The Best Laid Plans (2 page)

After leaving the library’s security desk, keys in hand, I thought I’d surprise Rachel and, given the hour, perhaps even drive her home. I strolled through Centre Block, feeling the history, as always, seeping out of the walls. I pushed open the door to the House Leader’s office and found the reception area empty and dark. I could look right down the hallway to Rachel’s office, which was bathed in light from her black, halogen desk lamp. I was surprised to see the House Leader himself sprawled in Rachel’s chair with his hands on his head like he was about to be handcuffed. He had a rapt expression on his face, which left me somewhat perplexed – for another two breaths. That’s when I caught sight of Rachel.

For me, Centre Block is hallowed ground. I’m reluctant to defile its image with tawdry descriptions of infidelity. On the other hand, what happened that night gave me the strength to reject the path of least resistance and get the hell out of that netherworld. So I’ll recount the story, but out of respect, I’ll take care to honour the strictures of parliamentary language.

Rachel, my Rachel, was on her knees in front of the Opposition House Leader. Let’s just say she was rather enthusiastically lobbying his caucus. Stunned and devastated, I turned away – to get a better view in the lee of a well-endowed rubber plant. Rachel jumped into her advance work with both hands before moving to what seemed to be his favourite part of the proceedings – Oral Questions. Eventually, he pulled her up off the floor and onto the desk where he begged leave to introduce his private Member’s bill. Clearly, there was unanimous consent as the cut and thrust of debate started immediately – well, mostly thrust. By the look on her face, second reading was proceeding satisfactorily with just a few indecipherable heckles thrown in for good measure. The House Leader occasionally shouted “hear, hear” and slapped her backbench in support. At one point, she amended her position on his bill, and the debate continued.

They were hurtling towards royal assent when I regained my faculties. I considered rising on a point of personal privilege, but, abhorring confrontation of any kind, I simply threw up on the rubber plant and stumbled back out into Centre Block’s arched and awe-inspiring main corridor. Portraits of former prime ministers mocked me as I hurried by, searching for answers and some industrial-strength breath mints. At that moment, I was sure that Rachel and the Honourable “Dickhead” had no idea I was their vomiting vestibule voyeur. Damn my weakness for alliteration.

By the time Rachel arrived home in the wee hours, I’d already cleaned out my drawer and repatriated my toothbrush. I left her a crumpled leaf from the rubber plant, which I was surprised to find still clenched in my hand, along with a terse note, breaking it off and suggesting that she invest in a deadbolt and a do not disturb sign for the office. I resigned the next day.

Before meeting with the Leader and his chief of staff to consummate my escape from federal politics, I made a phone call to the head of the English department at the University of Ottawa, who was also my dissertation supervisor. I couldn’t just throw in the towel and live off my savings and investments until I found gainful employment. Given the state of my finances, that would mean finding another job by the following Tuesday afternoon. So I decided to advance the plans I’d already intended to pursue – just not so soon.

Professor Phillip Gannon not only ran the English department but also chaired the faculty-appointments’ committee. They’d recently had a transfer appointment fall through and weren’t happy. The committee was short one junior professor for the fall term, and they were scrambling to find a replacement. He’d already called me some weeks before to gauge my interest. At the time, I was still planning on staying with the Leader through the election expected in early October and perhaps becoming speech writer to the Prime Minister should the campaign unexpectedly go our way. But much had changed in two weeks, and I prayed that in the dead of summer, the committee members would be more interested in their Gatineau cottages than in searching for a newly minted PhD to teach Canadian Literature 101. After the way my life seemed to be unraveling, I fully expected this opportunity to have been shut down already. I was wrong.

Professor Gannon was thrilled to hear of my interest in the position. Apparently, I was saving his bacon, not to mention his summer. He did a quick call around to his vacationing committee members, and by noon, I had paperwork on my home e-mail. In the minds of the dock-lounging committee members, I was more than qualified to teach undergraduate English. After all, I knew my ABCs and had never been in prison. As for the approval of the Senate Committee on Appointments, my years on Parliament Hill and assumed proximity to power at a time when the university was seeking federal funding for a new economics building seemed to grease the wheels.

The university usually operated in geological time but not that day. By three-thirty, it was official. I was the English department’s newest faculty member. Thanks to a practice common in many universities when easing in a new and untested faculty member, I wouldn’t actually be teaching until the second term, freeing up some time in the fall to orient myself to the rigours of life in academe.

Despite appearances, joining the faculty wasn’t a precipitous decision on my part. I’d already decided to pursue teaching after completing my PhD. I just didn’t think it would happen for another few years. In politics, leaving your options open is standard operating procedure.

My final meeting with the Leader and Bradley Stanton, his chief of staff, went as expected – at least until the end. In other words, they were mad as hell. How could I abandon them on the eve of an election? After all they’d done for me, how could I leave just as the battle beckoned? I calmly explained that I’d already produced the election kickoff speech, two stump speeches (one of them down and dirty, which hammered the Government, and the other one high-road, which sounded more Prime Ministerial), opening and closing debate remarks along with witty and thoughtful repartee in all policy areas, a victory speech, and a concession speech. Stanton had been so busy planning diabolical campaign gambits that he knew nothing of my election prep work.

I apologized for the short notice and pledged my support during the campaign, provided it didn’t interfere with my new faculty responsibilities. I also offered to participate in debate prep when the networks and the party leaders had decided on timing and format. As the meeting wound down, the Leader seemed to soften and asked me if I was moving out of Ottawa. I replied that I really wanted to get out of the city as part of my reintegration into normal Canadian society. Escaping Ottawa’s gravitational pull was a big part of my plan, I explained, as I relayed my intention to find a place on the water in Cumberland, about a 30-minute drive east of the capital on the Ottawa River. Several U of O faculty members lived there and made the short, sedate commute to campus every day. The Chief of Staff’s left eyebrow lifted in a Spockian arch, and a wave of unease washed over me.

I had made a big mistake mentioning Cumberland. Since birth, I had had great difficulty saying no. Though I was already guilt-ridden for bailing on the imminent campaign, I was determined to make a clean break. But like a thin crust on new-fallen snow, my resistance looked solid enough only to give way at the slightest touch. The Leader gave me his sad-eyes routine, and I swayed, vibrated, and collapsed like the Tacoma Bridge. One last favour; then, I was out.

I left the Leader’s office and Parliament Hill, not quite free of politics. My parting gift to the Leader? I promised to find a Liberal candidate for the riding of Cumberland-Prescott and then manage the local campaign. I’d be free and clear by mid-October.

No problem. Piece of cake. How hard could it be?

Cumberland-Prescott – a Tory stronghold since before confederation and currently held by the Honourable Eric Cameron, the most popular Finance Minister in Canadian history. He was young, good-looking, widowed, and blessed with an eloquence that, while honed and rehearsed, sounded as if he were talking off the cuff – a wonderful gift in politics. In other words, Cameron was as close as any politician came to the elusive “complete package.”

People actually believed he was honest and a straight shooter. I saw through him. I loathed him in a partisan way. But I may have been the only person in Canada who did. I had watched him at close range for five years and was convinced he was not what he seemed. He couldn’t possibly be. Nobody could be. He’d won the last election by over 36,000 votes, up from a 31,000 plurality in the previous campaign. His most recent budget, introduced in February, gave Canadians a 10 per cent cut in personal income tax, a one-point cut in the goods and services tax, and higher RRSP limits, while still paying off $10 billion of the nation’s debt. Masterful.

Skyrocketing favourability ratings for the budget, the Tory government, and the Finance Minister himself had the pollsters checking and rechecking their field and tab operations. No one had ever seen anything like it. The unprecedented numbers cemented an autumn election call. And we weren’t ready. Cumberland-Prescott was the only constituency in Canada still without a nominated Liberal candidate. Only seven weeks remained before the Prime Minister’s quadrennial drop-in at the Governor General’s to dissolve Parliament and call an election.

Despite an unprecedented Tory lead in the polls, we had many, many hard-fought Liberal nomination battles across the country. We were optimistic, had attracted some star candidates, and had put little stock in the pre-election numbers. Inexplicably, most Liberals across the country were feeling good. Why? Well, during an election period, seemingly rational people commonly take leave of their senses and replace reason with hope. Political parties have practiced the mass delusion of their members long before the Reverend Jim Jones took it to the next level. Despite this ill-conceived Liberal optimism in many parts of the country, Eric Cameron’s utter invincibility cast a pall over the handful of Liberals living in Cumberland. The Liberal riding association was not just moribund, it was very nearly extinct.

So I packed up and moved to Cumberland, choosing a clean but inexpensive local motel as my home base until I could find permanent accommodations. But that wasn’t my first priority. I had seven weeks to secure a Liberal candidate for Cumberland-Prescott, no doubt to be led once more to the electoral slaughter. Otherwise, I’d be struck from the Leader’s Christmas-card list – a sure sign of political excommunication.

After an impressive hang time, I plummeted back to the sidewalk, my fall broken by a fresh, putrid pile of excrement the size of a small ottoman. I quickly scanned the area for a hippo on the lam.

Before I quite literally found myself in deep shit, my day had actually been ripe with promise. I’m a big believer in signs. After six straight days of rain, I believed the sun burning a hole in the cloudless, cobalt sky was a sign – a good one. It somehow lightened the load I’d been lugging around in my mind for the previous six weeks. I lifted my face to the warmth and squinted as I walked along the edge of Riverfront Park. Even though it was a Monday morning, I hummed a happy little tune. Maybe, just maybe, things were looking up. Unfortunately, so was I.

My foot made a soft landing on the sidewalk and shot forward all on its own, leaving a brown, viscous streak in its wake. Congenitally clumsy, I was well into the splits before I managed to drag my trailing leg forward and slip the surly bonds of earth. Airborne, I surveyed the terrain below and, with all the athletic prowess of a quadriplegic walrus, returned safely to earth, touching down on the aforementioned crap cushion.

Just after I landed, I counted roughly twenty witnesses, who stared slack-jawed before many of them split their sides. Fortunately, only a handful of them had video cameras. I expect you can still find me on klutzklips.com. Everyone seemed quite amused by the prominent sign planted three feet to my left:
KEEP CUMBERLAND
CLEAN. PLEASE STOOP AND SCOOP.
The owners of whatever behemoth produced this Guinness-book offering would have needed a Hefty bag and a snow shovel.

And what an unholy aroma. I’ve always believed that English is better equipped than any other language to capture the richness and diversity of our daily lives. I promise you, the
Oxford Concise
does not yet have words to describe the stench that rose like a mushroom cloud from that colossal mound. Stepping in it was one thing; full immersion was quite another.

Bright sun in a clear blue sky – good sign. Russian split jump into a gigantic dog turd – not a good sign. Good form, good air, but not a good sign.

An hour and a shower later, I retraced my steps, eyes fixed on the pavement, ignoring the two township workers in hazmat suits at the scene of my fall. I quickened my pace, pumping myself up for the important encounter ahead. After nearly six weeks of intensive searching, I was down to my last seven days. I’d tried flattery, threats, cajolery, blackmail, and bribery, but had come up empty and bone-dry – nothing.

In the first two weeks after my arrival in Cumberland, I’d spoken to the mayor and every town councilor, including the lone Liberal, as well as the head of the chamber of commerce. No dice. In week three, I had pleaded with prominent business leaders, local doctors and lawyers, the head of the four-bus transit authority, and the high-school principal. They’re all still laughing. In fact, one of them needed two sick days to rest a pulled stomach muscle. Last week, I had bought drinks for the local crossing guard, baked cookies for the chief instructor at the Prescott Driving School, and shared inane banter with the golf pro at the Cumberland Mini-Putt. No luck, although the crossing guard at least listened to half my spiel before holding up her stop sign.

I like to think that one of my few strengths is a keen sense of when I’m doomed. None of this “the glass is half full” stuff for me. I know when I’m in deep. So I gave up and returned to the
no-hope option I’d rejected at the outset as cruel and unusual punishment. But what else could I do? I had splinters from scraping the bottom of the barrel.