on her ugly bicycle. The receipt was for a thirty-six pack of Huggies.
Now, on top of everything else, he was late. The phone buzzed in his satchel, his parents, no doubt. First he would deal with Dwayne, then he would call his parents with more late-night infomercial philosophy. We are indeed the architects of our own lives.
There was enough traffic on René Lévesque to allow him to work his strategy into a baroque chamber composition, with dramatic pauses and hand gestures. He rehearsed, imagining his meeting in the office of the station manager, his friend, the president of his society. Humility, first, and an acknowledgment of one’s failings. Then a stunning declaration of grievances, leading to eloquence and great wit, historical allusions, mastery of the room. All of it set to the fifth Brandenburg. Toby was not the first man in history to be cuckolded by a member of a visual minority, and father-burnings must be quite common, statistically. If anyone had actually heard the interview, other than his father and Bruce, he had a footnoted speech prepared about the public’s short attention span.
He used his electronic card to enter the parking garage, and remembered to be comforted and delighted by the sound of the driver’s-side window snapping shut. In challenging times, times like these, it was essential to return to a place of sumptuousness and strength, a small victory, rather than succumb to self-doubt.
In the elevator, Toby pulled his shoulders back and raised his chest; he thought of Jacques Chirac’s moving retirement speech in front of le drapeau tricolor : “ Mes chers compatriotes de métropole, d’outre-mer, de l’étranger …”
The elevator opened onto the dark studio, and Toby stepped out as though passing through saloon doors. The writers, producers, on-air talent, and interns stopped speaking for a moment, in what Toby first took to be stunned reverie. Most of them had been to his parties at the converted candy warehouse. He had taken baguette lunches with them on the port, as the long-legged rollerbladers zoomed past. He had briefly dated one of them, before Alicia, but she had smoked the same brand of cigarillo as Karen—they were surely the only two women on the island with a cigarillo addiction—and the sex had made him thoughtful. Toby greeted those with whom he shared friendly relations, with whom he had made sarcastic remarks about Ed Hardy T-shirts. “What’s up?” His friends and acquaintances and Sandra from Poland, the former girlfriend, responded with barely perceptible nods. In his office, he dropped his satchel. The orange light on his telephone flashed.
There were six voice messages from Dwayne, four e-mails from Dwayne’s secretary, and a yellow sticky note affixed to his keyboard: Come see me NOW .
He took the circuitous route to Dwayne’s office, bypassing the studio, blowing on his hands to keep them warm. Onthe way, he ducked into a washroom, made certain it was empty, and practised his speech in front of the mirror. He had faith in the universality of human compassion. Dwayne, for example, had always wanted to be in front of the camera. Acne scars had made a lesser man of him. It had been entirely beyond his control. Poor Dwayne. Toby meditated on this to gain an understanding of his boss: poor Dwayne, and his cowboy boots.
There was another voice in Dwayne’s office, laughter. From time to time, when she allowed herself to relax, Alicia’s laugh degraded into a snort. He had grown to love this rare flaw in her, as it was inspired by joy. Joy. Compassion. Cowboy boots. Good-healthy-right-strong. It was marvellous that Alicia and Dwayne were in the office together—destiny.
“Good morning to you both,” he said, at the doorway.
Alicia was enthroned in one of the fake antique chairs that faced Dwayne’s desk, in a dark blue dress that tied around the waist and a pair of long black boots. She looked at Toby as though he had traded faces.
“Before you say
Now, on top of everything else, he was late. The phone buzzed in his satchel, his parents, no doubt. First he would deal with Dwayne, then he would call his parents with more late-night infomercial philosophy. We are indeed the architects of our own lives.
There was enough traffic on René Lévesque to allow him to work his strategy into a baroque chamber composition, with dramatic pauses and hand gestures. He rehearsed, imagining his meeting in the office of the station manager, his friend, the president of his society. Humility, first, and an acknowledgment of one’s failings. Then a stunning declaration of grievances, leading to eloquence and great wit, historical allusions, mastery of the room. All of it set to the fifth Brandenburg. Toby was not the first man in history to be cuckolded by a member of a visual minority, and father-burnings must be quite common, statistically. If anyone had actually heard the interview, other than his father and Bruce, he had a footnoted speech prepared about the public’s short attention span.
He used his electronic card to enter the parking garage, and remembered to be comforted and delighted by the sound of the driver’s-side window snapping shut. In challenging times, times like these, it was essential to return to a place of sumptuousness and strength, a small victory, rather than succumb to self-doubt.
In the elevator, Toby pulled his shoulders back and raised his chest; he thought of Jacques Chirac’s moving retirement speech in front of le drapeau tricolor : “ Mes chers compatriotes de métropole, d’outre-mer, de l’étranger …”
The elevator opened onto the dark studio, and Toby stepped out as though passing through saloon doors. The writers, producers, on-air talent, and interns stopped speaking for a moment, in what Toby first took to be stunned reverie. Most of them had been to his parties at the converted candy warehouse. He had taken baguette lunches with them on the port, as the long-legged rollerbladers zoomed past. He had briefly dated one of them, before Alicia, but she had smoked the same brand of cigarillo as Karen—they were surely the only two women on the island with a cigarillo addiction—and the sex had made him thoughtful. Toby greeted those with whom he shared friendly relations, with whom he had made sarcastic remarks about Ed Hardy T-shirts. “What’s up?” His friends and acquaintances and Sandra from Poland, the former girlfriend, responded with barely perceptible nods. In his office, he dropped his satchel. The orange light on his telephone flashed.
There were six voice messages from Dwayne, four e-mails from Dwayne’s secretary, and a yellow sticky note affixed to his keyboard: Come see me NOW .
He took the circuitous route to Dwayne’s office, bypassing the studio, blowing on his hands to keep them warm. Onthe way, he ducked into a washroom, made certain it was empty, and practised his speech in front of the mirror. He had faith in the universality of human compassion. Dwayne, for example, had always wanted to be in front of the camera. Acne scars had made a lesser man of him. It had been entirely beyond his control. Poor Dwayne. Toby meditated on this to gain an understanding of his boss: poor Dwayne, and his cowboy boots.
There was another voice in Dwayne’s office, laughter. From time to time, when she allowed herself to relax, Alicia’s laugh degraded into a snort. He had grown to love this rare flaw in her, as it was inspired by joy. Joy. Compassion. Cowboy boots. Good-healthy-right-strong. It was marvellous that Alicia and Dwayne were in the office together—destiny.
“Good morning to you both,” he said, at the doorway.
Alicia was enthroned in one of the fake antique chairs that faced Dwayne’s desk, in a dark blue dress that tied around the waist and a pair of long black boots. She looked at Toby as though he had traded faces.
“Before you say
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