Poles Apart (18 page)

“My boy, my boy, my sweet boy!” she said as she grabbed me in a bear hug and bounced us up and down like a possessed pogo stick. I confess it felt a little odd.

I hugged back but looked furtively for an orderly in case I needed help to restrain the patient.

“Whoa, Beverley. Let’s sit down, shall we,” I said as I lowered her to the bench. “I’m not sure your doctor would approve of your, um, frenetic calisthenics.”

She sat but wouldn’t let go of my hands. I speculated that perhaps she’d won the Florida Lottery. I’d never seen her like this and I was at a loss explain her odd behaviour.

“Everett, you are a man of action, you are,” she said. “I can’t believe it! I can’t believe you!”

“Beverley, calm down,” I said. “Breathe! That’s it, breathe.”

She relaxed a bit so that she was simply beaming and rocking, still holding my hands.

“Better. Now what’s going on? What are you all, um, exercised about?” I asked.

“As if you don’t know. You have to know,” she started. “You asked me to read every one of your little essays. And I read them all. Every one. They’re wonderful. Perhaps even better for my
suggestions. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? Did you think I wouldn’t recognize them? Not to mention the title you chose. I’m deeply honoured.”

Understanding dawned. Shit. This wasn’t part of the plan.

“Um, Beverley, have you been dipping into the Internet again?” I scolded. “I’ve warned you before about what lurks there. It’s a cesspool of, well, of very bad things.”

She didn’t appear to be listening.

“I can’t believe what’s happened. I was watching the show when she talked about it. Always curious about the next big feminist thing, of course I whipped out my iPad and, hello
Eve of Equality
!”

And there it was. Right out in the open. This wasn’t part of the plan.

“Ah yes, it may be Shark Week on the Discovery Channel, but it’s Feminist Week on
Candace
. Just my luck,” I said.

“Now, why didn’t you tell me you intended to publish your pieces on a blog? I could have been promoting it all this time.”

“Beverley, I didn’t really know what I was doing. I still don’t. I just wanted to get them out there to see what would happen. I’m flying by the seat of my pants here.”

“Well, you sure know how to take off!” she replied. “Hell, you’re famous!”

“Whoa, Beverley, keep your voice down!” I hissed. “You, and possibly a small, independent and now frazzled Internet service provider, are the only other living souls who know I’m the Eve
in
Eve of Equality
. And that’s how it’s got to stay. That’s how it must stay. No one else can know,” I said, narrowing my eyes to slits as I stared her down. And believe me, it’s hard to stare someone down when you narrow your eyes to slits. But I managed.

“But why the secrecy? Why don’t you take a bow and all the accolades? You’ve earned them. You deserve them.”

“Beverley, I think you know why,” I said. “You know very well why.”

“What? Some misplaced belief about who should speak about gender equality? Who has the right to expound on feminism? Is that what you’re worried about?” she asked.

“I just don’t think a relatively privileged youngish white man should all of a sudden become the new face of feminism. It’s not right. It would rightly trigger a huge backlash. It would be a distraction. It would be a disaster,” I replied. “If we’re ever going to achieve real equality, women have to lead the movement, and be seen to lead the movement, as they always have, and as you yourself argued in your own book.”

“Everett, if we’re ever going to achieve true equality, and the way things are going, I have my doubts we ever will, men need to be part of the discussion. Real equality means that men are going to lose a big chunk of the power and privilege you’ve enjoyed for, well, for the goddamned whole of recorded history. So men bloody well better be part of the conversation,” Beverley said. “Look, you, my boy, are in a rare position to push men to the table. If you have the balls to ride it out.”

“Wait a second! Don’t hang all of that on me,” I said. “I just want to contribute to the debate. I just want to be a loyal foot soldier back in the middle ranks, doing what I can to help us gain some ground. It’s a long haul. And I’m just a small cog in a big wheel. That’s all I ever wanted to be.”

“Hello! Lowly foot soldiers, small cogs, and whatever other lame metaphors you choose to employ don’t prompt Candace Sharpe to sing their praises and promote their platform. This is big! This is huge! Hell, you might even get to be on the show!”

I looked down and let the silence hang. She swivelled her head toward me.

“No, no way!” she said.

I nodded in resignation.

“I received an email invitation this afternoon.” I sighed.

“Jesus Christ!”

“No, not quite, it was from the senior producer, actually.”

She slapped my arm.

“I’m not doing the show. I’ll never do the show. And no one will ever know the writer behind the blog. You have to promise me you’ll never rat me out, ever, not to anyone, not even to my father.”

Beverley repatriated her hands and then folded her arms across her chest. She looked down for a time, I assumed in thought.

“The two faces of Eve, eh?” she said eventually, looking up at me.

“I’m serious, Beverley. I never would have created the blog in
the first place if I thought I’d ever be outed. I took a raft of precautions to prevent my identity from ever being revealed. It’s important to me,” I pleaded. “I want the blog posts to speak for themselves. I want my writing to help persuade, and cajole, and encourage those quiet, middle-of-the-road feminists, women and men alike, to step up a bit more, to raise their voices a bit more. That’s all I signed up for. I just wanted to capture that feeling I had when I was at university. That’s what this is about. Nothing more.”

She nodded, listening intently. But she held her peace.

“But nothing, I repeat, nothing can be gained by the world knowing that I am the writer behind the blog. Nothing. It’ll just blow up in my face, and any good that has come from those modest essays will be permanently undone.”

I looked up.

“Uh-oh,” I said. “My father and Chevrolet are coming in hot, twelve o’clock high.”

Beverley glanced up.

“Not a word, Beverley. I’m serious,” I said. “Promise me.”

She smiled and nodded.

“I promise. For now.”

“Make room! I’m about to drop,” Dad said as he shambled up to the bench.

He let go of Kenny’s wheelchair so he coasted to a stop a few more yards up the path. Kenny craned his neck behind him to see why his joyride had ended.

I shifted over to create a spot big enough to accommodate at least two of my father. Somehow he managed to use all the space as he slid in for a landing.

“Phew! I’m freakin’ beat! I must have walked fifteen miles,” he said.

“More like fifteen minutes,” countered Beverley. “I’ve been watching you two out there since you came out. The way Kenny waves his arms around, he might have gotten the superior workout.”

“That’s just what I was telling him,” Kenny said from his chair up the path a ways.

“Anyway, Billy, you’re doing very well. But that was not fifteen miles.”

“Well, I know it’s hard to take your eyes off me when I’m out here breaking a sweat, but I didn’t think you were keeping track of my distance.”

“Ha!” she snorted. “You are twisted and deluded, Billy, even for a man.”

“I’ll take that as compliment,” he replied, with a smug smile.

“I’m not surprised you thought that was a compliment,” she said. “It speaks to the deluded part of your character.”

That round seemed to be over and we sat there in the sunshine for a time.

“So what revolution were you two plotting over here while Kenny and I were dragging our sorry asses and my lame left leg around these paved pathways to hell?”

I looked over and noticed that Kenny had nodded off in the sun’s warmth. At least I hoped he was only dozing.

“We were just catching up, Dad,” I said. “Absolutely nothing to see here. You can just break it up, go on about your business, and move along.”

“What your son is so inelegantly positing is that it’s nearly dinner, and you know what night it is.”

“Damn right I do,” Dad said as he checked his watch. “Geez, will you look at the time.” Dad hauled himself back to his feet. “Fried chicken comes once a week. And I aim to be there, on time. Kenny! Wake up!”

Dad shuffled over to the wheelchair and spun Kenny around with enough centrifugal force to tip the chair up on the outside wheel for a split second.

“Jesus Christ, man, do you hate Chevys that much that you’d try to kill me?”

“Settle down, Kenny, and buckle up. We’ve got fried chicken waiting for us.”

“Save us two seats. We’re right behind you,” I said.

We watched as Dad and Kenny rolled toward the dining room.

“Okay, Everett, have it your way,” Beverley said. “You created the blog and wrote the pieces. I guess that earns you the right to control who knows how much, and when. I’ll follow your lead.”

I squeezed her hand.

“Thank you, Beverley. Thanks for understanding.”

“Oh, I’m not sure I understand just yet. But it’s your show, so it’s your call,” she replied. “I just want you to keep the bigger picture and the broader good in mind. You’re riding a rocket and that gives you some power that not many have.”

“I hear you.”

“By the way, what did you think of that jackass Bennington’s tweet?”

“What are you talking about? Wait, Mason Bennington?”

“Hmmm. You were probably already on your way over here by then,” she said as she pulled her iPad from her bag. “I signed up to the
Eve of Equality
Twitter stream this afternoon as soon as I discovered the blog. A nice touch, Everett.”

This did not sound good. She fiddled a bit with her iPad and then handed it to me. I was looking at the @EveofEquality Twitter stream. I recognized the tweets I’d composed and published earlier. Close to the top was a recent tweet from one @XYMasonB. It said:

“What a jerk!” I said.

“Well, I think your epithet is remarkably restrained.”

Since Beverley was already halfway in the tent, I decided to pull her the rest of the way in.

“Just before we head in, there’s a little more to the story,” I started. She nodded and gave me her full attention. “You might have heard that Mason Bennington is expanding his
XY
Club operations.”

She nodded again.

“I read a squib about it in the paper,” she replied.

“Yeah, well, guess where the newest
XY
just opened?”

It didn’t take me long to explain it all, including the precise location of the dance pole. But it took a very long time before her laughter subsided enough to allow me to walk her into the dining room. We had to pause at two other benches on the path to allow waves two and three of her hysterics to pass. I imagine her stroke risk briefly shot off the charts during our little walk in for dinner. She eventually composed herself enough to appear semi-normal in the dining room, though every few minutes or so, she just shook her head and gripped my knee under the table.

It was about 8:30 when I finally made it home. The fried chicken was, well, extremely fried. And now the clump of congealed chicken and grease was sitting heavy in my gut. Dad loved it and shoved down most of Beverley’s, too. It seemed to be a busy night at
XY
so I had to park quite a distance from my apartment. I was walking past the main entrance to the club toward my separate entrance when I recognized Lewis Small standing out front wearing the company uniform – black suit and earphone. He stood stock still with his legs somewhat spread
and his hands clenched behind his back. The man was a giant. The cliché “he was built like a brick shithouse” was wholly inadequate and mildly insulting to Lewis’s solidity. He stared straight ahead with a look of pure, unalloyed menace. At least I thought it was Lewis. I stopped in front of him and looked more closely at him.

“Lewis?”

His face started to vibrate, then quiver, before it collapsed in a broad and toothy laugh. He grabbed me by the shoulders in what seemed like an affectionate gesture. I sure hope it was an affectionate gesture.

“Damn, Ever-man! I am just not cut out for this fierce-face security shit,” he warbled in mid-snicker. “Mr. B says I got to kill my smile and dial up my asshole index, but it’s hard. It just ain’t me, man!”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. You scared the shit out of me.”

“Thanks, man,” he said, patting my shoulder. “So is that big pole nut of yours giving you any more trouble?”

“So far, it’s all quiet and tight. But I’ll let you know when Shawna and the twins starts swinging on it later on.”

Shit. I honestly hadn’t meant to extend the sexual innuendo in the exchange. I didn’t even realize how it sounded until it passed my lips.

“Yes, sir. They surely do know how to work that pole. I can tell you that.”

I just nodded.

“So just let me know if it starts squeaking or moving again, and I can be upstairs in a flash with the wrench. You just say the word, bro.”

“Will do,” I replied. “So what are you doing out here? I thought you mainly worked inside.”

“I do, but Mr. B’s about to pull up, so he always insists we beef up security when he’s here. You know, the man has some enemies,” he said, before leaning in closer to me. “It’s because he’s so damn good at making enemies.”

“Well, you look good and, um, stern, in that finely tailored su–”

He cut me off and gently steered me out of the way, over toward my apartment entrance.

“Just slide over there for a sec, Ever-man. The big B is just pulling up.”

I leaned against my stairwell door and watched as a big, black, and painfully shiny Bentley eased up to the curb. The regular behemoth of a security guy I’d spoken to before got out of the driver’s seat and zipped around to open the rear passenger door. Mason Bennington oozed out of the car wearing a grey three-piece pinstripe suit with an open-necked purple, yes, purple, shirt. A black cape of some kind was slung over his shoulders. It looked ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. He was actually shorter than I was. Not by much, maybe just an inch shorter. His black hair was slicked straight back aided by enough product that had he been anywhere near an open flame, he would have burned like a patio torch for hours. His anemic moustache rounded out
the weaselly figure he cut. I’m not even sure “weaselly” is a legitimate word, but it seemed the right one in this case. Mason Bennington smiled as if he were strutting up the red carpet at a movie premiere, stopping periodically to pose. Clearly he was overcompensating for something.