“Amazing that they think their teaching associates are stupid enough not to detect your fine hand in this. One chap—from France, I understand—produced a work of art on Macbeth that he insisted was his own, although I understand he found writing one sentence in English much too challenging. It bore a marked resemblance to your Macbeth exam answer. Needless to say, they’ve all been awarded a zero mark and will doubtless be demanding their money back from you. Don’t give it to them.”
“I merely gave them outlines—suggestions—they were to expand them with their own ideas.”
“Balderdash,” scoffed Professor Latham. “These were finished productions on your part, apparently, according to your customers, produced with pride and enthusiasm.”
I placed my head in my hands. Not only was I facing expulsion, but all my future monies were gone, monies I was to use to buy a car, to meet next year’s residence fees, and to take Ma—whom I had only recently made happy—out to eat and to dress with second-hand clothes. I might, I thought with horror, have to return to Davenport and stand behind the wicket of the Toronto-Dominion Bank or, even worse, waitress at Swiss Chalet. My only out, I realized, was a shameless bid for sympathy and mercy.
“You don’t understand, Professor Latham,” I sobbed. “I’m here on an Imperial Oil Scholarship, which only covers my fees. I tutored all last year—twenty hours a week—to meet residence costs and if I can’t make money, I can’t come back. I’m not rich, not like some of the students here. My mother cleans homes and offices and my father’s dead. This was a great way for me to make money and I didn’t think of the implications.”
The latter statement was, of course, untrue. I had been well aware of the implications, even Ma had mentioned them, but I had been confident of lack of detection. Professor Latham did not appear moved but eyed me with little compassion—more moved, I suspected, by academic expertise rather than by histrionics.
“Danychuk . . . What’s its origin? Russian?”
“Ukrainian.”
“Oh, an agricultural people. I don’t know where you fit in. The Russians had some great writers. They wrote powerful, moody stuff. What do you intend to do?”
“Teach high school.”
“Sorry about that, it’s a bit of a waste. If you must be an academic, it should be at the university level. You should have tried some critical essays on your own behalf. Don’t bother with Shakespeare, I’ve got that pretty well covered.”
He smiled at me and I felt relieved, but my relief did not last as Professor Latham continued.
“You must, of course, put a stop to your plagiarism business as of now. If you have any retainers, which I understand you take, give them back. As I’ve said, don’t return money to those awarded a zero mark. Your essays were phenomenal, indeed much too much so.
“I have little choice but to consider expulsion, which traditionally involves me, as department head, together with two members of the administrative board. Apparently your case has been seized upon by the papers and you’ve achieved considerable notoriety on campus. I find your defective judgment strange, considering your intellectual reputation.”
He sat back, his cold blue eyes fixed on me above the gold-rimmed glasses.
“You are suspended from your classes for a thirty-day period until a decision regarding your expulsion is made. The decision must be unanimous. You will notify the Scholarship Board of Imperial Oil as to your suspension and possible expulsion unless you’d prefer we take responsibility for that. I wouldn’t be unduly optimistic; your actions have shown a shameless disregard for the academic integrity of our university.”
My recently eaten tomato sandwich was pushing against my throat. “I’ll notify Imperial Oil,” I croaked.
“Do that,” said Professor Latham with a tight smile, “and you may remain in the residence for thirty days pending the expulsion decision, but as I’ve warned you, don’t be unduly optimistic. In fact, in your position, I’d make alternative plans.”
He nodded toward the door and I bolted out, tearing down the corridor to the men’s washroom, which was the most accessible, and puking up my tomato sandwich in the nearest urinal.
I spent the next few days huddled under my bedclothes, not sleeping or eating. Janet, who I suspected had heard the rumours, came knocking at the door with fruit and yogurt from the cafeteria. I thanked her but couldn’t eat. Finally, I forced myself out of bed and set out to find my customers. I returned the retainers I had collected, apologizing to them and explaining that I lacked both the time and inclination to produce further work. Some had already heard of my forced retirement and possible expulsion as there had been an article in the Varsity complaining of the rampant plagiarism and cheating on campus, a cause that had been taken up by the Toronto Star. The Star proclaimed that this insidious plagiarism was indicative of the lowering of moral standards of today’s university students and that an absence of integrity had become the new normal. Both newspapers called for severe penalties. As such, my explanation as to my voluntary withdrawal was met with knowing smiles, even laughter.
Those students who had been caught, who had given evidence against me, and who subsequently received zero grades, were furious with me, several informing me that they found my continuing presence on campus “perplexing, considering everything.” I was, after all, a serial offender. It was, I thought, highly ironic, but then what was to be expected from individuals who were willing to pay up to $500 for someone else to produce a top-grade paper for them and then turn out to be revolting snitches. As per Professor Latham’s advice, I refused to pay damages, telling them I at least expected them to modify my papers to their personal specifications and to have the decency to refrain from informing any investigator as to their source. It all made me feel as if I’d been selling street drugs. My smoke-soaked friend Jean Pierre had disappeared from the campus, becoming the Christmas graduate he’d feared he’d become.
The fact was the money could not be returned, even had I been so inclined. It was gone. I could, I thought bitterly but not seriously, auction off my virginity. I had not kept it for any lofty conception of morality but simply because I had not yet met anyone I was even remotely interested in sleeping with, although Carl Helbig had crossed my mind at times. God knows how much some mad individual would pay for this privilege. I had missed the sexual revolution of the sixties, and now at the start of a new century, I was out of step as usual, tossing off a flippant prayer in the dying Greek Orthodox Church in Davenport for God to make things all right, which He or She assuredly had not. I suspected that asking Him or Her to promote plagiarism might be taking unfair advantage. In any event, save for some unforeseen happening, it appeared that my academic career would come to a close in thirty days.
9
ALTERNATIVE EMPLOYMENT
I WROTE TO THE CHAIRMAN OF the Imperial Oil Scholarship Committee—so much better that the letter came from me rather than the disgruntled university administration. I would, I decided, put a spin on the situation. At this point, there seemed to be little to lose.
Dear Sirs,
Update and Notification regarding Sonja Danychuk: Recipient of Year 2000 Imperial Oil Scholarship Award.
As you are aware, I have been the grateful recipient of a four-year scholarship award covering my tuition at the University of Toronto. I am writing to update you on my progress and of an unfortunate incident that has resulted in my suspension from classes for a 30-day period. I am disclosing this to you in the spirit of candour with the hope that this will not in any way impede my scholarship monies on which I am completely reliant.
Academic Update: Throughout last term I have maintained an “A” average, and I understand that my winter term’s final marks are on an equivalent level. My grades have been throughout above the eighty percent criteria upon which my scholarship depends.
Suspension Rationale: Last term, through a surplus of generosity, I helped several less academically inclined students develop their term papers. Unfortunately, th
ey were overzealous and some of their work closely mirrored mine. As a result, I have fallen into disfavour with the university and I am currently under a 30-day suspension. I would appreciate your assurance that my compassionate acts will not in any way stop the receipt of your scholarship funds upon which I am so dependent and grateful.
In anticipation of a prompt and favourable response,
Yours truly,
Sonja Danychuk
A reply to the letter, delivered by courier to the residence, was prompt but hardly favourable.
Dear Ms. Danychuk,
Your rather unusual letter prompted us to contact the university and make an inquiry behind the situation as described by you in your letter of January 15th, 2001. You have, as you are no doubt aware, distorted and misrepresented the facts behind your current suspension. You were, I am informed, not motivated by what you designate as “a surplus of generosity” but have been running a highly successful plagiarism business from the residence of the university, benefitting handsomely from your so-called “compassionate acts.”
It is more than disappointing, in fact, fraudulent, that you would so blatantly misrepresent the actual situation to us. Our scholarship holders are held not only to high academic standards but are presumed to act with the highest personal integrity. This is manifestly not the case here.
Your scholarship funds are terminated as of this date. You are indeed fortunate that we are not demanding a rebate in view of your ongoing deception.
Yours truly,
J. Saunders, on behalf of P. Ryan, Committee
Chairman.
Shot with a ball of my own shit. I had heard a member of The Choir utter this hideous maxim against a member of the opposing team at the hockey finals, and it seemed particularly apt. I threw myself on my creased bed and howled into my rumpled pillow. I was finished. I would not tell Ma. Why worry her? So fortunate that I’d paid the residence fees, but there were still the academic fees for the spring term, fees that would no longer be covered by the scholarship. But why worry about that when it seemed certain that I would not be here. I would be an expelled student, seeking a job in Toronto or back in Davenport.
I had not eaten for three days, except for a few bites from Janet’s donated apple. Her yogurt had grown a green beard when finally opened, and the half-eaten apple was gnawed rust. I saw myself in the bathroom mirror: my black hair a tangled mop framing my ashen face, and my dark eyes cupped by violet smudges, a far cry from the guest of honour at the Helbig Christmas party with her hellion lipstick and gleaming pearl arms and bosom.
I had to eat, pointless to hibernate in my warm, airless room like some terminal cancer patient. I could not go to the cafeteria. They would all know and despise or pity me, the latter worse than the former. I would walk to Bloor and pick up some food at Cultures, which made much of its organic products—something loathsome but healthy, like a salad of iron-filled spinach with hard-cooked eggs.
Outside it was so cold that my teeth pained, and there was steam from my mouth when I gulped the air. But not as cold as Davenport. I pulled the hood of my duffle tight around my face to prevent the icy air from leaking in and trudged up University to Bloor. Cultures was closed, so I started walking to The Steak and Burger. To hell with calories and health—I needed comfort food.
Matheson’s was not high-end like many of the restaurants in nearby Yorkville but specialized in catering to tourists who wanted a cheap meal in the summer months, office workers and salesgirls for lunch, and, at this time of the year, to those who had come to the city to take advantage of the greatly reduced prices from the remnants of the Boxing Day sales. College and university students, some teaching assistants, even an occasional professor ate—rather than dined—at Matheson’s. In the corner of the large window was a small, gold-edged HELP WANTED sign.
I would, I decided, go in and order a bowl of soup and take advantage of their bread basket, although I noticed, shown with the displayed menu on the side of the glass window, a separate sheet announcing “Tonight’s Three Course Special.” I thought of the Sinclair Hotel and poor Ma, whose future new Easter boots had been flushed away with the collapse of my plagiarism business.
A gaunt, grey-haired woman with a tight, unsmiling mouth, and a name tag declaring her to be Mrs. Greenley, showed me to a corner table and handed me a menu and a printed sheet with “Tonight’s Specials.” Within two minutes a beaming waitress appeared. She was little more than five feet tall, with unexpectedly broad shoulders and thick, short arms, her pink uniform sleeves reaching to her elbows. Her legs were noticeably bowed, and her bunched calf muscles were worthy of a marathon runner. Her short fair hair, showing white throughout, was brushed back from her square face, which had pronounced lines around her eyes and mouth. Her left lateral incisor, exposed by the smile, was chipped, and I felt a surge of empathy, thinking of past struggles to pay dental bills.
“I’ll just have the night’s special soup,” I said apologetically. “I’m not that hungry.”
Her smile never wavered. “A great choice,” she said, “I had some at five. It’s very rich, full of beans and lentils with tomato base, it remind me of Hungarian goulash.”
She had a slight accent, and I glanced at her name tag, which said MAGDA. A Hungarian Canadian, perhaps, brought here as a child to escape the Communists.
As I sipped my soup, I watched her clean and reset the tables, moving from table to table, never losing her smile. Before I knew it, my bread basket was replaced, together with a new butter dish. I was appreciative, but before I could say “thank you” she was gone, on to another table. She was, I marvelled, a powerhouse of a waitress, but there was no doubt they were understaffed. Even the Olympian-muscle-packed Magda could not service the demand.
I pushed a $1.50 tip under my plate before I got up to leave, a ridiculous tip for a soup-only order, especially considering my circumstances, but I really liked her and appreciated the extras.
“You’re short-staffed?” I asked. It was more a statement than a question.
“You got it. Ginger and our sous chef took off for that new restaurant on Adelaide yesterday, and our dishwasher’s sick, or hungover, or whatever. You interested?”
I heard Pops’ cautionary voice, as if he were standing next to me: You must not end up like us.
But I said, “Yes.”
“AS YOU’VE ALREADY noticed, no doubt,” said Mrs. Greenley, brushing the flat chest of her grey tailored suit with a shriveled but manicured hand, “we’re short of staff. Ginger and Carlos disappeared yesterday without the decency of an hour’s notice, and Alistair’s probably lying in a snowbank somewhere insulated from freezing by his usual blanket of Scotch. There’s no work ethic among these new Canadians—except for Magda, of course. I’ve got to get some information, but it’s just a formality. To be frank, I’d hire anything without a tail on the spot.”
She was so wrong about new Canadians, and I thought of Ma, but I was not about to argue with Mrs. Greenley, who obviously had the power to hire and fire. I saw her frown when I identified myself as Sonja Danychuk, no doubt classifying me as another new Canadian without a work ethic. I felt like telling her that I’d been born right here at St. Mike’s, some two miles away, but didn’t.
“You can help Zoltan clean up the kitchen, and then we’ll see if we’ve a uniform to fit for tomorrow. You’re not small by any means, but Ginger was also well endowed, in every area but her brain.”
“Any experience?”
“Not as a waitress. I’m a university dropout. Money problems.”
Mrs. Greenley’s parchment-like face soured even more. “Academics are a spaced-out crew. My former husband had a BA and never held a job for more than a week. Just watch Magda, she’s the best when it comes to waitressing. Our cook Edmund’s a Brit, which doesn’t say much for his cooking, and Peter mixes the cocktails and fills the wine glasses and carafes with house white or red; Coors is on tap. We’ve no demand for bottles of expensive wine.
“Pe
ter’s Irish, with Alistair’s problem, only his drink of choice is whiskey. I keep thinking they’ll dig him out of the same snowbank some day. He drinks more than he makes—and serves. Push the alcohol, there’s a good markup there, and be agreeable if it kills you. If anyone complains, offer to substitute or if you really have to, deduct the item off the bill. They’ll probably make it up to you in tips. You’ll get seven an hour, plus tips. The size of the tips are up to you. Customers tip according to service, or they’re supposed to. Questions?”
“Zoltan?”
“Magda’s son. I let him come here after school and he gets the night’s special. He’s a clever boy, sixteen, although you’d never know it. He lacks his mother’s muscle tone, which is unfortunate. He studies at the kitchen table and leaves at night with his mother. He helps clean up at times of emergency, like today. I only allow this because of Magda. Don’t think I’d let anyone else take this kind of advantage: Magda’s very useful to the business.”
Zoly was Magda’s reason for living. “He could be,” she confided, “a world-famous surgeon or scientist.” Almost every cent she made went into the nearby Toronto-Dominion Bank for his future education. He sat in his isolated corner of the kitchen every day from four to nine, absorbed in his books for his last year of high school.
He was a short, slight boy with narrow pale hands and long, tapered fingers, round steel-framed glasses over large green eyes, and hair cut in a sugar-bowl fashion with blond bangs covering his forehead. Magda told me she cut it herself to save money. I feared that this, among other things, could have been the source of his constant and relentless bullying at Jarvis Collegiate.
Sonja & Carl Page 9