CHAPTER 14—OPEN HOUSE

People came to Open House to do something. Get out of the cold, let the kids run around, gorge on free snacks. The occasional hardcore ABS supporter would deluge a volunteer with esoteric questions about obscure programming, but for the most part the Open House served as a holding tank for excited, screaming children and their exhausted, grumpy parents. The majority of visitors didn’t donate money to the organization. They saw print ads in the Edmonton Journal or Edmonton Sun and would decide to spend a Saturday afternoon hanging around a television station, the word “free” the biggest draw. No wonder Brady wanted as many hands on deck as he could find. The February membership campaign’s goal, defying all reason, stayed at one million dollars. Short of canvassing door to door, ABS would have to wring as much money out of people as possible at events like Open House. Interesting them in the high-quality, commercial-free programming ABS aired, however, proved a gargantuan task. The only way to appeal to their better natures and support programming that didn’t include sex, violence or anything American and popular was to exploit their fears about the well-being of their children. The tactic proved effective in pledge scripts.

Suzanne, Gordon and Pauline sat officiously behind a table on the second floor by the elevator, like electoral workers at a polling station.

“Support commercial-free programming. Support ABS,” Gordon invited the passersby. “Anyone. Anyone?”

The ABS building, with its metal filing cabinets and ancient computers, inspired nobody except managers to cheat on their expense accounts. Suzanne rapped a pen against the membership forms in front of her, thinking how anything creative ever ­blossoming in oppressive environments—be it garbage-strewn ghettos or stale, blanched offices—was considerable evidence for the existence of God.

Marika walked by holding a balloon bouquet. She wore an ABS T-shirt with the slogan “ABS: Your Television Broadcaster” in bright, fat orange letters. The ABS logo, a circle with a line through it, emblazoned the back. How the circle with the line signified the spirit of television inflamed debate every few years, which quickly petered out. Suzanne and Gordon both refused to wear the T-shirt, but Pauline had one on.

“Happy, happy!” Marika said to the writers. “Keep smiling! Whoever signs the most new members gets a prize!”

Suzanne dug her pen into the table, scratching out a groove as best she could on the plastic laminate.

“I didn’t know we could win a prize,” said Pauline.

“Yeah, probably a T-shirt or some other crap,” said Gordon.

A sullen boy stood in front of Suzanne, who kept marking the table with ink.

“Your logo is stupid,” he said.

“I know,” she answered, not looking up.

“Why is your logo so stupid?”

“I don’t know.”

“My mum makes better logos on our computer.”

“I know.”

The kid grunted and trudged away.

“What time is it?” Suzanne asked.

“About twelve,” said Gordon.

“That’s it? We’ve only been here an hour? Do we have to stay until eight tonight? Who in their right mind would come tonight? It’s going down to minus 35.”

Gordon stretched his legs out under the table. “Yeah.”

Suzanne rolled her shoulders a few times. She knew her attitude brought Gordon and Pauline down. She didn’t like the idea of being a crank. A band of pain grew behind her eyes. She had to remind herself of her vow to change, to be the lamp on the nightstand instead of under the bushel. The sign in the open field she passed on the way to work spelled it out simply: Prepare To Meet They God. Did Brady see the sign on his way to work? Did it mean anything to him? Did it prompt him to consider his ruinous management? Did it mean anything to her except rural superstition? She rubbed her eyes. Gothic kitsch. She massaged her temples.

“There’s pizza and beer in John’s office. Part of his ‘Team ABS’ kick. Better than nothing, I suppose,” said Gordon.

“Oh yeah?” Suzanne perked up.

A young couple wearing parkas hovered around their table, glancing at the membership forms. Pauline smiled at them.

“Hi there. Membership in ABS starts as low as five dollars a month. You can donate in one lump sum or in monthly installments.”

“Where does the money go?” asked the man.

“It all goes toward programming.”

The young couple looked over the brochures. The woman handled a This Day in Alberta mug.

“That’s a premium. If you pledge 120 dollars, or ten dollars a month, you receive the mug as a bonus,” Pauline said.

“That’s a lot to pay for a mug,” said the man, smiling.

Suzanne focused on the man. A demonic energy asserted itself. Violence coursed through her veins.

“It’ll be a lot more to pay later. I’m assuming you’re together.”

The young couple smiled at her. “Yes.”

“Do you have any kids?”

“We have a two-year-old, Courtney. Courtney likes Rooey.”

“Isn’t that nice.” Suzanne smiled back. She stood and clasped her hands. “Do yourselves a favour and support ABS right now. Because if ABS disappears and commercial-free television is gone from the airwaves, Courtney’s going to grow up watching programming that will turn her into an automaton. Unless that’s what you want, a compliant individual who will never think for herself.”

“Himself,” the woman said.

“Look. Some people want their children to be factory-issue, children who want nothing more than the latest consumer goods. Maybe you’re these people, I don’t know.”

“No. We’re not,” said the man.

“Okay. Supporting commercial-free educational television is a way to protect your child from the nefarious forces of mainstream media. I guarantee if he watches nothing but ABS in his formative years, you’ll never have to worry about him becoming greedy. No commercials means no promotion of artificial need, which, in the long run, will save you money.”

The young couple looked at each other and nodded. “I guess.”

“I bet that mug looks like a steal now for ten bucks a month.” Sweat trickled down Suzanne’s armpits. She turned a membership form around and eased it toward the couple. “Please support ABS. Do it for your family. Do it for Courtney. For his safety.”

The man reached for his wife’s hand. She looked at him and nodded. He picked up a pen and filled out the membership form.

“Thank you,” he said, “thanks for talking to us.”

“That’s okay. Thanks for your support. God bless.”

The young couple walked away, faces radiant with goodness. Suzanne sat down and folded her arms to hide trembling hands. Gordon and Pauline looked amazed.

“Where did that come from?” said Gordon.

“I don’t know.”

“Nefarious?”

“It is.”

“Wow. Way to go. That was something else,” said Pauline.

Suzanne resumed whittling away at the table with a pen. The exertion had left her unsettled. She wiped cold sweat from her forehead.

“Wait. Hold on. One, two, three,” she said, pointing at Gordon, Pauline and herself. “Hey! Where’s Leslie?”

“He’s Rooey,” said Pauline.

“What do you mean ‘He’s Rooey’?”

“Yeah, can you believe that? He volunteered and made a big deal about taking over. The regular Rooey’s sick. Suck-ass,” Gordon said, picking up a pen and drawing a smiley face on the back of an ABS pledge form.

“He’s Rooey? Pauline, doesn’t that gall you?”

“Why should it?”

“Because you invented Rooey. You made Rooey.”

“I didn’t invent him. I only made a suggestion about his hair. Then my suggestion was reviewed by a committee. Then another committee implemented his tuft of hair.”

“Why does Leslie get to be Rooey? Why isn’t he here, flogging memberships?”

“Because no one else wanted to put on that mangy suit,” said Gordon.

Suzanne’s mood curdled. She sneered and stared at the floor. She had no love for Rooey, but the thought of Leslie masquerading as the ABS ambassador and ingratiating himself to John Brady galled. The little children didn’t know what menace lurked beneath. She fumed at the image of happy children hugging Leslie. His opportunism besmirched Rooey. She’d expose him as an imposter, for the sake of the children. She grabbed her coat.

“I’m going to get some pizza. Hold the fort.”

Suzanne navigated her way through knots of families touring the cubicles and photocopying machines. She entered John’s office, the predictable corner suite, and helped herself to a beer from a case. She guzzled half and held the bottle in her coat pocket. She jogged down the stairs to the basement and the studios. A few ABS technicians manned the control rooms, making sure no one touched the consoles. Suzanne stuck her head in. Parents and children gazed at the rows of television monitors on the wall, each specific to a studio camera or VTR playback machine. The marvel she felt at seeing a television control room, a genuinely impressive technological nerve centre, never waned. She understood the general public’s awe.

“Hey, Pete, is Rooey down here?”

“Yeah, he’s in Studio A.”

She headed down a brightly lit corridor and eased her way by a knot of people outside the makeup room. She stood on tiptoes to see the attraction. She glimpsed Jason in a makeup chair, wearing a bib and having powder applied to his visage. He addressed the crowd.

“Makeup is necessary on television because it evens out the skin tone. This is a special kind of makeup, not the sort of thing you’d wear out on the street, unless you were looking for a good time, if you know what I mean.”

A few people laughed reluctantly at his joke. Suzanne sighed.

She continued down the hallway, past clusters of adults, and into Studio A. Lit by a couple of spots on the studio grid, the This Day in Alberta set was overrun with gleeful toddlers and loafing teenagers. Off to the side, Rooey stood flapping his flipper limbs, his giant head bobbling on his disproportionate body. Children swarmed in a semicircle around him, waiting their turn to receive a hug. Rooey’s manic eyes and deranged grin didn’t upset or frighten them.

Suzanne hid behind a heavy studio curtain. What could she do but watch? To rip off the mascot head would surely cost her the membership gig. Apparently, seeing the person underneath the costume caused great trauma for kids. Even she thought the deed too extreme. She sucked back the remainder of the beer and glowered.

However. A swift kick to the balls was surely okay in the mascot harassment playbook. The children wouldn’t be horrified if their beloved pal buckled over and dropped to the floor. They’d think it was a game.

From the shadows of the curtains came two voices, young teenaged boys stifling laughter.

“Fuckin’ fuck!”

“Rooey’s like a big freak!”

Suzanne brightened. She saw them idling on a storage bin against the wall. Teenagers could always be counted on not to understand the consequences of their actions. She walked toward them, smelling the pot on their clothes.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.”

The two teens slid off the storage bin and slouched, hair over their faces. “What conversation?”

She dug in her pocket and produced five dollars. “Wanna get high?”

“Sure!” they said.

“Then do me this. Go kick Rooey in the crotch. Then get the hell out.” She waved the bill. “Here, I trust you. You look like honest types.”

“Cool!” The youth with the tattoo on his neck plucked the bill from her hand.

She emerged from the darkness. An ABS volunteer wiped up a large spill on one of the This Day in Alberta chairs while a cross parent scolded a crying toddler. Rooey continued to delight the children, flapping his tiny limbs. Certain that Leslie hadn’t spotted her, Suzanne headed to the exit and leaned in the Studio A door frame.

“Ooooo, roooo!” sang Rooey.

Suddenly from the curtains, the laughing teens charged. In the bright light of the studio, teen number one wound up and kicked Rooey in the furry groin, followed immediately by teen number two planting his knee in between Rooey’s legs.

“OOOOOOO, ROOOOOO!!!”

Rooey crumpled to the floor. The whooping teens rushed out of the studio. The group of children who gathered around Rooey showed no distress at seeing their buddy buckled over and writhing. Instead, they laughed uproariously. One raucous preschooler took a swing at Rooey’s crotch. Other crazed preschoolers joined in, kicking Rooey in the ribs, crotch and the head. Rooey dragged himself away from the attack.

“OOOOOO, ROOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

Suzanne grinned. She knew the character of Rooey couldn’t say anything other than “Ooooo, Roooo.” Leslie wouldn’t break down and scream “Fuck off.” That would incur penalty.

An ABS volunteer noticed the rumble. “Good lord!”

Another ABS volunteer, hawking raffle tickets, heeded the commotion. “Oh my God, stop it! Stop kicking Rooey!”

Content, Suzanne slipped away to shouts of “Stop it!” and “Rooey needs first aid!”

Outside the makeup room Jason stood, bib on and foundation caking his face, watching people scurry away. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. I’m just trying to find the washroom.”

“Why aren’t people paying attention to me any more?”

Feeling cocky, Suzanne let herself into Jason’s dressing room and shut the door. “I’ll pay attention to you. Can I use your ­toilet?”

Jason looked at Suzanne. She shuffled from foot to foot, grinning. She felt his quick scan of her narrow jaw, thinning eyebrows and glazed blue eyes hinting derangement. She wanted to tell him to fuck off. He put his hands on his hips and thrust out his jaw.

“Yes. Yeah. You can use my toilet.”

Suzanne stopped grinning. She shoved her hands in her pockets and stiffened. She took in his highlighted blond hair, broad cheekbones and narrow eyes. She caught a vibe. Neglect. She knew it.

“Thanks.”

She struggled to piss knowing he was close.

In an employee lounge, Suzanne and Gordon eavesdropped as feeding ABS employees chatted about the Rooey incident.

“Who’s the guy?”

“Leslie, one of the pledge writers.”

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah, but Rooey’s out of commission for the rest of the day. We told the kids Rooey had to go back to the Land of Oooooroooo. A few cried, but most of them were still giddy.”

“Apparently two guys started it.”

“I guess. We’ll probably never know.”

Suzanne tapped her beer bottle with Gordon’s pop can. Her eyelids heavy, she smiled. The couple of Ativan she’d washed down with beer slowed her. She sank into the couch beside Gordon. She grinned inanely and raised the beer bottle to her lips. Any more alcohol and she’d have trouble walking.

“I hate to say it, but Leslie being mugged by kids, I wish I had seen it,” said Gordon

“It was brilliant.”

“Suzanne, did you still want to get together about membership?”

Her gut tightened. She leaned forward and put the beer down carefully, staring at her shoes. “We could do that.”

“What about this Thursday? Where should we meet?”

“I dunno. Where do you should we meet, think we meet?”

Gordon nudged her leg. “Are you okay?”

She lifted her head, smiled and leaned back. Her eyes felt like slits. “Never better. This is the year of living!”

“We should get back. Pauline is probably wondering where we are. She’s probably still sitting there.”

Suzanne babbled, the words bouncing like a rubber ball.

“Let’s go Teddy’s. On Jasper. By me place. Iz okay? Food’s good. Round seven?”

Gordon lifted from the couch. He wrapped two slices of pizza in tin foil. “Yeah, that sounds like a plan. I’ll just clear it with Ryan’s mom. It should be fine, though.”

Aloft in a gossamer intoxication, she could only manage a weak response to the spectre of Ryan’s mom. She heaved herself from the couch and stumbled into an ABS administrative ­assistant.

“Whoops. Sorry, man. Are you okay?”

“Are you okay?” asked the woman.

Back at the membership table, Pauline listened to the complaints of a member. He sported a bow tie, an admirable touch in minus-30-degree weather.

“But really, why doesn’t Bernard McPhail visit Alberta? He has many fans here. I think it rather an affront,” said the red-headed man.

“I understand how you must feel, sir.”

“Well then. Do something about it.”

“I assure you I will take your concerns to our Audience Relations Department.”

Gordon and Suzanne took their seats behind the table. The red-headed man addressed them.

“Are you with Audience Relations?”

“No,” said Gordon.

“I am,” slurred Suzanne, standing up and leaning on the table.

Pauline glared at Suzanne and then at Gordon. Gordon shook his head.

The red-headed man regarded Suzanne. “Yes, well, I was just explaining to this woman that I’d like to see Bernard McPhail visit Alberta sometime. It doesn’t have to be Edmonton, my wife and I would be willing to drive to Calgary.”

Bernard McPhail was the actor who played Inspector Hawthorne. Suzanne burped into her sweater.

“He has many fans here in Alberta. I’ve been a loyal supporter of ABS for over fifteen years. Surely we could arrange some sort of celebration for Inspector Hawthorne.”

Suzanne scratched her neck. “Okay, sir, first of all the Inspector Hawthorne series is twenty years old. They haven’t made any new ones since then, haven’t even made a Movie of the Week. Second, Bernard McPhail, I believe, is ill with colon cancer, but you would know that because you’re a fan. And third, ABS doesn’t have enough money to pay its contract workers, let alone the cost of trips for British actors to have tea with viewers. The way to ­celebrate the programming you love is to maintain your ABS membership. Have you renewed your membership yet?”

The red-headed man cleared his throat. “Well, no, as a matter of fact.”

Suzanne pushed a membership form and a pen toward him.

“Don’t you think that your continued financial support is vital to our survival? You want to safeguard quality television. I know you do. You’re an intelligent man. I can see that. Make a commitment to programming like Inspector Hawthorne, right now. Just write down your credit card number and the amount you’d like to donate and we’ll take care of the rest. Do it for Bernard McPhail, who for all we know is languishing in a hospital bed somewhere in England.”

The red-headed man appeared to ponder her words. He searched his breast pocket and pulled out an elegant pen. “I have my own pen, madam. Thank you for the reminder to renew. I appreciate your candour.” He filled out a form, bowed and strode away.

Gordon stared at Suzanne and shook his head.

“I don’t get it. Do you love this place or hate it?”

Pauline leaned back in her chair, her anger at their late return defused. “You’re good, Suzanne.”

Suzanne peered around the landing. Suddenly she had sobered up, as if some hawk had clutched her from the Land of Oooooroooo and dropped her in an exam. The effects of beer and Ativan had evaporated too quickly. It was the dreaded scourge of membership, she realized, the hard-wiring of practised argument. She thudded back in her chair before another member of the public needing information. She buried her head in her hands, feeling unaccountable shame.

Gordon excused himself to go to the washroom, leaving Pauline and Suzanne alone. Pauline fidgeted with a mug. Without knitting needles, she seemed lost.

“Suzanne. Suzanne.”

Suzanne lifted her head. Pauline shifted over to Gordon’s chair. She spoke softly. “I, uh, think we should discuss this membership business you wanted to talk about. Remember? Something about writing bad membership scripts so Jason looks like an idiot?”

Brooding, Suzanne flared her nostrils at the recollection of the treasonous plot. “Right.”

“Have you talked to Gordon about it?”

“Yeah, we’re meeting this week to talk. He’s interested.”

“What about Leslie?”

“Forget Leslie, especially today.”

“Why don’t I talk to him?”

“If you think it would help, sure.”

Pauline fiddled with a membership form. “I haven’t signed up anyone yet. You’ve done two.”

“I’m lucky, that’s all.”

“No. You have the gift of the gab.”

Gab. So that was what infested her mind, kept her staring at the ceiling at night, haunting her dreams. Gab.

“Pauline, do you ever feel elated one minute and despair the next?”

Pauline pursed her lips. “Can’t say that I do.”

Suzanne looked at her. “That’s where gab comes from.”

Back from the washroom, Gordon stopped in front of the announcements posted by the elevator. He seemed unable to walk by a flyer without reading it. Suzanne glanced at Pauline’s wristwatch. Another five hours of being in this particular public. She would need fortification.

“I’ll be back,” she said, pulling on her coat.

Lathering her hands and gazing at the reflections in the mirror, Suzanne emitted gas. She listened to a mother speaking with her two children.

“Emma. Yes, we’ll go after this. Emma. Hurry up. It doesn’t flush? Don’t worry. Kayla, have you washed your hands? Yes, Mummy washed her hands. We have to wash our hands every time we go to the bathroom, right? Emma, wash your hands. We’re going to see Oma after this. Do you want some snacks? We’ll have snacks in the car.”

Emma let the water run. On tiptoes she reached for the soap dispenser and pumped a dollop. Carefully, studiously, she washed her little hands. Suzanne caught Emma in the mirror looking at her. Suzanne wiped her hands with a paper towel and tossed it toward the garbage. Thinking how small children were, how little their hands and bodies, and how they can’t fight back, she floated into a stall and shut the door.

She guessed Emma’s age to be six. In four years she would be Diana’s age, and could smoke cigarettes and let an old man take pictures of her and a blond boy doing things naked. She could make some money to feed her little sister.

Suzanne rolled the vial of Ativan in her hand. A couple more would help her relax. A couple more pills would help her exist in this world, and help her forget the other world behind her eyes where tectonic plates were about to shift.

The cold clawed her. Cheeks and nose and mouth stung. Staggering onward, stumbling into snow, falling. The black sky like hockey tape, taut and worn. Wobbling up and one foot in front of the other, weaving to a bus shelter. Only fifteen feet away. Only ten feet away. Tripping and falling on the sidewalk, on her knees. Crawling to the shelter and struggling to stand. Crashing onto a hard plastic bench and hitting her head on the Plexiglas.

Distant light glimmered. Warehouses and offices lined the empty white street, dark structures housing products and numbers and industry. This bus shelter, a square box among the other square boxes, temporary sanctuary. Her ears rang.

“Shit.”

She pulled her toque down and clasped the edges to her chin. Mouth dry and numb, she ran her tongue over her teeth and lips. She wasn’t unconscious, or subconscious, but paleo-conscious, her core an icy, uninhabitable pole. Wind-swept nothingness, absolute zero. The last circle of hell.

“Where’s the fuckin’ bus?”

Her toes stung. She covered her face with her gloves and breathed. Gusts shook the Plexiglas. She curled her fingers in her gloves to keep the tips warm. The shelter levelled out in her vision. A bus shelter. In the middle of nowhere, in the middle of winter, in Edmonton, Alberta. She hugged herself and buried her face in her coat. Rooey. She smiled. Rooey had his ass kicked. Why did his assault make her happy? She shook with cold. He never hurt anyone. Rooey loved kids. Gentle, sweet Rooey. Rooey was like her young lover, Colin. Lovely, trusting Colin. Attack Rooey and you attack Colin, and she would never do that. Innocent children and mascots needed protection. What had she done? She had corrupted him. Colin and Rooey.

She hoisted herself up on jelly legs. She shuffled from side to side, trying to keep warm. Tears welled and streamed down her cheeks. She screwed her face and sobbed, pressing her head against the Plexiglas. Her knees buckled and she fell to the ground. She knelt and wiped strings of mucus from her nose and mouth.

She sensed light and raised her head. Two distant glows came closer. She crawled from the shelter and reached out to the light that was becoming larger and brighter in the blackness.

She mewed, an injured, sick animal.