Toby by Todd Babiak Page A

were top-loaded in lease contracts. “You gotta wait for Donny.”
    New customers, actual customers, an Asian boy and his parents, entered the showroom. Gary Dunlop corrected his posture and strode toward them with such relief it verged on a sprint. For almost half an hour, Toby flipped through pamphlets and compared himself to images of authentic BMW people as the boy’s parents argued rancorously about the appropriate options on his graduation present.
    The manager, Don Chana, walked into the showroom with a Starbucks coffee. He was tall and thick, with a red tie turned around in the wind to reveal the word Togo—a former house brand of the Hudson’s Bay Company. He spotted Toby and feigned a stagger. His black loafers squeaked on the faux marble. “About time you came back to see us. How long’s it been?”
    “Some months.”
    “God damn, it’s good to see you.”
    In the manager’s office, which was decorated with BMW posters and sales awards and icons with Punjabi script, Toby discovered that the story of his dismissal was a common one. Don Chana looked up at the beams and ducts and asked God to commit an act of violent yet creative sexual assault against Toby’s boss. He vowed never to watch the television station again and mimed a spit on the floor.
    “That is really too kind, Mr. Chana.”
    “It’s the least I can do.” He put on his reading glasses, looked up Toby’s file. “Well, I’ll be damned. That can’t be right, can it?”
    Toby recalled thinking, less than a week before, that he would never again need to send out a C.V. The next stage of his career was supposed to be in Toronto or New York or London, with Alicia, as soon as the headhunters noticed them.
    “This is not what you wanted to hear, my friend, but with your down payment, if your car is in utterly pristine condition, utterly, I can release you from your contract. That is, if you write us a cheque for $1,500. Of course, we can go to the used lot and see if we can’t somehow help you out of this damned carlessness.”
    “So I can’t keep the 335?”
    “No. No, you absolutely cannot. If you stop making payments, we will take it from you and destroy your credit rating, my friend.”
    “I was hoping, Mr. Chana, that given my high profile in the community…”
    “But you have lost your job, sir.”
    “Just temporarily.”
    Don Chana sipped his Starbucks.
    One hour and $1,800 later, Toby pulled out of the BMW dealership in an orange 1980 Chevette. Don Chana had just received the car and the “union fucks” in the service department had not found the time to clean it out or inspect it. Toby stayed off the autoroute, fearing a breakdown, but the sun broke through the clouds again just as he re-entered the stable and happy environs of Westmount. Schoolchildren, joggers, the elderly, and new mothers stopped to stare at the Chevette, which growled and farted as he passed Alicia’s house on Strathcona Avenue. He slowed and stopped, hoping that she would come running out and restore him to dignity. A smorgasbord of colourful pollution rose up behind the Chevette and filled his rear-view mirror. He had once described car exhaust as “a crime against humanity” in a segment of Toby a Gentleman.
    A rust-based ecosystem thrived in the Chevette. Amature spiderweb dotted with mosquito carcasses was on the passenger-side floor. A late-season bee hovered at the back of the car, slamming into the rear window. For the first time in two days, Toby checked the messages on his cellphone. There were a number from Dwayne and his secretary, two from Alicia—pre-confrontation Alicia, pretend Alicia, I love you Alicia—and one from his mother, dated from that morning: Edward was being discharged.
    Karen sat and Edward stood in the waiting area of the burn unit, the television still tuned to CNN.
    “Where in hell have you been?” Karen jumped up from her chair, and brown crumbs fell from her shirt. “They kicked him out of his room hours ago. We