The Big Dream Read online

  “Sure, but if ya – ” Yaël hit End, then dialed.

  Sasha picked up on the third ring, laughing, then, “Um, yeah? Hello?”

  “Sasha? Are you there?” She stood up, peered into the mirror at her mouth.

  “Yaël. Are you there?” There were men’s voices in the background, and the same music that was coming through the bathroom door.

  “I’m here.” Yaël put the wine on the sink-edge, but it was curved and the bottle almost pitched before she caught it.

  “Wait, here on the phone or here at the party? Where are you?”

  “I’m here. I’m both. I’m in the bathroom.” Yaël put the wine on the floor next to the plunger. It stayed there.

  “You’re here! That’s so great. I was worried you wouldn’t come. Someone said they saw you, but they said your hair was wavy. Did you do something new?”

  Yaël pressed her hips against the edge of the vanity and leaned forward to look at herself in the three-way. The hot rooms had undone some of the straight-ironing. A thick blonde wave bumped either side of her jaw. Yaël pushed out a breath. “Where are you?”

  “Laundry room. Behind the kitchen. Come right now. We have guacamole and chips. Well, we have chips.”

  “And beer!” someone yelled in the background.

  Sasha laughed. “Come right now.” Then dial tone.

  Yaël put her phone back in her purse and took out her Almond Plum lipstick. She put some on almost carelessly, glaring at her hair. There was a big round brush on the back of the toilet. It took her a moment of thinking about germs before she picked it up. It took a much longer moment to pluck all the curly brown hair out of the bristles. The brushing didn’t even do much good. Yaël set the brush back in its basket and started to look for a blow dryer, but then her purse rang. She gave up and opened the door.

  There was a guy in the hall, leaning against the wall with his yellow Kodiaks crossed at the ankles, waiting patiently. He smiled when he saw her – at her face not her sweater, even – but she didn’t feel up to another new person, so she kept going. At least there was someone else there wearing footwear.

  Back in the kitchen, she found a door beside the refrigerator. Sasha was sitting on a shiny white drier, a brown beer bottle clutched to her thigh, her phone to her ear. She flipped it closed when Yaël came in. “You were taking too long. I’ve missed you.” She hopped off the dryer and stretched up to kiss Yaël on the mouth. Yaël felt herself blush before she could help it, but Sasha just hopped back on the drier and scooted over to make room.

  Yaël licked Chapstick and beer that the kiss had left on her mouth, though she didn’t like either taste. Then she examined the seating situation. Sasha was a good six inches shorter than her and she had been able to get easily from floor to drier, but Sasha was wearing purple skate shoes and jeans. Yaël was wearing a slim black skirt that stopped well above the knee, high boots and hose. She leaned against the drier instead, beside Sasha’s legs but not touching. Sasha lowered her eyebrows, scooted closer and put an arm around Yaël’s shoulder. Then she drank deeply from her beer, gestured across the room and said, “Yaël, this is Alan, and Sarah, and that’s Cal.”

  “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 p
roduct 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.

  To: All onsite employees

  From: Building Services

  Re: Monthly Fridge Cleanup

  Wednesday 10:19 a.m.

  Dear Dream Team,

  Please note that this Friday evening is our monthly fridge cleanup. Please be aware that any food items that you wish to keep must NOT be left in any Dream Inc. office kitchen over the weekend. The cleaning staff does not have time to assess everything in the fridge – if it is left this Friday evening, it will be considered abandoned.

  Please evaluate and collect your food stores accordingly. Happy snacking!

  Gregster

  AFTER THE MEETING

  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. “Offshore 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 – ”

  “Oh, shut up, Martin. Who’da thought you’d be the racist one?” Danvir kinda cackled and popped his beer.

  “I ain’t the racist one.” Martin chewed.

  Danvir slurped then chewed.

  I noticed a guy who looked like the WWF come through the kitchen behind the couch where everybody else was eating and drinking and yelling.

  “Why wouldn’t I be the racist one, anyway? What kind of thing is that to say?”

  It was, seriously, the muscliest guy I’d ever seen. His shirt wasn’t even that tight and there wasn’t much light in the kitchen, but I could see bulges in his shoulders, bulges in his chest, and his hair was shaved off so his head was like one giant shiny bulge.

  “I dunno – ” Danvir was being all fake, like he does when he knows he’s right on trivia night “ – you bein’ a homosexual, I though you mighta learned a little tolerance.”

  The guy in the kitchen put his hands on his waist and I saw it was really narrow, his top half actually triangling down into his pants. I thought about how I ought to join a gym a second before I remembered that I was unemployed.

  Some food fell out of Wayne’s mouth. I was only just now realizing how bad the light was in there as I tried to see if it was Jos Louis or pizza and I couldn’t. Wayne turned and looked at Martin for a good long second, food still sitting on his shirt like a Remembrance Day poppy. “Yer a fag?”

  Danvir hooted like he’d just bowled a strike. “Practically best friends, huh?”