by Glenn Dier
Scuffling feet blended with the soft thumps of cushioned seats closing as long-legged men stood to open a path for a woman. “Excuse me,” she said. Sebastian’s cocksureness shrank. Lindsay Moore perched in the empty seat behind him. She smiled and motioned sideways with her finger: you, her? Sebastian nodded once, then turned to face the stage.
The house lights dimmed. The curtain rose to reveal a dozen women sitting in a semicircle.
A Greek chorus of Dour Donnas.
The Dour Donna stood at centre stage. “Good evening,” she said. “And welcome to a night of womanhood.” Roxanne beamed.
Sebastian laughed on cue. Tut-tutted on cue. Scorned on cue. He matched all of Roxanne’s emotions. And from what he could hear, so did Lindsay.
The word vagina rotated round and round the theatre, picking up speed and intensity. But the tornado wouldn’t carry Sebastian off. He stayed trapped in a whirlwind of female empowerment and the blessings of womanhood.
His future sister-in-law pranced about with a wireless microphone. “Cunt,” she shouted. Sebastian felt Roxanne stiffen. Penelope’s head jerked, as if she had been slapped in the face.
Donna gave Sebastian a haughty expression. “Love that word. Can’t say it enough,” she said. Her mother looked back at Roxanne, horrified.
“Try it. Go ahead,” said Donna.
Penelope buried her face in her hands. Donna darted about the stage like Mick Jagger, playing verbal ping-pong with the theatregoers.
“Cunt,” bawled Donna.
“Cunt,” bawled Lindsay.
Sebastian sank in his seat. Pockets of women joined the chant.
“Cunt,” screamed Donna.
“Cunt,” screamed Lindsay.
Donna reinforced each chorus with an air punch. Sebastian had never seen her so happy.
“Cunt,” shrieked Donna.
“Cunt,” shrieked Lindsay.
The word bounced from stage to audience, from audience to stage. An echo of vitriol passed through Sebastian’s ears.
Penelope grabbed Dan’s arm and stormed for the aisle. Roxanne’s eyes begged for help. Sebastian tilted his head in her mother’s direction. Roxanne formed OK with her hand.
Escape. Blessed escape. He snuck one last glimpse of Dour Donna.
Takes one to know one.
•
Sebastian didn’t sing in the shower; he played with words instead. He kidded Roxanne that massaging his scalp stimulated his brain. Whatever the reason, saucy headlines bubbled up like shampoo foam. A bit of cruel fun. Worth creating even if they could never be used on air. This morning’s sacrificial lamb was a down-on-his-luck man who won 6/49 and then blew the jackpot on booze. He used his million dollars to keep himself and his friends swimming in beer.
Tonight—Lotto Lush. He hit the jackpot; then he hit the bottle.
The circumstances offered wonderful emotions for TV: despair, surprise, euphoria, pleasure, remorse, shame. Sebastian’s story would plumb them all. He stepped out of the shower as the tawdry headline trickled down the drain.
Mr. Boozehound’s only friend was his beagle. He didn’t bother with housekeeping anymore. Sebastian expected tumbleweeds of dog hair, so he dressed in jeans and a plaid-collared shirt; clothes he could wash or throw away later. He’d change into his Hugo Boss suit at the station after his interview. His phone said 6:30 AM. Time to go. Mr. Boozehound’s breakfast of champions included a six-pack. Getting the psst and fizz of a beer can opening was visual number one. Sebastian didn’t want to miss it.
He leaned over Roxanne and kissed her goodbye.
She opened an eye. “Be nice to that man.”
Sebastian raised a three-finger salute. “Scout’s honour.” He was duty bound to follow his solemn promise. Except Sebastian had never been a Scout.
The Acura was parked on the road to avoid the ever-annoying driveway shuffle. He laid out the suit bag in the trunk before hopping into the driver’s seat. The engine vroomed. He looked up.
“What the fuck?”
Someone had scrawled scarlet letters across the windshield. Sebastian took tentative steps around the hood.
ADULTERER.
Sebastian’s aghast eyes ricocheted around the neighbourhood. The only person seemingly about was Mr. Wade across the street. He pulled out of his driveway in his beloved ‘69 Camaro convertible. The top and the windows were down. Sebastian stood by the defaced windshield, hoping the angle would hide the communiqué. Mr. Wade stopped alongside.
“Beautiful day for a spin,” said Sebastian.
“It certainly is.” Mr. Wade stretched in vain to look around Sebastian. “What’s on your windshield? I saw something when I was getting in the car.”
“It’s nothing. Just some graffiti.”
“What does it say?”
Sebastian allowed himself a half smile. “Asshole,” he said, attaching a titch of laughter to appear bemused. “Probably an NTV viewer.”
“There goes the neighbourhood,” chuckled Mr. Wade. “See you later.” He and Sebastian exchanged waves as he drove off.
Wherever Sebastian turned there was jeopardy. The neighbourhood was coming to life. Mr. Dyer uncoiled a garden hose and sprinkler on his new sods. A construction crew unloaded scaffolding by Mrs. Hayward’s house. Sebastian scrambled to park the Acura in the driveway, windshield facing in.
He rubbed a finger down the R. The red felt waxy and stuck to his fingertip. He sniffed a faint aroma of flowers.
“Lipstick.”
His thumbs typed get lipstock off windwhield on his iPhone. Google knew what he wanted despite his poor spelling and showed 281,000 results.
“For Christ’s sake. Is there a pandemic?” He picked the first one.
Step 1 – Mix dish-washing liquid into hot water.
Step 2 – Dip clean cloth in water. Wipe window with small circular motions to loosen the lipstick’s oil base.
Step 3 – Rinse thoroughly and dry with paper towels.
Step 4 – If the lipstick stain remains, add ammonia to water and clean window again.
Step 5 – Rub salt over any stubborn smudges. Scrub with toothbrush.
Step 6 – Remove any remaining discolouration with isopropyl alcohol.
“Not the sanitizing wipes again.”
Sebastian tore into the house. Check bedroom. Door closed. Dash to closet. Grab bucket. Race to kitchen. Run hot water. Squirt dish-washing liquid. Fill bucket. Throw in dishcloth. Seize paper towel roll. Scour under sink. No ammonia. Shove salt grinder in pocket. Drop supplies at front door. Gallop to bathroom. Confiscate sanitizing wipes. Snatch tooth brush. Catch breath.
“Sebastian, is that you?” He heard Roxanne’s feet hit the floor.
“Yes, it’s me.” Sebastian scurried down the hall.
“I thought you were gone to work. What are you doing?”
He turned the knob on the front door. “Some kids smeared crap on the windshield. I’ve got to clean it off before I can drive.” Sebastian hugged all the cleaning supplies in one arm and grabbed the bucket with the other.
“Would you like some help?”
“No, thanks. I can handle this.” He heard a dresser drawer open.
“I really don’t mind.”
“No. It’s a job for one.” Clothes hangers shuffled along a rod.
“You’re already late. I’ll be right there.”
Sebastian needed a few precious minutes. Something had to die. He spied a victim on the hallway table—the bird vase. China had never mass-produced a finer ceramic swan. Roxanne loved to put freshly cut flowers in its tail. The colours jumped out of the white porcelain.
“Okay, I’ll see you outside.” Sebastian swung the bucket and knocked the bird off its perch. It smashed on the hardwood floor. Water sloshed over the shards.
“What was that?” yelled Roxanne.
“What a morning I’m having. I just broke the vase by the door.”
“Not the one Donna gave us?”
“I’m afraid so.”
> The ugly duckling certainly gave a good swan song.
Roxanne wandered out of the bedroom shaking her head. “Go on. I’ll clean it up.”
“You’re an angel.” He kissed her cheek.
She examined Sebastian’s armful of cleaning supplies. “Don’t throw those down the toilet,” she ordered, pointing at the sanitizing wipes.
“I swear.” Roxanne pushed the front door open.
Sebastian left a trail of soapy water out to the driveway. He plunged his hand into the steaming bucket.
“Jesus Christ,” he screeched, whipping out his hand. He shook off the scalding water.
“Stop swearing,” yelled Roxanne through an open window. “There are kids around.”
Sebastian poked about the bucket with a stick he found lying on the grass. He flung the cloth at the scarlet letters. Splat.
To hell with small circular motions.
He used both arms to push the cloth back and forth like an Irish washerwoman cleaning a floor. ADULTERER became ADULTER. The lipstick stuck to the cloth, but left smudges. He stretched across the windshield. He was now an ADULT. Sebastian ran to the passenger side. More frenzied chafing. The proclamation was gone.
Sebastian balled up the cloth like a basketball. “One second left on the clock. Hunter for three.” The cloth arced over the hood. Plop. “Ha-ho. Hunter knocks down a three-pointer. Man, did he nail that.”
Hoop dreams gave way to cleaning smears. Sebastian twisted the salt grinder. Grains sprinkled over the windshield.
“That better not be my Japanese sea salt,” reprimanded Roxanne.
Sebastian spun around. “It’s for a good cause, Roxanne. This is stubborn stuff.” He tore off several paper towels and dipped them in the hot water.
“What did they write?”
“Just a nonsensical scribble.” Sebastian rubbed clockwise and then counter clockwise. The salt turned into slurry.
“Tell me.”
“You said I shouldn’t swear.”
“Nobody else seems to have been a target,” said Roxanne, surveying cars up and down the street.
“Maybe they hate CBC reporters.” Sebastian kept destroying evidence.
“Lots of people hate CBC reporters, but they don’t go around vandalizing cars. You should call the police.”
“I’m sure they’d investigate right after they finish with the drug dealers and the wife beaters.”
Roxanne folded her arms. “They should have scribbled Jerk.”
“Look, this is petty crime and I’m not going to embarrass myself by calling the cops.”
“I give up.” Roxanne’s hand skimmed soap bubbles out of the bucket. The cloth had measles. “What’s the red?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe crayon.”
Roxanne curved around the car, inspecting Sebastian’s cleaning job. She touched the windshield. “Missed a spot.” She squinted. “That looks like an A.”
“They tried writing Alpha Male, but couldn’t spell alpha.”
•
Sebastian took the front steps two at a time. Ordinarily, he loathed dinners with Dozy Dan and Prudish Penelope, but after Dour Donna’s potty-mouthed performance, this was one dinner he didn’t want to miss. A few well-placed jabs might goad Penelope and Dan into an entertaining row. Anything would be better than Dan’s tedious musings on the importance of family.
He stalled at the top of the steps and theorized about whether a lipstick-wielding Peeping Tom was following him. An unfamiliar car was parked on the street several doors down. His eyes made futile attempts to infiltrate the sedan. He couldn’t suss out if anyone was behind the wheel.
Damn tinted windows. Better to go inside.
Singing seeped into the front hall. The voices belonged to Penelope and Dan; the music belonged to another time.
Sebastian peeked into the living room. Penelope and Dan held unlit candles as pretend microphones. They swayed in time with the music. Dan was misty-eyed; Penelope blinked her eyelashes flirtatiously. The lovey-dovey pair dazzled their audience of one. Roxanne sat enraptured on the loveseat, lightly bouncing in time with the melody.
Sebastian pulled back and shoved a finger down his throat. Imagine, schlock drifting out of his speakers. Worse, he was powerless to stop it. Like a moth drawn to a flame, Sebastian peered around the corner again.
Skyrockets in flight.
Penelope threw her hands in the air and wiggled her fingers. The make-believe fireworks sparkled all around her head. She and Dan strutted around the living room, never breaking eye contract.
Afternoon delight.
“Big finish,” squealed Penelope. Sebastian shivered. They stretched out the A in Afternoon. Sebastian covered his ears as they climbed octaves. Their voices cracked.
Afternoon delight.
Sebastian waited until the last notes of the air pollution had dissipated. He clapped as he walked into the makeshift theatre.
“Bravo,” he bellowed. “Bravo.”
Penelope covered her eyes. Dan gave him an aw-shucks wave. Roxanne sprung off the loveseat and rewarded the blarney with a kiss.
“What a performance,” said Sebastian. “Where did that come from?”
“I was going through my box of keepsakes under the bed,” said Roxanne, “when I came across the CD. I hadn’t thought of it in years. We used to sing ‘Afternoon Delight’ in the car when I was a kid. I put it on for fun and these two turned into teenagers.”
“I used to squeeze your mom’s thigh during the chorus.” Dan mimed driving a car and pinching a leg in the passenger seat. “That song always makes me frisky.”
Penelope’s face went rosy. “Dan!”
“Too much information, Dad,” said Roxanne.
“Should we leave you two alone?” ribbed Sebastian.
Penelope’s colour turned blood-red.
“It’s a fun tune,” said Sebastian. “I think it’s so much classier to leave something to the imagination. Kitschy charm is the best way to go. Forget crudeness.”
The jaws on the leg-hold trap were now pulled open. Dour Donna was written on the trigger. Someone would step on it soon and spring the teeth.
“That was a big hit when we were in high school,” said Dan.
Sebastian picked up the CD jacket. Afternoon Delight: The Best of the Starland Vocal Band. He flipped the jacket over: K-Tel. As Seen on TV.
“The 70s had some great music,” said Dan.
Sebastian glanced at his copy of Warren Zevon’s Excitable Boy. “Yes, it certainly was a watershed decade.”
“Mom,” said Roxanne, “would you please give me a hand in the kitchen?”
Sebastian’s conniving about Donna’s thespian antics would have to wait for the dinner table.
“I had a little chat with your boss today, Sebastian,” said Vice-president-of-the-CBC Dan.
“Really,” said Sebastian, straining not to sound eager.
“I encouraged Evan to use Garrison’s death as a chance to reinvigorate the show with youth.”
“My feelings exactly,” said Sebastian, trying to sound profound.
“Good things are going to happen in your little newsroom.”
Little newsroom. You…
“Especially to you.”
...wonderful man.
“You’ve got a bright future.” Vice-president-of-the-CBC Dan slapped him on the back.
“Define bright future,” said Sebastian.
“I can’t disclose personnel matters, not even to my future son-in-law. It’s going to take a little while to sort out. In the meantime, just keep doing what you’re doing—landing scoops and impressing the bosses.” Vice-president-of-the-CBC Dan winked at him.
Roxanne and Penelope sashayed out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of pasta primavera, fresh parmesan, and a basket of focaccia.
“So where’s Donna this evening?” asked Sebastian as he grated the cheese.
•
Sebastian came to a standstill. His father’s bed was empty. His reclining chair to
o. Roxanne checked the washroom. Unoccupied. Tobias Hunter was missing in action.
“He’s probably in the recreation room,” said Sebastian.
They headed down Oak Wing. A man in a wheelchair scuttled their brisk pace. He dragged himself forward using a single foot. He filled the centre lane of the corridor. Passing without contortions was impossible.
“Would you like some help?” asked Roxanne.
“No thank you,” said the man, stalling Sebastian’s hands in midflight as they approached the push handles. “I can manage. It’s good exercise.”
Sebastian groaned softly. He and Roxanne scuffed behind. A TV blared through an open doorway.
You are the first four contestants on The Price is Right.
The man in the wheelchair stopped to look.
“Excuse us,” said Sebastian turning sideways, sliding down the wall. Roxanne followed suit.
“It was either that or heave him out of the way,” whispered Sebastian. They heard a piano and singing.
This land is your land, this land is my land.
“Oh goodie,” said Sebastian, “campfire songs.”
Several seniors huddled around the piano, photocopied song sheets in hand. Tobias Hunter sat off by himself, song sheets on his lap, his eyes empty.
“Hi Dad,” said Sebastian taking the seat next to his father. Tobias didn’t turn. “Not singing today?” No answer. “Let me have a look. Maybe there’s something there you’d like.”
He flipped through the songs. “You Are My Sunshine,” “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning,” “Moon River.” Geriatric hit after geriatric hit. He dismissively tossed the song sheets on an empty chair.
“It’s the playlist for somebody’s life, just not my father’s,” he said to Roxanne.
“Great job,” said the twentysomething piano man to his audience.
“Do you know any Warren Zevon?” Sebastian called out.
“I’m afraid not.”
“My father does. He can play too.”