At an anti-war vigil on 4th Avenue packed with pre-Christmas shoppers, I spied BC’s Premier, Gordon Campbell, strutting down the street. In his pea coat and cords he looked kind of ordinary until I saw his dull eyes.
It was just before he was to bring down the budget. There were ugly rumours about how he was going to shred social services like a sociopath on speed. I asked him, “Would you like to help end the war?”
When he stopped to take the leaflet I was offering, I leaned up as close to him as I could bear and said, “You’re bordering on fascism.” I was giving him a break, a window of opportunity, a chance to not unleash his harsh ideology. I’d said it softly but he flinched anyhow, his shoulders hunched as he ducked into Soupspoons, an upscale restaurant where he spent a long time. But, Meany Pants and I, we’d had our moment.
That evening on my way home I almost missed the obviously lost black puppy shivering and shaking by the curb. It didn’t take much persuasion to get him to walk with me into a pizza parlour so I could read his tag. The name and number on it corresponded with George Puil the city councillor who’d been responsible for the recent four-month public transit strike that had wreaked havoc in many lives.
There was no answer or answering machine at the Puil residence. I was in a tough dilemma about what to do with Buster, this misnamed buttercup of a puppy. Should I rescue him from his master and raise him myself? Or dognap him, hold him for ransom and donate the loot to the Bus Riders’ Union? He was a rare breed of poodle, worth a fortune.
Salah, the pizza man, was already as enamoured with Buster as I was and pleaded to keep him a while longer. The next day he told me he’d tried calling several times until a member of the Puil family finally came in what he thought was a chauffered limo to pick Buster up. There’d not been so much as a mention of a reward, though he’d taken care of the puppy overnight. Salah was new to the city, so I explained, “Puil is a heartless man.” He said, “Okay, next time we find his dog, we don’t give it back.”
I’d have stayed for a slice but was late for an appointment on Howe Street. It was to participate in a ninety-minute pitch for time-shares about which I knew absolutely nothing. I’d been solicited by phone. Focus and special sales groups always pay something so if you want to make some extra bucks, listen carefully—you can usually squeeze yourself into their demographics.
I was accepted for this session by claiming, on their multiple choice questionnaire, that I had an annual income of one hundred thousand dollars. I’d been lured by the promise of two Canucks tickets or a seventy-dollar gift card to Milestones, and opted for the restaurant, since if you don’t spend the whole amount they give you the rest in cash.
The meeting was about investing in a hotel in Vancouver where apparently nine million tourists visit a year. This didn’t sound accurate to me, but who was I to argue? After a whacked-out video about Vancouver’s greatest tourist hits and a passionate motivational speech by a man covered in evangelical sweat, we were divided into groups of couples to be personally encouraged to invest in the scheme.
I was the only single person there and got assigned to Sonja, the only middle-aged salesperson they had. She took me to a “typical” room in the hotel across the street. The suite was tiny and tedious, done in tones of corporate beige—even the décor of the bathroom almost put me to sleep.
I checked out the art on the walls, some of which was alright. Sonja said, “I’m an abstract painter though I don’t look like one.” “What does an abstract painter look like?” I asked, but she wouldn’t tell me.
Leaving the hotel in the crowded elevator Sonja kept angling to determine my age. It turned out we were both born the same year. “I don’t like getting older,” she whispered. “It’s either get older or be dead,” I whispered back. “You’re a real piece of work,” she snapped quite audibly, but I sensed some affection.
Then Sonja and I recognized Nancy Greene, champion skier from a while ago, and I said to her, “You were a hero to my children.” Ms. Greene’s eyes glazed over—I guess she’d heard it all before. But she got real animated when Sonja engaged her on some Whistler business.
At the office to collect my Milestones coupon and while helping myself to coffee and cookies, I caught Sonja evaluating me with her boss. “How do I rate as a potential time-sharer?” I asked. She said, “I gave you six out of ten.” But I knew she was lying.