Buoyed by last night’s national interest in our campaign, I was up early and eager to get to work. It was only the first week of the election but I was feeling more comfortable than when it started.
The good weather continued. It was a beautiful day in late May. The flowers were in bloom and the air was fresh with a east wind that blew the stench of the untreated sewage in the harbour away from Dartmouth and toward Halifax. I smiled at the people waiting at the bus stop.
My good mood did not last long. As I turned the corner on to Albro Lake Road, I saw two police cruisers and an ambulance in front of the campaign headquarters. I ran to the office.
Seconds later, I was at the main entrance just in time to see Dot wheeled out on a stretcher. With her, were two paramedics wearing white suits with hoods and face masks. Dot gave me her usual smile. She then became annoyed when the paramedics banged her stretcher on the frame of the door.
“Hey! Would you two jokers take it easy? I hope you drive an ambulance better than you guide this rig. At this rate we won’t make it to the hospital. Let me off this circus ride. I will walk!”
“Oh my God Dot. Are you ok? What happened?” I stammered.
“I’m fine. I told them I don’t need to go to the hospital. There was a package left for you at the office this morning. I opened it and found a nasty note from one of the usual crackpots who get fired up every time there is an election. I was filing it in the trash when I noticed it was covered with white powder. My guess is the sloppy loser dropped sugar from a donut. Al told me to drop it and get away from the desk. He called 911 and here we are. They think it may be something dangerous. I told the cops its icing sugar…” she explained.
Sensing my shock and confusion, Dot did what Dot did best, she calmed me down.
“Don’t sweat it. I will be fine. I will be back before lunch. You get to work. We can use this little story to our advantage. News will be all over this one and it hurts less than getting shot again…” she said with a twinkle in her eye.
“Promise me you will get out and find us votes. The clock is ticking. Can you do that for me?” she asked.
“Sure… Dot, of course. Anything… Yes…” I replied.
“Good stuff. Now, go see Al. He is in his truck behind the building. The office is off-limits. I told them they don’t need a lab to tell them it is sugar. After baking for five kids, fourteen grandkids and twenty-two great grandkids I know sugar when I see it,” she said.
I stood on the sidewalk as the paramedics loaded Dot into the ambulance. I gave her a wave and the vehicle drove away. A crowd gathered. I went to find Al. He was sitting in his extended cab Ford 150 working on a laptop that looked more like a cellphone in his big hands.
“Jesus Al, what the hell is going on?” I asked surprised to see him smiling.
“People are starting to take notice of us,” he said.
“What? Dot was carted out of here in an ambulance!” I replied.
“Dot is going to be fine. She knows sugar when she sees it. Hold on, I am in the process of alerting media about a terrorist attack on our headquarters,” He said.
“Terrorist attack? What in the hell are you talking about?”
He held up a big hand.
“Save it. I have work to do. On another note, your buddy Frank showed up this morning,” he said losing his smile.
“Frank? The homeless guy?”
“That’s the one. Apparently, the shelter kicks everyone out at 7:30 am so he was here bright and early. He said you sent him.”
“Where is he now? Oh my God, did he touch the stuff too?!”
“No. I didn’t know what to do with him so I sent him to the shed. He is putting together 2×2 signs. He missed all the fun,” said Al annoyed.
“Have you smelled him? Jesus, tell him to take a bath! I get you want to help but what made you think it is a good idea to have a hobo working on our campaign?”
“Bath? Can’t he take one at the shelter?” I asked with no clue of what amenities are available in the city’s shelters.
“How the hell am I supposed to know? Bud, you are the candidate. I am running the office, and you send me a homeless guy who you promised a job. Seriously? What the hell are you trying to do to me? What’s next? Do we have to renovate the storage shed into a home for the stray cats you are going to rescue?”
“Al…”
Again, he held up a hand to shut me up.
“I am not finished. Not only do I suffer the indignity of having head office parachute some stooge here, but on the very morning of the very day said stooge is to arrive I find a foul smelling, homeless guy waiting to meet me. Fine. It’s the north end of Dartmouth, this is normal. Then I find out you invited him! For FUCK SAKE, what the hell were you thinking?!”
“Come on Al, he….” I tried to interject.
“Save it. I have to get this media release out. I also need to rewrite today’s plan. I didn’t build the anthrax attack in to the day’s schedule. How the hell did you talk me into this? I should be on the golf course instead of hanging out with hobos! Promise me he stays out of my way!”
Mercifully, his mobile phone rang. After a brief conversation, he hung up the phone. His face and mood became noticeably darker.
“What’ up?” I asked timidly.
“Our protector has arrived. She took an early flight and grabbed a Ride Share at the airport. She is standing out front of the building right now wondering why there is police tape in front of the office. Jesus Christ,” said Al.
“What?”
“You are up kid. Go and sell yourself to the head office whore while I wrap up this media release. Can you do that? Or should I hose off your homeless buddy and ask him to do it?” said Al.
“Will do boss.” I replied with a smile, happy to have something else to talk about than hobos and shelters.
I stood up straight, squared my shoulders, flattened the front of my shirt and headed out front as directed.
Coming around the corner, I recognized the crisp blue suit, the immaculate blonde hair, and the high-heeled Jimmy Choo shoes. She walked toward me with a confident swagger and grabbed my hand. The sound of her heels on the sidewalk, like a boot stepping Stormtrooper, echoed in my ears.
“Hello Mr. Myers. I am Kathleen Cain. We met briefly at the candidate training workshop. You are the guy who forgot his tie,” she said glancing at my open collar.
After a few forced pleasantries and a quick explanation of the morning’s excitement, I took her to Al. He motioned for her to get in his oversized Ford. With Kathleen in the truck, I left.
I needed to calm down. Of all people, why her? And she has the nerve to take a shot at my decision not to wear a tie! I went to the sign shed where I found Frank working. He had a pile of almost fifty signs assembled. I told him he was coming door knocking. He asked me if it was a good idea to take him along? I assured him it was. He smiled at me.
We loaded up with campaign literature and hit the streets. I could not get away from the building quick enough; not because of the Canada Post anthrax scare but because of the toxic mess that had crawled out of the ride-share and into my life for the next thirty days.
Frank and I walked to the corner of Albro Lake and Victoria Road. I needed to get Kathleen out of my head so I asked Frank to tell me about himself. He talked about where he was from and how he ended up sleeping in a shelter in Dartmouth.
Frank began his story in Toronto where he had worked an assembly line job in a cardboard factory. He didn’t like the job much but he had a nice apartment and a live-in girl-friend. He thought life was okay. He was happy.
He and his girlfriend had been together for six years. The work was lousy but he loved her so he stuck with the shitty job. They had talked about having a kid together and that idea made him feel good. He felt like he was part of something that was bigger and better than he had known before.
His Toronto existence was not to last however. Last week it crashed when he came home early from work to find his girlfriend in bed with one of his friends. He told me he didn’t get mad. He didn’t hurt anyone. He was so destroyed that he felt nothing and everything at the same time. In absolute shock, he couldn’t comprehend what he saw. He didn’t know what to do so he did what he has always done when life overwhelmed him; he ran.
He walked past the two of them without saying a word. They tried to explain. What is to explain? His life, as he had known it, was a lie and it now lay shattered all around him. It was over.
He packed what he could in two bags and walked out the door to the 401 East that linked to the Trans-Canada highway. He started hitchhiking. I asked him why east and he told me because he had never been east of Toronto. and he did not want to go back out west where he had come from.
“How’s the shelter?” I asked.
“The workers are nice enough. Some of the residents are difficult. There is one guy who wanders in his sleep and pisses on people’s stuff, and another guy who screams in his sleep, and then there is the guy who can’t stop touching himself,” he replied.
“Wow, sounds like quite the place,” I said with a sincere appreciation for years of regular paychecks.
“I have been in worse places,” he replied.
Having images of homeless people being indiscreet with their bodily functions and discussing it with someone I was just getting to know was not where I wanted to go with this conversation, so I changed the subject.
“Frank, before we knock on doors let me go over the polling sheets and tell you what I need you to do,” I said getting back to business.
Frank listened to my briefing on the importance of collecting accurate polling data. He proved to be a quick study. He recorded the responses we received accurately and efficiently into the electronic tablet. After a street or two, he started to greet people. He took a genuine interest in people we met. Some of us come to this business naturally. I was reminded of the old library cliché we should never judge a book by its cover.
Troy Myers 