her face was just one inscrutable scowl.
I looked at Sal and he looked at me.
“That could have gone better,” he said.
I threw my hands up, as if to indicate: This is the world we live in now. I got out of the chair and left the stage myself. By the time I reached the corridor beyond the studio wall baffles, Raj was standing there waiting for me.
“What the hell was that?” he asked.
“I know, I fucked up big time.” We began to make our way down the corridor as I searched for something to wipe the makeup off my face. “Can you believe I said that — on national TV?”
“A lot of people are gonna be pissed at you.”
“Tell me about it. You don’t just undermine centuries of judicial principle like that and expect to get away with it.”
“Dude, what?” Raj said. “No, no, I meant —”
But then I spotted it — a men’s room. I rushed over and pushed through its swinging door, heading for the paper towels and sinks while Raj waited for me in the hall.
“Look, I need to get out of here,” I told him when I came back, all fresh-faced and flushed. “What are you doing right now? Are you allowed to leave?”
“I can leave,” he said. “I’ve been here since, like, six this morning. But Sharpe, listen, don’t you want to …” He was maybe going to say, Don’t you want to talk about what just happened? But I could tell that he could tell that, no, I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to listen. I felt covered in the cold mud of shame over saying something so horrifying about those ODS executives, so philosophically inconsistent, on live TV. To talk about it right now would be to relive the whole thing.
Just then two CBC interns, a couple of skirted go-getters, walked by in the hall. They must have caught my bumbling performance on a monitor somewhere, because they both turned and tossed me a glare of appalled incredulity as they passed. One of the girls even made to stop, perhaps to say something rude to me, but her friend pulled her away. “Okay,” Raj said. “Let’s … let’s just get you out of here.”
“Great,” I replied. “I say we head to Cabbagetown. I need to be on my own turf. I’ll take you to my local for a drink or six.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Out on Front Street, the afternoon had turned to evening. We had rolled our clocks back over the weekend, and the abrupt onset of twilight was still jarring, seeming to swallow the entire city like an ominous premonition. We hailed a Beck. I told the cabbie, “Parliament and Carlton,” and we soon joined the rush-hour traffic battling to get out of downtown. The Beck felt less like an escape pod and more like a tumbrel, and I imagined impoverished serfs pelting me with fruit as I was taken away to a final, grisly end.
Raj and I sat in silence as we made our glacial progression. I leaned back against the seat with closed eyes and pinched my nose, my mind churning with a thousand regrets. To break the quiet, Raj opted for idle chit-chat.
“Say, Sharpe.”
I looked at him. “Yeah?”
“Do you still make that killer cocktail of yours?”
“What, the Bloody Joseph?”
“Yeah.”
“I do. I had three of them earlier today.”
He laughed. “That drink is off the chain, man. You gotta make me one of those again.”
“I meant to have a fourth, but ran out of time.” I harrumphed. “Maybe that’s why I was so off my game today.” Of course, I knew that wasn’t true. One final Collins’ worth of that fierce concoction — infused with brawny Jameson as a substitute for effeminate vodka — would not have put me in a better frame of mind. I knew damn well what had lay at the root of my distraction. A vision of her, holding up our daughter and speaking those words to me — you don’t really seem all that plugged in to what’s happening in your own house — flooded my mind.
“I’ll have to have you over,” I said to Raj. “Just not for a little while.”
We arrived in Cabbagetown and the cab deposited us at an Irish pub called Stout. This early in the evening we were able to nab a spot near the enormous fireplace, finding leather club chairs to sink into and a low table in front of us. Raj seemed impressed by the aura of the place: the tastefully exposed brick; the warm mahogany woodwork; the beige piano in the corner; the separate menu for craft beer. I borrowed his cellphone — I don’t do cellphones — and he helped me send a text to Grace: Hi, it’s Philip. At Stout with friend Raj. Back later. Soon, a young, attractive waitress came by — “Hello, Professor, great to see you again,” she said with authentic enthusiasm — and we ordered a couple of pints from the cask. When they came, Raj and I cheered each other and then I downed nearly half of mine in a single gulp, dribbling a bit onto the top of my Payless when I returned the glass to the table. The waitress was right on it, coming by with a napkin so I could wipe up, then took it away with a sunny “No problem” when I finished.
“You know,” I said after she was out of earshot, “that was the first time today a woman has been kind to me.”
Raj laughed. “Oh really?”
“Yeah.” I squeezed the bridge of my nose once more. “I had a terrible fight with Grace before I left the house today.”
“Dude.”
“That’s why I was such a mess on camera.”
“Dude, look.” And he gave my knee a manly shake. “Try not to worry about it, okay? Maybe it’s not as bad as you think.”
I looked at him. “Are you kidding? Raj, this is a huge blow to me intellectually. I mean, I’m supposed to be a leading expert on Immanuel Kant. I’m supposed to know what it means to talk about the categorical imperative, about universal law — law that applies to everyone in every circumstance. What I said was the worst example of the hypothetical imperative I can imagine. This idea that we would imprison certain people and then think up a reason why, and do it out of spite. Do you know what I mean?” He didn’t seem to, but he let me continue. So I talked about these ideas as we ordered food and more pints. Talked about them as we ate and drank. Was still talking about them long after the waitress had cleared away our plates and we ordered yet more pints.
“I’m sorry,” I finally said to him, “to go on like this.”
“It’s okay.”
“Tell me what’s new in your world. Where are you living these days?”
“I’m back on the Danforth,” he grinned. “Rented myself a sweet little place out near Donlands. Big kitchen; open porch at ground level out front. You should come out and see it sometime.”
“I’d like that. And will you be at the CBC long term, do you think?”
He chortled. “Fuck no. Is anyone? More budget cuts are coming and I’ll be gone. I’ll go freelance for a while until I can figure out what to do next.”
Ah, the peripatetic life of a confirmed
