The Journal of Mortifying Moments

by Robyn Harding

  “He says I can come if I want.”

  “Where exactly does he live in Canada?”

  “Calgary.”

  “Oh.” I rack my brain to recall what I have heard about Calgary: mountains, snow, the Calgary Stampede (which is some big cowboy festival, I think). “Have you ever been to Calgary?” I ask.

  “Once.”

  “It gets really cold there, you know.”

  Shrug.

  “And a lot of the people dress in Western wear. I don’t know how you feel about that, but personally I think that look should be reserved for rodeos and cowboy movies.”

  “Whatever,” she says, looking out her window.

  It dawns on me that bashing the weather and fashion sense of Calgary is probably not going to dissuade her from moving there. What would? What could I say that would make her stop and think? How can I keep her from leaving so I don’t look like a complete and utter failure at yet another project?

  And then it hits me. There, stuck in I-5 traffic with my fifteen-year-old protégée, I have something of an epiphany. I wouldn’t say I’d acquired Zen wisdom, but this has to be pretty close.

  I suddenly realize that Tiffany is not a project; she’s a confused and frightened girl. And this isn’t about me failing as a mentor at all. It isn’t about me, period. I can’t believe how selfish and self-absorbed I am. No wonder my karma is so crappy! Even when I’m trying to do something good and giving, it all comes back to how it affects me. It is more than a little disturbing that I am first having this revelation at thirty-one, but better late than never.

  I turn and look at Tiffany. She is staring straight ahead, her expression blank. And suddenly I remember what it feels like to be fifteen and insecure, to have issues with your parents and no boyfriend. I can see through all the makeup, the faded jeans jacket and the love of wrestling and hockey fights.

  “Tiffany . . .,” I say gently. She turns and looks at me. “I know you’re going to do whatever you think is right, but I want you to know that . . . I’ll miss you if you go.”

  “Thanks,” she says, and smiles. It is the most genuine smile I’ve ever seen.

  We enter the aquarium and find ourselves immersed in an eerie undersea reality. The lights are low, the undulating patterns of the water from the tanks reflect on our faces. We are amid a sea of people, milling about. The crowd is a mixture of somber business people, sullen teenagers, and other mentors, like me, with cheerful smiles pasted on their faces. Theresa, in a baggy black sweater covered in cat hair greets us warmly.

  “Hey! Tiffany and Kerry! How’s it going?”

  “Good,” I respond for both of us. “We’re good.”

  “Cool. Let me get you some name tags,” she says, writing our names with red marker on a couple of sticky tags. “Here you are.”

  “Thanks,” I say as I place HELLO. MY NAME IS KERRY on my chest. Tiffany rolls her eyes but follows suit.

  “Feel free to browse through the aquarium,” Theresa continues. “You’ll find food and beverages by the whale tank, courtesy of our corporate sponsor Raincoast, Inc.” I recall that Raincoast is the large shipping firm that provided the hockey tickets. That would explain all the business people here.

  “We’ll all be gathering there for a couple of speeches later.”

  “Great.” I look at Tiffany eagerly. She appears indifferent.

  Theresa hands us a pink photocopied piece of paper. “Here are a few special events tonight that you might enjoy. We have some interactive exhibits with aquarium personnel. You can touch a real starfish and a sea cucumber!” she says, looking at Tiffany.

  Tiffany looks at her like she’d just suggested waxing a fat man’s back hair might be fun.

  “And there will be a shark feeding at eight.”

  “Yessss!” Tiffany and I high-five. Theresa looks a bit bemused, but I don’t care. We are really bonding.

  “Shall we head to the snack table before the shark feeding?” I ask.

  “Sure,” Tiffany says brightly.

  We meander through the walls of fish tanks, stopping periodically to look at unique sea creatures. Tiffany seems more open to the experience now that she has some blood and gore to look forward to. As we peer in at an octopus shooting its way fluidly through the water, we hear, “Hey, Tiffany!”

  “Oh, hi, Brian,” she replies—not quite enthusiastically, but at least not with open hostility. My eyes search for Brian’s mentor, and I spot him making his way through the crowd toward us.

  I smile, happy to see his familiar (and handsome) face. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” Nick beams back, obviously pleased to see me, as well. “Are you guys having a good time?”

  “We are,” I say, again answering for Tiffany. “We were just heading to the snack table before the shark feeding.”

  “Oh, yeah! It’s so right on!” Brian is effusive. “Last year we saw it, and it was so crazy!”

  “Really?” Tiffany asks. Brian launches into a detailed description of the feeding frenzy, allowing Nick and me to chat.

  “It’s good to see you again.” He smiles warmly.

  “You, too.”

  “How are things at the advertising agency?”

  “Oh, God.” I moan and roll my eyes. “Terrible. I’m seriously thinking about looking for a new job after Christmas.”

  “That’s too bad,” he says. “Do you mean another job in advertising—or something different?”

  “Well . . .” I pause thoughtfully. “I don’t really know. I’d definitely be open to something new.”

  “Can we go eat now?” Tiffany interjects. Tiffany and Brian lead the way, with Brian stopping at sites of interest—piranhas, sting rays, electric eels (anything possibly lethal). Nick and I tag along behind.

  “So Nick . . . you know that I have a lousy job in advertising. What do you do?”

  “I’m the director of a program called Art Smarts. Have you heard of it?”

  “Uh . . . no.”

  “We send artists into elementary schools to integrate art into the regular curriculum. We use creative projects to help students learn all subjects more effectively—from science to math to social studies. It’s proven to have a very positive impact on learning.”

  “Wow,” I say quietly. I am somewhat awed.

  “Sorry,” he laughs. “Sometimes I’m like a walking brochure.”

  “No . . . it sounds great.” It really does. Nick is helping to shape young minds for the future. I make ads that scare people into thinking their children will develop crack addictions without a high-speed Internet connection. My life is so meaningless and empty.

  “How long have you been with the arts program?” I ask when we reach the snack table.

  “Four years,” he says, pouring a glass of punch and offering it to me. “I started the program, actually.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah. I was in sales before that.”

  “Eww!” I make a face. “Oh, sorry.”

  Nick laughs. “I know, I know! But it’s not as bad as it sounds.”

  “Then why did you leave?”

  “Well . . .” Nick takes a drink of his punch. “I was with one of the large beer companies, and my career was going really well, actually. But I just felt . . . like I wasn’t doing any good in the world, you know? I mean, I have nothing against beer, but—I wanted to be helping people. I know it sounds corny.”

  “It doesn’t,” I say, staring at him with open admiration.

  “And I’d always been really interested in art. I had initially wanted to get a fine arts degree, but everyone said it wasn’t practical.”

  I nod agreement. I’d considered studying creative writing.

  “And I love kids,” he says, gesturing at our two protégés, who are filling their plates with sweets. “So I decided to combine the two. I hooked up with a couple of artist friends, and we came up with Art Smarts.”

  “I’m so impressed,” I say, so impressed. “You just quit the corporate world and started
your own charity? Do you realize how brave that is?”

  “Well, I’d made some really good investments in the early nineties. When I cashed them out, I had some money to play with. My friends wanted me to go to Mexico with them, but I wanted to do something important with the money.”

  Suddenly, I can feel tears welling up. Damn it! How embarrassing. But something about meeting someone so selfless and caring and really trying to make a difference makes me feel emotional. “That’s just . . . so . . . wonderful,” I say, blinking frantically.

  “It’s okay.” Nick squeezes my forearm. “I went to Mexico the next year.”

  “Kerry!” Tiffany calls through a mouthful of shortbread as I laugh and punch Nick playfully on the shoulder. “Check this out.” I join Tiffany and Brian before the tank holding a dwarf crocodile.

  When I return to my former spot, Nick has moved toward the whale tank and is talking to an older woman in a severe charcoal suit. His eyes dart up and meet mine, and I feel a dart of electricity between us—at least I think I do. Nick gestures for me to join them and then makes the introductions.

  “Kerry, this is Sharon Talisman from Raincoast, Inc. Kerry works at Ferris and Shannon Advertising. She’s just joined the mentoring program.”

  “Nice to meet you, Sharon.” I shake her hand firmly.

  “Ferris and Shannon, eh?” she says knowledgably. “I worked with Gerald Ferris back in the seventies. How is he?”

  “Great . . . I think. He’s retired so . . . how much better could he be?”

  “Ha ha!” Sharon laughs loudly. “Well, nice meeting you, Kerry. And nice to see you, Nick. Duty calls!” And she heads up to the podium.

  “Thank you for coming, everyone,” she says into the microphone. As it turns out, Sharon Talisman is in charge of corporate sponsorship for Raincoast. She says a few words of gratitude for our commitment to helping high- to medium-risk teens and then introduces the director of Shooting Star. Meg Rosen is an athletic-looking, fortyish blonde who reiterates Sharon’s points and then passes the mic to a mentor and protégé who want to share their rewarding experience with others.

  After the speeches, we mill about until it is time to head to the shark feeding. I wander to the whale tank, irresistibly drawn to the black-and-white orcas. I always feel rather melancholy when I watch the beautiful giants float past, so dignified as they try to ignore the spectators gawking into their world. When I think that whales are nearly as intelligent as humans, and yet they’re confined to these small concrete pools I—Oh, dear. Here I go. Think of something else! Think of something else! Don’t start crying at the Shooting Star Christmas party. What is wrong with me? I must be premenstrual.

  “I love whales.” Suddenly, Nick is at my side.

  “So do I,” I say, looking up at him. God, he really is attractive—tall, with broad shoulders and those twinkly blue eyes. And that’s not to mention that he is socially responsible, a wise investor, and a lover of whales.

  “I’d rather see them in the wild, though. I find it kind of depressing to see them in these small concrete tanks. I’ve always wanted to go on one of those whale-watching expeditions in the Gulf Islands.”

  I bite my tongue to keep from offering to book us on the next tour. “That would be great, wouldn’t it?” I say, in a tone that practically begs him to include me. Oops. I smile up at him and I feel another electrical moment between us. God, I hope he’s feeling it, too.

  “Let’s go, you guys!” Brian calls to us. “We want to find a spot on the glass.”

  We are twenty minutes early, but Tiffany and Brian have secured a prime viewing spot. Tiffany is being so much nicer to Brian this meeting, it warms my heart. In fact, my heart is incredibly warm tonight—I don’t know if it is my spiritual epiphany, the Christmas spirit, or hanging out with a nice guy like Nick—but I’m positively glowing with goodwill. And I feel on the verge of tears for some reason—must be the whales.

  Nick and I talk easily while we wait for the feeding frenzy and are enjoying our conversation so much that we remain in our spots at the back, even as the event begins. We are like two proud parents watching our bloodthirsty children cheer as the sharks tear apart the fish tipped into the tank. Before I know it, the evening is over, and I find myself feeling disappointed.

  “It was great to see you again, Nick,” I say as Tiffany and I prepare to depart. “We’d better get going. I’ve got to drop Tiffany off in Auburn and then get back downtown to Queen Anne.”

  “You’re in Queen Anne? I live in Belltown,” Nick says. “Not too far from you.”

  “That’s where my mom lives,” I say. “On Battery.”

  “I’m just a couple of blocks from there.”

  Then before I know what I am saying, the words spill out of my mouth. “My mom’s having an open house on the twelfth of December. Since you’re in the neighborhood . . . maybe . . . you could drop by? It would keep me from dying of boredom . . . you know . . . if you want . . .”

  He looks at me with an amused expression. For a brief moment, the magnitude of my stupidity almost overwhelms me! Did I really invite this guy I’ve just met to meet my hippie mother, her overly affectionate boy toy, and a wide range of family friends and relatives?

  Then he says, “Sure. I’d love to meet your mother. Send me an e-mail with the details.” And with a laugh and a squeeze of my shoulder, he leaves.

  “Oh, my God!” my friend Kelly shrieked, giving my hand a painful squeeze. “Can you fucking believe we’re really here?”

  “No!” I squealed back, squeezing her hand equally as hard. “I can’t fucking believe it!”

  “London! London fucking England,” Kelly continued. “We are in fucking London, England!!” Kelly liked to swear a lot, which was apparently contagious.

  “I know!” I replied, staring out the window of the speeding cab, soaking in my first glimpse of European scenery. Well . . . it was the first that I could remember. My parents had brought my brother and me here when I was two. “God! It’s so fucking awesome.”

  “Even this taxi is cool,” she said, gesturing widely with her arms to take in the spacious backseat of the vehicle. “A London fucking cab!”

  Twenty minutes later, the London fucking cab pulled up in front of the Flying Mallard hostel in Earl’s Court.

  “That’ll be twenty-two pounds girls,” our rosy-cheeked, sweaty driver said.

  “Twenty-two pounds?” We muttered to each other while fishing in our wallets. “That’s like . . . sixty U.S. dollars, isn’t it?”

  “No, I think it’s more like thirty . . . or is it forty?”

  “Whatever it is,” Kelly mumbled, hoisting her backpack from the sidewalk, where the driver had unceremoniously dumped it, “we’d better take the train back to the airport tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow, we would be returning to Heathrow airport, where we would go directly to the international arrivals gate, and pretend we had just deplaned. When my father came to pick us up, we would be jubilant but jet-lagged, elated but exhausted. It was all part of our plan.

  You see, my dad had paid for my ticket to London—Kelly’s, too. He had wanted my brother and me to come out for a visit, but Greg was in the midst of a (what he considered) very important soccer tournament. When I said I wasn’t keen on traveling alone, he’d offered to pony up for a friend to accompany me. Kelly was a friend from college. We spent most weekends together drinking pints of beer, doing kamikaze shooters, and dancing into the wee hours at a variety of nightclubs. She was the perfect traveling companion.

  The purpose of this trip was to visit family. I had not seen my dad for nearly a year and a half since he moved back to London. His Surrey house would be overflowing with aunts and uncles and cousins, none of whom I’d seen since I’d been potty-trained. I could hardly subject Kelly to all this without at least one night’s respite.

  So we checked into the Flying Mallard and deposited our luggage in the room we would share with six other girls. We each took a shower wearing flip-flops to
avoid contracting any scary travelers’ foot fungus, put on our cutest London-clubbing outfits, and headed to the nearest pub.

  “Even the beer tastes different,” I said, hoisting my heavy mug of lager.

  “Tastes fucking great!” Kelly enthused, taking an enormous swallow.

  “Excuse me?” It was a cute English bloke a couple of tables down. He was seated with an even cuter friend who was smoking a cigarette in that very cool British manner. “Where are you girls from?”

  “Seattle,” Kelly said.

  “In the United States,” I added.

  “We know where Seattle is,” the smoker said in his charming accent.

  “Oh, do you now?” Kelly flirted. “How impressive!”

  Within minutes, the two had joined us, and we were on our second pint of beer. Their names were Mick and Billy. They lived in Shepherds Bush. Mick had a job that had something to do with driving a lorry, and Billy was on some kind of maintenance crew, fixing up parks in the burrough. Wherever they lived, whatever they did, they were absolutely dreamy.

  “Which one do you like?” Kelly whispered when Mick had gone to the “loo” and Billy was buying more drinks.

  “I don’t know,” I giggled. “Which one do you like?”

  “I think I like Mick, but I’m not sure he’s into me,” she said, lighting a cigarette. I followed suit. Neither of us smoked, but we did when we were out on the town in London.

  “I think he’s totally into you,” I assured her.

  “Really?” she asked skeptically, inhaling deeply. “I’m not sure—”

  “Oh, yeah! It’s really obvious.”

  “Well, I think Billy totally likes you.”

  “Really?” I blushed and giggled some more. “Do you think so?”

  “Like, duh? You have this like . . . connection. I can totally feel it.”

  “Do we?” I tittered excitedly. “Can you?”

  “Shhhh! Here they come.”

  Three pints later, Mick and Kelly had their own connection—at the mouth. They were making out as if they’d both just been released from prison, completely oblivious of our presence. Billy and I talked and laughed, trying to ignore the soft-porn scene carrying out just inches from us. I didn’t mind, really. Billy was so funny, and so cute—thin and attractively unhealthy looking in his pale, English way. His hair flopped into his eyes, and his chin was covered in just the right amount of stubble. And maybe it was his accent, but everything he said sounded either incredibly intelligent or completely hilarious!