The 90’s tested the mettle of every Alberta teacher. Oil prices slumped as the province teetered through yet another bust, something that continues to plague the province’s one-horse-town of an economy to this present day. Back then, Ralph Klein threw down the gauntlet on spending and swept into power on the promise to bring the financial house back into order. His new provincial government took no prisoners in the public sector. In education, slashed budgets brought funding caps. The numbers of support specialists shrunk and programs disappeared altogether. In the face of mounting pressure to do their part, teachers shared the collective pain and voted to take a ‘voluntary’ five percent pay cut.

The pendulum began to swing towards stability and those same teachers staged protests calling for the reinstitution of funding for public education. And I did my part. I sent letters to politicians. I smiled on the Calgary picket line when the businessman rolled down his car window and screeched out ‘whiner’ before speeding off. There was the weekend bus trip to Edmonton where we paraded placards around an empty legislature.

But serendipity provided my most triumphal moment.

In between afternoon and evening parent teacher interviews, I met my wife Sharon, also a teacher, for supper.

“What will it be tonight?” Magda’s pronounced eyebrows rise in expectation.

“We’ll share the number nine,” I say, and glance across the table at Sharon. She wants the vegetarian special and so that’s what we’re ordering. I want number six–the meat lover pizza–but I’m feeling guilty about all the nitrates.

Guilt.

Yes, there’s plenty to go around. Turn on the evening news where ‘experts’ are interviewed on the street. They tell you you’re lucky to have a job, so quit your complaining. They must know what they’re talking about, right? I mean they all went to school once. And as I’m about to find out, guilt arrives on your doorstep like an uninvited distant relative and never fails to overstay its welcome.

Two men brush past us with the swagger of wrestlers entering the ring. They sit nearby.

I whisper, “Have you seen them before?” When Sharon shakes her head I say, “Me neither.”

Both are wearing suits and look to be about forty. The shorter one sits with his back to us. The other is in plain view. He has a round, clean-shaven face and an unrelenting smirk. His head jiggles about his wide shoulders, like a Bobblehead, as he surveys the room. Satisfied of his innocuous environs, he unfurls his banner of disdain.

“They’ve got no complaints,” Bobblehead declares to his associate.

The other man whose face is hidden from us is a kind of shadow.

Shadow mumbles something.

Bobblehead straightens in his chair. “Of course. They’ve got pensions for Christ sake. And security. And if that’s not enough…”

Magda greets them and they order beer.

Shadow mumbles something and Bobblehead peers over his shoulder at a departing Magda. Bobblehead’s gaze returns to his friend. “You can say that again…Anyway, as I was saying. Teachers get all those professional days, and on top, two months off each summer as it is…What’s that?…You’re damned right they should get rid of the union.”

Magda is back with our steaming pizza.

“Thanks Magda,” I say, trying to ignore Sharon’s grimace and sidelong glances at their table. “Just the way we like it. Isn’t that right?” I manage to capture Sharon’s attention momentarily. I grin and prepare to make the best of my meatless meal, thankful that we have something else to focus on for the moment. The first slice that I slide onto my plate unleashes a cautionary surge of steam. With lips drawn back I allow my teeth to make their first incursion, and the aroma of artichoke and sun-dried tomatoes fills my nostrils. “This is delicious.”

“Shhhh.” Sharon dismisses my accolades and tilts her head towards Bobblehead’s rant. But with the arrival of their beers, and the taking of their dinner orders, the spatter of vitriol is tempered for the moment. That’s good as I am worried Sharon is about to hurl her own diatribe spears in their direction.

“Don’t say anything.”

Sharon shakes her head like I’m overreacting.

Bobblehead’s musings continue on their errant path our way, like misguided missiles. “I mean, who are they working for, the union or us, the taxpayer?” He nurses his beer as Shadow responds in inaudible words.

Magda tops up my water glass. “How’s the first few bites?” I can only nod my approval because my mouth is full. That is possibly a restaurateur’s method of ensuring there will be no dissent on the customer’s part. But Sharon’s smile to Magda affirms my endorsement and Magda smilingly drifts back to the kitchen.

“That’s right,” Bobblehead’s voice floats over us and I want to declare our table space a no fly zone. “They shouldn’t be treated any differently from other public sector employees.”

“He means they don’t deserve higher wages,” Sharon says to me.

I lean in. “Not so loud.”

“I don’t care if they hear me,” she says, and I know she means it.

“I just want to eat my supper in peace.” I cough because I haven’t finished swallowing my last mouthful.

Sharon says, “Drink some water.”

We eat and share the day’s events so far.

It is black outside the window when Bobblehead’s Baked Lasagna has arrived. He shifts in his seat and enthusiastically aligns himself square to his plate. He plunges his knife into the crusty cheese exterior; steam now rising from a new caldron.

Sharon retrieves a fresh slice of pizza from the pan that separates us.

I nod and chew and Bobblehead’s verbal sorties continue.

“The thing is,” he says with a mouthful of Lasagna to his tablemate, “your kid’s teacher doesn’t give a rat’s ass. They talk about class size. Well, that’s just a smokescreen for leeching more money out of the system…”

Sharon is staring in his direction now.

“Don’t look their way,” I say and her gaze returns to me. “We’ve heard this before. ‘Back in the day, I had 40 kids in my class and I turned out okay’.” Sharon has that expression on her face though, the one she has when she is thinking, You’ve told me this a hundred times. “No, just listen,” I say, “Educators want a lot less than 40 pupils in their class because they’re dealing with a totally different mix from a generation ago. They need the extra funds for classroom support.” Sharon continues to listen to me but her eyes keep shifting to the other table. “And why should teachers feel bad about asking for higher wages? The job’s not getting easier.”

“The kids are the ones who suffer.” Bobblehead’s utterances intrude once more. He leans back in his chair. “The priorities are all screwed up. It should be students and parents first, then teachers.” Shadow nods his agreement. But Bobblehead’s words wrap around me, like a tight coat.

“Magda.” I say as she nears our table. “Could we have our bill, please?”

Magda looks down at our half-eaten meal and frowns. “Is everything okay?” When we nod yes, she adds, “Do you want me to package the rest?”

“Yes please,” Sharon says.

We are standing when Magda returns with the bill, and we take it along with the boxed leftovers to the cash register.

“We’re both done at nine o’clock,” I say to Sharon. “I’ll come get you when my own interviews are over.”

Before leaving, I turn once more to Magda.

“Here’s ten dollars. We’d like to buy a drink for those two gentlemen next to our table.” Magda unwittingly takes our money. “Tell them drinks are on the two teachers who sat next to them.”