The Money Shot

by Glenn Dier

  “Security,” she replied in a deadpan manner, not bothering to make eye contact. She turned a page of her newspaper.

  You belong in an episode of Mad Men, thought Sebastian. Grey hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and a prim dress. Happy Birthday cards stood on her desk.

  You don’t look a day over seventy, honey.

  Sebastian checked his watch. He had been waiting half an hour. The watch was a gift from his father, presented when he graduated with his Bachelor of Journalism. He didn’t like it.

  The watch face contained the Indian-Head test pattern—a black and white icon from the earliest days of TV. At first, he considered the retro look dapper. Then Generation Y constantly annoyed him with the question, “What’s a test pattern?” It made no sense to them. Imagine, television stations signing on and calibrating your TV with circles and lines. And what was up with the guy wearing the Native headdress? The final indignity came from Dour Donna. She chastised him for insulting First Nations peoples and declared the watch racist. What possessed him to wear that watch on this day?

  The receptionist answered her phone.

  “You can go in now, Mr. Hunter. The premier is ready for you.”

  Sebastian leapt out of the chair. He had been summoned to the premier’s office with the promise he’d have the scoop of the decade, but he had to come alone.

  “Just one thing, Mr. Hunter,” said the receptionist, “you must leave your phone with me.”

  Surrendering a cellphone was standard protocol during the budget lockup every spring. But for a meeting with the premier? Sebastian had never heard of such a thing. Still, the receptionist’s sternness implied the request was not debatable. He handed it over.

  The receptionist opened a drawer and took out a hammer. She whacked Sebastian’s iPhone. The screen cracked like a windshield hit by a flying stone.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Security.”

  She bashed it again, so hard the hammer bounced off the phone. She whaled away until the screen was completely shattered.

  “Don’t worry,” she assured Sebastian, “your conversation with the premier will be more than enough compensation.”

  The receptionist opened a clear, torpedo-shaped canister. She laid Sebastian’s crippled phone inside and closed the buckles before standing the canister upright in a tube. Sebastian heard a sucking sound and the canister whooshed out of sight.

  “Let me guess—security.”

  Sebastian faced the closed-circuit camera. He wondered who was watching, who was laughing at him. He gave the prying eyes a profile, kissed a couple of fingers and planted them on a buttock. The premier’s door buzzed and Sebastian stomped through.

  “Sebastian,” said the premier, sitting behind her mahogany desk. “I’m so glad to see you’ve finally dried out. That dunk tank was so much fun, wasn’t it.”

  “You should try it sometime. I’m sure you’d make a big splash.”

  The premier’s face soured. “Sit down.”

  Sebastian rolled over a high-back, leather chair and sat opposite the premier.

  “Sebastian, you’ve been making scurrilous inquiries about an unfortunate time in my life.” She wagged her finger. “I don’t really appreciate it.”

  “Since you brought it up, Premier, did you snort cocaine in your twenties?”

  “I did indeed, Sebastian. And what’s more, I’ve never kicked the habit entirely.” She lifted the lid on a writing box and plucked out a packet of white powder.

  “Is that cocaine?” asked an astonished Sebastian.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, shaking the packet.

  Reflex took over. Sebastian drove his hand into his jacket pocket and groped for his iPhone. His whole body sagged when he remembered that his camera was dead and buried in a pneumatic tube.

  “I consider myself a social user,” said the premier. “Special occasions, that sort of thing. And I only use cocaine. Never crack. I’m no Rob Ford. I have my standards.”

  The premier opened her purse—a sensible handbag, the kind favoured by Margaret Thatcher. She clutched a cosmetics mirror and nail file. A gentle tug broke the packet’s seal and she poured a thin line on the mirror.

  “It’s always more fun to watch myself.” She winked. “And a little bump never hurts.”

  Sebastian’s mouth dropped. The premier’s intercom buzzed.

  “Yes, Norma?”

  “Premier, would you like some music piped in? Clapton’s ‘Cocaine’ perhaps, or the original version by J.J. Cale.”

  “Not today, thank you.” The premier flicked a button. “She thinks of everything.”

  The premier used a nail file to break up clumps and smooth out the edges. She took a twenty-dollar bill from her wallet.

  “These new polymer bills make a perfect tube,” she said, rolling the bill. “No wrinkles.”

  She leaned over the mirror, inserted the tube in one nostril and closed the other with a finger. “Your tax dollars hard at work.”

  The blaring snort startled Sebastian. Cocaine flew past Her Majesty’s nose and into the premier’s. She inhaled the line, vacuuming every grain.

  The premier pointed the tube at Sebastian’s wrist. “Too bad your Indian head can’t take pictures of a cokehead.”

  Sebastian flung the chair back as he stood up. “Premier, even without video, thank you for the story of my career. It will end yours.” He strutted to the door.

  “One more thing, Sebastian.” He hesitated reaching for the doorknob. “I did the same trick for Janice Stone just before you came in. Except she had her phone. The video was very good quality. I suspect it will be all over the web by the time you get back to the office.”

  “Bitch!” screamed Sebastian.

  •

  Sebastian flinched and whimpered under the duvet.

  “Wake up,” said Roxanne, shaking his shoulder. Sebastian opened his eyes. “Are you alright?” she asked.

  He let out a long phew. “What a dream I was having. It was insane.”

  “Who’s the bitch?”

  “What?”

  “You said the word bitch.”

  Sebastian chuckled. “Believe it or not—the premier, I think. She snorted cocaine in front of me, right in her office. But I couldn’t take any video because they smashed my phone with a hammer. She also snorted coke in front of Janice, only Janice did have a camera.”

  Roxanne folded her arms. “You were dreaming about Janice Stone?”

  “No, Janice wasn’t actually in the dream. I mean, the premier told me what she had done. She gave Janice the scoop and sabotaged mine.”

  “Aha.”

  “I guess I was so angry I shouted bitch. Maybe Janice was the bitch.”

  Roxanne fastened the top button on her nightshirt. “So, you weren’t dreaming about Janice, you were only thinking about her?”

  Sebastian cleared his throat. “Is it me or has it suddenly gotten chilly in this room?” He squeezed Roxanne’s shoulders. “Honey, it was a dream, a crazy dream. I can’t be held responsible for a dream.”

  Roxanne headed for the bathroom. “I don’t like the idea of Janice being in your dreams. Dreams can be rooted in reality.”

  “The reality is I don’t like being scooped. Nothing more.”

  He waited until Roxanne left the bedroom before picking up his phone. He deleted the text exchange with Janice.

  The bathroom door opened.

  “Sebastian,” yelled Roxanne, “the toilet’s not flushing properly.”

  •

  The plumber panted with each pump of the plunger. Roxanne stood in the bathroom doorway, cringing with every glug.

  “We already tried that,” she said.

  The plumber swung the rubber end of the plunger towards Roxanne. “You certainly clogged it up.” Water dripped on the laminate flooring.

  “Do you have any rags?” she inquired.

  “No. Cleanup is not my job.” He stood the wet plunger beside the toilet and reached for a metal c
ontraption. It had a turn-handle on top of a solid tube, with a wire cable and a bulbous auger attached.

  He shook it at Roxanne. The auger clanged. “Do you know what this is?”

  “No, I don’t have a clue.”

  “This is the heavy artillery. It’s called a toilet auger. I use it when a plunger won’t unblock a toilet.”

  He spun a finger on his free hand. “I’m going to corkscrew the toilet. Works like a corkscrew in a bottle of wine.”

  “I hope you don’t use it for both.”

  “I tease my wife whenever she asks me to open the wine.” The plumber had a devilish grin. “I pretend I can’t find the corkscrew and suggest using the auger. Drives her nuts every time.”

  “You’ve got quite the sense of humour.”

  “Ya, she loves it. Now, this works best on soft blockages. You didn’t drop a hairbrush down there, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I didn’t drop anything down there,” snapped Roxanne.

  The plumber hauled up the handle and the cable zipped inside the tube.

  “You’d be surprised at what I’ve pulled out of toilets,” he said as he maneuvered the auger into the toilet bowl.

  Roxanne pinched her nose.

  “Toothbrushes, false teeth, eyeglasses, even dolls,” he said, cranking the handle. “I’m like a kid with a box of Cracker Jacks. I never know what the prize is going to be.”

  The plumber spun the handle like a mixing beater, pushing the auger deeper into the toilet trap with each revolution. The clatter ended with a swoosh.

  “There’s the wad,” exclaimed the plumber, making Roxanne recoil. “I thought you said you didn’t drop anything into the toilet.”

  “I didn’t,” barked Roxanne. She inched forward and peered into the bowl. Pieces of white bobbed about. “Toilet paper?”

  “No, not toilet paper.” The plumber scooped up a handful of floatables. Water streamed off his fingers. “Wet wipes. You should know better than to throw them into the toilet.”

  “I did not throw them in the toilet.”

  “Well, somebody threw them in there. And it wasn’t me.” He held up a finger. “One, they’re not biodegradable.” A second finger. “Two, they won’t shred.” A third finger. “Three, they could survive a thermonuclear blast.”

  Roxanne opened the medicine cabinet and examined the box of sanitizing wipes. “I don’t understand. I never use them here.”

  “I’m not a detective. I only fix toilets. I don’t find out who’s using them.” He threw the auger in his tool box. It clashed against his plumbing wrenches. Roxanne plugged her ears.

  “That’s 200 bucks. I prefer cash.”

  “Will cash get you out of here faster?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll get my purse.”

  •

  Evan stepped out of his office. “Sebastian, can we see you for a minute?”

  “Be right there,” said Sebastian.

  “Take a seat,” said Evan, pointing at the empty chair. He turned to Zoe. “Let’s send Carter to court next week and see how he makes out.” Zoe scribbled a note on her outlook.

  “What’s Janice up to?” blurted Sebastian.

  “Nothing yet,” said Zoe.

  “No appointment with the premier?”

  “No,” replied Zoe. “Should she have one?”

  “I want to make sure that she doesn’t hijack my story on the premier’s nose problem. I’m getting close. Keep her away from it.”

  “It’s prophetic that you should mention Janice’s name,” said Evan. Sebastian’s sphincter tightened. “We’ve decided what to do in the short-term about filling Garrison’s job. We’re letting Samantha fly solo all this week as a sign of respect. Starting next week, you and Janice will alternate. One week you’ll co-host with Samantha and Janice will do the next. Janice starts Monday.”

  “So you’re trading the gay wedding cake for the lesbian wedding cake,” said Sebastian.

  Evan eased out of his chair and walked back and forth, both hands grasping an imaginary lawyer’s robe.

  “Now would you tell Her Honour, Ms. Patel, what exactly did Mr. Hunter say that day when he heard two women would be co-hosting Here & Now?” Lawyer Evan shook his finger at Zoe. “And remember, Ms. Patel, you are under oath.”

  Zoe repeated Sebastian’s statement verbatim in a jittery voice.

  “Such an…unfortunate comment. As a proud member of the LGBT community, how did that make you feel, Ms. Patel?”

  “I felt objectified,” said an indignant Zoe.

  “And if Her Honour finds Mr. Hunter guilty of homophobia because of his spurious slur, would you have any recommendation as to the proper punishment?”

  Zoe leapt to her feet, her eyes ablaze. “Hang him from the highest tree by his—”

  “Got it,” interrupted Sebastian, throwing up his hands in surrender.

  “Now that we’ve got that sorted out,” said Evan, “maybe you should get back to work.”

  Laughter followed Sebastian out of the office. He called Roxanne.

  “Hello,” said an exasperated-sounding Roxanne. Sebastian heard a bang in the background.

  “Great news, honey. I’m going to host Here & Now.” No response. Sebastian strained his ear. He heard heavy footsteps and a door close.

  “Sorry about that,” said Roxanne.

  “What was the racket?”

  “The plumber,” said Roxanne. “I’m beginning to think outhouses are highly underrated.”

  •

  Sebastian closed the front door and flipped a bottle of wine like a juggling club. “I picked up something special for supper,” he shouted to the kitchen.

  “You forgot, didn’t you?” yelled Roxanne.

  “Forgot what?”

  “Donna’s play at the Arts and Culture Centre.”

  Sebastian mouthed fuck.

  Roxanne rolled out of the kitchen with a plate of sandwiches in one hand and two glasses of wine in the other.

  “We agreed to have a quick bite and go. Is box wine okay?”

  “Sure. Who wouldn’t want box wine over Chianti Classico?” Sebastian rested the bottle on the sideboard. “Another night, perhaps.”

  They sat down and chose sandwiches. White chicken for Roxanne, dark for Sebastian.

  “The plumber unclogged the toilet.”

  “Great,” he said between chews.

  Roxanne laid her glass down. “Sebastian, did you throw sanitizer wipes down the toilet?”

  Sebastian swallowed. His brain whirled.

  “I’m such an idiot, Roxanne.”

  “Go on.”

  “It was a stupid thing to do.”

  “What was a stupid thing to do?”

  “I’ll never do it again.”

  “What are you talking about?” Roxanne strangled the life out of her napkin.

  “I used the sanitizing wipes…to get makeup off my shirt. It sticks like glue. I was afraid of ruining the shirt if I didn’t clean it right away. The alcohol in the wipes works great.”

  “When did you do that?”

  “The night I was hosting with Garrison. The night he died. The situation was so chaotic it was impossible to be careful. The collar was smeared in makeup, inside and out. I had to use a lot of wipes.”

  “Why didn’t you throw them in the garbage instead of the toilet?”

  “They stink. I was trying to protect your nose. That cute, delicate nose. The nose that the Mona Lisa should have. Why should your nose suffer for my soiled shirt collar?”

  Roxanne sipped her wine.

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” said Sebastian.

  “Next time, you can deal with the plumber. And you have to be extra nice to my sister tonight.”

  Sebastian crossed his heart, while thinking he’d rather stick a plunger handle in his eye.

  •

  The lobby of the Arts and Culture Centre brimmed with people dresse
d for show. Sebastian wore his Hong Kong suit. The glint from Roxanne’s sparkly dress outshone the waxed and buffed marble floor. She spied Donna in the throng and waved. Donna headed towards them, fluttering past a sign—The Vagina Monologues.

  She gives vaginas a bad name.

  Sebastian braced himself for the inevitable bombardment. “Well, Sebastian,” chided Donna, “I never expected to see you at The Vagina Monologues.”

  “Vagina?,” said a wide-eyed Sebastian. “I thought we had tickets to The Regina Monologues. I was expecting to see a play about a nice canola farmer in Saskatchewan fighting the evils of genetically modified grain.”

  Roxanne poked him in the back. Donna pursed her lips.

  “Sebastian, there’s a segment in the play written especially for you,” said Donna.

  “Which one?”

  “You’ll know it when you see it.”

  “I look forward to The Globe and Mail review,” said Sebastian. A bell rang, calling the audience to their seats.

  Hunter wins by a knockout in the first round.

  The crowd shuffled towards the theatre doors. “I’ve got to get backstage,” said Donna.

  “Good luck,” said Roxanne.

  “Break a leg,” said Sebastian.

  Roxanne huffed. “That’s extra nice?”

  “I’ll buy her a glass of box wine after the show.”

  Sebastian and Roxanne’s seats were just five rows back from the stage, a perk of being related to a cast member.

  “This is going to be fun,” said Roxanne.

  “Can’t wait,” replied Sebastian. He squirmed. Dozy Dan and Prudish Penelope spryly stepped through the jumble of legs in the row ahead. They waved hello. Their destination—seats directly in front of Roxanne and Sebastian.

  “You made it, Dad,” said Roxanne.

  “Miss my little girl on stage? Not a chance. Toronto can’t beat this.”

  “The program says there’s coarse language,” fretted Penelope. “I don’t like vulgarity.”

  “Mom, we’re all grownups,” said Roxanne.

  “I’m sure Donna knows her audience,” said Sebastian.

  “She certainly thinks she knows you,” said Penelope. “People can be so judgmental sometimes.”

  Sebastian sat back, letting Roxanne carry the full weight of engaging her parents. Dan and Penelope filled the rest of the conversation with platitudes—“momentous evening,” “ground-breaking play,” “worthy cause.” Sebastian drifted away, looking over his shoulder in a panoramic sweep of the audience. Familiar faces dotted the view. People he had interviewed; people he had annoyed. He raised a hand to the finance minister—the most eligible bachelor in government. The minister turned to his date.