The Boom Economy

Vicar, Victoria

Vancouver, September 1999

OTHER THAN THE WAITRESSES, big surprise, Isabelle was the only woman in the entire restaurant. Here in green, island-like Vancouver, the three of them – Isabelle, Jimmy, and Dennis – had been fierce tourists with a strict itinerary: the anthropology museum and University of British Columbia (hosting an international Sasquatch conference!), a long walk through Stanley Park, an examination of the new library. What had revitalized them so? The rain? This was the last evening of their three-day stay, and they’d exhausted outdoor activities, so they’d been in buildings all afternoon: they shopped, drank coffee, and went five pin bowling at the Commodore. It took them three games before clever Isabelle figured the right way to tally (and when he discovered that he was losing, Jimmy no longer wanted to play).

Now the three of them had come to Robson Street to eat dinner in a Hooters restaurant. They were squabbling over which of them was responsible for their being there, nursing weak beer among a sorry assortment of Sasquatch conference attendees, Winnipeg ad men, investors fleeing Hong Kong, and the odd loner taking up a whole booth.

Certainly not Jimmy, for he opposed all objectification of women. Certainly not Isabelle, for she was not remotely lesbian. Certainly not Dennis, oh no – for he was almost a Jesuit priest.

Well, I think it was you, Brother Bacchus, said Jimmy, and he drank absently from his mug. God, Budweiser! he scoffed.

Thee king of beers, said Isabelle. Dennis wondered whether she found Vancouver disappointing, because it was a city in a country that was supposed to be bilingual, and there was only a passing whisper, even a mocking, of French. But she was only twenty-six years old, almost half his and Jimmy’s age, and she had been resilient on this whole journey through the Pacific Northwest. Only today, for the first time in two weeks, did any of them show real signs of weariness.

She sure loves the exchange rate, Jimmy said when Dennis suggested they pull out of Vancouver a day early, for her sake.

They’d all splurged on the strength of their currency, hauling back to their ivied old bayfront hotel some tony, full, and damp-to-the-point-of-breaking shopping bags from Banana Republic, Eaton’s, and HMV. Dennis liked Roots and Marks & Spencer, because he could buy lots of nice things (he’d sworn poverty along with chastity and obedience, but still liked nice things. Sure, to buy designer clothes was as forbidden as breaking chastity, but it didn’t seem as bad to him, because policing his consumerism wasn’t nearly as difficult as policing his libido) with obscure designer tags, and the other, far less worldly Jesuit colleagues would never know.

At a big record store, Dennis went to the listening stations and found out what kids these days were listening to, but couldn’t discern the difference among trance, techno, and electronic. And when he pulled the headphones off, he noticed that a very fancy cologne, worn by some hip boy who’d worn the phones just before him, had rubbed off on him, and now he felt absolutely a poseur.

"Ooh, Frère Denis, Isabelle had sniffed behind his ear, You are defeeneetly down with le Oh-Pee-Pee!"

O.P.P.?

Ozair people’s poocey? she tried it out.

They ate and drank, too, and Dennis got into the spirit of it because he wasn’t really spending any money. Every restaurant had a full bar, and since the wine was not famous, Dennis drank martinis, and was therefore two or three steps ahead of the beer-swilling Jimmy. Isabelle drank Cokes.

Canada was just America, only much nicer. The differences seemed to be more unsettling to Dennis, though, than they were in, say, France. It wasn’t just the one- and two-dollar coins but the wholesomeness and the oh gee’s, of the friendly lawn bowlers in Stanley Park, along with the public ordinances for dog owners that included the rule Be Courteous, as if courtesy were quantifiable and enforceable.

Courtesy is more efficient than the law, said Isabelle, after Dennis had pointed out the rule and she had thought about it. You Americans make me laugh with your signs in every street, ‘Eet ees forbeedden to park here, except between the ow-airs oav two and seeks.’

In America, he told Isabelle, as in Catholicism, they depended on the precise measure of the law.

In America, Isabelle said, This Coca-Cola, which is called ‘a large’ in Canada, would be called ‘a medium.’

Dennis was mildly alarmed that Isabelle had already and swiftly been corrupted by the United States: she’d let Jehovah’s Witnesses into his home, loved the action movie they saw in Portland, insisted on the all-male production of Mourning Becomes Electra in Seattle. And now this – this! – a Hooters restaurant.

What would she be like if she were an American girl? Would she be a courteous Canadian, or a chickie-woo with a little black sticker on her RAV4 that read Mean People Suck? In the record store, he presented Isabelle with the problem of differentiating among trance, techno, and electronic, and she blew out her pretty cheeks in exasperation, as if Dennis were not clear on the difference between the colors yellow and blue. Jimmy said that she was very attentive to the club scene in Paris and London, and fancied herself a handbag house type – she was one of the girls who threw their purses into a pile on the dance floor and shimmied around them in a circle so that they wouldn’t get stolen. Dennis imagined penguins protecting their young, rubbing together to keep warm.

In any event, Isabelle was still through-and-through French. This fact was revealed in the puzzling occurrence at lunchtime. They’d gone into a tatty little diner near the library, and Dennis remarked only to himself how many Canadian boys he’d seen with black eyes. Was it some badge of courage? Away from home, he was hyper-aware of patterns; in Spain, he’d seen dozens of abandoned shoulder pads in the street. In Rome, dead birds.

After they placed their orders, the three of them fell silent, a rare thing, but they were tired from their sightseeing itinerary. Dennis put his hands in a prim position on the table, set them like the children’s hand game – Here is the church, here is the steeple – and there they stayed. Jimmy was scribbling away with such an enthusiasm that his beer washed over the edge of his mug. He looked slightly crazy, with a wiry-wired intensity that often made Dennis uncomfortable.

Dennis monitored over the years as Jimmy was whittled down to bones and sinew, a stretched-out jockey. His friend’s face did not so much wrinkle as crease. Dennis was aging in a different direction, a burly middle age. Though he didn’t have a gut, there was a thickening going on somewhere between his chest and his belly. In the full-length mirror, he allowed himself a moment of vanity but found he looked like a wedge doorstop on end. He’d worried his face into lines over his brows, around his eyes. The parentheses around the corners of his mouth were so mournful and, he feared, judgmental, that he’d grown a beard, as blond as the hair on his head.

Jimmy was filling out a little questionnaire he’d picked up in a Starbucks coffee shop, one that sat kitty-corner – kitty-corner! – to another Starbucks. Jimmy had been outraged. They’re taking over the world! he cried.

It’s good coffee, shrugged Isabelle, and Dennis found it easy to side with an apolitical French girl.

I’m going to protest, Jimmy had said, and ducked into one of the two cafés to get a folded brochure: How Are We Doing? it read on the cover. Now, in Hooters, Jimmy scrawled, Just terribly. Why would I need two Starbucks in the same block? Next to the question Which store are you referring to? he’d written in bold capital letters, ALL OF THEM!

Perhaps we shall go to the shopping island? asked Isabelle.

Let’s find out when the ferries run. Dennis saw an American couple in the next booth with two travel guides. He got up and went to them. May we borrow this for a moment? We’d like to check a schedule.

They barely murmured an assent, buried as they were in the local newspaper. He carried it back to their table and found, to his surprise, that Isabelle was mortified.

What’s wrong? asked Jimmy, finished with his questionnaire.

I can not believe it, said Isabelle, shaking her head gravely.

What? asked Dennis.

That you would do such a thing. That you would just walk up to a stranger and ask for their guidebook.

Dennis laughed, the freest laugh he’d belted out during the entire trip. I borrowed their guidebook?

A person must never do such a thing.

Jimmy looked as puzzled as Dennis, but Dennis did not want to share anything with Jimmy now, and so he said, Why is this a wrong thing?

Isabelle shrugged her shoulders with a furrowed brow, as if it were as obvious as the difference between trance and techno. You put the person in a position in which they have no choice but to say yes.

But I’ll give it right back! They weren’t using it!

When Isabelle fell silent, Dennis immediately returned the guidebook to the couple. They never found out the ferry schedule and did not go to the island.

Isabelle was genuinely hurt – about the guidebook or maybe something else. Dennis pondered the terrors of foreignness. Perhaps Canada was not a Nice America, after all. Must going to a faraway land always undo a traveler? For the rest of the afternoon, they didn’t speak much to each other. Dennis felt punished by Isabelle for that inscrutable crime. And Jimmy – oh, Jimmy.

Only now, in Hooters, was she beginning to return to her gregarious self. They studied the menus, full of too many choices that tried to span the cuisines: chop suey, burritos, spaghetti, hamburgers. Dennis felt queasy around such icky heterodoxies, common along the Pacific Rim. In San Francisco there were at least four shops called Chinese Food and Donuts, and other stores sold Indian Food and Pizza, Deli, Ice, Bait, Liquor. Was there nothing pure left in the world? Sex and food, both nice ideas, but not together. Even if he were his old self, unvested.

The waitress moseyed to their table. Her name tag read Cheryl, and she seemed rather dumpy to be considered a sex star. Her hair was pulled back in a severe manner, perhaps to show some sort of toughness. Indeed, there wasn’t much soft on her. Her breasts were not so huge, either. She was indifferent, sullen.

He studied her, looking for sensuality. The longer he stayed away from sex, and other people’s bodies, the more strange, artificial, and puppetlike sex and bodies seemed to be. Long expanses of skin draped and stretched over a framework of bones, the T of neck and spine crossing shoulders, seemingly tied off like balloon animals at the lips and sphincter, and perpetually shriveling like an applehead doll. And the way that skin darkened in crevices – obscene!

In youth, the gracefulness of the body was unconscious, unintended. As one became more aware of its mutability, one became more aware, more sentient, more egotistical – unlovely qualities. And the body became more unlovely in the same way – not ugly because of age, but because of vanity.

She caught him studying her, and she stopped her pen on her pad long enough to make an oh brother sort of face. He wanted to explain to her, no, I’m not drooling over you, no, don’t you see, I’m a homosexual and a priest! Almost. But she went to scribbling Jimmy’s club sandwich and Isabelle’s tomato salad. More beer? she asked Jimmy, and then went to the kitchen.

I hate the name Cheryl, Dennis confided, thinking they’d both surely agree.

Why? asked Isabelle.

How could he explain? How could he convey to a French girl the loathsome sound of the name Cheryl, given to girls to make them sound soft when they were in fact hard and vulgar. Even Jimmy wouldn’t understand. He once told Jimmy that Kevin was a name for dullards, every Kevin he’d ever known was a dunderhead, and Jimmy disagreed, bewildered. The world was made up only of foreigners, and a man, thought Dennis, is existentially quite alone with his prejudices.

He excused himself – the martinis were going straight through him. In the hallway leading to the bathroom, there were fake street signs on the wall that said Bumps with two schematic ta-ta-like hills; another read, This sign is in French when you aren’t reading it. Which seemed an obscure anti-Montrealism. One of the other waitresses, Hooterettes, whatever, was talking into a pay phone, her serving tray and towel tucked under one arm, her free hand plugging her free ear. She was saying, No, no. If she’s sound asleep, just let her stay.

In the bathroom, the graffiti was as nice as it had been in the born-again Christian diner, where the cowboy butt spanker had left his mark. Life is a universally fatal sexually transmitted disease. Highly deep. Still, this was a Hooters, and the evidence of what men did when left, unmothered, to their own yahoo devices was everywhere: the toilet seats of all three stalls were splashed with urine, toilet paper clogged two of them. The urinals were glazed at pectoral level with the blue word Adamant, the same shade and quality of blue used in plates with the Anglo-Oriental willow pattern, which, in hopes of becoming a self-styled village vicar, Dennis had begun to collect as his china pattern, perfect for those imagined teas that this parson would have one day with aging ladies of the diocese. So far, however, he had had only a six-month tour of duty as an assistant pastor for a small church in Minneapolis. After, he’d gone running back to the Bay Area, realizing that he was better off planning to be a teaching Jesuit, not a preaching one.

Just as he was zipping up, two Québecois men came in in cheap suits with blue fleur-de-lis lapel pins, growling and mooing and braying and bleating about some Hooter-related outrage. Perhaps having overheard the single mother Hooterette on the hall phone advising her babysitter had spoiled their fantasy. Not that the fantasy was precariously complicated.

Dennis came out and said, I’m sorry I took so long, but I had to have a heavy discussion about poetry with two gentlemen from Table Nine.

Oh, they are not so different from us, Isabelle said. The chill between the two of them was not quite gone. She was not ready to collaborate with Dennis. They all looked over to Table Nine, for trouble was apparently brewing.

I hope you don’t think we’re as big a buncha morons as the rest of the guys in this place, said Jimmy, not at all joking.

She picked his camera off the table in front of him, its neckstrap tangling around his beer mug. I have seen what you do with this camera all day.

On their day-long walk through Stanley Park, Jimmy snapped surreptitious shots of stripped-down boys on park benches, sweaty in-line skaters, tennis players, lifeguards. Dennis and Isabelle would hang back while Jimmy, pretending to take pictures of ships in English Bay, slipped up behind these men, and took their photos. Dennis noted that almost every time, after Jimmy snapped the shutter, the bathing beauty would turn around, wake up, somehow sense that perhaps, as the natives believed of intrepid National Geographic photographers, Jimmy had stolen his soul.

That’s different, said Jimmy.

Why is it different? asked Isabelle.

Men like to be looked at. Jimmy said it as if it was only half thought out.

Men like to be looked at when they are kicking a soccer ball or wrestling with an octopus, said Isabelle. Wrestling with an octopus? I like to be looked at, she added, I like to be told that I am pretty.

Before anybody could respond to or qualify her, six of the unshaven Québecois men at Table Nine suddenly burst into some sort of discontent at Cheryl the waitress, all at once. What was the problem? Weren’t her boobs big enough?

Uh-oh, trouble, said Jimmy. I think they just asked her to take off her T-shirt and she said no.

Isabelle shook her head. The waitress cannot speak French and they are outraged, she explained, putting the accent on rage and not out, as if she were outraged herself.

Doesn’t every Canadian speak French? asked Dennis. Don’t they learn it in school?

You learned French in school, said Jimmy. Can you speak it?

Isabelle leaned over and tugged on the passing waitress’s apron. Perhaps I can help you?

Cheryl shook her tightly restrained ponytail. I’m going to get the manager.

The three of them sat back and watched the pantomime as a pasty man with a too-short and too-wide tie came from behind the swinging kitchen doors and asked the gentlemen how he could help them. When it became clear that he also could not speak French, the Québecois shouted. One pushed Cheryl in the shoulder.

Back off, Jack! she shouted.

Jimmy snickered but Isabelle quelled it with a face she made. They might hurt her, she murmured. How odd her concern. Why was Isabelle worried about the plight of a rather unfriendly waitress with so many witnesses around and when she had been fearless around all the other strangers she’d encountered, with their ominous black eyes? How will she solve this problem? Isabelle asked, and returned her attention to Table Nine. That was the only way Dennis could get Isabelle to respond to anything: pose it as a problem to be solved.

Now the Québecois were shaking their heads and snapping, "Non. Non. No-no." Meaning, apparently, that they would not be leaving until they were properly served and entertained and spoken to in their native language. For a moment, there was silence.

Cheryl and her boss fell back. They began to whisper to one another, and sidled away to a place near the door.

Isabelle stood up. Untucking her serpentine-colored T-shirt, she bunched it in front of herself and knotted it, accentuating her curves marvelously. She was far prettier – no, Dennis thought, sexier – than any of the waitresses. She went up to Cheryl and, without asking, took the order pad from her hands.

The men from Quebec had watched all this, too, and when they realized what was happening, they broke simultaneously into a lascivious cheer.

Bonjour, said Isabelle, her face as open as the sky, an unlocked house ready for a thief.

Bonjour, mademoiselle, said a man in an outer seat, mustachioed like a ringleader. She had their attention; the looks on their faces said that they had not expected real sex in Hooters, but perhaps God in his heaven was going to give it to them as a small miracle. The room was suddenly full of heat, and curves, and odors.

And she proceeded to take their order, fearlessly. Jimmy gave a single heave of a laugh. Dennis slapped his own forehead and shook his skull, pivoting it on the heel of his hand. But they didn’t move, and when Isabelle was finished, she handed the pad back to Cheryl.

Cheryl, however, was not amused, nor did she thank Isabelle. Unfazed, Isabelle unknotted her shirt and returned to her companions, offering the same smile she gave the men. I am sure, she said, that there is some law against what I have done. But courtesy is more efficient, isn’t it?

Jimmy touched her shoulder but it was a gesture of the mildest disapproval.

Isabelle recoiled. You think that I am a slut, don’t you?

No, no! I’ve always approved of sexual activity, haven’t I, Dennis? I even approve of Dennis’s sexual activity.

Isabelle pouted before and after saying, Dennis does not have sexual activity.

Well, he used to. He even knows about big tits. Oh no, Dennis thought, he wouldn’t dare.

You know, Brother Bacchus used to work for pornography.

Pornography? Isabelle looked as if she’d mistranslated something.

I’m not a brother, Dennis said. I’m a seminarian. I don’t know why you keep calling me that.

"Sure, magazines called Horny Girls, Shenanigans, Bodacious Ta-Tas."

The Québecois ringleader was calling for Isabelle. She turned her head to see if they had a real need, like pepper or butter, but he said something and she scowled and waved him off and said, Québecois French is as ugly as the name Cheryl, and returned her attention to Jimmy’s story.

Did Dennis have to regret everything to do with his relationship with Jimmy? Why had he told him about this secret period in his distant past? It lasted half a year. He’d spent that much time at the church in Minneapolis. He never willfully embraced the role of pornographer. To tell a secret was forever, he thought; he oddly recalled at that moment that he still got junk mail addressed to Jimmy Bacchus. In a giddy moment, the two of them had conjoined their names as a way to see where junk mail came from, entering it on a mailing list, and the marriage of their two names was indeed passed from catalogue to crummy catalogue, the name splitting and proliferating. Dennis rued the day. It seemed now an unthoughtful thing to have done, as uncaring of the future as having unprotected sex – yes, he regretted it in exactly the same way.

Tell her about it, Brother Bacchus, Jimmy took a long drink of beer.

Well, perhaps he should. He felt he was losing Isabelle’s affection, a warmth they once had. Maybe he could sully himself with a little confession in order to win her back. He said, I was just out of school and in lust with a performance artist. He would tell her this story and that would patch the rift created earlier that day. He looked at her to see if she was listening. Indeed, Isabelle was aghast, again, but this time in a merry way. "He had a temporary job doing paste-up for Gallery. ‘Big Busts of the Big Ten,’ stuff like that. They lost an editor, those things happen every day in that business, and they needed somebody. The performance artist gave me the job."

What did you do for them?

Dennis shrugged. Wrote dirty stories. Filled in Letters to the Editor when there weren’t enough.

Isabelle giggled. Homosexual stories.

No, just kinky stories. Not really even kinky. Just kinky locations. In a tree house. On a plane. In Bombay.

In a church, Jimmy said. His beer mug was up, as if the real thing he said was as charming as À votre santé!

Isabelle sat back, shaking her head. Gay homosexuals writing pornography for the straight people.

It’s not that difficult. It’s not like describing brain surgery. We can’t see God, but many have written about him.

Oh, but there is a difference, she scolded, tapping her down-tipped left eye with a fingernail painted black (a new thing she found in Seattle). It’s in the eye. You gay homosexuals will only talk about the penis and the thrust and the sword fight and the high-five-dude –

Jimmy wanted to exchange a look of surprise with Dennis, but Dennis would have none of it.

– and never to the soft and the nape of the neck and the little tiny star in your belly that gets warm and – and the breasts! She pointed around the room.

Breasts, Dennis waved her away. All those letters would come in, and the breast lovers, they were the stupid ones. As if to emphasize, the group of shaggy Québecois laughed heartily. Dennis thought of trappers on a beaver hunt. The fetishists, they were the brains of the outfit. They had style. Imagination. And they could spell.

Over at Table Nine, Cheryl was slamming down six hamburgers and six orders of fries. How did they get their food first? Monsieur Ringleader was making a request and pointing at Isabelle. Cheryl looked in the direction of the finger and then shook her head, no. More mooing and braying. "Tabernac!" one of them swore, and Dennis thrilled at the antique notion that cursing might still be a profanity against the sacred.

Cheryl stomped over to Isabelle. Thanks a lot. You’re a big help. Then she stomped to the kitchen.

Isabelle got up and went to the men. More cheering. But this