The Age of Cities by Brett Josef Grubisic

Winston and then lit a cigarette. He spoke again after he exhaled. “So,” he said, leaning back on his chair, “I named her Dot because it’s simple, clean, and easy to remember. The company’s market stretches westward to the Pacific from Winnipeg, so West seemed like a sure bet. That was the concept: a domestic goddess for Western Canada, or some damn thing. Then, at the head office we hired some pretty young wife from Saskatoon to be our Dot in ads and to make public appearances now and again at Malkin’s or sometimes at department stores. We had her take trains out for parades in cities; she tossed little spice canisters from atop the Malkin’s float. Anyway, she just followed our cues; couldn’t boil an egg to save her life. The household magic was lifted from women’s mags and fancied up a bit. And every recipe was my own.”
    Winston imagined that Johnny was used to speaking to roomfuls of executives in order to pitch ideas. His style of speaking was not hypnotic so much as melodic. The rolling cadence drew the listener in naturally.
    â€œShe really caught on. We thought that we could really capitalize on that popularity, use her as a house brand”—he stopped to swallow some beer—“you know, Dot West Creamed Corn, Dot West Peas. Her pretty face beaming from every damn place. Then the higher ups at Westfair Foods thought Dot had run her course and cleared out the PR department. Of course, they’ve kept her going since I left. I gather they’re going to phase out that campaign more slowly than they had originally planned. Or maybe they just wanted to trim some fat and get rid of us creative types. Pared us right out of their payroll, that’s for sure.”
    Listening to Johnny, Winston felt once again like a rube. Along with Mrs. Pierce, he had thought of Dot West as a capable woman, remarkable—an actual woman to admire—because she was able to organize herself so well that she could have the extra time—and pluck—to tell a company like Malkin’s about her recipes and household ideas, and then sign a contract with them. What a sham. It was like being dazzled by Santa Claus because he could reach all those chimneys during one night. Only children and half-wits can do so for long.
    â€œAnd you went to Hollywood after that?” Winston asked. Beneath the nervous wariness, Winston was pleased to find Johnny’s charm.
    â€œOh dear, we’ve heard this soap opera before. Don’t get him started. There’ll be a river of tears here in no time,” Dickie interjected.
    Johnny said, “If you visit our fair city again, Mr. Wilson, I’ll tell you a story of powerful and glamorous men and women and of gut-wrenching despair.” Winston smiled at the radio play melodrama.
    â€œCount me out, fellas,” said Dickie, evidently feeling left out of the limelight.
    â€œRichard.” Johnny was getting angry.
    â€œLet’s change the topic before you two make a scene,” Ed said. Husky yet small-featured, he uneasily surveyed the room. Clearly timid, he smiled and said nothing else. He rotated his pinkie ring when he spoke.
    â€œWith the exception of the timid tortoise here”—Dickie’s glance at Ed was not kind—“we’re born tellers of tall tales here, Winston.”
    Winston could not guess whether Dickie planned to unravel a story. After long seconds of silence, he prompted Dickie. “I see,” he said.
    â€œIn fact, when he’s had a few too many, even Ed here will describe hair-raising scenes from some of our city’s finest establishments,” Dickie said, looking around and then leaning toward Winston. “He’s one of the inspectors for the Liquor Control Board. He makes reports, you see, and jots down what goes on behind closed doors. And it’s not only bug infestations and watered-down booze like you’d expect. It’s scandalous. Far