The Best Laid Plans (38 page)

“Now stay with me. Under the terms of the shutdown order, you’ll all be owed severance as required by provincial labour statutes. I’d not bank on seein’ that money any time soon, but it will eventually make its way to yer pocket. None of us should lament the long overdue passin’ of this particular industrial blight. And we should hoist a glass that there’ll be no expansion to make the curse worse. So ends the bad news.” Angus again paused. Sid sat impassively with his hands clasped in front of him.

I figured Angus had just about exhausted the patience and self-control of the assembled future ex-employees of Ottawa River Aggregate Inc. He resumed his calm and clear soliloquy.

“Let me introduce the gentleman at the back of the room. He brings with him good news tonight to offset the bad. He is Norman Sanderson, who, until two weeks ago, owned and operated the Sanderson Shoe Company. When his factory reopens in about five weeks, shoes will no longer be rollin’ off the assembly line. I’ll let him tell you the rest. Norman?”

I’d figured it out before Angus had pointed out Sanderson at the back. I now knew who Angus had been calling as I’d left to pick up Pete2 to make it to the church on time. Norman Sanderson carried himself to the front of the room with a confidence, even a swagger, that had not been part of his repertoire when we’d first met him two weeks earlier.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I took over the Sanderson Shoe Company from my father 20 years ago. My best year financially was my first year, and even it wasn’t so great. Ever since, I’ve managed a declining business in a declining industry. What it says to me is that modern nations with advanced economies probably don’t need to be making their own shoes any
more. I had difficulty seeing that for a very long time, but it’s crystal clear now thanks largely to Mr. McLintock. In five weeks, the Sanderson Shoe Company will officially become Sanderson Technologies. In five weeks, we’ll stop making shoes and start manufacturing an advanced, wireless, Internet wave router developed at the University of Ottawa. As of last Tuesday, I won’t be able meet my year-one production targets unless I add another full shift right from the start. You see, the high price of oil has eliminated the import cost advantage our offshore competitors have always enjoyed. So we’ve just finished negotiating exclusive supply contracts with another six computer manufacturers, giving us deals with the top eighteen. Long story short, we’re going to have trouble meeting demand, and we haven’t produced a single unit, yet.” The room was growing a bit restless.

“Yeah, but we just lost our jobs. Where does that leave us?” shouted a woman from somewhere towards the back. Angus stepped in to rescue Norman.

“Well, madam, if you’re interested, it leaves every last one of you gainfully employed by Sanderson Technologies starting in two weeks. The work is safer and cleaner, the pay is better, and yer futures are brighter.” Angus stopped to let it sink in.

The workers said nothing for about three seconds; then, they hooted and hollered and rose for a sustained ovation. An hour later, they were still completing applications. As a gesture of good faith, Norman’s HR manager arrived to cut advance cheques to cover the new employees’ first two-weeks’ pay.

Despite the hour, Muriel arrived with Lindsay to witness the historic gathering. She beamed and shuffled over to hug Angus. She even planted one on Norman Sanderson, who looked pleased and shocked at the same time.

Once again, the pieces had all just fallen into place – all but one. I stepped out into the parking lot and reached for my cell phone. I dialed André Fontaine and bit into my sixth doughnut.

It all went down the next morning right on script. I found the entire experience somewhat surreal, as if a “movie of the week” were unfolding before my eyes. When Angus and I arrived at the aggregate operation, two OPP cruisers and an Environment Canada car were parked at odd angles in front of the gate as if they’d skidded to a halt like Starsky and Hutch on a raid. As it turned out, they’d just parked that way. A gleaming padlock and chain secured the large drive-through gates, though a small walk-in gate remained open. The official, plastic-laminated shutdown order was fixed to the gate post with duct tape. About 40 workers, most familiar to me from the meeting the previous evening, huddled in small groups outside the gate, hands in pockets, talking quietly.

Notebook and digital recorder in hand, André Fontaine sat on the hood of his car off to the side, talking to several other reporters, all waiting for something to happen. Three satellite trucks with dishes elevated were also parked nearby. Three well-dressed and coiffed reporters with mics in hand were facing their cameras. I looked at my watch: 8:01. The reporters were obviously about to go live. I really had no idea how they caught wind of the shutdown story – none at all.

As Angus and I stepped from his Camry, the cameras turned towards him. In a stroke of cinematic timing, the director general of Environment Canada then emerged from the decrepit building and walked back to his car, flanked by two OPP officers. He waved
to Angus and nodded in a “the deed is done” kind of way. He held a clipboard just like in the movies. Our slick friend, Todd Haldorson, walked four paces behind, waving a now-crumpled piece of paper and hurling obscenities at the DG’s back. When the workers spied Angus and me, they started chanting, “Angus, Angus, Angus, Angus, Angus.”

Slick looked our way, and suddenly he no longer had the DG in his crosshairs. He rushed to the fence, gripped the steel mesh, and, well, snarled at us – I guess that’s the best way to describe it. He looked not unlike the Tasmanian devil in a Warner Brothers cartoon – hyperventilating, eyes bulging, temples pulsing. His lip curled on one side like a Doberman’s.

“You commie bastard! I shoulda known. Fuckin’ red Liberals. You’re pathetic,” shrieked Slick. He pointed to the locked-out workers. “Their jobs are on your head, mountain man.”

Angus seemed almost serene as he looked at Slick. “Their old jobs or their much better new ones?” Angus said quietly, with the slightest trace of a smile. He turned and slid behind the wheel. I got in my side. There was nothing left for us to do there. I’d only suggested we go to make sure Angus was in the media’s footage, though that’s certainly not what I told him. We then circled the gravel parking lot and headed back towards the road with the workers trotting along side, fists pumping the air.

“Angus, Angus, Angus, Angus.”

Yes, the cameras caught the whole thing. I didn’t even need to see the coverage. I knew how it would play out. I didn’t need to see the coverage, but I kind of wanted to. So I clicked among Newsworld, Newsnet, and CPAC in my office while Angus sat in the Commons on House duty. The media fame machine had latched onto Angus and wasn’t letting go.

Call display is a wonderful thing. Four times that morning, “B. Stanton” flashed in the little liquid-crystal window on my phone. The Liberal Party would be short one whopping corporate donation, and I figured Stanton would want to take it out of
me in ways I cared not to contemplate. Four times, I let the phone ring and ring.

That afternoon, debate on the mini-budget resumed for the second of four scheduled days. Our Finance Critic, as was traditional, moved an amendment to the motion on the floor to turn it on its head and condemn the Government’s financial plan. In addition, again as usual, the NDP introduced a subamendment to the Liberal amendment, which then became the central topic of debate for day two. Hard to keep straight, parliamentary procedure is not noted for its simplicity.

The Liberals and the NDP could not reach agreement on how to play the amendments and subamendments that always attend the central budgetary-policy motion. As a consequence, when debate ended late Wednesday afternoon, the NDP subamendment was defeated – to the Government’s satisfaction, even amusement.

On Thursday morning, the papers reported on the first polls conducted to gauge public support for the Government’s tax-cut budget. The numbers spelled out exactly what I expected and what the Government already knew. When Canadians were asked whether they favoured the mini-budget that left hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars (depending on income) in their pockets, a considerable majority said yes.

I’ve always thought that a democracy works best when its citizens are prepared to forego personal benefit to protect the collective interest. Unfortunately, with cynicism in our democratic institutions running at peak levels, the catchphrases were “everyone for himself,” “look out for number one,” and “take whatever you can get.” This mini-budget symbolized and helped entrench this jaded, me-first mentality.

The poll, covered extensively in all major dailies, not to mention the broadcast media, revealed that Canadians wanted their tax breaks and wanted them now. The numbers softened when the mini-budget was placed in the context of an impending recession –
but only slightly. If the Government were going to batten down the fiscal hatches as the bottom dropped out of the economy, let it happen after the public had taken back some its hard-earned, begrudgingly paid tax dollars. Putting no stock in supply-side economics, Angus was convinced that not only would the tax cuts fail to stimulate any meaningful economic growth, they would, in one fell swoop, plunge the country back into the dark days of crippling deficits.

Predictably, the Government embraced the new survey, trumpeted it from the rooftops, and flogged it shamelessly. By that evening, two more polls had been released, mirroring the morning survey’s results. The regional cross-tabs revealed virtually no differences across the country. The polling results fortified the Prime Minister for the fight in the Commons and crystallized his belief that the Opposition would ultimately back down in the face of such overwhelming public support. With Canadians so strongly behind him, he was convinced his Government would carry the vote.

The debate on the Liberal amendment raged all Thursday afternoon. Dictated by the Standing Orders, the vote on our amendment was called for 6:00
PM
. We lost it. The NDP MPs were still angry that we hadn’t supported their subamendment and so voted against our amendment. They took their marbles and went home, leaving us alone to play with ourselves. Of course, the possibility existed, though I could never confirm it, that the Tories had bought off the NDP somehow. It had happened before.

We weren’t exactly on speaking terms with the NDP, but I had hoped that making up was on the Leaders’ agendas for the weekend. We were left with one more opportunity to defeat the Government. By unanimous consent, the fourth and final day of debate on the Government’s budgetary-policy motion was set for the following Tuesday, and would conclude with a vote. If we voted together, the Government would fall, and it would be Happy Holidays on the hustings. If not, it would be a Progressive
Conservative Christmas with the Finance Minister filling stockings with tax dollars. In either event, our New Year’s resolution would have to be to play more nicely with the NDP or get used to life in Opposition.

Friday dawned crisp and clear. I was still having trouble with that evening’s town-hall meeting, particularly after poring over the polls. On the drive into Ottawa, I appealed to Angus again while I still had time to shut it down.

“Angus, we now know where Canadians stand on the mini-budget,” I opened. “And recent history suggests that support for tax cuts in Cumberland is likely the highest in the country. We know what they’re going to say tonight. The only question is what are they going to throw?”