Читать книгу Last Dance - David Russell W. - Страница 7

Bill Owen was a big man.

He was about six foot three, and I shrank in comparison at my average barely six feet. He was also big-shouldered, enormously big-gutted, and big-voiced. He often tried to use his size as an intimidation factor in his relationships with the rest of the teaching faculty. Sometimes it worked. At least half the staff was so reluctant to meet with him, they went along with his edicts to avoid any kind of confrontation.

This was going to be fun.

Bill’s office was the smallest of the three vice-principals, though he had served in his administrative position longer than anyone else, including the principal. There was a theory that anyone who remained a vice-principal for more than six or seven years was pretty much a lifer. In a large city like Vancouver, where there are over twenty high schools, it was likely true. My impression of Bill in my year at the school had confirmed the theory. In a rare moment of serendipity, his office was devoid of students or other staff taking up his time. There was no real reason to put off the conversation. I knocked gently on his open door.

Bill turned away from his computer and looked at me. It was also well known that he knew as much about computers as I knew about physics. “Oh, hey, Win,” he began jovially enough.

A pet peeve of mine is being called “Win” by those I don’t consider to be friends. There’s something about the presumption of informality I find rankling.

“Hey, Bill. Got a minute?” I resisted the urge to call him “Billy” or “Billy-Bob.” This conversation was going to be edgy enough. He looked only mildly distraught at seeing me. Despite my present vocation, few people are happy about sitting down to chat with lawyers, even former ones. But Bill smiled pleasantly and offered me a chair at his little round table. In education, round tables are considered friendlier than sitting across a desk from one another.

“How are things going?” he asked with feigned interest.

“Good. Things are good.” I paused to permit a silence to hang between us long enough to be just this side of uncomfortable. I’ve found in both my careers that a sustained silence often indicates to the other party the gravity of the conversation about to take place. “I need to talk to you about one of my students.”

Bill sighed and tilted back in his chair. His posture took on a fatherly form, no doubt preparing to pass on some kernel of classroom management wisdom. The man loved to dispense kernels. “Having some trouble in class?”

“No,” I responded, making sure to not allow any defensiveness in my tone. “No, the student is fine with me. I’m actually here on his behalf.” The contrived warm smile that had welcomed me only seconds before began to fade, though it did not completely disappear from beneath the eighties-style police mustache he refused to shave.

“Who’s the student?”

I paused until it seemed he was on the edge of repeating the question. “Tim Morgan.”

“Oh, Christ,” he sputtered, grunting as he heaved himself forward from his chair’s tilted position. A few more pronouncements like this one, and I could practically give him a workout. He put his beefy arm on the friendly round table and stared at me without speaking. I decided I would out-pause him and see what happened. His eyeballs finally rolled skyward in disbelief and he let out a tremendous sigh. I suspected that was the most exercise he’d had all day. “So I’m guessing this is about his choice of date for the graduation dance?”

“Yes.”

“And you want him to be able to bring his, what, his boyfriend?” The scorn dripped off his final word.

“To be honest, I really don’t care who he brings to the dance.”

That slowed him down only long enough to clear the anger spittle already forming at the side of his mouth. I wondered if it would get caught in his moustache. “Then what the hell are you doing here?”

It was time to lay out the cards. I sat forward gently, saying, “I care about why he’s not allowed to bring his date.” Only a short pause was necessary before carrying on. “You can’t tell someone that he can’t bring a date because he’s gay.”

“I can’t?” I could sense Bill’s back going up. On the plus side, it was improving his posture.

“No. You can’t. It’s discriminatory.”

“I’m the vice-principal here.”

“I’m aware of your title.” Oops. I had not planned to be snarky or sarcastic. I’d lasted less than two minutes. If Bill’s posture straightened any more, he’d be completely standing.

“Look,” he began, his voice rising slightly.

“I’m sorry. That was sarcastic and uncalled for.” My mother had been reminding me lately of the need for occasional humility. My apology took the wind out of his sails. I’m known for my sarcasm, not my apologies. “I just meant to say that even as vice-principal, there may be limits to the reasons you can deny someone their choice of date to the dance.”

Bill began to slouch slightly in his chair, a good sign. “Look, Win, I have nothing against Tim or his date. I’ve never even met him. But I have three hundred and fifty other grads and their parents to think about.”

“What about them?” I asked innocently.

“If Tim brings his boyfriend to the dance, there could be a lot of upset, uncomfortable people.”

I let that sit for a moment. “So Tim is being denied his choice of grad date because a few people might be uncomfortable?”

“Win, it isn’t always as straightforward as it seems.” I smiled slightly at his choice of words. He seemed to catch the humour, too, and smiled back. “Sometimes I have to make a decision that’s best for the whole school community, not just best for an individual student.” What a load of crap, I thought, but elected not to voice it.

“Bill, this is Tim’s graduation as much as it is anyone else’s. He ought to be able to enjoy it just like everyone else.”

“And he can. He can still come, and there are plenty of kids who come to grad without a date. They still have a great time.”

“Bill, come on. That’s hardly the same thing.”

“I think it is. I’ve been doing this a little longer than you.” This was the point of any conversation with Bill Owen where he turned completely patronizing. I tried to prevent my own eyeballs from rolling skyward. “I’ve been through many of these types of situations, and after awhile you get a feel for them. It may not seem like the right thing to you, but you’ll just have to trust me on this one. I’ve made my decision.” His tone hovered between dismissal and challenge.

“So that’s it?” I asked.

“Win, don’t take it personally. The last thing we need is a bunch of angry parents calling the school, making a big fuss about gay students bringing their gay dates to the dance. I’ve made a decision that’s best for the school.”

“And possibly tortious,” I countered.

“Excuse me?” he said. I sensed my tossing of elementary legal terminology was having the intended effect. You really don’t need to go to law school to make use of a few well-chosen legal words. Pick a Latin phrase most people don’t hear often, and you’re bound to give them a little anxiety.

“If you deprive Tim of the right to attend his graduation, you could be placing yourself and the school in a legally untenable position.”

He sat back up straight again. Two sit-ups in one meeting. He must have been working up a sweat. “I’m not depriving him of the right to attend the dance. He can still attend.” He smiled. Touché.

“You are arbitrarily depriving him of bringing his choice of guest based on discriminatory criteria.” Thrust.

Bill paused again, choosing his words. I was a little flattered. He wasn’t one for pausing and carefully selecting words. He must have felt the challenge. “There is nothing in the B.C. School Act that requires the school to permit students to bring whoever they wish to a dance. I can guarantee you it simply isn’t in there.” Parry.

“The Charter of Rights and Freedoms guarantees protection from discrimination. It supersedes the School Act.”

He looked a little defeated, which with Bill never lasts long. It generally turns to anger. “You know what? That’s a load of crap. Trust a lawyer to turn something like this into a legal issue.” He sounded disgusted.

“Yes. You generally would trust a lawyer to make an argument against discrimination.”

He was beginning to seethe now. He leaned forward, the table no longer a friendly barrier, and practically hissed. “And let me remind you, Mr. Patrick, that lawyering is no longer how you make your living.”

I couldn’t decide what to say next: should I chastise him for his thinly veiled threat or inform him that my other pet peeve is people who use the word lawyer as a verb? I chose neither. It probably wasn’t worth the effort.

I let out a long, slow breath before responding. “Okay.” I stood up to leave.

Bill looked surprised. “Okay?” he asked suspiciously.

“I guess that’s it,” I replied, trying to restore the friendly tone in which the conversation had begun. “I wanted to confirm that the kids had understood you correctly. You’ve made your position clear.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re right. You have the authority to make whatever decision you think is best. I leave it up to you.”

“Oh,” he replied, still skeptical. “Well, I’m glad we can agree to disagree amicably.”

“Sure,” I told him. “You’ve got your job to do. I just told the kids I’d talk to you, and I did. No hard feelings.”

“That’s good. Thanks, Win. I appreciate your support.” I wasn’t sure how he interpreted my disagreement with him as support, but on the other hand, he was probably happy I didn’t really feel like fighting.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll see ya.” I walked out of the main office and headed down the hall to my classroom. I’d spent more time on this than I had really planned, and Bill did have a point: it was his show to run, not mine.

I reached my classroom and was relieved to see that none of the kids had stayed behind to hear how the conversation had gone. I was trying to convince myself I had done all that I could and hadn’t sold out in the interest of employment preservation or the need for some pasta and a good Cabernet Sauvignon. I told myself the kids would understand that Mr. Owen was my supervisor and there was little I could do for them. Then I realized the truth: my cool status was about to go out the window.

By the time I got home, I had nearly put Tim’s graduation date dilemma out of my mind. It was Tuesday, which meant Pasta Frenzy night at my favourite little Italian eatery in Kitsilano. I might have given up the seemingly more glamorous legal profession for the arduous task of teaching the youth of today, but I had steadfastly refused to give up some of the luxuries that had come with my former job.

I also knew I wasn’t kidding anyone. I had mostly done work for Legal Aid, often working extremely long hours at provincial government Legal Aid rates. Consequently, I had forgone some of the richer areas of legal practice, but I had managed to squirrel away most of my earnings over my brief career. This was mostly because I had happily lived off the avails of my then-wife’s income, or rather, income she had inherited without having yet had to bury her parents. I had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle: near the beach, plenty of restaurants, and just about every kind of takeout and delivery food possible. Kitsilano is Vancouver’s born-again bachelor’s paradise.

Tuesday nights were particularly bad for getting a table at Chianti. In fact, it wasn’t uncommon to find lineups of hungry patrons snaking up the sidewalk, interrupting the traffic flow of neighbouring businesses. Fortunately, I had been going there long enough that a table was pretty much reserved with my name on it, particularly on a Tuesday. I’d thrown the staff off one Friday by actually bringing a date. Both the dinner and the ensuing relationship were shortlived — neither made it past about ten o’clock that same night. Having left my one real long-term relationship with my ex-wife, I had not yet re-mastered the art of dating. Who am I kidding? I’d never mastered it in the first place. Tonight I had lucked out. Only a few patrons occupied the multitude of tables the little restaurant held. It was still early. As my first year of full time teaching had progressed, I found myself eating earlier and earlier; today it was only 5:30. I seemed to be tempting the aging gods, pushing my eating habits perilously close to those of my parents. And they didn’t even live in Florida.

Though I wasn’t sitting in her section, my usual and favourite waitress approached me within moments of sitting down. As was the custom between us, she already had a glass of red wine in her hand — for me she never bothered with a tray — which she set down before me as she sat down across from me. “Professor,” she said in her usual greeting.

“Teri,” I replied. “Nice of you to join me.”

“It’s high time someone did.” Teri, like a growing number of other friends, colleagues, and acquaintances, believed she was responsible for reminding me of my continuously single state. Never mind that she herself had never mentioned a boyfriend, significant other, or apartment full of cats.

“Hmmphh,” was my masterful retort. “For all you know, I may very well be joined by a delightful dining companion tonight.”

“Is your mother in from the suburbs?”

“I said a ‘delightful,’ not ‘guilt-throwing, health obsessing, church bingo-running’ companion.”

“In that case, I shall assume this one glass is all that will be needed.”

“That depends on how good your wine selection is this evening.” As was also part of Teri’s custom, selection of the dinner wine was not left up to the patron, at least not in my case. Our rule was simple: as long as it was red, she could choose for me. She also generally limited me to one glass. She aimed to make sure my life did not descend into an alcoholic haze in which the potential for a new life partner would become that much more limited. I sipped the wine that she had brought, a South African Pinotage, bold, given the gloomy late spring weather.

“And the charges? Are they giddy with anticipation at their pending departure lo, these few weeks from now?”

“But then they won’t have me around any more.”

“I guess I answered my own question.” She stood up to leave. “I’ll bring you the special.”

“Of course.”

“Is everything okay, Winston? You look a little bummed.”

“Just tired. Thinking about the perils of pedagogy.”

“More so than usual? Any particular pedagogical predicament?” Teri is very found of alliteration. I thought momentarily of burdening her with Tim’s travails on his pending prom, mostly so I could out-alliterate her, but I knew I would also have to share my failure to persuade the vice-principal of the errors of his ways.

“Nah. I think I just need a vacation.” Teri left to place my order. Dinner, of course, was excellent: a simple linguini in cream sauce with peas joined by a half order of tortellini in a pesto sauce I had never been able to replicate. Of course, I hadn’t really tried that hard, given my proximity to the sauce’s origin.

My body replenished, I undertook the ten-minute walk back to my condominium and found it in its usual depressing condition. Living this close to the ocean is supposed to be a blessing along with a curse; one is blessed with the view of Vancouver’s remarkable English Bay but also cursed with the problem of never getting anything done wiling away the time staring out the window at the view. For several months, neither blessing nor curse had been an issue, given the large green tarpaulin hanging from roof to basement of the three-storey building. Like many of its contemporaries, my apartment building had succeeded in bringing in young urban professionals looking for a semi-upscale lifestyle but had failed miserably at what would seem the simple task of keeping out Vancouver’s notorious rain.

My view was now limited to the small sliver of a seam where two tarps joined right in front of my balcony. When the wind was blowing, sometimes the view through my vertical viewfinder would blow back and forth, like a filtered panoramic camera lens teasing with little bits of view. I used to pity the poor suckers who had fallen victim to the myriad unscrupulous contractors who sold them faulty buildings. Now I was one of them. I had sought to avoid being a victim by employing an independent building inspector to give me an unbiased, thorough inspection before I signed on the dotted line. Turns out there are all kinds of unscrupulous independent building inspectors too. I had almost made it through the campsite that had once been the building’s front foyer when a familiar though unpleasant voice rang out from the darkness. “Winston!” it barked.

“Andrew,” I replied with as much coldness as I could muster. I’m a pretty fair musterer of cold. Andrew Senchek was the self-appointed manager of my condo building. He also had no job. Allegedly injured in an industrial accident some five years before, he now lived off the avails of the Workers Compensation Board — supported by all those folks, like myself, who contributed through deductions from their paycheques. Given his perennial disability claim, Andrew spent his days parading around our apartment building, supervising construction workers, annoying garbage collectors, and basically harassing fellow residents with complaints, queries, and general nosiness. He even limped around the premises with the support of a cane, though I was certain I had seen his limp occasionally change to the opposite leg. It wasn’t uncommon to see his cane hanging on the edge of a box of groceries as he hauled them in from his car. I had already vowed that when I had some spare time I would use my lawyerly prowess to look into his WCB claim and see if there wasn’t some way I could force his ass back to work.

“Why weren’t you home this evening?” he demanded. Andrew asked a lot of ridiculous questions that I pretended were rhetorical. When I failed to respond, he pressed forward. “We wanted to get into your apartment.”

“Why did you want into my apartment, and why would you think your desire to enter my premises would prompt me to grant you same?” Andrew paused to interpret the questions. Though he spoke with a thick Polish accent that belied his twenty years in Canada, I could not imagine he had to translate English into Polish in order to understand.

“What?” he finally managed.

“Exactly,” I replied, turning to unlock the lobby’s front door, though with the floor to ceiling window space next to the door covered only with a plastic orange tarp — a lovely complement to the green surrounding the rest of the building — a Swiss army knife would have been just as effective as a key.

“We needed to do some drywall work around the living room area.”

“Bummer,” I replied nonchalantly. “I guess we’ll have to do it next time.”

“You know, you are not being very co-operative at allowing access for construction.” I could feel a lecture coming on.

“If you give me a little bit of notice, I will happily provide access for the construction workers to enter the premises.”

“It would be easier if you would just give me a key.” We had been down this road plenty of times.

“Are you bonded?”

“What?” International confusion again.

“Exactly.” I planned my escape again, but Andrew followed me into the lobby. Maybe the third time I would be lucky.

“Andrew, you cannot have a key to my apartment. It is private property, and you are among the last people I would give a key to.”

“Why is that?”

I resisted the urge to tell him that principally it was because I didn’t like him. In the years since we had both lived in this building, I had come to refer to him as “The Polish Sausage.” It sounds childish, but I worked around teenagers all day. Some of their immaturity was bound to rub off on me. Or vice versa. I settled for a much gentler “Good night, Andrew.” In movies and television, emphatically saying “good night” always seems to be a clear signal to people they are supposed to go away. I don’t think Andrew has cable.

“But I need to talk to you.”

“I said good night.” I had opted to forgo stopping at the row of mailboxes to pick up the mail, believing it would only give Andrew those few extra seconds to harp in my ear. The elevator door opened, and I stepped inside, reaching immediately for the third floor button, hoping his alleged limp would prevent him from reaching the elevator before the door closed.

I knew that injury was a fake.

“You know, there is no need for you to be hostile,” he told me as the door slid shut. I could think of many reasons to be hostile, not the least of which was that the green pepper from the sauce over the tortellini was starting to repeat on me. Though the condominium was relatively young, the elevator moved as though being powered by hamsters on spinning wheels.

“Hmm, hmmm,” I muttered in response. I wished I had some mail to leaf through in order to look distracted.

“We are only trying to get the repairs undertaken as quickly as possible. No one else in the building is being as difficult as you.”

“No one else is as pretty as me either.” Would humour throw him off?

“You are a prick,” he hissed, his poor attempts at friendliness completely dissipating. Did they not have comedy in Poland?

“Now who’s getting hostile?”

“You should stop being such an asshole and let me do my job.”

“If you only had one.” I’ve never been one for taking the high road.

By that time, I had arrived at my apartment door, unlocked it, and was closing it in Andrew’s face, assuring him I would contact the construction foreman to allow my apartment to be entered.

Home sweet home. Maybe I could move in the summer when I didn’t have all this marking to do. And maybe by then the building wouldn’t look like a set piece from M*A*S*H.