not ‘guilt-throwing, health obsessing, church bingo-running’ companion.”
“In that case, I shall assume this one glass is all that will be needed.”
“That depends on how good your wine selection is this evening.” As was also part of Teri’s custom, selection of the dinner wine was not left up to the patron, at least not in my case. Our rule was simple: as long as it was red, she could choose for me. She also generally limited me to one glass. She aimed to make sure my life did not descend into an alcoholic haze in which the potential for a new life partner would become that much more limited. I sipped the wine that she had brought, a South African Pinotage, bold, given the gloomy late spring weather.
“And the charges? Are they giddy with anticipation at their pending departure lo, these few weeks from now?”
“But then they won’t have me around any more.”
“I guess I answered my own question.” She stood up to leave. “I’ll bring you the special.”
“Of course.”
“Is everything okay, Winston? You look a little bummed.”
“Just tired. Thinking about the perils of pedagogy.”
“More so than usual? Any particular pedagogical predicament?” Teri is very found of alliteration. I thought momentarily of burdening her with Tim’s travails on his pending prom, mostly so I could out-alliterate her, but I knew I would also have to share my failure to persuade the vice-principal of the errors of his ways.
“Nah. I think I just need a vacation.” Teri left to place my order. Dinner, of course, was excellent: a simple linguini in cream sauce with peas joined by a half order of tortellini in a pesto sauce I had never been able to replicate. Of course, I hadn’t really tried that hard, given my proximity to the sauce’s origin.
My body replenished, I undertook the ten-minute walk back to my condominium and found it in its usual depressing condition. Living this close to the ocean is supposed to be a blessing along with a curse; one is blessed with the view of Vancouver’s remarkable English Bay but also cursed with the problem of never getting anything done wiling away the time staring out the window at the view. For several months, neither blessing nor curse had been an issue, given the large green tarpaulin hanging from roof to basement of the three-storey building. Like many of its contemporaries, my apartment building had succeeded in bringing in young urban professionals looking for a semi-upscale lifestyle but had failed miserably at what would seem the simple task of keeping out Vancouver’s notorious rain.
My view was now limited to the small sliver of a seam where two tarps joined right in front of my balcony. When the wind was blowing, sometimes the view through my vertical viewfinder would blow back and forth, like a filtered panoramic camera lens teasing with little bits of view. I used to pity the poor suckers who had fallen victim to the myriad unscrupulous contractors who sold them faulty buildings. Now I was one of them. I had sought to avoid being a victim by employing an independent building inspector to give me an unbiased, thorough inspection before I signed on the dotted line. Turns out there are all kinds of unscrupulous independent building inspectors too. I had almost made it through the campsite that had once been the building’s front foyer when a familiar though unpleasant voice rang out from the darkness. “Winston!” it barked.
“Andrew,” I replied with as much coldness as I could muster. I’m a pretty fair musterer of cold. Andrew Senchek was the self-appointed manager of my condo building. He also had no job. Allegedly injured in an industrial accident some five years before, he now lived off the avails of the Workers Compensation Board — supported by all those folks, like myself, who contributed through deductions from their paycheques. Given his perennial disability claim, Andrew spent his days parading around our apartment building, supervising construction workers, annoying garbage collectors, and basically harassing fellow residents with complaints, queries, and general nosiness. He even limped around the premises with the support of a cane, though I was certain I had seen his limp occasionally change to the opposite leg. It wasn’t uncommon to see his cane hanging on the edge of a box of groceries as he hauled them in from his car. I had already vowed that when I had some spare time I would use my lawyerly prowess to look into his WCB claim and see if there wasn’t some way I could force his ass back to work.
“Why weren’t you home this evening?” he demanded. Andrew asked a lot of ridiculous questions that I pretended were rhetorical. When I failed to respond, he pressed forward. “We wanted to get into your apartment.”
“Why did you want into my apartment, and why would you think your desire to enter my premises would prompt me to grant you same?” Andrew paused to interpret the questions. Though he spoke with a thick Polish accent that belied his twenty years in Canada, I could not imagine he had to translate English into Polish in order to understand.
“What?” he finally managed.
“Exactly,” I replied, turning to unlock the lobby’s front door, though with the floor to ceiling window space next to the door covered only with a plastic orange tarp — a lovely complement to the green surrounding the rest of the building — a Swiss army knife would have been just as effective as a key.
“We needed to do some drywall work around the living room area.”
“Bummer,” I replied nonchalantly. “I guess we’ll have to do it next time.”
“You know, you are not being very co-operative at allowing access for construction.” I could feel a lecture coming on.
“If you give me a little bit of notice, I will happily provide access for the construction workers to enter the premises.”
“It would be easier if you would just give me a key.” We had been down this road plenty of times.
“Are you bonded?”
“What?” International confusion again.
“Exactly.” I planned my escape again, but Andrew followed me into the lobby. Maybe the third time I would be lucky.
“Andrew, you cannot have a key to my apartment. It is private property, and you are among the last people I would give a key to.”
“Why is that?”
I resisted the urge to tell him that principally it was because I didn’t like him. In the years since we had both lived in this building, I had come to refer to him as “The Polish Sausage.” It sounds childish, but I worked around teenagers all day. Some of their immaturity was bound to rub off on me. Or vice versa. I settled for a much gentler “Good night, Andrew.” In movies and television, emphatically saying “good night” always seems to be a clear signal to people they are supposed to go away. I don’t think Andrew has cable.
“But I need to talk to you.”
“I said good night.” I had opted to forgo stopping at the row of mailboxes to pick up the mail, believing it would only give Andrew those few extra seconds to harp in my ear. The elevator door opened, and I stepped inside, reaching immediately for the third floor button, hoping his alleged limp would prevent him from reaching the elevator before the door closed.
I knew that injury was a fake.
“You know, there is no need for you to be hostile,” he told me as the door slid shut. I could think of many reasons to be hostile, not the least of which was that the green pepper from the sauce over the tortellini
