by H. B. Hogan
He stood up and approached the bulletin board that hung beside the window. He scrutinized the flyers and posters and read signs offering child care, private English lessons, carpooling, house cleaning, potluck dinners, prayer meetings, garage sales, and something called Al-Anon, which sounded nice. He ripped off a phone-number ribbon from the bottom of the Al-Anon poster and tucked it into his pocket.
Mr. Gupta peered through the blinds at the park behind the community centre. He saw tennis courts and people tossing Frisbees. He saw a small round wading pool, its perimeter clotted with children in pastel sun hats. Young women patrolled the pool’s enclosure in groups of two or three, their complexions noticeably darker than their charges. Under a nearby tree, a shirtless man with profoundly dirty hair strummed a guitar. A woman in a bikini and a brindled, big-headed dog were stretched out on a blanket beside him.
Mr. Gupta stepped out into the hallway. There was no sign of Abby or Vladimir. The lights in the hallway were off, but sunlight streamed through the windows on the exit doors at the end of the hall, and its reflection on the polished floor momentarily blinded him. He squinted and held his hand up to block the glare, and then walked through the rectangle of sunlight towards the exit, his dress shoes clicking softly on the linoleum.
Outside, Mr. Gupta felt the constraints of his alienation loosen. On the south side of Queen Street, he saw a coffee-shop window bearing the logo from Abby’s coffee cup. He wondered if he would find Abby inside. Perhaps an explanation of his good intentions, in his excellent English, would come easier in the absence of Mr. Laszlo.
Once inside, however, Mr. Gupta felt even more uncomfortable than he had in the class. The café was cramped, and full of loafing youth covered in tattoos. Music blared from large speakers behind the counter, and none of the children who worked there looked up when Mr. Gupta approached the counter. While he waited for the staff to acknowledge him, he stole glances around the seating area. No sign of Abby, but he did notice a cat stretched out on the window sill and a man fixing his long hair into a top knot.
“Two Americanos, Celeste.”
Mr. Gupta started and turned. The man who had been playing guitar in the park was now standing beside him at the counter. He had donned a short-sleeved dress shirt that was noticeably dirty. It was unbuttoned, exposing a torso that was sinewy and slick with sweat.
“For here?” asked the girl he had called Celeste.
“To go,” said the man, who noticed Mr. Gupta and said, “Oh hey, did I get ahead of you?”
Mr. Gupta began to shrug it off but the man said, “And whatever my friend here is having.” He winked at Mr. Gupta. “I didn’t see you standing there. Sorry about that. Go ahead, man. I’m buying.” The man held up a ten-dollar bill.
Celeste didn’t look up.
The man said, “What’ll it be? You want a coffee or what?”
Mr. Gupta shrugged and said, “Thank you, but it is not necessary.”
“Hey, make that three,” he yelled over the din at Celeste. She nodded.
“Nice day out, eh?” said the man, smiling.
“Yes, yes, it is very nice, thank you,” said Mr. Gupta. He began to ease into this small talk. He tried his best to look casual. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, but then couldn’t figure out what to do with them, so he put them on his hips, and then on second thought, hung them at his sides.
“This summer has been killer, man.”
Mr. Gupta nodded.
“The old lady and I were supposed to get out of town this week but these gas prices blow, you know what I’m saying?”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Gupta. He was delighted by the ease of this exchange, but he felt anxious, too. He knew that if his accent got in the way, the conversation would become strained, and the man would disengage.
“Yeah, so we might just go down to the lake or something later. Hey, Celeste!” he yelled. “You seen Eric around?”
The woman rolled her eyes. “What do you think?”
The man laughed.
Celeste brought the coffees to the counter and looked at Mr. Gupta for the first time. He smiled, but her face remained expressionless and she busied herself with the cash register. Mr. Gupta directed his gaze down to his shoes. He noticed that the man next to him was barefoot. His toenails were yellow and there was a plain black ring tattooed around the base of each toe.
“All together?” she asked the man.
“Yup. Hit me,” he said, and he pushed his ten-dollar bill across the counter.
The cash drawer banged open and Celeste scooped out some change. Mr. Gupta was alarmed to see only two quarters drop from Celeste’s fingers into the man’s waiting palm. Celeste saw the puzzled expression on Mr. Gupta’s face, clenched her jaw and leaned on the cash register. “That’s what it costs,” she said.
“Dude’s got my back,” laughed the man. “Watch it, Celeste. He’s got his eye on you.”
Celeste crossed her arms and glared at Mr. Gupta.
“No, no, no,” stammered Mr. Gupta. “I did not mean… I only wondered if... only for three coffees I—”
Celeste cut him off. “It’s fair trade.”
“Hey, take it easy,” said the man. “He was only lookin’ out for me, weren’t you, pal?” he said, clapping Mr. Gupta on the back.
Mr. Gupta nodded uncomfortably.
“See, Celeste? Give him a break.” The man handed a coffee to Mr. Gupta.
“I cannot let you pay for me,” said Mr. Gupta. “I did not realize the price—”
“No. Hey, man, hey,” said the man. “Relax. I said I’d buy. It’s cool.”
Silenced, feeling as though he had spoiled their rapport, Mr. Gupta pulled a plastic lid from the pile on the counter and snapped it onto his cup.
“Thank you for the coffee, sir,” he said.
The man smiled. “David.” He held out his hand to Mr. Gupta. “David Farmer.”
Mr. Gupta gratefully accepted it. “Gerard Gupta,” he said.
“Pleasure,” said David. He took two lids from the pile and snapped them onto his cups. “So I’ll see you around, eh, Gerard?”
“Yes, yes, I take class on Thursday also and I would like to—”
“Cool. Take it easy, all right?” said David. He moved towards the door and yelled over his shoulder, “Hey, Celeste! Take it easy!”
“Whatever, Farmer,” replied Celeste.
“Thank you for the coffee, Mr. Farmer!” said Gerard, but the door had already swung shut behind David.
Celeste was laughing. “Mr. Farmer!” she said.
Gerard went over to the window. He ignored the cat on the sill, and the cat ignored him. He watched David Farmer trot out into traffic, holding his coffee cups up in the air as he wove between the slowly moving cars. He watched David’s head tip backwards as he shouted something into the park, and he saw the brindled dog gallop playfully over to meet him on the sidewalk. The woman in the bikini propped herself up on one elbow and smiled. Gerard watched all of this from inside the coffee shop and tried to recall the last time he had shared such a casual exchange with a Canadian.
He became aware of Celeste clearing coffee cups from the table to his left. He turned his grin in her direction, but she only raised an eyebrow before walking away. Gerard sighed. He left the café and paused out front.
It was humid. The air was heavy and stagnant, and the heat radiating up from the concrete intensified his discomfort. Gerard balanced his coffee on the bench out front of the café and removed his tie. He folded it carefully and tucked it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. Then he removed his jacket and folded it over one arm and picked up his coffee.He would find his own spot in the park.
Gerard crossed the street and walked east along the southern edge of the park. He imagined that he looked every bit the local, what with his suit jacket draped over his arm and the expensive coffee in his hand. With his left hand, he slid the cup around in his right hand until the logo was visible, but then he realized the label was facin
g the park. He’d wanted the people passing on the street to see the logo. But by the time he’d figured out how to hold the cup in his left hand so that the label faced right, he’d come to the edge of the park and had to turn back.
Gerard paused and looked around. A street lined with houses facing the park ran north along the eastern edge of the park. He decided to walk up that street, thinking that perhaps the people in those houses might see him as a content Torontonian enjoying his midday walk. They might wonder where he worked or if he was going to stop in to see his family during his lunch break.
The houses in this neighbourhood were tall and close together. Their gardens were choked with flowers, and Gerard saw tapestries, silks, linens, and tassels lining the windows’ interiors.
About halfway up the block, it dawned on him that David might know Abby, if they often frequented the same coffee shop, and that he might be able to put in a good word for Gerard with her. David would no doubt see that Gerard was a businessman, and a serious student worthy of Abby’s patience and esteem. Gerard was pleased with himself for thinking of this legitimate excuse to speak to David again. He left the sidewalk to enter the park, and walked down around the tennis courts, towards the community centre where he’d seen David sitting with his girlfriend.
Gerard pictured himself acting surprised to find them there in the park. He imagined patting David’s dog and meeting David’s girlfriend. Maybe while Gerard was standing there with David and his girlfriend, Abby would walk by. He would wave her over and they would talk. Soon all four of them would be laughing as Gerard, with barely a trace of an accent, re-told the story of crazy Mr. Laszlo, and how Abby had erroneously assumed that Gerard shared Mr. Laszlo’s contempt for her work.
As he approached the middle of the park, Gerard spied David’s girlfriend among the other people loafing around on blankets or tossing Frisbees. He quickened his pace. A few more steps in their direction revealed to Gerard that the girl, still clad in only a bikini, was straddling David Farmer, despite the fact they were surrounded by park patrons and visible to passersby on the street. David lay on his back, smiling up at her. His hands cupped her buttocks. Gerard froze. From his vantage point behind the couple, he saw David slip his fingertips into the girl’s bikini bottom. Gerard saw the girl tilt forward, and then she rubbed herself very slowly up and down against David Farmer’s pelvis.
Mortified, Gerard held his breath and scanned his surroundings for a discreet escape. He was afraid that any movement on his part might catch their eye. He could not bear the thought of what she would make of a sweaty foreigner staring bug-eyed at her.
He glanced at the people milling about. No one seemed aware of the lust in their midst. Even the couple’s dog appeared to be indifferent. But Gerard felt like he’d been slapped. He cast one last embarrassed glance in the couple’s direction, and then, walking as quickly as he could without running, he bolted for the north end of the park, across an open field, strategically obscured by the tree under which the couple were undulating.
Gerard was breathing heavily by the time he reached the far side of the field. He stopped to catch his breath in the shade of one of the large maple trees that lined the park. The morning’s ebb and flow of tension had worn him down. He did not think he would survive the long walk back to the streetcar stop. The heat, the interminable wait, the damp crush of sweaty humanity on the streetcar loomed in his mind like insurmountable obstacles. Gerard flopped down on his back in the shade of a tree and tucked his folded jacket beneath his head. It seemed to him that above all else, Canadians could not tolerate being misunderstood. Yet when they misunderstood him, and made no effort to try, he was expected to apologize. Gerard sighed, and from beneath eyelids heavy with sudden exhaustion, he contemplated the fluttering green leaves above him.
An ungodly screech tore Gerard, snorting and dazed, out of his reverie. He sat up and touched his cheek. He realized he’d dozed off. In public. Drooling, even. And, to his horror, he had an erection. He pulled his suit jacket onto his lap and glanced around. A dog was chasing a frantic black squirrel. The squirrel screeched again as it raced across the field, headed right at Gerard. He looked around for the dog’s owner and saw a figure in the shade of a tree at the other end of the park. A leash hung from one hand, and the other held a takeout coffee cup.
“Charlie!” It was a woman. She sounded more bored than aggravated. “Leave it alone!”
Mr. Gupta squinted, but couldn’t see her clearly. He glanced back at the squirrel. The dog had gained ground and was now inches from the squirrel’s tail.
“Charlie!” the woman yelled. She stepped out from underneath the tree. Gerard recognized her and jumped awkwardly to his feet, bending slightly at the waist to hide the remnants of his erection.
“Miss Abby!” he yelled, waving enthusiastically.
Abby’s face went wooden—she ignored him and focused on the dog.
The squirrel, startled by Gerard, dodged left. The move was fatal. Charlie sank his snout into the back half of the squirrel. The squirrel screamed like a teakettle. Gerard clapped a hand over his mouth and wretched.
“Charlie, no!” Abby yelled, and stomped her foot. Her coffee sloshed through the hole in the lid and she dropped it, watching the hot liquid burble out into the grass.
“Dammit,” she said. She licked her scalded wrist while Gerard, who stood only a foot away from Charlie’s bloodbath, was assaulted by the sound of incisors crunching vertebrae. In a rapid, wet staccato, Charlie cut short the squirrel’s miserable shrilling and gnawed happily on the carcass, his snout turned up towards the sky, his tail wagging.
Gerard’s earlier coffee began to rise in his throat. The sound of Charlie’s frothy chewing overwhelmed him. Gerard looked away and was surprised to find he was blinking back tears.
Abby stepped back into the shade and fiddled with the leash. Gerard glared at her. For a moment, Abby looked right at him, as if daring him to confront her. He held her eye and struggled to come up with a suitable admonishment for what she had just subjected him to. His lips trembled; his eyes brimmed. He removed his hands from his mouth, clenched his fists and yelled, “Miss Abby, your dog!” He pointed at Charlie. “Please!”
Abby broke away from Gerard’s glare and yelled, “Charlie, enough!”
Charlie abruptly dropped his kill and lumbered towards Abby. Gerard waited for her to recoil at the sight of Charlie’s blood-soaked fur, to scold Charlie, and to apologize for the mess, but to his astonishment she bent at the waist, patted her hands on her knees, and cooed, “Who’s my big boy?” She clicked the lead to Charlie’s collar and walked away, ponytail bouncing, the sun glinting off the reflective logo on her yoga pants. Her now-empty coffee cup, forgotten in the grass, rocked slightly in the breeze.
The park seemed unnaturally subdued. Gerard surveyed the mess at his feet. He could make out the crumpled tines of a delicate rib cage. A tuft of fur fluttered forlornly, and a few inches away, the squirrel’s once-fluffy tail lay trampled in the bloody grass. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply until the bile stopped burning his throat. In the distance, he heard the chimes of an ice cream truck and the metallic thud of a passing streetcar. He thought of all the people on that streetcar, travelling away from this godforsaken park. Had he not been trying so hard to fit in, he would have been on that streetcar, among those people, his dignity relatively intact.
Had he not been trying so hard. Gerard was was thinking about this when he opened his eyes and saw the opportunity that lay at his feet. He would not waste it. With his jaw clenched and his lips pinched, he bent over and picked up his own coffee cup, removed the lid, and emptied the tepid contents into the grass. Moving quickly, using the lid as a claw, he scooped the visceral squirrel sludge into his cup. He could feel the heat of the muck through the sides of the paper cup. He was surprised but pleased to find it was remarkably light; not too different from the weight of a full cup of coffee. He tapped down the cup’s contents with the edge of the lid, then wiped it cle
an on the grass. He placed the lid back on the cup and ran his thumb around the rim until he heard the lip snap tight. Gerard picked up his jacket and scanned the distance. He found Abby’s silhouette at the far end of the park. He knew she would think him responsible for what had just happened. He knew that her sense of entitlement, her expectation of his apology, would make this lesson in consequences uniquely rewarding for him. His dress shoes squelched in the blood-soaked grass as he headed for her.
WORDS FOR EVELYN
Evelyn squinted over the roof of the car and through heat waves at the tourists waddling in and out of the doughnut shop. The air in the parking lot was heavy, a tongue pressing down on her head and shoulders.
“Evelyn!” Her mother’s voice snapped her back to the task at hand. “For heaven’s sake, hold it higher!”
Evelyn straightened her back and repositioned her arms so the beach towel concealed her mother’s bent back. The rear passenger door of her mother’s rusted sedan was open before her, and Martin, her mother’s new boyfriend, lay slumped across the back seat on his stomach with his legs hanging out the door. Her mother, Judy, was using a road map of southern Ontario to scrape the shit off Martin’s legs. His soiled boxers hung heavy around his ankles, and the tops of his dress socks were ruddy with excrement. The tableau would have struck Evelyn as comical were it not for the fact that it included her.
“I need napkins or something,” Judy said.
“You need a hose, is what you need.”
“Evelyn, put a sock in it!” Judy’s voice had an edge to it, so Evelyn sighed and went back to staring at the doughnut shop. She felt sure every one of those doughnut-eaters knew exactly what was going on behind her beach towel.
Evelyn said, “You should have pulled over sooner.”
“Where, Evelyn?” Judy said. “On the side of the highway?”
