You're Bill

I like riding the subway. It always reminds me that things could be worse. It's riskier than it was when I was young. Many passengers want a ride to a fight, and can't wait to get there. They will start one with you, if the teeth of the craving get too sharp.

Study the floor, or a novel, or your phone. Looking another person in the eye has many meanings elsewhere, but only one on the modern subway, if the other party is a stranger to you. Some vocabularies are very small. "Threat" is one of the eight to ten words some understand.

I've arrived unscathed, and I'm kind of impressed by this place. It's some sort of hip "gastro pub," which sounds like a bar for the chronically flatulent to me. I received the "evite" to this event by mistake. I was in an odd mood, so I decided to check it out.

My odd mood was the result of the message that was ahead of the misdirected "evite" in the queue when I reluctantly opened my email this morning. Here it is:

From: Margaret Lihava <[email protected]>

Sent: October 6, 2026 6:08 PM

To: Brian Murphy <[email protected]>

Subject: Your work at Ebonridge

 Hello, Dr. Murphy,

The Dean’s Office is currently issuing offer letters for the Winter 2027 term to sessional faculty members.  Dr. Brown informed me that you have expressed interest and availability to teach three courses in the Winter 2027 term.  I considered assigning the courses to you and have decided not to extend an offer.   This decision is based on your unsatisfactory record of teaching within the Faculty of Arts.

 Over a number of years, your Department Chairs have raised concerns with you regarding your teaching performance. These concerns are consistent with issues identified in student evaluations, as well as complaints from students that were escalated to your Chair or the Dean's Office. Despite repeated discussions between you and academic leaders within the Faculty, there has been no sustained improvement in your teaching performance. As a result, I have made the decision communicated in this letter.

If you require further information, please feel free to contact me.

Regards,

Dr. Margaret Lihava

Needless to say, I found this message both alarming and profoundly demoralizing. I have been a sessional lecturer at a mediocre, Canadian "university" for twenty years. I am a practitioner, in my own, clumsy way, of the Socratic Method of teaching. That means that instead of showing my students slides, I actually try to engaged them in edifying conversations about how manner and matter combine to make the meanings of poems and essays and short stories and novels.

For a long time, most of my students found my approach refreshing and intriguing. A few always hated my guts, of course. They turned up for class to play stenographer, i.e., to copy slides into their notes. They did not turn up to be confronted by an eccentric nerd with questions about plot and character and symbolism and figurative language for them.

My popularity plummeted after the pandemic, which was just the crisis that was needed to turn what remained of instructors like me into frightened, obedient servants of the pedagogical status quo.

It looks like I'm finished as an instructor, and I loved teaching, so that is a painful discovery. The next message in the queue following this poisoned arrow aimed at my soul was the misdirected "evite":

From: Barb Johnson <[email protected]>

Sent: October 6, 2026 6:08 PM

To: Brian Murphy <[email protected]>

Subject: Department Halloween Party

Hi Bill:

I know you haven't been feeling great lately, but we'd really love to see you tonight. There's someone a few of us think you would enjoy meeting, and we've invited her to join us. She told me that she's coming in a witch costume, so she should be easy to spot.

I know most of these things are silly and boring, Bill, but you might have fun, and you can't just sit at home griping about plagiarism every night. You should show, even if you just talk to Majo (the person we invited on your behalf) and ignore us.

We care about you, Bill.

Best,

Barb

I know Barb, and I like Bill. Bill and I have spent some time joking about the fact that we share a surname and all of the lapsed, Irish Catholic guilt and anxiety that come with it. He's [email protected], so this isn't the first message meant for him I've received. Barb is nosy and loves gossip, but her heart is pure, and Bill is one of her "special projects."

She's the instructional assistant for the Philosophy Department. Bill's been a tenured professor in that department for ages.

I'm just a sessional in English.

Bill's not well. Rumors about what's wrong with him abound, but nobody who talks to me is sure. I think it's a safe bet that he won't show, so I'm here in his place. In a dark bar, I can pass for Bill. You can't see tenure in a person's eyes, and I've got an MA in Philosophy, so I can bluff. Now that my career is dead, what do I have to lose?

I walk in and freeze. My eyes are frantic. I'm hoping she'll see that I am in distress and help me. I wait.

Nothing.

My elbows help me find the bar. There's a guy in a skeleton costume, with makeup that shouldn't be as convincing as it is, tending it. He is quite busy, but he's excited. He is a bartender and, for the moment, he's glad. This is work he can stand, and occasionally enjoy. You can tell.

Perhaps he wasn't raised to become an avid mixologist. The fact that it irritates and embarrasses his parents adds to its allure. They never understand, but he loves them, and they know it. It's a sweet deal. I'm thinking Mark, or perhaps Matt. An abbreviated version of old, sacred names.

"What can I get you?" asks Matt. I like that. No pretense, no sales pitch, just a polite acknowledgement of a mutually beneficial arrangement.

"How's the beer?" I ask Matt. This is crucial. If he launches into a protracted, nonsensical yarn about hops and bespoke yeast and what not, I'm off. If he tells me which one to order right away and tells the truth, I could be here for a while. Tips should always be given, and meaningful.

"You'll want the Cantillon Creek," says Matt. He knew right away, and I don't think he's being paid a cent for recommending this one. His shirt has been laundered to within an inch of it's life. Limited range. And he has been working hard and resting fitfully if at all. He's young, so he can smile through it, for a while.

"Why is that?" I think this will be good. He'll give it to me straight because he thinks I can take it. That's respect. His tip will show it.

"It tastes like a funky old wine cellar," says clever Matt. Sold.

"I know the feeling," I reply. He waits a bit, serves someone else, does it with pleasant efficiency despite the fact that the other party clearly does not need to prolong whatever excessive alcohol has turned them into, and rolls his eyes at me as Batman walks away.

A good bartender.

They linger in the shadows of a corrupt and filthy world. Recognize them. Thank them. Do not betray them to the authorities. Rough justice is better than injustice.

"I didn't say you wouldn't be glad to find the funky old wine cellar," says Matt, and serves me something that seems as charming as a burning building at first, and turns out to be a scene from a dark comedy about a burning building, starring cherries.

Matt knows what's up.

He comes over for a verdict after I've killed a few minutes scanning for a witch.

"Thanks for this," I say to Matt, as if he's given me the password to an enemy's social media account in beer form. "Where are the witches?"

Matt looks as if he's looking for a leaf on a tree he has seen many times. Some of the details are new , and some of them are as permanent as a birth date. "Over there," says Matt. "Just a second. I know Majo!"

"Are you glad to know Majo?" I'm not sure about this. He might take offense, and punish me in some way. There could be something unpleasant in my next drink that he doesn't think I'll notice. He'll probably be right.

"Oh, sure. She's a local character. Smart and crazy. A little like you, if you want the truth." He's gambling, or testing, I'm not sure which. Perhaps I do not need another drink. I wanted to say Australian at first. Now I think he's from Belfast. He's very polite to drunks, after all.

"You two should talk," says Matt, as he disappoints the witch by presenting me. She does not look dismayed, but there is almost certainly pity, and perhaps a bit of squeamishness. You know, you might try it, but you probably won't like it. That sort of face. Matt goes away.

"This is kind of awkward, Bill" says the witch. "Why do you think the IAs agreed to do this to us?"

That's a very intelligent question. She's done this before.

"I suspect that they worry about us. Perhaps they think we ought to worry them together." I signal Matt for a round. He looks pleased. I wonder if he would prefer it if I did not become a local character. Most tourists do not decide that they've found home.

"Maybe," says the witch, "but I doubt it. I think this is a joke, and I'm not laughing." She's listing a bit on her stool, teetering on the brink of bona fide inebriation, but she's quite coherent and, I admit it, quite fetching in her absurd hat.

I know, I know. Death to the old creeps. I'm under no illusions. I got here first, but she will be running the place in no time. That's interesting.

That's all.

"Why do you worry--it's Barb, right? She's the one in your department who can't leave you alone? Sasha enjoys making a few of us uncomfortable. Is privacy dead, Bill?" Matt brings her what looks like the contents of a dozen, blue glowsticks in a glass. She sips rather demurely. Class.

"Happily, there's just enough left to make us wish we had it all back."

"Shut up," she says through a smile. I'm relieved. She's arrived at some of the same conclusions I have about all of this nonsense, and she figured it out faster than I did. I was about thirty when I realized it was only going to get worse. She's clearly there. Look at her drink.

Batman has managed to get the whole Justice League drunk. I would not let Wonder Woman get close to the controls of that invisible jet. She's got Aquaman snared in the lasso of truth. He's about to come out to her.

"Are you a sessional, or do you have a real job, Majo?"

"I'm a lecturer in Bio. Herpetology is my area. Have you ever seen a golden poison dart frog?"

Of course I haven't. I wonder if Bill has? "I'm afraid not."

She starts hunting on her phone. She does not apologize for the interruption of our conversation. Nobody does, any more. Life is a distraction from the screen.

She shows me a digital close up of a frog that looks fake, it is so outrageously yellow. "Thank you," I say, "that seems fictional."

She laughs. She might be faking it, but I can't tell.

Actually, I'm fine either way.

"They are so cool. A single dose of the venom could kill twenty adults. Imagine being that dangerous, and that beautiful." She puts the phone down on the bar and studies the image like it contains a valuable secret. A local character, you say. I should have a word with Matt.

"Are you drinking its venom?" Now I'm gambling.

She laughs more convincingly, and punches my arm, as if I just beat the goalie on a breakaway. They have such primitive customs, the young people of today.

"Do you like the Philosophy Department?" She knows the answer. She just wants to see how I'll put it.

"For a while, I was with the crew on deck, but now I'm just a strange barnacle on the hull. Sort of fun to look at now and then, but bound to be scraped off at the next port." Self-pity is pungent, and most people don't care for it. I must keep that to a minimum. Where's Matt?

She takes a healthy gulp of the venom, in order to defy reason and good taste. "Yikes. I like Bio. Barb told Sasha that you're sick or something, is that bullshit?"

I sigh. Was it too theatrical? I blame Matt and his tinctures. I get carried away quite easily. "I'm dwindling into the truth. What do you think of all this, Majo? Does the world suit you?"

She turns off the phone. She doesn't just ignore it. She turns it off. I'm flattered and suspicious at once. I finish my beer. Matt's on it right away. I realize that some of the beer wants nothing more to do with me. "I don't think so. Normal before the pandemic wasn't great, and whatever this is makes it seem like heaven."

As if on cue, the Flash shows up to make a pass at Majo. He hasn't left any tequila for the rest of us. "I like your costume," he says, assuming that our conversation is trivial compared to his, superheroic needs. Majo turns her phone back on.

"What costume?" she asks, seeming genuinely perplexed. The Flash is completely baffled. He turns to me for help. I offer none.

"Like, you're supposed to be a witch or whatever, right?"

"You're not convinced?"

The Flash actually scratches his head. So on the nose.

"Like, what do you mean?" The Flash must be a game theorist, or a libertarian.

"I mean, I don't get it." He takes a wobbly, aggressive step in her direction. I wonder if I can handle the Flash, in his condition. It's been a while. I got the worst of the last fight I was in. In fact, I was just the person who made the remark that justified the one and only punch. It was worth it.

"I'm sure you're used to that," says Majo, and gives one of the bouncers a long look. In a blink, he's "helping" the Flash to the bathroom. The Flash's yellow boots drag behind him for most of the trip. Tequila must be his kryptonite. Watching him go, I realize I have to follow.

"Forgive me, Majo," I say. She smiles and turns to her phone. She prefers it to most of this.

When I reach the bathroom, I realize it is not like the bathroom in a real bar. Nothing is damaged or leaking, and it smells like synthetic pine. No one is doing anything inappropriate. The Flash is vomiting in one of the stalls. He could pick up the pace a bit.

"This is boring. Let's go." That's what Majo has to say for herself when I return. I think the Flash was weeping when I left. I couldn't help but wonder if that's standard procedure for him. Matt brings me a device with which to pay the bill. For no reason I can understand, I'm obliged to touch its backside with my card. It's like robot porn.

Majo's little apartment is close by. We talk about poison and poetry for a while, and then she surprises me by slowly disrobing. I can't believe my luck.

Morning arrives. I have not awakened next to Majo. I have awakened next to Barb.

She opens her eyes while I am trying to explain them. "Feel better?" she asks, with the tone of someone's mother, looking at a thermometer with furrowed brows.

"What?" I am always quick witted in the morning.

"Oh, Sasha's with Majo. Sasha is better at shifting than I am. She does a perfect Bill."