“Now that we are getting serious about this campaign we need you to keep a lid on this gay thing.”
“You mean I have to close my Tinder account?” I asked.
Dale gave me a look. “At least in Nova Scotia,” he said.
“Not much of a stretch really. I haven’t been on a date in a while.”
“Fair enough, but your luck has just changed. There is something about power and politics that makes uninteresting, unattractive people like you appealing. Think of it as show business for ugly people.”
We were in a boardroom waiting to meet a man we wanted to chair the campaign.
Al MacDonnell was a longtime Dartmouth resident who we had known since university. Al had spent twenty-two years in the senior men’s rugby league after a successful five-year career in the Canadian Football League as an offensive tackle. He stood six feet eight inches and tipped the scales at close to five hundred pounds. On top of these imposing dimensions, he had an unnerving stare and a deep voice that had no hint of compassion or warmth.
While Al put the fear of God in the two of us, we wanted him on our team because he is one of the best political strategists in the province. He has been working political campaigns for over forty years.
A phone on the board table began to chirp. Dale answered it. “Great, send him in.”
We both jumped up quickly like a couple of teenagers caught making out on the basement coach.
“Oh yeah, don’t mention the gay thing. Al is one of the biggest homophobes I know…”
“What? You didn’t tell him? He doesn’t know?” I sputtered.
“Hell no! Do you want to tell the five-hundred-pound angry homophobe you dig guys? Plus, we have to figure out what to do with the death threats…”
Before I could respond with a “what the f…” or a nasty look, the boardroom door swung open to reveal a man who instinctively ducked his head under the seven-foot doorway. He towered over the two of us and thrust out a huge hand. Shaking it, my hand looked like a child’s locked in his.
I mustered my confidence and offered a greeting. Dale suggested we take a seat.
The big man nodded in agreement and squeezed himself between the chair’s arm rests.
“Alright Madill let’s get down to business. What’s the deal?” he asked.
Al has called Dale by his last name since our early days playing rugby together when he was the ornery veteran and we were the timid rookies.
“Al, since we know each other well and, as always, you don’t like to waste time, I’ll get to the point. As you know, our friend Colin won the nomination for Dartmouth–Cole Harbour this weekend and we are building a team which can win this riding.”
Dale paused to give the large man a chance to interject if he chose to. Silence was the only response.
Picking up where he left off, Dale threw his pitch.
“… A team that will be aggressive, nimble, and deadly; think of it like the amour corps that took Bagdad in the first Gulf War.”
Jesus, where was he going with this? I thought.
“We will be decisive and lightning fast. The liberals and the n-dippers won’t see us coming. We will take this riding for the good guys. We will…”
Thankfully, the big man cut him off.
“Madill, get to the point,” he said firmly.
“Ok. Al, we want you to be our general.”
“General? What the hell are you talking about?” snapped Al.
“By general, I mean campaign manager. Al, no one in this town is better than you. No one has the experience you do. No one commands the respect that you do. You are the best there is and we want you,” said Dale.
Silence again, this time longer and slightly more uncomfortable than before. Finally, he spoke.
“Interesting idea… What do you think Colin? You have this new-found community profile after being shot. You also have the party pedigree. You are reasonably well liked and presentable. That said, do you have the strength, the moxie, and the killer instinct for this? This is not a game for nice guys. Do you think you have what it takes?” asked Al.
Dale began to respond. The big man held up one of his giant hands directly in front of Dale’s face.
“Madill, shut up. I asked your man here.”
Being put on the spot increased my anxiety. Controlling this stress as best I could I looked him directly in the eye.
Troy Myers 