The Big Dream (9 page)

“It's nice to meet you,” Yaël said without moving. She had decided she didn't want to shake any more hands tonight. No one seemed offended.

The friend named Alan was sitting on top of the washing machine and did not notice he was being introduced. He wore a black wool peacoat, and was slouched so far forward his stomach
touched his thighs. The girl, Sarah, was standing beside him and Alan was saying something in her ear, beneath her long frizzy hair. The hems of Sarah's jeans were salt-stained. In September. Cal was fiddling with a spinning-reel drying line mounted on the wall. All Yaël could see of him was a German army jacket and lank fair hair. Still facing away the wall, he said, “What kind of name is Yaël?”

“It's my name.” Her parents were probably watching a movie right now, with pajamas and tea, probably something with Hugh Grant or Eddie Murphy falling down.

“It sort of rhymes with Cal. But not really. You sorta have two syllables.” The clothesline suddenly whirled back into the reel. Cal jumped and finally turned. Yaël was surprised that he had a wide, handsome face and small fashionable glasses. He gestured with his beer. “My full name is Callum, rhymes with Alan. That's why we're roommates.”

“That is not why we're roommates.” Alan had been listening after all.

“That doesn't really rhyme, either. Al-
an.
Cal-
lum.
” Yaël tried out the words like sour milk on her tongue. Sasha rubbed her shoulder.

“Not when you say it like that. It's slant rhyme, anyway.” Cal moved towards her, gesturing with his beer bottle.

She straightened, re-centering herself over the heels of her boots. “What's slant rhyme?” The music in the other room was getting louder. She was thirsty, even though she hated the carb-y beer smell all around her. She actually really liked Hugh Grant.

“What?” Cal backed off, startled, and then jumped backward onto the washing machine. One of his elbows dug hard into Alan's belly, knocking him half to the floor, half onto Sarah. “You don't know what slant rhyme is? What are you
in
?”

Sarah pushed Alan upright. He tugged his coat and looked at Yaël expectantly. They all did, except Sasha who already knew and just petted Yaël's sweater like a kitten.

“I'm a brand manager for a family of lifestyle magazines,” Yaël said slowly.

Cal flinched as if he had been struck. Alan whispered into Sarah's hair.

Sasha's voice shrilled. “Hey, you want a beer? Yaël? I'll bring you a beer. Better, I'll bring you
to
the beer, then you can choose. There's lots of kinds.” Sasha slid down, gripped Yaël's shoulder, and pulled her to the kitchen.

“I don't like beer.” Yaël was half-watching the strangers bickering by the stove, half-watching Sasha's pink T-shirt curve the faded words
Alpha Girl
across her chest. They stood close together. The kitchen was more crowded now.

“Oh, right, I forgot. I did know that, though.” Colour was sliding towards the roots of Sasha's pulled-back hair. “Something else then. Wine? Maybe there's wine?”

“There's a bottle of wine in the bathroom,” said a boy in a green fedora. “I don't know where the corkscrew is, though.”

“I don't want wine.” Yaël shook her head and the ends of her waves brushed Sasha's face. She could smell the beer in Sasha's bottle, in her mouth.

“I want you to have a good time.”

“I'll have a good time. I'm having a good time. I only just got here.”

“This isn't much of a party. Nothing but beer, no food but chips . . .”

“Somebody said you were making guacamole before.”

Sasha wrinkled her small nose. “It came out weird. I think it was because the avocados were in Hassid's car all week.” She seemed to be talking without listening to herself. She sipped her drink, kicked her toes against Yaël's, put her free hand on her hip, then on Yaël's hip, squeezed. Yaël squirmed, wishing she'd worn better stockings, and Sasha put her hand in her own pocket. “It's in the fridge, though. I'll get it.” She turned.

“No, thanks.” Yaël reached out and touched the overwashed cotton of Sasha's T-shirt shoulder. Sasha startled and turned back just as the guy in Kodiaks tried to pass between them. He kicked hard into Sasha's ankle, and Sasha jolted, her arms flailing out for balance. A foamy spurt of her beer jumped across the air and onto Yaël's thin white angora, soaking her sheer peach bra quickly, cold against her hot right breast.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” the guy muttered and walked on without looking at the girls, the sweater, Sasha's bloodred face.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” said Sasha, staring at Yaël's wet and yellowed and half-translucent and very expensive sweater. “I am so sorry. I really – ”

Yaël put her mouth down on Sasha's hairline, where blush met blonde. She knew Sasha would never have makeup on her forehead, or product in her hair. She ran her tongue slowly along Sasha's temple, felt the texture of skin, tasted the tang of sweat, heard the silence between songs in the CD changer.

AFTER THE MEETING WAS OVER, we got in Wayne's car, since he was the only one who had a car, and started driving back into town. We figured we'd go to Martin's, but on the way we picked up a two-four, a pizza, and a box of Jos Louis. Since we were all unemployed now, the beer was domestic and the pizza was from this Iranian place by the highway, but I wouldn't compromise on the Jos Louis.

“Metro brand is shit,” I told Danvir. He shrugged, but I could tell he agreed.

As we walked down the alley to the basement, Martin said, “They shoulda let us take our stuff, like the stuff from our desks. They shouldn't have made us go straight-aways, 'cause it'll suck to take all that on the bus if Wayne's not there.”

“And I
won't
be there, man – all I got in that desk is the manual and some Craisins.”

“Mmm, Craisins,” is what I said, because I had skipped breakfast thinking I'd get a muffin from the caf to eat at my desk while I worked, only there was no work that morning, because we were busy getting laid off.

Martin's place was big, sort of, but with everything around a corner from everything else, and these pillars spiking up at random, so the chesterfield, TV, and chairs were all sort of huddled up in front of the kitchen. Plus the rubber underneath the carpet had dried up so it crackled when you walked. There was cat hair on everything, white and light like dandelion fluff, but I didn't see any actual cats.

It wasn't until Wayne had tipped his big ass onto the chesterfield and opened up the pizza box on his knees that anyone talked about what had actually happened.

“Well, fuck.” That was Martin, but he'd swear at a baby.

It was sadder to hear Danvir say it. “Fuck, indeed. The caterers' payment is due next month. Ally's gonna divorce me 'fore we're even married.”

Wayne had a faceful of pizza but he still muttered, “Wait'll Kayly gets the news; then we'll have fuck.”

Martin just sighed, maybe because gay boyfriends don't yell at each other, I dunno.

I was single, so all I said was “I wish I hadn't had that stupid fight with my mom, 'cause now I can't go stay with her if I can't make rent.”

Danvir bugged out his eyes at the same time as he reached for my Jos Louis box. “You got
some
savings, right, Will? You're not gonna be totally broke in two weeks, right?”

I watched him take one out. “I got expenses, man. And two-weeks notice is sorta dick-all – I'm not gonna get a job in two weeks.”

I had the one chair and Danvir had the other, and Wayne had most of the chesterfield. Martin was skinny and could have fit in beside him, but he was just hovering around, making the carpet crackle. For a gay, he sure was skittish about touching a man. Finally he sort of slouched one cheek down on the arm of the thing, and said, “It
is
terrible, though – two weeks after, how long? I've been there almost three years, I think. God, is that possible?”

“Ah, don't go there, all them wasted years,” Danvir said.

I was still working on the plastic wrap to get at my snack cake, mainly because I was distracted by thinking so hard. Finally I tore it open at the same moment I worked out what I wanted to say. “What I don't get is what we did wrong? Mark and Sanjeet shoulda said. Cause I thought the call-completion
times, the renewal rates, well, we were pretty badass, weren't we?”

Danvir shook his head. “Too soon for
were
, Will. Say
are
for a bit, still.”

Wayne finally swallowed and looked serious. “We didn't do anything wrong, kid, don't you worry about that. What we didn't do was work for a dollar a day. You couldn't have beat those sweatshops in Delhi or somewhere, no matter what yer close rate.”

My Jos Louis got away from me before I'd got to take even one bite. Everyone watched it somersault under the coffee table. I looked up at Martin. “Would you eat that?”

“Probably not. Not with the cats.”

“Cats?” Danvir stood half-way up and looked around. “I hate cats.”

I got down on my knees and grabbed the cake. There weren't any obvious hairs on it, and the chocolate coating hadn't cracked. There were only six in the box, and I had $117 in the bank. I nibbled a little chocolate off and said, “What'd a cat ever do to you?”

Wayne was still on the other thing. “O
ffshore vendors –
” he made air quotes with his greasy fingers“ – a bunch of starving kids with flies on them chained to desks to punch in
Dream Sailing
subscription orders.”

Martin opened his mouth and eyes wide and flapped his hands at Wayne. “C'mon, be a little sensitive.” He jerked his ear at Danvir.

And then Danvir dropped his Jos Louis – it was an epidemic. At least his was still wrapped. But he didn't even bend for it, just glared at Wayne and Martin. “Fuck you. I'm from Scarborough.”

“Yeah, but like . . .” Martin jumped upright, waving his beer. I wanted a beer. “. . . your parents?”

Danvir stood up, too. He stepped on the Jos Louis and I heard the bag pop. “They run a car lot on Ellesmere – they don't want your job.”

“Wait,” I said suddenly. “If they're just sending the
Dream Sailing
orders over there, why'd they lay off
all
of us?”

Wayne rolled his eyes. “It was a general statement. They're sending it all, so you can order your
Dream Wedding, Dream Baby,
whatever subscriptions in Hindi now too.”

“People speak English there.”

“But I mean, now, Hindi's an option.”

“That's what you meant? Really?”

I started chewing, tasting carefully, chocolate and cream. It didn't taste like cat, so I took another bite. I always eat when I'm stressed out, just like my mom. Maybe we could live together again, if I apologized.

“What do you
think
I mean? Speak your mind, Danvir – you got a problem with me?” Martin was maybe 140 with his clothes on, but the thing was, so was Danvir – so was I, for that matter. Most of the guys in customer service were not setting the world on fire, tough-guy-wise. Or anything-wise. Except Wayne, with his knees the size of basketballs and head two feet above the top of the couch. If there was a scrap, and suddenly it felt like there might be, everyone but Wayne was pretty even money.

“I think you're racist, is what I think.”

Martin bumped down on the chesterfield next to Wayne. “Racist?
I'm
racist? Wayne is practically my best friend and he's
black
and
I'm
racist?”

Wayne looked down at Martin as if from on top of a mountain, but Danvir jumped in first. “Not like that, not like . . . skin, just skin . . .” He was pacing, furious, his tear-away basketball pants rasping as he walked. “Wayne's as Canadian as you are, so what's the difference? That's what you think, you think, right, you two are the insiders with no accent, no immigration papers.”

Wayne swallowed hard on a ball of pizza and looked like he was thinking about standing up too. “My great-gramma came from Jamaica in 1942.”

“You are – you think
I'm
not out a job, same as you, 'cause my ma's got a sari in the back of her closet?”

“It isn't about hating on you, or your ma. It's just about, you know, why they gotta take the jobs outta Canada and – ”

“That's where your thinking is totally fucked. I mean, fucked.” Danvir suddenly crouched down to look in the two-four beside his chair, like there were a bunch of different options in there and he was choosing very carefully. “Like them Indian call-centre jerks – like they come with guns and make Dream Inc. shift the inbound call operations to India.”

Wayne nodded slowly. “He's right, the fucker. They ain't taking what Mark and Sanjeet doan wanna give.”

“Hey,
Sanjeet
. . . doesn't sound like a name of someone who wants Canadians – ”