saving his money for, though. All he knew was that he was making lots of it.
He took off his gloves; the subway car’s vents blew great quantities of hot air into the small space. The little girl tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Mom,” she said. Her mother patted the girl’s leg and continued reading. “Mo-om,” she pleaded with increasing intensity. Her mother told her to sit still. She responded by throwing up in her mother’s lap. The sharp blue cheese smell soon filled the car. People politely made gestures to cover their noses, then grew less polite. Eyes met, and people nodded to say, Yeah, that’s awful . A few people broke into laughter. “I hate the TTC!” someone finally yelled. Usually outbursts were reserved for the crazy and were studiously ignored. This one, though, got a round of applause and a few “Amens”.
In her own disgusting way, Stefan thought, the girl had broken the subway spell.
~
Stefan emerged from the tiled cavern of the subway into an afternoon overhung with low grey clouds, as if someone had stapled old bedding to the sky. He walked the four blocks to his agent’s office, passing victory homes with tiny square front yards penned in with low chain link fences. As he got closer to the office, the buildings changed to commercial properties, but most of these were derelict. He passed an old family hardware store with faded 1970s signage here, then a ‘jobbers’ with a sign offering daily work to secretaries, cleaners, and factory workers, then reached his agent’s office, with its smoky-tinted windows. He opened the stiff glass door and entered an interior of chocolate-coloured furniture, brass clocks and lamps, two old electric typewriters, and filing cabinets overflowing with papers.
Stefan had never been here until recently, when he’d taken on all his extra jobs. The Green Brigade work took care of itself, but now he needed his agent’s help to keep all his appointments from conflicting and to collect the cheques from various production companies.
“Hello, Stefan,” said the receptionist, who also happened to be the agent’s wife. The agency was modest by Toronto standards, but it was all he’d ever needed.
“Hiya, Hester. I’m supposed to see David.”
“Yep, he’s expecting you. Go right in.”
Stefan nodded and opened the door behind her desk. David sat there, looking out the window at a small backyard shared with a neighbouring house. A bookshelf and filing cabinet stood against one wall of his office. Every other surface was covered with black-and-white headshots. Most of these photographs were old. Stefan wondered about the pictures of children with precocious smiles. What had become of them? He recognised one of them from a television program about a family with an adopted alien son. Child stars had a short shelf-life, particularly in Canada. Stefan once saw the alien boy at a party looking weathered and distinctly stoned.
“Stefan, sit down,” said David, not rising, but sitting back in his creaking office chair, his stomach bulging like a hill covered with a starched white sheet.
“Hi, David,” said Stefan, sitting in one of the two chairs in front of the desk.
“I gotta say, son, I don’t know what’s got into you lately, but I like it.” He’d lowered his large glasses to look at a spreadsheet of some kind, then raised them again to look at Stefan. “You’re bringing in more residuals than all my other clients combined, did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t know that. I’m happy to be useful.”
“You’re being more than useful.”
“Well, like I said, I’m glad I’m helping out. You’ve always been good to me, even when I wasn’t doing much.” He shifted in his seat. “I just came by to pick up my cheques and find out where I’m supposed to go next week.”
“Right. Okay, we’ll get all that straightened out, and then I have a proposition for you.”
“Oh. O-kay,” said Stefan, unsure.
“Here’s your usual
He took off his gloves; the subway car’s vents blew great quantities of hot air into the small space. The little girl tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Mom,” she said. Her mother patted the girl’s leg and continued reading. “Mo-om,” she pleaded with increasing intensity. Her mother told her to sit still. She responded by throwing up in her mother’s lap. The sharp blue cheese smell soon filled the car. People politely made gestures to cover their noses, then grew less polite. Eyes met, and people nodded to say, Yeah, that’s awful . A few people broke into laughter. “I hate the TTC!” someone finally yelled. Usually outbursts were reserved for the crazy and were studiously ignored. This one, though, got a round of applause and a few “Amens”.
In her own disgusting way, Stefan thought, the girl had broken the subway spell.
~
Stefan emerged from the tiled cavern of the subway into an afternoon overhung with low grey clouds, as if someone had stapled old bedding to the sky. He walked the four blocks to his agent’s office, passing victory homes with tiny square front yards penned in with low chain link fences. As he got closer to the office, the buildings changed to commercial properties, but most of these were derelict. He passed an old family hardware store with faded 1970s signage here, then a ‘jobbers’ with a sign offering daily work to secretaries, cleaners, and factory workers, then reached his agent’s office, with its smoky-tinted windows. He opened the stiff glass door and entered an interior of chocolate-coloured furniture, brass clocks and lamps, two old electric typewriters, and filing cabinets overflowing with papers.
Stefan had never been here until recently, when he’d taken on all his extra jobs. The Green Brigade work took care of itself, but now he needed his agent’s help to keep all his appointments from conflicting and to collect the cheques from various production companies.
“Hello, Stefan,” said the receptionist, who also happened to be the agent’s wife. The agency was modest by Toronto standards, but it was all he’d ever needed.
“Hiya, Hester. I’m supposed to see David.”
“Yep, he’s expecting you. Go right in.”
Stefan nodded and opened the door behind her desk. David sat there, looking out the window at a small backyard shared with a neighbouring house. A bookshelf and filing cabinet stood against one wall of his office. Every other surface was covered with black-and-white headshots. Most of these photographs were old. Stefan wondered about the pictures of children with precocious smiles. What had become of them? He recognised one of them from a television program about a family with an adopted alien son. Child stars had a short shelf-life, particularly in Canada. Stefan once saw the alien boy at a party looking weathered and distinctly stoned.
“Stefan, sit down,” said David, not rising, but sitting back in his creaking office chair, his stomach bulging like a hill covered with a starched white sheet.
“Hi, David,” said Stefan, sitting in one of the two chairs in front of the desk.
“I gotta say, son, I don’t know what’s got into you lately, but I like it.” He’d lowered his large glasses to look at a spreadsheet of some kind, then raised them again to look at Stefan. “You’re bringing in more residuals than all my other clients combined, did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t know that. I’m happy to be useful.”
“You’re being more than useful.”
“Well, like I said, I’m glad I’m helping out. You’ve always been good to me, even when I wasn’t doing much.” He shifted in his seat. “I just came by to pick up my cheques and find out where I’m supposed to go next week.”
“Right. Okay, we’ll get all that straightened out, and then I have a proposition for you.”
“Oh. O-kay,” said Stefan, unsure.
“Here’s your usual
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