Poles Apart by Terry Fallis Page B

perspective demanded and deserved satisfaction. Well, I’m your man, er, blogger.

    When I left my apartment later in the afternoon to head back to the hospital, I noticed two workers varnishing the beautifulnewly installed wooden front door to the establishment downstairs. Green garbage bags enveloped and protected what seemed to be oversized door handles. They were making progress. It wouldn’t be long now. A line of young people, mainly women, okay, almost all women, snaked out of the side alley and curled onto the sidewalk in front of the building. They were all holding forms of some kind in their hands. I figured secret job interviews were underway in the secret business below my apartment. Kitchen staff? Waiters? Okay, a bar or restaurant, perhaps? Pounding music seeped out of the establishment.
    A big guy, a really big black guy, in a black suit with an earphone stood off to the side where the line ended. I couldn’t help but stare at the last young woman in the line. She was quite stunning. Beautiful face, short auburn hair, and a body that actually conformed to the unrealistic standards fashion magazines have been setting for decades. And there it was, another sneak attack of what I’ve come to call my “principle-personal paradox.”
    No matter how committed I am to women’s rights, no matter how deeply I feel about gender equality in my head and in my heart, still I couldn’t help but be struck by the sight of what society considered an attractive woman. I don’t know whether it’s purely visceral, hormonal, or instinctive, but it happens, quite often. I’d catch myself staring, and force myself to look away. Sometimes I’d weaken and sneak another peek while she was still in my field of view. It made the high-minded progressiveliberal in me cringe and complain. But it was difficult not to look sometimes, not to appreciate physical beauty. I sometimes wondered whether it was an offshoot of aestheticism, the noble search for true beauty. But just as often I thought there might be a more primal sexual angle to it. Who the hell knows?
    The principle-personal paradox.
My
principle-personal paradox. My brain hurt thinking about it. I felt guilty and conflicted, but I don’t want to overstate it. It wasn’t exactly like the monk who flayed himself and bled over impure thoughts. But still, I didn’t feel good about it when it happened.
    She raised her eyes and caught my lingering look.
    “Job interviews?” I asked.
    “You could say that,” she replied.
    “Keep walking, please,” commanded big black suit earphone guy. “Nothing to see here.”
    I was about to make a crack about the CIA or the movie
Men in Black
but decided against it. I had serious reservations about this guy’s sense of humour. So I just walked on by, slipped into my father’s car, and pulled into traffic.

    Dad and I made our way slowly along the Red path until we found her, as usual, writing, sitting alone on one of the benches spaced along the walking trail. It was a beautiful day. Cotton ball clouds hung in a cobalt sky. Thankfully, it was not overly hot for Florida.
    “Looking good,
Mrs
. Tanner,” Dad said, enjoying his little jibe as he continued up the path.
    “Now, Billy, I think we can dispense with that archaic, outmoded, value-burdened prefix. You can call me Beverley, the way Everett does. I’d say we’re now on a first-name basis. Wouldn’t you?”
    Dad kept shuffling but aimed a strained smile back at her as he passed.
    “Whatever you say, little lady,” he wheezed.
    “Dad, don’t you think it’s time to retire ‘little lady’ from your repertoire?” I asked.
    “Ha. There’s more where that came from. I’ve got a million lines like that” was all he said in reply.
    “You say that as if might be an attractive attribute,” Bev said, almost, but not quite, under her breath.
    Dad just laughed and continued walking. As we’d negotiated, I sat down with Beverley. We’d agreed that if Dad walked two more