As I turned off the phone, I checked the call display, and of course it was Allison, finally. It’s all I can do right now to not climb the walls with my teeth.
Oh, God. Look at these men. What drudgery are these dirtbags discussing now? They’re all crooks. You can’t imagine all the mining and real estate and offshore crap that wends through this room. You’d be shocked. They’ll bankrupt widows and they’ll only get a minimum fine and some golf tips from their lawyers. I bet Allison was married to one of these guys. What was his name? Glenn. Uh-huh. Glenn, who probably had a 23 handicap, a cholesterol count of 280, and a handful of semitraceable shell corporations. I’ve met enough Glenns in my time. Some of them hang around at the end of the day and try to pick me up, which I didn’t use to mind because it meant that at least I wasn’t invisible. But now? Glenn. Now I hate Glenn, because Glenn is connected to Allison, and Allison is a witch.
Oh Lord, when is this morning’s session going to end? And Heather, aren’t you the one who’s up the creek, paddle-free, once they read this transcript? Screw it. Nobody ever does.
What has happened to me? I’ve gone crazy. I have. Allison isn’t evil. She’s just stupid. She probably forgot to recharge her phone. Why all of a sudden do you accuse her of treachery when stupidity may be her only failing? Wait a second-Allison is way too young a name for a woman aged sixty-ish. She ought to be called Margaret or Judy or Pam. Allison? Only women my age are called Allison. Or Heather. When we all start dying in another forty years, they’ll look at the obituaries, see our names and say to themselves, “Isn’t it weird? All the Heathers are dying.”
A bit later
Okay, there was one time when I suspected something dodgy with Jason, just one time, down in Park Royal maybe two months before he disappeared. We were walking down the main atrium in the south mall, returning a shirt, and in mid-conversation Jason froze. I looked at whatever it was he was seeing; there was just this guy sitting there eating ice cream on a bench with a woman who looked to be his mother. He was a big guy, kind of Eastern European looking, and his clothes-they were like what a nightclub bouncer in Vladivostok might choose, thinking that this was how hip Americans dress. His mother was like something from the tuberculosis ward on Ellis Island circa 1902.
“Jason?”
“Don’t move.”
“Huh.”
“I said, don’t-”
“Jason, you’re scaring me.”
The guy looked our way, and in slow motion put down his ice cream. He then rolled up his pants leg, and I thought he was going to pull out a handgun, but instead I saw that he had a metal prosthesis. The guy knocked on it, looked up at Jason and gave a creepy smile.
The next minute Jason had whisked me away and we were standing in front of the Bootlegger jeans store. He was obviously stressed out, and when he saw that we were in front of the Bootlegger store, he became even more so-he said, “Not this place.” So we escalatored up to the next level. I looked down, and the one-legged guy was looking up at us.
By then I was curious but also quite angry. “Jason, what was that all about?”
“A guy I used to work with.”
“It doesn’t look to me like you were friends with him.”
“He burnt me on some money he owes me. He’s a crazy Russian guy. Those people will do anything.”
“That’s racist.”
“Whatever. That guy is bad news.”
I saw the wall slam down. I didn’t bother pursuing the question, as past experience had taught me the futility of trying to breach the wall.
Jason said, “Let’s go to the parkade.”
“What? We just got here. We haven’t even returned this shirt.”
“We’re going.”
And so we left.
And for the weeks after that, Jason was jumpy and tossed in his sleep. Maybe there was no connection to the disappearance. What am I saying? I don’t have a clue. But if I ever see that guy again, he’s got a lot of questions coming his way.
Tuesday afternoon 1:30
Back in my little stenography booth looking, to all the world, like the picture of industry.
I listened to Allison’s message over lunch hour:
“Oh, hello, uh, Heather, this is Allison. I think you might have been trying to reach me. I couldn’t find your number because it was in the cell phone’s memory and the phone was in the car, which died, and so I’ve been trying to rustle up some money to get the starter motor fixed, and, well, you know how complicated things can get…”
Do I? Do I? Allison, stop feebly toying with the trivialities of your life, accomplishing nothing, pretending that your tasks are so complex that only God could handle them. Just go fix your effing car, and shut up. And yes, Allison, I do know how complicated things can get, but they could be bloody well easier if you’d stop pretending to be a cretinous fake helpless girly-girl about matters that take only ten minutes to solve.
“…Anyway, yes, I did have a remarkable statement for you come through last night, and it was for you, no mistake there. Would you like to get together maybe at the end of the day? I know you work nine to five. Here’s my number, give me a call…”
Hag.
As if I didn’t know her number. I phoned it and got no response. Lunch hour went by in what seemed to be three minutes as I dialed it over and over, for a few minutes from the bathroom because I got a bit dizzy and had to sit in silence. What is it about Allison that has me sitting in public bathroom stalls all the time?
So now I’m back in the courtroom supposedly documenting this frivolous and endless land deal trial. These men should all be tarred and feathered and be flogged as they walk naked down the street for screwing around with the lives of common people the way they do.
In my peripheral vision I’m also noticing that people are looking at me to see if my cell phone is going to ring again. As if. But I have to admit, it’s a bit flattering to be the temporary star in the courtroom, instead of these blowhards who drag things out so they can bill for countless hours. The law is a lie. It’s a lie. A lie.
Tuesday afternoon 2:45
Back in my little booth stenographing away.
My phone just rang again. Right in the middle of a freighted moment engineered by one of these hawklike balding Glennoids. The judge spoke to me quite harshly-too harshly, really; I mean, it’s only a cell phone ringing in front of the court. Professionally it’s a huge humiliation, but you know what? I could care less. I told his honor that I’d just signed up for a new cell phone program and that I was unfamiliar with their system. And he bought it.
And so here I am, chastened, and to look at me, I’m beavering away at my job, humiliated and belittled by the powers above. Sure. I just want to get out of this psychic garbage dump.
Tuesday night 10:00
Allison finally answered her phone. I pretended to be all-innocent, as if I hadn’t phoned her two thousand times in the past forty-eight hours.
“Allison?”
“Heather. We connect. How are you?”
Like a Ryder truck full of fertilizer and diesel fuel, with a detonator set at thirty seconds and ticking. “Okay. Getting by. The usual. You?”
“Oh, you know-this car of mine. Cars are so expensive to maintain.”
“What do you drive?”
“A ’92 Cutlass.”
Well, of course it’s expensive to maintain. It’s a decade old-what do you expect? The quality revolution hadn’t happened then. It’s one big hunk of pain you’re driving. Throw it away. Buy a Pontiac Firefly for $19.95-I don’t care what you do, but for God’s sake, don’t drive the wind-up toy you’re using now. I said, “Cars are getting better these days, but they can still be a bother.”
“The money I make from being a pretend psychic is so small.”
“I could help you out, maybe.”
“Could you?”
I said, “Sure. It’s probably going to cost less than you thought. I can set you up with my repair guy, Gary, down on Pem
berton Avenue.”
“That’d be kind of you.”
“So can we meet tonight?”
“I think so.”
I asked, “What time works for you?”
“Seven o’clock”?
“Where? How about my place?”
“Oh…”
“Allison-is everything okay?”
“It’s just that seven is when I usually eat dinner.”
We agreed to meet at a slightly formal Italian place on Marine Drive. When I arrived, it was evident she’d been there a while, as only the dregs remained in what I already saw was a bottle of the restaurant’s priciest merlot. She told me I looked relaxed, which is always a successful ploy, because it invariably relaxes the person you say it to. I asked if she liked the wine; she did-she’d better-and she ordered another bottle, although you’d never imagine such a tiny dragon could hold her booze so well.
Heather, try to be nice to this woman. You’re only jealous because Jason chose to speak through her and not directly to you.
As soon as there was wine in my glass I asked her what message Jason had given her, but she raised her hand in a warding-off motion (very professional) and said, “It’s not good to mix eating with the spirit world.” It was all I could do not to throttle her. She talks about the afterlife like it was Fort Lauderdale.
As Allison didn’t want to contaminate her perceptions by asking me about my life, I learned-over the appetizer, the lamb entrée, and some Key lime sorbet-about Glenn, who had worked for the Port Authority’s inspection division, further details of which make me ache for sleep. She has three ungrateful daughters, all in their twenties, who seem to shack up with anything on two legs. To hear Allison’s side of the story, her life has been nothing but person after person abusing her sweet, generous nature. Of course, I don’t believe her for a moment, but that doesn’t get me anywhere. She’s got the sole existing phone line to Jason, and I’ll be damned if some passive-aggressive menopausal old bat is going to cheat me out of hearing what Jason’s been saying to me.
When the dishes were cleared, Allison did what I used to do back in college, which was keep a sharp eye attuned to the restaurant’s till so as to see when the check might be arriving, and once the check was in motion toward the table, flee to the bathroom. When she returned, she found me putting on my sweater and readying my purse.
“Oh, did the bill come?”
“My treat.”
“How sweet of you.”
“Maybe we could go to a coffee place and discuss, you know-these things you’ve been receiving.”
“That’s an excellent idea.”
We found a nearby café inhabited by local teens primping and strutting and turkey-cocking, all of which made me feel older than dirt. Allison ordered the most expensive coffee on the menu, whereupon I gave her my most penetrating stare. “Can we talk now about Jason?”
“Of course, dear. But I wish it didn’t feel as silly as it does to say these things to you.”
“No, not at all. So what did he say?”
Allison inhaled and delivered the words like an embarrassing truth. “Glue.” “What?” “Glue. Glue glue glue glue glue.”
I was floored. It was the Quails speaking. The Quails were yet more characters created by Jason and me-a blend of Broadway gypsies and intelligent children, greatly given to repetitive tasks and themed costumes. But the Quails spoke only their own language, which had only one word, glü with a jaunty, Ikea-like umlaut on the ü.
Allison said, “After all your kindness, Heather, that’s the only message I have for you. I think maybe I am a fraud after all.”
I sat stunned.
“Heather? Heather?”
“What? I-”
“I take it this means something to you.”
“Yeah. It does.”
“That’s a relief.”
Allison, I suppose, was wondering what kind of genie had been let out of the bottle. I asked her, “Nothing else? Nothing at all?”
“Sorry Heather. Just ‘Glue glue glue glue.’”
“When do you normally pick up your messages, so to speak?”
“It has to be during the night.”
“So tonight you’ll get more?”
“I can only wait and see.”
“Will you call me if you get anything?”
“Of course I will. But I think it’s because of my car and money worries that I’m blocking more than I could otherwise receive.”
“I’ll help you out with your car. And of course I’ll pay you your normal psychic fees.”
“You’re very kind, Heather. And after tonight’s lavish meal, too.”
Oh, brother. I took ten twenty-dollar bills from my bag and gave them to Allison. “This is for today. And also, I’ll cover your car’s repair bill this time. How does that sound?”
“Such kindness! But really Heather, you-”
I was swept away in the emotion of hearing Quails from the dead. “It’s my pleasure. Can I ask you to keep your phone on tomorrow, Allison? It’s so frustrating to be unable to reach you sometimes.”
“Of course I will, dear.”
And so I came home, where I’m sitting now trying to make sense of Jason’s happy message from beyond. Glü glü glü glü glü glü glü glü glü glü glü glü glü.
I’m wondering if I should just jump off Cleveland Dam and get to him right away, but that would probably somehow disqualify me.
So I think I just need to sit here, enjoy the glow and then take two sleeping pills because tomorrow’s a working day.
Just before I fall asleep…
I’ve been thinking. I’m older. I’m on the other side of thirty-five, and I have a better notion of wasted time and energy than I did even two years ago. If somebody wastes my time these days, I get mad. I’m also seven years older than Jason, but after about thirty-three, we’re all the same age in our heads, so it’s not the big deal it looks like. At least not from the inside looking out. And as Jason was almost thirty-three, we were almost the same. And anyway, a few decades after your first kiss and your first cigarette, I don’t care if you’re rich or poor, life leaves the same number of bruises on you.
Most people might view Jason as a failure, and that’s just fine. Failure is authentic, and because it’s authentic, it’s real and genuine, and because of that, it’s a pure state of being. I thought Jason was as pure and bright as a halo, and no, I’m not trying to make excuses for the guy. God only knows he snored through enough morning jobs, and he clocked out early once a week to watch the games down at the pubs. But Jason never curried favor with people he didn’t like. He never tried to fake being busy so he’d look good, and he never fudged his opinion to suit the temperature of the room.
In failure, Jason could be truly himself, and there’s a liberation that stems from that. Leave that shirt untucked. Wash your hair tomorrow. Beer with lunch? Sure.
I wish I could say that success turns people into plastic dolls, but the truth is that I don’t know any successful people. The people in the courts are the closest I might come to knowing success stories, but they’re all vermin.
At first I wondered if I should take Jason and clean him up and turn him into a gung-ho PowerPoint-driven success story, but that was never going to happen. I figured that out quickly, so I never pushed him. That I didn’t try to force him to change might have been my biggest attraction-that and my manicotti Florentine-and the fact that I never judged him harshly, or even judged him at all. I simply let him be who he was, this sweet, screwed-up refugee from a past that was so extreme and harsh, and so different from my own. And he was so lonely when I met him-oh! He almost hummed with relief in the mornings when he learned we could talk at breakfast. Apparently, that was forbidden growing up. Reg must have been pretty gruesome back then.
Jason also had this thing called the glory-meter. A glory-meter was an invisible device Jason said almost everybody carries around with them, a Palm Pilot-ish gadget that goes ding-ding-ding whenever
we come up with a salve to try to inflate our sense of importance. Examples would be “I make the best sour cherry pie in Vancouver” “My dachshund has the silkiest fur of all the dogs in the park” “My spreadsheets have the most sensibly ordered fields” “I won the 500-yard dash in my senior year.” You get the picture. Simple stuff. Jason never saw anything wrong with this kind of thing, but when he pointed the meter to himself, the ding-ding-ding stopped, and he’d pretend to whack it, as if the needle were broken.
“Jason, you must have something in you to activate the glory-meter.”
“Sorry, honey. Nada.”
“Oh, come on…”
“Zilch.”
This was his cue for me to say how much I loved him, and I’d spend the next ten minutes girlishly telling him all the goofy things I like about him, and he felt so much better because of that. So, if that’s fixing someone, yup, I fixed the man.
Wednesday morning 10:30
I ended up needing five sleeping pills to knock me out, and it was all I could do to drag my butt into work this morning. As an antidote, I took some trucker pills Jason kept in the medicine cabinet-heavy duty, but they do wake me up. Fortunately, people will misinterpret my sour, inwardly turned face as contrition after yesterday’s cell phone debacle. However, I can barely think properly, let alone transcribe the boring pap being spouted in this current trial, so I’m just going to sit here and do the best I can, given the circumstances.
Oh, it’s lovely to sit here and pay no attention to anything these morons in the court are saying. I ought to have tried this years ago. I wonder how many other stenographers across the decades have sat here pumping out their inner self while appearing prim and methodical? Oh, I suppose I’m flattering myself, but we’re a good crew, we are, stenographers. On TV, we never get to be a part of the plot twist. A star has never played a stenographer; there isn’t even a porn movie with court stenographers in it.