Molly of the mall, p.8
Molly of the Mall, page 8
Immersed in jotting down thoughts related to fur traders, Mounties, and rogue elk, I was mortified to look up and to see Maureen and Tim right in front of me staring at my page. I’m not sure how they managed to sneak up on me since Maureen is covered in noisy jewellery and Tim had on his new metallic, salmon-pink suit that makes a squeaky, swishing sound when he walks. “What are you doing?” Tim asked with a hearty chuckle, “Writing a novel?” Maureen guffawed as if nothing could be more ridiculous. I couldn’t bear to confess that I was indeed plotting out a novel nor did I want to say I was attempting to stave off the soul-rotting ennui I faced daily working in this particular store. I knew that I had to come up with something quickly to explain what I was doing writing on company time. In a panic I blurted out, “I’m writing a fan letter to Roy Orbison. I really like his song ‘Only the Lonely.’” Monsieur Suave Suit had been playing that song loudly as I’d walked by on my break and it was stuck in my head. Blank looks were exchanged. After an awkward silence, Tim looked at me and said, “You know he’s dead, right?” I looked at the floor and nodded. I whispered, “It’s still too soon. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Tim shook his head and the skylight sun glinted off the metallic threads in his salmon suit as he shuffled down the mall. The peacocks below sounded their desperate yawp. I felt uncomfortable all afternoon and I wasn’t sure if it was because I had lied to Tim and Maureen, or that I had concocted a story with so little creative merit. I felt bad for lying but at the Mall, we all create stories. Whether it’s about the importance of protective sprays, about fan letters to Roy Orbison, about how nice your aging butt looks in those jeans, or about the existence of “tutorials on advanced shelving techniques,” we all need to find a way to make another day in the Mall seem tolerable.
WHEN I WANDERED OUT ONTO THE FLOOR to start my noon-to-nine shift at 11:57, Maureen was angry I had forgotten it was Dollar-Off Tuesday at the Teriyaki Grill, and because of my tardiness she would be tangled up in the noon rush. Storming out into the mall to meet one of the indistinguishable Gordons, she yelled over her shoulder,
“Some guy dropped something off for you. At least I think it’s you. He didn’t know your name. It’s under the till. Call Mall Security if he’s a stalker.” Curious, I thought. Could the Rabid Pekingese have left me a letter bomb? Might Stewart have returned all the polishes I sold him? Might one of the Hutterite men who stared at my long, polka-dotted black skirt have dropped off some corn and cucumbers?
Under the cash desk I found a book-sized package, wrapped carefully in brown kraft paper and tied with a cream-coloured satin ribbon. There was a card. “Miss Austen” was written in nice ink on the front in surprisingly elegant handwriting. My heart raced and a lump formed in my throat. My Penguin Man.
I opened the card gingerly and smiled to see penguins on the front. He’d written: “My dear Miss Austen, best wishes for your semester. I hope to see you again very soon. Your Penguin Man.” I paused before opening the package. I knew it was a book, but what one? It couldn’t be a Miss Austen since he knew I had two copies of each. Was it something he thought I would like? Something he thinks I should like? What if it’s poetry? It would be so Marianne and Willoughby if it were poetry. But were we at a poetry-giving level in our relationship? Are we in a relationship? What if it’s something he thinks I should like and I really dislike? What if it’s Tobias Smollett? Would I read it, and pretend to like it when I next saw him? Maybe I would read it, realize I was completely wrong about Tobias, and see my true calling is to be a Smollett scholar. What if I really hated it? Or, worse still, what if it’s Steinbeck? What if it’s Of Mice and Men, the book he bought the day we met? I would definitely have to read it then, and pretend to like how Steinbeck’s sentences sound like clods of earth falling heavily to the ground from a rusty shovel. Why did he have to get me a book? When someone gives you flowers, at least you know what they are thinking: red roses, they love you. Pink roses, they like you. Yellow roses, they think you’re nice. Daisies, they think you’re cute. Carnations. Well, either they don’t realize you shouldn’t send carnations to a girl you like, or they’ve given you the floral brush-off. Either way, you’d best start looking for love elsewhere. But a book? I let the book remain wrapped in mystery while I tended to a “just looking” shopper for a few minutes. When the store was empty, I summoned my courage, untied the ribbon and eased the tape open. It wasn’t Steinbeck.
It was the Collected Works of Oscar Wilde. A novella, some tales, and several plays. A Penguin Classic. Mixed genres. I laughed to myself: he’d given me the literary equivalent of a bouquet of red roses, yellow roses, daisies, and carnations. I opened it up, and saw he’d inscribed it: “To Miss Austen, A charming book for an equally charming girl. Your Penguin Man.” I visualized Marianne and Elinor standing in front of me—their hands on their hips, their eyebrows raised. “Well?” they asked. I ignored them and went to the back room to tuck my new Wilde book and its card carefully into my bag. They followed me back. “Do you love him? Esteem him? Like him?” I continued to ignore them.
I walked through my customer-less store, needlessly adjusting shoes on the sale rack, and restoring order to the already well-ordered store. Standing at the entrance of my store, I stared into the Mall for a few minutes. If this were a John Hughes movie, my Penguin Man would be standing outside the store waiting for me, and everything would make sense. But my life is never like a John Hughes film. I wasn’t sure when I would see the Penguin Man again. Or if I would ever see him again. Was this a parting gift? If so, what did he mean in the card by “I hope to see you very soon” instead of “I will see you again very soon.” The giving of books was, in my mind, a serious gesture, but did he see it that way too? Tess first knew Mark liked her when he gave her a book. They broke up, in part, if I recall, because she never read the book and couldn’t remember the title. The gift of a book doesn’t mean the same thing for everyone, it seems. Was I reading too much into what was simply a nice gesture by the Penguin Man?
The corridors were quiet, and sunshine poured in from the skylights above as if to mock me. Even the peacocks were sedate below. The only movement I saw was the Rabid Pekingese dusting and talking on the phone; the feather duster punctuated his sentences. He was mad at someone, and those shelves would be sparkling in no time. The new Aloysius & Flint guy walked by, turned his fingers into guns, and did that weird “wink and shoot you twice” thing he does when he sees me. I smiled at him and at men in general. What does a wink and a finger pistol mean? What does Oscar Wilde mean? What does charming mean? Three American, senior ladies to whom I’d sold shoes yesterday walked by basking in the Mall’s retail glory. They waved excitedly, and I waved back. Gary, Howard, Mavis, and Maria would be starting to get ready for their one o’clock show about now. My eyes wandered toward the lagoon, and I pretended not to look at my bench. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see my Penguin Man there or not. I pretended not to be disappointed when I didn’t see him waiting for me. I couldn’t let my thoughts wander in that direction so I focused on having only half-a-week of shifts left until I go back to school.
I am excited about it, but also pretty exhausted. I thought about how maybe I should just stay here at the Mall. I’m feeling sort of comfortable here. And ... I can’t even say it. If I stay here, I might see him again. If I leave, it’s unlikely I will ever see him again. I imagined Elinor sighing, and Marianne rolling her eyes. “He got you a mixed-genre book, Molly,” Marianne said. Even Elinor had to admit that a mixed-genre book was the equivalent of a bouquet where carnations outnumbered the red roses.
When the twelve-thirty announcement for the next dolphin show was broadcast, I went back into my store, and pulled my hair into a ponytail. I tied it with the cream-coloured ribbon I still held in my hand. There was nothing else to do in the quiet of the store, so I busied myself making a new window display. A shipment of spectator pumps had just arrived, and they looked like nice shoes. My display turned out well, especially mixed with the patent pumps and fall handbags. As I admired my shoe-artistry, I realized I could propose a new two-for-one polish promotion with the purchase of two-tone shoes. After a summer here, I had come a long way in understanding the purveyance of footwear. I understood the power of a well-crafted display, the allure of the polish and protective spray mythology, what people were actually shopping for when they looked for shoes. Maybe I was meant for this business. Perhaps I’m not meant for an English degree and writing books. And maybe I’m not meant for the Penguin Man. I felt Marianne and Elinor looking away. The peacocks were waking from their noon naps, and their cries echoed off the glass and mirrors. The sunshine, diffused, filled one small corner of my shop.
TONIGHT WAS MY FINAL NIGHT OF WORKING at Le Petit Chou for the summer. Trust Maureen to have filled my last, half-week with four nine-to-nine shifts. Before he left for the weekend, Tim stopped by to wish me luck. He offered, and I agreed, that I would come back for the Christmas rush and also next summer. He let me keep my name tag so Maureen wouldn’t give it to the transitory part-timers. I thanked him.
“We might put you in Prima Donna, if you’re interested,” he noted. “It’s busier and a bit of a promotion.” When I said I thought I might not be Rick’s first choice of employee, he looked around nervously and said, “I’m not sure you’ll need to worry about Rick. He might be heading to Tuesday’s, if you know what I mean. I think Eugenie might be getting a promotion too. We have our eye on a guy named Gordon for a management spot. Do you know him?”
“One of them,” I replied.
“He would be quite the catch for us,” he noted. He paused for a minute and then said, “You have management potential, you know. If this English degree doesn’t work out for you, we’d be happy to consider you for one of the stores. I think you’d do very well here. Your displays are top-notch and your polish sales? What can I say? You’re a legend.” I thanked him for the kind words and said I would definitely keep his offer in mind.
I spent the rest of the evening alone. It was a quiet evening in the shop. I dusted, tidied, wiped the mirrors, and vacuumed very carefully. When it was quiet, it was a nice little store, and it had been good to me. Eugenie would be opening up tomorrow, and when I hid the cash float in the backroom, I left her a drawing of me waving goodbye. I would miss her. After cashing out and gathering all my things, I turned the lights out. I stood in my dark store for a moment trying not to hope the Penguin Man would be outside waiting to say goodbye. I listened to the silent store until a peacock cry pulled me out of my reverie. I pulled the doors closed and double-checked the lock. I walked over to my bench to say goodbye to the dolphins and wished them well. I passed the peacocks with a wave, dropped the deposit and keys off at Prima Donna, tapped gently on the emus’ glass enclosure to say goodbye. They returned my gaze with their usual look of shocked bewilderment.
Walking out of Entrance Fifty toward my bus, I couldn’t help but remember all the summer nights I had imagined walking out of my very last shift of work in Le Petit Chou. I didn’t feel like I thought I would. I rounded a corner, and saw my bus pulling out. I ran for it and thanked the driver for waiting. As we pulled into traffic, my fingers wandered to the ribbon around my ponytail. “Goodbye, Penguin Man,” I whispered to no one, as I found a seat and headed home. I rummaged in my bag for a cherry Life Saver, and realized I still had the Oscar Wilde book in my bag. I took it out of the wrapping again, skipped over the inscription, and started to read the “Preface to Dorian Gray” as the bus streamed through dusk-darkened Edmonton: “The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim.” I continued reading and found that the Penguin Man had softly underlined something for me: “All art is at once surface and symbol./ Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril./ Those who read the symbol do so at their peril./ It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.”
I smiled at my reflection in the bus window: he’s warning me not to read anything into this gesture. I closed the book and lost myself in Making Movies for the rest of the bus ride.
When I got home tonight, I engaged in some small, familial chatter with my parents and Heathcliff, but I wanted to be alone. I am ready for my new semester and whatever it will bring. My framed portrait of Miss Austen smirks down at me knowingly. I think she thinks I’ll be okay too.
September 1995:
Third Year, Semester One
University of Alberta, Edmonton
I’M SITTING IN MY ROOM, PUTTING OFF GOING to sleep. It’s one of those late summer nights that are so warm and silent that you think winter won’t come. I noticed one or two leaves turning yellow this afternoon, but I’m blocking that from my mind now. I have my window open, to enjoy the sound of wind in the aspens while I can.
I spent the day on campus completing my registration, getting my new ID card, buying my textbooks, reconnecting with various friends and acquaintances, drinking a Java Jive coffee, and having some soup at Patria. When I got home, my dad was keen to look at my new books. We laid them out on the table, and he gently held each book in his hands, as one might hold a bird’s nest dislodged from a tree in a storm. I smiled when I realized my fondness for sniffing the pages of new books must be genetic. I’ve now arranged the new books in my room alphabetically, and by course, and am both excited and nervous about this semester. Almost all of my courses are 300-level and three of them are seminars. I hope I can keep up with what is expected of me. It will be harder to hide behind the chatty students in smaller classes. I am excited about taking “Gender and Courtship in the Long-Nineteenth Century” with Professor St. Hubbins. I really like her shoes and the reading list is fantastic. We’re starting with Pride and Prejudice. It’s been at least a year since I read it, and I am excited to read it again. I am also taking nineteenth-century poetry with Professor Widgett-Jones (who inspires me to purchase a tweed suit at some point in my life). The course has a very thick anthology, and I am looking forward to reading it cover to cover. I also have my third-year Honours seminar with the aging and adorable Professor Wilbert K. Throckmorton (readings TBA, he says) and first-year psychology (ick, last requirement).
I am particularly worried about my “Hegemony, Hermeneutics, and the Humours” seminar with Professor Byron Keats. I looked up each of those words in the dictionary, but I’m still not sure what they mean, individually or collectively. Hegemony: “leadership, predominance, preponderance; esp. the leadership or predominant authority of one state of a confederacy or union over the others.” Hermeneutics: “the art or science of interpretation, esp. of Scripture. Commonly distinguished from exegesis or practical exposition.” The humours: “in ancient and mediæval physiology, one of the four chief fluids (cardinal humours) of the body (blood, phlegm, choler, and melancholy or black choler), by the relative proportions of which a person’s physical and mental qualities and disposition were held to be determined.” I am struggling to see how these things fit together, but I trust by the end of the term, all will be clear as day.
As we drank our after-dinner tea, I asked my dad to explain how hegemony, hermeneutics, and the humours connect, and he zoned out into a reverie. Finally, he said to my mum, “Byron Keats’ course” and she said, “Ah” in that loaded noncommittal way she has. They both stared at me for a moment before leaving the table. Passing me, my dad smoothed my hair and said, “You’ll be okay, sweetie.” My mum patted me on the shoulder and kissed my head. She said, “The semester will be gone before you know it. And we’ll be proud of you no matter what.” Tomorrow the semester begins anew and I’d best start it with a good night’s sleep. Welcome back, English Major Molly. I’ve missed you.
I HAVE SURVIVED THE FIRST WEEK OF MY THIRD year, and all appears promising. My classes look interesting, and I don’t believe there are many people in my classes who use words like sardonic, Festschrift, and Schadenfreude without having to look them up first (which, for the record, I always have to do). Unfortunately, the guy who calls us “ignorant churls” when we say things he thinks are stupid is in my Honours seminar. And Jason Richards is, once again, in almost all of my classes. With the exception of grade three, I believe I have always been in class with Jason. Now and again, he’ll remind me of the day in kindergarten when I agreed to marry him. He always says, “I think you said yes so I would give you my juice.” We laugh but I think we both know it is true. I always did want more apple juice than I was allotted.
This afternoon, I was ensconced in a desk on the fourth floor of Rutherford Library North looking out over the sunny campus. It was filled with people equally excited to be back on campus. I’d originally thought to get an early start on my psychology reading but instead I went for a stroll through the shelves. I have missed this library.
First, I climbed to the fifth floor using the wide, main stairs. The weight of the heavy door into the stacks, the smell of books that hung heavily in the air, and the sound of my shoes on that carpet made me feel like I was home after a long journey. Usually I go and work with the literature books on the fifth floor, where I am surrounded by the hefty wisdom of novelists, the laconic advice of poets, or the furrowed admonishments of critics. The shelves on the fifth floor are filled with old friends, best friends, and potential new friends. I know where all my favourites are without looking up a call number. I know exactly where to find Hopkins if I need reminding of why I am grieving over Goldengrove unleaving (It is Molly you mourn for). Or if I need to see Virginia Woolf to confirm the wording of that passage from Mrs Dalloway I want on my tombstone (“and no one in the whole world would know how she had loved it all”). Or if I needed Miss Austen to confirm the exact wording of Elizabeth’s rebuke to Mr Darcy (“I have every reason in the world to think ill of you”).
