John Bond was happy to speak first. He celebrated with an awkward high five to his friend that missed the mark. This reminded me of middle-aged guys playing golf celebrating a rare lucky shot.
With a final fussing of my tie to make certain the knot’s dimple was exactly centred, I walked out, shook a few hands, shared a few hugs, and found my seat beside the other candidates.
The chairman took the stage and led us in a heartless, tuneless, rendition of O’Canada, a song which sounds much better at hockey games after several beer than in a high school gym filled with sober people most of whom didn’t want to be there.
John Bond was the long shot. He was a forty something cab driver and a party member for years. John was prone to eccentricity, extreme positions on most issues, and was a regular caller to phone-in radio shows. He liked to introduce himself as: Bond – John Bond.
Mr. Bond’s most recent rant was his contribution to the same sex marriage debate. It went something like this: “Well Rick, if we are going to open up the traditional definition of marriage, why do we have to stop simply at same sex? Why don’t we open it up to other partners?”
“Other partners, what exactly do you mean Mr. Bond? Are you talking about polygamy?”, quizzed the joyful radio host
“No Rick, like let’s be fair to everyone. Let’s open marriage up to pets we love, and what about our favourite appliances? Why not marry the blender, the coffee maker, or the television? After all, it is only a matter of time before we are living in an Asimovian future where we are crawling in bed with our robot lovers anyway.”
Needless to say, after these comments the phone lines lit up. He may have been trying to be sarcastic but the host was not letting him off easy. A few probing questions later, and the local news sites ran the article how John Bond, “Robo Tory”, was seeking the nomination in Dartmouth and Cole Harbour for the Conservatives. If chosen he would advocate for humans marrying machines.
Well, the leader had always spoken of the need for a ‘big tent’ party to accommodate a diversity of people. If John Bond won the nomination, the Conservative tent would have to get much bigger to find space for the influx of the card-carrying appliance huggers.
After the national anthem, the monotone chairman called the meeting to order. He read the rules and explained the voting process with the enthusiasm of a lark working a back shift. Throughout the process of deciding to run I had several profoundly strong second-guesses and here was another one; listening to this monotone man whip the crowd into a slumber, People’s passion for politics was not quite what it used to be.
I sat glum and thought about why I was turning my life on its head for this sleepy collection of sad eyed folks who looked like they wanted to be anywhere else but in this dusty school gym?
I took a deep breath to calm my anxiety. Fortunately, John Bond and his team came to my rescue.
His name called, John jumped to the stage. Behind him, was his entourage: a thin man in his eighties and a teenaged boy who looked like he wanted to run from the building.
The old man wore an ill-fitting suit with a narrow tie while the boy sported baggy jeans and an oversized white t-shirt. Finding a t-shirt that looked too big for the kid was no small feat given he weighed over three hundred pounds. With the old man’s frailty and the kid’s wide girth, John Bond had little trouble getting to the stage stairs before his team.
In a moment of inspired physical enthusiasm, John decided to take the stairs two at a time with another display of poor athletic coordination – John stumbled up the stairs.
The crowd held its breath while the old man wheezed, “Watch yourself bud”.
The big kid laughed loudly. He shook like jelly and spilled his take-out drink.
John spun around and shouted to the crowd, “For my next trick Ladies and Gentlemen…”
The crowd chuckled politely. The laughter covered the sounds of the kid’s cursing because his drink had hit the floor. In response, the old man boxed the kid on the ear and pointed to the stage. The teen took one last look at his spilled drink and heaved up the stairs.
Following this display, we were treated to an awkward minute of silence as John stood still like a soldier on guard. His hands were rigid at his sides. The kid shuffled in beside him and the two of them watched the old man painfully climb the stairs.
Finally making it to the stage, the old man shuffled over to the podium with the curved posture of a question mark. I instinctively corrected my own spine, almost simultaneously with half the audience.
Once at the podium, he grasped it with both hands and held on tightly. He drew a deep raspy breath and scanned the crowd collecting his breath more than his thoughts I guessed. After an awkward pause, he spoke.
“Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen, my name is Elwood Curtis…”
There was another big pause as he struggled for air.
With his curled upper lip hooked in a snarl that looked like it was permanently bent from a lifetime of cigarettes, there was little doubt Elwood’s lungs had passed their prime.
“… I come before you tonight to nominate Mr. John Bond … a great man… a great friend of mine… a great servant of the community…. a man who…”
Elwood then proceeded to ramble on, in the same stuttering, lung-laboured, fashion. Once started, there was no stopping him. He spoke for the next nine minutes. With each word, he timekeeper and the whole crowd grew more and more uncomfortable.
The Chairman in his opening remarks had outlined each candidate had fifteen minutes to speak. This included any presentations or introductions so, as Elwood wheezed his way through this introduction, we all wondered what would come next.
The timekeeper would have no choice but to cut Mr. Bond off in mid-speech given that Elwood had used up most of the allotted time.
After the ten-minute mark, Elwood sounded like he wasn’t ready to wrap up his introduction. People in the audience began shouting comments like, “Let us hear your man!”, and “Land the plane!” Elwood ignored them as he soldiered on for another long minute before finishing.
“So now, it is time we hear from John. Ladies and Gentlemen, I would like to introduce the soon to be nominated Conservative Candidate for the federal riding of Dartmouth and Cole Harbour, Mr. John Bond…”
Elwood pushed back from the podium and shuffled over to stand beside the kid who was picking his nose. John waited until Elwood stopped before he approached the podium. Another marathon minute ticked by.
John marched stiffly toward the lectern, took his place behind it, and stood motionless. He stared blankly forward. The seconds ticked on. His presentation was into its thirteenth minute and we had yet to hear one word from the candidate.
Finally, John leaned toward the microphone. With only one minute to go, a full candidate biography would have been a miracle.
“Good evening. My name is Bond. John Bond. I want to be your candidate. Vote for me. I will be a strong voice for the community. Thank you!”
That was it. Done. He withdrew from the podium and headed for the stairs with his entourage. The audience offered polite applause and watched while this trio of human oddities went back to their chairs.
Following this stunning display, came Suzanne Laforte-Marriott. After John’s performance, she looked confused. Suzanne was a very bright woman with a PhD in adult education. She worked as a senior civil servant for the Province of Nova Scotia and had been a solid volunteer with the Conservative Party for years.
Rather than jumping quickly to the conclusion that John and his crew were socially inept morons, I guessed Suzanne would overanalyze the presentation. She likely pondered if there was a clever political ploy she was missing? She seemed off balance and nervous.
Also, the person doing her introduction, obviously hyper-sensitive to timing after Elwood’s long-winded performance, sped through her remarks.
All of this put Suzanne’s timing off. Her speech sounded stilted and off cadence. We heard about her impressive credentials, extensive work experience and sound community commitment, but the delivery was flat and uninspiring. Her message was lost in the media.
As her speech progressed, her delivery got worse. She began to sound like a nervous undergraduate giving a presentation for the first time. She appeared to be riding a runaway horse and could only hold on until it was over. All control was gone. She closed quickly and hurried back to her seat. Two down, one to go.
My turn had come.
Troy Myers 