The Best Laid Plans Part 4

"Ah yes, Star Trek, featuring one of the most famous split infinitives in modern history," I interjected, trying to find some small patch of common ground with my audience. Again, blank faces. "You know, 'To boldly go' etcetera, etcetera." Nothing. Dead air. I waved the white flag and moved on.

"Okay, what about you?" I nodded to a skinny car guy, sporting a Corvette T-shirt, a Chevrolet cap, and long, stringy hair that was in desperate need of an oil change. "What have you read lately?"

"I just finished an awesome autobiography The Camaro Story."

I chuckled at his little pun. He seemed puzzled by my reaction, and I realized he was utterly oblivious to his inadvertent wordplay. Okay, screw Socrates. He'd obviously never taught engineers. I turned my back on the cla.s.s for a moment to gather my thoughts and then, once more, leaped into the breach.

"Let me take a stab at explaining why this course is required for engineering students. I hope you would agree that university shouldn't simply be a factory that churns out engineers or dentists or whatever specialized personnel society happens to need at the time. Universities should make us more worldly, teach us how to think critically, and prepare us to be responsible, well-rounded global citizens."

"Will this be on the exam?" someone interrupted. I ignored him and kept on.

"The word university means 'of many schools.' In the original vision of the university, students studied a very broad range of subjects philosophy, history, languages, logic, mathematics, art, and science all to earn a bachelor of arts degree. Students sampled many schools of thought. In the last half-century, we've drifted quite a distance from this historical model, and your very focused curriculum is a product of that evolution. Your course of study is, relatively speaking, very narrow. Yes, it's complex, challenging, demanding, and important, but it represents a very thin slice of civilization's vast field of knowledge. I make no judgments about that, but it is true." I stopped to see whether anyone was still with me. It was obvious no one was, so I continued. "English is the engineering faculty's one concession to the broader world. This course should be just as important to you as math or fluid mechanics because you cannot realize your full potential as engineers if you cannot communicate your ideas. And you can't communicate your ideas without a pa.s.sing understanding of the English language."

"Will this be on "

"No, this will not be on the exam! I'm just trying to get you all to accept the need to be here." Few did, it seemed. After such a promising start, the rest of the hour went straight downhill from there.

My two allies in the back appeared engaged, unless their nodding was actually nodding off. After the cla.s.s, they waited until the others had left and approached the front, where I was deciding whether it was too late to get my old job back. The obvious leader of the two wore Stuart tartan stretch pants, a black Punk Lives! T-shirt, and two-tone Doc Marten stompers. A Ramones ball cap covered what turned out to be a hairless scalp. Sizeable black skull studs pierced both ear lobes. The other guy sported black and pink striped hair, coiffed, it appeared, with a weed-whacker. He wore those inexplicably fashionable low-slung, baggy shorts with enough room to cradle a cantaloupe in the crotch. His green boxers extended a full four inches above the waistline of his sagging shorts. But wait, there's more. A black on black Iggy Pop T-shirt and multi coloured bowling shoes completed the ensemble. A hoop through his lower lip, a safety pin in his nose, and an "I eat nails!" tattoo on the left side of his neck made him as approachable as a coiled cobra.

"Professor, you wanted to see us?"

"Actually, I just wanted to thank you for being supportive today," I replied.

"No problem, Professor. We actually wanted to speak to you. I'm Pete Cadogan, and this is Pete Martelli." We shook hands rather formally.

"Well, that should make it twice as easy to remember your names."

"Right. We called the Liberal headquarters in Ottawa about getting involved in the campaign in c.u.mberland-Prescott. We live there and hate that tool Cameron. Anyway, we were told to talk to you. What a coincidence that we found you teaching our English cla.s.s," Pete1 explained as Pete2 nodded like a bobble-head.

I'd pegged them as militant anarchists, but beggars couldn't be choosers. So there it was a barely discernible silver lining, glinting in a black cloud the size of Saskatchewan. And I would take it. I would take it. "Hallelujah!" I shouted, startling them. I clapped them both on the shoulders in a way that I hoped they would consider avuncular and not weird. Pat Boone flanked by Ozzie Osborne and Sid Vicious. Nice. "Our volunteer ranks have just doubled."

Muriel Parkinson, her right hand vibrating all by itself, sat on a slatted park bench in front of the Riverfront Seniors' Residence. When she noticed the twitching, she tried to quell the shakes with her other hand, leaving both trembling in unison. It was ten minutes to seven. I leaped out to escort Muriel to her chariot while Pete1 and Pete2 stayed in the back seat so as not to frighten the residents.

I'd broken the news of our "in name only" candidate to the two Petes on the way over. After some initial misgivings (actually, they freaked), I persuaded them to stay on the team. It cost me a weekly two-four of Molson Canadian, two tickets to PunkPunk-palooza, and daily chauffeur service to and from the campus. In return, they agreed to manage the door-to-door canva.s.s, which was the toughest campaign job to fill. I wasn't exactly thrilled at the prospect of two s.e.x Pistol understudies canva.s.sing for us, but I was out of options.

I made it to the bench, offered Muriel my arm, and we started across the sidewalk to the car. The rhythmic grip of her shuddering right hand felt strange on my wrist but, in another way, comforting.

"You've been very mysterious about our campaign headquarters. What have you got up your sleeve?" she inquired as we shuffled in lockstep to the car. I held my tongue.

We had almost reached the car when out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lindsay emerge from the building and bound down the steps towards us. She modeled different jeans this time along with what I guess women call a top a word I've never been comfortable saying out loud which was orange, sleeveless, and, well, tight. Her hair peeked out beneath a Toronto Maple Leafs ball cap.

"Grandma! I step away for two seconds, and you're halfway into an abduction." She smiled at me, and I briefly lost track of where I was.

"Relax, Lindsay. Can't an old woman paint the town red once in a while?" Muriel joked.

"Hi again, Lindsay," I fairly blurted. "I'm just stealing Muriel so we'll have quorum for our first campaign meeting. I think we have room in our headquarters for one more if you've got nothing on for the next hour or so," I concluded, trying to be casual and, instead, sounding eager. Lindsay noticed the visually arresting Petes in the back seat and winced.

"You don't think I'm letting her ride in a car with Daniel and the delinquents without her trusty chaperone, do you?" she replied. While I helped Muriel into the front seat, I heard Lindsay open the back door.

"Shove over, boys; I'm coming aboard." They shoved over all right.

Introductions were made all around, and the five of us pulled away from the curb. In hindsight, driving around with the entire c.u.mberland-Prescott Liberal brain trust in the same car may have been ill-advised. I decided to get started and turned off the radio.

"I call this first meeting of the C-P Liberal campaign committee to order," I announced as I headed out of c.u.mberland into the surrounding farmland.

"Why don't we wait until we get to the headquarters before we start the meeting?" asked Muriel.

"Ah, well, we're already at the campaign headquarters," I replied. Muriel and the others looked out the window at the farmers' fields ending in the river. Not a building in sight. "Actually it would be more accurate to say that we are already in the campaign headquarters," I concluded and waited for the fallout.

With no money and few volunteers, we simply couldn't afford the conventional storefront headquarters nor did we require it. My 15-year-old Ford Taurus station wagon, complete with balding tires, a coat-hanger antenna, suspiciously mushy spots in the floor, and a permanently lowered driver's window was to be campaign central our HQ of no fixed address.

Lindsay started the barrage. "You can't be serious!"

"Where will we put the phone bank, coffee machine, and boom box?" asked the ever-practical Pete1.

"Yeah!" was Pete2's thoughtful and provocative contribution.

Muriel held her fire. The three in the back seat shot questions and comments for several kilometres as I waited for them to tire themselves out. We were in the northeast corner of the riding when the guns finally fell silent.

"Look, we're broke," I said, "but we do have an obligation to the party and to the people of C-P to run a campaign a shoestring campaign maybe but a campaign, nonetheless. With such a small team, a remote chance of victory, and a somewhat dis engaged candidate, it makes sense to husband our resources." I spoke in a calm and measured tone, hoping to smother them with logic. Muriel tagged me and jumped into the ring.

"Let me read the subt.i.tles for the rest of you," she started. "With five demented volunteers, no chance of victory, and an absent candidate, spending the $160 we have on storefront s.p.a.ce makes no sense and would only cover 18 hours of occupancy, anyway."

I couldn't have said it better myself. I was encouraged by the begrudging silence behind us. "Isn't that what I just said?" I asked. "Anyway, I intend to position our headquarters-on-wheels with the media as another one of Angus McLintock's brilliant ideas. It's a revolution in campaigning that will allow us to take the election directly to the voters wherever they live in the riding. We have room in the back for all of our campaign necessities, and the car's just been tuned up and has at least another 200 miles left in her. So let's make them count."

Lindsay piped up next. "You mean you think you can load 2,000 lawn signs in the back of this beast? I thought men were supposed to have superior spatial abilities and a packing gene to boot. I say you've only got room for 10 or 12 signs."

"First of all, Ms. Dewar, based on recent polling, 12 Liberal signs in c.u.mberland-Prescott is five more than we need. Secondly, we actually aren't using lawn signs in this campaign, anyway. It was part of my deal with Angus," I revealed.

"No lawn signs in an election campaign? It's like Trudeau without the rose, Diefenbaker without jowls, or the Leafs winning the Stanley Cup. It's unnatural," Lindsay countered.

"We simply don't have the money, let alone the candidate's permission," I said. "I'm going to issue a news release, announcing our no-lawn-sign policy as part of Professor McLintock's deep commitment to reducing solid waste and protecting our environment. We'll make it fly," I insisted. "Besides, organizing the lawn-sign program is a colossal pain."

Muriel smiled as the back seat deliberated. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the wheels turning.

"That might work," Lindsay conceded after a time.

"Cool," Pete1 offered.

"Yeah, cool," said Pete2.

A loud instrumental chorus of "London Calling" by the Clash broke the mood, causing me to veer onto the shoulder before regaining control. I liked the Clash, but this Muzak version was a travesty.

Muriel fished inside her aging Margaret Thatcher handbag and put the cell phone to her ear. "c.u.mberland-Prescott Liberal campaign," she intoned, using her political power-broker voice. She listened and rolled her eyes. "Ernie, you dirtbag, what do you want?" she growled in a striking impression of Roseanne Barr. I managed to stay in my lane this time despite the shock of hearing a kindly and perfectly mannered 81-year-old woman morph into a longsh.o.r.eman. I heard snickering from the back seat.

"Of course, we're up and running, and we're coming to get you, so you best keep a weather eye open. Cameron is going down this time around. You're going to collapse under the weight of your own complacency," she snapped then listened with widening eyes to the response. "How dare you refer to me in that way? I know your parents. There was a time in this town when Tories were at least civil to Liberals. Thanks for marking the end of an era." She slammed the phone shut but then immediately opened it again and started dialing.

"Yes, I'd like to order 20 large pizzas, all with double anchovies. Of course, I'm serious. It's our campaign kickoff, and I've got 75 hungry volunteers salivating all over the phone bank, so shake a leg. Yes, 224 Riverfront Road. Yes, we'll pay cash. Yes, I'm Petra Borschart, Mr. Cameron's campaign manager. An hour is fine. Thank you," Muriel concluded and hung up. "Those a.s.sholes."

Muriel sat stone-faced, with her arms crossed and her eyes aimed forward. I thought I detected a small curl of smoke issuing from her left ear, but I might have been wrong. The back seat had erupted in a gleeful cacophony. I was laughing hard.

When the ache in my side pa.s.sed and we'd finished singing "For She's the Jolly Good Fellow," we completed our circ.u.mnavigation of the riding. The two Petes had grown up in c.u.mberland, but I still wanted us all to familiarize ourselves with the geography and diversity of the riding. Lindsay agreed to develop a canva.s.sing schedule and a list of priority polls so that the two Petes could get an early start on door knocking. While we knew it was futile, we all felt enough loyalty to the broader Liberal cause at least to raise our flag in the campaign, even if it would only ever fly at half-mast. Besides, the smug behaviour of the Tory camp that night lit a fire under us all. Anger is a powerful motivator.

With Lindsay and the Petes looking after the canva.s.s and Muriel managing the campaign phone from the Riverfront Seniors' Residence, my first priority was to develop Angus's positions on the key local issues, run them by him, and then manufacture a reasonable facsimile of a campaign brochure. Without a flesh-and-blood candidate, the Petes at least needed a pamphlet to hand out.

With a few more organizational matters dealt with, I dropped Lindsay and her grandmother off, helping Muriel up the steps. She gave me a quick hug and promised to let me know if we received any noteworthy calls. Lindsay waved good night, one hand around Muriel's shoulders. Nice smile.

I drove the two Petes home and arranged to drive them back to campus in the morning as per our agreement. They lived together in a kind of bunkhouse behind Pete1's family home. They called it their "punkhouse." I'd checked with the admissions office after cla.s.s that afternoon and discovered that both Petes had been accepted in engineering with academic scholarships on the strength of outstanding marks. Hard to see it in the package, but intelligence comes in diverse guises, including skull studs and lip rings. Their postgraduation job interviews would be interesting.

Angus kicked my sorry carca.s.s all over the chess board that night. With election planning rattling around in my head, there was little room left to devise knight forks and impregnable p.a.w.n structures. Angus was in an ebullient mood, and I sensed it was due to more than the thrashing he was giving me.

"What are you so pumped about?"

"Beyond the satisfaction I derive from takin' the rubber match in our little world championship, I'm pleased because at two o'clock this afternoon, I was here, a.s.semblin' the steerin' linkage on the hovercraft instead of spoon-feedin' Dr. Seuss to first-year engineers who know just enough English to order beer and to proposition nurses," he replied, contented.

"It wasn't so bad," I said. He fixed me with a steely gaze. "Okay, it was bad. Quite bad. In fact, very, very bad." He was delighted. "But on the positive side of the ledger, I did recruit two able-bodied volunteers to canva.s.s on behalf of the newly confirmed Liberal candidate. You'll be pleased to know that there's little hope of them converting any voters to the Liberal cause. In fact, I figure most residents will call the police when they find the two Petes pushing your pamphlet on their doorstep. They are quite a sight."

Angus stood to refill his gla.s.s Lagavulin again. There were three local campaign issues on which I needed positions for Angus. I figured this was as good a time as any to put them on the table.

"Angus, the national campaign understandably insists that all local candidates adhere to the party's positions on the major national and international issues, be they economic, social, or just political. However, they do grant us some lat.i.tude on local issues, recognizing that their influence over your electoral fortunes can be profound."

He sank into the couch and rested his tumbler on his barrel chest. "All right, strictly as an academic exercise, what are the local issues that are likely to come up in this little campaign of yours?" he inquired with a little smirk teasing the corners of his mouth.

"Three major issues are in play: federal subsidies to prop up the Sanderson shoe factory in the southwest corner of the riding, the proposed Corrections Canada halfway house in c.u.mberland to ease the reintegration of paroled inmates into society, and I'll get to the third issue in a moment." I stopped and waited.

"What positions are you proposin' I adopt, Dr. Addison?"

"Well, there are 60 jobs at stake at the Sanderson plant. The federal subsidies will lower their costs and help make them more compet.i.tive on the export market. I think you should support the subsidies and pressure Eric Cameron to make them happen." I paused but then went on. "You know, Tip O'Neill, the famous U.S. politician once observed that 'all politics is local.' I think he was right." I stopped and waited while Angus pondered.

"No," he replied.

"Pardon?"

"I said no. Let me ask you a question, Dr. Addison, English professor and political-organizer-at-large. Do you really believe it is in the national interest, our national interest, to pour tax payers' money into an inefficient and outmoded factory so we can dump artificially discounted shoes in other countries and compete unfairly with their strugglin' shoe factories? h.e.l.l, we even send some of those countries foreign aid. So we give with the right hand and take with the left. And we haven't even considered the environmental implications of supportin' a 35-year-old factory."

Now, I pondered. "Well, with the writ due to drop, I'm focused right now on your local interests here in c.u.mberland-Prescott," I commented. But it sounded weak to me.

Angus was talking again. "Every candidate in this country should be thinkin' first about the national interest, second about their const.i.tuents' interests, and third about their own interests. Everyone is more concerned with their own fortunes than with the nation's. That's the problem with the democratic inst.i.tutions in this country. It's no wonder voters are cynical. Daniel, the national interest is not the sum of each ridin's interests or each MP's interests." He made this statement calmly, even casually, as if the words were self-evident and not worthy of special attention.

I had no idea he'd ever considered such matters. He laid bare the great paradox of Canadian politics. When not influenced by the need to be elected, a person like Angus was free to consider the national interest first. On the other hand, to be elected and earn the power and privilege to protect and promote the national interest, candidates often had to first support local-community causes that perhaps were not, in the long run, good for the country. As Winston Churchill once observed, "Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all those other forms."

I knew Angus was right. In this era of free trade, either we needed our factories to compete on an equal footing with other countries or we needed to retool for emerging industries where we could forge a compet.i.tive advantage. It was probably time for Canada to hasten its withdrawal from sunset industries and invest in sunrise sectors that promised long and bright futures. I knew he was right, but opposing the Sanderson subsidies would not be welcomed in c.u.mberland-Prescott.

"Okay, I accept your logic," I said, "but in the short term, I'm going to try to avoid this issue, because although your position may be the right one, it likely isn't the winning one locally."

"I'm not advancin' a position based on the prospects of victory," Angus responded.

"I know, I know, I hear you. Okay, what about the Corrections Canada halfway house proposal? c.u.mberland City Council and Eric Cameron are on the public record opposing it."

"On what grounds?" asked Angus.

"Well, it's very simple. They just don't want it in c.u.mberland."

He was unmoved. "Well, I support the establishment of the halfway house for the same reasons I reject subsidies to the shoe factory. The halfway house has to be built somewhere. I a.s.sume its location was recommended for sound reasons by people who know more about such things than I. c.u.mberland should shoulder its share of the burden of rehabilitatin' and reintegratin' prisoners who have served their time. I say build it here; it's our turn. I might be a bit nervous livin' next door, but that doesn't mean it shouldn't be built." He sipped again, savouring the flavour of his homeland.

I confess I was quite impressed with his views and the conviction and clarity with which he presented them. I realized that I believed in the same principles and, in fact, had left Parliament Hill because of them. But I obviously had not yet fully shed the instincts and practices engendered by five years with the backroom boys.

"Let me guess the third issue," Angus interjected. "Ottawa River Aggregate Inc."

"Right," I replied. "They want to expand their aggregate operation on the outskirts of c.u.mberland, right on the river. It means 75 jobs for the next 18 months while the new addition is under construction and 50 new permanent jobs thereafter. Cameron has been a strong supporter." After local issues one and two, I was not surprised with his opinion of number three.

"No, I don't think so," he sighed.

Then I sighed. "Okay, strictly as an academic exercise, what is your problem with creating more than 100 new jobs in a town that could use some good news?" I inquired.

"Any more aggregate minin' on the sh.o.r.es of the Ottawa River would leave the land lookin' slightly worse than the lunar surface. The environmental impact would profoundly affect the habitats of several indigenous species of fish, amphibians, mammals, birds, and plants, not to mention compromise the water quality. The company is tryin' to escape an environmental a.s.sessment for the expansion and they're already fightin' four occupational-health-and-safety-code violations. Truck traffic in the proposed location is already dangerously heavy because of the neighbourin' beverage-bottling facility. The expanded aggregate operation would add six tractor trailers every hour of every day. Other than that, I have no problem with the proposal."

"I see you've been doing your homework. I thought you had no interest in politics," I said.

"I read the local papers, and I know a thing or two about water systems and how delicate a balance must be struck when tinkerin' with a river's natural state."

"Well, I can't very well argue with your high-minded philosophy, but as your campaign manager, I'm compelled to warn you that by espousing such positions, you may well cut your support from a few hundred votes down to a few dozen." Angus seemed very pleased at this prospect. I raised my gla.s.s towards him. "Here's hoping we can skate around these local issues." I rose to start my trek to the boathouse. "Thank you for the chess lesson and the civics cla.s.s. I feel beaten down and lifted up at one and the same time." Angus was still grinning when I slipped out into the warm night.

There was one media call waiting for me when I made it to the boathouse. It was from Andre Fontaine, the senior news reporter for The c.u.mberland Crier. It could wait until the morning, when the 39-day clock started.

DIARY.

Wednesday, September 4

My Love,

Excellent day. I didn't even go into the campus but stayed and laboured with joy in the boathouse. More to the point, while I was doing that, Professor Daniel Addison was the one nearly having a stroke, courtesy of a hundred blissfully ignorant engineering students. I shudder at the thought of ever again facing those benign cultural pygmies. Give me graduate students in thermodynamics or even fourth-year undergrads in manufacturing processes, and I'm quite content. But not first year E for E.