Back at headquarters, Dot greeted me with a rib-cracking hug and a kiss on the cheek which left me smelling like cigarette smoke. I thought it may be time for me to start smoking again.
“Your buddy Frank was in,” she said.
“Frank Connors?” I asked.
“No, the other one. The homeless guy,” she replied.
“Oh right… really? ” I responded.
“Perhaps you could ask him to have a shower.”
How Dot could detect odours, foul or fair, with her smoke singed sinuses was beyond me.
“Sorry about that. He seemed like he needed some help,” I said.
Dot’s normally stern look and abrasive tone softened momentarily. “Don’t worry Mr. Candidate. I gave him something to eat, handed him a few smokes, and got him out of here before Al arrived. I told him to come back tomorrow. I did say he should clean up before coming back,” she said.
“Thanks Dot. You are the best. Anyone else looking for me?” I asked.
“Yes, a couple of the usual wing nuts. Pastor Perry from the Rock Evangelical Church wants to know where you stand on the same-sex marriage debate and abortion. Him, and Marjorie Morrison from Pine Crest. She is convinced the sewage treatment plant’s construction is making her cats sick. Wants to know what you going to do about it.”
“Great. Pine Crest is not even close to the plant. Her cats must like to wander. Should I call?”
“Don’t worry. I told her and the Pastor you were busy campaigning. You would just be wasting your time. I’ll get communications to send a message to Pastor Perry. As for Marjorie, she will lose interest in the plant soon. Maybe one day she’ll realize cats get old and she has too many of them in a one-bedroom apartment…” she replied.
“Too many? How many does she have?”
“Honey, you don’t want to know. It is disgusting. I will protect you from certain unpleasant things during this campaign and this is one of them. You don’t need that image in your head,” she said.
“Thanks Dot. I will put my trust in you. Anything else?”
“Yes. The national campaign HQ called this morning with the latest numbers that suggest this riding is in play. Early internal polling suggests residents think we have a good candidate.”
“Hey, that is exciting!”
“Sure is. Don’t get too excited, though. It is way too early yet. Having said that, The national campaign team is sending us more resources.”
“Awesome! What resources are we talking about?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. I guess we’ll find out soon. In the meantime, I made you a sandwich. Take five minutes, have a quick bite and then get back on the streets. There are votes out there. Go get ‘em tiger!”
I was energized by Dot’s news. Back on the street, the afternoon canvassing went well. This time I had two experienced volunteers. On top of that, the nice weather put us in a good mood. We made good contact with voters and secured a bunch of new lawn sign commitments. Al would be happy. He saw these signs a far more important measure of popularity than the numbers of signs our volunteers erected on public property.
Back in the office for five o’clock I quickly noticed a pall had dropped over the usual good energy of the place. Only Dale seemed upbeat. I walked over and joined the team around the meeting table. No one acknowledged me verbally. I had two quick glances, one forced smile, and nothing from Al. I looked at his chair flexing unnaturally backward and decided even the furniture was getting bent out of shape. I sat, listened, and waited for someone to explain what was up.
“Hey, I think this is a good thing,” said Dale enthusiastically.
“How so?” retorted Al.
“Well, let’s look at this objectively. It shows we are on the radar. Thanks to our man getting shot on television, we have a candidate people know, not just in Dartmouth and Cole Harbour, but across the entire country. In the last election we lost this riding by over three thousand votes, now we are polling within a couple of points of the Liberals. This is big news. If head office wants to give us some help we should welcome it,” explained Dale.
“Some help? Are you being naive or just stupid? Dale, you’ve been around long enough to know they want to take over this campaign,” said Al.
“Come on Al, how can we turn down a full-time organizer? ”
Al glared at Dale. The silence was deafening. He leaned back in his chair. It went further beyond its natural flex point. The bending chair appeared to defy the laws of physics, or at least the limits of safe use.
“A full-time organizer? This is the same shit we’ve heard before. The national campaign team does some polling. They look at the numbers and see we went from long shot to winnable. They think we have lucked into a star candidate who can win the riding. They then decide the local yokels are going to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory! So, they parachute in some head office control freak to run the show. Someone who tells us what to wear, what to say and when we are allowed take a piss. Jesus, I don’t know why I thought it would be different this time… why I thought they would give us the credit for making things happen… This top down, bureaucratic bullshit makes me angry! Why, I think I’ll call the…”?
Al got more agitated as his rant grew in intensity. I watched him rock back and forth in his already over-worked chair. The chair had all of my attention. I was drawn, like a passing motorist to a highway accident. I watched the metal back flex closer to the point of no return while its legs splayed wider. At this point, I decided the moment had come for me to intervene. Too late.
Al responded quickly to the sudden loss of his chair’s support. He rocked forward. However, his shifted weight was too much for the already stressed chair legs. The front ones kicked out and flattened forward. To counter this unsuspected movement, he shifted backward. Almost cat-like, he displayed the grace that made him a university football all-star.
Despite his efforts to keep balanced, the back legs of the chair also failed. The entire room froze for a split second as we watched him fall to the ground. He landed in a sitting position with all four of the furniture’s legs flared out diagonally like they had been pressed in a book. The chair looked like an insect that had been stepped on.
We sat still. After an uncomfortable moment, Al tried to get up. in his awkward position, the grace of movement he had displayed earlier had abandoned him. He struggled like a seal in a sandbox.
Todd and I, caught between horror and humour, jumped to his aid. We grabbed his hands and pulled him up. Al, his face crimson with embarrassment and spiked blood pressure, staggered back to his feet.
For several long, awkward seconds we waited him to speak. He hauled up his sixty-inch waist jeans and found his balance. Standing, he glared at us. We said nothing.
“Fucking cheap chair! Maybe the assholes from Ottawa will bring us some better furniture!” he said spitting his words.
That said, he left. The meeting was over.
I stuck around to hear the full news of our campaign making it on the national campaign’s radar. My fifteen minutes of fame continued.
Politics is a funny business.
Dale and I were alone in our optimism. The other members of the team agreed with Al. They didn’t think head office sending us a professional organizer was a good thing. They resented this micro management.
I hit the streets with vigour that night. We knocked on doors until dark. It was a beautifully warm evening that made me think summer was just around the corner. We met lots of people who gave us encouragement as we worked the streets of Dartmouth.
I went home at ten p.m. and collapsed on the couch. I tuned into CBC’s The National. I was pleased to hear our riding of Dartmouth and Cole Harbour identified as one to watch by the political panel. It was a good day.
My good mood deflated as I watched the rest of the news. The CBC’s decision to replace one anchor with four, gave the show a chaotic flow that I found hard to follow. I wanted only one person to read me the news at night, not a committee.
I grabbed the remote control and switched it to CNN just in time to watch Don Lemon cry on camera with almost complete abandon as he reflected on a family funeral he attended. Pulling himself together, he embraced his inner nastiness, and launched into an angry evisceration of a hapless Republican after yet another school shooting in California.
What ever happened to level headed journalists asking fair questions? I shut off the television and went to sleep.
Troy Myers 