• I: A Series of Surprising Situations

    A dour little British man, short, fat, and balding with a dark fringe of short hair, stared down at me from his tall desk through tiny, wire-rimmed gold spectacles. His eyes reminded me of a lemur, but heartbroken and destitute as I was, I could not find it in myself to laugh at him, even mentally.

    “Yes, and what seems to be the problem, Miss – ” here he consulted a yellow notepad of legal paper. “Faraday?”
    “My business partner sold everything to a British tourist for seven hundred pounds and ran off with the cabana boy from the yacht!” I exclaimed. “It’s all right there on the paper! I just told the whole story to Officer Gillespie over there.” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder in an impatient gesture.
    “You say the man in question – Mitchell – is your business partner. Correct?”
    “Yes.”
    “You are aware that there is mutual agency in partnerships? Each partner has equal and complete control over the business.”
    “Of course I know what mutual agency is! I do have a degree in commerce, you know. But this is thievery!” I said with exasperation, my impatience and frustration getting the better of me. “Look, I came down here with all I had. Everything. And now everything is on a tourist’s yacht headed for Liverpool or God-knows-where! I have nothing, no friends or family, back in Canada. I now have no money and no home. The inventory of my shop was sold for five hundred pounds and the damn scoundrel threw in the shack for an extra two hundred! To top it off, he ran off with the yacht’s cabana boy who was his secret gay lover!”
    “Was your partner also your lover?”
    “What?” I said sharply, taken aback by the question.
    “Was he your lover, your boyfriend, significant other, whatever you people call it?”
    “Well, yes, if you can call it that since he was secretly gay or bi or something and only in it for my money. But what does that have to do with it?”
    “Nothing. It just explains your irate condition.”
    “Condition! Of course I’m irate! If had just gone from being the owner of a very successful small business to being penniless and stranded in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, you would be pretty irate too.” I said, trying desperately to make the lemur man see some sense. “I think I should at least get my fair share of the business.”
    “Did you have a written contract before you began?” He asked.
    “Of course, but Morgan’s destroyed every copy, even the partnership registry office doesn’t have one anymore.”
    “Then I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do for you, Miss Faraday. I’m sorry about your situation.”
    “Bull ****.” I muttered under my breath.
    “What was that?” The lemur man asked.
    “I said ‘that’s it.’” I lied.
    “Well then. Good day.”

    I left without returning the pleasantry. I suspected that something could be done, but he just wasn’t giving. I was too angry to use any feminine wiles to wheedle him into doing it. I strode out of the office, past the front desk with the Anglo-Saxon poster-boy behind it, out the doors, and on to the front steps where abruptly my knees gave out. This occurred mostly because I realised that I had nowhere to go. I sat down on the steps and tried to think. While I was friends or acquaintances with most people on St. Rita, I really didn’t think I could impose on any of them to put me up until I was back on my feet, and an independent woman does have her pride. . .

    ~~~


    At this juncture, I feel I should point out the chief difference between Catholic and Public high schools in Ontario, aside from that in the latter you need to preface any remark about religion with an inoffensive disclaimer. But besides that, in the Catholic curriculum a student must take four religion courses: one in each high school year. In my final year, I had decided to take the regular religion course, on ethics, rather than the university-preparation philosophy course. My teacher was the delightful, tangential Mr. Fraser. It was more than easy to sidetrack him into a debate for the entire class period, essentially getting nothing done and saving the class from any need to do homework. Mr. Fraser (who was no monk, none of our teachers were, nor were any nuns) was a strong believer in Carpe Diem – ‘seize the day,’ and ‘living in the now’ like those fast-living rock-stars, but in a positive, 'Tuesdays with Morrie' way.

    I had decided to go to college for accounting and business administration. When I finished my diploma, I cast around for a job, anything really, as long as it was business related. I worked with the federal government for a time, but couldn’t put down roots or be promoted because of my lack of a university degree, although I could do the work just as well as (and I am proud to say, often better than) the MBA’s. Anyway, bitterness aside, I paid a visit to my high school to feel nostalgic and to visit my old, inspirational religion teacher. I found him in his customary room, on a spare. He greeted me as warmly as if I were still in his class.

    “So what brings you back to ND?” He asked, using the short form of Notre Dame, my alma mater's moniker. His dark hair was maybe a little greyer than I remembered it, his laugh lines a little deeper.
    “Feeling nostalgic.” I responded, not quite sure how to phrase it.
    “All those grade eights from when you graduated are graduating themselves this year.” He said. “They’ve grown up a lot.”
    I nodded, I knew he was leading up to something, and I decided not to interrupt his build. “Yup, they’re moving on to university, and college,” with a nod at me. “There’s more interest in the trades than when you went through, but you know how much I wanted that.” He paused, studying me with those pale blue eyes. “Have you applied to university yet?” There it was, what he had been building up to.
    “Um, no. I haven’t taken advantage of the articulation agreement. I wanted to pay off my student loan.” I replied, remembering how he and the majority of my teachers had badgered me about going to university, trying to goad me into it.
    “So, what do you need?” He asked.
    “Well, I seem to be at an impasse.” I began, finally deciding to spill my situation to him. “I can’t advance much in my government job because I don’t have a degree, and I don’t have the same enthusiasm for the public service that I once did.”
    “Have you talked to your mother about this? She helped you sort out your path before.”
    “She’s dead.” I said, trying not to make it seem melodramatic, but can you say something like that without melodrama? I had gotten over my mother’s death, which was why I could tell Mr. Fraser without tears, et cetera.
    “I’m sorry.” He said.
    “Thanks. She died of complications from her arthritis medication. No one expected it, but at least I had the opportunity to say good-bye.” I said as nonchalantly as possible.
    “That’s good.” He said while nodding. “Do you have anyone else to advise you?”
    “Not really, well, except for Fred. He’s a coworker, but I don’t know, I don’t want to burden him. He’s like a big brother, always feels obligated to help.”

    He paused for a moment and surveyed me again with his pale eyes. “It seems to me that you’re left with the need to find out what you’d love to do, and some how incorporate it with what you’re doing now. Take whatever you’d love to do when you retire or go on vacation and figure out how you can have it now. First of all, I’d suggest using that articulation agreement. You’d be two years away from a bachelor of commerce and you’re more than capable of doing it. Remember, snatch the present hour, and fear the last.”

    That conversation is why, in the following September, I found my twenty-one-year-old self walking the halls of the University of Ottawa as a student. It is also why, in September, two years (and an honours degree) later, I found myself with nothing but my clothes and a stinging letter in the police station of St. Rita, a small, British-held island in the South Pacific Ocean.