7. Just Me and My Discman

Luckily, it is the right bus stop, so things are perhaps looking up. I am just going to leave all those negative, David-infused thoughts with the rubbish Cosmo on the bus and walk forward into my brand new life.

It’s a perfect plan.

All I have to do now is find the Charles Hamilton Gallery of Contemporary Art. Time is running short and it’s almost 9:00 and I’ll be damned before showing up on my first day a second late. This Beverly character sounds like she’ll be the one doing the damning too. God, I could be stupid. All I had to do was check where to go from the bus stop before I left this morning.

Most people could just whip out their phone in a situation like this. Unfortunately, I am not one of those people. I’m one of the other people, the ones in a silent war of reluctance when it comes to technological advancement. And it’s not because I’m taking some cultural stance against our society’s growing dependency on technology or whatever, either. It’s just that, with every new update and every new model, comes a whole new world of complexity; and usually by that time, I’ve only just finished figuring out my new model—which has inevitably, now become the old model. 

I was the last person that I know to even get a smart phone when they first came out. I clung onto my little Blackjack (yes, Blackjack, not even a Blackberry) until I had no choice but to get an iPhone because my parents updated our family phone plan. By the time I got my first iPhone, I’m pretty sure the majority of the human race had moved onto iPhone 2, and the Patricians, perhaps even iPhone 3. And it’s not only phones I do this with. Remember the Stone Ages, when the iPod hadn’t been introduced yet? We all used Discmans (never Discmen) as our portable music device. This was obviously an issue since anytime you moved the Discman, even if you were as gentle as possible, even if you were moving it from one silk-cloud-cushion to another, it would skip. I didn’t care though. It was me and my Discman. Even when the iPod came out and everyone got one and would tell me over and over again how much more convenient their new little piece of musical equipment was than my Discman. ‘It doesn’t skip,’ they would tell me. ‘It’s smaller, lighter, and you don’t have to rely on CD’s anymore. No more CD burning, no more scratches, no more skipping if you cough anywhere near its vicinity!’

But I didn’t care. I was loyal. I knew all I needed in this life of sin, was me and my Discman. I truly was down to ride til’ the very end, just me and my Discman.

And ride to the very end I did, until it became an actual effort to find Discmans at the shops. That was about five years ago. That’s when I finally got an iPod. I’m not ashamed.

However, this is the problem I have now, with my iPhone 4. I won’t move on and it’s so ancient that it takes at least a minute to open an app, let alone figure out what the hell to do once the app is open. Frankly, I don't think I deserve this. I never asked to be a Jetson. I was perfectly happy being a Flintstone, just me and my Discman.
With a sigh, I hit the map button and wait.

And wait…

…and wait.

Ah, bugger this. I’ll just ask someone so I don’t waste any more time.

‘Excuse me, sir?’ I say, hurrying over to a newspaper vendor who looks like he might possibly live inside his stand, ‘Could you point me in the direction of the Charles Hamilton Gallery?’

The man stares at me like I’ve just spoken to him in Flemish. I wonder if they call it the CHGCA.  You know, like the kind of people who regularly attend contemporary art exhibitions and will discuss so many different high-end galleries that it becomes a sort of pretentious-art-nuts code. ‘Yes, I just bought an extremely rare piece from the PVGM this month.’ ‘Oh really, Frederick? That’s marvelous. Is it anything like the one from the MFAKG?’ ‘Certainly not, Pamela. This one’s much more like the things you often find at the AHOLE.’

Whatever the case, this guy is definitely not familiar with the pretentious-art-nuts-code. He seems more like the drugs-under-a-bridge type.

‘There’s two museum-lookin’ places a couple streets over thatta way. Not sure if either of ‘em is what yeh lookin’ for, though,’ the man says.

‘Thanks.’

‘That’ll be two pounds,’ he adds, holding his newspaper smudged fingers out at me.

‘For what?’

‘The newspaper yeh buyin’.’

‘Oh no thank you, I don’t need a newspaper,’ I say, smiling politely.

The man stares at me blankly. Am I talking in Flemish again?

‘Two pounds for the newspaper yeh buyin’,’ he says again, still reaching out his hand.

This is pointless. I turn and walk quickly in the direction he had told me, feeling a little sexually harassed. It’s a shame I left my rape whistle in my evening bag. I’ve always wanted to use it and have never really had an opportunity. For all I know that could have been it.

And I blew it (the opportunity—not the whistle).

Obviously.

What is wrong with me? First checking directions online and now my rape whistle? I wonder what else I’m forgetting.

My hands instinctively go to my boobs. Okay, good. Remembered my bra. Some thug-looking kids who witness my undergarment check start hooting at me as I pass by.

Damn.

Another blown opportunity to blow my rape whistle.

But enough about blowing. Jeez.

By the time I find the gallery, which is definitely not one of the “two museum-looking places” to which my newspaper friend had directed me (both of those were banks), I have approximately three minutes to find Beverly Stating’s office without appearing late. And by appearing late, I mean being late.

The inside of the gallery is very modern. It is wide and open and almost completely white. I swear my vision does something funny when I first walk in, like when you go inside after being out in the sun for too long with no sunglasses. Except the other way around...

Anyway.

It is bright shiny white like the mane of a unicorn or the polished ivory tusk of an elephant or the sharp, glazed tooth of a tiger. Or, you know, some other white body part of an animal.

Anyway, again.

First on the agenda is to find Beverly Stating in less than three…wait, no…two minutes. I spot a receptionist sitting behind a desk on the left wall. (It’s a white desk, by the way. I was surprised too). The receptionist is extremely perky as she lets me know I’m expected. I follow her through the gallery, glancing at the paintings and sculptures that are set up and displayed to perfection, and eventually we go through a door toward the back of the showroom.

Ah, offices and cubicles. My heart drops a little at the sight of them. Of course I realize I’m at the bottom of the gallery staff food-chain, so naturally most of my time will be spent behind closed doors rather than with the art. But the confirmation of that notion is disappointing nonetheless.

The receptionist leads me to an office with three plastic chairs lined up outside. Then she tells me I can sit and wait for Beverly in the waiting room. I glance at the chairs, unsure whether or not they are the ‘waiting room’. I would have given them ‘waiting area’ at best, but they also look like they could be excess furniture, like when people put old armchairs or bed frames on the lawn outside their houses with signs that say ‘Take me,’ and you can almost hear the underlying, ‘pleasee.’

Desperately wanting to avoid being the idiot that sits on Beverly Stating’s rubbish furniture, I say, ‘The waiting room,’ and nod as though I know exactly where to go. But I don’t move.

‘Just right here,’ the receptionist says, motioning to the row of chairs and looking at me strangely, ‘Bev should be out in…’ She glances at her watch, ‘…exactly one minute.’

I look up at the clock on the wall. 8:59. So in exactly one minute it would be 9 a.m. sharp, just as promised.

‘Thanks Abigail,’ I say to the receptionist. As soon as the words are out I know I’ve gotten it wrong.

‘It’s Amanda,’ she replies with a forgiving smile and walks off.

Of course it is. Of course Abigail isn’t the name of the receptionist at my new job. Because Abigail is the name of David Phillip’s girlfriend. The one he left me for, and as evidenced by my Freudian slip, is not something I have yet forgotten, as much as I like to convince myself I have.

This first-day-of-the-rest-of-my-life is really not going as planned. The whole point is to shut the David Phillips door and let him rot in the past. Why then can I not seem to escape him? First the Cosmo and now my name slippage and it isn’t even 9 a.m. sharp yet.

‘Natasha Bernier?’

I snap from my thoughts at the sound of my name. 9 a.m. sharp.

My mistake.