeves Business College Guide to Beauty • Charm • Poise archive

  The local surfacing of the foregoing narrative’s manuscript was a fortuitous accident. A detailed account of its discovery within a 1958 high school Home Economics manual entitled Junior Homemaking can be found in Afterword (An Introduction). Literally bound to that Home Economics textbook with elastic bands, another quaint tome, the Reeves Business College Guide to Beauty • Charm • Poise, divulged two germane varieties of artifact that had been stowed away between its pages.

  The first (see Appendix II: “Obscenity”) is an eight-page scene that features Dickie, Ed, and Johnny; if inserted into the principal narrative it would logically follow the dinner at the Bamboo Terrace sequence in “J[une 19]59.” The complete absence of Winston from the scene—which would be the sole instance in the story—offers one plausible explanation for its physical exclusion from the Junior Homemaking cachette. Another possibility, as the manuscript’s scrawled title hints, relates to the scene’s frank discussion of sexual intercourse. Such explicit description would simply not have been publishable in its day; nor does its coarseness accord, sensu stricto, with the tone of the larger manuscript.

  The second lot of material, an assortment of five historical artifacts, is intriguing insofar as three of the documents are named explicitly during Winston’s appearance at the curriculum planning committee’s meeting at the conclusion of “A[pril 19]59”; Dickie’s invitation to his “Errol Flung!” masquerade in “O[ctober 19]59” replicates the headline of the fourth. Such source material furnishes clues about the cultural currents that the author aimed to synthesize into the novel’s pages, making a direct correlation between the novel’s setting and the historical reality of the author’s era. The final artifact, a flattened canister of Malkin’s brand mace, confirms the historical veracity of Dot West and is, moreover, suggestive of a linkage between the author and the world of advertising represented by Johnny Schmidt.

  —A.X.P.

  Figure 1a.

  Cover

  The Keys to Love and Sex (in Eight Volumes):

  Volume 4: The Abnormal Aspects of Sex

  by Joseph McCabe, edited by E. Haldeman-Julius

  (Girard, Kansas: Haldeman-Julius Publications, n.d.)

  Figure 1b.

  Table of Contents

  The Keys to Love and Sex (in Eight Volumes):

  Volume 4: The Abnormal Aspects of Sex

  by Joseph McCabe, edited by E. Haldeman-Julius

  (Girard, Kansas: Haldeman-Julius Publications, n.d.)

  Figure 2.

  ‘Homosexuality’

  From Chapter VII, “Sex Disorders.”

  In Attaining Manhood: A Doctor Talks to Boys About Sex

  Second Edition, Revised and Enlarged by George W. Corner, M.D.

  (New York: Harper and Row, 1952: 75, 76)

  Figure 3.

  ‘Is an “irresistible urge” an acceptable excuse?’

  Detail from “Appendix One: Abstracts From the House

  of Lords Debate 19th May, 1954.”

  In They Stand Apart: A Critical Survey of

  the Problem of Homosexuality

  edited by His Honour Judge Tudor Rees and

  Harley V. Usill (London: William Heinemann, 1955: 202)

  Figure 4.

  “Actor Dies in Vancouver Suite”

  by Jack Wasserman, The Sun, final edition,

  Thursday October 15, 1959: A1

  Figure 5.

  “Dot West says…”

  Pure Mace canister

  Westfair Foods Ltd

  Head Office, Winnipeg, Canada

  Appendix II: “Obscenity”

  Johnny stood behind the bar, all the while complaining in a low voice. Mixology was an art, he repeated, requiring an intuitive eye. The best bartender is no scientist stirring a beaker with his nose in a book. “Come and taste,” he commanded, and offered Ed the completed cocktail, his palm flattened into a serving tray. “It’s no science, I tell you. You either have a feel for it or you don’t.”

  “Hmmm,” Ed replied, swishing the liquid from cheek to cheek. “A bit sweet, actually. If only you’d used the jigger….”

  “Why don’t you two give it a rest,” Dic
kie said with a tremulous voice, reclining on the armchair, legs crossed. “You know, I’m feeling a wee bit misty-eyed. The shenanigans between your nubile nephew—and just what possessed you to pull that fib out of the air?—and that busty thing a table over tonight got me to thinking about young love. It’s been ages, I know, but I used to be a bright young lad, chock full of ‘will you be my valentine?’”

  He made his way to the mirror and leaned in closely. “You’d never guess it now, would you? I see a veritable stampede of crow’s feet before me.”

  “You’re glorious, Miss Desmond,” Johnny said from the bar.

  “What about you two? Were you once fresh-cheeked maidens with delicate pink hearts all aflutter?”

  “Is it true love you’re speaking of or merely the beast with two backs?” Johnny asked. He squeezed a lemon wedge with a flourish.

  “Let me see. Now that you’ve given me a choice, I say a plain old groping with the lights out story might liven us up a bit. Things have become a un peu grave since we left the Farmer at Bamboo Terrace.”

  “You first, then.” Cocktail tray in hand he walked over to Dickie and then onward to the chesterfield. “Scoot over,” he said to Ed.

  “I suppose you both know of the Captain and the Contessa? Well, my story is nowhere near so sublime. After I finished high school, I worked in the Shoe Department at Fields. It was okay. Anyway, one day a businessman—who shall remain nameless—came over.” Dickie strode away from the mirror at a purposeful pace and sat at the edge of the coffee table.

  “He tried on pair after pair, all the while giving me the eye and asking questions about school, girls, what I planned to do with myself, and so on. When no one was around, he clasped my hand and placed it smack dab on his thigh. I could feel the heat right through his trousers. Then, in an everyday voice, he announced he’d come back at closing time. He left without even buying polish!

  “When closing time rolled around, he hadn’t returned. I was such a naïve thing!” He drew from his cocktail for a moment. “I had absolutely no idea what he had planned. The actual physical part, if you know what I mean. Back then I didn’t know an iota about Greek this or French that. Why would I? Well, I had seen writing on the wall, but that’s another story. Anyway, all the day, I imagined us kissing, but when I tried to picture what would happen after that, my imagination failed me. Completely. When he didn’t show, I felt a bit miffed because it was an exciting prospect. Of course, nothing like that had ever happened to me before, so naturally I was on tenterhooks.

  “I left Fields with a glum face, but the man was sitting behind the wheel of his car. He waved me over and asked me if I wanted to take a ride with him. Once inside he directed my hand right to his lap again, but this time I could feel more than heat. Quite a lot more. I’d have had to be daft to miss it. Like a cucumber, I tell you.” He placed his drink on the table and raised his hands to measure, fisherman-style.

  “Oh boy, that’s big alright.” Ed raised his eyebrows.

  “When I got home my mother asked where I traipsed off to after work. She was happy to hear that I’d gone out with friends from Fields. Her little Richie was fitting in!” He stood up and walked toward the balcony door. Rain was pouring in sheets.

  “Well, it’s not a romantic story, but there you have it. You know, we went for drives for about a year. For some reason he’d always bring me donuts, a boxed baker’s dozen each time.... It was hell on the figure, I tell you, but I didn’t think it would be polite to refuse them. His wife must have suspected something. The poor idiot bought them from the bakery where she worked.”

  “Very nice, Dickie. Now come back over here and make yourself comfortable. It must have been quite an education he gave you. Alright then, I have two stories, one bent and one straight,” Johnny said with a smirk.

  “I don’t want to hear a fishy tale,” Dickie grimaced.

  “Both?” Ed asked.

  “Another time.”

  “Okay, here goes. The place: flat and ugly Flin Flon, industrial heart of northern Manitoba. The date: the last day of the blistering summer of 1937. War was in the air and my only dream was to get out of that backward mining town any way I could.”

  “Oh, the drama!” Dickie was smiling.

  “Like dearest Dickie, I was slaving away selling shoes and shirts to the wives of working stiffs. It was lousy, but it was either MacLeods Mercantile or in the copper pits with every other schmo. Those men looked old, I tell you, even when they were twenty-one. Poor Frankie would be stooped and weathered like a grandfather by now. We’d be beyond the pale, needless to say.”

  “Anyway, Saint Johnny. Enough with the bleeding heart.”

  “You’ve got the patience of a bird!” he said, glaring at Dickie. “‘I stuck it in him.’ There you go. End of story. Satisfied?” He reached into his shirt pocket for matches.

  “C’mon,” Ed said, interrupting the silence.

  “Only if Impatient Griselda over there behaves herself.”

  “Yes, ok, very well,” Dickie said, crossing his legs.

  “I wasn’t too close to anyone,” Johnny said. He slowly stirred his drink with his finger. “I think I was a wee bit obnoxious in those days because I was forever carrying on about Madison Avenue and the Big Life. If I met someone like my younger self right now I’d think he was a pompous fool. Give him a little smack and take him down a notch.

  “Anyway”—Johnny swallowed the last if his cocktail—“There was another boy, a carrot-top also named John, who planned on getting to Europe. He joined the army in hopes of making it there sooner than later … and I suppose he did, and stayed there too, six feet under in Belgium.

  “We knew each other well enough to nod a hello and to pass the time. He came into the store one day with an envelope in his hand. ‘I’m gonna get there, I know it’ he said, and showed me the letter from the Department of Defense.

  “I was proud of his escape and not a little envious. When he invited me to come to his house, I accepted, even though I’d never been there before. He lived with his parents still. I figured he was just celebrating his victory and wanted anyone—including myself—along for the ride.”

  He paused and stubbed out his cigarette. “Gee, it’s coming down in buckets,” Ed exclaimed, face slanting upward to the ceiling.

  “So when I got there his mother answered the door. I introduced myself and she said they were expecting me. She led me to the living room. His dad and two sisters were there, the father telling his son about his time in the trenches. Afterwards, when I thought about it, I guessed the joviality was forced. They’d stationed his father in France during the Great War, after all, so everyone knew that going to Europe would not mean only sunsets on the Seine.”

  Dickie cleared his throat loudly twice and checked his watch.

  “Okay, okay,” Johnny continued. “We sat around for a while. John’s father offered us some beer, which we accepted like it was an everyday event. Not too much later we headed upstairs to John’s bedroom. It was his mother’s suggestion. ‘I’ll bet you two want to talk on your own,’ she’d chimed. Up there he told me he’d always thought we were quite alike and I guessed that he meant we both wanted to get out of Flin Flon. Nope.

  “He put his finger to his lips for a sec, then kept talking about Parisian this and that, then put his ear to the door. He was painting a picture with his words, but eventually—just like Dickie’s mystery beau—he grabbed my hand and placed it fly level on his trousers. Then he sat right next to me and ran his hands along my shirt toward the waist. He unbuckled my pants. I just sat there witless.”

  Johnny stopped and looked from Ed to Dickie. “Another round, gentlemen?” he asked with the hint of a smile.

  “I can wait,” Ed said.

  “So can I, till you finish your story at least,” Dickie said.

  “Okay, so in about ten seconds flat, he had my pants at my knees and his around his ankles. He sat directly on me. I slid in. Just like that. All the time he was downsta
irs with his family, he had been greased up and planning to take it from me. With him bouncing up and down like a fiend—a very quiet one, mind you—I lasted all of a minute.

  “He must have done that all a time or two before. With whom, I could never fathom. It did give me pause, though, a fresh perspective on Flin Flon’s twilight society. He was like a pro. I’m not exactly bantam weight, as you might have heard on the grapevine.”

  “Or read on the men’s room wall,” Ed said.

  “Of course, Johnny. You’re a giant amongst men.” Dickie rolled his eyes.

  “And, of course, I never had a chance to ask. I didn’t see him again after that night.”

  “He didn’t waste any time, did he, right down to business?” Dickie asked. “The donut man kept my face muffled in his lap for the whole year. We never did anything else. Not even a kiss.”

  “Edwina? It’s your turn,” Dickie said.

  “Well, you know that I grew up just south of Calgary, right?” Ed said. “We’d hire guys around harvest time. His name was Bran.”

  “Bran?” Dickie squealed. “You have got to be kidding. Are you sure it wasn’t ‘Husk’ or maybe ‘Chaff’?”

  “Be nice, Dickie. We didn’t make fun of your Mr. Donut,” Johnny said.

  “Very well. Fix us another round, perhaps? It’ll calm my frayed nerves.” Dickie tilted his empty glass back and forth with mock insistence.

  “Ed?” Johnny was already on his way to the bar.

  “Please. Just a smidgen less sweet this time.”

  Johnny stuck out his tongue in reply.

  “Would you mind if I fixed us a snack, Dickie, some crackers and cheese?” Ed asked. “I’m peckish. You know what they say about Chinese food.”

  “Help yourself,” Dickie said. “There are some dill pickles too. Check the refrigerator.”