Part 32 (2/2)
David kept his voice quiet, so Abby wouldn't hear. ”Listen, Greg McPhee, go grab a donut or something. We're buying a hybrid and I want one of yours.” He turned around to see Abby leaning her head out the driver's-side window. ”My wife wants a little foreign number.”
”No, no, no.” Greg McPhee shook his head. ”That'd be a huge mistake, sir.”
”I know, I know. But my wife's easily infuriated by a certain kind of consumerism. She won't like you at all. So how about this, Greg McPhee? If we want one of these, I'll find you.”
”If you have any questions”
”I don't. Now beat it.”
David pretended to inspect the engine for a minute, as though he knew what was going on in there.
”Nice,” he said, ”real nice,” as he sidled up to the window and Abby. ”You know, I was thinking. This vehicle proves you wrong about North America being a gas-addicted monstrosity hypnotized by multinationals. Unionized workers built this thing in Michigan.”
”Kansas, actually!” Greg McPhee handed David a brochure with a big smile. He winked at Abby. ”How you doing today?”
David slapped the side of the SUV. ”What did I just tell you?”
”I'm beating, I'm beating.” Greg McPhee hurried away to a cl.u.s.ter of pickups.
”Sweetheart, if we buy a j.a.panese car we'll just make elitists of ourselves, alienate our own people, drive them to Hemis.”
”David, please, we don't have a people. We're Canadians.”
”You know what I mean.”
Abby opened the truck door. ”This company, all these companies, have reprehensible environmental records. Every other vehicle in this showroom is a crime against humanity.”
”But sweetheart, you have to admit...”
”I'll admit nothing.” Abby pulled the brochure out of his hands and flipped through it. She pointed at the green-power logo on the front and shook her head. ”Criminals. Criminals.”
David leaned against a s.h.i.+ny pickup truck and pondered his next move. A few metres away, Greg McPhee smiled and shuffled like a nervous ballet dancer waiting for his big demiplie. David bared his teeth.
There were a few weapons in David's a.r.s.enal that he could always pull out to soften Abby. He could sing one of four songs from Joni Mitch.e.l.l's Blue, an alb.u.m that held magical sway over his wife. Its relevance in this situation, unfortunately, was wanting.
It came to him like a jolt of caffeine.
”Sweetheart,” he said, and put his hand on Abby's waist. ”If we start that business together, we'll need a vehicle. The little SUV will carry children and the toys and bags and giant strollers children of this generation always seem to have.”
”So will the little cars.”
”What about poor Maddy? When she borrows the hybrid and has to carry her little bambino into the house, are we going to make her bend down? Bend down and strain those precious muscles? She's already doing this all by herself. If we're going to make her bend down like that, we might as well push her against a wall later this afternoon and punch her in the lower back.”
”You're veering into ridiculousness.”
”Let's at least take it for a test drive.”
Abby sighed and rolled her eyes. ”This is stupid, David. It doesn't pa.s.s the need test. For me, it doesn't even pa.s.s the want test.”
”Greg McPhee!”
The salesman came running over, his shoes squeaking on the s.h.i.+ny floor. ”Yes, sir?”
”Can we take one of these for a test drive?”
”You bet, sir. Ma'am. If you'll just follow me into my office here.”
David and Abby followed Greg McPhee, who walked with his toes pointed way out, to his office door. ”You're gonna love 'er,” he said, as Abby signed a couple of insurance forms. ”She's a real beaut.”
Aware of Abby's growing irritation, David put his index finger in front of his lips.
Greg McPhee winked and nodded.
On their way out to the car, David said into his ear, ”If you say beaut one more time, all this is finished. We'll be driving right back to the Toyota dealers.h.i.+p.”
”No beauts. Gotcha.”
In the lot, Greg gave Abby the keys and explained the particularities of the engine. As he did, the salesman referred to the hybrid SUV as a daisy, a sweetheart, a baby girl, and a little lady. Right after little lady, Abby dropped the keys on the concrete and walked to the Yukon.
79.
the G.o.d of all that is good Raymond squeezed his bottle of Dutch beer so hard he thought it might break. Fearing humiliation, he opened his eyes and closed them again as Rajinder switched back and forth between two local television news programs. At the end of an item on obesity, the Garneau Block story began.
”In the nineteenth century,” said Raymond, next to the model in the lobby of the theatre, ”the great European cities were defined by language, war, history, the industrial revolution. Edmonton is defined by singular forces today, however more subtle they may be. The boom cycle, immigration, triumph and murder and gambling and theatre, the ghosts of recent wilderness, a powerful river.”
Jonas laughed. ”What a pile of bulls.h.i.+t, professor.”
The shot switched to a slow pan of the Garneau Block. The reporter made a lot of the fact that Raymond didn't know what actual stuff would go inside the buffalo head. Rajinder pointed at the television. ”There is Madison. Her s.h.i.+ny legs in that red j.a.panese skirt.”
Raymond was pleased that Madison had smiled at Rajinder in the theatre. Suddenly, the patron had some enthusiasm for his project. However, Raymond was not pleased to see they had cut out the most resonant parts of his interview, when he expanded on the mythic power of buffalo and the mystery and beauty of the North Saskatchewan River. He had even quoted Gwendolyn MacEwan. After a short bout of disappointment, Raymond was stricken with the certainty that the b.o.o.bs in the editing suite had laughed at him.
The university public affairs official provided his counterargument. Jonas opened a new beer. ”Liar. Dirty liar. Stinking whoring greasy...do you guys think they're really planning on building a veterinary medicine centre here?”
Rajinder, in his seat again, shrugged. ”Raymond and I rushed to see my friend on the board of governors this afternoon, and he confirmed it. Yes.”
”May Dean Kesterman burn, burn, burn.” Raymond imagined the burning for an instant, with a stake and some kindling underneath, the flames licking up teasingly at first and then, as the Dean screams, inferno! He sat back and lifted his bottle of beer. ”Don't be discouraged, fellows. We'll get that cultural designation. We can convince the people of Edmonton that art and mythic power are more important than beef.”
Rajinder and Jonas looked at one another, and then at Raymond. ”Fat chance,” said Jonas.
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