by John Metcalf
“I’ve seen several like him in my years with the Board.”
And long seconds later,
“Principals now, most of ’em.”
NOT A CHANCE!
And not a moment too soon if Garry did get it. The abominable Follet issued mimeograph lists at the beginning of each term detailing which pages of the history books should be studied and which should be omitted, the division based on his crafty study of previous provincial exams. Although from Ontario, he called England “The Old Country” or, if he was in military mood, “Blighty.” His fondest and most frequently recalled memories were of wartime Cockney humour, Picadilly Circus, Bayswater, and London whores whom he referred to as “girlies.”
Garry had created Sir Charles Pharco-Hollister about seven years ago when he had been teaching in Vancouver but Sir Charles had become a monster grown out of control. They spent hours in elaborating him, composing his bons mots, his ripostes, his eccentricities, the titles of his books. They both taught about him, David going so far as to dictate notes.
Sir Charles, depending on the class taught, was military governor of Fort Pharco in Alberta, a Father of Confederation, or one of the Fredericton poets. He was variously alcoholic, incestuous, syphilitic, a scalper of Indians, a bastard son of Queen Victoria and her Scots gillie. Dark rumours circulated about the exact nature of his relationship with “Bliss” Carman. In British Columbia, he had lent his name to the turbulent Pharco River.
YEAH! ON THE POWER PLAY. NO! IN THE FIRST PERIOD.
David longed to work the whole job on Follet, to skilfully play him towards the landing-net; but what the shape of that net might be he couldn’t quite grasp. An exposure perhaps, a chastising, a ridicule, or perhaps the pleasure lay only in the performance?
YOU CAN BET YOUR GOODIES ON THAT!
Hubnichuk’s sausage fingers were scratching his behind.
TRADE HIM? NEVER!
Who but Hubnichuk would wear a black suit, black shoes, and white socks?
Six feet three and podgy, podgy hands, vast moonlike Ukrainian face, his fleshy Ukrainian neck bulging over his collar.
The Boor No. 666 of Merrymount High.
Hubnichuk – half-time gym teacher and half-time Guidance Counselor.
Mens sana (a.m.) in corpore sano (p. m.).
Hubnichuk always winked at him. Hubnichuk called him “Davy.” Hubnichuk had even slapped him on the back.
At every encounter, ten times a day, in the corridor, in the staffoom, in the office, on the stairs, Hubnichuk said either,What’s the good word, Davy-boy?
or,What do you say, Dave?
One of these days Hubnichuk was going to push him too far. Instead of a polite smile, a polite mumble, he would round on him.
What do I say?
What do I say, Mr. Hubnichuk?
I say, Mr. Hubnichuk, that you are a hulking, mannerless oaf
and that I would be vastly obliged, if, in future, you did not
presume to address me by my Christian name.
YEAH!
GRARF, GRARF.
YEAH! WILL DO.
Mr. Hubnichuk clanged down the phone, bent, and squeezed David’s knee painfully. He winked.
“The wife,” he said.
J. D. Grierson (B. Comm.), the principal of Merrymount High, sat behind the shining expanse of his desktop. His head was centred between two complimentary calendars on the wall behind, one from the Bank of Montreal, the other from the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce.
He waved a hand and Garry and David sat down.
The desktop was empty except for a copy of Night Haul and a green marble block into which were spiked three pens.
He held up the copy of the play.
Maritime and stolid, chewing at the insides of his cheeks, he looked at them in turn.
“I’m surprised at you, Mr. Westlake,” he said, “You’re older than Mr. Appleby here. You’ve been teaching longer. I’d have thought you’d have had more sense.”
He tossed the book onto the desktop.
“The school has received a phone call,” he said. “From an agitated parent; from a distressed parent.”
He looked from one to the other.
“Complaining of filthy language in this play.”
Garry and David glanced at each other.
“I looked the play over” – his big hands wrapped the book into a cylinder and then released it, pages riffling – “and was disturbed by what I found.”
He opened the book and turned a few pages, shaking his head. He took off his glasses. There was a click and slight rattle as he placed them on the desk. David stared at the warped book, the creased front cover.
“You have made a serious error of judgement,” said Grierson.
“I don’t know exactly what language you’re referring to, Mr. Grierson,” said David, “but surely . . .”
“Mr. Appleby! Even someone with your limited teaching experience shouldn’t need instruction in what is acceptable, what is in good taste.”
“But in the context, the language is an expression of character. It’s natural for those characters to talk in that way.”
“A school can’t encourage this sort of thing. A play, Mr. Appleby, should be a cultural event.”
“But when you use the word ‘cultural’ to . . .”
“I’m not interested in contexts, Mr. Appleby, and I’m not interested in what is natural. I’m interested in the good name and reputation of Merrymount High.”
He cleared his throat and consulted his watch.
“I have a meeting at one o’clock,” he said. “I’d like to see a copy of the play – tomorrow or Friday, say – with those words taken out.”
“You want us to bowdlerize the whole thing,” said David.
“No,” said Grierson, getting up from behind his desk, “I want it cleaned up and those words cut out.”
He walked over with them to the door.
More cheek-chewing.
“We have to remember,” he said, “that we’re public servants. We have a responsibility to our students, to the Board, to the wider community.”
He opened the door.
“Surprised, Mr. Westlake.”
The door closed behind them.
“Dear God!” said David, breaking into their silence again. “Public fucking servants!”
Garry shrugged.
“Let’s go and see if there’s any sandwiches left,” he said.
They walked along the corridor from the staffroom and started down the stairs towards the roar of the basement cafeteria.
“What an ignorant, mindless fucking get that man is!”
“That’s a new one,” said Garry.
“Hold him up to the light – not a brain in sight!”
“Get?”
“Oh. It’s short for ‘whore’s get’ – that which a whore has begat.”
“The preferred Canadian is ‘hoor’.”
“Whoremonger!” said David. “Whoremaster! And there’s many a true word spoke in jest.”
“I wonder when he learned ‘wider community’?” said Garry.
“Perhaps the Board gives Principal-Lessons,” said David.
“It does make you wonder how he ever got there,” said Garry. “Even when you know.”
“Education’s First Law, mate. That’s how. Shit floats.”
“There’s only bologna left,” said the cafeteria woman triumphantly. “Or May Wests.”
“He probably came in after the war,” said Garry. “All the less dim ones had been killed.”
“The slightly less dim ones,” said David.
The Staff Dining Room was empty except for Miss Oldane. Miss Oldane taught Geography and Health and Welfare in grades eight and nine. She carried a tiny pearl-handled fruit knife in her purse with which she peeled her recess and lunchtime apples.
Her first Health and Welfare lesson of each year to the new grade eight girls advised them never to put bus-tickets between their lips if their hands were
full with books, purses, and gloves because bus drivers had been known to touch – to scratch . . . well . . . their private parts.
Garry and David ignored her, sat down. David peeled open his bologna sandwich and lathered it with mustard.
“Still,” said Garry, splitting open his carton of milk, “maybe we ought to think about it.”
“I thought we were agreed. I’ll write it. And tastefully nasty it’ll be, too.”
“Wasted on Grierson.”
“Well I’ll enjoy it anyway – and he’ll catch the drift.”
“Maybe we really ought to consider going on with it, David.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” said Garry. “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it and of course we’re right – I don’t mean that, but I’ve been thinking about the kids. They’ve been working hard for months – I just feel we can’t pull the rug out – BAM! I don’t really know if we’ve any right to do that.”
“Oh, bullshit! We can tell them what happened and . . .”
“Yes, but is it fair? Fair to them. And would they really be able to understand why it’s important?”
“Why not? They’re not stupid.”
“Yes, but they’re young and from their point of view . . .”
“Are you serious?”
“Some of them’ll just see it as a squabble between us and Grierson.”
“They can see us doing something on principle. That’s important. And if some of them don’t really understand, that’s not our responsibility.”
“That’s what I’m trying to get at, David. Don’t you understand? It’s fine for us, but I really don’t know how far we ought to let our own feelings . . .”
“For Christ’s sake! Look at what we’d be left with! The weirdest café in the western world – I say, mind what you’re doing with that jolly frying-pan!”
“Oh, come on! You’re exaggerating and . . .”
“I’m not cutting the balls off it!”
Miss Oldane snapped her purse shut and walked out.
“And that,” said David, “is the whole point.”
“I don’t think it is – no.”
“Oh?”
“I’m trying,” said Garry, “trying to suggest that being black and white about it isn’t really . . .”
“Pass the mustard, will you?”
“Isn’t really being honest with our particular situation.”
David bit into his sandwich and then opened it up again to sprinkle pepper on the mustard.
“I really hate bologna,” he said. “You need this to mask the taste.”
“Neat and over-simple,” said Garry.
David shrugged.
“Another thing,” said Garry, “another complication – quite apart from the kids. We’ve got to live and work in this place. A lot of people have put their own time into this. How are they going to feel? And I mean feel. Try explaining moral problems to Mrs. Kinsella!”
“Sounds ‘public servantish’ to me,” said David.
“What would you say to Mrs. Kinsella? And to Healey?”
“If they don’t understand, that’s their problem. Fuck ’em.”
Garry nodded.
“ Easy, isn’t it?” he said. “So simple.”
“Exactly,” said David.
“And selfish,” said Garry.
David shrugged.
“It’s the best I can do,” he said. “And meanwhile, you go on and Grierson rides again.”
“Aren’t we being fastidious!” said Garry.
“I try to be,” said David.
“In this particular context, I think you’re wrong, David. You’ve got to . . .”
“I haven’t got to do anything. If you want to sell the play out, you go ahead.”
“But you’re prepared to ‘sell’ the kids out?”
David got up and dropped the crumpled napkin onto his plate.
“If you like,” he said. “I think I’m doing them a favour.”
He pushed in his chair.
“I didn’t see you saying much to Grierson in there,” he said.
“Now you’re getting really pleasant,” said Garry.
David shrugged.
“You think we were called in there to discuss something?” demanded Garry. “I didn’t say anything because there wasn’t any point in saying anything.”
“We should have told him to go fuck himself,” said David.
“Oh, don’t be so ballsachingly adolescent!” snapped Garry.
“We should have told him to go fuck himself.”
“One of these days,” said Garry, “you’re going to learn.”
“We should have told him to go fuck himself,” said David.
Garry closed up the empty milk carton, pinching the waxed cardboard edges together, scoring the sides of the crease with his thumbnail.
“We should talk about it, David.”
“There isn’t anything to say.”
David walked out through the kitchen and made his way through the mob of kids in the cafeteria.
In the Men’s Staffroom, Henry Jockstrap was arm-wrestling with another oaf; Mr. Margolis was talking about his pension; Mr. Renfrew was reading the answers in the back of the grade ten algebra text; Mr. Bardolini was extolling to Mr. Healey the virtues of the Wonder Book of Universal Knowledge which he sold on commission in the evenings to local parents.
The washroom was empty. He looked down to see if there were feet showing under any of the lavatory doors. He studied his face in the mirror as he combed his hair. He washed his hands in scalding water and dried them on the roller towel, yanking length after echoing length from the machine. The urinal gurgled and then gushed water for a few seconds from the green copper nozzles at the top of each stall.
He looked out over the white-painted glass on the bottom part of the high window. It was snowing again, light flakes drifting. The air was yellow with the gloom of a storm. Goalposts stuck black out of the snow-covered playing field. Just below in the yard, three men in overcoats were standing round Mr. Cherton’s new Sting Ray. Mr. Davidson. Mr. Monpetit. The flow of water gurgled back into silence.
David mounted the stand and stood in the middle of the three stalls. He unzipped his trousers. Rubber footsteps squelched in the cloakroom. The swing-door banged open and Hubnichuk came in. They nodded. Hubnichuk was wearing a shabby blue track suit.
He mounted the stand to David’s left. Standing back, he pulled down the elastic front of his trousers. He cradled his organ in the palm of his hand; it was like a three-pound eye-roast. Suddenly, he emitted a tight, high-pitched fart, a sound surprising in so large a man.
Footsteps.
Mr. Weinbaum came in.
“So this is where the nobs hang out!” he said.
“Some of them STICK OUT from time to time!” said Hubnichuk.
Their voices echoed.
Mr. Weinbaum mounted the stand and stood in front of the stall to David’s right.
“If you shake it more than twice,” he said, “you’re playing with it.”
Water from the copper nozzle rilled down the porcelain.
There was a silence.
David studied the manufacturer’s ornate cartouche.
The Victory and Sanitary Porcelain Company.
Inside the curlicued scroll, a wreathed allegorical figure.
Victory?
Sanitation?
Mr. Weinbaum shifted, sighed.
“I got the best battery in Canada for $18.00,” he said.
Chapter Four
The ice in David’s glass chunked and clicked. He let the scotch wash round his mouth. He lay back in his armchair watching Jim who was sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by magazines and newspapers. The colours of the Canada Tire sign washed the window.
Jim absorbed pounds of journalism every week. He read papers and magazines on politics, finance, photography, motoring, cinema, education, true confessions, sport, scientific research, aviation a
nd psychology; he could marshal the background to every coup, massacre, and takeover-bid; he could name obscure officials in obscure agencies and knew the meaning of each and every acronym. The thought of an unread newspaper prevented him from sleeping and every night at about eleven-thirty he bundled up and went out to buy the next day’s Gazette.
David tipped his glass and let the ice cubes rest against his lip. By his chair stood a freshly opened bottle of Cutty Sark. It was the last Friday of the month, payday. He had given Jim the rent-share, paid his half of the bills, put aside money for food and expenses, and was left with one hundred and seventy dollars. (Take off eight for the scotch – one hundred and sixty-two dollars.)
He took out his wallet and looked at the money again. One orange one, three twenties, a two, and one unexplained green one. He wondered what he could spend it on. Monopoly money. He had passed “Go” again.
Jim was always buying suits and shoes but new clothes on David looked messy within hours. Jim would have looked elegant in a sheet of newspaper.
“Jim,” said David, “you’re a bloody ectomorph.”
“Is there legitimately a noun?” said Jim, not looking up.
“Yes,” said David. “There is.”
Books?
But he couldn’t read more than twenty-five dollars’ worth of paperbacks in a month.
Perhaps this should be the month to buy a bottle of Napoleon brandy from the QLB – the oldest they had, the seventy-five-dollar one. And then he could have a bath, wash his hair and shave, put on his best clothes, and drink it. The shirt white and slightly starched.
He leaned over the arm of the chair, grunting with the effort, and grabbed the neck of the bottle. He poured another large drink, watching the scotch spread down into the melted ice water like thinning smoke.
Salvador Dali, he remembered reading, used to dress up in eighteenth-century military uniform, epaulettes and tricorn hat, and masturbate in front of a mirror. A good man, Dali.
“Don’t take your boots off!” called Jim as they heard the front door open.
David heaved himself out of the chair.
“Jim’s giving us a lift,” he said as he went down the hall.
Susan was holding her coat open.