So the bastard wasn’t perfect. Kelly, poor thing, didn’t survive the summer, having been supplanted by the even smaller Marta, a Granola Girl who stunk of patchouli oil and didn’t shave her legs. After that came a succession of girlfriends that diminished in size to the point where the guests at his wedding needed a microscope to find the bride.
Elliot says I “lost courage” after Scott, but I think I was damned brave to go out with the number of men I dated during my twenties. Finally, I met Bruce and it seemed as though I may have found it—it being, in Elliot’s view, Scott all over again, but without the good looks. Not that Elliot is really in any position to criticize: his longest relationship lasted six months. Coincidentally, it, too, was with someone who strongly resembled Jason Priestley. Or so he tells me.
When I arrive at the Manhole, Elliot’s favorite bar, he’s holding court at his usual table, which happens to afford an excellent view of both the bar and the door to the men’s room. A waiter is sitting across from him. At first it looks like they’re holding hands, but then I realize Elliot is reading the guy’s palm. Not that I’d have been surprised: Elliot’s charm is legendary and he’s particularly dashing this evening.
“The positive energy is rolling off you in waves!” Elliot greets me with a delighted squeal, sending the waiter scurrying off to get me a beer. “And you look hot, too,” he adds, leaning over to kiss my cheek. “Scorching! Too bad it’s totally wasted in my domain.”
“Not at all,” I say, smiling. “I’ve been hit on here before.”
“That’s nothing to brag about, doll,” he says, but he’s laughing, because he enjoys it more than anyone when I’m mistaken for a drag queen.
“Buy me a martini?” Elliot asks. It’s his way of telling me he’s picking up psychic signals about me and is willing to share them—for a price.
“Do I want to know?” Elliot is not the type of psychic to spare one bad news.
“I’d say so, Flower Girl, but enter at your own risk.”
Elliot’s presence in my life is entirely Lola’s fault. I would never have consulted a psychic myself, but she took to him during a fact-checking phone call five years ago. They clicked over their mutual interest in great food, exotic smokes, and getting laid (not by each other, clearly). Elliot has ranked first in Toronto Lives “best of” edition as the psychic to see for the past four years—the one “most likely to make you feel great about yourself.”
At first I paid fifty dollars a session and cringed over his carnival-barker–style delivery. Now he gives me the ten-dollar “family” rate if I meet him at a boy bar and buy him a drink. I’ve grown to find his performances hilarious. Although he never makes me feel great about myself, he’s frequently dead-on with his predictions. For example, Elliot said that Bruce and I wouldn’t last two years; we survived only twenty months. Mind you, anyone who saw Bruce and me together might have predicted that. My brother, for example, said, “Pay me five bucks and I’ll predict your future with ‘Bwuce.’”
“Tell me all about the Minister, first,” Elliot says. “Has she mentioned me yet?”
His crush on Clarice Cleary predates my employment. She’s all about appearances and he respects that. Besides, Elliot is an artist as well as a psychic and has been the grateful recipient of several Ministry arts grants.
“She hasn’t even acknowledged I exist yet, but I do have some news.” He leans forward with unexpected focus, given the constant parade of handsome men past our table. “She’s been shopping—two Armani suits and an Ungaro ball gown this week alone.”
“Jewelry?” Elliot is practically drooling.
“Not this time, but last week she picked up a stunning tennis bracelet and two new Kate Spade handbags.”
“And you didn’t call me?”
“I wasn’t speaking to you.”
“Oh right, you were still in a snit. Look, it’s not my fault if the universe sends me messages you don’t like. I am merely a medium.”
“Yeah, but would it kill you to keep your mouth shut if you know I won’t like the message?”
“It would.” Elliot is smiling over my left shoulder and I don’t have to be a psychic myself to sense that fresh prey looms on the horizon. “Oh my, the man of tonight’s dreams,” he says, already out of his chair and gliding toward the men’s room.
I have a moment of worry that he’ll be too distracted to give me the good news he’s coaxed out of the cosmos about me, but he’s back presently, with a beautiful, bashful youth in tow.
“Libby, this is Zachary,” he says, “never Zack.” It takes another hour and a second martini before I can get him to focus on the reading. “Okay, Libby, if we must talk about you, fine. I intuited something remarkable about you today, which intensified as you walked through the door. Something different from anything I’ve picked up in months…years, even. In fact, since I’ve known you. Zachary, you would not believe Libby’s luck with men.” Zachary smiles in silent sympathy.
“Elliot, get to the point.”
“Don’t interrupt the energy flow.” Which means he wants to put on a show for Zack. “It’s been a long time since Libby’s had sex, if you must know, Zachary.”
“Must he know, Elliot?”
“He must.” Elliot’s hand is now resting on Zack’s forearm. “How else will he appreciate the significance of this news? Because, Libby, honey—(pause for dramatic effect) you are going to get laid.”
I’m silent for a moment, then, “Really?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. It has happened before—just not in recent memory.” Zack is giggling and gazing admiringly at Elliot. “But what’s truly amazing, is that it’s going to happen more than once. And with different people.”
I’m staring in stunned disbelief.
“I absolutely feel this in my bones,” Elliot continues, voice rising. “You will have several opportunities in the coming months, some of them quite unorthodox. And for a change, I actually see you taking them.”
“Can you sense anything about the men?”
“Who said anything about men?” Elliot says, laughing, but then his brow furrows. “I also sense conflict, and on many fronts.”
“What else is new?” I shrug, undaunted. This news was worth a dozen martinis.
Zachary excuses himself and I taunt Elliot about his penchant for youth. “You’re a cougar,” I tell him.
“And you’re jealous,” he responds.
“I don’t know how you do it,” I sigh. “You were gone less than five minutes and returned with Zachary clinging to your arm. What am I doing wrong?”
“I told you, it’s the sign. Take it off.”
“Don’t start with me.”
“Okay, leave the ‘I’m available,’ and strike a line through the ‘Fuck off.’”
“And we’ve been getting along so well…”
“Actually, you need to get along home.”
“Fine,” I say, becoming huffy in an instant.
“I just want to woo Zachary. You know I’d do the same for you.”
He would, too, but it’s never been necessary. I slip my coat over my raised hackles, reach for my purse and grudgingly kiss Elliot goodbye. On the way home, I stop at the drugstore and fill my prescription for the pill. Best be prepared for all that sex.
I hear my admirer long before I see him. That’s because he is singing—and quite loudly—in the dreary halls of the Pink Palace. Not the worst item in the catalog of male flaws, but it’s unusual, even by government standards. Every day for two weeks, he’s warbled up the long hall to my cubicle, stopped abruptly, then started again ten feet past me. Since male birds sing to attract a mate, I put two and two together.
No doubt sensing I’d prefer to remain anonymous, Margo hastens to introduce me to my songbird, Joe Connolly, an analyst with the Ministry’s policy branch. After a few days of dropping by with policy papers and arias, he gets the nerve to leave me a note inviting me for a drink. Elliot’s predictions in mind, I pick up the phone. J
oe might be a weird opera lover, but he’s the only canary chirping by my cubicle; I can’t afford to send him down the coal mine just yet.
We meet at a pub up the street and I am pleased to find, on closer inspection, that Joe is actually cute in a nerdy sort of way. Unfortunately, it becomes clear with the first pint that we have very little in common. The man loves a debate, and the more heated, the better. I, on the other hand, loathe debating because I exhaust the full extent of my knowledge on any issue within five minutes. Besides, I have a tendency to cry during a heated discussion, which rather undermines me in an argument, even of the recreational variety. When his efforts to engage me on political issues fall flat, he takes another tack.
“So, how do you feel about marriage?”
I inhale a lungful of beer but this doesn’t deter Joe from interrogating me about my wifely qualities. By the time the second pint arrives, I tell him I’m uncomfortable, so he switches to the abstract, as in, “Is a good marriage possible in these difficult times?”
There isn’t a third pint.
I can tell from the expression on Margo’s smug, slappable face that she has something on me and mentally scroll through my sins.
“I saw you with Joe Connolly last night,” she blurts.
Who knew she ever left the building? No matter when I shut down at night, she’s still at her desk, and she beats me in every morning. I’ve assumed she just hangs herself up in the corner like a bat and catches an hour’s sleep at dawn.
“And?”
“And it’s inappropriate to date colleagues.”
“Dating isn’t the word, Margo.”
“Well, you were talking about marriage when I walked by, so you can see how I got that impression.”
“We’re not dating.”
“Maybe he thinks so. He came by this morning singing.”
“He’s always singing.”
“It was something from Andrea Bocelli’s Romanza and he was carrying a rose.”
“A rose? (gulp) It was probably for the Minister.”
“Not likely (witheringly). He left with it when he saw me.”
“Look, Margo, there’s no rule saying I can’t have a drink with a colleague after work.”
“No, but in this office, we’re governed by special considerations. You’re not in the bureaucracy anymore, Elizabeth. We must avoid the perception of preference among the staff. I am sure that Father Connolly understands the nature of your position, but—”
“Father Connolly?”
“He didn’t mention the seminary?” I am speechless. “Well, he may not be a full-fledged priest,” she qualifies, “but he left the seminary just last month. You can see why it would be awkward for us if you got involved. There would be talk, and the Minister can’t afford talk. Protocol is everything in our business.”
She smiles and her perfect teeth look like fangs. Then, as I stand to leave, I notice that Margo appears to have doubled in size: I am diminished. Nonetheless, when my minstrel later appears (without the rose, which probably died in Margo’s presence), I propose dinner. I’m determined to see him again simply to defy Margo. Besides, I’m intrigued by the seminary thing.
At a restaurant far out of reach of the Minister’s Office, I try to bring the discussion around to the priesthood, but he evades my clumsy efforts. I can’t come right out and ask; it just seems so personal. Too bad I’m not more like Margo, who has no trouble shoving her nose in where it doesn’t belong. For example, when I walk into the office the next morning, she casually throws out, “And how was your dinner with Father Connolly last night?”
Unbelievable. She must be consulting with Elliot, too. “Oh, lovely, thanks.”
“Good!” she replies. Full-fang smile.
Around noon, I hear strains of “Con Te Partiro” in the hall and quail. What’s the point, when I don’t feel any sparks? This must be another of my romantic dead ends. But somehow, when Joe invites me to meet him at his new condo before catching a movie, I find myself agreeing. In the end, it’s the sight of his single bed that emboldens me. It says so much about his hopes for a wild new life outside the monastery walls.
“What’s this I hear about the priesthood?” I ask, standing before a crucifix on the otherwise bare walls.
Joe explains he left the seminary following a “year of grave doubt.” The door is always open for his return, he says, and he’s not sure what the future holds. I’m quite sure of what it holds for us as a couple, so when he walks me to the subway and leans up to kiss me, I present my cheek. Surely he will get the message?
I arrive at the office to find a voice mail from Joe asking me out again. He’s humming as he hangs up. There is nothing for it but to call Elliot.
“A priest? Are you crazy?!” Elliot squawks.
“Look, you told me there were guys on the horizon. I’m trying to be available.”
“I said unorthodox, if you’ll recall. Put that sign back on right now, Libby and get back to your rock until I tell you otherwise.”
He’s no Jason Priestley, Joe, but he’s very sweet. I suppose that’s why I find myself picking him up one sunny Saturday morning en route to the parade. The “Pride” parade, to be exact. As in “Gay Pride.” It’s a major event in Toronto, and I look forward to it for months. Elliot always holds a raucous Pride Day party that starts after the parade and lasts through the next day.
Joe is as anxious as any Pride Parade virgin. The nudity, blaring music, water guns and S & M gear are quite shocking and the only way to get past it is to set free one’s inner prude. A shirtless woman in jeans and work boots throws her arm around my shoulder and plants a kiss on my neck, not being able to reach my cheek. Joe lurches away in horror, but I just laugh.
Elliot and Zachary soon cruise into view on the float sponsored by the Manhole. Zack is wearing nothing but a skimpy Speedo bathing suit and when he spots me on the sidelines, he leaps off the float, races over and drags Joe and me to the float. Elliot stops dancing to “YMCA” long enough to pull me onto the moving stage, and hands me a water gun to fire out into the crowd. Meanwhile, Zack, Speedo askew, is doing his best to hoist Joe onto the float but Joe is flailing and resisting.
“Come on up, Joe!” I yell. “The view’s amazing!”
Elliot blasts me full in the face with his water Uzi and I’m laughing so hard I almost choke. By the time I can see clearly again, Zack is back on the float, leaving Joe flat on his back in the street. A tall man in fish-nets, a leather miniskirt and red platform sandals is trying to help him to his feet before the next float rolls over him. I catch a last glimpse of Joe as his companion leads him—and his inner prude—into the crowd.
I hope he realizes it isn’t me.
5
My cousin Amy’s wedding triggered the bouquet curse. I was eight years old and thrilled to play the role of “junior bridesmaid.” The dress was powder blue and I daydreamed for months about walking up the aisle in it, carrying a beautiful bouquet of daisies and pink roses. By the time the big day arrived, however, I had grown and the dress pinched terribly under the arms. Amy handed me a bouquet of polyester flowers in powder blue and white, and I burst into tears. “It doesn’t even look real,” I wailed, to my mother’s shame. “But it matches your dress perfectly and you’ll be able to keep this bouquet forever,” Amy said.
The universe has been making it up to me ever since.
My mother made me keep the fake bouquet so as not to hurt Amy’s feelings. It sat on my shelf for years until I eased it past Mom and into the basement. I urged her to sell it in the annual family garage sale, but she was convinced that Amy—who had relocated to Winnipeg in the late ’70s—would catch her in the act. My mother is the nicest woman in the world. Although this is admirable, for me it’s a lot like driving with the emergency brake on all the time: I’ve got my foot on the gas, but something keeps slowing me down.
I tried to weasel out of attending the bridal shower my mother is hosting for Amy’s daughter. I barely know Corinne, who re
cently left Winnipeg to attend the University of Toronto. Hell, I barely know Amy, she’s been gone so long. But I do know Amy’s mother, my father’s eldest sister, Mavis. She brings out the worst in me. Even my mother acknowledges Mavis is “difficult” but that doesn’t mean she’ll let me off the hook for the shower. While she doesn’t insist, she refuses to say I don’t have to come and she knows full well I’ll be driven by my own guilt to show up. That’s how the nicest woman in the world manages me. It’s called Emergency Brake Psychology.
I arrive at the family homestead—a standard gray-brick bungalow in Scarborough—an hour early, ostensibly to help my mother prepare, but really to stake out my turf before Mavis takes over the house. Mom doesn’t need my help. She’s been throwing the same shower about twice a year for decades and she’s got it down to an art. The cardboard wishing well is ready and waiting to be filled with gifts for Corinne, the child bride. Pink-and-white crepe-paper bells and streamers hang over the easy chair that serves as the bride’s throne. Otherwise, the basement looks as much like the set of Wayne’s World as ever. Mike Myers grew up a few blocks from here and our parents obviously had the same taste. Mom, however, refuses to redecorate even now. Whenever I complain that my brother Brian’s old Def Leppard posters still adorn the walls, she reminds me that the posters are all she has left of him—as if he’s dead, rather than thriving on the west coast. And when I suggest that the rust shag has seen its day, she says that it’s in perfect condition. Ditto the swag lamp.
But there it is, home.
No need to open the refrigerator to know what’s on offer for the luncheon. If it’s a shower, there must be pinwheel sandwiches—peanut butter spirals with a banana in the middle, and pink-tinted cream cheese surrounding a gherkin. The cranberry-lemonade punch (alcohol free) is already in the bowl. The daisies and pink roses adorning the cake remind me to suggest to Corinne that she simply hand me her bouquet at the wedding. Why risk putting out my eye when we all know where it’s going to end up? Not that I’m bitter. Well, I am bitter that there’s no booze in the punch, but I found my way to my parents’ bar at age fourteen and I can do it again today.
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