Guy Vanderhaeghe - Man Descending

A very pretty, matronly young woman sidles up to me. She is one of those kind people who move through parties like wraiths, intent on making late arrivals comfortable. We talk desultorily about the party, agreeing it is wonderful and expressing admiration for our host and hostess. The young woman, who is called Ann, admits to being a lawyer. I admit to being a naval architect. She asks me what I am doing on the prairies if I am a naval architect. This is a difficult question. I know nothing about naval architects and cannot even guess what they might be doing on the prairies.

“Perspectives,” I say darkly.

She looks at me curiously and then dips away, heading for an errant husband. Several minutes later I am sure they are talking about me, so I duck back to the kitchen and pour myself another Scotch.

Helen finds me in her kitchen. She is hunting for olives.

“Ed,” she asks, “have you seen a jar of olives?” She shows me how big with her hands. Someone has turned on the stereo and I sense a slight vibration in the floor, which means people are dancing in the living-room.

“No,” I reply. “I can’t see anything. I’m loaded,” I confess.

Helen looks at me doubtfully. Helen and Everett don’t really approve of drinking – that’s why they discourage consumption by serving hot cider at parties. She smiles weakly and gives up olives in favour of employment. “How’s the job search?” she asks politely while she rummages in the fridge.

“Nothing yet.”

“Everett and I have our ears cocked,” she says. “If we hear of anything you’ll be the first to know.” Then she hurries out of the kitchen carrying a jar of gherkins.

“Hey, you silly bitch,” I yell, “those aren’t olives, those are gherkins!”

I wander unsteadily back to the living-room. Someone has put a waltz on the stereo and my wife and Howard are revolving slowly and serenely in the limited available space. I notice that he has insinuated his leg between my wife’s thighs. I take a good belt and appraise them. They make a handsome couple. I salute them with my glass but they do not see, and so my world-weary and cavalier gesture is lost on them.

A man and a woman at my left shoulder are talking about Chile and Chilean refugees. It seems that she is in charge of some and is having problems with them. They’re divided by old political enmities; they won’t learn English; one of them insists on driving without a valid operator’s licence. Their voices, earnest and shrill, blend and separate, separate and blend. I watch my wife, skilfully led, glide and turn, turn and glide. Howard’s face floats above her head, an impassive mask of content.

The wall clock above the sofa tells me it is only ten o’clock. One year is separated from the next by two hours. However, they pass quickly because I have the great good fortune to get involved in a political argument. I know nothing about politics, but then neither do any of the people I am arguing with. I’ve always found that a really lively argument depends on the ignorance of the combatants. The more ignorant the disputants, the more heated the debate. This one warms nicely. In no time several people have denounced me as a neo-fascist. Their lack of objectivity pleases me no end. I stand beaming and swaying on my feet. Occasionally I retreat to the kitchen to fill my glass and they follow, hurling statistics and analogies at my back.

It is only at twelve o’clock that I realize the extent of the animosity I have created by this performance. One woman genuinely hates me. She refuses a friendly New Year’s buss. I plead that politics should not stand in the way of fraternity.

“You must have learned all this stupid, egotistical individualism from Ayn Rand,” she blurts out.

“Who?”

“The writer, Ayn Rand.”

“I thought you were referring to the corporation,” I say.

She calls me an ass-hole and marches away. Even in my drunken stupor I perceive that her unfriendly judgement is shared by all people within hearing distance. I find myself talking loudly and violently, attempting to justify myself. Helen is wending her way across the living-room toward me. She takes me by the elbow.

“Ed,” she says, “you look a little the worse for wear. I have some coffee in the kitchen.”

Obediently I allow myself to be led away. Helen pours me a cup of coffee and sits me down in the breakfast nook. I am genuinely contrite and embarrassed.

“Look, Helen,” I say. “I apologize. I had too much to drink. I’d better go. Will you tell Victoria I’m ready to leave?”

“Victoria went out to get some ice,” she says uneasily.

“How the hell can she get ice? She doesn’t drive.”

“She went with Howard.”

“Oh… okay. I’ll wait.”

Helen leaves me alone to ponder my sins. But I don’t dwell on my sins; I dwell on Victoria’s and Howard’s. I feel my head, searching for the nascent bumps of cuckoldry. It is an unpleasant joke. Finally I get up, fortify myself with another drink, find my coat and boots, and go outside to wait for the young lovers. Snow is still falling in an unsettling blur. The New Year greets us with a storm.

I do not have long to wait. A car creeps cautiously up the street, its headlights gleaming. It stops at the far curb. I hear car doors slamming and then laughter. Howard and Victoria run lightly across the road. He seems to be chasing her, at least that is the impression I receive from her high-pitched squeals of delight. They start up the walk before they notice me. I stand, or imagine I stand, perfectly immobile and menacing.

“Hi, Howie,” I say. “How’s tricks?”

“Ed,” Howard says, pausing. He sends me a curt nod.

“We went for ice,” Victoria explains. She holds up the bag for proof.

“Is that right, Howie?” I ask, turning my attention to the home-breaker. I am uncertain whether I am creating this scene merely to discomfort Howard, whom I don’t like, or because I am jealous. Perhaps a bit of both.

“The name is Howard, Ed.”

“The name is Edward, Howard.”

Howard coughs and shuffles his feet. He is smiling faintly. “Well, Ed,” he says, “what’s the problem?”

“The problem, Howie, is my wife. The problem is cuckoldry. Likewise the incredible amount of hostility I feel toward you this minute. Now, you’re the psychologist, Howie, what’s the answer to my hostility?”

Howard shrugs. The smile which appears frozen on his face is wrenched askew with anger.

“No answer? Well, here’s my prescription. I’m sure I’d feel much better if I bopped your beanie, Bozo,” I say. Then I begin to do something very stupid. In this kind of weather I’m taking off my coat.

“Stop this,” Victoria says. “Ed, stop it right now!”

Under this threat of violence Howard puffs himself up. He seems to expand in the night; he becomes protective and paternal. Even his voice deepens; it plumbs the lower registers. “I’ll take care of this, Victoria,” he says gruffly.

“Quit acting like children,” she storms. “Stop it!”

Poor Victoria. Two wilful men, rutting stags in the stilly night.

Somehow my right arm seems to have got tangled in my coat sleeve. Since I’m drunk, my attempt to extricate myself occupies all my attention. Suddenly the left side of my face goes numb and I find myself flat on my back. Howie towers over me.

“You son of a bitch,” I mumble, “that is not cricket.” I try to kick him in the family jewels from where I lie. I am unsuccessful.

Howard is suddenly the perfect gentleman. He graciously allows me to get to my feet. Then he ungraciously knocks me down again. This time the force of his blow spins me around and I make a one-point landing on my nose. Howie is proving more than I bargained for. At this point I find myself wishing I had a pipe wrench in my pocket.