The Garneau Block by Todd Babiak Page A

stopped clapping and got up to explore the booths and small seminar groups along the edges of the Butterdome. The incense and patchouli could not overwhelm the rubber smell from the floor of the athletic complex, an odour that reminded Shirley of the turmoil attending her children’s winter track meets.
    Greenpeace, Amnesty International, Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society, and the David Suzuki Foundation had professional kiosks, with pamphlets and public relations specialists. Other local groups sold hemp products and recycled goods. In the back, fenced off, was a licensed area with organic beer and wine.
    In the corner farthest from the entrance, a young man in dreadlocks stood before fifty or sixty people with a microphone attached to his Utne Reader T-shirt. He was giving a PowerPoint presentation about the latest, most radical methods to stop logging. On the white screen behind him, photos from Clayoquot Sound and northern California. Theyoung man advocated treehouses, chaining strategies, playing dead in front of the machinery.
    â€œAre we gonna write letters to the editor?”
    â€œYes!” said the crowd, in unison.
    â€œAre we gonna live the change we want?”
    â€œYes!”
    â€œAre we gonna play dead?”
    â€œYes!”
    That was the formal end of his presentation. The crowd clapped and he lifted his hands. “Now comes the hard part,” he said. “At booth twenty, I have chapbooks and CD s and sandal-wood soap and T-shirts for sale…”
    Shirley walked close enough to the chanting circle to see that Abby was still waving around for the door handle. So she checked her wallet and was delighted to discover two crisp twenty-dollar bills.
    At the organic beer and wine garden, Shirley bought a glass of Chardonnay and wandered around looking for a seat. All of the tables and most of the chairs were taken. Finally, after walking through the area three times, a woman and her male companion waved.
    â€œWould you like to join us?”
    â€œThank you,” said Shirley, and sat.
    The couple introduced themselves–Chris and Nancy Cook. They each had a glass of beer and a bag full of pamphlets, hygiene products, and carob snacks. They pointed out their thirteen-year-old son, Noam Chomsky Cook, who sat with his Game Boy just outside the fence. When Shirley said sheowned the Rabbit Warren, they complimented her on the store.
    â€œThough you could certainly have more fair trade products,” said Chris. “Don’t you think?”
    Shirley had endured criticism like this from Abby. Rather than explain the retail business to the Cooks, she nodded and took a sip of organic Chardonnay.
    The activist fair was no less hollow than professional hockey, no less hollow than anything she could buy or sell or experience on a night like tonight. Trapped in the vinaigrette aftertaste of the wine, Shirley wished she had just stayed home with Raymond, in the bloody echo of the house across the street. An echo that likely inspired her recent and unprecedented bout of skepticism. Doubt. Gloom.
    â€œNot that we’re asking you to change,” said Nancy. “Goodness knows.”
    After another sip of Chardonnay, with her nose plugged, Shirley cleared her throat. “Almost everything in my store is from Canada and the United States. I try to focus on local artists.”
    â€œOh,” said Nancy.
    â€œ Almost .” Chris leaned back in his chair and touched his goatee. “What does ‘almost’ mean?”
    â€œNot that we’re, you know,” said Nancy.
    Chris began telling Shirley about their recent trip to Peru, wherein he understood for the first time that life here in the northern half of the world is what the Latin Americans call una broma –a joke. He used the words bourgeoisie and imperialism in one sentence. The music and singing from the chanting circle halted, and a great roar of applause began. Shirley wasjust about to tell Chris and