The Age of Cities by Brett Josef Grubisic Page A

around before explaining, “You see, I’m hoping to move up the ladder. Before long I’m going to have a secretary who will take dictation. Just a matter of patience and timing, that’s what Johnny says. Then I’ll be heading out for three-martini lunches at the Empire Club. Just you wait and see.”
    As before, Winston felt himself at a loss for words. He drew back from Dickie and remained silent.
    Dickie continued: “And you? You just happened to take a vacation from Mudville and happened to be shopping at the Hudson’s Bay, I suppose. It tickles me that you wanted to stop by here. What a friendly gesture.”
    Winston had not forgotten about Dickie’s love affair with himself. “It’s a surprise running into you, but in fact we are shopping here. Mother and I. We ate lunch in the Marine Room and have been touring the floors. That’s why I’m here.”
    â€œThe salt of the earth mother? Here? I’m seeing something primordial.” Dickie surveyed the vicinity like an African safari hunter who is anticipating some ghastly creature slithering toward unsuspecting innocents. Dickie’s feverish imagining was funny, but Winston realized he drew blanks when he tried to guess what such a thing would look like.
    After no more than a beat, Dickie exclaimed: “I simply must run, though, gotta grab the brass ring. ‘Those who hesitate are lost’ and all that gung-ho management bunkum. Say, we are grabbing a bite tonight in Chinatown at the Bamboo Terrace. It’s our haunt du jour . The chicken chow mein’s divine and the mezzanine’s better yet. We’ll probably head over to the ol’ Port-Land for a glass or three afterward. Say about seven give or take fifteen minutes. Care to partake?” He adjusted his tie’s perfect knot.
    â€œThank you, Dickie. I’ll keep that in mind.”
    â€œTa-ta,” Dickie said before moving onward to Management at a motivated pace. Dickie looked back. Winston waved in reply to the smile of his acquaintance.
    Alberta returned just as Winston resumed his eye self-examination. “Who was that clerk talking to you?” she asked. “I figured he was selling something so I watched his pitch from over there.” She thumbed over her right shoulder.
    â€œNo, I don’t think he was selling me anything, Mother. Remember when I told you about the odd fellow I met last time I was in the city? The one who took me to a seedy beer parlour? That was him. Dickie.”
    â€œI see. I was thinking I’d not likely buy something from him. A bit of a flaky pastry, looked like to me. Shifty.” Alberta’s mistrust of salesmen was boundless.
    â€œThe jury’s still out about him as far as I’m concerned,” Winston said, and quickly added: “But we really ought to get a move on, Mother. We don’t want to be viewing flowers in the twilight.” He’d prefer to guard Dickie from Alberta’s feline curiosity.
    â€œSouthward ho, then. You mind carrying the bags still?” She strode toward the exit.
    On the bustling streets outside the department store block, they walked toward the bus stop. A pretty girl at the perfume counter had sketched them a map after Alberta purchased a delicate ampoule of Empress Jean from her. Winston thought they’d need to refer to it often, so his mother kept it clutched in her hand. Before passing the city’s first jail and courthouse—the imposing planes of grey stone evidently fertile ground for moss patches and streaks of slime—they paused at a rectangular cinder block pile set atop plywood on an adjacent lawn. Jade green letters on unpainted wood explained the crude shed:
    Junior Chamber of Commerce
    Cement Fallout Shelter
    The sign on its roof inspired Winston’s vision of cheerful high school Honour Roll students banding together to build protection from atomic bomb fallout with the same pep they might