The Best Laid Plans Part 5

I won't bore you with my technical travails, but I made considerable progress on the steering linkage today. I'm still working out how to operate the starboard and port thrust-vent rudders independently to enhance control, particularly at low speeds. I'm close but not quite there. Having only one engine simplifies the overall craft but introduces a new set of control complications.

Daniel was here for chess tonight and to discuss my positions on a few local issues for the campaign in which I'm not partic.i.p.ating. I won the chess and the local issues debate cla.s.sic scenario where the community interest conflicts with the national interest. You know how I feel about that. The clowns that have run the country for the last two decades have dragged democracy through a sewer. There's no end to their conceit and arrogance and no beginning to their vision and intelligence. They simply do not, or cannot, see what is really happening. As Canadians' respect for democracy declines and their disdain grows, we tend to abandon the greater good, follow the politicians' lead, and grab what we can for ourselves. We give up and accept things as they are, leaving us trapped in a perpetual cycle of self-interest. That's what's happening in this country. Aye, it's a mess, and I abhor it. The writ drops tomorrow, but I'm just a name on the ballot, an ambivalent observer.

I know what you're thinking. It's easy to take potshots from the relative tranquility of tenured academe. Well, that's where I belong. I am a fossil, an old man out of his time and almost out of time. With two years till full pension, I'm going to stick to my knitting, keep my nose clean, build Baddeck I, and wallow in your loss ... every day.

AM.

CHAPTER FIVE.

This is "World Report" from the national news room of CBC Radio, for Thursday, September 5. I'm Elaine Phillips. Well, the Prime Minister revealed the worst-kept secret in Ottawa this morning. Canadians are going to the polls on Monday, October 14. The Conservative government is running on the federal budget of popular Finance Minister Eric Cameron. The polls as they stand now project a slim Tory majority, but much can change in the course of a campaign. The Prime Minister visited the Governor General early this morning to dissolve Parliament and start what will be a 39-day race.

The insanity, the surreal, the bizarre, had officially begun. I sat at my kitchen table, gargling orange juice and wondering how I'd managed to put myself in this ludicrous position. I was running a phantom candidate, in a cash-strapped campaign we were sure to lose, aided by an ailing octogenarian, her attractive granddaughter, and two pierced punks. Our campaign headquarters consisted of a ready-for-the-sc.r.a.p-heap Ford rust bucket and a government-owned cell phone. We had no lawn signs, no advertising, no marked voter lists, and one cheesy, desktop-published leaflet with no pictures.

It sounded like a sitcom that was cancelled after three episodes because it was just too far-fetched. I picked up the phone and dialed. "Andre Fontaine, please. Thank you."

"Fontaine," he said, rushed.

"Andre, it's Daniel Addison, returning your call. I'm the campaign manager for the Liberal candidate here in C-P."

"Right, thanks for getting back to me. So you've actually found a Liberal candidate to run against Cameron?" he asked.

"Yep, the nomination papers were submitted to Elections Canada yesterday morning, and his candidacy was confirmed by the afternoon," I replied. "His name is Angus McLintock. He's an internationally respected mechanical-engineering professor at U of O who's lived in c.u.mberland for the last 25 years. He's thoughtful, well versed on the issues, and eager to serve." I let my instincts do the talking.

"And you really think you can knock off Cameron?" he inquired, without the decency of restraining his chuckle.

I sighed audibly and shifted into message mode. "Well, Cameron will be tough, but Angus does think he can win; otherwise, he wouldn't be in the race."

"Does Mr. McLintock have any history of drug abuse or mental illness in his family?"

"Very nice, Andre. Let's keep this friendly, shall we?"

"So you're the campaign manager, and you share his belief in the possibility of victory?"

"Look, anything can happen in politics and frequently does. So yes, I'm running the campaign, and to pre-empt your next question, no, I'm not on any prescription medication, either. We're running a serious, albeit somewhat underfunded, campaign. The people of c.u.mberland-Prescott deserve a real choice on October 14, and we're going to give them one." I was spinning so hard I struggled to keep my balance.

"I'd like to speak to Mr. McLintock sometime today if I could," Andre declared.

"Gee, I'm sorry, Andre, but I'm afraid Angus simply won't be available for interviews during the campaign. He's trying very hard to knock on every door in the riding. That's his top priority, so he has no time for interviews." (I know, when I die I'm bypa.s.sing purgatory and going straight to h.e.l.l.) "For a second there, I thought you said the candidate wouldn't be doing any interviews. I'm holding the phone closer to my ear this time, so can you pa.s.s that by me again?" He was getting hostile.

"Sorry, Andre, you heard me right. Angus is not your run-of-the-mill candidate, and he's set out his priorities. Look, I'll pa.s.s something along to you that we haven't yet announced. I'm trying to get a news release out the door, but I'm running out of time. So here's your Day I Liberal campaign exclusive. Angus is a staunch environmentalist with a particular interest in composting and reducing solid waste. Out of concern for the environment and our overflowing landfill sites and out of respect for the enlightened voters of c.u.mberland-Prescott the McLintock campaign will neither produce nor erect any lawn signs."

"Sounds like a desperate cost-saving measure from a campaign with empty coffers," he challenged.

"Andre, it's not about saving money; it's about saving trees and our dwindling landfill capacity. It's about saving our environment. If we're not part of the solution ... well, you know the rest."

"What's the URL for your Web site?"

"Web site? Umm, we won't be having a McLintock-campaign Web site, either." For some inexplicable reason, I'd completely forgotten about the Internet. It was time to strap on the skates. Silence on the phone. Like a rookie, I filled it. "Uh, Angus has been concerned for some time with kids' easy access to explicit and depraved content on the Internet. It really is a sewer, so we're steering clear of the Web."

"Nice one. Who's your writer?" he replied.

"Look, Andre, we're trying to do things a little differently and not just reproduce what every other candidate is doing." I'm usually quite a competent skater, but my attempted quad-toe loop on the Web question seemed to have ended in a face plant.

"What do you think about Eric Cameron?" Andre asked, mercifully moving to safer ground.

"It's going to be very difficult to dethrone Cameron. He's extremely popular with the voters, has a great human touch on the hustings, and has done a reasonable job with the government's finances, though I'm convinced a trained chimp could have eliminated the deficit in this booming economy," I noted.

"What do you know about Petra Borschart?" he probed.

"Very little except that I don't much like her," I commented. "She joined his team a few years ago and has enjoyed a meteoric rise to Chief of Staff. We tangled a few times on the Hill."

"Something doesn't quite fit for me, but I can't put my finger on it. She seems good and tough and clearly has a close rapport with Cameron, but it all happened very fast," Andre mused.

We talked for a few more minutes, and I hoped that I'd managed the call well enough to avoid an embarra.s.sing story right out of the gate. Dealing with journalists required quick thinking and steady nerves. That morning, I had neither.

In fact, I knew a little more about Eric Cameron than I'd let on. One of the benefits of being a nice guy was that people opened up and talked even if talking was ill-advised. Across my years on Parliament Hill, I'd managed to weave countless threads of information on Cameron into ... hmm ... let's say, a poncho of political insight, to complete the textile metaphor. On first meeting, you're blown away by his ability to connect with you, to engage you, to make you feel like you're the only person in his world. The fifth time you meet him, it dawns on you that he has no recollection of the first four meetings; his star begins to lose alt.i.tude. After the tenth time you meet him, you want to wash your hands. He seems to understand that his halo can only sustain two or three meetings with the good citizens of c.u.mberland-Prescott before it starts to corrode. So he limits his contact with individual const.i.tuents to no more than a few encounters between elections so the voters are held in a kind of suspended awe that works quite well at the polls.

Of course, in politics, luck and timing are everything. Being named Finance Minister at the end of the worst recession since the 1930s and at the start of the greatest economic boom since World War II, reflected the charmed political life he enjoyed. He was one lucky b.a.s.t.a.r.d. If I could persuade him to pick my lottery numbers, I would. One might argue, however, that he was unlucky in love. Rumours of serial philandering had never been confirmed, but with so much smoke, there must have been a flicker of flame there somewhere. At any rate, the point was rendered moot five years ago when his wife had died shortly before the last election. They had had no children.

Not to be cra.s.s, but the death of his wife gave him an immediate 15-point lift in the polls. The glossy, front-page photos of Cameron weeping over her grave looked a little too perfect, a little too contrived for my taste. Then again, I've grown bitter, suspicious, and cynical. Not long after the funeral, Petra Borschart was promoted from junior staffer in charge of the Minister's dry cleaning to Chief of Staff. Given his national standing and seniority in Cabinet, he didn't need to clear major ministerial-staffing changes with the Prime Minister's Office as other ministers did. Now, the two were virtually inseparable. She had bought a house in c.u.mberland, spending Mondays through Thursdays on the Hill and Fridays in the const.i.tuency office. By all accounts, their alliance boosted his political fortunes. As the election gun sounded, Cameron was, without question, the most popular politician in the country, even more respected than the Prime Minister. I didn't trust him. I didn't like him. After talking to Andre Fontaine about Cameron, I decided I needed a shower and took one.

I checked in with Muriel several times each day often just to hear her authoritative salutation. She had an outstanding phone manner. She gave great voice. If I told you she was the mother of James Earl Jones, you'd believe me (that rumour would certainly set tongues a-wagging at the Riverfront Seniors' Residence). She deployed "the voice" only on the phone. In person, she sounded as you might expect an 81-year-old woman named Muriel to sound. When I reached her, she'd had only one call from Andre Fontaine the day before.

Thankfully, I didn't really have many faculty responsibilities until the next term beyond some meetings and informing Professor Gannon of my research intentions. I'd always thought "publish or perish" was just a cliche. Alas, no. I made the 30-minute drive to campus to pick up the two Petes. They were waiting at our rendezvous point in all their sartorial splendour. I truly thought the police would be well within their authority to arrest them both for disturbing the peace just for standing on the corner, minding their own business.

Pete1 wore some kind of fishnet shirt sprinkled with holes. He sported purple paisley short-shorts over orange plaid boxers that extended to just above his knees. He wore a different pair of Doc Martens this time black and white striped with the word s.h.i.tkickers in red, stenciled on both toes. Even though Labour Day had pa.s.sed, he wore a white belt in stark contrast to his black lipstick. With no hat, his cue-ball cranium gave him a particularly menacing mien.

Pete2? Where to begin? His hair was now lime green at the tips and red to the roots. As for his hairstyle, he eschewed the cla.s.sic punk's longitudinal centre strip of spikes in favour of the modified lateral, double-ridge Mohawk. If you could take your eyes off his hair, you'd see a powder blue, frilly tuxedo shirt under pink, tie-dyed lederhosen. In a moving tribute to Canada, he wore Bauer Supreme hockey skates minus the blades. I noticed no new piercings to speak of, though I confess, I wasn't too diligent in my examination.

Let's just say that Pete1 and Pete2 didn't exactly look like two upstanding citizens committed to serving the public interest by working within the democratic system. In fact, had I not known them, I'd have said they were on their way to a coup d'etat or, at least, a sit-in. When I pulled up to the curb, they were both buried in their Applied Math 1J5 texts. When I asked what they were working on, they casually informed me they were applying the Frobenius method to solve differential equations. I never asked again.

As we pulled away, I noticed a makeshift banner, hanging from the top of the engineering building. Affixing it that high up on the front wall must have been a hair-raising stunt pulled by some intrepid engineering students. Far below on the ground, U of O maintenance workers were talking with considerable animation while unloading a ladder that was clearly too short for the job. Other pa.s.sers-by stopped and stared. The banner, flapping in the wind, read: Kick some Tory a.s.s, Angus! Mech. Eng. rules!

News travelled fast. We drove to poll 31 in the southeast corner of the riding where a relatively new subdivision had sprung up since the last election. Lindsay had phoned me earlier in the day with a list of priority polls. Apparently, there was a vague rumour of a lone Liberal supporter living somewhere in the precincts of poll 31. Who needed marked voter lists when we had that kind of inside intelligence on the electorate? Such hearsay was all that was required to make poll 31 worthy of special attention. After all, if there were one Liberal, maybe there were two.

It was time to start the canva.s.s. I hadn't yet been able to finish and print the lone McLintock leaflet Angus had authorized, so we'd snagged a stack of general Liberal campaign brochures from the party's national headquarters in Ottawa along with a few red T-shirts and thrown them in the back of the car for future use. I parked at the end of the subdivision, grabbed some brochures, put on a VOTE LIBERAL b.u.t.ton and jumped out. I didn't really feel comfortable, yet, suggesting that the two Petes dress a little more conventionally. I couldn't afford to lose them from the campaign by offending them, so I gave them b.u.t.tons and told them to stay behind me to watch how I handled the first few houses.

I climbed the steps to the front door while my canva.s.sing duo watched from the lawn. I looked at the name on the mailbox, rang the bell, and offered the two Petes a glance of encouragement as I heard the sound of shuffling feet from within. It was then that I noticed that Pete2 had removed his lip ring and had installed in its place the VOTE LIBERAL b.u.t.ton. It hung on his lip like a big, angry abscess. I felt queasy, but the door opened anyway.

"h.e.l.lo, Ms. Fitzgerald, I'm Daniel Addison from the McLintock campaign. I hope we're not interrupting dinner." The older woman was still chewing so I barreled ahead before she could answer. "Angus McLintock is your Liberal candidate in c.u.mberland-Prescott. He's very concerned with how Mr. Cameron has neglected the riding, and we were really hoping we could count on your support on October 14."

The woman looked over my shoulder, as did I, and we both saw the two Petes smile and wave. Unfortunately, Ms. Fitzgerald was seeing them for the first time. She gave a little ... shriek I guess is the right word, darted back inside, and slammed the door.

"Tory," said Pete2 behind me.

Our encounters with the next six houses unfolded in a similar fashion. Well, the last one was a little bit different in that a Mr. Canning released his German shepherd, Adolf, to see that we vacated the property in a timely manner. Adolf hurtled out the door with lips curled and teeth bared. I was sprinting to the car to check for a pair of clean underwear when Pete2 knelt down and made soft, mewling sounds in the face of the charging canine. Instead of Adolf eating out of my leg, Pete2 soon had the dog eating out of his hand awesome skill to have when you're door-to-dooring in hostile territory. I wondered if Pete2's talent might be effective on irate voters. We'd have to wait to find out. An Ontario Provincial Police (OPP) officer rolled up in her cruiser, took one look at my canva.s.sing colleagues, and reached for her Taser. It took me 20 minutes and two phone calls to persuade the officer that we were legitimately engaged in the democratic process. We were escorted back to the car and encouraged to take our leave.

I drove us to a far-flung corner of the subdivision, and spent 20 minutes persuading the two Petes to slip on the Liberal Party T-shirts to moderate the punk-rock fashion tirade they made. The shirts were long enough to obscure their anarchist outfits. With some nudging from Pete1, we convinced Pete2 to shoehorn his Mohawk under an old Molson ball cap I found under the front seat. Looking at Pete2, the new lid only modestly mitigated the fright factor. I failed to negotiate traditional footwear even though I had a couple of pairs of ratty running shoes in the back. The two Petes had their limits, and I respected that.

Eventually, they got the hang of canva.s.sing and even identified one voter who was contemplating thinking about giving consideration to perhaps revisiting her support for Eric Cameron. (High-fives all around.) Whenever a voter would ask to meet Angus, the two Petes, with unantic.i.p.ated thespian skill, would immediately crane their necks to look down the street in search of the elusive candidate. When they would fail to locate him, they would simply tell the voter that Angus must have gone into one of the neighbours' houses for a chat but that they would try to get him back here soon. Believe it or not, Pete1 and Pete2 sold the story well, and the homeowners bought it.

By the time I'd paid for burgers and beer and dropped the boys off at the punkhouse, it was after nine-thirty. You never canva.s.s after nine o'clock at night. When I got back to the boathouse, the light was on in the workshop. Through the window, I saw our candidate's legs, sticking straight up towards the ceiling, which situated his head somewhere underneath the dashboard of the c.o.c.kpit that was slowly taking shape. I softly knuckled the door and entered. Angus was talking away, m.u.f.fled by the c.o.c.kpit's close quarters, apparently explaining what he was doing as if a colleague were standing nearby. We were alone in the room. I was only able to catch snippets of his monologue: "Goin' to go with cable steeri ... rather th ... ually a.s.sociated with hydraulic steerin'. What I wouldn't give to have you here to see this la "

Then, he paused, wiggled his legs a little, and released another of his cataclysmic farts, accompanied by a loud groan of satisfaction. The man had a gift. As I held my breath, I prayed he would only ever use his power for the forces of good. I knocked with authority on the plywood panel that I estimated would be just above his buried head. That was a mistake. I a.s.sumed he'd heard me come into the workshop, but the convulsion that toppled his upright legs onto the side decking and wedged his head under what I think was the steering column was a clear indication that I'd caught him somewhat off guard. When he'd extricated himself, he wasn't exactly the picture of congeniality.

"Are you not familiar with the local custom of knockin' on the door before enterin'?" Angus snorted.

"My apologies, Angus, but I a.s.sure you, I did knock before I came in. I was certain you'd heard me. In fact, I thought you were talking to me. Who were you talking to?"

"It's none of yer concern, laddie. Now, hand me that spanner there, would you?"

I followed his extended index finger carefully, as I wouldn't know a spanner from a drill press. I handed him the wrench, and he contorted himself again into the inverted vertical position. The legs of his work pants slid down his shins, revealing tartan knee socks, which in my mind, was taking one's heritage a little too far. Moments later, he reappeared, face reddened from gravity's effect on his circulation.

"We need to talk, Dr. Addison. I'm growin' a wee bit concerned with this election of yours," he started.

"What do you mean? It's Day I, and we've only canva.s.sed one-third of one poll and failed miserably to scare up anyone who even plans to vote Liberal. In fact, our crack canva.s.sing crew was threatened nine times and forcibly removed from three properties. I think we're off to a good start," I replied.

"Well, you may think so, but somethin's afoot. The Board of Governors met today as well as the Faculty a.s.sociation. Both bodies pa.s.sed motions supportin' my candidacy and wishin' me well in the campaign. And then, a reporter from The Fulcrum cornered me at the bar in the Faculty Club and would not let me escape until I'd given her an interview. She is clearly going to write some fulsome puff piece on me for tomorrow's paper."

"What's the big deal about a couple of meaningless support resolutions and a positive profile in the campus newspaper?" I asked, truly perplexed.

"I'll tell you what the big deal is," he said with palpable anxiety. "There's far too much support gatherin' behind me. What if it spreads like the plague across campus and busts through into the broader community? That simply cannae stand, and we must put a stop to it."

Smiling at that precise moment was probably not the prudent thing to do. I couldn't help it. I chose not to tell him about the banner on the engineering building. "Angus, calm down. It's natural for your colleagues to want to express their support for a local hero who is stepping up to challenge the Cameron juggernaut. Did you think your candidacy would go unnoticed on campus?" I asked.

"You're getting a right laugh out of all this, aren't you? Well, it's not your name that's on everyone's lips at the university now, is it?" Exasperation personified.

"No, but it's my name in the course calendar next to English for Engineers, so whose fate seems worse to you?" I countered.

"Worse. There are only two fates under discussion," replied Angus.

"I said worse. I'm an English professor."

"Sounded like worst to me, but I'll take yer word for it," he conceded. "I just don't want the whole campus mobilizin' around my sham run for office. That wasn't part of our deal," he whined. "That story in The Fulcrum could really start to swing things my way."

Looking at his angst-ridden face, I decided against bursting our laughing at such a ludicrous notion. I was standing close to the large doors and didn't relish being tossed into the river, of which Angus seemed perfectly capable at that moment. I stifled my giggles.

"Angus, I'm your campaign manager. I will handle it. You need not worry yourself over glowing articles in the university rag. You want me to take care of it? Thy will be done," I concluded with a bow and a flourish.

Angus was mollified enough to return to his tinkering. I took my leave and scaled the staircase to my apartment. I pulled out last week's edition of The Fulcrum and scanned the masthead. I found what I was looking for, flipped through the yellow pages, and reached for the phone.

"h.e.l.lo, I'm just checking in to see when tomorrow's Fulcrum will be delivered to the campus?"

The things campaign managers do to appease the neuroses of their candidates. I drove back to the campus at two forty-five in the morning. As I antic.i.p.ated, at various points around the campus, I found bundles of The Fulcrum fresh off the printer's delivery truck. I doused the headlights on the Taurus or, rather, headlight, and pulled up to the curb. I didn't want to trigger a second print run, so I only loaded about three-quarters of the bundles into the back of the station wagon, leaving a lonely stack on the sidewalk. I drove around campus, repeating the procedure at each delivery location. By my estimate, instead of 10,000 issues of The Fulcrum distributed around the campus, only about 2,000 remained. Given the hour, I went about my clandestine task unseen.

The floor panel in the back of the Taurus wagon sagged under the newsprint burden. I prayed that I would make it to my destination without it giving way, depositing 8,000 newspapers onto the highway. Half an hour later, I pulled into the Prescott landfill site and joined three tractor trailers lined up for the weigh scale. The sleepy attendant, unaccustomed to family station wagons at that hour, just waved me onto the scale. When the light turned green, I drove around to a remote section of the landfill where I wouldn't be observed.

Before I started dumping the bundles, I pulled out a copy and looked for the story. I didn't have to look far. Dominating page two was a large colour photo of a somewhat younger Angus McLintock in full Scottish regalia. His grey hair tried desperately to escape the gravitational pull of his head, and his beard cascaded onto his chest like Montmorency Falls. The headline read "U of O's McLintock takes run at Cameron." Angus was right in one sense. The story was obsequious well past nauseating. I finished reading the piece, slipped one copy onto the front seat to keep, and returned to the back of the car to complete the job. The dome light cast an eerie glow over the scene and shed just enough light to guide me in finding an appropriate drop zone. The bundles cartwheeled down the slope, ending up under an overhang created by stacks of drywall, which were likely culled from a house demolition. I doubted the papers could be seen even in daylight. Done.

It was pushing four o'clock when I finally made the boathouse, hit the horizontal, and fell into an untroubled sleep. Perhaps it should have been troubled, but the night's deed paled next to the chicanery that was the daily fare I'd left on Parliament Hill. I slept a saint's sleep.

DIARY.

Thursday, September 5

My Love,

The river looked beautiful tonight. It flowed at your favourite pace, the whitecaps just occasionally a.s.serting themselves. Cat's paws added texture to the waves musical in their movement. I could almost hear Smetana's symphonic poem Vltava in my mind's ear. I sat for two hours on the dock and watched the sun make its lazy descent beyond the western hills. I unfolded your chair and placed it empty beside me. I couldn't help it. Twice in that interval, without thought, I reached out my hand to the arm of your chair. I could almost feel your familiar, sweater-clad wrist beneath my fingers. You've left me in an abyss. I don't blame you. Who could? But here I am. Down deep.

After my river reverie, I spent three hours on Baddeck I's control systems. I've decided to go with a steering wheel over the stick to make driving Baddeck I a more familiar experience for the average driver/pilot.

Great goings on at the U today. My reckless foray into politics, in name only I remind you, is proving to be more complicated than I had expected. (Although had I thought for more than 30 seconds before agreeing to Dr. Addison's asinine proposition, I'd have seen all this coming.) Colleagues in ones and twos popped by the lab today to congratulate me on my "courage" and "commitment." Other colleagues by the dozens a.s.sailed my choice of party. I felt I couldn't simply admit that the whole affair is just a stratagem to slip the noose of E for E. I mean, that wouldn't exactly cast me in a favourable light now, would it, and I do have to work with these people.

At any rate, the word is well and truly out. What an a.s.s am I. The B of G and the Fac. a.s.s. actually adopted motions (unanimously!) to wish me well in my quixotic political odyssey (those words were not used in the resolution, but that's the gist). As well, a very young student reporter from the campus paper, who looked barely out of Brownies, interviewed me for nearly an hour. I dread the gushing drivel that may spill over the pages of The Fulcrum in the morning. I flatly refused to pose for photographs, and I'm quite sure they have none of me in their files. I'm hoping for a small item towards the end of the news section, but what do I know?

Daniel a.s.sures me I have nothing to worry about. The door-to-dooring is proceeding miserably, there's not a penny to the campaign's name, and the Tory machine is already running in high gear. Praise be!

I intend to steer clear of public places to the greatest extent possible in the next three weeks until I fly to Papua New Guinea at the end of the month. You remember the water-filtration system I've been working on. Well, we're actually going to build a proof-of-concept model in a remote village in PNG that could really use clean water. Right now, the villagers trek four miles to fill plastic jugs from a public well before walking home, their backs bending with the burden of clean water. I think of them when sitting by our majestic river's edge ... with your empty chair next to me.

AM.