The Slip

by Mark Sampson

  “Okay, jackets on. Jackets on. We gotta go.”

  And then they were gone. I returned to the kitchen feeling leavened and relieved, and went to my bar fridge. Tomato juice, Jameson, celery salt, lemon, horseradish. Squeeze, dash, shake-shake-shake, pour. I dipped a stalk of celery into the Bloody Joseph and headed upstairs to my office. Settling at my desk, I checked email. There were just nine Facebook notifications waiting for me. This thing really was starting to die down. It pleased me to see that one of them was actually from Simone: she had tagged me in a status update on her recently created Facebook account. (Permission granted as part of our birthday gift to her a few weeks ago.) I clicked through and saw she had done the update earlier this morning: Okay, so maybe dance isn’t for me. I didn’t really ‘get’ last night’s show. But big thanks to Philip Sharpe for taking me. Best stepdad ever.

  My heart welled. Wow. What a kid. I went back to email and began deleting the other notifications — all from strangers — without reading them. But just as I returned to Simone’s Facebook wall to exit out of it, something happened. A comment appeared, abruptly and ghostlike, under her status update. At the sight of the person’s name and thumbnail image — woman with neon-red dye job and severe bangs — I knew instantly that it was not somebody Simone, or I, or Grace, knew. The comment read: Best stepdad ever? Hardly. Your stepdad is A PIECE OF SHIT. Too bad he didn’t have the courage to face his critics last night. While he was out with you, we were all attending this:

  And then there was a link, pointing to the event page for the protest against me at U of T: it populated the space below the comment. I stared at it, then scrolled back up. Clicked on this trespasser’s name and arrived on her Facebook page. Her profile picture showed a tank-topped woman in her late twenties with hair dyed a shade of red found nowhere in nature, and arms and shoulders sporting a colourful mélange of Look-how-transgressive-I-am! tattoos. Her Facebook wall was covered with feminist sloganeering and pictures of cats.

  I looked into her dopey, smug eyes. Rage swelled and swooned and spiralled up inside me. How dare you. How DARE you! Where do you get off invading my daughter’s Facebook wall? She’s just a kid! She has nothing to do with this. She doesn’t even know what “judicial process” IS!

  Truth be told, some papers and some books and, yes, the half-finished Bloody Joseph went flying off my desk and crashed with a percussive bang against my office wall. Broken glass and tomato juice radiated across the floor. I stood there, panting. Then I rushed out of my office and downstairs to the land line. Called Grace’s cellphone. No answer, just voicemail. Called Simone’s cellphone. No answer, just voicemail. I tried to calm down. I tried to calm down. Going to our mop closet, I dug out the broom and dustpan, the mop and bucket. Headed back upstairs to clean up the mess I had made, thinking this act would somehow settle me. It took forever, but when I finished and put everything away, I felt no calmer. I came back to my office and glowered into the computer screen, into that face. I wanted to retaliate. I wanted to say something. But then I realized it was time to leave for campus.

  I was quavering the entire trip over, my thoughts swimming in a stream of fury and hopelessness and an acute sense of persecution. When I came out of St. George Station, I barely acknowledged the veteran selling poppies there. I headed over to my office in University College, partly because I needed to retrieve some notes for class, but mostly because I wanted another chance to pacify myself before facing my students. I went inside and closed the door. I found the notes I needed and put them in my satchel. My slow deep breaths weren’t helping; I was nearly intoxicated with rage. I looked over at my office phone: the message light was blinking again. Oh goddamn it, can’t you all just leave me alone? I thought then of poor Simone, discovering that hateful comment on her Facebook wall when she checked between classes or at lunch. She’s just a kid, I thought. She’s just a little girl.

  Okay, Sharpe. Calm yourself. Just. Calm. Yourself. But I couldn’t.

  And then the phone rang.

  I looked at it. Thought: don’t answer. Don’t do it. Just let it go.

  But it kept ringing. So I went over and picked up the receiver. “Dr. Philip Sharpe,” I said gruffly.

  “Philip? Oh, hey. It’s Roberta R. from the Globe. Wow, I’m surprised I caught you. I’ve been trying to reach you for the last couple of days. Listen, I was hoping you would —”

  “You want a statement from me?”

  “What? Yes. Yes, I do.” I heard her scramble around for a notebook. “I mean, everybody does. We’ve been waiting all week to hear your side of the stor —”

  “Here’s my statement,” I said. “Everybody out there just needs to fuck off.”

  “Um, what?” She laughed uneasily. “Okay, Philip, we’re on the record now, so you need to —”

  “You listen to me, Roberta. What I said on that TV show Monday afternoon wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t. People need to realize that and move on with their lives.”

  “Look, Philip, I really don’t think —”

  “Cheryl Sneed and I are long-time rivals and, yes, we get into it sometimes. And sometimes debates get so heated that we say things we shouldn’t. It happens to everyone, sometimes. But at the end of the day, what I said on that show wasn’t as heinous as everyone is making it out to be. I think people should grow up and realize that there are far worse things in this world they could be getting their panties into a knot over. Okay? So fuck off. Fuck off, and leave me and my family alone.”

  With that, I slammed the receiver down.

  And then I felt much better. Like I had defenestrated some great toxin within me and I was now light and airy, like a meringue. Adrenalin coursed through me but I nonetheless felt in full command of myself. In fact, I thought about picking up the phone and calling Roberta back, now that I had relaxed, and clarifying what I’d just said. But no. I looked at my watch. It was time for class.

  I arrived in the lecture hall five minutes later. A few of the students were giving me the same hateful stare they had on Tuesday, but most just sat sprawled in their chairs waiting for class to begin. Sebastian came over when he saw me. He was dressed youthfully in skinny jeans, Keds, and a retro Green Lantern T-shirt, but there was a slouch of disappointment in his shoulders.

  “Hello, sir,” he said.

  “Hey, Sebastian.”

  “You didn’t come out last night.”

  “No,” I replied. “I mean, I wanted to. And your advice to me was sound — I should have come out. But I couldn’t. I had to take my daughter to this dance thing. I promised her. And you don’t break promises to a thirteen-year-old.”

  “Understood,” he nodded, though it didn’t look like he did.

  “Anyway, c’mon,” I said, and whacked him on the shoulder. “Let’s go. Let’s go.”

  I sidled up to the lectern with notes in hand. “Hello, everybody, welcome back. So I’m going to talk about Immanuel Kant for a little bit longer and then you’re going to break into your groups. Sebastian has your questions that he’ll hand out.”

  And that’s what we did. My points were short and succinct, and when I finished the kids manoeuvred through the room and Sebastian went cluster to cluster with the discussion topics. I watched as the usual patterns emerged, how one or maybe two students in each group took the initiative, the very types who always did well on their writing assignments and exams; and how others sat back and did virtually nothing — the same types who were always coming to me with desperate entreaties for an extension or a pathetic ad misericordiam about their grades. These types were also the ones who took issue with the various trammels I maintained in my classroom. One of these students, in fact, was violating a rule right now. Bored and disengaged, she had taken out her phone and was scrolling through it as the rest of her group chatted half-heartedly about Kant. I gave her a moment to realize the error of her ways, and then moved to the edge of the lecture stage.r />
  “Excuse me — cellphone.”

  She looked up and nodded her agreement. But her eyes stayed on the screen as she reached for her bag to put the phone away. And then she saw something on that screen, and her face coarsened. She looked up at me, then back at the phone. Mouth melting open and eyes narrowed, she glared back at me with a sudden look of hate.

  I watched as she leaned over to a friend and whispered at length in her ear. The two of them looked at the phone together. This friend then got up and edged over to a friend in one of the other groups, and they whispered together. They got their phones out and began scrolling.

  “Excuse me, people — cellphones,” I said again.

  But there was more whispering, more phones coming out. One girl, sitting near the centre of the room, boomed out, “Oh my God,” as her eyes pored over her screen. She looked up at me with utter contempt, then noisily gathered up her stuff and stood to go. Poor confused Sebastian moved through the aisle as quickly as he could to intercept her. When he did, she yelled at him, “No, I’m not staying here with this asshole. Did you see what he said?” Then she stormed out. Sebastian unholstered his own phone and began scrolling. Oh, this was bad. More students, mostly girls, got up to leave, doing so with as much melodrama as they could.

  You, dear reader, have no doubt discerned what was going on, even though I didn’t at the time. Good old Roberta Rosenbaum, that lovely ex of mine, was an avid user of Twitter, and she had gotten clearance from her editor to run a quote from me on her feed ahead of the exclusive she would publish in tomorrow’s Globe and Mail.

  More people began filing out of the room in great anger. I came down off the stage and approached Sebastian. I’ll never forget how he appeared as his face floated up at me from his phone. He looked sickly. Defeated. Like someone had just pulled out the carpet he’d been standing on for the last ten years. Who ARE you? his expression said as he shook his head at me in disbelief. And then he, too, turned to go.

  “Sebastian, wait —”

  But he tossed one arm into the air with his back to me as if to say, No, I’m done with you, Sharpe. And then he was gone.

  I looked at the floor. Clutched a hand to my beard. “Class dismissed,” I said. But by then the room was devoid of all but a handful of muttering man-boys, wondering what the hell had just happened.

  I returned to 4 Metcalfe Street a while later to find it dim and blessedly deserted. I was grateful, since I couldn’t bear to face another human being right now. I even flinched at the sight of the man staring back at me from the front entry mirror as I kicked off my Payless. God, I looked like hell. My cheeks and eyes were sallow. My comb-over looked like an exotic bird that had crash-landed on my head and then died. I needed a perk-me-up, and headed to the kitchen.

  Squeeze, dash, shake-shake-shake, pour. I downed the Bloody Joseph in three large gulps and then promptly mixed another. I sucked back half of that one before moving to the kitchen table, where I saw Grace’s note to me.

  Took Naomi to library. Back later.

  Huh. I don’t know what it was, there in that insouciant mother­ly scrawl, but I grew suddenly angry at Grace. Resentful. It seemed to come over me all at once. What a life of leisure you lead, Ms. Daly, I thought. You know, this is all your fault. You caused this to happen. You and your … demands on me. And I felt hollowed out by these thoughts.

  I retreated to my office. Only work could provide me with the solace I needed now. I did an hour’s worth of prep for tomorrow’s graduate seminar, then headed back down to mix another Bloody Joseph. Returning to my office, I began reorganizing the notes on my desk, cleaning up the disorder that my tantrum earl­ier in the morning had caused. I checked email. There were 117 new notifications from Facebook. Jesus. I batch-deleted the slew without reading them. Then settled in to work on my book about Christianity, and soon disappeared into it. The hours passed. I grew distantly aware of movement through the house: Simone home from school, Grace home with Naomi. Eventually, Simone knocked on my door to call me down to dinner.

  We sat in silence, the four of us. Grace had now seen the Globe quote, and was beyond words to me. Even little Naomi sensed the tension. I barely touched the salmon steak and baked potato Grace had prepared. I glared at my daughter, my stepdaughter, and finally said: “Privacy settings, Simone.”

  She just stared, ashamed, into her plate.

  “Philip, I’ve already talked to her about it,” Grace said. “She’s already deleted it.”

  “Fucking privacy settings. We told you.”

  “Philip.”

  I got up then. Threw my napkin down, just like they do in the movies. Headed back upstairs to my office. I couldn’t stand to be around these people right now.

  I returned to my work. Buried myself in it, achieving a kind of intellectual hypnosis where nothing in this house or beyond could touch me. I worked and I worked. I was only torn out of it when the phone downstairs rang, and a moment later Simone knocked on my door, came in when summoned, and handed me the cordless before slinking away.

  “Hello.”

  “Jesus, Sharpe, have I reached you on a land line?” Raj. He chuckled to himself. “I mean I knew this number for you was old, but not that old.”

  “Oh, hey, brother,” I said. “Yeah, yeah. You know me and cellphones.”

  “So, how are you?”

  “I’ve been better,” I told him. “You’ve probably seen the Globe’s quote from me today?”

  “Yeah, I did. Holy shit. This kerfuffle’s gettin’ out of hand.”

  “It really is. You know, I realized the other night, at Stout, that you were trying to talk to me about this stuff, and I didn’t let you. Sorry about that. In hindsight, I should have.”

  “Hey, no worries,” he replied. “Yeah, um, anyway. That’s not exactly why I’m calling.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, no.” And he chuckled again, awkwardly. “So. Anyway. I got laid off from my job at the CBC today.”

  “Oh, Raj, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Hey, it’s okay. I mean, I knew it was coming. I’ve been in and out of that fucking place so many times. But still.” And he paused. “I got to thinking. About your interview on Monday. I mean Cheryl Sneed is a cunt, no doubt. But she did make a good point, about people who lose their jobs and then immediately get on their phones, reaching out to contacts and finding new gigs. And I’m totally that guy. I’ve always been that guy.” And he paused again. “But I’ve been on my phone all fucking day, and there’s nothing out there. And I mean nothing. Sharpe, you know the economy and shit, right? Are things really as bad as you said on Monday? Be honest with me.”

  “Hard to say,” I replied. “It’s been less than a week since ODS collapsed. But yeah, I think things are going to be bad before they get better. If they get better.”

  “See, now I’m scared,” he said. “And I don’t get scared. I’m not a scared person. But I am fucking fifty years old. I’ve been a freelance videographer for almost thirty years. And I’ve got nuthin’. I have no pension, I’ve hardly any savings, I got rent, I got car payments, I got a deadbeat brother up in Barrie I’m helping out, and I got child-support payments coming out the wazoo. So I’m fucking scared.”

  It was curious, I thought, how Raj would very often mention the child-support payments leaving his rear orifice, but rarely the children themselves. I knew almost nothing about them.

  “I’m sorry to hear all that,” I said.

  “Anyway, this is why I’m calling. Two other guys who got laid off with me are coming over tomorrow afternoon. They’re just a couple of twenty-three-year-olds, but they’re good kids. We’re gonna smoke some weed and complain about the general state of the universe. But I’m worried about them — even more than I’m worried about me. They are freaking out about this layoff. They have no other job experience and no contacts — not to mention student loans in th
e mid five figures. So I thought you might want to come over and talk to them. I think it would be good for these guys to meet another creative type who actually has his shit together.”

  And I laughed at that. Oh God, how I laughed. “Sure, Raj, I can come over,” I said. “I have a graduate seminar in the morning, but I can stop by in the afternoon. You said you’re at Danforth and Donlands, right?” And he gave me the address.

  “Thanks, Sharpe. I owe you. Try to think of something optimistic to tell these kids, would ya.”

  “I’ll try,” I said. “But I’m not optimistic that I can.”

  And he chuckled at that, too. A dry, hopeless guffaw.

  I worked a while longer, and then went downstairs. The kids were already in bed and Grace was now at her little alcove, trying to get some of her own writing done. I could tell it was not going well. Her computer screen was open to Facebook; her hennaed hair was tied up in a bun of creative frustration; and the little manuscript for “Sally and the Kitchen Sink” sat unmolested on the corner of her desk. Usually when Grace found it hard for the words to come — which was often — she engaged in what I referred to as her “procrastibaking,” the pans of cookies and muffins and other extraneous sweets arriving in droves out of our oven. But tonight she didn’t even have that outlet at her disposal: her purchases from the bake sale earlier today sat stacked on the kitchen counter.

  “Hey there,” I said, coming over.

  She swivelled around. “Hi.” She gave me a look. “You missed storytime again tonight.”

  “I’m sorry. But you know …” And I gestured to the ceiling, to my upstairs office. “Work.”

  “Of course.” She turned briefly then to face Facebook, then pivot­ed back to me. “You know this whole thing was just starting to die down, and then you had to give that awful quote to Rosenbaum.”