Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(37)
“So is libel.” Makepeace passed Arthur last week’s Bleat, with a front-page spread about the Transformation Mission and a back-page ad for their open house, promising “peace and oneness and coming together,” along with “free eats, free drinks, and fried minds.” The fried was one of Forbish’s typically grievous typos. Freed minds?
Arthur turned to the “Who’s Who on Garibaldi” column. The final item counselled the island’s postmaster to “start thinking seriously about retirement given the recent snippy attitude he has shown yours truly and many others.”
“I’m printing a correction for this week,” Forbish said, “along with a profile saying our postmaster has served relentlessly for two decades. And a photo.” He brandished a camera.
Makepeace turned his back to him and showed the camera his scrawny rear end. That freed up Arthur’s mound of mail, which he scooped up and stuck in his pack. Next stop would be the Brig for his afternoon tea. He took the elevated walkway, pausing to enjoy the ocean view, checking out the scene on the patio.
Cudworth Brown was passing pints to a tableful of cronies, grateful disciples today because he was buying. One of Canada’s lesser-known poets, the muscular one-time ironworker subsisted mostly on grants and readings and hand-selling his three slim published works. Arthur assumed they’d found a niche market with their recurrent themes of carnality and bodily functions, because Cud had been offered an advance for his fourth. It must have come in.
Cudworth was half pickled, going on loudly about the open house. “Free eats, free drinks, and bet your ass there’ll be free drugs. That dude Jason will naturally want to dip into his jar of Upper Shelf and chop a few lines to share with his literary and artistic colleagues.”
“Free drugs, man,” said Honk Gilmore, a retired marijuana broker.
“Fried minds,” yelled the wild-haired sculptor, Hamish McCoy, to raucous laughter.
“Free love, baby.” Cud chased a shot of whisky with a beer. “Not just of the spiritual variety. We expect better than that from the king stud at Starkers Cove.”
Arthur heard a note of sarcasm, or maybe envy. Cud was known to have bedded a multitude of local women and likely resented being relegated to second stud behind the blond bombshell.
“Speaking of scoring some free love,” said Honk, “how about those three hipster chicks from Pasadena that dropped in here last night? Drove off the ferry in a top-down Mercedes Cabriolet that’s got to price out at eighty K all in.”
“Youthful adventurers with rich daddies,” said Cud. “Seekers of light and truth who will find it totally awesome to invite a famous poet into their tent. Gonna be hard to protect my virginity.” He raised his glass. “To peace and oneness, baby, and coming together.”
Arthur skirted around them, to the bar, where Taba Jones was sitting, in shorts and well-filled T-shirt. The flame-haired potter had been spending a lot of time in the pub since Felicity took up with the Transformers. She was chatting with Emily LeMay. A closed conversation, Arthur felt, womanly things or gossip. He sat at a table with a view of the parking area and the dock and opened his newspaper, yesterday’s Globe.
The front page was depressing, Zika virus everywhere, the Middle East at constant war, another oil spill in Hecate Strait. Arthur fled to the staid inside pages, the political coverage. The main story: an uproar over Farquist’s firing of scientists critical of the Coast Mountains Pipeline. Margaret earned a paragraph, calling him a “tinpot dictator kowtowing to his corporate masters.”
Lower down, another mention of Margaret, under the head, “Star Candidate Runs for Greens,” quoting Margaret as being ecstatic about her catch: Dr. Lloyd Chalmers, who would be seeking the seat of Halifax East, in his city of birth.
Margaret had introduced the “well-known psychologist and author” at a rally there. On Thursday, two nights ago. Arthur didn’t recall her mentioning that during their conversation earlier today. This had become a pattern, the not-mentioning of encounters with Chalmers.
As Emily approached with his tea, he folded the paper quickly to the crossword puzzle, as if hiding embarrassment or shame. He decided on shame. Cuckolded once again, the central theme of his life. Alternatively, another kind of shame could be his lot: unwarranted suspicion, jealousy falsely held. He hunched over the puzzle.
“Mind if I join you?” Taba had already done so, startling him as she sat down. She saluted him with her four o’clock regular, a gin and tonic, a refill. “You look woebegone, Arthur. Raccoon get into your garden?”
She offered a welcome distraction from thoughts of the Green leader’s ecstasy over her star candidate.
“I was pondering a nine-letter word for ‘self-abuse.’”
“The word masturbation comes immediately to mind.”
“Twelve letters.”
“Try masochism.”
“It fits.” Albeit in an unnerving, ironic way. The conversation had taken on an earthy edge that had Arthur feeling awkward, fumbling for words. “I don’t see your truck out there, Taba.”
“I hitched, out of necessity.” She indicated the several rolls of toilet paper protruding from her pack. “Or else I’d be wiping my ass with this week’s Bleat. Did you read that sycophantic twaddle? About Forbish receiving all those ‘powerful vibrations of love’? Praising their ‘latter-day prophet’? They must have spiked his nacho chips with powdered gupa. You’re not going to their circle jerk tomorrow?”