Each issue of Galaxy Brain will contain one chapter of Kathryn McLeod’s fantastic book,  “THAT LOOKS GOOD ON YOU–YOU SHOULD BUY IT!” This is the eleventh chapter. You can read the other chapters here:

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven 
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten

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Chapter Eleven

Starring Carol as Carol

“I owe my success to having listened respectfully to the very best advice, and then going away and doing the exact opposite.” G.K. Chesterton

“I’m crazy and I don’t pretend to be anything else.” Rihanna

I first met Carol on a Wednesday evening. It was dead in the store, except for Carol, who was trying on a ton of clothes. Normally Gwen would turn a customer like that over to me, as encouragement, but she wasn’t doing that, so I lingered about pretending to clipboard fold sweaters, so I could find out what was up. Also, Gwen wasn’t using her customer voice, she was using her normal voice, her “I hate everyone and everything” voice.

But then the phone rang and Gwen, who normally answered, yelled out for me to get it. It turned out to be a phone sale, which I’d just recently learned how to do, having avoided answering the phone until then because I thought phone sales would be hard to do.

(Steverino wouldn’t call Chestertons because the one time he did, Anna answered, and I had become so good at imitating her telling customers, “That looks good on you, you should buy it”, that he froze, not sure if it was me or not, and hung up. So I knew it would never be him calling and it wasn’t.)

Then Tj showed me how to do phone sales and I started answering the phone whenever it rang. The other sales associates didn’t really like doing phone sales, but I was totally down with them once I found out how easy they were. The customer already knows what she wants because she’s ordering from the catalogue, which we kept by the phone. If we had the item, we’d put her on hold, go get it, ring it through on her credit card (she had to have or get a points card or no can do) and wrap it up just like she was in the store. Except then we’d take it to the back where it would get packaged up again to be Fed Exed directly to her home. Or, she could have it sent to another Chestertons and go pick it up there.

Nice, eh?

Except most of the time we didn’t have the item because our customers never checked to see if it said “catalogue only” beside the item, which it usually did. And we weren’t allowed to order from the catalogue for them, customers had to do it themselves, so you got to commiserate with them on the phone about what a shitty stupid business Chestertons was, all the while making waitress eyes at all the customers in the store clamouring for your attention.

Waitress eyes refers to that thing waitresses (I know, I know – servers) do when they pretend not to see you waving one hand in the air and clutching your throat with the other in a desperate bid for a glass of water, sailing past you and into the kitchen, never to be seen again.

It’s like every restaurant has a secret back exit for waitresses going off shift.

This phone sale featured a customer wanting what a surprising number of Chestertons customers wanted, which was long leather gloves, an item neither in the catalogue nor in the store.

“Hi, I’m just calling to see if you’re getting the long leather gloves in this year.”

“I don’t know. Are they in the catalogue? Because I haven’t seen ANY gloves in the store, certainly not leather. How long?”

“Up to mid-forearm. You used to carry them. Are you new?”

“Uh, sort of. Let me go ask the manager.”

“Gwen? Are we getting long leather gloves this year?”

“No, Katie. We haven’t had long leather gloves in probably five years. Tell her nobody has long leather gloves anymore.”

“Hi, the manager says we haven’t had long leather gloves in probably five years and nobody else has them either. Terrible, eh?”

So about a half hour later, after we’d decimated the retail industry, and said our goodbyes I headed back to resume clipboarding sweaters.

Suddenly, a bellowing from the other side of the store.

“Hey, does this make my tits look too big?”

I look around.

“Gwen’s in the back phucking up the schedule. You’re new here, right? Does this make my tits look too big?”

“Uh.”

“Be honest. Don’t gimme that Anna/Ruth bullshit. Does it make my tits look too big or not.”

“Ne yo es.”

“Oh for phucks sake. You don’t even have tits. What am I asking you for. Who are you, anyway?”

“Katie?”

“Yeah, okay. I’m Carol. I usually come in on Wednesday night. See what’s in. Sorry, about the no tits. You have tits. Small though, eh? No seriously, you’re lucky. Men don’t look twice at you, I bet. I like this poncho but I’m all tits in it, aren’t I. You should try it. It’ll look good on you. So yeah, I work in the back once in a while. That’s how I keep my discount but man, this collection’s crap, eh? You don’t look like you care. I bet you’ve never shopped here in your life. Hey, you shouldn’t wear black unless you’re going to wear make-up.”

“I am wearing make-up.”

“No, no you’re not. I’m wearing make-up. Jesus phuck. Look at how skinny you are. Oh I know, unfair, unfair, it’s just as hard to be a skinny chick as it is to be a fat chick even though it isn’t, but politically correct, right? Everybody wins. We’re all beauty queen geniuses. Hey, bet you’re scoring more shifts than you thought, eh? Those whiny little bitches, Jesus phuck, they bump a toe they call in sick. ‘I bumped my toe. It hurts. I can’t do my shift today.’ Oh, and rape culture. Jesus phuck if I hear one more word about rape culture I’m gonna rape somebody. Never mind. I’m too harsh, I know. That’s what thirty-five years in the bar business will do to ya. But I just tell it like it is. Don’t expect any of that politically correct crap from me. I can’t stand those whiny little bitches, though. Every time I see one I want to slap her. Okay, forget it. I’m not getting this poncho. I think I’m gonna end up working here now. Jesus phuck how does anybody afford anything anymore.”

“Don’t you already-”

“Yeah, yeah, I mean really working here. Forget the poncho. Try this on, I wanna see you in this pink. I’ll guard the front. Don’t worry about Gwen. She’s on the phone to that poor kid of hers. No wonder she has anxiety or bi-polar or whatever bullshit thing it is. Have you met her? Abby? Twiggy? Skippy? I forget. It’ll come to me.  Kid doesn’t know if she’s coming or going. Although she’s going to some kind of fitness camp over Christmas, the little pudge. I don’t know why Gwen even had a kid. She can’t stand people. And a kid, Jesus phuck, how do you not screw up a kid up these days?”

And because I’m nothing if not a people pleaser I did as told and tried on the pink. It looked great on me, too, the pink sweater, but when I came out Carol said, “Nope. It’s not a blue enough pink for you. Forget it. I’m going back to talk to Gwen. Nice meeting you, Katie. I’m glad Gwen’s hired an old broad and not another whiny little bitch. You might like them now but you won’t after a few more months of hearing about their stupid problems.”

And, you know, I could tell from the way she handed me the stack of clothes she’d tried on and rejected that she meant it as a compliment, the blue pink thing. At least, it was as close to a compliment as I ever got from her, and more of a compliment than I ever heard her give to anyone else.

And shortly after the evening we met, she got laid off her job in the restaurant/bar business, a job that apparently made her a shitload of money. In fact, it was enough of a shitload that she was shocked shitloadless when she found out that EI caps off at $45k or so, and it doesn’t matter if you were making a shitload of money moving numbers around in the back and shaking martinis out front. EI ain’t the restaurant/bar business, toots, take it or leave it.

So she took it and assumed that soon enough she’d find something and the real money would start rolling in again. In the meantime she asked Gwen to increase her shifts by keeping her in back but also putting her out front. And with a personality like Carol’s, once Arlene was constructively dismissed, Gwen had her new assistant manager.

Now, if I had asked Gwen to give me more shifts I imagine she’d have given me a long song and dance about wage costs vs sales, but I never asked for more shifts so I don’t know for sure that that would have been her response. I do, but I don’t. And I ended up having about as many shifts as I could do, anyway, thanks to the aforementioned enfeebled university girls on staff. And even though they were only ever four and five hour shifts, I often felt them by hour two in my lower back, because I’m not built for standing.

Looking back, it’s amazing to me that university girls manage to survive their first semester, they’re so prone to illness and injury. Although I guess one of my own girls managed to get swine flu, mono, and strep throat, all in her first year, and she lived to graduate.

Come to think of it, I walked around with viral pneumonia for weeks before finally collapsing on the steps of Victoria College at the University of Toronto. I was then taken to the clinic and prescribed bed rest and given three months of birth control.

It was standard procedure. Ortho Novum 1/50, enough birth control to stop a horse from reproducing. No matter what you were in the clinic for, at some point they’d ask you if you had a boyfriend. If you said yes, you were handed a three month supply of birth control. If you said no, same.

But this is Carol’s story so back to Carol.

Eventually, I found myself sharing a night shift with Gwen and Carol, except that now Carol was at the front, working, and by working I mean trying on outfits, so being a customer, stealing customers, so being a sales associate, and bossing everybody around, so being an assistant manager. Mostly, though, she tried on outfits.

“What about this, Gwen, in the delphinium. Although I’m not sure about the raglan sleeve.”

“That’s not your blue. You need the Caribbean. Katie, get Carol the Caribbean. It’s in the back. We haven’t put it out yet.”

“Katie should try on the delphinium, Gwen. She looks like shit in black. Stop wearing black, Katie. I told you already. Either wear make-up or don’t wear black.”

“Yes! Wear make-up, Katie!”

“Oh my God, I am wearing make-up, Gwen!”

“No, Katie, this is retail. You’re selling ladieswear.”

“Right, so not make-up, even though I am wearing make-up. I’m not selling it.”

“No, Katie, when I say you’re selling ladieswear, I mean you’re selling a look, and that look includes make-up – that I should be able to see you wearing from over here where I’m standing. I shouldn’t have to go up to your face with a magnifying glass to see that you’re wearing make-up. Our customers wear make-up – make-up we can see, so you should wear make-up – that we can see. NOT that I’m saying you have to wear make-up, because a Chestertons manager wouldn’t specifically come out and say that, but maybe you’d get more shifts if you did wear make-up – that I can see you wearing on your face.”

“Well to be fair to Katie, Gwen, if you want her to reflect what our customers look like she’d have to gain a hundred pounds, too. Hey yeah, gain a hundred pounds, Katie. I’m tired of looking like a heifer when I stand beside you. She’s making me look fat, Gwen. Fire her.”

“No, Carol. It’s not about looks, or God forbid, weight, it’s about presentation. And please, please, please don’t talk about weight in the store, unless it’s to say something positive.”

“Oh, gimme a break, Gwen. Our customers ask for plus sizes every day and I have to tell them we don’t stock them anymore, you have to order from the catalogue. They’re getting too fat for the store. We’re gonna have to widen the doorway soon.”

“Oh, what time is it? I have to phone and check in on Libby. She’s got an important math assignment due tomorrow and I want to make sure she’s doing it and not watching The Bachelor with her dad. Jesus, I wish he’d get over his PTSD. He needs to get back to his job in the army.  I don’t know how he got PTSD working in the mess hall but he managed.”

As soon as Gwen was gone, Carol said to forget the Caribbean from the back, she hated all the blues this season and was just humouring Gwen.

“So when did you find out Chestertons had a catalogue, Katie? Just now?”

“No, but last week Tj showed me how to do phone sales, so now I totally pull my weight on that score.”

“Yeah, easier on the phone than customers coming in to the store because they saw something in the catalogue and do we have it and no we don’t because we get less and less in the store with each collection. How the hell did you manage to miss that the pile of catalogues right there at the front of the store for as long as you did?”

“Oh you’d be amazed at what I’ve managed to miss, Carol.”

“Doubt it. Hey, I bet you were one of those girls in her twenties who dressed up like a punk except you looked new wave, didn’t you. I can see it now. Madonna fan. Right? Jesus phuck. You wanna know what I was doing in my twenties?”

“Who wouldn’t want to know what you were doing in your twenties, Carol? Yes, I do. I want to know what you were doing in your twenties.”

“Aha! You were a Madonna fan!”

Just then Gwen reappeared.

“Okay, Carol, I’ve got a lot of work to do in the back so I’m going to leave you to help Katie out with wardrobing. Katie, you really have to work on your wardrobing. And accessorizing. When a customer asks, ‘What would I wear with this’ don’t say ‘Check your closet when you get home’, say, ‘Let me show you what we’ve paired it with in the catalogue’. And if we don’t have what we’ve paired it with in the catalogue, because we don’t get absolutely everything, show her something else. Use your wardrobing skills. Think wardrobing. And please never ever tell a customer to check her closet when she gets home or they might start checking their closets before they come to Chestertons and we’ll never see them again.”

“Wait a minute, there’s a catalogue?”

“Oh my God, Katie! Yes, there’s a catalogue! It’s right there at the front-”

“Kidding, Gwen. Kidding. I was just lamenting the lack of plus sizes in the store that are in the catalogue with a customer earlier today.”

“Okay. Good. But don’t lament that we don’t have plus sizes with customers. Be positive. Catalogue sales do nothing for the store. I’m going in the back. The schedule needs tweaking.”

“Holy shit, you’re such a bullshitter, I can’t believe it. Not that I’m not a bullshitter, too, but you’re a real bullshitter. Still pretending the university girls aren’t a bunch of whiny babies. Jesus phuck. They remind me of my daughter except that they’re sick all of the time and not just most of the time. I remember hauling my ass into work so hungover I could barely even screw the pooch. And when I was waitressing I’d do it and still make a couple of hundred in tips. Now everybody’s got stress. ‘I’m stressed’. Or mental illness. ‘I’m bi-polar. I’m stressed with bi-polar.’ Jesus phuck, everybody’s bi-polar. Or they’ve got depression. ‘I’m depressed.’ Or manic-depression. Or post-traumatic stress. That one kills me. Try being married four times, you’ve got post-traumatic stress – I’ll give you post-traumatic stress. Get over here, I’ll post-traumatic stress you  alright.”

“Well, to be fair-”

“Oh get off it. I’ve seen you talking to them like you don’t think they’re full of shit. C’mon, and rape. Right? Everything is rape. So figure it out. What the hell – the world’s supposed to stop spinning because you got drunk and went back to some asshole’s place, alone, like an idiot, and he didn’t fill out a consent form when you passed out on his couch? I know it’s wrong, Katie, I get it, we all phucking get it, but why not look on the bright side? You don’t remember it.”

“Ooh, Carol-”

“Look, you’re not going to tell me you weren’t raped. We just didn’t call it rape. Rape was a stranger leaping out from behind a bush, attacking you from behind, knocking you down. He’s got a knife. You know, rape. Now everything’s ‘I was raped! By my partner! It was morning! I wasn’t awake yet!’ I’m kidding. You know what I mean.”

“Whoa, Carol, I-”

“Rape? Let me tell you about my first marriage, I’ll tell you about rape.”

Disclaimer: If anybody reading this is in a position to produce a made-for-CBC movie, please contact me, not Carol, because she’ll kick my ass for stealing her story for my book. Also, she’s a very intimidating person and you don’t want to contact her anyway, not unless you’re prepared to either 1) marry her, 2) hire her, or 3) get your ass kicked by her.

So here’s Carol’s story as told to me by Carol.

I started dating my husband when I was in high school. He was popular, a football player, kind of a big deal. I wasn’t nothing, myself, but he was in a different league and a couple of grades ahead. The whole time we dated he was a gentleman, always looking out for me, never pushing me to do anything I didn’t want to do, especially when it came to sex, and when we got married I was still a virgin.

We’d kissed and messed around a bit but not even, really. But the night before my wedding my dad took me aside and said, “Look, Carol, it’s not too late to back out of this thing if you don’t want to go through with it.”

And I was shocked, I said, “But dad I do want to go through with it. I want to get married.”

And he said, “I know you want to get married but do you love him? Because I’m not sure you know what it’s like to be married. We can’t help you once you’re married. You’re his, not just in the eyes of Jehovah, but it’s not our place, your mother’s or mine, to interfere, it’s not society’s business, it’s yours to work out with him.”

And I said, “But dad, I’m happy.”

And I reassured him that I wanted to get married. I was even a little annoyed that he seemed to be raining on my parade. But then he warned me about my wedding night, what was to come, and I’ve never forgotten it because he said, “Carol, I know you’re a virgin, because you’re a good girl, and I don’t think you understand that a wedding night for a bride is not what she thinks it’s going to be. Your mother wanted me to tell you, she wanted it to come from me, that you need to be prepared that it probably won’t go as planned.”

And I was so embarrassed but also touched that he was so concerned and I told him not to worry about me, that I’d be fine. There was a little voice in the back of my head saying, “This is weird. Dad’s usually telling us we can get out of anything because he’s our Dad and he’s all-powerful and if we have any kind of problem with anybody just tell him and he’ll tell Jehovah and Jehovah and he will work together to fix it.”

[There was a brief interjection then when I said, “So your parents were Jehovah’s Witnesses”, to which Carol responded with mixed metaphors, “No shit, Sherlock. Jesus phuck, you’re a real Einstein. No flies on you, that’s for sure. Yes, my parents were Jehovah’s Witnesses. We all were. Are. Except me. I’m being shunned. Thirty-five years and I’m still being shunned. Unforgiving peckers.”]

Anyway, we got married and it was a big party, the reception was a blow-out and I don’t know what it cost my parents. I was eighteen and beautiful and all my friends were fun girls and excited because I was getting married and my husband was a real catch and his friends were there, too. And free booze, which I didn’t have any of because I didn’t even drink. I didn’t smoke, I didn’t drink, I didn’t do drugs, I didn’t have sex. I thought of myself as worldly because I’d been to Toronto, but I knew nothing. My parents had emigrated from England, from real tough working class backgrounds in Manchester, and we had always been provided for, no money, but we had a good life. There were six of us kids, we had a house and my mom stayed home. We had really good childhoods, you know? My parents even took us on summer vacations. Remember that story I told at Esther’s retirement dinner?

[There was another brief interjection here when I recalled to Carol the look on Gwen’s face and the fifty shades of red that went down because she’s really uncomfortable around any discussions of sex. Meanwhile, the story, complete with Manchester accents, involved six kids lying awake in one room of the cabin when they hear their father returning to the cabin after dinner with a friend. There are no lights in the cabin, it was very rustic, and their mother had been asleep. “Dahling, wake up, dahling. I’ve got something for you.” “<sigh> I was sleeping.” “Now, now, this won’t take but a minute. Just lie back, there’s a good girl, I’ve got something for you, now just open your mouth, there, there, a little more. Relax, dahling. Trust me. It’s going to be a little slimy and salty but, trust me, you must trust me, dahling. Now swallow! Don’t taste it, just swallow! You’ll love it.” At which point their mother was heard to exclaim, “Oh my, dahling, that was good. Oh yes, I did taste it, though. So salty and delicious. Let’s do it again. Can we do it again? You do have more, don’t you?”]

[Okay, okay, interjection over – it was an oyster he’d brought back to the cabin from the dinner he’d had with his friend.]

But it was strange because my husband didn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave the reception and get to the hotel room. My parents had rented it for us. The next day we were moving into our new apartment. And my girlfriends had given me sexy lingerie at my shower and I was dying to have him see me in it, although I hadn’t thought much beyond that because I really was inexperienced.

Eventually, though, we got back to the hotel. He didn’t say anything on the drive there and I was all jazzed still from the reception and did all the talking. I wasn’t nervous, I was excited, but something did seem off and maybe I was talking over it. You know how you do that when you don’t want to acknowledge to yourself or admit to yourself that bad news is coming so you just keep talking? Like you can talk your way through it? Get to the other side of the tension? It was like that, sort of, but maybe I’m adding that on now. Maybe back then I was that oblivious.

When we were in the room I excused myself to put on my outfit in the bathroom and when I was totally perfected I came out to model it. Model me in it. And he looked at me as cold as ice, Katie, and said, “What the hell do you think you’re playing at? You’re supposed to be naked.” And he slapped me across the face, ripped off my lingerie, pushed me down on the bed, got on top of me, and raped me. I couldn’t breathe, he was so heavy. I was too in shock to feel the pain until later. I had a red mark on my face, still, in the morning, he’d slapped me so hard.

“There’s no blood on the sheets”, he said in the morning. “There’s supposed to be blood on the sheets. What are you, a whore? You must have fucked somebody before me. Who did you fuck before me?”

And I was crying, “I was a virgin! Why did you do that?”

And he slapped me across the face again and said, “Shut up. I’ll do whatever I want. You married me.”

[There was another interjection then when Gwen came to the front to ask if the dressing rooms had been cleaned out yet and Carol said, “I told you already, Gwen, yes, the dressing rooms have been cleaned out. Do you want me to go mess them up again so you can pretend we had customers? Will that make you feel better? I could go in and try on more clothes. What do you think of that top with the crisscross back? Our customers aren’t going to like it. It looks like something you’d buy at one of the teen stores on the first floor.” “Are you kidding me, Carol? I love that top. I’m going to buy it. Why don’t you try on that dress, the ponte knit with the elbow sleeves, the one in navy. I really like it.” “I’m done with church dresses, Gwen. I don’t go to church anymore. I got all the religion I need right here.” <pointing to her head> “Okay we need to do another $500 in sales. Sell something, ladies. I’m going in the back to rework the schedule. Everybody’s got to give up a shift. This is crazy. Where are our customers?”]

But it wasn’t all like that, Katie, that was the crazy part. We had lots of good times, too, but when it was bad, it was worse. He threatened my mother when she came to check up on me once, pinned her against the wall. I convinced him to let her leave and he hit me after she did but I was getting tougher. I was figuring out there was something wrong with him, not me. He kept trying to make me think it was me but I knew it wasn’t me. I mean, part of me thought I deserved it because I’d married him, another part thought I could fix him, another part still thought he was worth it, but I knew it wasn’t me. My relationship with my dad was different, though. He wasn’t like my dad anymore. He was like this old man I used to know. It’s hard to describe. I thought the attack on my mom would have him over like a shot, but she didn’t tell him. I didn’t know that until years later, she didn’t tell him.

She never told him. I never told him. But he knew. That’s why he stayed away. It wasn’t his business. It was just like he said it was going to be.

The next thing I knew, we’d moved to Saskatchewan, to a town out in the middle of nowhere, which is practically every town in Saskatchewan, but whatever. He had money troubles now and I had to work, so I did, I got a job at the gas station. I did everything at that gas station, too. Pumped gas, sold candy, cleaned washrooms. And I started making an escape plan. All I had in Saskatchewan was my husband, who was finding fault with everything I did now, hitting me sometimes but not as much as before because I was learning what set him off and to be careful. I was essentially doing everything he wanted, keeping my head down, going to work, going straight home. He was mad that he couldn’t get me pregnant. He must have had a low sperm count or something because I wasn’t on birth control.

The gas station was owned by a couple of brothers. Just a couple of nice guys, both crazy about me. And one day it dawns on me, boom, that I was doing it all wrong. Here I was this great looking chick with these tits [puts hands under breasts and raises a few inches] beautiful long blond hair and these gorgeous baby blues.

It’s 1978, I’m 20 years old and I’m wasting it all out here in the middle of nowhere with some guy who hates himself so much he hates me, too.

And a lightbulb went on and I said to myself, “A whore, that’s what I’ll be, a whore. I’ll fuck these two guys until I have enough money to get the hell out of here and set myself up back in Toronto where nobody knows me and I can start my life over.”

So I said to these two guys, separately, “You have to pay me. I’ll fuck your brains out but you have to pay me.”

And they did. In fact, they paid me so much that in no time I had $5,000. $5,000, Katie! That was a lot of money to have back in 1978. For me it was, anyway. And they knew that I was fucking both of them but they never let on about it or wanted me to do both of them at once or anything kinky. Just hand jobs, blow jobs, vaginal, anal. That was it. And Katie, they were so nice. We’d go to their house, hang out, and I’d blow them or give them a hand job. It was fun. Sometimes I’d do the full nine yards with them, this big build up teasing routine, strip teases, playing with myself, flashing them. And this whole time I was giving my paycheque from the gas station to my husband, but I was building up a stash of cash that I kept hidden. I had a hiding place, Katie. I stashed my cash.

When I realized I actually had $5000, I split. I wasn’t extra nice to anybody or anything like that, I didn’t give any signs. No free BJs – I just split. Left everything behind. I had $5000. Bought a bus ticket because I wanted to conserve money and when you’re in the middle of Saskatchewan even getting to an airport costs money. Nope, I knew the schedule, went to the station right before departure, bought a ticket and that was it. I figured the guys would understand. I mean, how happy could I have been, right? Married to an abusive prick out on the middle of the prairies, my only friends a couple of johns I worked with. And that was my only time hooking. Do NOT say sex worker around me. Jesus phuck those feminists take the fun out of everything. I was a hooker, not a sex worker. Sex worker reminds me of those black and white images coming out of the old Soviet Union when we were kids.

And you know, Katie, my husband never even looked for me. I laid low, didn’t let anybody know where I was, as far as everybody I’d known was concerned I’d dropped off the face of the earth. Got a job waitressing at a diner in Toronto and a guy comes in my first week and tells me, “Hey beautiful, you could make better money stripping. You’re gorgeous. Can you dance?” So I worked at his club but I wasn’t into it. I wanted to hang out with the beautiful people, not a bunch of narcissistic twats with problems – yeah, you got problems, you’re narcissistic twats shoveling coke up your noses – so I got a job bartending in a disco.

There weren’t very many female bartenders, either, Katie. And I knew my husband would never show up at a disco because he was totally homophobic and thought dancing was gay. That was another thing that I was so happy about, no more having to listen to his music, we always had to listen to his music. Why do we have to listen to their music after we move in together? I didn’t know he wasn’t even looking for me, I thought I had to stay away from anywhere he might show up. He didn’t even know Toronto, Katie. It would be the last place he’d show up. But I was in this role now, not of victim, but of survivor. I’m a survivor, Katie. No, not a survivor, a victor. I am victorious.

Eventually, I got in touch with my family, but I didn’t let them know where I was. I just said I wasn’t with my husband. And they thought that was a sin, but it was a necessary sin, so that was okay but let’s not talk about it. My mother said, ‘It’s okay to leave your husband because you made a mistake marrying him but don’t talk about it. Jehovah is all that matters and Jehovah forgives you. Your dad matters, too, of course, and he doesn’t want to have to talk about it. He feels bad for you, that you had to go through all that and he couldn’t help you. But you have to appear before the elders. We can’t do anything. The elders have to decide if we can see you.’

And that’s when it hit me that I was on my own, that it was all up to me, and that I could do whatever I wanted, but it would always be up to me to fix it. But I still went to meet with the elders, and Katie, they asked me questions about sex with my husband, they asked me, get this, if I’d had anal intercourse with my husband. Imagine, a bunch of old men asking this young woman – I was twenty-one – if I’d had anal intercourse with my husband. Anyway, I told them to go fuck themselves – up the ass – and I stormed out. But it was too bad because then my family wasn’t allowed to talk to me. I was out of the fold. They did, or they tried to, but it all had to be done through channels and I couldn’t go to any family events. Finally, just a year or so ago, I showed up at a funeral. And guess what? Nobody died. Well, except the guy who was already dead. But I mean Jehovah didn’t strike everybody dead for talking to me. And they did, they did talk to me.

These girls today, Katie, they think everybody’s supposed to be looking out for them. And we are, we are looking out for them. I’m a mother. A guy treated my daughter like my husband treated me I’d rip his balls off and shove ‘em down his throat. Are you kidding me? I tease my daughter. She’s older than I was when I was on my third husband and had two kids already and she’s living with me, never goes out. ‘Here’s $50’, I say. ‘Put on a slutty top, go out, get drunk. See what happens.’ She’s like, ‘Mom!’ And I’m only half kidding, Katie, because I’m worried about her. I’m not a bad person. I want her to have fun. How can you have fun without men giving you trouble? But I’m still shunned, you know. The elders said I sinned. She doesn’t get to know my family. And I didn’t even tell those old men about prostituting myself at the gas station. I wish I had. They thought it was a sin that I left my husband. And I have no idea what it meant that I’d had anal sex with him. No idea.”

“Jesus phuck, Carol, your first marriage is like Anne of Green Gables meets Wedding in White meets Termini Station meets Corner Gas! I’m going to write about it. I’m putting it in my book.”

“What? No way, Katie. You are NOT wasting my first marriage on a book. Nobody reads. No, it’s too good a story to waste in a book. No, it’s my story, you can’t have it. It’s not for sale.”

“Ooh, well, maybe you should have negotiated better terms before you told it to me. It’s going in my book and somebody smarter than both of us put together, if that’s even humanly possible, is going to read it and turn it into a screenplay. Saskatchewan, abusive husband, prostitution, elders, Chestertons. Okay, maybe not Anne of Green Gables, although coincidentally Termini Station also stars Megan Follows and Colleen Dewhurst, and you’re Carol and Carol Kane plays the lead in Wedding in White. But c’mon, Carol, your story’s some serious Cancon. Maybe CBC will produce it! Who do you want to play you? I’m thinking that little actress who came out as a lesbian.”

“The Juno girl? Her? You’re going to get a mousy little lesbian to play me? I had long blond hair, the same awesome big tits I’ve still got, and these baby blues.”

“Uh, yeah, beautiful gay activist, Ellen Page, wig, implants, contacts. But okay. We can decide casting later.”

“Just write about retail, Katie. Tell the world how it is. For all you know I made it up.”

“Did you?”

“No. But now I’m re-evaluating the price potential of marriages two, three, and four, although I was kind of the bad guy in those ones. Ugh. I was such a shitty wife. Kids are so unforgiving, too. I didn’t leave them, leave them. C’mon. They had dads. I wasn’t a shitty mom, I just wasn’t around much. My daughter is sucking the life out of me, Katie. She came to live with me, well, I ended up living with her, had to hide out for a bit. I’m worried about her, Katie. I have lots of tops she could borrow, too. I’ve got the right fuck me outfit all ready for her but she’s just not interested in men. Why, Katie? Why isn’t she interested in men?”

Jesus phuck, who knows, Carol. Jesus phuck, who knows.