Troy Myers

The next day I was up early to visit the dry cleaner. On the way, I passed a neighbour tending his garden. He had two of my campaign signs on the front lawn. I knew very little about him. It seemed a good time to change that so I stopped to talk.

Our conversation quickly shifted to politics. He asked if there was anything he could do to help. I looked at the Conservative Party campaign signs on his well-manicured lawn and smiled again.

“Just keep spreading the word. I appreciate your support!” I replied.

We shook hands before I left him to his garden and moved on. Ahead on the sidewalk I saw a young woman standing close to the road’s edge. She smiled at every car. She wore a very short skirt and her makeup was overdone for this time of day. I smiled when she looked my way. It was Maggie. She was one of two prostitutes who regularly worked Windmill Road. Maggie rarely missed a day, rain or shine. I used to wonder why the early morning hours were a good time to work the streets until a friend explained it to me.

“It’s the easiest time for a married guy to get some free time. Drop the kids off at the school and say, ‘Honey, I am going to hit the gym before work,’” he said.

“Hit the gym? Interesting, I suppose it is exercise,” I quipped.

“Testosterone also runs higher in the morning so less chance of performance issues,” he joked, “the girls prefer it too; most of the clients are sober and showered.”

Some of my neighbours had no tolerance for her working in the broad daylight. Most people preferred sex workers to be in someone else’s neighbourhood or at least on the street at night. Out of sight, out of mind. Personally, having Maggie working the area didn’t bother me. She should be allowed to make a living. Besides, I admired her work ethic and her ability to maintain a professional attitude.

Given all the crap I am guessing she has put up with she always kept her smile. She also showed up for work more reliably than half of the people I worked with. I wouldn’t hesitate to hire her at the library, if I could convince her to work for the low wages.

“Hey Maggie, how’s it going?” I said with a smile.

“Hey bud! ! Love this sun baby! How’s the election going?” she asked.

Not only did Maggie work harder than most people she shared the streets with she was better informed.

“Things are moving along nicely Maggie. Thank you for asking,” I replied.

“No problem Troy. You know you got my vote baby! Now, I would love to talk, but, no offence, standing here chit chatting with you is bad for business. People will think I am busy,” she said laughing.

Her good mood was contagious. I laughed in return.

“No problem, girl. I completely understand. I will let you get back to work. I hope you have a good day, and please don’t forget to vote!”

“June 12. Got it. In this business, it doesn’t hurt to have a politician who owes you a favour! Good luck honey!” she shouted with a wave more at the passing traffic than me.

By most people’s standards Maggie was working in a horrible, lousy industry with a load of risk but she never struck me as a victim. When I talked to her, she always had an infectious good nature. Who was I to judge? Like my grandfather used to say, “Everyone has to work kid and when you get right down to it, we are all whores.”

My entry into the campaign office began as usual with Dot’s bone-jarring hug and her cheek scratching on my mine. She was no worse for wear from the anthrax threat. I returned her affection and ignored the smell of cigarette smoke that hung around her like a campfire. Another day in Dartmouth and another day smelling like a Bosnian barman.

“Good morning Dot. I hear you did a fantastic job at the press conference. Dale told me you were a superstar! I am sorry I missed it,” I said.

“Just doing my job Mr. Candidate. Most of those idiots don’t know their asses from chapter one. How are you?” she asked.

“Great Dot. The weather is fabulous and the walk to work was lovely. You will be pleased to hear I locked down the hooker vote,” I replied with a smile.

“Good dear. We are aiming to be a big tent party where everyone can feel at home. Dartmouth’s sex workers may just push us over the top and give us a happy ending,” she said with a tobacco stained grin and raspy laugh.

Switching gears back to business she continued, “Pastor Perry called again. He is getting annoyed that you are not available. Al and Kathleen want to discuss Saturday’s debate before you hit the streets. You also have a visitor…”

Dot threw me a look somewhere between a smirk and suspicion.

“A visitor? Who would that be?” I asked.

“She said she is a friend of yours. Margaret McNeil,” replied Dot.

“Margaret McNeil?” I said unable to contain my surprise.

Dot nodded her head.

I returned the look she gave me like a mirror. Dot was a master of nonverbal communication, a skill very handy in this business. Her message was clear, “I have no idea what she wants, or is up to, but be careful.” She then hardened her focus which reminded me of the look my mother gave me before my first high school date.

Dot had lived in Dartmouth for almost eighty years and she had been involved in politics, municipal, provincial, and federal, for almost as long. She came from a long line of Tories. Her father had been Provincial President of the Progressive Conservative party for thirty years and his father had served almost as long before him. Dot was a hardcore, bred in the bone, lifetime political junkie. She knew everyone in the business.

With Dot’s warning, I was keen to get to the reason for Margaret’s visit. Too bad Clive was not here, I could have him pat her down.

Even though we both worked in the not-for-profit sector and lived in the same neigbourhood, I had not seen Margaret MacNeil in months. I had no idea what she was up to. While we didn’t share the same politics, I had great respect for her and considered her a friend. I was very eager to find out what a key, long serving, New Democrat volunteer was doing in a Conservative Party office waiting to meet the candidate.

“Margaret! How are you doing?” I said sincerely before we hugged.

“It is great to see you,” I said with a smile.

She returned my smile and asked if we could sit down. I offered her a chair and closed the meeting room door, even though Clive would disapprove. I sat down on the opposite side of the table.

“I want to thank you Colin for taking time to meet with me. I know how busy you are. I am sure you are surprised to see me. I could tell by the way Dot’s eyes widened. I am sure she wanted to chase me away from the building with a broom,” she said.

“She wouldn’t do that Margaret. A baseball bat is more Dot’s style,” I replied with a grin.

“Of course. I need to be more careful with gender stereotypes,” she said.

We laughed and then got down to business.

“Colin, I am sure you have a million things to do so I will get right down to why I am here. When I heard you were running, I was shocked… You never struck me as the Conservative type,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“To start, you are under the age of sixty, you have excellent fashion sense, and you can read and write well. Also, there is the party’s position on same-sex marriage. Don’t you consider it a problem?” asked Margaret.

“Not really. Our leader has been very clear on it. There will be a free vote in the House of Commons. MP’s can vote anyway they choose,” I responded.

‘Yes, but don’t you think the Conservative Party should take a stance on such a basic issue of human rights? Let’s not forget, he is personally opposed to it. How can you get behind a guy who wants to limit people’s rights?” she pressed.

“I get where you are coming from Margaret but you can do the math as well as I can. Of the three hundred and thirty-eight seats in the House of Commons you might find forty-five MP’s who would vote against it. It is a non-issue in my opinion. Canadian’s don’t have a problem with same-sex marriage and any vote in the House will reflect it. Do I wish every MP would get behind something as basic as same-sex marriage? Sure, but change takes time. I am a big believer in peace, order, and good government Margaret and good government requires patience,” I replied.

“How can you get in bed with a leader who is against it?” she asked.

“That is an interesting way to describe it Margaret. You just put an unpleasant image in my mind,” I said with a smile.

“He is not my type either. Back to the question, he is on the record saying he doesn’t support same-sex marriage. How can you support a leader like that?”

“The free vote is the key for me. I am a libertarian at heart and as much as society requires rules and good behaviour I don’t believe it is government’s role to tell people how to think. Let me ask you Margaret, do you think a good MP should have to drink the party’s Kool-Aid? If she is a devout catholic and represents citizens who want her to stick to church doctrine she should be able to express the views of her constituents whether we like it or not. It also works both ways,” I said.

“What do you mean it works both ways?” she asked.

“It is the freedom that matters most. A party which allows its MP’s to vote freely on these big issues is a natural fit for me. A free vote encourages public debate and encourages us to discuss tough subjects in a respectful way,” I said.

“For example?” she asked.

“How about capital punishment? The country may have moved on years ago, but there are times when we would be better off if we could get rid of dirt bag offenders, people who don’t deserve to be treated decently because they have behaved so egregiously. I would like the opportunity to have a public debate on how to deal with people who are offending us and tearing the fabric of society, like folks who put up tacky neon signs with the giant block letters,” I deadpanned.

“Like the one in front of your campaign headquarters?” she replied with a smile.

“Exactly.”

We both laughed.

“Okay, now I am certain you are in the wrong party. You’re sense of humour is too sharp to be a conservative!” she joked.

“Who is trying to be funny? I am dead serious. Those signs are hideous. The people responsible for putting them up should be chased out of town,” I said with a smile.

I continued, “ I am sure you didn’t come here to debate capital punishment and same-sex marriage.”

For a talkative person, she struggled for words. I hadn’t seen her like this before. Another of my grandfather’s kernels of wisdom came to mind. When I was teenager he and I would sit at the kitchen table for hours playing cribbage and talking politics. As the card games got heated, so did the political debates. I would jump quickly from one point to the next. He would cut me off and say, ‘Kid when you want to listen to someone, never miss a good opportunity to shut the fuck up.’ I waited for her to speak.

“You may find this hard to believe but I want to work for you,” she said.

My jaw dropped.

“Work for me??” I asked unable to hide my surprise.

“Yes, on your campaign,” she replied.

“Wow, I don’t know what to say… you are one of the last people I would expect to be sitting here asking to volunteer. On the list of people I would least expect to work on my campaign, you would come number three, right after the NDP Leader and the local NDP candidate.”

“Number three. I am impressed. I even beat the Liberal candidate,” she joked.

“Of course, you know how unprincipled Liberals can be. They will get behind anything to get elected, even if it means changing parties,” I replied.

“To answer your question, yes, I am sure,” she said.

“I am honoured Margaret. Can I ask you why?”

“In the many years we have worked together, I have come to know you as one of the most professional, effective, and compassionate public servants I know. I have tremendous respect for you. If you are going to run under the Conservative banner then I believe the party is changing and progressive people need to get behind it. I think you will make a great politician. You have a good head on your shoulders and a great track record as a community builder. When I heard you got shot in the library by some anti-free speech lunatic I knew you had the courage and conviction for the job. Standing up to those protestors was a truly heroic act. We don’t see it much anymore,” she explained.

“I was just doing my job Margaret. I had no clue they were armed. This is Halifax. Who carries a gun? I was just playing my regular role as library bouncer and kicking out a few unruly teenagers like I do every second Saturday. When I saw the gun, I thought it was a joke. It just didn’t compute. Even when the bullets started flying I wasn’t convinced. It sounded like firecrackers. Thank god Tolstoy was there to protect me,” I interjected.

“No kidding. I have always found a good read to be comforting but not to that extent,” she replied

We both laughed before Margaret continued.

“While having more people like you in politics is a good thing, I have also been thinking that the political landscape is shifting to a post-partisan world where party politics don’t seem to matter much anymore. Party policies are becoming more and more similar as voters demands become more fractured. This blurs the lines between brands. Soon, the only real differences left will be the colours of our campaign buttons. I decided, I need to think more about the person who is running and not so much about the party.”

And you think I am that guy?” I asked.

“I do,” she replied.

“Margaret, your endorsement is humbling. It means a lot to me. You leave me speechless,” I said.

“That is no way for a politician to be,” she replied.

“You are going to have to shake that insecurity off if I am going to work for you.” she said with a smile. “Now, let’s get down to business. There must be a gap I can fill?”

Before I could reply my phone rang. It was Dot. She knew I was busy so I guessed it must be important.

“Excuse me Margaret. I need to take this,” I said.

“Yes, Dot. What’s up?”

“Just listen to me and don’t say anything to give yourself away. You can nod and talk nonsense if you want so you don’t look suspicious,” replied Dot lowering her voice.

I had no idea what the hell she was talking about however, after what she went through, I played along.

“Sure. Go ahead,” I said.

Dot dropped her graveled, smoky voice even further.

“Listen to me very carefully Troy. You need to come up with an excuse to get out of there. Don’t trust her,” said Dot like I was trapped in a room with a serial killer who targeted gay politicians.

“What was that?” I replied trying my best to hide my surprise. I had no idea what she was talking about. I started to think all the excitement yesterday had affected her judgement.

“Don’t trust her. She is here to play dirty politics. I can feel it in my bones. These Dippers are the worst offenders. When the cameras are rolling they will play high and mighty like they are above it all, but when they are in the trenches they wallow in the mud more comfortably than the rest of us. Just like a pig in shit.”

I did not know what to say. Given this confusion and the immense respect I felt for Dot, I couldn’t call her out on this lunacy until I had a chance to find out more. She always had my back when I needed help so I was not about to roll her under this particular bus until I had all of the facts. This left me little option but to jump into the crazy charade with both feet.

“Really, that is interesting. What time again?” I said as convincingly as I could.

“Good. That’s perfect Colin. Keep playing along. Now, whatever you do, don’t tell her anything. She is here to spy on us. They are starting to worry now that we have momentum. Trust me Colin, I have seen it all. They will do whatever it takes to win,” she explained.

At this point, I was convinced Dot had lost her mind. She had slipped from being the most competent senior citizen I had no ever met to this paranoid old fool who believes everyone is stealing her stuff. I had idea it could happen this fast.

“Okay Dot. I have got it. You are right, we need to deal with this immediately. Tell them I will be there,” I said.

“Nice work,” responded Dot slowly.

After a short pause, she continued, ”Nothing. Tell her nothing. She will fish for information. Don’t give her anything. I would ask you to feed her some false plans, but I know you are not quick enough for that. Don’t get me wrong. That is a good thing. Now, get up from the chair and tell her something has come up and you have to go.”

She hung up. Unsure what to do next, I continued to hold the phone to my ear like she was still talking.

“Great. I will be finished shortly,” I said to nobody.

I looked at Margaret. We had a lot of mutual respect after many years of working toward the same social goals. Her professional reputation was excellent. Her current job as Executive Director of the Nova Scotia division of the United Way came with an implied trustworthiness. It was beyond my comprehension she was a spy for a rival campaign.

I thought I should come clean and tell her exactly what Dot had said. Dot was right, I was not blessed with an active enough imagination to weave a believable tale. It was easier to stick to the facts.

Then doubt crept in. I was not sure the truth would set me free. I decided to say nothing. I hung up the phone and placed it on the table face down.

“Hey, I am sorry about that Margaret. Every time I turn around there is something new,” I told her trying to be as vague as possible.

“No problem. The demands on a candidate never quit. Anything I can help with? Put me in coach, I am ready to play!” she said.

Stretched to the limits of my story telling, I was not sure what to do next. Why did she not get the hint? I looked at her like she had been taken over by alien body snatchers. Maybe Dot was right…

I pushed this thought away and told myself the mere suggestion of it was preposterous. At this point, my anxiety ran wild. I was desperate for an exit.

“Margaret, I have to run. I need to be in Creighton Park. We can talk later. I will give you a call tonight,” I said.

“That is the same direction I am headed. Let me walk with you. We can talk along the way,” she replied.

I had no choice but to be blunt with her as I was feeling uncomfortable with the tattered threads I was weaving. I should have just told her the truth but it was too late to change course.

“I need to do this alone. I will call you later,” I said firmly.

“I am started to feel like you are blowing me off,” she said laughing.

All I could muster was a smile.

“I am just kidding. No problem. We can chat later. In the meantime, there must be call lists you want me to work on?” she said.

“Okay, let’s talk to Dot on the way out. I am sure she can find something for you to do.” I told her.

“Dot? Sure. I have to tell you though, she scares the hell out of me. She always has. Ever since I was a teenager volunteering for my first campaign, I have felt like Dot can see right through me like she is a witch.”

“Don’t take it personally. Dot is very democratic. She treats everyone like shit.”

We stood, hugged, then walked to the front office. I told Dot Margaret wanted to help us.

“No problem Mr. Candidate. She is in good hands with me,” she replied with the widest smile I have seen since the campaign started.

I made a mental note about this visit to Creighton Park in case Margaret asked about it later. Trying to keep this little lie straight had already become difficult. I was reminded how much easier life is if I stick to the truth, or don’t say anything at all.

Back at campaign headquarters we found the police tape and cars were gone. The media had left too. It was like nothing had happened. Inside, Dot was on the phone and unable to offer her usual smoky hug. I waved and went to the meeting room where the entire senior campaign team waited.

In addition to Kathleen, we had another new face in the group. Clive, the national campaign’s security director, sat across from the open doorway in the corner with his back to the wall. While the group waited for me I asked Frank if he wanted a coffee.

“Sure. Four sugars and two creams please,” he replied.

As a black coffee drinker, his response made me shudder.

“Mr. Candidate,” said Al while staring at Frank, “how was the canvas?”

“Great. We had good feedback on Albro Lake Road and found lots of people home on Victoria. Frank was very helpful. His notes are meticulous and he is learning the layout of the riding very quickly,” I responded.

Kathleen scanned him from top to toe like she was an interstellar explorer and he was an alien life form.

“Any signs?” asked Todd.

“Yes.”

I gestured to Frank to include him in the conversation.

“We have requests for six two by twos and three, four by fours. Seven of the signs are on Albro Lake Road and two are on Victoria. Do you want the civic numbers?” he said as he slurped his sweet coffee.

“No,” said Al with a raised eyebrow.

“Well done, and that was before the terrorist attack,” replied Todd standing in the dark eclipse behind Al.

“Okay, let’s get this meeting going. We don’t want you here longer than needed,” said Al.

The meeting began with introductions. Everyone, even Al, was very cordial to the outsiders. Kathleen, to her credit, was not the bossy bitch I thought she would be. She did not try to take over the meeting. Clive spoke little. He was in typical paranoid professional security guy mode. He wore a tight suit over his well-toned physique with a noticeable bulge under his left arm. It was not that long ago when Canadian Prime Ministers did not worry about security let alone some novice candidate running for a seat in Atlantic Canada. Times were changing.

After the introductions, each of the coordinators gave an update. We heard from finance, canvassing, promotions, and signs. Al led election day readiness and volunteer management so he briefed the group on plans for our final push to the polls. After the committee reports, Al asked Kathleen for comments.

“Wow, It seems like this team has everything working well! Let me begin by saying I am not here to take over this campaign,” she said unconvincingly.

“Obviously, you are a capable group. You also have a great candidate who has been getting a great deal of media attention. Even more than the Prime Minster! While this is not a traditionally strong area of Conservative support, we are running against a low-profile sitting member who has mediocre name recognition. For these reasons, we believe we can flip this riding. It is one of several seats we believe we can win. I am here for one reason and one reason alone: to help you elect your guy to the House of Commons, which will, in turn, help us form government,” she said in a rare show of passion.

She had our attention. We were all on the edges of seats, with the exception of Al who had learned his lesson not to stress the furniture. She continued.

“This team is on the right track. I am here to help you and I will be here every day for the rest of the campaign. Together, we will do more!” she said with great enthusiasm.

After her theatrical monologue, the mood changed. Even Al lightened up. Kathleen’s positivity was contagious.

Kathleen gave an update on the national campaign. The Liberal Cabinet Minister’s scandal continued to trend highly on social media. With the Liberals in damage control, our platform got little push back. The NDP helped us beat up on the Liberals thinking that they had a shot at winning. The Green Party was the only party that promoted their agenda more than they attacked the government. However, few voters listened.

Political fortunes changed like the tides and this week was a great example. The Liberals slid ten points in the polls. The Conservatives benefited from this drop. We were up nine points. The Greens were up one point and the NDP were unchanged. Once again, we witnessed Canadians put their trust in only two national parties: Liberals and the Conservatives. The NDP may have successfully staked out the moral high ground, but Canadians seemed keen to get their hands on more beer and peanuts.

As for the Greens, with all the sensational weather news, a voter would have to be extremely ignorant, or a Republican President of the United States, not to be worried about the environment. While most Canadians agree we need to practice better stewardship of the planet, the Green agenda was too much of a stretch for most people to comprehend. While the Greens were only one large environmental disaster away from being on every voter’s mind, the party had trouble with traction.

I am sure if democracy was practiced by the early inhabitants of Easter Island its residents would have had a Green Party. Its messages may have been clear, concise and well circulated to Easter Island dwellers but few people would have listened to the doom and gloom. Residents would say, ‘What’s a couple of trees in the face of progress? Besides, what could possibly go wrong?’

My attention was pulled back to Kathleen’s briefing. With the Liberal Government on the ropes, the Conservative National Campaign smelled blood. Money flooded into the Conservative Party from all over the country mostly small pledges from ordinary citizens. Kathleen told us it was time to turn up the heat.

To do this, she outlined a two-pronged approach. First, we would continue to spread the good news of our proposed policy changes: individual tax relief, improved child care options, and improved public infrastructure. With our message out, we would soften Canadians traditional view of the party as socially conservative and fiscally tight. Canadians would see the compassionate side of Conservatives and not let the Liberals and New Democrats define us as a party that cuts government services and rolls back the clock on the rights of women and minorities.

The second tactic was more a traditional Tory party approach. The National Campaign would attack the Liberals negatively on community crime. Recent public opinion polls placed community crime as the number one issue in Canada. Canadians were more worried about rising gun violence than climate change.

In the past couple of years there has been a significant increase in media reports of gang style crime and gun play and this left Canadian’s feeling unsafe. Crime rates maybe down but people’s perception was different. The national campaign team had decided to fan this fire and blame the Liberals for it.

Kathleen explained this would not be an American style, fear breeding, campaign complete with stark television ads. Canadians were much too wise to fall for such blatant fake news.

Instead, the Conservative Party’s negative media campaign would be community based. Certain communities would be hit hard and often. We would use precision strikes of targeted literature, high gloss cards with bold graphics and plain language. Each card would be custom designed for the neighbourhood and delivered to each household twice: at the half way point and again three days before polling day.

Phone messages, recorded by candidates, would be sent to every house. These messages would highlight the issues of the particular community. Kathleen called this targeted marketing ‘hyper local’.

“So,” interrupted Al, “the fact that Dartmouth-Cole Harbour is one of the targeted communities makes me happy, but I am not sure this hyper-local campaign will be successful. It is too negative. People in this area may be cranky but they don’t take well to nasty political ads,” he countered.

“We have no intention to be nasty. We intend to point out the short comings of the current government and its MP. We will also tell residents what is wrong with the NDP candidate. Our national media specialists will work with you to get the most effective message,” replied Kathleen.

That said, Kathleen called the meeting closed as we had to prepare for the press conference about the anthrax attack. Al told me he didn’t want me at the press conference. It would be better if I was back to work knocking on doors. This was a good thing. I was steaming mad at this hyper local bullshit. It was nothing but a localized attack campaign full of false claims and personal attacks on the other candidates. I didn’t want any part of it.

Before I could leave, Clive said he needed to talk to me about security issues. I told him it would have to wait. I found Frank and headed for the door. Clive hustled after us and said he would join us. We could talk along the way. I turned abruptly to him and he stopped in his tracks. He didn’t argue when I firmly told him I was okay.

I left the building with Frank in tow. Clive stared at me. His steely gaze was either admiration for my brave attitude, or a petty glare that suggested he wanted me to be assaulted because I ignored his advice.

On the national front, the Conservative attack on the Liberals was in full swing. Several weeks into the election, the story of the Minister and her assistant continued to have legs. It was curious to me this age-old morality issue had importance in the Canadian political landscape. Elsewhere in the world a story like this one would have quickly been labelled ‘fake news’ and forgotten by voters who refused to listen to media which doesn’t align with their particular polarity.

Not so in Canada.

The Liberal spin machine struggled with this sex scandal and this gave us an edge. Everywhere the Prime Minister went he took questions about integrity. Unable to control the narrative, the Liberal Party organizers desperately tried to regain control with one bold announcement after another but media stuck to its guns and continued to hammer away.

Conservatives took full advantage. We had the space to talk policy and offer our vision of the future. We talked about tax cuts and increased support to middle class families and higher support for children. Since we had not formed government for two terms we had the high ground on the issues of values and integrity.

I stayed away from scoring cheap points. I could care less who the cabinet minister slept with. She should be judged for her work. Her and her assistant were consenting adults and their privacy should be respected, even if it was in a car parked on Parliament Hill.

We announced a new initiative every day for seven days. This proved to be a very effective strategy. The Liberals had to defend themselves on the integrity front, and also respond to a new Conservative policy every day. This two-pronged attack kept them on their heels.

The mainstream press also warmed to us. I wanted to believe this favourable coverage was based on the facts: our policy announcements were all very moderate and reasonable. There were no proclamations full of fire and brimstone attacking immigrants or women’s rights to choose. Conservatives supported same sex unions. Even our call for a tax cut was well received.

Yes, I would like to believe the media were currently supporting us because of these good, reasonable statements of what the Conservative Party stood for. However, I had been around long enough to see this drama played out before. With seven years in government the Liberal run was getting long and this created an appetite for change. The people wanted it and so did the media. It was change for change’s sake. Governments are more often voted out than in.

Pundits spoke favourably of our progressive tax relief policy. They used our language which sounded positive and nurturing. Even the CBC got on board.

As the support for Conservative tax relief grew, the Liberals began to feel the pressure. In a bold move, the Liberal spin machine tried to combat our popular tax relief policies by reducing it to dollars and cents. During a national media announcement, the Liberal Prime Minister scoffed at the Conservative Party’s promise to cut taxes. He mocked it as only enough money to spend once a week on a couple of beers and a bag of peanuts. He went on to say the Liberal Party would not give Canadians money to buy trivial things like beer and peanuts. They would keep it and do great things with it.

These comments did not go over well. He was correct in pointing out our tax cut did not amount to much more than a few dollars a week. However, the message came across that Canadians cannot be trusted with their own money.

Beer and peanuts may not be much, but it turned out, Canadians like beer and peanuts. People from coast to coast to coast were angry. We want more beer and peanuts! became the battle cry directed to the newly labelled self-righteous, entitled elites who were running the country. A common message, amplified by the mainstream media, spread like a prairie grass fire across the country. The message was simple but very effective: You can keep your civil society aid to developing countries, and your democracy building initiatives, and your expanded multi-cultural festivals, Canadian’s have had enough! We want beer and peanuts!! In two poorly crafted sentences, a Canadian populist movement was born.

The sentiment was simple and to the point. It was distilled to: we, the Canadian people, want the right to spend our own money on whatever the hell we choose, even if it is beer and peanuts! This is the point the Liberal spin machine missed in their hastily crafted, desperate attempt to counter our proposal to let Canadians have a tax break.

Conservative or not, no one likes to be told they can’t be trusted with their own pay cheque.

On top of these problems for the Liberals, there was the stalled economy. In the last couple of years, economic growth had stalled and unemployment was on the rise. The Canadian economy was in trouble and slipping into recession.

With less money to spend, it was easy for Conservatives to get out in front of the tax relief parade. While the tax relief offered was modest, we were the only party that talked about it.

Back to the local campaign, Frank and I took a break for lunch after a busy morning. We had received lots of positive feedback on the doorsteps of Dartmouth and Cole Harbour and I had warmed up to our new volunteer. I did however lose my tolerance for his dirty sweat pants, stained shirt, and filthy thrift store sneakers. I decided then to find him some other clothes to wear.

Dot had called to let us know the office was open and she was cleared by the hospital staff and the police forensics lab. She had been right. The white powder was icing sugar. On the phone, Dot and I shared a huge sigh of relief and had a quick laugh about this whole debacle. I decided to never doubt ‘the Dot’ ever again. She promised to have the office back to full capacity before we finished lunch.

With the good news from Dot, Frank and I went for lunch at the Ship Victory. It was a quiet spot most of the time, with the exception of the story told by the lovely grandmother I had met a few days ago.

Inside the windowless tavern, it took some time to adjust to the lack of natural light. The place reeked of cigarette smoke. Patrons did not embrace healthy lifestyles. Drinks in hand, they sat and stood in front of banks of video lottery machines. The players fidgeted and fed bills to the silent machines. The terminals were no longer able to whistle and beep since provincial regulations restricted the mechanical bells and whistles a few years ago in an effort to make gambling less appealing.

My Libertarian bent was tested to the limits with video lottery terminals; Working all these years with people on the margins of society I decided some people really don’t know what is best for themselves. The machines should be pulled out of places like this tavern. If people want to gamble on slot machines they can go to a casino.

Frank and I sat down at a table away from the machines. We ordered diet Cokes and read the menu. Frank was hungry. Despite my years of public library service working with every kind of person in this town, including all of the marginalized ones, I realized I had no clue what goes on inside a Halifax city homeless shelter. My prejudiced view of these places was that they were full of broken folks: the alcoholics, the drug addicts, the mentally ill, and the very lazy. Frank changed my view. My inflated sense of self-worth did not stand up to Frank’s tale. His story underscored how thin the veneer of our personal situation can be. Like Frank, most of us are two pay cheques and a broken heart away from living on the street.

“Get whatever you want. You earned it,” I said.

Without missing a beat, Frank ordered a full rack of ribs with: French fries, salad, and two pieces of garlic bread with cheese. I asked for a toasted bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich on multi-grain bread with a side bowl of chicken noodle soup. Our orders taken, we sat back and sipped the diet Cokes. I resisted the urge to take my phone out of my pocket.

Frank talked more about the unfortunate circumstances that brought him to Atlantic Canada. He told me about growing up on the west coast. He was the son of a First Nations tribal chief who fished commercially north of Vancouver on the same boat Frank’s grandfather had used. The family was wealthy because his father was a hard-working man who worked a traditional and lucrative fishery. He provided a lovely four-bedroom house for his family and provided all the material benefits. Frank and his family had it all. But there was more going on.

Frank’s father was a hard-drinking man who beat his children. Frank became used to the beatings. Growing up, he thought such behaviour was normal. This view was reinforced as he would see similar behaviour from other families in his community. During discussions while playing in the safe community space behind the school, he and his friends shared stories of their parents being physically tough. They were so casual about the subject they laughed when they showed, like badges of honour, the bruises. There were no dark secrets to hide or shame to endure. They believed it was a tough world and taking a few licks from the adults in your life was part of it.

This changed one day when his older sister came to him in tears. She was eighteen, he was sixteen, and she had been his one true friend growing up. She had been more a mother than a sister to him. She had tried to protect him from the harsh reality they both had been born into. She would shield him as best she could from the fighting and abuse. They frequently became collateral damage in the constant friction that happened in the house. His sister would take beatings from the old man without complaint. Like him, she had been raised to believe physical abuse was just part of growing up. As she grew older, the abuse directed to her began to change. Frank remembered the day she told him their father had come into her bed at night. Stunned, he was not sure what to do but he decided he had to do something.

One long week later, his sister took her life and left him alone. They found her hanging from a tree behind the house on a sunny Sunday afternoon. It was the same tree she and Frank had climbed thousands of times when they were young before the sins of their elders were forced upon them. His sister did not leave a note, make a video, or confide in a friend who would tell her tale after the sad deed was done. Her only attempt to reach out to anyone was to Frank.

The day his sister died she went for a walk in the park near their house. Frank had woken up when he heard her go out. He thought he should get up and talk her in to running away but he was too exhausted from this difficult week. Instead, he tossed in his bed and fell back to sleep.

About an hour later his mobile phone beeped. It was a text message. It was from his sister. He opened the text and stared at it trying to make sense of what it meant. It was one character, an emoji. It was a heart broken in two pieces with an uneven line like it had been ripped apart. The message was a clear indication to him she was not in a good way. How could she be? How could anyone be in her situation? He was agitated and angry with himself. He wished he had gotten out of bed and gone with her to the park. She had needed him.

The full gravity of her message crashed down on him a few hours later when a neighbour found her body hanging from a tree behind the house. The image of which was then forever in his mind. He, too, was damaged beyond repair. It was as if that tree cracked in two under the weight of her tiny body and crushed him. The dreary despair of it was completely unbearable for his adolescent brain. He was so overwhelmed with grief and hopelessness. He decided he had two choices: kill the son of a bitch, or run.

The next day he packed a small bag and hitch hiked east. He did not tell anyone he left. He just disappeared. He told me he wanted me to know the full story because I had been good to him. He also wanted me to know he came from good aboriginal roots and he was proud of his heritage. While unfortunate circumstances had conspired against him, his people and society were not to blame. Blame belonged to one person, the sociopathic predator he had the misfortune to have as a father.

Left speechless, I thought how lucky I was to have such a stable and uneventful, upbringing with two loving parents. As a kid, the worst trauma I endured was losing our family’s first pet. My problems were nothing. He was the personification of rock bottom.

Mercifully, my mobile phone rang.

“Hello,” I said.

“Mr. Candidate,” replied a voice rough like car tires on a gravel road.

“Dot, are you back in the office?”, I ask with a surprised tone.

“Of course, I am. We have work to do. Speaking of that, Al wants you back in twenty minutes,” she responded.

“What’s up?”

“Kathleen wants a meeting, and what Kathleen wants Kathleen gets apparently. I just met the woman and already I can’t stand her! Also, the media wants to talk about the new attack on your life,” she replied matter-of-factly.

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.

When I arrived at the campaign headquarters the next day I didn’t need Clive’s training to figure out I was the centre of attention. The two metre tall sign with my name on it told me that. Inside the building, my name was everywhere. It was on the wall and on the stacks of brochures. Posters with my picture, tie and all, hung like wallpaper.

I had visited the campaign headquarters before but this was my first time to see it fully operational. After all the media coverage of the shooting I thought I was used to it by now. However, getting attention for being shot by a stranger was one thing, this was like a self-inflicted injury.

Within seconds of entering the building, I was hugged and kissed by a strong elderly woman who reeked of cigarette smoke and had a voice like tires on a gravel road.

“Mr. Candidate, Good morning.”

“Dot, how are you?” I responded while wondering how many of my ribs she cracked.

“How the hell do you think I am doing? I have been here since six a.m. getting the lists organized. I am too old for this nonsense,” she replied.

“Dot, you shouldn’t have to do the lists.”

“What? And leave it to one of these morons?” She gestured to the three other people in the room. “The lists are too important to leave in the hands of some rookie. Excuse me honey, I have work to do.”

That said, she walked toward the door as she lit a cigarette on the inside of the building before exiting to smoke on the sidewalk.

“Hey brother, how are you doing?” Dale greeted me with a hug.

“That Dot is a piece of work,” he said. “You haven’t been here for ten seconds and you already smell like an ashtray.

“You want me to get Al to talk to her?” I asked.

“Are you crazy? She has worked twelve-hour days since we started for nothing but coffee and three donuts. For what we pay her, she could smell like a burst colostomy bag and I would still kiss her every morning. People like Dot are golden, a dying breed compared to all these irresponsible, unreliable, lazy kids that like hanging around here spending too much time taking selfies and Snap Chatting pictures of the morning muffin delivery. God help us! They have no idea what it means to work. On top of that, we have to arrange all of the transportation because none of them can drive a car! ”

“Calm down pal. You are going to blow a gasket,” I said calmly.

Dale took a deep breath and smiled. He had been running on four hours sleep for seven days now and it was starting to show. He looked gaunt with wide dark circles under his eyes. There was also a sense of focus and happiness to him. Dale loved being chest deep in the sludge of political campaigns. Since our early days in high school when we helped to elect a local Dartmouth Councilor by handing out brochures at the ferry terminal, through the dozens of campaigns to elect MPs, MLAs, and party leaders, Dale had been addicted to the sustained adrenaline that comes with a political battle. His cardiologist’s advice aside, Dale found a source of energy and vitality in this work which made little sense to anyone but himself.

“Okay. Still, I prefer old-school. Give me two dinosaurs like Dot and a fax machine, and I will get you elected,” replied Dale.

“Fax machine? You are the dinosaur my friend,” I quipped.

“Enough small talk. Are you ready to knock on doors? You are no good to us hanging around here. Hopefully you have all the votes at this address.”

Our door-to-door campaign had been carefully mapped out and was ready to go. The goal was to knock on every door in the riding at least once. We would contact as many voters as we could. Most importantly, we would create detailed notes on how they were likely to vote. We would also do our best to ascertain how many other people of voting age lived at each residence and how they may vote as well. This data would be collected and entered in voter tracking software. Once captured, the data were constantly analyzed to maximize the team’s efforts and efficiency during the crucial get-out-the-vote phase.

Going door-to-door selling myself was not an activity I embraced. Still, such shameless huckstering is paramount to political success. I had no choice but to learn to like it.

The first few doors I knocked on, no one was home, or they chose not to open the door. Either way, it was an easy enough drill: knock, wait and leave the brochure.

After a number of no shows, I started to find people home. Fortunately for me everyone was polite and friendly. In the early days of the campaign I spent a lot of time talking to these lonely, chatty people. I found people’s interest in the issues helped build my confidence for this door to door grind.

As a door-knocking rookie, I accepted all offers to sit down and have tea and chat.

However, I soon realized I needed to move more quickly. Being new to the business, I spent too much time with people. Skilled politicians, on the other hand, connected with people quickly. In the beginning, I was more the awkward introvert who finally found someone to talk to. My early canvassing was terrible and inefficient. To make matters worse, the young campaign worker with me lacked the confidence to push me along.

Having worked as a public librarian I was conditioned to give people as much information as they wanted. The public library mantra of ‘more is better’ is contrary to the business of politics where politicians tell voters little.

After two days of campaigning in my down-home kitchen-party style, the volunteers were in revolt.

I defended myself, “but I want to connect with people…”

“With who? The people on your street? Because at this rate that is all the people you are going to get to talk to in thirty days…” they replied.

Needing action, they banded together and went to Al. The big man, busy with other problems, stated the situation very clearly and concisely to me.

“Troy, there are twelve thousand voters in this riding. If at the end of each day you do not talk to at least three hundred of them, or at least knock on their doors, I am going to kick your ass,” he said sternly.

I tried to argue that my strategy would build support by tapping into a wider social network. He just glared at me like he looked forward to kicking my ass.

With this short and uncomfortable meeting over, I picked up the pace. Al’s good old-fashioned conservative sensitivities: lack of patience, and blunt tone were just what the volunteers needed to encourage me to stick to the plan. Al’s management style may have verged on abusive but it certainly was effective.

I accepted the fact, in politics, style and speed mattered more than thought and logic.