come on. That’s hardly the same thing.”
“I think it is. I’ve been doing this a little longer than you.” This was the point of any conversation with Bill Owen where he turned completely patronizing. I tried to prevent my own eyeballs from rolling skyward. “I’ve been through many of these types of situations, and after awhile you get a feel for them. It may not seem like the right thing to you, but you’ll just have to trust me on this one. I’ve made my decision.” His tone hovered between dismissal and challenge.
“So that’s it?” I asked.
“Win, don’t take it personally. The last thing we need is a bunch of angry parents calling the school, making a big fuss about gay students bringing their gay dates to the dance. I’ve made a decision that’s best for the school.”
“And possibly tortious,” I countered.
“Excuse me?” he said. I sensed my tossing of elementary legal terminology was having the intended effect. You really don’t need to go to law school to make use of a few well-chosen legal words. Pick a Latin phrase most people don’t hear often, and you’re bound to give them a little anxiety.
“If you deprive Tim of the right to attend his graduation, you could be placing yourself and the school in a legally untenable position.”
He sat back up straight again. Two sit-ups in one meeting. He must have been working up a sweat. “I’m not depriving him of the right to attend the dance. He can still attend.” He smiled. Touché.
“You are arbitrarily depriving him of bringing his choice of guest based on discriminatory criteria.” Thrust.
Bill paused again, choosing his words. I was a little flattered. He wasn’t one for pausing and carefully selecting words. He must have felt the challenge. “There is nothing in the B.C. School Act that requires the school to permit students to bring whoever they wish to a dance. I can guarantee you it simply isn’t in there.” Parry.
“The Charter of Rights and Freedoms guarantees protection from discrimination. It supersedes the School Act.”
He looked a little defeated, which with Bill never lasts long. It generally turns to anger. “You know what? That’s a load of crap. Trust a lawyer to turn something like this into a legal issue.” He sounded disgusted.
“Yes. You generally would trust a lawyer to make an argument against discrimination.”
He was beginning to seethe now. He leaned forward, the table no longer a friendly barrier, and practically hissed. “And let me remind you, Mr. Patrick, that lawyering is no longer how you make your living.”
I couldn’t decide what to say next: should I chastise him for his thinly veiled threat or inform him that my other pet peeve is people who use the word lawyer as a verb? I chose neither. It probably wasn’t worth the effort.
I let out a long, slow breath before responding. “Okay.” I stood up to leave.
Bill looked surprised. “Okay?” he asked suspiciously.
“I guess that’s it,” I replied, trying to restore the friendly tone in which the conversation had begun. “I wanted to confirm that the kids had understood you correctly. You’ve made your position clear.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re right. You have the authority to make whatever decision you think is best. I leave it up to you.”
“Oh,” he replied, still skeptical. “Well, I’m glad we can agree to disagree amicably.”
“Sure,” I told him. “You’ve got your job to do. I just told the kids I’d talk to you, and I did. No hard feelings.”
“That’s good. Thanks, Win. I appreciate your support.” I wasn’t sure how he interpreted my disagreement with him as support, but on the other hand, he was probably happy I didn’t really feel like fighting.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll see ya.” I walked out of the main office and headed down the hall to my classroom. I’d spent more time on this than I had really planned, and Bill did have a point: it was his show to run, not mine.
I reached my classroom and was relieved to see that none of the kids had stayed behind to hear how the conversation had gone. I was trying to convince myself I had done all that I could and hadn’t sold out in the interest of employment preservation or the need for some pasta and a good Cabernet Sauvignon. I told myself the kids would understand that Mr. Owen was my supervisor and there was little I could do for them. Then I realized the truth: my cool status was about to go out the window.
By the time I got home, I had nearly put Tim’s graduation date dilemma out of my mind. It was Tuesday, which meant Pasta Frenzy night at my favourite little Italian eatery in Kitsilano. I might have given up the seemingly more glamorous legal profession for the arduous task of teaching the youth of today, but I had steadfastly refused to give up some of the luxuries that had come with my former job.
I also knew I wasn’t kidding anyone. I had mostly done work for Legal Aid, often working extremely long hours at provincial government Legal Aid rates. Consequently, I had forgone some of the richer areas of legal practice, but I had managed to squirrel away most of my earnings over my brief career. This was mostly because I had happily lived off the avails of my then-wife’s income, or rather, income she had inherited without having yet had to bury her parents. I had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle: near the beach, plenty of restaurants, and just about every kind of takeout and delivery food possible. Kitsilano is Vancouver’s born-again bachelor’s paradise.
Tuesday nights were particularly bad for getting a table at Chianti. In fact, it wasn’t uncommon to find lineups of hungry patrons snaking up the sidewalk, interrupting the traffic flow of neighbouring businesses. Fortunately, I had been going there long enough that a table was pretty much reserved with my name on it, particularly on a Tuesday. I’d thrown the staff off one Friday by actually bringing a date. Both the dinner and the ensuing relationship were shortlived — neither made it past about ten o’clock that same night. Having left my one real long-term relationship with my ex-wife, I had not yet re-mastered the art of dating. Who am I kidding? I’d never mastered it in the first place. Tonight I had lucked out. Only a few patrons occupied the multitude of tables the little restaurant held. It was still early. As my first year of full time teaching had progressed, I found myself eating earlier and earlier; today it was only 5:30. I seemed to be tempting the aging gods, pushing my eating habits perilously close to those of my parents. And they didn’t even live in Florida.
Though I wasn’t sitting in her section, my usual and favourite waitress approached me within moments of sitting down. As was the custom between us, she already had a glass of red wine in her hand — for me she never bothered with a tray — which she set down before me as she sat down across from me. “Professor,” she said in her usual greeting.
“Teri,” I replied. “Nice of you to join me.”
“It’s high time someone did.” Teri, like a growing number of other friends, colleagues, and acquaintances, believed she was responsible for reminding me of my continuously single state. Never mind that she herself had never mentioned a boyfriend, significant other, or apartment full of cats.
“Hmmphh,” was my masterful retort. “For all you know, I may very well be joined by a delightful dining companion tonight.”
