Four hours later, I was sitting with Dale in the back of a campaign car discussing last-minute details. We had an hour to go before the start of the debate. The usual nervous energy had not yet kicked in. I was relaxed despite Clive’s warnings. I was feeling very good in the freshly-pressed suit, shirt and tie that Kathleen had approved. Finally, I had aligned with the campaign’s fashion cop.
Frank drove the car slowly along the quiet streets of downtown Dartmouth. We had plenty of time to get to the venue so we enjoyed the rare quiet time. It was a breath of fresh air compared to the frenetic pace we were used to. Frank listened to the radio and sang along to Elton John’s duet with Kiki Dee ‘Don’t go Breaking my Heart.’ He did both parts with such enthusiasm that Dale and I joined in. I was Elton and Dale did his best impersonation of Kiki Dee. Frank backed us both with remarkable vocal agility. We laughed several times during our car karaoke session.
The song ended as we turned off Main St to make our way to the venue. Given the large audience expected, all parties agreed to a last-minute change to the auditorium of Prince Andrew High School. The auditorium could accommodate twice as many people as the original location. It was also outside of the downtown core and not as easy to get to. It also had entrances and exits which were easier to monitor and control. These were changes, Clive and his situationally obsessed colleagues, insisted on.
As Frank approached the entrance to the school, we could see a group of people carrying placards. They marched up the hill to the front doors. When they recognized the Conservative Party logo on our vehicle, they shook their professionally printed signs and yelled in our direction. We had no idea what they were saying, however, it was a safe assumption the comments were not complimentary. I did hear the familiar sound of a portable airhorn. The horn’s high pitched, piercing sound reminded me of my first encounter with these folks. I felt a flash of anxiety and my pulse quickened.
“Hey boss, check it out. Some of your friends came to cheer you on tonight,” said Frank with a smile.
“Ha! With the angry signs and lack of charisma, they do look like library school types,” Dale interjected.
“You guys are complete jackasses… but Dale you have a point, they are library school grads for sure,” I replied.
We laughed, and this suppressed the twinge of anxiety I had experienced moments before. It disappeared as quickly as it came, buried deep in the dark corners of my psyche until next time. I took a deep breath and felt my confidence return. These guys had my back regardless of what happened. I wasn’t going to let them dowm.
“You want me to get this party started and run them over?” joked Frank.
“No, we took the wrong car for that Frank. Head office wouldn’t be happy with the damage to the brand. Besides, this would just end up being another boring political debate without them,” I replied.
At that moment, Dale’s phone vibrated. A text from Clive, who obviously knew we had arrived at the high school. He instructed us to drive the car around the back of the school and park beside the sport field. Frank found a parking spot close to the turf as directed. Clive appeared beside the car like a ninja. His eyes scanned the perimeter with a diligence that suggested the Prime Minister was in the car. He was only missing the earpiece and the aviator sun glasses.
With the car parked and an all clear nod from Clive, we exited the vehicle with military grade purpose.
“Mr. Candidate, welcome to Prince Andrew High School. Let’s get inside quickly please. We will enter the door you can see at the back corner. Once inside the building, I will give an update before you begin your debate activation routine. Frank, once Troy and Dale are inside the school, I want you to remove the car from the premises. You can park it behind the Community College up on the hill and walk down. Text me when you are return and I will have someone let you in. Is that clear?”
“Yes sir,” responded Frank as he stood upright with his arms flat to his sides.
I thought Frank was serious until he looked my way and gave me a wink. On his way back in the car, he started to hum the opening strings of our Elton John song. I bit down on my lip to keep from laughing.
Dale and I made our way to the school’s backdoor with Clive close behind. The door opened and was held by another security guy who, like Clive, wore his hair and suit too tight for my taste.
“Activation? What the hell is he talking about?” I whispered to Dale as we entered the school and heard the door lock behind us.
“That is pro athlete speak for: go over the game plan, take a few deep breaths, stretch, and take a piss before game time,” replied Dale.
“Right. I forgot Clive played college football with Al. Once an athlete always an athlete. It does sound more impressive than take a piss though.”
With Dale and I safely inside the school, we were given the security update as promised.
“Okay gentlemen, we have exactly one hour before the debate. As you witnessed on your drive here, the protesters have started to gather. Our aim is to keep them outside. In order to do this we have all party support that there will be no bags, signs, food, selfie sticks allowed into the venue. We believe this will encourage our protesters to stay out in front of the school so they can get the media attention they want. With the media here in full force, this should not be difficult to achieve. We have also hired a couple of freelancers to shoot video for us just in case we need the evidence. Are there any questions?” said Clive.
“No sir,” Dale and I responded in unison.
I was concerned about his ‘need for evidence’ comment but realizing I wouldn’t like the answer, I didn’t ask him to explain.
“Good. I will take you to the green room,” replied Clive.
“The green room? Can we call it the blue room Clive? I’m not comfortable with the green agenda,” I joked.
Clive’s only reaction was a look that suggested he wouldn’t hesitate to choke me out and carry me to the green room if I wasted anymore of his time.
The green room was a makeshift space in a dusty classroom across from the teacher’s entrance to the auditorium. Al and Kathleen were waiting for us. The other candidates, handlers in tow, were arriving as well. The moderator, a heavy-set guy who anchored the evening news for a local television station, was in the room too. I was impressed with his punctuality and work ethnic given Saturday was his day off. He wore one of the three suits he rotated through his work week at the station. This wasn’t the big league.
With Al busy feeding himself at the well-stocked food table, Kathleen introduced me to the other candidates. I knew them by reputation but this was the first time any of us had been together. Kathleen, on the other hand, was familiar with all the pros from the other parties. All were on a first name basis. Professional organizers in the political business tend to have longer careers than most candidates so the best ones nurture a network which won’t fracture on party lines.
With the introductions complete, the moderator explained the rules. Each of us had two minutes for an opening statement. This would be followed by a series of six questions. We would have one minute to respond to each of the questions in an order which had already been determined. There was no opportunity for rebuttal as this event was more an all-party information session than a traditional debate the moderator explained. Everyone was fine with this dumbed down debate format. We wouldn’t need to be quick on our feet, and the party officials didn’t have to worry we would stray from the script.
After the briefing and a couple of jokes at my expense, we retreated to our tribal groups and fine-tuned our presentations. I enjoyed the jokes, the gist being how people were more interested in holding a lottery for podium positions so they did not have to stand beside me and risk being collateral damage. I countered with: I hoped my Liberal opponent got the spot. If the shit hit the fan I would have his big head, inflated by his two previous election wins, to create cover.
With the jokes done, we had five minutes to wrap up. It was soon showtime. Together, we walked out of the green room toward the side entrance of the auditorium. The group’s relaxed, laid back mood disappeared. From the door, I felt a hot headwind from the large audience crammed into the space. I am sure I wasn’t the only person thinking who would pick a public school without air conditioning on a warm June evening to hold a busy event? Every kid knows schools are not kind to groups when it is hot outside. Clive probably was a fan however. With the heat jacked, half the audience would fall asleep and any interloper would have to jump over snoring bodies to cause trouble. Thankfully, Kathleen had made the right choice of suit for me. The light weight synthetic and wool blend navy blue suit I wore wicked away moisture. Like my grandfather said, never let them see you sweat kid. If they do, they will want blood.
With all of us in position behind our party branded podiums, the overweight moderator walked on the stage with microphone in hand. He looked remarkably fresh for a fat man in a hot box. It was game time. Seconds later, a disembodied voice boomed over the public-address system and welcomed everyone. The black stage curtains pulled back at exactly seven o’clock. The house was beyond full. All the seats were taken and people leaned on all the available wall space.
Our calm cool and collected host took control of the room immediately. He was pleased with the large turnout and fed off the energy of the crowd like a vampire at a Red Cross clinic. After twenty years as a television news anchor he was less a journalist and more a performer addicted to the bright lights and attention. With a crowd like this, hung on his every word, he was exactly where he wanted to be. This was not work for him. This was fun.
After a round of applause the moderator introduced himself and the candidates. He explained the format, rules of the debate, and the order: The Green Party candidate first, the Liberal second, me third, the New Democrat fourth. The list of speakers would rotate for each of the questions. A fifteen-minute Q and A with the audience would follow. Lastly, each candidate had two minutes for a final statement.
With smiles and deep breaths, the two-minute introductions began. I did my best to be an attentive listener as the Green Party candidate and the sitting member from the Liberal Party spoke but my limited capacity for multi-tasking had maxed out. Good thing this wasn’t a real debate where I would have to pay attention to offer a rebuttal. I did not hear a word either one said.
So far, the audience was well behaved. For such a full hot house, I was encouraged to see such an engaged group. I felt honoured to be part of a community event which was a good example of how a civil society should function. It was a nice moment but it didn’t last long.
After the candidates before me had finished with opening remarks, the host introduced me to the audience. The applause was loud. This warm welcome gave me a boost of confidence. I checked my notes one last time before addressing the crowd.
As the applause tapered off, the noise of a commotion began. It began with one voice and grew steadily. Six members of the audience, sitting in the front row, stood up and began to chant. They turned the volume up as the applause decreased. When all of the clapping was gone, the interlopers screamed in unison at the top of their lungs. I stood speechless.
“Stop the bigot! Stop the bigot! Stop the bigot!”
They repeated the same three words over and over. The moderator asked them to take their seats. Nearby audience members told them to shut up and let me speak. In response, they got louder and louder. I couldn’t believe this was happening again.
While it seemed like an eternity, Clive and his team showed up and told the trouble makers to take their seats. They ignored his order and turned up the volume. By now, the rest of the audience was yelling at these jerks to sit down. The event had degraded to chaos in two minutes. Everyone on the stage looked at each other in bewilderment. None of us had a clue what to do next.
Clive, while his team stood menacingly behind him, told the shit heads they had to leave. In response, they got louder.
“Stop the bigot! Stop the bigot! Stop the bigot!”
At this point, the sitting Member of Parliament left his position behind the podium and made his way to the front of the stage. He forcefully told the troublemakers to sit or leave. They gave him the finger and carried on.
“Stop the bigot! Stop the bigot! Stop the bigot!”
With reason gone, Clive and crew moved in. They grabbed each member of the group by the elbow and forcibly lead them to the exit. The troublemakers did not go willingly. Instead, they moved as slowly as they could without starting a fight with the security professionals guiding them to the door. They continued chanting as they moved to the exit.
“Stop the bigot! Stop the bigot! Stop the bigot!”
As I watched them escorted out, the hurtful words started to sink in. Bigot? Were they really talking about me? These people didn’t know anything about me, and they labelled me a bigot? Why? Because I hosted a speaker they didn’t like? It took me years to become comfortable growing up gay in a conservative family, and when I am finally comfortable with my identity I am now stigmatized for calling myself conservative? Really? How did that happen? Somewhere along the way being conservative in Canada made me a pariah.
The members of the press ran to the action. They scrummed around these clowns being removed from the building. When the shit heads saw the video camera lights and phones on sticks they screamed louder. They likely guessed their moment to shine was reaching its peak so they dug deep and found an extra level of volume.
‘Stop the bigot! Stop the bigot! Stop the bigot!”
Everyone on the stage stood silent and watched as these people took control of the evening. I was depressed. How in the hell did I ever think I was cut out for this nasty business? Politicians need skin as thick as a rhinoceros and mine proved to be as thin as a newborn baby. My anxiety rose again as I struggled to breathe. Sweat started on my forehead and palms. I struggled to gain control of my emotions which were quickly becoming untethered.
Still at the front of the stage, the Liberal candidate stood with the host’s microphone in his hand. With wide eyes and rising anger, he began a chant of his own. He stood tall, held the microphone high, and spoke forcefully and clearly three words. He repeated the message over and over.
“Let him speak! Let him speak! Let him speak!”
The audience was receptive to the new message. Soon, many voices joined the chant led by my Liberal opponent.
“Let him speak! Let him speak! Let him speak!”
The shit heads’ voices were soon lost in the sound of over one thousand people. When the troublemakers were gone from the auditorium the rest of us erupted into thunderous applause. The Liberal Member of Parliament thanked everyone for their patience and understanding. He then turned to me and gave my introduction.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, I would like to introduce the Conservative Candidate for Dartmouth and Cole Harbour Mr. Troy Myers. It is his turn to speak and I for one want to hear what he has to say,” he said warmly.
There was another round of enthusiastic applause from the crowd. My anxiety left as quickly as it came. I looked at the folks in the auditorium. They sat quietly and waited for me. This one moment restored my faith. The evening’s decorum was built on a foundation of common courtesy maintained with a simple code: talk, listen, switch, repeat. Without it, there would be no common good found.
The civility of the room was restored not just by Clive and his crew but by someone I would never had guessed had my best interests in mind. He regained order with only his voice. I took a deep breath and started my speech.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I appreciate your patience during these interesting times. My name is Troy Myers and I am the Conservative…”
In mid-sentence, I was interrupted again. This time, by the loud ringing of the building’s fire alarm system. For the briefest of moments all four political candidates, our television anchor host, and over one thousand people jammed into the auditorium were speechless. Then, it was back to chaos.
The bells rang loudly and confusion spread quickly in the room, Clive and a uniformed police officer appeared on the stage. Clive grabbed me by the arm and leaned in so I could hear him over the piercing ringing of the fire bells. He told me to follow him. The cop took the microphone from my podium and told the crowd to proceed to the illuminated exits in an orderly manner. He told them to take all of their possessions as no one would be allowed back in tonight. The event was over.
On the stage, Clive told the other candidates and the annoyed television anchorman to follow us as this was not a drill. We made our way to the exit. There was a smell of smoke in the air.
The television host jumped in front of Clive and made a bead for the door he displayed great agility and speed. He won the race to the exit. The rest of us stayed behind Clive.
As we entered the hallway the smell of smoke was strong. With the anchorman several metres in front, Clive yelled for him to proceed to the door at the end of the hallway and exit the building. We picked up our pace to catch him. This wasn’t easy as he had started to run.
Seconds later, heavy rain poured from the automated sprinkler system. Water filled the air and covered everyone. We were soaked to the skin, including our television host moderator. It didn’t seem to bother him. I even caught him smile. I guessed he was happy because he was no longer just a talking head. He had become part of the story.
The anchor yelled back to us that the exit was just ahead. He was the hero in a disaster movie who led his hapless friends to safety before the building burst into flames. We followed him to the door with Clive close behind.
Clive moved quietly with no signs of panic. The water didn’t seem to bother him. In fact, he seemed more relaxed than usual with his suit loosened up with the weight of the water. Guys like him preferred being in chaotic situations, I realized. It is the pace of normal life they struggle with.
We caught up to fleeing host and made our way to the back door. The same door Frank had dropped Dale and I off earlier. Clive sprinted to the front of the group so he could exit first. He had his phone in hand. We followed him outside to the school muster zone at the far corner of the parking lot. Once there, we were relieved to be away from the rain of the sprinkler system. While we were free of the fire, the heat was about to be turned up.
Around the corner of the school, I saw a group of placard waving protesters. They pointed at us and shouted angrily. Clive spoke into his phone before putting it in the breast pocket of his soaked suit. He told us to stay together remain calm. Two cars were on the way. He then took a position between us and the group. He stood tall and squared his shoulders. His hands were ready. He was in full defence mode.
With the group closing in on us there was no sign yet of the extraction team. Instead, a white SUV with the CBC logo came around the corner. At this point, the protestors were on top of us. Their agitation and shouting had increased. Clive tried to calm the group down to no avail. Knowing his methods, I guessed he was also sized each of them up to decide who he should hit first.
The CBC truck pulled up and the driver’s door swung open. The driver got out of the car with her selfie stick. I recognized her immediately she as the same CBC reporter who was there when I was shot in the library. Wow, I was surprised she had to drive herself around. Ten years ago, a team of four would be in the truck. Given the size of this angry group, I wished she did have a crew.
The ANTIFA group seemed pleased with the media attention. I didn’t think it possible, but their voices grew louder and more obnoxious. They formed a circle around us and swung their professionally printed placards filling the air. This created great video for the lone reporter on the scene. She captured it all.
The group of chanting lunatics closed its ring around us. The Liberal MP tried to reason with them but they wouldn’t listen. Then, Clive stepped in and told them to back off. In response, they moved closer. The rest of us had no idea what to say or do. Personally, I was in shock at how quickly a typically boring political debate had turned into a shit show.
As my Liberal colleague tried to make friends with this unreasonable collection of people, I heard the sirens of firetrucks. Given our current predicament, I had forgotten there may be a fire in the school.
Clive seized on the opportunity. He shouted for everyone to move away from the building. The protesters ignored him and continued to shout. The soaked anchorman lent his deep baritone voice to the effort and joined in with Clive’s call for the protesters to move. His deep voice grabbed their attention immediately. They stopped yelling and seemed unsure what they should do next. This opened a gap in the circle and Clive jumped in.
Clive directed us to move up the hill toward the community college parking lot. We moved swiftly while Clive stood his ground and guided each of us through the gap. The Green Party candidate first, with the NDP and Liberal next. Clive grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me through the gap as the anchorman pushed in front and knocked me off balance.
With the fire trucks on scene, the group of protesters lost structure. Two of our campaign cars had also arrived. Clive steered me toward the vehicles. The others were halfway up the hill to the community college. I made eye contact with Frank who drove the lead campaign car. He slowed to a stop so Clive and I could get in. This ten minutes of chaos seemed like it had lasted hours but it was, at last, nearing an end. Frank and the car were only steps away.
The leaderless protesters had been hit with the entropy of the situation. Most had headed the anchorman’s call to find safe ground away from the fire. Two members of the group hung around and looked like they were unsure of what to do next. The protest was almost out of steam, or so I thought. On my way to the safety of the car, a lone protester started to scream at the top of her lungs. She pointed at me as I moved toward the vehicle.
“Stop the fascist! He is getting away!” she yelled.
With most of her friends gone there was no one left to answer her call. She realized she was on her own and ran toward me. She raised her sign high in the air like the battle axe of Joan D’ Arc. Less than one metre away from me, Clive turned and braced himself to confront this sign swinging assailant. He yelled at me to get in the car before he turned toward the approaching threat. He raised his hands and prepared for battle.
Clive coiled in a defensive stance ready to counterattack just before the lunatic and her sign crashed to the ground. She was tripped up by the aluminum selfie stick swung hard across her shins by the CBC reporter. I watched as the nut bar slid along the ground and came to an abrupt stop on the asphalt. This left her in a moaning heap on the pavement. Her bare legs had turned raspberry red with road rash.
Clive told me to get in the car and leave. Frank hustled me in the back seat and we were soon leaving the school in the safety of the vehicle. I watched through the window as Clive and the CBC reporter worked together to help the felled assailant while she writhed on the ground. The anchorman had returned to the scene and was busy shooting video while giving commentary I couldn’t hear. I thought he looked happy before, now he appeared ecstatic to be out from behind the nightly news desk and back to the front lines. For an old seasoned pro used to a large production team, he adapted well to the new tools of the trade with only his phone camera to capture the action.
I thought we should stop the car to lend a hand, but Clive, the CBC reporter, and the anchorman had the situation well under control. With the woman incapacitated, her fellow protesters had fled the scene and left others to come to her aid.
Frank steered the car along the road’s shoulder so the fire trucks had clear access to the building. He then drove the car calmly down the driveway and turned right on Woodlawn Road like we were out for a quiet Sunday drive as he hummed the opening bars of a familiar Elton John tune.
Troy Myers 