The day after Al’s tongue-lashing I was up early and knocking on doors by myself. Clive would not be pleased.
I preferred to take my chances than have another run in with Al. As for Clive, his training would see me through. Besides, all the talk of death threats was likely a hoax. So far, I walked the streets of Dartmouth with encouragement and good will from the community.
Alone on Hester Street, close to our campaign headquarters, I knocked on doors but had little luck finding people to talk to. I visited five places and found only one person home. She was friendly but a solid NDP supporter, the rainbow windsock hanging over the doorway gave it away.After a pleasant chat, I moved to the next house.
On my way, I noticed a rough looking guy shuffling toward me. As I got closer, I guessed he had slept in the street for a few days. The sharp aroma of his clothes reminded me of one of the homeless guys in the library. I guessed he was a non-voter and decided to pass by with only a nod and a quick hello. On second thought, he deserved better.
I slowed my pace, said hello and asked him if he lived in the area. He stopped and looked at me like I was a representative of the Church of Latter-Day Saints asking him if he had accepted Jesus Christ as his Lord and savior. I could see he was exhausted. I could smell his damp musty clothes and notice the grass stains on his elbows and knees.
“No, I don’t. I am looking for the church. Do you know where it is?”
“Which one? There are a few of them in the area.”
“The one where I can get something to eat,” he said.
“Stairs Memorial. You are close; it is a block that way.” I pointed in the direction he was already heading. “Keep going and you will find it.”
“Thanks. Listen man, you know where I can get some work? I just got into town and I’m broke,” he said.
“I am looking for work too,” I replied with a smile. He didn’t share the humour.
I told him about the election campaign. None of this seemed to be of interest to him. The more I talked the more I could see how exhausted and hungry he was After a long pause I reached into my pocket and found one of my campaign business cards and gave it to him.
“Here is my card. The address to the campaign headquarters is on it. It’s just up the street to the right. When you get settled drop in and see us. We might be able to find something for you. If nothing else, we have food.”
That said, we parted. I seconded guessed why I invited a dirty homeless person to the office. What would Dot say? Even worse, what would Al say?
I put it out of head and continued along the street. I set my sights on an eight-unit brick building. It’s exterior was weathered, the mailboxes were tagged with graffiti and there were at least two flags hung for curtains. Strewn around the yard, was an assortment of well-used kid’s toys and a large plastic dog bowl half chewed. Finding a rough multi-unit low income housing beside a well-kept row of single-family middle-income is typical Dartmouth.
On the street alone, I was able to break another rule of safe campaigning: never go into an apartment building without a partner. Low-income buildings have been forever tainted by the likes of Jeffrey Dahmer and Al-Qaeda sleeper cells. Clive would have been impressed. Being more afraid of Al than the security expert, I needed to get my contact numbers up.
I opened the front door. The lock was broken. A shiver ran down my spine. I saw a flash of tomorrow’s news headlines ‘Dartmouth Cole Harbour Candidate Vanishes’, ‘Free Speech Crusading Librarian turned Conservative Candidate Killed.’
I pushed through the doorway and walked into the foyer. The overhead light was smashed and the walls were long in need of paint. A strong stench of cat urine filled the space. I pushed on. I was worried for my shoes. The Italian leather was tough but not cat piss proof.
The two-story building was laid out with four apartments on each floor. I started on the ground floor. The first two doors I found no one home. I slid my campaign literature trough a gap at the bottom of each door and moved on. At the third door I heard the noise of a television so I knocked loudly. Nothing. I banged the door a second time. Still nothing. I moved on.
I had better luck at the last door on the floor. A young guy answered. However, he was exhausted and not interested in talking politics. He looked like he just got home from working a night shift or had been up all-night gaming. He was polite but had no idea there was a federal election going on. I gave him a brochure and went to the stairs.
I found a door on the next level and knocked. The door opened and a woman of about seventy greeted me. She wore a homemade flowered frock style dress and her white hair was pulled back in a bun. She smiled. I returned the courtesy and handed her my brochure. She took it and stared at the glossy card while I gave her my pitch.
My bit said, I stood patiently. I noticed her well-kept apartment. Everything was in place. It was immaculate. A well-fed, content cat was curled on the couch.
“It is a pleasure to meet you Mr. Myers. You don’t look like a politician,” she said with a genuine and contagious smile.
“Thank you. I will take that as a compliment,” I replied.
“Issues, sure; Let me think…” she said staring at the campaign brochure.
There was a significant pause as she stared at the literature in her hand and then back at me. Just as the silence was beginning to feel uncomfortable, she spoke.
“In fact I do have an issue. It has to do with family planning… Think you can help my son keep his dick in his pants?” she asked.
“Excuse me?”
“I just got off the phone with the stupid, shit for brains, fucker and he tells me he got another girl knocked up.”
“Another girl?” I asked.
“Yeah, this will be his third baby with three different women in less than three years! Can you believe it? Last thing this town needs is more dumb fucks like him! Stupid bastard should have his cock cut off!” she replied.
“Well, that…is…extreme wouldn’t you say?” I asked tentatively, doing my best to not turn and sprint down the stairs.
I defaulted to my public library experience to help me with this situation. Nothing in our crash candidate course had prepared me for this encounter. However, in libraries, I have met all kinds of people with every eccentricity, idiosyncrasy, and mental illness imaginable. I put on my reference librarian hat.
“There is lots of family planning information I can help you find,” I offered.
“Resources? What like books and stuff?” she asked.
“Exactly,” I said with a smile having finally found my balance with the conversation.
“I don’t know… The stupid bastard wouldn’t take the time to look at anything good for him. He is too busy putting his dick where it doesn’t belong. Asshole has no sense. Never did, he is exactly like his piece of shit father! Now, if you want to get me worked up, ask me about that useless waste of skin!”
In a hasty attempt to make an exit I looked at my watch.
“Wow, it’s getting close to lunch. I really need to get …”
She cut me off.
“You are full of shit,” she said.
“Pardon me?”
“You heard me. You’re full of shit. You don’t have to meet anyone; you are trying to get the hell out of here. I’m not an idiot. I know a bull-shitter when I see one. Son, you are going to make a shitty politician. If you want to do this job you need to learn to lie. You suck.”
Completely caught in this one, I couldn’t think how to redirect the conversation so I doubled down. I was too afraid to tell the truth to her given her ball-busting, dick cutting, talk.
“No seriously. Every day we get together for lunch at the Ship Victory. Great ribs. Do you go there?”
“No, I am banned from the place,” she replied coldly.
At this juncture I should have left it there, said farewell and moved on, but curiosity got the better of me.
“Banned? It must have been a mistake,” I said trying to charm my way out of this morass.
“No. I deserved it,” she responded. “I stabbed a guy.”
“Wow… Stabbed a guy…” I stammered.
“He must have done something pretty serious to you…” I added weakly.
“Not really,” she said. “I was drunk. I was playing the machines and drinking that shit draft beer. The machines weren’t paying so I decided to go outside for a smoke. On my way out, I tripped over this jerk-off’s foot. He told me to sober up and watch where I was going. He had the nerve to call me a drunk? What piece of shit man says that to a woman? A gentleman would never tell a lady she’s a drunk so I got in his face. He refused to apologize, stood up and told me to fuck off. That was it for me. I grabbed the steak knife from his plate and put it in his ribs.”
I was completely speechless. I stood in her doorway mute as a flagpole.
“Enjoy your lunch at that fucking shit hole,” she said before abruptly closing the door.
Defeated, I decided it was a good time to head back to the office and pick up a volunteer. I wasn’t having much success on my own.
I accepted then politics was a new contact sport for me and I needed team mates to get the ball over the line. On my way, I passed five NDP signs, three Liberal signs, and two Conservative signs. Judging by this Hester Street poll, we had a lot of work to do.
Troy Myers 