Wayward Beasts in the Garden of McLaren

March 30th, 1998 Posted in Short Stories

Co-written with Peter Lynn

How to describe controversial journalist Leah McLaren? A high school graduate from the dog-eat-dog hallways of Peterborough academia. Well-versed in the complex world of both fashion and fashion accessories. Giver of opinions. Rich, obscenely well-connected parents. And yes, hated. Hated for the rose-scented, gift-wrapped present that has so far been her life. In fact, some people - petty, small-minded people, you can be sure of that - would even call her position at the Globe and Mail a sinecure, awarded to her only because of her mother’s position at that newspaper. But then these should be dismissed for exactly what they are: horribly cruel and well-grounded opinions, and nothing more.

But to me, Leah McLaren has always reeked fairly of danger; of a discreet yet omnipresent air of oddness that pervades my every meeting with her at her sprawling estate. And why? Get this: I’m pretty sure she has a penis.

Let me take you back to my first encounter with her. I was sent to interview Ms. McLaren for the Japanese television channel NHK, a long story in itself. Suffice it to say that the Japanese are keenly interested in tales of success, ambition, and hard work. But how was it, they wanted to know, that a mere woman had risen so quickly to such an exalted position in the Canadian media? Such a reward would normally be reserved for a first-born son. My superiors found this both confounding and plump with mystery. And so, I was sent to Canada to get the scoop.

It was the balmiest of summer days - a weekday afternoon - when I arrived at the McLaren mansion. After passing muster with the family’s butler, I was led out back to the pool, where Leah herself was sprawled out languorously on a chaise lounge, sipping a Mai Tai and wearing a short silk kimono.

The kimono seemed a little too coincidental, given the newsmagazine I was reporting for. I half suspected McLaren of trying to pretend she was far more knowledgeable of Japanese culture than was actually the case. She soon set me at ease however, offering me sashimi and niku-jaga while she entertained me with the myth of Ame-no-Minaka-Nushi-no-Mikoto, which she said “just came” to her. I nibbled at the niku-jaga and enjoyed the view of her large estate. Two dodos ambled by, playfully chasing a unicorn, which galloped across the 24,000 luxurious acres of her backyard. “Leah, your yard is amazing,” I said.

“Oh, this?” she cooed, breaking into takatsuki, an interpretive clog dance of kabuki theatre. “It’s nothing much,” she said. “Don’t drink that,” she added, stopping me as I leaned into a crystal clear brook that meandered down a sizable rocky outcropping. “The water contains powers. To drink of it is to bring the curse of immortality upon yourself.” I decided to take her warning, and just dropped a few coins into the brook instead. Behind me, the unicorn did an impressive hoofstand.

“An impressive hoofstand,” I commented, watching the unicorn.

“Domo arigato,” McLaren answered with a blush, apparently misconstruing my comment as an evaluation of her clog-dancing skills, which were also admittedly impressive. “You’re just being nice. I’m really not very good,” she added, stepping up the tempo of her dance considerably, picking up a pair of antique fans and increasing the intricacy of her footwork. I was mesmerized, watching her dance. With a particularly vigorous step, the hem of her robe flipped up briefly.

Did I just see what I thought I saw? I thought. “No,” McLaren said. I was stunned by this direct answer to my unspoken query. “No, not very good at all,” she sighed, slipping back onto the chaise lounge and picking up her drink again. “Now where were we?” she asked, taking a sip.

“We were, uh, you have a penis, don’t you?” I said, cutting to the chase. Engaging in ten minutes worth of cock-related Freudian slips didn’t sound very enticing, and besides, whatever story I managed to unearth would provide more than enough dirt for the Japanese cover story. I wasn’t sure what the interest levels of the Japanese were on millionaire she-male journalists lounging in enchanted gardens; but if they were anything like me, the story would write itself. “You have a penis between your legs,” I summarized. “How does that make you feel? As a journalist?” I aimed my portable microphone in the general direction of her mouth, anxious to catch another illicit glimpse of McLaren’s naughty secret.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, a trifle too guardedly to be believed. In her embarrassed confusion, she fumbled with her kielbasa sausage. It flopped out of her bun and came, rolling, to a casual stop by my sandals. In retrospect, she couldn’t have picked a worse food to be eating.

“More kielbasa, Miss McLaren?” said the butler, appearing out of the foliage.

“Not now, Colgate,” she said, her eyes wide and frightened. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t incredibly aroused.

“I’ll have some, if you don’t mind,” I asked. Colgate obediently brought me a long Polish sausage. I picked it up and ran my tongue over the tip of it, savoring the slightly salty taste. Leah’s eyes widened as I sucked the fat sausage coil into my mouth, then withdrew it with a meaty pop. “Now,” I asked, “what would you like to talk about?”

“Um,” McLaren stammered. “Uh…would you like to ride my unicorn?” she offered with a flushed face.

“Would I?!” I exclaimed. “You bet I would!”

Standing, McLaren took me by the hand. I grew even more excited. To my disappointment, however, she led me over to the fantastic equine I had seen earlier. I had assumed a more metaphorical interpretation of “ride my unicorn,” not a literal one. I should have known better; it was not the first time in my life I had made that mistake.

I really didn’t want to ride the unicorn. Luckily it threw me instantly, bloodying up my skull as I landed in a boulder pile. I spat a molar out as I tried to make sense of the six different Leah McLarens coming at me. “Are you okay?” she cooed seductively. “I can see bone.” The minx.

“I’ll be okay,” I said, sucking the blood back into my nose. Deciding it was high time to suck in my courage as well, I cut to the chase. “Leah?” I asked. “Do you have six penises?”

“No,” she said, helping me to my feet. “Just one. Just one penis.”

“Oh,” I said, dabbing the blood from my eyes. “I guess that’s okay then. You want to see a movie?”

But Leah was out of my league, and we both knew it. She was an über-rich journalist-philanthropist with male and female genitalia. I was a down-on-my-luck reporter for a Japanese television channel with a severe concussion and six types of fluid pouring out of my head. It just wouldn’t work out, and we both knew it. It wasn’t meant to be.

“Okay!” she said.

“Great!” I replied, taking her by the arm. A little too quickly, as it turned out, as I immediately saw all manner of bright explosions and fell face-first into the pool.

I awoke with a dull headache, to find myself convalescing in a hospital bed. I crawled to the foot of my bed and examined the chart affixed to the end. I’d had a severe concussion, it said. I looked out the window, squinting my eyes at the light streaming in. How had I come to be here? It all seemed so unreal. And yet so beautiful.

I knew then I would return to the McLaren estate many times in the coming years - as a journalist, intent on peeling back the many layers of the saga of her meteoric rise - but also as a friend. Though she was so widely despised and resented for her good fortune, I knew that Leah McLaren was only misunderstood. And though I knew that my love for her could never be, it was there nonetheless.

Plus, someday, I swear I’m going to get into her pants.