The Doorman

  Pete, as usual, was late, which gave Oscar time to settle in. He was not used to such spots, being far more familiar with the Co-op, a pleasant place where farmers sat around clutching cheap coffee and swapping horror stories about hail. Although generally sedate, it was not without drama - like that time the cleaner found some out of province bottles in the parking lot and called the newspaper to warn them that devil worshippers had come to town and, being smugglers as well, brought their own beer. Further investigation revealed it to be a local brew from Quebec whose Satanic image referred to an old Quebecois folktale. Catholics, devil worshippers, Pastor Wilcox had replied. What's the difference?

  This place, however, was totally unlike that. For one thing, they had magazines, none of which, Oscar was sorry to say, had anything to do with the motion picture industry. The customers, students most likely, were much younger than at the Co-op and none of them wore caps advertising farm machinery. There did seem to be a uniform of sorts but it was mostly scarves and sweaters and soft funny hats that didn't look at all warm. As someone who didn't drink coffee - Oscar preferred apple juice - he couldn't speak to its quality but, judging by the smell, it was much plusher than the coloured water his farmer friends drank.

  Pete, on the other hand, was quite familiar with the place, having spent many an idle hour there pretending to study. From time to time his classmates would join him and they would argue about philosophy, the point of which, as far as he could tell, was to prove that nothing mattered and so, impress girls.

  "Nonsense!" Oscar insisted, upon hearing the news. "Louise is a lady. She would never do such a thing!"

  On this point, like so many others, Pastor Wilcox had been clear: there were two kinds of women, nice girls and whores. The former were sweet and lovely and more than content to wait for marriage. The vast majority of them, in fact, didn't even like sex and only did it to please their husbands. That and to have babies, which was their real purpose in life. The latter, however, were lewd and lascivious and the most powerful implement in Satan's toolkit, which he used to snare wayward souls and send them plummeting down to Hell. That someone like Louise, who was hardly a Jezebel, would have sex on Mr. Johnstone's desk was totally beyond belief.

  "It's true," Pete said. "I saw it myself."

  Despite being a university student and so, thoroughly jaded by life, Pete had been shaken by the experience. The sight of her lying there, eyes glazed with pleasure as Dale slapped himself against her crotch, his muscular body straining towards success, had disturbed him deeply. Every night since, as a matter of fact, he had gone to bed with that image in his head and each time his hand had wandered down, his thoughts following their experience stroke by stroke right up to the moment Dale shot his filthy seed inside her.

  "It must've been the chocolate," Oscar said. "Too much sugar."

  "Maybe."

  "What about the Palace? Any news?"

  "I already told you," Pete replied. "No, nothing."

  Oscar was confused. They should've called by now. What kind of business lets a treasure like the Palace lay dormant? Unless of course Pete missed the call. He did have a tendency to toke up first thing in the afternoon. To make things interesting, he claimed. As someone with a superior intellect, he often found it necessary to handicap himself with drugs to bring himself down to the level of those around him. That he couldn't remember anything his professors said was an unfortunate but irrelevant side-effect since, as a nihilist, he had no faith in the future. Only the moment mattered. Intensity was everything.

  Oscar was also feeling a bit anxious. Hardly a day went by without him visiting the Palace. Even on his day off he would drop by, just to make sure everything was okay. Much as he liked Ralph, the part-time doorman, Oscar couldn't help but suspect he lacked zeal. It was partly his clothes, which were rarely washed and so, bore the signs of various adventures. One could almost draw a map of his meals, a gastronomic guide to his gut, by linking the stains on his shirt. He was also rarely shaven, miraculously managing to always appear scruffy, never clean-shaven or bearded but ever in-between. His ticket-taking skills were also suspect: not only did he not look at the customer, he often accepted tokens which had clearly been bought at a bingo supply store and had even been known to take Canadian Tire money on the rare occasions he had worked as a cashier. As Head Doorman, Oscar considered it his duty to be on top of things and felt frustrated that he could not do so now.

  "Tell you one thing," Pete said. "I'm not wearing a uniform. No monkey suit for me."

  "It might not be so bad."

  "Are you kidding? It'll be hell."

  "You don't know that."

  "Oh yes I do. I have a friend, he works for them and he says they're total fascists. You have to wear a uniform, shave and even wear deodorant."

  "Deodorant?" Oscar repeated. "Ralph won't like that."

  "Who would? Not only that. You have to use a timecard."

  "What's that?"

  "It's a card you put into a clock and if you're late, you get a shock."

  "Goodness!"

  "And they only let you go to the can once a shift."

  "But what if you have to? What if it's a number two?"

  "Then a supervisor goes with you."

  "Why?"

  "To check."

  "Check what?"

  "That you really did something."

  "No!"

  "Yeah. And if it isn't big enough, they dock you."

  "Goodness!" Oscar repeated. Due to his diet, constipation was a problem. The thought that someone would measure his movements made him nervous.

  "And the worst thing is, they hate kids."

  "No!"

  "Yes. They never show family movies and most of their films are flat out porno."

  Oscar felt faint. Pastor Wilcox was not going to like this. He didn't even like movies where people kissed. A peck on the cheek or top of the head was okay but mouth to mouth was full on lust. If you have to put your lips on something, he would say, make sure it's food. That gluttony was a sin was something he reluctantly admitted but it hardly compared to lust which, he believed, was the original sin. What was the apple after all but an aphrodisiac? And the shame that Adam and Eve had felt after eating it was clearly the self-loathing one feels after sex. As much as possible, Pastor Wilcox avoided having sex with his wife, preferring to put his energy into prayer instead. She, however, was considerably less content with the arrangement and frequently found herself having lustful thoughts about the strangers who passed through her life. The highlight of her day, in fact, was usually a trip to the supermarket where, besides accumulating imaginary lovers, she spent an inordinate amount of time staring at cucumbers and eggplants.

  "But why," Oscar asked, "would he sell to such people?"

  "You heard him. He was broke. It was either that or close."

  Oscar was appalled. For years he had looked up to the stylish owner, seeing him as a second father. His own, along with his mother, he had lost in a freak accident. They had been watching Lawrence Welk on TV when their house was hit by a bolt of lightning: exploding outwards, the screen burst into bits, shredding them with its glass and leaving Oscar an orphan. Pastor Wilcox, ever one to sniff out sin, had, without explicitly saying so, more than once suggested that it was at least partly their fault for watching such fare - all those racy German girls in skirts that showed the knee - and that, had they been watching Hymn Sing (which was on the other channel), God might've fired his bolt in another direction, at a Methodist maybe, or an Anglican, and so, ruined someone else's life instead. That he, Mr. Johnstone that is, would let the Palace fall into the hands of such people was deeply discouraging.

  "Well," he said. "I guess we'll find out soon enough."

  *

  "I'd like to begin," Camila said, smiling broadly, "by saying how happy I am to be here and how much I enjoy working with you."

  The truth was quite different. The transfer had clearly been a demotion, punishment no doubt for her refusal to sleep
with her boss, a bald, middle-aged man with a penchant for popcorn girls. See that one, he'd say nudging a junior. I popped her. Popped her good, know what I mean? That Camila would refuse him he took as a personal affront. A simple no would have been bad enough but she actually seemed to find him repulsive and that he could not bear. At times, especially after a few drinks, he saw himself as the victim: besides hurting his feelings, she had brought into question his belief that money conquers all. So naturally she had to go. And what better place than Kastasoon, a small prairie city with little to offer a sophisticated urbanite like her? Condemned to a life of listening to farmers complain about how Golden Topping gives them gas, she was sure to regret her refusal. Who knows? Maybe she would even reconsider. How sweet that would be. In his mind, he saw himself bumping into her at an event, indignantly listening to her apologies, repeatedly refusing her out of pride, slowly softening, finally relenting, and then, in the darkness of his hotel room, thoroughly enjoying her sexy Spanish body.

  Camila of course had a very different view of the future. Although initially dismayed by the demotion, she was determined to work her way back, which was entirely consistent with her character. Like Louise, she had started in concessions. Although only a part-time job to save money for university, she was both popular and competent and soon caught the eye of her manager who, spotting her potential, offered her a full-time, career-track position which, after much thought, she accepted - largely out of consideration for her parents, who, as immigrants, lacked the means to pay for her education. A practical person, she was also reluctant to take on a large student loan that could set her back years since, unlike Pete, who fully intended to default on his, she believed that everyone should pay their debts.

  Even so, the first time she saw the Palace, she cried. It was just so shabby, everything dirty and rundown. And the neighbourhood! Sleazy shops everywhere and drunks passed out on the sidewalk in their own urine. The employees were equally awful. The doorman, although friendly, seemed to do nothing but take tickets and even then rather haphazardly. Despite this, he saw himself as invaluable, the soul of the enterprise even and was full of suggestions, all of them expensive, most of them unnecessary, and more than a few involving a dog whose connection to the theatre she had yet to understand. The cashier was no better. Besides wearing a T-shirt that read Fuck You! he was unkempt past the point of laziness and even seemed a bit stoned. The concession area, archaically known as the Candy Bar, was a battlefield of cigarette burns manned by a woman whose customer skills lay on the far side of apathy. The worst, however, was the projectionist who, besides being drunk, had, in the mistaken belief that it would "get her juices going," shown her his pornography collection and was astonished to discover not only that it failed to have the desired effect but was also against regulations.

  "What!" he exclaimed. "No porn? The union's going to hear about this!"

  And so it was with everything. Not only was there no punch clock, the employees came and went as they pleased. More than once, in fact, the audience had been left waiting for the reels to change because the projectionist had run out of alcohol and so, stepped out for a six-pack. The woman in concessions was a chronic smoker whose work breaks rarely interfered with her addiction and the cashier seemed to consider his booth a jail cell, from which he escaped every chance he could. Only the doorman was diligent but even he had a tendency to disappear from time to time to do what he called research but usually involved chasing stray cats or watching pigeons peck for food. The basic constraints of conformity, such as wearing a uniform or being on time, were totally unknown to them and, by certain individuals especially, fiercely resisted. Only the doorman was open to the idea of wearing a uniform but even his face fell into a frown upon seeing it; obviously expecting something grander, a multicoloured monstrosity maybe, with sash and cape and even epaulets, he was clearly underwhelmed by the plain yellow jacket and pants. The only thing that appealed to him was the big black Z and even then he lamented that it was not sufficiently Zorro-like.

  Camila was used to resistance. At first, like most people new to management, she had made the mistake of thinking she could continue being friends with the people below her. I'm just trying to do what's best for everyone, she had believed and was surprised by the unrelenting selfishness of her subordinates, who continually put their own interests first. Having failed with friendliness, she soon saw the value of strictness and, ever after, stood aloof from her staff. She still smiled and was friendly but always felt the falsity of their replies and tried not to take it personally. But this was something else. This was open rebellion and that she could not allow.

  "And I know," she continued, "that most of you have never worked for a big company before but rules are rules and we must follow them. Some, such as health and safety, are laws that the company must obey while others, like wearing a uniform and being on time, are just common sense. I'm sure you understand. I've let a lot of things slide in the hope you make the adjustment yourself but you haven't so I'm going to have to institute certain punishments. From now on, anyone who is late, unshaven or not in uniform, will have their pay docked. Repeated offenses will result in termination. I do this reluctantly because I know such things are not popular but I really feel I have no choice. My hope is that you will be responsible enough to make these changes yourself and I won't have to resort to such measures. It may seem difficult but I'm confident you'll soon get used to it and if we all just pull together we can make this theatre a success. Are you with me?"

  *

  "Can you believe it?" Pete asked his fellow employees. "She actually told me to smile. Smile! Like I got anything to smile about, stuck in a hot smelly booth all day."

  "Most of those smells are yours," Oscar pointed out.

  "Doesn't make them any more pleasant."

  "I'll say."

  "Call the union," Dale advised. "That's what it's there for. To keep pricks like her from making you do your job."

  "I would," Pete replied, "if I was a member."

  "No union!" Dale exclaimed. "What are you, a communist?"

  "No, I just didn't get around to joining."

  The truth was quite different. A true individualist, Pete rejected all organizations, including those for his betterment. What was the point of pensions and dental care if you had to go to meetings and sit cheek by jowl with a bunch of halfwits? Pete would rather die a toothless hobo than hang out with lifers like that. Besides, Mr. Johnstone had offered him fifty dollars not to join and he had taken it.

  "What about my ciggies?" Louise asked. "Can they do anything for me?"

  Of the four, she had been the least affected by unemployment: other than the loss of a paycheck and having to do the bulk of her smoking at home, her life had continued largely unchanged. Having never felt the need to move out, she lived with and off her parents, a fat wart on the face of their happiness which neither of them had been ruthless enough to remove. Any suggestion that she might find a husband or a place of her own was skillfully ignored. Returning to work, however, had been full of unpleasant surprises: not only was she banned from smoking inside the Palace, her smoke breaks were limited to one an hour and she was forbidden to read her magazines on company time. The bitch actually expected her to work. But what if no one's around? she asked. Then you wait, Camila replied. Wait! With no cigarettes or magazines to distract her? Like it was a job or something! All her life she had listened to people complain about their jobs but never understood why. Can't you just slip out for a smoke or take a nap behind the popcorn machine? Now, for the first time, she realized that employment sometimes involved doing things you don't like.

  "Fuck yeah," Dale replied. "No one can stop you getting cancer. It's your right."

  "What about the machines?" Pete asked. "You know, the ones that keep a record of ticket sales."

  "That's a grey area," Dale admitted, immediately understanding. "Losses are part of business but you gotta be careful."

  Dale knew of what he spoke, ha
ving been fired more than once for getting his fingers caught in the till. Like Pete, he considered it an additional wage and was appalled by the honesty of others. Sadly, the union had been unable to help him and that, combined with a nasty argument with his rep, had even caused him to question his membership. What was the point of paying dues if they wouldn't represent you on matters of principle? In the end, lacking other options, he had accepted their judgement, albeit with bitterness.

  His most recent bout of unemployment had been an unalloyed treat and he was sorry to see it end. In addition to his benefits, which he had immediately applied for, he worked part-time at a peep show. Paid in cash, which he did not declare, it had nicely topped up his pogey and although his job was merely to maintain order, he enjoyed chatting with the girls and often spent his free time sitting in a booth watching them perform. It was also a venue where his grunting did not seem out of place. Now, forced to work for the money he received, he was struggling to keep both jobs going and was deeply resentful of the fact.

  "She's not so bad," Oscar offered.

  "What?"

  "Are you kidding me?"

  "Fuck that."

  "I mean," he continued, "she's just trying to make things better."

  Of all the employees, only Oscar appreciated Camila's efforts to improve the Palace. True, some of her ideas were unnecessarily strict but at least the dust and grime were gone and the washrooms had both soap and toilet paper. Surely they could see that. But, for some reason, they were blind to the benefits of sanitation. I'd rather drink my own urine, Pete said, than use her soap. Well, that was a bit extreme. And maybe an exaggeration, although you could never be sure. That both Pete and Louise were boycotting the sink to protest their current working conditions was worrisome, especially since Louise had a habit of dispensing popcorn by slapping it into boxes with her hand rather than use the scoop.

  "It's because she's hot, isn't it?" Pete demanded. "You want to fuck her, don't you?"