I used to talk about this kind of thing with guys I worked with, but now I don’t have anyone around me who’d watched a movie older than the moon base and the skinny glove fad. Sara won’t even watch movies, which is about the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever come across. So I had two choices, to either watch the stuff that Ant and Kayla had collected, or show some of the classics to a new generation. Luckily, Fiona refuses to sit through most of Ant’s slash-and-slice flicks, so that leaves plenty of room for our ongoing Will Ferrell Film Festival.
Tonight was Zoolander 3 , where they shoehorned his Mugatu character into a plot about an award ceremony; I’ve always liked it better than the second one, but nothing beats the gas fight from the original or Hansel being so hot right now.
Fiona and Kayla joined me in the living room, and Matt was there, too, since I didn’t have a dog kennel to lock him into. I was glad to see that the girls were laughing about as much as I’d hoped. I have a theory that if I get those two laughing together often enough, they’ll start hating each other a little less, maybe even to the point of me not expecting their relationship to end in murder-suicide.
Then came the orgy scene.
“Isn’t that you, Kayla?” Fiona asked, pointing at the screen.
“Where?” I said.
Fiona got off the couch and stuck her finger at a red-haired woman in one of the hot tubs, pausing the movie.
“My hair is blond,” Kayla said. She already sounded unimpressed.
“Forget the hair,” Fiona said. “It’s the facial expression.”
“That does look like you,” Matt said.
I could see it, too. That scrunched up come-hither face Kayla makes that is significantly less sexy than her usual look, but hey… it’s Kayla, so it still kinda works.
“So I’m just a dumb slut who loves orgies,” Kayla said.
“Well, that escalated quickly,” I said. But none of them had seen Anchorman yet.
“It’s like I’ve got a fucking ‘S’ burned onto my forehead.”
“Super Kayla?” Matt said.
“Just because I used to dance. As if that makes me… what… a prostitute?”
“There’s nothing wrong with prostitutes,” I said.
“Fuck you, Baptiste. I’m not a prostitute. And you guys shouldn’t fucking treat me like one, alright?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I know how to weld,” she said. “I know how to wire up a battery.”
“Okay… still… what are you talking about?”
“You don’t think I’m capable. You think that I’m just all ass and tits and good for nothing else.”
“I never said that, Kayla.”
“Well your girlfriend certainly has. I guess I’m not godly enough to contribute around here… unless I’m on my back.”
“That’s not fair,” Fiona said. “No one’s ever said that about you.”
“Just hear what you want to hear, then.”
Kayla stood up and left the room. I heard her stomp upstairs.
I looked over at Fiona.
She looked back at me.
“Do we just… let her go?” I asked.
“How should I know?” she said.
“I’ll handle it,” Matt said.
I decided not to stop him.
She yelled for a while, and after around twenty minutes he came back down.
“Can we take it back to the orgy scene?” he asked as he sat down beside Fiona.
“I’m fine with that,” I said.
But when I saw the red-headed hot tub Kayla the second time, it wasn’t funny. I felt bad. When someone tells you just how awful they’re being treated, you always hope that you’re not one of the bad guys being described.
But I was one of them; I wasn’t looking past the beautiful blond girl who used to tour the handful of hotels between Hearst and North Bay that had a floor for dancing. I wasn’t taking Kayla seriously.
And that wasn’t her fault at all.
Today is Friday, December 14th.
The Tremblays were late to the meeting today as usual. Unlike the Porters, who always come as a unit even when I ask them not to, when it comes to dealing with the rest of us the Tremblays are generally just Marc and Alain. Sometimes I forget they both have wives and kids back in the long and flat one-story cabin up near the beaver dam, or at least I forget until I remember Marc’s wife Suzanne and that sexy way she rolls her Rs. For whatever reason, the men are in charge over there, and though I don’t know their wives that well, I’m sure it couldn’t be any worse to put them or the coffeemaker in charge instead.
I think I’ve gone too far in the wrong direction sometimes, asking for consensus when I should have given orders. Based on the agreements Sara made, our cottage gets three votes, and the Porters and Tremblays get two apiece; I consider myself to have an unsaid veto, too, since there’s no way in hell I’d let the newcomers override us on something that matters.
Our three votes mean that Sara and Graham make sense at these meetings, but most of the time Matt and Kayla come along, too, leaving just Lisa and Fiona to watch the cottage. More than three people is unnecessary as far as I’m concerned, but Sara doesn’t really want me harping on that.
We were meeting at the Porters’ cottage today; they had put out a full breakfast of eggs and pancakes, which would have been a bigger gesture if the eggs weren’t all coming from our hens. But it was a nice change, and I certainly didn’t hold back when it came time to refill my plate.
Sara chaired the meeting, just like she chairs the Supply Partnership assuming it still exists. She doesn’t do it because she likes the sound of her own voice, as lovely as it may be. She does it because she loves writing and then following the agendas, and she knows full well that the rest of us don’t. I guess if she wasn’t leading the discussion she’d be silently plotting mass murder.
“So that brings us to inventory,” she said from her place at the head of the table, her eyes staring down on her notes. “I have a list from the Porters, but nothing from the Tremblay household.”
“Sorry,” Alain Tremblay said. “I’ll drop something off in a few days.”
“This keeps happening,” I said. “This is becoming a problem. I don’t like being a hardass —”
“You love being a hardass,” Sara said.
“Okay then… I love being a hardass, so I can’t stop myself from pointing out that you guys aren’t taking your counts seriously enough.”
“We don’t see the value,” Marc Tremblay said.
“Excuse me?” Sara said. “Did you really just say that?”
Marc just smirked while his brother Alain stood from his chair, looking as though he were preparing to give a speech. “We know there’s value in it,” Alain said, “but we have other priorities. We need firewood and we need fuel… that’s most important to us right now.”
I decided to stand up, too. “You also need food and medicine,” I said. “We just don’t know how much you need because you’re not keeping track. Your priorities are screwed up, guys. If you run out of firewood sometime mid-winter we can give you some of the wood we’re storing for next year, or hell… you can even go out and chop down some balsam fir and burn it the same day as long as you’ve still got hot embers in your stove.” I looked over at Sara; she hadn’t bothered to look up from her papers, so I kept going. “And if you don’t have fuel for your truck, you just don’t drive it. We have a cart and horses that never run out of gas, and the Porters have one of those tiny electric shitboxes that’s so popular with the kids these days. We’ve all learned how to share with others.”