But she’ll sure have something to say about your hair.”
That got a laugh all around.
Most of the rest of their meeting was spent rattling away about Heathen’s celebrity status. Instead of learning about the background of the new Rwandan beans, they all asked about the jumps and tricks, because despite living in a ski town, and even though most of them skied to some extent, Mohammed and other staffers didn’t have a real sense of what it took for Heathen to do what she did. The idea that she spent her time doing such exotic things suddenly made her even more exciting.
Heathen got to explain that yes, she went forty feet up in the air, did all those acrobatic twists and somersault combinations. Everybody looked at her in awe. Heathen basked and looked really happy.
Mohammed supposed that Dag already knew about all this sport stuff, since he had done something similar himself. At any rate, Dag was the only one reading the new product cards. Mohammed would just send the cards home with the other baristas. They were trying the coffee, they were having a good time while doing it, they’d make the positive associations and recommend it to the customers. Since BlackArts would sell product regardless, Mohammed let the fan session go on, because it was clearly the most fame any of the rest of the coffee shop crew had brushed up against.
When Tim and Heathen moved outside for a smoke, and the others left, Dag stuck around to clean up.
“You didn’t join in much,” Mohammed said, stacking cups in the dishwasher while Dag wiped the tables they’d sat at. Mohammed always tried to be aware of the interaction between Dag and Heathen. As much as he liked Dag and his wonderful way with customers, he was worried that Dag and Heathen would become an item.
“I already know what layouts and twist 360s are,” Dag said. “I’ve done them on a snowboard. And I know the magazine feature. They have the same thing in Canadian Snowboarder. It’s published by the same people.”
“Did you ever get a profile like that?”
“No.”
“I’ll bet you thought about what you’d put for all those answers,” Mohammed said. “Favourite trick, best party—”
“Yeah, I did,” Dag said, and abruptly changed the subject. “Look, Mohammed, why don’t you just ask her out already? I’m sure she’d go.”
Mohammed shook his head. “I don’t know if we’d click.”
“You’ve been working with her for almost two years,” Dag said. “I watch you guys work a rush, you know exactly what each other is doing, where you’re going to move, you barely have to say a word. You’re already like an old married couple. Me, she gets pissed at me every other day for god knows what reasons. You, you’re never on her nerves.”
“But I don’t have that snow sport connection. You have much more in common with her than I do.”
“Don’t go shoving her off on me,” Dag said. “She makes her own decisions. I know she doesn’t want me, and in case you haven’t noticed, Heathen and I are just buds. I go out with other people.”
Mohammed relaxed at that. He had seen Dag out around town with girls from a couple of the other shops. It was what he’d thought, and hoped. But he still held off telling Dag his main reason for holding back with Heather. His secret fear was that an Iraqi boyfriend would ruin her chance to be on a national team. Some politically-minded type was bound to think “security risk”.
Dag carried on. “Which is why it’s so hard to sit back and not say ‘Hey, can we move it along here?’ when she’s showing off her profile, because that would be all spoilsporty and like tromping all over her moment.”
Mohammed agreed inwardly. That would be bad.
“It’s not Heathen’s fault that I didn’t become a hot national prospect, or even known much around here,” Dag went on. “And, fuck, she is doing well,” he added. “Even though she’s still smoking.” He gave Mohammed a pointed look again. “You could take her out to dinner to celebrate her big celebrity moment. See what happens. And tell her to quit smoking.”
“I think I’ll start with putting the magazine page up,” Mohammed said.
“Yeah,” Dag sighed.
The next day, the page from the magazine had been carefully placed in plastic and stuck out front. Ginette had added a caption she’d printed off her computer at the top: “Heather Dundonald, BlackArts staff star featured in Canadian Freestyler magazine!”
In deference to Dag, though, Mohammed put it on the front of the cash. Facing the customers, not the staff. When he innocently told Heather more people would see it that way, she was extra-pleased.
Five
The Hero asks in return: What the fuck’s so great about *you*?
• • •
A magenta-haired woman of about thirty walked in. Her hair was short and perfectly spiked to stand out exactly two inches all around her head. This was not someone who made it a habit of wearing a hat or helmet. Heathen started an assessment, only halfway under her breath. “No ski wear. Computer case.” She turned to Dag. “She’s going to buy one coffee and nurse it for two hours while she sits here with her laptop.” Officially, the chain didn’t mind, and the baristas didn’t have to rush them out, but Heathen hated campers like that. She never thought they bought enough to offset the space they took up, but she knew she was the only one of the staff who felt that way.
“Hi.” The woman stuck out her hand to Dag at the cash. “Philippa.” She didn’t smile, probably convinced of her own intensity and trying not to compromise it.
Dag smiled and shook her hand. “Dag.”
Her serious look didn’t change. “I’ll be around here kind of regularly.”
“Yeah? Me too.”
She seemed to miss the joke. “I’m staying at a friend’s place in town to get some work done,” Philippa said. “Away from the city.” Every statement she made, she accompanied with a small nod to herself. Interesting tic. Heathen stifled a laugh into a cough behind him. She was going to have a field day with this.
“Is it a problem if I come in for a bit every day? I get a little stir crazy in the house.”
“No sweat,” Dag said. “As you can see, there aren’t exactly fistfights going on over the tables on the weekdays. Weekends, though, you take your chances. It’s a bit of a free-for-all with the tourists and day-trippers.” Everyone who was convinced the après-ski lodges at the resorts were going to gouge them for a hot chocolate came over instead to their loyal, dependable, and truth be told, if anybody actually made the comparison, equally-pricey BlackArts for their beverages.
“Sure,” Philippa nodded. There was a pause. “It’s a screenplay I’m working on,” she said. “I’ll be pitching it at the Whistler Film Festival.”
Well, that was a propos of nothing. Heathen wanted to gag. “Good for you,” Dag said. Philippa waited, like there should be more. Dag took the bait. “What’s it about? The Whistler scene?”
“Man’s inhumanity to man.”
“Sounds like the Whistler scene to me,” Dag said.
Heathen was finally unable to keep herself from breaking into their lovely little chat. “Can we, um, get you something?” She stepped up beside Dag, with the fake’n’cheesy smile she reserved for the times she meant it the least. “We have any number of refreshing beverages.”
Philippa looked a bit startled by Heathen’s sudden and exaggerated