1.
The walk from Bea’s crappy apartment to the James Bay Home for Seniors took her past the British Columbia Legislative Assembly. Passing by the building caused great resentment in her. She had wanted to be in the halls of government since an elementary school class tour of the Legislature.
Sixteen years ago, Bea had slipped out of the tour into a washroom to change into a mime costume. She then snuck onto the House floor in protest of being unable to vote as a twelve-year-old. Of course, no one listens to a mime or a twelve-year-old. Her protest achieved nothing. She got detention, which was worth it. The comedic artfulness of a mime protest warmed her heart.
She’d learned from her silent demonstration that she needed to be loud. By age fifteen, with a budding social media world growing around her, sex seemed to be the best way to get attention. She had been blessed by the booby fairy, and they definitely got attention. In an effort to get them onboard with proportional representation, she sent topless pictures to key members of the provincial Legislative Assembly. A government security person contacted her parents to let them know she could be charged with distributing child pornography. The incident was one of many to cause a rift between Bea and her parents.
By age sixteen, the audience, message, and method came together; her audience was easy: teenage guys. The message was to vote for Bea. The method was the attraction of tits. She understood political promises. Once elected class president, promises were forgotten. Few really cared that she did not follow through, and those who did got a private viewing.
These were not the reasons she was resentful of the Legislature. She was disqualified from being in the halls of government because of something that should not matter in the 2020s. The open, equal, inclusive society she was promised was a dream exchanged for traditional shame and debt. Worst, the shame was caused by something she was proud of.
She thought of changing her route because of the resentment, but walking by the harbour and past the Legislature was beautiful any time of the year, especially on a frosty winter’s morning. James Bay on a Saturday morning was always quieter than one would expect for an area next to downtown Victoria. There was always the chance of seeing one of the local birds like the Bald Eagles, Cooper’s Hawk pair, or her favourite, Josie, the Barred Owl and her family.
A few more minutes of walking took Bea to the Home. The automatic door opened, and she sniffed for the old person’s smell. She never smelled it; she did not think it existed.
“Hi Bea,’’ Karen, the manager, spoke from the reception desk. ’’You’ve got a customer. Ms. Anderson has turned her internet off and won’t listen to me.”
Bea strode past Karen on the way to the lounge, providing IT’s universal solution. “Tell her to turn it on and off again.”
“LOL! That’s too advanced for her.” Karen quipped.
By the games and hobby rooms, Bea thought: ‘entertained till the inevitable.’ She felt her life was aimless, passing the time just like the people here.
When Bea was voluntold by her lawyer to volunteer, she chose to help older people with computers. She reasoned that older people do not like computers, so she would not have to interact with them much. She wanted to do other things with her time but continued because she had nothing better to do; she got free stuff, and they needed her. She identified with the pervasive feeling that life was passing them all by. The future only had banal choices, “Will it be the mashed potatoes or white rice?” Oh, the suspense. However, seven years of volunteering resulted in her bi-weekly visitations with her son, Sam.
On good days, Bea still thought she could get the residents to explore the virtual world. She could show them that there are games for any age. She hoped that the veterans would like one last chance to shoot a Nazi, even a pretend one. But she knew a win was showing someone how to play Candy Crush or how to play music on their cell phone. Most days were filled with Ms. Anderson. “Good morning, Ms. Anderson. I hear you are having problems with your tablet again?”
“It’s not working. My daughter sent me an email, but I have not received it. It has been hacked. I know it. And when I tap on the internet, I get a dinosaur cartoon… that’s a virus, isn’t it?’’ Ms. Anderson shoved the tablet in Bea’s face. “Look!”
“It is not a virus. It looks like you are not on the Wi-Fi. Here,” Bea took the tablet and held it so they could both see. “See, there’s no Wi-Fi icon. Just swipe down and tap on the icon.”
The tablet connected to the Wi-Fi. A cacophony of email dings sounded from the tablet. Ms. Anderson shrieked, “Ooo, it’s been hacked! My personal information!”
“Ms. Anderson, the noise is the notification of new emails. It is nothing to worry about. See, there’s a notification from your daughter. The other emails are spam, so don’t open them.”
“I don’t eat near my tablet. How could I get Spam on it?”
Bea stifled a laugh, “Don’t worry about the other emails. Just open the emails from your children. If you don’t know who an email is from, see me.”
“You are such a help, dear,” Ms. Anderson took the tablet. “Oh, look how big she’s grown.”
With no other urgent questions, Bea found a recliner near the window and reclined. She scrolled through the Province newspaper’s subscriber site on one of the Home’s tablets to get her political fix. She had successfully made the case to Home’s board that online subscriptions were cheaper and had more content. They had cancelled all their subscriptions to paper newspapers. Really, it was so she could have free subscriptions. She was doing the oldsters a favour by making them walk to get a paper.
Bea got other benefits from volunteering. Free coffee and snacks. Liberated toilet paper and other supplies. The odd purloined dinner that would not be missed. Even small Christmas gifts.
The music caught Bea’s attention. Won’t Get Fooled Again was playing much quieter than The Who should ever be played. Every time she volunteered, she admired the general commitment to good rock and roll. The oldsters listened to the music their parents chastised them for listening to in their youth. “Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss.”
Down the hall came a bellowing, “Do you have a Province?” There was silence for a second. “No paper! You are going to make me walk to the store. It is icy and cold. I’ll break a hip.” Again, silence, “I don’t want to use a tablet to read the paper. Next, you’ll tell me to use a keyboard to wipe my ass!” Unintelligible grumbling moved closer to the lounge.
This conflict had been brewing for weeks. Until now, fortune had smiled on Bea, and the curmudgeon found a paper before getting to her. She did not feel lucky today as it was the coldest day of the year, and the sidewalks were icy, so it was possible no one might have bought a paper. The grumbling had turned to a mumbling just outside of the door. She told herself, “Turn this into a win.” She pulled the lever on the recliner and got up, tablet in hand. She asked the hunched, doddering old man, “Did you say you were looking for the Province?”
“I am looking for a paper. The kind that keeps our pulp mills going and the economy strong, not some plastic toy.”
Bea knew the old man: “The Honorable member Harold Gordon, former MP (member of Parliament) from Courtenay Mid-Island, it is an honour to meet you.”
Harold’s demeanour changed. “Miss, you have the better of me…” He stood to his full 6 feet 2 inches. “Do I know you?”
“When I was a kid, I saw you campaigning. That was eighteen… possibly nineteen years ago. If I were old enough, I would have voted for you. You were honest and reasonable. I had a schoolgirl crush on you. But now, I’m sad to say, I’m more on the left.”
“Honey, I’ve served up more bullshit than an organic farmer. Don’t give me that schoolgirl crap! Hell, I am left of my party these days because I’m not a fascist.” Bea stood mouth agape. Harold continued. “Calling them fascist is too harsh; they are too ignorant to know they are fascists. I guess that one woman from Ontario is good, but mostly because she’s a woman.”
Bea closed her mouth, “Still honest. Still reasonable.” She was not at all convinced she would turn this into a win.
Harold laughed and extended a hand, “Harold is fine.”
“Bea.”
“Really? Bea or Beatrice? Nobody’s named Bea anymore.”
“This from an octogenarian.” Bea shook her head. “And it’s Beatrix.”
“Yes, I am old… almost a nonagenarian, and you are good-looking. Does that help me get a paper?”
“The Home’s Board of Directors voted that they will be providing online subscriptions for a variety of newspapers including the New York Times, National Post, Globe and Mail, The Jerusalem Post, the Vancouver Sun, the Province, Times-Colonist, Ottawa Gazette, the Daily Telegraph, Ottawa Herald, Chicago Sun-Times and a bunch more.”
“That’s a relief. I can get all of Conrad Black’s opinions. Just give me a Province.”
Bea tapped the tablet to get to the Province’s menu page and handed it to Harold.
“Dearie, you handed me a plastic coaster.”
“It has all the stories you want. Tap on the title.” Bea saw that Harold could not see the print, “Is that too small?”
“No, I’m too old. I need my glasses.” Harold patted his shirt for them.
Bea used two fingers to zoom in. “You can make the words bigger like that. You can also use it as a coaster - it is water resistant.”
“Wow, I can read that without my glasses! Show me what this electric coaster can do. Remember, the last time I used a computer… I never really did. I always had a secretary.”
“Ok… I’ll start from the beginning.” Bea turned it into a win, but after a few minutes, Harold seemed to be overloaded. “Some articles look like a news story but are really ads.” Bea pointed to the spot on the screen. “Don’t tap into them. If you do tap on one, look for the close button or X to get out of the ad.”
“A news story that is an ad?”
“Advertorial or Native advertising is the name for it.”
Harold looked confused.
“Here, I’ll show you.” It took no time for Bea to swipe to an advertorial. “Here’s one: ‘What’s in your heating vents could be causing ill health.’ And down at the bottom, it gives you the best vent cleaning company. It’s bullshit. Stick to the actual newspapers; they at least say it’s an advertorial.”
“I’ll give this device a chance for the next week…” Harold smiled. “If you get me a couple of Empire Donuts when you’re here next.”
“You have a deal if you tell me who’s going to win the election this fall.”
“It won’t be my old party. Those jackasses can’t see further than the oil patch. Their message doesn’t resonate past Winnipeg. They have no chance without strong support in Ontario and some in Quebec.”
“What about Junior’s (Justin Trudeau) scandal?” Bea was giddy. “That’s got to turn off a bunch of Liberal voters.”
“In my day, that crap would not have come out. We would have kept it inside Cabinet. The bigger picture is that J.T. was saving jobs in Quebec for a Quebec company. Add this to a weak Bloc Québécois and an NDP that will not get another Quebec seat… bing, bang, bong, Liberal majority.”
“That scandal would not have come out with the Progressive Conservatives?”
“We all got into the game for the same reason: to advocate for our constituents and get them a better deal. I know it’s hard to believe, but even this PC got into it for the people. I was smart enough to know socialism would not work. Then twenty years go by, the power seems real, and you fly an Airbus full of money into a Swiss bank.”
“You know they named a town in Saskatchewan after Mulroney?” Harold looked confused.
Bea dropped the punch line: “Moosejaw.”
Harold nearly spit out his dentures and did not stop laughing for twenty seconds.
“You must have stories…” Bea narrowed her eyes. “Any Swiss bank accounts?”
“I was never smart enough for that kind of intrigue. But I have stories… if you have an afternoon.”
“Just an hour today. Next week, we’ll have Empire Donuts too.” Harold happily told war stories of his glory days. Bea was happy to listen.
The muffled sound of the Imperial March from Star Wars interrupted them. Bea patted herself down for her phone. “SHIT! Marcus is calling. What time is it?” She found the phone. “Hi Marcus, sorry I lost track of time. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Get here as soon as you can. Amy and I have a lunch reservation.”
“Five minutes.” Bea hung up the phone and grabbed her bag. “Harold, I’m late for visitation with my son. I must run. Doughnuts and discussion next week.”
She needed to get from James Bay to the kids’ playground in Beacon Hill Park, a ten-minute walk, in five minutes. As she ran, a cyclist was on the sidewalk. “Get the fuck off the sidewalk!” The cyclist moved onto the road, glaring at Bea as she passed. “Asshole!” Beacon Hill Park had its fair share of asshole tourists. She let the tourists know what she thought of them as she ran past. At the cricket clubhouse, she stopped to catch her breath before seeing Amy.
Coming around the corner, Bea saw her wonderful little boy Sam whizzing down the children’s zip line. She called, “My man, Sam!”
“Momma B!” Sam jumped off the zip line, feet moving too slow to keep up with his upper body. He hit the soft ground hard but stood up smiling, dusting himself off. “Did you see me jump?”
“Good job, Sam.” Bea gave him a hug.
A waif with heavy makeup and designer gym sweats with JUICY on the ass ran over. “Bea, don’t encourage him like that! He’ll break something like when you let him break his arm.”
Bea stopped herself before saying what she thought. “Hello, Amy.” Bea thought her ass was too flat to be called juicy. “Sam’s tough, right Kiddo.”
“But Momma A, the cast was cool. Everyone at school signed it. Next time, I want a black cast.”
Bea answered before Amy, “But Kiddo, how will kids write on it if it is black? And hopefully, you will never need another one.”
Amy looked at Bea, “If you play safe and don’t do foolish things, like when you broke your arm, you won’t need a cast.”
Bea wanted to slap her more than normal. “You are looking well today, Amy. Do you put your makeup on before or after you go to the gym?”
“I didn’t go to the gym.”
A man called from twenty metres away, “Hey, Sweet Cheeks, let’s get going.” Bea instinctually turned to what had been her pet name. She did not know how Marcus could use that nickname for Ms. No Ass.
“Play safe, Sam.” Amy gave the boy a hug and kiss. “Don’t let Momma B get you in too much trouble.”
Bea resisted the urge to kick Amy in the crotch.
“Momma B, watch me on the zipline!” Bea watched Marcus and Amy get into the brand-new Range Rover, wanting that life. Momma B, indeed. “I’m gonna jump off at the end.”
Bea swallowed her regret and turned to her love. “Should I get my camera out, Kiddo?”
“Yeah.”
“Best jump ever!” Sam did his thing, as Bea videoed. “I think I’m done jumping. Can we go look for the owls?”
“Of course, we can. But don’t get your hopes up.”
“I know where they are…”
“We haven’t seen them since fall.”
“They’re by the stinky compost.” Sam held his nose. “That’s where the rats are.”
Bea wrinkled her nose. “Lead on.”
Sam led them down paths and next to homeless people camps. “I hope the owls have owlets. Remember last summer when Elmonzo dropped a pellet and looked at it like a poop, that was funny.” After an hour, they had seen no owls. “Momma B, I’m not sure we’re going to find them. I’m getting cold.”
Bea noticed an old lady with big glasses and an old guy balding with a long-lensed camera, “Let’s try this one last spot.”
Approaching, Sam recognized the old lady. “Owl Lady!” He ran ahead. “Where are the owls?”
The Owl Lady smiled. “The female barred owl, Josie, is just in the tree over here… this way.” The two walked off the paved trail into the leafless bush under a cedar tree.
Bea found a downy feather. It felt so fluffy that she had to stroke it along the back of her hand.
“Isn’t this the best?” The old man with the camera spread his arms wide to encompass the grandness of the park. “Downtown Victoria…an owl over there and the beach over there. Amazing.”
“Rich…” Bea giggled a little. “That Sublime sweatshirt cracks me up.”
“Tie-dye suits my personality.”
“Get any good shots?”
“No… too many branches.” Rich changed the subject, “Is Junior going to pull off a second win this year?”
“Politics..?” Bea snickered. “While owl-watching?”
“Always politics while doing anything. Is there anything more important?”
“I suppose not. Funny, I was just talking with Harold Gordon, Honorable member from Up Island. He thinks the Quebec vote will keep him in.”
“Gordon…” Rich scowled. “What a PC shill. Sold the forest industry to the U.S. with Free Trade.”
After a few minutes, a WHO COOKS FOR YOU! WHO COOKS FOR YOU ALL! Owl call interrupted their political talk. Josie was waking up for the evening.
Bea’s day was perfect.
