The Age of Cities by Brett Josef Grubisic Page B

eat.”
    â€œBut how can he be … a Queen?” Winston imagined he was getting entangled in Dickie’s double entendres.
    â€œWell, that’s a funny story, actually. He had a neighbour, some frumpy tragedy named Mrs. Claribel Spivak—that was her name, honest to God—who won a few years ago, before when it was on the radio only. It was the usual miserable story: flat broke, brats and bills and a loser of a husband who drank away their money and got rough when things didn’t go his way. Maybe she had goiter and gallstones too, I can’t remember. Anyway.”
    Dickie was enjoying drawing out the details, Winston could see. He had grown animated once again as he recalled the dregs of this woman’s marriage, creating cartoon pantomimes of the feckless husband guzzling from a bottle and children bawling in feverish rages. They walked in halting steps along Hastings Street, Dickie stopping now and again to look in windows of ladies wear shops and jewellery stores or else pausing to emphasize an element of the La Contessa biography.
    â€œThe applause-o-meter was loudest after she trotted out her disasters, and so Mrs. Spivak got the grand prize. Must have been a slow week, I suppose. A few weeks later some ancient American relic who was a Queen in 1948 or something wrote to her and said she was eligible to join their special Club. Mrs. Spivak didn’t read so well and brought the letter to the Contessa. He explained it to her and offered to write back and see what benefits Spivak might get from belonging.” Dickie slowed his pace and looked directly at Winston. “But then—and here’s the kicker—Mr.-Spivak-the-boozer sold her things and abandoned his Queen of Misery. She couldn’t even make the rent and did a midnight move herself, kids in tow. The Contessa wrote back anyway and decided to play at being Mrs. Claribel Spivak for a while, sort of a member by proxy. He was even the Club’s Treasurer for a year. He sent a photograph of his mother to them after they asked for a memento for their scrapbook. Now, I think that when she’s had a few too many, the Contessa’s living through a little Club luncheon in her mind.”
    â€œThat’s incredible. You gentlemen have lived so much more than I.” Winston felt as though he should say so, but he wasn’t entirely convinced.
    As Winston reached familiar sights at Granville Street, he felt himself being comforted by the sight of traffic, lights, and occasional after-hours revelers. The scarlet scallop promoting SHELL oil was radiant, a beacon that served no purpose other than announcing its being at the very centre of things. The clock faces below, glowing hotly, warned latecomers in four directions. Winston was tired out. He realized that at his advanced age his taste for adventure had diminished. Not that he’d been much of a rebel when he was young. Still, an evening spent in the company of those eccentric men would become valuable, a curio for Alberta and something he could recall fondly whenever he chose. It was like nothing he had ever done before.
    â€œHere you are, Mr. Wilson.” Dickie’s upturned palms meant “ Voilà .”
    Winston slowly surveyed his hotel, ground floor to roofline. “Well. That was quite an experience, Dickie. I can honestly say I have never occupied an evening quite this way.”
    â€œI aim to please, you know.” Dickie had to speak more loudly than usual because he’d stepped back from the hotel’s main doors. “I have the feeling we’ll be seeing you soon. Ta-ta.” Dickie turned away without the flourish Winston had come to expect. Winston watched until he disappeared around a corner, and then walked inside the brightly lit lobby. With a start, Dickie’s exclamation I’ve got a sight you do not want to miss , came to mind. The Port-Land could not have been the promised sight, Winston imagined. Perhaps