The Silver Age Read Online Free PDF Page A

glass as if in salutation to her skills before downing
it in a quick gulp.
     
     
    The evening hurried onward. Soon after the incident with
Ms. Blankton, the sit-down dinner portion of the event was announced, and
everyone dutifully filed into the main ballroom. It was quite the production, a
slick simulacrum of a Hollywood awards show. There were video vignettes
announcing each award category, and a deejay who pumped out snippets of ambient
techno music to herald each presenter and usher out thank-you speeches that
went over the thirty-second limit. Local pseudo-celebrities appeared on stage
to present some of the higher profile awards. Jenny Wynne – fleetingly – was
one of them. Mumbling into the microphone, her jokes falling flat, she was
suddenly the uncertain little girl once again. And then she was off the stage,
vanished into the darkness on the far side of the theatre.
    It seemed odd to Stephan that so much effort was being
directed inwards – towards writers, editors, photographers and designers –
rather than being put into the publications meant for actual readers. If the
creators could only convince themselves that what they were doing was worthy of
sequined gowns and chocolate fountains, then whatever the outside world
thought, or didn’t think, about them wasn’t so important. Most titles aimed to
be the Canadian answer to some internationally renowned American or British
magazine. The Canadian version of Vogue , the Canadian answer to Harper’s .
And every story had to have a Canadian angle – the Canadian contribution to the
Space Shuttle program, say, or the Canadian answer to American Idol.
    As per the unwritten rules of all awards shows, the event
was not only extravagant but also drawn out. After a couple of hours, Nathan –
who had continued to imbibe throughout dinner – had his head down on the table,
and could be heard faintly snoring. But if Stephan’s own mood was any
indication, the awards-show format did encourage attentiveness in many of the
guests, no matter how uninterested everyone pretended to be in it all. He found
himself waiting for the announcement of his own award category with carefully
disguised anticipation. He feigned interest in the architecture details of the
space, and spent several minutes adjusting his shirt cuffs and neck tie.
    His attention was warranted, because when his category
finally came up it was revealed that he had won a silver medal. He felt a warm
rush of pleasure as the crowd applauded his name and his table-mates grudgingly
offered their congratulations, although he kept up the pretence throughout that
it was all an embarrassment. He wasn’t invited up on stage to give a thank-you
speech as the gold medalist, the real winner, was a few moments later, but
several of his shots were briefly flashed on the room’s giant video screen. And
when he excused himself to visit the restroom as the next category was
announced, he found that he was smiling broadly at his reflection in the mirror
as he soaped his hands.
     
     
    Later that night, he tagged along to an after-party at
the Stem with Amanda, Carol and, surprisingly, Nathan – the latter having
miraculously rallied. They took a cab across town via Richmond, through the
Entertainment District, where the sidewalk writhed with 20-year-olds on their
way to and from the dance clubs that lined the strip. Meanwhile, Carol regaled
them with a rambling story that climaxed with her puking in her high-heeled
boot at a previous edition of the magazine awards back in the day. (The point
of the story seemed to be that Carol knew how to party. A subtext was that the
event, and perhaps Carol herself, had seen better days.)
    “Why so quiet, mister silver medalist?” asked Amanda,
nudging him, as they neared their destination.
    “Just taking it all in, I guess.”
    The entrance to the Stem was via an unmarked grey steel
door set into a brick wall at the end of a nondescript alleyway. Nathan, who
was of course a