The Dilettantes (22 page)

No wonder he didn’t care about these people onstage. They were already part of a generation of students he couldn’t relate to. Alex already had
his
peer group sorted out—he had no interest in acquiring a new one so late in the game. He wanted to reminisce about a shared experience of the recent past, when Facebook was only for university students. He wanted to make sly references to old Swollen Members songs. He wanted to find a way to make the culture sit still, even for a minute, so he could find a way to enjoy it for a little while longer.

Alex was so caught up in his thoughts that he almost didn’t feel his phone buzzing in his pocket. He’d left it in the
Peak
offices overnight and hadn’t even had time to check his messages yet. He flipped the phone open to a new text message from Maggie: “had fun last nite. this is my number. use it sometime, k? and u konw, ive never actually seen the last waltz…. just an idea. :)”.

Konw
, Alex thought.
And
emoticons?
Jesus Christ
. But already his heart was betraying him, doing a few reckless somersaults in his chest. Clearly, it knew nothing of grammar.

A crash from the front of the cafeteria brought him out of his reverie. Kennedy had tripped on the dangling fringe of her dress, and was keeled over next to her podium. Around her were scattered cue cards, her glasses, which she was straining to reach, and a chunky tape recorder, humming obliviously. Strangest of all, her hair had done a full ninety-degree pivot, revealing the buzz cut underneath.

It was a wig.

It was Claude wearing a wig.

The crowd froze, unsure how to react. Tracy and Alex turned on Rachel as the implications started to dawn on them. “Did you know about this?” Tracy demanded.

“No!” she said, as stunned as they were. “No, I never—why would I do something so—” She turned to the front of the room. “Claude, what the
fuck?”

From the ground, he said weakly, “I thought it would help.” He covered his face with his dress. “Oh god.”

Lana was kneeling at the front of the room, trying to convince Claude back to his feet. But when he rolled away from her, in complete and next-level embarrassment, she stormed over and aimed a shaky, accusatory finger at the editors. “If this is what I think it is,” she said, “I will bring the full force of my office down on your heads.
The Peak
will pay for this. Honestly, is there a single person in this place who can do their job without committing a felony?”

She barked something over her shoulder and the security guards appeared. The first thing Alex saw was their shadows as they blocked out the overhead lights. “Looks like you guys really stepped in it this time,” one said with a chuckle.

“Time to call it a day,” the other added.

“Get these guys the
fuck
out of here,” Lana said to them, then left to try to bring what remained of the debates to a close. Claude remained on the floor in the fetal position, dress over his head. Samantha and Piotr were yelling into cell phones at opposite ends of the room. Cameras were flashing non-stop. Mack Holloway was hunched over his tape recorder, dictating into it with a huge smile on his face.

As the editors were being escorted out of the cafeteria, Alex stared into the eyes of the guard next to him: one was icy white, and one dark brown. “Hey, wait,” he said. “You
are
the
Metro
goo—I mean, the
Metro
, uh, distribution guys. Right?”

The one with the mismatched eyes nodded.

“Then—what are you doing here at the debates?”

“Our regular line of work is security,” the second guard said, shrugging. “All over town. Most afternoons we work at banks. You know the strip mall at Hastings and Willingdon? But after that dustup yesterday, we got called in to do this gig.”

The first guard added, “Handing out newspapers in general is pretty bush league, if you ask me. But times are tough. We both got kids to feed.”

Alex took this in for a minute. “So it’s a ‘fuck you, pay me’ type situation,” he said.

The guard looked down at him warily. Alex noticed for the first time the deep lines creasing his face; in this light, the guy could’ve been pushing fifty. “Yeah. I guess you could call it that.”

“I mean, what the fuck was he thinking?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“This is pretty bad.”

“How did he even think this was going to go? What was his best-case scenario?”

“Mind-boggling.”

“But, I mean, it’s not
that
bad—is it?”

“Hello? We’re finished!”

“There are things you just
do not do.”

“Did you see the look on Holloway’s face? It’ll be all over the
Metro
tomorrow.”

“Clear out your desks, people. Sneak out the back door.”

“Would you guys relax already?”

“Is anyone else a tiny bit proud of him?”

“Fuck him. That fucking fuck wrecked everything.”

“If you break the rules, there are consequences. That’s how rules work.”

The
CD
string on the office door clattered, and a familiar-looking cross-dresser entered the room.

“Speak of the devil,” Tracy said. “Why don’t you have a seat for a minute, Claude?”

Rachel stormed over and yanked him by his ears into the closest computer chair. “What do you have to say for yourself?” she said, pointing a finger in his face. “Do you even realize what this means, you idiot?”

Claude nervously fidgeted with the hem of his dress. “It’s just—last night—Alex said we needed some new, crazy ideas.”

The others turned to look at Alex. “What?” he said. “I was drunk.
He
was drunk! And we
do
need new ideas. But Jesus, Claude. This is not what I had in mind.”

Rachel went on, “So you’ve been Kennedy this whole time?”

“No, no,” Claude said. “She was just this fake, joke candidate. Some guys in my department thought it up—I overheard them talking about it. Back in January.”

“Well,
that
could’ve been a great story!” Rachel said, exasperated. “Instead you had to pull this shit. Claude, there are rules in journalism. Have you ever heard of conflict of interest? Our whole credibility is shot.”

Suze added, “They’re going to shut us down!”

Claude’s face went white. “Really?”

“Okay, why don’t we all take a deep breath?” Alex said. “Listen. Nobody’s getting shut down. You think this is the first time someone at the
Peak
has embarrassed the paper in public?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Jesus. Not by a long shot. And we’re still standing here, aren’t we?”

“Well—what do we do, then?” asked Rachel.

Alex thought for a second. “We do our jobs. Which means the two of you”—pointing at Rachel and Tracy—“have to figure out the new angle, and then write your asses off for the rest of the day.” They exchanged a nod. “Suze, if you’re still going to run Claude’s
CD
reviews next week, you might want to put a pseudonym on them. Keep a little distance from the problem, you know?”

“And you,” he added, pointing to an expectant Claude. “You do absolutely nothing. I will duct tape you to this chair if I have to, so help me god.”

Tracy said, “Can we at least get a drink first?”

“I could really use something,” Claude said. His hands were shaking.

Alex sighed. “Fine. But ditch the dress, would you? And as soon as we get back downstairs, it’s duct tape time.”

They headed upstairs and found a circle of seats near the pool tables. To everyone’s surprise, a chipper server appeared with menus, and nervously laughed while taking a drink order big enough to fill an entire page in her little notebook. The Pub must’ve been hiring again.

During the first lull in conversation, Alex snuck away to the bar, where Saul was wiping down pint glasses in anticipation of the dinner rush. “Buddy!” the manager called. “How’re we feeling today?”

“You tell me,” Alex said. “Listen: you didn’t happen to find a backpack around last night, did you?”

Saul pointed over Alex’s shoulder. “You mean that one?” And there it sat, in the same exact place, pinned against the wall by a chair. “It’s been there all day,” he said. “I just haven’t had time to go pick it up yet.”

“Perfect.” Alex turned to leave, then hesitated. “Actually, there’s something else.”

“Your tab.”

He nodded sheepishly. “I don’t suppose—”

“I can’t refund the leftover part,” Saul said. “It’s already on the books. Sorry, man.”

“Actually, I was thinking … how much is left over?”

Saul consulted a piece of scrap paper taped to the register. “About forty bucks. Just under.”

Alex pointed to the
Peak
table below. “It’s been a rough day. Can you just turn the rest into beer and send it down to them?”

“Sure thing. Coming right up.”

“Thanks, Saul. Also?”

“I won’t tell them where it came from.”

Alex nodded. “Thank you.”

He went over and picked up the backpack, its black sheen now muddy with liquor stains. The Pym novel was still inside. It was a little warped from the chair, but otherwise intact—his bookmark was even in the right place. Alex pulled the book out, then stuffed the backpack and all of its fake supplies into the nearest garbage can. He was about to head back to the
Peak
table when a low voice called out to him.

“Hey, kid.”

Mack Holloway beckoned Alex over to his table and motioned for him to sit down. Alex looked back—none of the other editors had even noticed he’d left. He carefully edged into the chair across from the journalist.

“I’m glad I caught you here,” Mack said. He had a pile of notebooks next to him. Each was thoroughly pummelled with use. There were probably a dozen of them, stacked precariously. “Listen. I just want to apologize for how a lot of this nonsense has played itself out. Fact is, we’re all in a tough spot right now. The whole industry’s a mess—hence my current gig, chasing around teenagers.” He laughed a dry, salty laugh and took a sip of his beer. “Of course, you sure don’t help yourselves with that stunt your guy pulled today. Man, that was something.”

Alex couldn’t think to do anything but keep nodding. He had so much to ask a guy like Holloway, he didn’t know where to start. And it was already starting to feel like a wasted opportunity.

A confused cheer erupted from the
Peak
table as a couple of mystery pitchers arrived.

“So what’s your story?” Mack said. “Do you want to do this for a living?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe. Why? What do you think?”

“Honestly? I think some of you guys have talent. That story you broke about Holtz’s queue-jumping was nice.” Alex’s eyes lit up. “Don’t get me wrong: you’re all lazy as hell. And my God, you can
taste
how much you guys despise your audience. You can’t keep a straight face about it, either. Every story has to have some little meta-commentary on how ridiculous it is that you’re even writing a story. That stuff might be fun to write, but it is absolute torture to read.” Mack paused. “Tell me if I’m way off.”

“No, no, not at all. I’ve actually been thinking the same thing lately.”

“You know, the last thing the world needs is more writing. We’re full up as it is, and most of it is useless. So if you’re not in it to really connect with someone, then do us all a favour and pack it in. Let the rest of us have a go at it instead. I know my paper doesn’t exactly have a lot of credibility around here, but at least we’re trying.
I’m
trying. Are you?”

There was a long pause. Alex’s head was swimming, trying to absorb all of it. Then he remembered he still hadn’t said anything. He blurted out, “What do you guys call house ads?”

“What?”

“You know, those little ads that advertise other parts of the newspaper. I heard somewhere you call them fills. Is that true?”

“Yeah,” Mack said slowly. “That’s what they’re called.”

Alex tapped his fist against the edge of the table. “Oh. Cool. I always wondered.”

“I don’t want to keep you from your friends,” Mack said. “I just wanted to tell you that, you know, none of this is personal. So good luck to you—I got my start at university, too, actually. I’d
never have written my book were it not for a couple of people I met there.”

That’s right
, Alex thought. Mack had published a novel a few years back. It was one of those polite, small-town Saskatchewan things, with lots of flowery descriptions of gravel roads. Part of it took place in a post office full of gently eccentric customers. Alex hadn’t read it, only a few of the equally polite reviews.

“Let me ask you something,” he said to Mack. “When they stocked your book in stores, weren’t you worried about who you’d be sitting next to on the shelf? I mean, who would pick you over a guy like Hemingway? No offense.”

Mack considered it. “Was I
worried?”
he asked. “No. Not at all. What a strange thing to think about. And besides.” He smiled. “My book wasn’t anywhere near Hemingway. There’s a little section called ‘Canadian fiction.’ Trust me, nobody gets too riled up about anything over there.”

Alex shook his hand and got up. He tried to gather his thoughts and shape them into something coherent. Then it came to him.

Again, he thanked Mack for the advice.

“Sure, sure,” he said. “And hey.” He pointed at the Pym paperback, stuffed under Alex’s armpit. “How’s the book? I heard she’s pretty good.”

“Yeah,” Alex said. “She’s pretty good.”

He slunk along the wall, trying to get past the
Peak
table. The editors had poured most of their free beer and were locked in a heated argument about whether the sofa on
The Big Comfy Couch
could talk, or if it just wiggled its eyebrows. Tracy had an arm around Claude’s shoulder, and was telling him to lie low for the summer. Then, when everyone had time to forget all about his stunt, he could come back and apply for an editorship. Alex chuckled quietly as he slipped past.

He skipped down the concrete stairwell and pushed through the front door of the office (left unlocked, as usual), walking straight past the remaining computers and stacks of election flyers and silhouettes of all the stuff that had been stripped for parts, way back into the archive room—where he pulled out the volume marked
2005.
He sat down and leafed through the pages, eventually coming to the first story he ever wrote for
The Peak
, back as a bright-eyed, eighteen-year-old volunteer.

It wasn’t anything flashy: four hundred words on a new effort to clean the scum from the
AQ
pond. There was a typo in the headline
(initative)
. Alex remembered how his recorder hadn’t worked properly during his interview. He hadn’t known how to adjust the volume, either, and so had to press the machine to his ear while transcribing later on, a few garbled words at a time.

But after the news editor had read it, peering over Alex’s shoulder at his computer screen, he’d clapped Alex on the back and said, “Not bad.”

Edmonton, 2008–2011