West of wawa, p.1
West of Wawa, page 1
West of Wawa is a funny, moving exploration of a surprising journey towards self-realization — and Benny, its pill-popping, wise-cracking heroine, is a treat. De Nikolits’s book will ring true for anyone who has ever had even a moment of self doubt.
—Chatelaine Magazine
West of Wawa bursts with a sense of immediacy and freshness. Full of humour and tragi-comedic elements, in a style that is smooth and fast paced, West of Wawa is a delight to read. The characters, particularly Benny, are so idiosyncratic and unique that they prick at, then fully permeate the heart. I couldn’t put it down.
—Danila Botha, author of Got No Secrets
Vibrant characters and intriguing plot make West of Wawa an engaging and rewarding read. Travelling from city to city, traumatized Benny tries to put the torn pieces of her soul back together. Readers will experience awe as they follow the main character’s travelling therapy, which will surprise and then haunt them.
—Ava Homa, author of Echoes from The Other Land
Lisa de Nikolits is an amazing writer. She has a gift of being able to pull the reader into the story, and keep them turning the page. West of Wawa shows how a life can turn from emptiness to one of fulfillment. West of Wawa is a great read.
—Nikki Rosen, author of In the Eye of Deception
West of Wawa is a story readers can easily connect with. Benny flees the known for the unknown by adventuring north with her bags full of narcotics to help numb the pains of her past. On her travels she seeks anonymity, but can’t help engaging with various characters that add to her personal trip of self-discovery, new friendships, and new found identity. Once you start the journey with Benny, you can’t stop reading until you follow her through destruction to destiny!
—Amy Lance, Wondrous Women Worldwide
WEST
of
WAWA
INANNA PUBLICATIONS AND EDUCATION INC.
TORONTO, CANADA
Copyright © 2011 Lisa de Nikolits
Except for the use of short passages for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced, in part or in whole, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanically, including photocopying, recording, or any information or storage retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
We gratefully acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program.
We are also grateful for the support received from an Anonymous Fund at The Calgary Foundation.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead or events is entirely coincidental.
Cover art: Bradford Dunlop
Cover design: Val Fullard
eBook development: WildElement.ca
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
De Nikolits, Lisa, 1966-
West of Wawa : a novel / Lisa De Nikolits.
(Inanna poetry & fiction series)
ISBN 978-1-926708-24-9
I. Title. II. Series: Inanna poetry and fiction series
PS8607.E63W38 2011 --- C813’.6 --- C2011-905506-6
Printed and bound in Canada
Inanna Publications and Education Inc.
210 Founders College, York University
4700 Keele Street, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M3J 1P3
Telephone: (416) 736-5356 Fax: (416) 736-5765
Email: inanna@yorku.ca Website: www.yorku.ca/inanna
To Bradford, Snowflake and Mom
TULIP TOWN
AT THE PINNACLE OF THEIR DISGRACE, HER HUSBAND TURNED to Benny and said, “I just didn’t think it would feel like this.” He was referring not to the disgrace, but to their marriage, which Benny had thought was perfectly fine, thank you very much.
She bought the cheapest ticket she could find and flew from her hometown – Sydney, Australia to Hawaii, Los Angeles, Minneapolis, Vancouver, and finally to Toronto on consecutive flights. Benny traveled hardcore, fuelled by vicious intent.
The tulips were in full bloom when she landed and from this she took Canada to be a land of perpetual sunshine – not that she cared about the weather one way or the other. She needed a place to run and Canada worked just fine.
She dropped her bags off in a downtown furnished apartment and immediately set out to look for work. She had enough money to last a month.
Benny had the sinking feeling imminent failure was once again headed her way, that she might not pull this one off, despite her determination and her respectable résumé. Lack of success would just be too much to bear; she had to make this work. To make matters worse, her throat felt scratchy and raw and she felt exhausted, foggy. She wasn’t sure if it was stress or a bug she’d picked up on the plane but she couldn’t afford to get sick; she was her only asset. She dismissed jetlag, telling her body she was too busy to indulge in luxuries of that nature. Well-trained in matters naturopathic by her ex-husband, she found a health store and stocked up on Echinacea and garlic. Expensive, yes, but this was an emergency. She also asked the skinny New Ager behind the counter for codeine; the request was met with disapproval and directions to the nearest pharmacy.
Clutching her bag of naturopathic anti-cold remedies, Benny ventured into the vastness of a Shopper’s Drug Mart and got the pharmacist to sell her a bottle of codeine headache meds, even though she had a good stash in her luggage. It never hurt to stockpile. She didn’t pick up prescription sleeping meds or quality tranquillizers, she had enough of those to put an entire army into a state of soporific splendor, courtesy of her family doctor who was sympathetic to the Titanic disaster of Benny’s life. Her doctor had made sure Benny could avoid having feelings of any kind for the rest of her natural life, if she so desired.
Benny picked up copies of The Toronto Star, The Globe and Mail, and all the free weeklies she could find and went back to the apartment. Her head was aching, her body screaming for a nap, but she scanned the newspapers with desperate certainty and found one post with potential:
Trendy downtown boutique agency looking for a talented, creative multi-tasker: a graphic designer who can produce websites, brochures and flyers, act as personal assistant to the CEO, and assume duties of office manager if needed. Some overtime may be required.
Benny thought it unlikely any reputable high-end agency would be looking for this particular combination of person but she needed a job and couldn’t afford to be choosy.
She summoned the fading reserves of her energy and picked up the phone, promising herself the reward of a lie-down on the sofa bed as soon as she was done. To her astonishment, given her recent lack of good fortune, the conversation was a success.
“Come and see me tomorrow morning,” the creative director/publisher/agency owner said. He had a thick Scottish accent and Benny imagined a short, stocky, red-haired fellow with bristling whiskers and a countryside of freckles.
Her job prospects sorted, she crunched a couple of codeine and swallowed half a sleeping pill, then added a generous handful of Echinacea and garlic capsules to her regular nighttime meds, and washed it all down with a large glass of water. She allowed herself to collapse on the thin mattress that was a poor excuse for a bed and quickly fell asleep.
The next day, she arrived for the meeting feeling infinitely healthier than she had the previous day, and found herself greeted by a lanky John Cleese, mournful and watery-eyed. He shook her hand, introduced himself as Colin, CEO, and led her through the tiny reception area to a meticulous corner office. He waved her to sit and she sank down into a sagging sofa, wondering how she’d get back up with any kind of dignity.
Colin pulled up a chair and sat across from her, elbows on his knees. Benny, positioned two feet lower than him, had to stare up at a sharp angle and her head began to throb.
“I just canna understand it a’ all.” He shook his head. “I mean how hard it is for people to follow a few rules? Come in on time, on time, no later, on time. Read and follow the Employee Manual and get the job done?”
He reached for a thick, bound volume and waved it at Benny.
His eyelids were red-rimmed, his bulging pale blue eyes imploring. Benny noticed that his sparse ginger eyelashes sported a generous sprinkling of dandruff and she tried to look elsewhere, agreeing it shouldn’t be too hard.
“And deadlines, what’s with these people that they canna make a single deadline?” he asked. Then, to Benny’s astonishment, he picked up a saxophone and played a gloomy moan. A few minutes later, he put it down carefully and read the entire Employee Manual to her.
“All clear then?” he asked her, two hours later.
“As a bell,” she told him, thinking more like bats in the belfry, mate.
“Any questions?” he asked.
“I don’t have a work visa,” Benny blurted out. “But I do have the qualifications.”
He waved a hand at her. “Na’ worry ‘bout that. Come with me.”
He led her out into the general office area to meet a group of five who made up the rest of his staff.
“This is Benny, your new lead graphic designer,” he said. “She works for me and you all report to her. Okay then?”
Benny stared at the motley gang scattered between pyramids of abandon ed computer hard-drives and defunct monitors. Colin, confused by his staff, got their names mixed up and appeared to have no idea who did what. Benny felt panic rise in her throat and she tried to pretend she was amused instead of dismayed by the level of chaos.
Colin gave her a list: a plethora of flyers and posters, brochures and websites – all needing to be done yesterday. Benny sighed.
“But which one’s needed first?” she asked the air in general.
“All of them now, all of them now,” the mournful Scot said and he slouched back to his office, hands deep in the pockets of his shapeless oatmeal cardigan.
“Right then,” Benny said to the assembled group. “First off, which one’s my computer? And, second, who are you all, and what do you do? Come on, people, let’s get cracking.”
AN UNEXPECTED ANGEL PLAYS GUITAR
At the end of the first day, Colin’s assistant came to find Benny. “Colin says I’m to start proceedings for your permanent residency,” she said sounding bored, smoothing her blonde hair around her face, her pale eyes blank. Benny’s heart leapt. It seemed her luck had finally changed. Okay, so, Colin’s setup was the worst kind of disorganized nightmare but for her residency, so what, she could take anything.
She reached for her passport, always on hand. “Give me the forms,” she said to the assistant. “I’ll fill them in right now.”
“I’m not a personal assistant,” the girl said, picking at something under her nail. “Colin got confused after he hired me. I’m actually an illustrator, I studied at OCAD.”
Benny had no idea what she was talking about.
The assistant smoothed back a strand of her hair. “Ontario College of Art and Design. Can I show you my work?” Her gaze was now fixed on Benny.
“Sure,” Benny said, but Colin, eavesdropping, strode around the corner and reminded Benny of the section of the Employee Manual in which Employees were never supposed to attempt to acquire new duties without the consent and signed approval of the Agency Owner. He took the assistant by the arm and led her away, she protesting loudly it was all a mistake, that Colin had in fact hired her to be an illustrator and designer; that he’d got the two of them confused the day she and the real personal assistant started.
“Ask the designer why she can’t design,” the assistant said with a defeated whine. “Ask her. It’s because she’s the personal assistant, and I’m the designer.”
“I’m no’ interested in asking anybody anything,” Benny heard Colin say, his Scottish accent thick as Mulligatawny soup. “I just want you all to do your jobs. Is that too much to ask? Is that really too much to ask?” He picked up his sax and mourned his life while the designer/assistant went back to her desk, hissing with anger and twirling a piece of her long hair furiously around one finger.
Benny worked late into that night, and all the nights following. She watched the automatic night lights rotate in the office blocks next to her and she watched the sun rise and set through her tinted window. In the weeks that followed, she watched assistants and designers come and go, production managers fail and leave, and all the while, Colin wandered in and out, lamenting his fate, his sax by his side. Benny survived by taking on more and more work herself. It was a far cry from the high profile agency she’d come from but it was her way into Canada and she told herself that as soon as she got her papers, she’d be free. Free to find the success she knew the universe owed her.
In the meantime, she was happy, sort of, in a grim, stoical way. The kind of happy that was more numb than anything.
Then, in May, she met Eli and everything changed.
It began as a glance, a mutually voyeuristic relationship, and it was perfect for what she could take, and what she could give.
The first time she saw him, it was midnight. She was just back from work, another “urgent” website, this one for a cheap Chinese takeout, the food photography so bad Benny couldn’t imagine anybody ever wanting to eat there.
She was so tired it was an effort to undress. She glanced vaguely across at the building opposite and saw a boy – not really a boy, more like a youngish/younger man – on the balcony directly in line with her window. He was surprisingly close to her, playing a guitar. Watching him, Benny felt a surprising tug of hot lust. Before she could stop to consider how long it had been since she’d felt that way, he looked up, their eyes met and he stopped playing. His eyes were amber brown and she felt as if he was looking right inside her. He had a sensual mouth, with full lips and he gave her a half smile which she, frozen, did not return. They stared at each other for a moment, neither of them moving. Benny was the first to look away. When she looked up again the boy was once more bent over his guitar, his cigarette end glowing a pinprick of red.
Benny, without so much as a flicker of romance since the demise of her marriage, was shocked by the intensity of her reaction, and she fled to the cool sanctuary of her tiny green bathroom to gather her scattered emotions.
She felt weird, alarmed and confused by the flash of intimacy and long-forgotten desire. And what would she do with the boy/man if she got him? Even if he fell into her lap, this juicy fuzzy peach of a young man, what would she do then? She’d married Kenny for a reason; he was safe, although of course he hadn’t been, not really, not in the end.
She ran a hot bath and climbed in, shaken by a recollection buried so deep that she’d almost forgotten it was there. She had been young, thirteen, and the late evening sun was hot on her skin, while the boy, a rough lad, a stable hand with strange eyes and alcohol breath, pulled her close and slipped his hand inside her shirt, his tongue insistent against hers. She was wearing her training bra, the one with pretty blue daisies patterned onto the small cups and she thought he’d laugh if he saw it. She’d felt his erection digging at her through his trousers, hot and hard, and she was aroused by the feeling of excitement, and danger.
They’d been meeting at the yard every evening for a week, the intensity of their touch escalating daily. Benny, crushing big time on the boy, thought he was how a drug would feel; she could think of nothing else at school, and she couldn’t wait to see him.
But then he’d gone too far too fast and he’d frightened her, although it wasn’t him that alarmed her so much as her own desire.
“No,” she’d said, when he tried to unbutton her shirt. “No, Dad’ll have you for brekkie. He’ll kill you.”
The boy laughed. “As if I care,” he said. “I could take your dad on any day.”
Benny pulled away, straightening her shirt. “You shouldn’t have said that,” she’d replied and she’d left the barn without a backward glance, running, Dad her excuse.
The boy was fired soon after and Benny was sure Dad watched for her reaction when he told her, but she didn’t move a muscle, nary a twitch.
And that was the only time she’d felt this kind of hot longing lick her groin – shaken by her brush with the boy, she hadn’t let her passion see the light of day again, and certainly never with her now ex-husband, Kenny. Her reaction to the boy on the balcony had her completely unnerved.
Several weeks passed and it seemed she didn’t have to worry about what she’d do with the boy if she met him, because the most contact she ever got was him watching her, watching him. And watch each other they did; he could be relied on to be on his balcony, no matter what time she staggered in, home from one more day of Colin’s oddities and nearly impossible demands.
One night, after a particularly grueling day, Benny dragged her bed across the room of the tiny apartment so it was under the window and closer to the boy. He returned the gesture by tipping his hat, a Burberry fedora, and releasing an explosion of dreadlocks.
While Benny came to rely on his presence, she pretended careless disregard of his male bird struts. She avoided his gaze, peering into her fridge instead and searching her cupboards. Or she lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling. She kept her window closed. She could have opened it and called out to him but that would have destroyed it because after all, what did she have to offer?
