Troy Myers

In August 2021 a woman I met at a work conference two years prior posted on Twitter that I put my hand in her skirt and grabbed her ass. I did no such thing.

At the time, I was the Conservative candidate for Dartmouth-Cole Harbour and this false allegation became national news instantly. My life was forever changed by this one malicious lie. The Conservative Party dropped me that day with no investigation and four months later I lost my job as Chief Librarian after an investigation determined in modern “he said, she said” fashion that, while I likely didn’t grab her, I probably ‘abused my power” during our interaction.

Abuse my power? What power did I have over her? She didn’t work for me.

We talked about her doing an internship with South Shore Public Libraries. There was nothing promised or suggested.

Two years after the conference, I ran for the Conservatives and she worked for the NDP as a paid member of the national campaign team. She fired off her assault on Twitter only hours before the deadline to replace a candidate expired.

Just like that, my political life was dead and my library career would soon follow. Now, that is real power.

In an effort to tell my story and improve my mental health I started this blog. Like most long narratives, it took on a life of its own and morphed into a work of speculative fiction where my election story found an opportunity to play out in a different part of the multi-verse.

It is now complete.

If you are interested in hearing my side of the story, it is best to start at the first post in the chain.

All the people in the story are real. I have changed a couple names to protect the guilty.

Troy Myers – Dartmouth

It was election day.

With it, came an odd sense of calm. Behind the scenes, a hive of activity was going on as the get-out-the-vote machine tracked our supporters down with the diligence of a hungry bounty hunter. However, there was little for the candidate to do, and this didn’t feel right to me.

After thirty days of running, I didn’t know how to walk anymore. I wanted to feel useful so I asked Al if there was anything I could do. He told me to relax and stay the hell out of everyone’s way.

Speaking of Al, the harsh reaction I anticipated from him hearing the news of my sexuality never came. He was visually upset, his usual red-faced vein popping reaction, with the NDP’s dirty tactics with the Scabber accusation, but not a comment for me one way or the other. I discovered he thought a person’s private life should be just that, private. If anything, it fired up his hyper competitive spirit and made him want to kick the shit out of the competition even more. Once again, the person most surprised by me coming out was myself.

Following Al’s orders, I went for coffee. I chose Tim Horton’s over Starbucks. While I still preferred the taste of the more expensive coffee, I had grown attached to the cast of characters at Tim’s. It had become a safe zone for me. I calmed down as soon as I walked in.

“Hey how is it going?” the counter girls chimed.

“Great, it’s showtime. It’s all over but the crying,” I replied.

“Shouldn’t you be out beating the pavement?” asked the older of the two.

“Girl, the pavement is beaten black and blue. Nothing to do but sit back and let the people do their democratic duty. The boss told me to get out of everyone’s hair so I came here to harass you guys,” I said with a smile.

“Just what we need, another lonely person collecting a government cheque hanging out at Tim Horton’s,” she replied.

“Ha! Always room for one more here,” I said.

“Hey, for what it is worth I voted for you,” she told me.

“I did too,” added her younger coworker with a big smile.

“Wow, that’s great, thank you!” I responded.

This public support was nice to hear. I came to the right place for coffee.

“And, for the record Troy, I didn’t vote Conservative last time,” said the older woman.

“But you earned my vote on Camp Day. You kept up and didn’t complain – even when your leader was being an asshole. Jesus, was that guy ever a dick! And not once did you lose your cool. You made us laugh all day!” she added.

“Thanks. That means a lot to me,” I responded with a flush of emotion.

“I was impressed with your grace under pressure. If you can work here you can work anywhere.”

“Hey, I feel the same way,” added the younger girl.

“Wow, I thought all I did was screw it up…” I replied.

“Not a chance. You were great! And, for me, this is my first time to vote. You get my democratic virginity…” She said with a wink.

“Ha… I don’t know what to say… being your first means a lot to me…” I stammered.

“Excellent. Now, what can we get you today? We gotta keep the line moving!” she said smiling.

“The show must go on,” I replied.

I repeated from memory a complicated coffee list with combinations of milk, cream and sweeteners for ten people. The girls had taught me well.

“Wow, you are good!” said the older woman.

“When it comes to coffee, I was taught by the best,” I said.

“With your sharp memory and your ability to dish shameless flattery like that maybe you will make a good politician,” she joked.

“Thanks.”

“If it doesn’t work out though there will always be a spot for you here,” she added.

The rest of the day was spent anxiously spinning my wheels. After being on a hectic schedule from seven a.m. until ten p.m. seven days a week for the last four weeks, I found it hard to stop and do nothing. My brain and body both buzzed and craved activity. I was still in campaign mode and wanted to walk the streets.

I had been changed by this political work and needed community contact. Being told to sit back, relax, and wait for the results to come in didn’t work for me. Two weeks ago, I wanted badly to take a break and now I didn’t know what to do with myself. This abrupt ending to my marathon journey was hard to take. I guessed this must be what a video lottery addict feels like at closing time when the flashing lights shut off and the door gets locked.

The rest of the day became a blur of faces, conversation, and coffee. I returned to the Tim Horton’s two more times. Al wanted me out of the office and visible so I went for coffee when anyone needed it. I also offered to do the liquor store run, but he said the candidate shouldn’t be seen buying booze on Election Day with Nova Scotia’s long history of trading rum for votes. I promised to avoid the rum section of the store but Al found someone else to purchase booze for the after party.

In case I had to drown my sorrows my personal bar was ready. I don’t recommend throwing alcohol on grief to other people, but it works for me. Especially if it is an eighteen-year-old single malt whiskey. The peaty bliss in a bottle is a true tonic. When we Scots get loaded and sing to the fog covered hills the world seems like a better place. My affection for whiskey is burnt into my DNA from generations that shivered in shit hole sod huts stuck on the side of treeless, wind beaten, hills. I am convinced, without whiskey, my family wouldn’t have made it this far.

Mercifully, the wait was soon over. At exactly eight p.m. polls all over Atlantic Canada shut the doors and the Election Canada deputies got down to counting ballots. All parties had observers to make sure the process was free, fair and no errors occurred. As a candidate I was entitled to watch too. Instead, I stayed in the comfortable clutch of my team. With the speed of the results being posted, there was no real advantage to being physically at the returning office. The tale would be told soon enough.

It didn’t take long for the get-out-the-vote volunteers to return to our Albro Lake Road office. As they came in, Al handed cans of Keith’s beer out of an ice filled blue paper recycling bin. The cans disappeared as quickly as his big hands could pull them out. The long tradition of alcohol offered in reward for political labour continued in our campaign. I watched Dot grab a can and take it outside to compliment the cigarette she held in her lips. Maggie and a few of her friends joined her. Within minutes the place had shifted from all business to party mode. The work was done. The campaign was over.

The core team huddled around the television and waited for the results. By huddled, I mean Al stood in front of the thirty-six-inch screen while the rest of us listened to the CBC commentators and caught glimpses when we could. Kathleen did her best to muscle Al out of position but she soon accepted this was one battle she wouldn’t win with the big man

Dale chose to sit in front of Dot’s computer where it was less crowded. He guessed the Elections Canada website would post the results before the CBC news team announced winners and losers. I agreed with his hunch but stayed at the television. I needed someone to process the information for me. I was too nervous to do the job myself.

We didn’t have to wait long. Dale had been right about the website but not by much. Only seconds after Dale read the results from Dot’s screen, the CBC anchor started to broadcast the numbers. Our group tightened around the television. Al turned the volume up. On cue, Dot and the hookers rushed in holding smokes and beer. Todd and Suzanne handed out more cans of Keith’s.

Poll by poll the numbers came in. The early lead went to the NDP with us in second and the Liberals a distant third. I was discouraged. I feared the NDP’s last-minute smear campaign had been effective and my support had been killed by this negative attack.

After half the polls reported, things got interesting. The race tightened up. The Liberal candidate gathered support and began to make a three-way go of it. The NDP candidate was still winning but her lead had narrowed to seventy-seven votes. The Liberal was in third place but only by one hundred and thirty votes. The tension and excitement in the campaign office grew. We were in a horse race neck and neck down to the wire.

Dot distributed more beer and the hookers offered cigarettes to everyone in the room. The group around the television grew and tightened. There was little space left. Cigarette smoke filled the room. Visibly annoyed, Kathleen asked people to smoke outside. Dot and the hookers ignored her.

When the next batch of polls came in, things got more interesting. We watched as the tally pushed our large blue C logo above the digital orange NDP brand. The Liberal candidate remained in third but only by a bit. I watched in shock as we took the lead by three hundred and twenty votes. Minutes later, we were in the lead by four hundred and eighty! At that moment, the nervous tension in the room shifted to elation. The entire room buzzed with anticipation. Then, it happened. With only ten polls left to report, the CBC talking heads officially declared me the winner. Wow.

The campaign headquarters erupted into loud cheers and people hugged anyone they could get their hands on. Kathleen was the first person to grab me. I witnessed her icy demeanor crack briefly. She threw her arms around me and kissed me on the lips. This shocked me almost as much as the election results. As quickly as it came however, this rare display of humanity was gone. She went back to work thumbing her phone which began to buzz non-stop.

The celebratory mood of the room caught like a dry grass fire. More beer arrived and the physical affection was contagious. Everyone caught the fever. The thrill of this victory was better than any I had experienced in all my years of sport.

“Holy shit! We won!!,” screamed Dale.

“Awesome!” shouted Maggie.

I was speechless. I had a hard time processing what had just happened. A Conservative hasn’t won this riding for more than thirty years. Even after all the hard work and effort we had put into the race I still couldn’t believe it. Slowly, it began to sink in. We had won. I was going to Ottawa to represent the people of Dartmouth and Cole Harbour! Holy shit!!

Dot hugged me harder than ever. I loved her cigarette scent and whiskered cheeks more than ever.

“Good job, Mr. Member of Parliament!!”

“Thanks Dot! Please not so formal… Can you just call me member instead? I like the sound of that…” I replied with a massive smile.

I hugged her again like she was my mother and I had just been released from prison. I held her tightly and gave her a huge kiss on the lips.

“Okay Mr. Member, whatever you say,”

“How about Sir Member?”

“Whatever you want kid. How about Dr. Dick?” she joked.

“Dr. Dick… that works.”

Ha. Promise me one thing…” she said.

“Sure Dot. I couldn’t have done this without you. Shoot.”

“You are a good guy and a hard worker. Don’t ever lose that, and never forget where you came from okay? This party was built by people like that. People like you. Stay humble and stick to the basics. Work hard. Always be the first to show up, the last to leave, and help your host put away the chairs,” she said.

“Yes Dot. I will,” I replied.

“And always take my call. If you don’t, I will kick your ass.”

“For sure. Anytime, anywhere. I am your man,” I said.

“Perfect. Now, go enjoy the party. You earned it kid. Have fun while you can. Tomorrow is when the work really starts. And don’t sweat the gay thing. No one gives a shit about that anymore,” she said with a big smile.

We hugged again. She squeezed me so hard I found it hard to breathe. She only let me go when Al approached.

“May I have a word with the Honourable Member, Dot?”

“Sure boss, I will order up some food for everyone. I am sure his hooker friends are getting hungry after all the political whoring,” she replied.

Al turned and walked to the back of the room. I took this as my cue to follow. The crowd parted for the big man. Once in his office, he gestured for me to sit. He closed the door behind us and sat down. I sat silently and watched him get comfortable. I worried again for the rented chair.

Al reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out two glasses, fine Nova Scotia crystal Titanic cut, and placed them on the desk. He then pulled out a bottle of whiskey, eighteen-year-old Glen Livet. I smiled in approval.

He filled both glasses half-full and pushed one toward me. Before I could pick it up and warm the whiskey, Al held up a hand like he was stopping traffic.

“Hold on,” said the big man.

“Okay boss. You look like you want to say something,” I said with some trepidation.

“Yes. There is something I need to get off my chest,” he responded.

With my trepidation turned to dread I waited as the whiskey’s smoky aroma wafted in the air.

“Shoot,” I said.

“Can I ask why you didn’t tell me? You must have thought word was going to get out?”

I paused and contemplated a response.

“I don’t know. It’s a tough thing Al. I didn’t think you would take it well. No offence, but you are a pretty intimidating guy,” I said.

“People say that.”

“I was worried you wouldn’t work with us. On top of that, I believe it’s not anyone’s business but my own,” I explained.

“Now that you have won, everything you do and say is public business. The quicker you accept the fact your privacy will no longer be respected the better off you will be. You got that? As for not working with you because you might be gay, what kind of person do you think I am?” said the big man.

“Al don’t take this the wrong way but you are the scariest conservative I know,” I replied.

“Really? From where I sit, you are acting like the scariest Conservative in the room. Let it go kid. Be yourself. At the end of the day, people voted for you because they think you are the best candidate. Most people could care less if you are gay or straight. This vote’s result show that. They supported you because you worked harder than everyone else and they trust you and want to put their faith in you. So, its time you start reciprocating that faith. This game works best when elected people, as well as the people who vote for them, believe in each other. Without that, it breaks down quicker than a hockey team with a lame goalie.”

“You’re right Al. I am sorry. I should have been completely honest with you from the beginning,” I said.

“Yes, you should have. Another thing you should know about me. I knew your grandfather. I met him when I was a sixteen-year old young Tory trolling the halls at the annual meetings at the Westin.”

“Wow Al, I didn’t know that…” I interjected.

“Your grandfather had an electric personality with the persuasive powers of a TV evangelist. He was also incredibly passionate about this party and this province. He inspired a lot of people to feel that same passion. I am one of those people Troy. I am a lifelong Tory because your grandfather inspired me to believe that politics can make a difference. He was a great guy. Practice what he preached and you will be a great MP.”

“I will do my best boss.”

“The Conservative party may be currently stuck too far on the right for my liking. It is currently on a shaky foundation with its pillars of ‘faith, freedom, and family’ and this needs to evolve in my opinion. I believe you are the sort of person who can help it change and bring the party back to the middle where Canadians want it to be.”

“Okay Al. You have my word. As for not telling you the whole truth, I am sorry for that. Will you forgive me?” I asked.

“I suppose so. We are friends. We always have been. We always will be,” he replied, “but there are two conditions, ” he replied.

He paused to pick up his whiskey and gave me the green light to grab mine.

“Sure Al, whatever you want. Just name it.”

“First, I want you to take Frank to Ottawa. He is a hard worker with a lot of talent. I have to admit I was wrong about him,” he said.

“Great idea. He could use a fresh start. Consider it done, and the second?” I asked.

“I want your MP’s spouse pin when you get it. Now that you are out, we might as well have some fun with it. You know my motto?”

“Go big or stay at home?” I responded.

“Exactly.”

He reached across the desk and held his glass in front of me. I clinked it with mine.

“Enjoy the whiskey kid. It may be your last.”

“What? I got elected. I am not going to prison…”

“Drinking and smoking are the new gay on the Hill. You are going to have to hide those bad habits,” he quipped.

“It will be hard but I will do my best,” I said with a smile.

“Of course, you will. If you don’t, I will kick your ass,” he replied.

“I promise you I will be a good Conservative promoting good conservative values. Any drinking and smoking will be done behind closed doors.”

“Perfect. Now let’s go join the party. Your public awaits.”

We finished our whiskey and left the office. No hugs with this guy.

The place was packed with people having a good time. Prince played on a pair of portable Bluetooth speakers which had joined the cases of beer and bottles of wine on the war room table. The maps, lists, pens and clipboards were gone. As we joined the crowd, Dale spotted us and yelled.

“Ladies and Gentlemen! May I introduce the Member of Parliament for Dartmouth and Cole Harbour the Right Honourable Troy Myers!!”

The crowd erupted into loud applause and the party moved into full swing. I finished my whiskey and was on my way to get a beer when I spotted a familiar face. It was my favourite CBC reporter. I made my way over to her to say hello and give her my first official interview. It was the least I could do given she had saved my life. I was surprised to see she was without her trusted selfie stick.

“Hey,” I said as I tapped her shoulder.

“Oh, hey!” she replied.

“You are the hardest working journalist I know. First on the scene. Well done! I didn’t get a chance to thank you for helping me the other night. Without you and your selfie stick, tonight’s result might have been different. The least I can do is give you my first interview,” I said with a smile.

“Thank you for the offer but I don’t work for the CBC anymore,” she replied.

“What? What happened?” I said.

“After the dust settled, I was called into the office Monday morning. The Senior Editor was waiting with a senior manager from HR. I could feel tension in the air. It is true what they say, if you see someone from human resources in the meeting, things are not going well for you. ”

“Oh my god…” I said.

“My editor was critical of my actions. She said I crossed a line and inserted myself in the story. She said my credibility has been compromised. Effective immediately, I was put on unpaid leave for four weeks. When the leave is over, she said I would be re-assigned to a different province.”

“What the hell? Inserted yourself in the story? You did what any decent person would do. How can they give you shit for that? Jesus, that is unbelievable! How did you respond to that bullshit?” I asked.

“Like any decent person would, I quit,” she replied.

“Wow, I am sorry to hear that Colleen. That is shitty! What are you going to do now?”

“No idea. I will find something. I just came tonight to say congratulations. In my opinion, the best person won,” she replied.

“Thank you. Why don’t you stick around? We need people with skills like yours around here.”

“That sounds like a good idea Troy. I think I will. I could use a little fun tonight,” she replied smiling.

Moments later, we were swept up in the happy times which come after winning a political campaign. With the election over, our diverse group of political addicts and odd community characters embraced the campaign party with gusto. The night proved to be a great celebration of our accomplishment, however there was a clear understanding it was more than the end of something. We also knew it was the beginning of something far more significant.

None of us would ever be the same again.

Margaret had dropped a bomb and seemed relieved when it failed to explode. After the laugh my anger left. We hugged. In the end, she was loyal and I appreciated that.

She told me she would remain with the NDP and its Dartmouth-Cole Harbour campaign. She was a political junkie too, and she needed to see it to the end. She seemed sincere. She might not be on my side but when this war turned dirty she maintained a level of human decency others in her camp had given up too quickly.

Maybe she was just alleviating her own burden of guilt, but she did me a favour and for this I was thankful. In politics, a business that prides itself on blindside hits and celebrates sucker punches, this heads up warning is more than I expected. Her act was thoughtful and kind – in its’ own complicated way.

As for a real shit heel, I was shocked Laura Scabber did what she did. I barely knew her and after meeting her once at a library conference and giving her advice on getting a job in a library she makes up this horrible, hateful lie about me. I guessed she bought into the “win at all costs” mentality and wanted to show her campaign bosses that she had the fortitude for the dirty side of the business. The NDP were so hungry for power they believed, like Stalin and Mao, they had to break some eggs to make an omelette. By eggs they mean heads. Mine included.

All the dirty stuff aside, I was flattered the competition considered me the frontrunner. Winning the election was a long shot when this race began so I didn’t think much about it. In the early days, I got so caught up in the enormous task of knocking on every door. One day at a time. Repeat.

I took great satisfaction highlighting with a yellow marker the streets we completed on the black and white map that hung on the wall in Al’s office. Voting day seemed a million doors away then. Time flies. Now, there were only a few doors left.

I spent the last of my coffee time considering how I should react to the NDP’s dirty move. In the end, there was only one option. I would do nothing. I would soldier on like a good Conservative. I would continue be honest about who I am. While there would be more tough times ahead, I was determined to be strong. When others ran for cover, it was my job to run toward the fire. Politics is not for sissies.

Back on the street, Frank and I spent the last hours of the campaign doing what we do best, knock on doors. There was a buzz growing for the vote. It was reassuring to see the growing number of blue and white signs with my name on people’s lawns. Al had always said lawn signs on private property were the best poll. If these signs were a measure of success then we had momentum.

We returned to the campaign headquarters around five pm. I was surprised to see so many people at the office. Cars were parked in every spot on both sides of the street and our small lot was double-stacked. People were gathered on the sidewalk. The energy was high. People were upbeat holding clipboards, pens, and campaign literature. Kids drew Conservative logos with chalk on the walkway in front of the building. I spotted a pizza delivery driver with a stack of ten boxes zigzag his way toward the entrance.

Inside the building, people were everywhere. I looked for Dot but Kathleen intercepted me. The ice queen shot me an angry glare.

“Your hookers are here,” she said.

“Fantastic. I figured we could use some help stroking the last few votes,” I replied.

Kathleen didn’t smile. However, I noticed her perpetually furrowed brow relax momentarily. Maybe I was finally getting through to her.

“They are asking about childcare. They said you promised them a babysitter?” she said.

“Hey, this is a grass roots campaign and we have to help the single moms. Dot already has it arranged,” I said with a wide smile.

“Unbelievable. I have been in this business a long time and this is the first time I am sending sex workers out with the candidate,” she said.

“Don’t forget what the leader says, we need a Big Tent to win…” I replied.

“Looking around at this circus I think you just added a new wing to the tent. Muammar Gaddafi would be jealous,” she responded as she turned to leave.

“Kathleen, there is something else we need to discuss. Do you have a minute?”

“No,” she responded curtly.

“It’s important,” I said.

“How important?” she asked.

“Campaign important,” I replied.

“Alright then, let’s talk. Follow me,” she said.

We marched straight into Al’s office. She didn’t knock before she entered. She knew it was vacant. It was her job to know everything about everyone and she did with the exception of what I was about to tell her.

I closed the door behind me and waited for her to turn around. She stared at me with her steel blue eyes which gave away no concern but I could tell she did not have any idea what was going on.

“So, what is it? I have a campaign to win and hookers to feed,” she said.

“I am gay,” I replied.

“Okay you are gay. So, what? It is a personal thing. Why tell me now?” she said

I could tell by the blank look on her face her methodical brain had trouble computing what this was supposed to mean.

“Because my NDP stooge friend, you remember Margaret?”

“Yes, of course.”

“She told me the NDP brain trust has decided to play dirty. They have someone who claims I made an inappropriate move on her at a conference a couple of years ago,” I said.

“What?”

“They are saying I abused my power and grabbed her ass,” I explained.

“Fucking NDP pricks, what is their plan?” she asked.

Her brief flash of anger switched back to her usual, in control, self.

We sat down and I told her Margaret’s story. She listened intently as I shared every shitty detail. I thought she would be pissed off and blow a gasket. Instead, she was calm, thoughtful, and almost compassionate.

“What should we do now?” I asked.

“We need to tell everyone so there are no surprises when these pricks get dirty, and that is it,” she replied.

“Hey, I can get behind that,” I said with a smile.

“Anything else?” she asked.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Just get out on the street with your hooker friends. I will take care of the rest,” she replied.

With my sexuality a hot topic in the closing days of the campaign, it seemed appropriate I walked the streets with working girls. The girls had the necessary skills for door-to-door canvassing. They could talk to anyone and were not easily offended. They also displayed loads of energy which let us cover a lot of ground. The line between politics and prostitution can be narrow indeed.

As for my now public sexuality, it was mostly a non-issue. People we talked had either not heard or didn’t care. There were a few exceptions: one guy, from a car window, yelled “Fag!” while Maggie and I worked the streets.

“Who the fuck is that idiot talking to?” asked Maggie.

“I think he meant that for me,” I replied.

“Really? You are kidding right?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“Wow, I never would have guessed. You are a big rugged guy,” She said.

I shrugged my shoulders and smiled.

“You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover,” I replied.

She returned the smile.

“Gay really? Ha! You just haven’t been with a good woman. How about you come to my place tonight and I will show you what a good woman can do for you?” she said.

“Thanks for the generous offer Maggie, but I have been with a good woman, a few of them actually. I am afraid it doesn’t change a thing. We are who we are. It’s bred in the bone,” I replied.

“How about you come over anyway and I will take a good shot at making you change your mind?” she said with a smile.

“I appreciate the offer girl but I should save myself for election day. I may be getting a serious reaming then,” I replied.

The next day the news outlets were crazy for the story. We never did get a chance to debate the issues important to people in this election but the narrative of the event had many newsworthy elements: arson, assault and local media personalities as characters. These folks were happy to be interviewed by other journalists over and over again. The story would have legs for days.

As for our campaign, the sensational coverage was a blessing. By the end of the first news-cycle our polling numbers skyrocketed. The press framed this latest attacker as a lone wolf with a long history of mental illness. She got it into her head that the Conservative Party of Canada would take away women’s right to vote. She also believed I was the anti-Christ. This conclusion was based on the fact I had survived being shot. She believed I would one day rise up to be dictator of Fortress Canada and bar all immigrants from the country and push women back to domestic servitude.

The power of one person to effect change was impressive. I was amazed what one lunatic can accomplish when she set her mind to it and started swinging. Dale joked we should have recruited her earlier in the campaign. With her onboard from the beginning, we didn’t need to waste time knocking on doors.

I wasn’t sold on the media’s story she was a lone wolf however. Within twelve hours of her sign-wielding video going viral, I received a call from another local journalist who said he had received a complaint from an anonymous source who claimed I had sexually assaulted her during a trip to a library conference fifteen years ago. He explained he wanted a comment from me before he wrote the story. I asked him for the name of the individual. He told me he would not disclose her identity as he did not want to re-victimize her.

His next steps were to verify her claims. He told me he intended to talk to people I have worked with over the past twenty years. He gave me one last chance to comment. I told him it didn’t happen and left it at that.

As a good Conservative I was quiet about my sexuality in public but everyone I worked with new I was gay. This rumour of my sexual impropriety with a member of the opposite sex died as quickly as it started. Everyone the reporter talked to identified my sexual preference. Most laughed at him.

More importantly, they also vouched for me personally. They said I was cooperative, thoughtful, collaborative and a great listener. Since these are not the classic personality traits associated with sociopathic predators, the rumour fell so flat the reporter called me back to apologize. He said the person was less than credible so he would not file the story. The reporter apologized for wasting my time and any undue stress he may have caused. My accuser – Laura Scabber – outed herself when she posted the lie on Twitter but since mainstream media did the right thing and didn’t run the story the social media post didn’t get any traction.

While I wasn’t pleased with the brutal nature of politics, it brought the truth of my sexuality out in the open. To my surprise, people didn’t care. For twenty years I was worried about coming out and the consequences it would bring. In the end, it was a non-event.

My friends, family, and neighbours only had positive things to say. Seeing this now, I realized I shouldn’t have been so conservative all these years. The only person surprised with the public news of my sexuality was me.

One thing this latest dirty tactic did achieve though was to fortify my resolve. This latest attempt toughed me up. My rhino skin had thickened and was being fitted with Kevlar.

On the campaign front our get tough on crime campaign was in full swing. True to his word, Al had the entire constituency covered within two days. Much to my surprise, the reaction was overwhelmingly positive. I was beginning to wonder if I had been too sensitive with the message. This would soon prove not to be the case.

With two days to go before election day, I walked my usual route to the campaign office. It was another lovely June day in Dartmouth. The air was warm, the birds sang, and the leaves were almost full. There was a healthy scent of pollen and promise in the air. I came around the corner and there was Maggie, the ever-working girl. She greeted me with her usual smile and big welcoming wave. Even though I was sure she had the same greeting for all the boys, she made me feel special. Maggie was a true professional.

“Hey friend, how goes the battle?” she asked with sincerity.

I was nervous but her positive attitude made our conversation less awkward.

“Hey Maggie. We’re down to the wire now. There are only a few days left,” I responded.

“Wow, you should be relieved. I thought I was the hardest working public servant in the neighbourhood but your pace has been impressive! And after the other night, it looks like you are getting almost as much action as I am!” she joked.

“Thanks Maggie. I am just trying to keep up. You make it hard.”

“That’s my job. One thing we need to talk about though…” she said.

My pulse quickened. I thought maybe she had been too busy and didn’t hear about the latest turn in the campaign, but no such luck. No mobile Candy Crush game time for her. Just news and hard work.

“Yes Maggie?” I asked with trepidation.

“I saw your new brochure yesterday… It was in my mailbox when I got home from picking my daughter up at preschool. I was pissed bud. Looks like just another cheap shot at people who don’t deserve it. Then, I took a deep breath and remembered it was you. I started thinking you couldn’t be attacking us, you are too nice of a guy for that,” she said.

“Look Maggie… Let me explain. I…”

She cut me off.

“Let me finish please. I needed to think it through. So, I logged into my chat group and the girls and I started talking… You have helped all of us. We couldn’t imagine you would be anything but supportive. We decided, while your message on this was blunt, that ultimately you have our back,” she explained.

“Wow Maggie, I don’t know what to say. You are much better at this than me. We need to get your name on an election sign one day,” I replied.

“Not a chance. There is way too much bullshit. I couldn’t fake it for that long. Politics needs a whore with more patience”, she joked.

We laughed loudly.

“So, take it to them kid! You still have my vote! And from the comments on the chat; most of the girls in the neighbourhood are on your side too. How many days did you say before the vote?” she asked.

“Two. Almost there,” I replied.

“Okay. Let me doing something for you,” she said.

“Maggie that is very generous of you, but don’t worry about it. You are a busy girl,” I responded.

“No seriously I want to help. If you are working for working girls then working girls should be working for you! Besides, I know a lot of people in this town. Probably more than you think,” she said with a wink.

Sometimes people make an offer you just can’t refuse. If nothing else, I looked forward to the look on Kathleen’s face when Maggie and her friends turned up to join our team to get out the vote.

“Okay. We are planning a big canvassing blitz tonight and tomorrow. How about you come join us?” I suggested.

“I will do better than that. I will call a bunch of the girls and bring along some friends! We know these streets better than you do,” she said.

“Maggie that would be awesome! You know where the campaign headquarters are?” I asked.

“Sure do,” she replied.

“Perfect. We plan to hit the streets at six pm sharp. It would be great to have you,” I said.

“Booked. I will be there with bells on!”

“Alright Maggie, thanks for everything. I greatly appreciate your help. I owe you one,” I said.

“When this is over, you won’t be the only politician in this town who owes me a favour,” she joked.

“Now get back to work. This is my corner. You do your whoring someplace else!” she said with a laugh.

“Sure thing, I will get out of your way. Love you girl!” I replied.

We both laughed, hugged, and wished each other a good day. I continued on my way to the office. I was a couple strides away when she yelled out.

“Hey Troy!”

‘Yes Maggie?”

“Some of the girls may have childcare issues. Can you help us out?”

“Anything for your girls! Tell them to bring all the kids and I will get a babysitter. We can have an old-fashioned story time!” I shouted back.

When I arrived at the office it was the usual hive of activity. The election “get out the vote” team had kicked into high gear and the place was full of volunteers. The phones were all in use. The computers were busy and the board room table was full of lists and maps as people scrutinized them intensely. It looked like Churchill’s war room and D-Day had moved into final preparation.

Through all this activity, Dot still managed to be heard. She wished me good morning. I stopped at her desk and she gave me her usual bone-breaking hug. I would miss this physical contact when it was all over. Almost four weeks of campaigning had made me crave the affection I got from her as well as the tough love advice. I didn’t care about the cigarette smoke anymore. I wasn’t going to let a foul habit come between us.

“How are things going Dot?” I said enthusiastically.

“Great Mr. Candidate. Why are you so happy? You should be a basket case after all the excitement. What have you been smoking?”

“Just a good start to the morning Dot. I had a good canvass on the way in. The last couple of days were rough but it’s almost over now. Just the short strokes left now,” I said with a wink.

“No kidding Mr. Candidate. I am glad you have finally learned to lighten up. There may be hope for you yet,” she replied.

“So, what’s going on?” I asked.

“Well, you better keep that good mood of yours kid. Kathleen wants to talk to you. The press is still excited about the debate. They can’t get enough of it,” she responded.

“Really? Kathleen couldn’t blow them off with her usual ice queen approach?” I asked.

“She tried but the reporters from the Halifax Examiner and the CBC wouldn’t go away. They want to know more about our new tough on crime policy. Seems they think this may be a decision that was made somewhere else,” explained Dot.

“What would ever give them that idea?” I said.

Dot gave me a familiar look, the one with her forehead thrust forward and her eyes peering over the top of her glasses. The look which spoke volumes and required no reply. She punctuated it with a smile.

“Thanks for the heads-up Dot. Hey, I know it is going to get crazy around here. Before it does I want to say it has been a real treat working with you. Its people like you who make it worthwhile,” I said sincerely.

“Jesus Christ… Don’t start getting all maudlin on me. You can thank me when it is over. Not now. Plus, you know I am only doing this for the money,” she replied with a smile.

“Of course, and the great benefit package we offer,” I joked.

“Seriously though, just do me a favour and win this thing. I believe you are the best person for the job. People like me are too old for this shit and I am counting on you to pick up the ball,” she said.

“Thanks Dot,” I replied.

“Back to work kid. A couple other things: Pastor Perry called again. He really wants to talk to you so you should call him back.”

“Pastor Perry. Sure. Perry, is that his first name or his last name?” I asked Dot.

“Both,” she replied.

“Perry Perry? Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“That is easy to remember. Reminds me of my favourite hot sauce… suits a fire and brimstone Baptist preacher. What’s the other thing?”

“That NDP friend of yours, you know the one who promised you she was going to do some work for you and after a couple of days we never saw her again?” said Dot.

“Yes, the loyal Margaret. The one you chased off like a skateboarder at a strip mall?” I asked.

“She wants you to call her. She said it is important. Here’s her number,” replied Dot.

I took the pink message paper from Dot’s wrinkled fingers yellowed with nicotine.

With all the work left to do I almost tossed the note with Margaret’s number in the blue bin. I decided against it. A good candidate talks to everyone, even the ones who didn’t deserve it. I folded the pink slip and tucked it in my front pocket.

“Alright Mr. Candidate. The press is waiting for you. Knock ‘em dead kid,” said Dot.

I left Dot and made my way to the board room to meet with Kathleen. She told me she wanted me to talk to the reporters on speakerphone. I refused. With no time to argue, she reluctantly agreed. However, she hammered home how important it was for me to stay on message. She handed me talking points printed in a font large enough to be the top line of an eye exam poster. I took the sheets from her and taped them to the wall on the opposite side of the room from where I would use the phone.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Just want to tack it up where I can see it,” I deadpanned.

I thought this comment might piss her off but she showed no reaction. She just glared at me with her usual steely, unblinking, blue steel eyes. Wow, she is a piece of augmented humanity. I wished I could program her to clean my house.

“Whatever you need to do to get this right, go for it. I will be here if you need me,” she said as she left the room.

I called the CBC reporter first. It was the least I could do after the Corporation came to my rescue.

Much to my disappointment, the call was not taken by the reporter at the debate. I talked to a student intern who stumbled over the questions and let me control the information flow. I used his inexperience to my advantage.

I doubled down on our attack of the Liberal MP even though I knew he was a decent guy. The nervous intern let me run with it and made no attempt to bring me back to the issues. I ignored Kathleen’s speaking notes tacked to the wall.

The reporter let me comment at length about the MP being soft on crime. It was like we had paid for the airtime and he was the copywriter. Not once, did he try to stop me during my vitriolic rant. The gloves were off. This election campaign had turned into a street fight and this referee from the CBC left his whistle in his pocket. I attacked my Liberal opponent like I was Vladimir Putin talking to Radio Russia.

When I was finished the rant, the young CBC intern thanked me and wished me luck. Seriously? Jesus, Dot was right. What the hell is wrong with young people today? They need to stop watching the action and jump into the game.

The Halifax Examiner reporter was not so green, but she had other limitations. The online news outlet she worked for operated with a small staff who had to cover three beats at the same time. The group recently reduced its’ staff by a third to keep the paper competitive.

Unlike the CBC reporter who gave me all the time I wanted, she told me I only had five minutes. With the clock ticking, she took complete control of the interview. Up front, she asked me if the Conservatives were saying the Liberals supported prostitution?

I dodged the question and tried to steer it to the Liberals being soft on crime. She tried a second time, but still could not get me to bite. We went back and forth with this dance a few more times.

With our five minutes up, she gave up trying to pin me down. She thanked me for calling her back and that was it. The interview was over. In journalism’s new market place, it has gotten easier and easier to spin the message. The truth may be out there but with fewer people on the hunt, fake news was winning hands down.

When I was finished with the press I hung up the phone and gave Kathleen a thumbs up. She nodded and went back to work. I realized then Kathleen and I have never had a casual conversation. She may be all business but I should have found the nerve to get to know her. Oh well, I was sure I didn’t hurt her feelings. She needed to have some for that to happen.

Feeling empowered after talking to the press I called Pastor Perry. He answered on the first ring.

Hello. Pastor Perry speaking.”

“Pastor Perry, it’s Troy Myers. How are you?” I said.

“Mr. Myers. Thank you for returning my call. I greatly appreciate you taking the time,” he replied warmly.

“No problem Pastor Perry. What can I do for you?” I asked hiding any trepidation.

“I don’t want to waste your time so I will get to the point. As you are well aware, the abortion debate is a subject our church considers very important. My congregation is looking for guidance on who to vote for. So, I would like to know where you stand on the issue?” he asked.

Wow, he didn’t joke when he said he would get right to the point. The two reporters could learn from this guy! I took a deep breath and jumped right in. A direct question deserved a direct answer.

“Thank you for the question Pastor Perry. Our leader has been very clear on this issue. Our party will allow MP’s to speak freely on abortion and can vote their conscience” I replied.

“Okay. That is a good start. So, where do you stand? If the issue ever does come to the house, how will vote?” he asked.

So much for dodging the question with the canned response from head office. I thought about trying to obfuscate but decided against it. He would see right through me. I took another deep breath and ran toward the fire and brimstone.

“Personally speaking, Pastor Perry, I think any time an abortion happens it is tragic. Everyone involved with it is affected in a negative way. There are no winners when the decision to have an abortion is made. Everyone loses. That said, women should have the right to decide if they are going to have a baby or not. Right or wrong, it is her decision to make. We need to make sure she has all the support and information she needs to make the best decision she can under these very difficult and tragic circumstances,” I replied.

There was a long pause as I waited for him to reply. He cleared his throat like it was a dirty drain.

“Mr. Myers, while we don’t agree on this issue I do appreciate your acknowledgement that abortion is a tragedy and there are no winners. Your response tells me you have a grasp of the gravity of such difficult societal problems and I find this more meaningful than our Prime Minister’s quick flippant answer that women have a right to decide what happens to their bodies. I think he spends more time thinking about what socks he is going to wear than he does thinking about what really matters to Canadians. You will have our vote. Understand though, we are watching you and will hold your feet to the fire. Good luck and God bless,” he said before hanging up.

That went better than I thought. Once again, I learned things are not always as they seem in this business. Some people you expect to be enemies are not, while some you consider friends may not always have your best interests at heart.

With this thought in mind, I remembered to call Margaret. After our last encounter I had little interest in talking with her. Dot was probably right about her. Then again, she is a friend and a voter too. I shrugged off the negativity and decided she deserved my time as much as anyone.

My skin, like a rhinoceros’ hide wrapped in Kevlar, now had a Teflon coating.

I picked up the phone and dialed Margaret’s number. She answered on the first ring.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hey Margaret, it’s Troy.. Dot says you called,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.

“Thanks for getting back to me. How are you?” she replied.

I detected tension in her voice. Her breath seemed short and constricted.

“I am keeping it together. What’s up?”

“Can we meet for coffee? I would like to talk to you in person,” she responded with urgency I wasn’t ready for.

Jesus, she was unbelievable. I wasn’t in the mood to let her waste more of my time.

“Not sure I can find the time Margaret. As you can imagine, we are pretty busy right now. I don’t have time to go to the toilet let alone for coffee,” I said.

“Troy, this is about the campaign. There is something you need to know. I can’t be part of it anymore,” she said.

With that, she had my attention. I agreed to meet with her at Chapters at Mic Mac Mall. The store had a Starbucks which would be a nice treat after all the Tim Horton’s coffee I had been drinking.

Bookstores and libraries have always soothed my soul. If Margaret had something serious to share I wanted to hear it surrounded by books while I sipped dark coffee brewed to bitter perfection.

With my venti coffee warmly in hand, I found a table for two in the corner by the window. Margaret arrived on time. We hugged awkwardly. The tension in her voice earlier was amplified in person. She put her bag down next to the vacant chair and went to get a coffee. I sat down again, watched her walk away and wondered what the hell was up.

She was back with coffee before I could conjure up any demons or unearth the worst skeletons that hid in my imagination. She sat down and stared at me. I stared back. I waited for her to speak. This awkward situation had become uncomfortable.

“So, what is up?” I asked to shatter the silence.

“I am sorry,” she said as she fought back tears.

“Sorry? For what?” I said.

“For not being truthful with you.”

“About what?” I asked

“The NDP campaign decided we needed to find out everything we could about your plans. After all the positive media attention you were getting we knew you would be a star candidate. In our view, you were the frontrunner from the day the writ dropped.”

“Frontrunner? Long shot you mean,” I interjected.

“Not in our view. The Liberals had their turn and we were counting on winning the seat back. That is the way it works here. Libs have it for a term or two and then we do the same. Tories haven’t had a shot in Dartmouth for thirty years,” she said.

“Fair enough. It has been a long time…”

“You changed everything. When you joined the Conservatives you gave the Tories a chance. To counter this threat, I was persuaded to get close to you and see if there was anything we could dig up and use…”

I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. Jesus Christ, Dot had been right all along. Margaret was a shit heel spy! My anger and anxiety sparked. I took a deep breath and pushed it back behind my new Teflon-coated armour.

“What the hell Margaret? Are you are telling me you came over that day with your offer to volunteer only to get our game plan and dig up dirt??” I said with a sense of disbelief.

“Yes. I don’t feel good about it. You have been around long enough to know this shit happens. It’s trench warfare. I got caught up in it. I am sorry,” she replied.

“Jesus Margaret, this is a little different than kicking over a few lawn signs and taking cheap shots on the doorstep. What about our friendship for fuck sake?”

She cast her eyes downward and stared into her coffee. We sat in uncomfortable silence. I drank my coffee and waited.

“That is the reason I didn’t come back. After I talked to you that day I wasn’t comfortable with it. You a nice guy, probably too nice for this business. In the end, I didn’t want to hurt you. I couldn’t be their mole,” she explained.

“Didn’t want to hurt me? Margaret, that is pretty fucked up,” I said.

“The stakes are high Troy and the NDP party has come to the realization, if it is going to get a chance, it has to fight harder. The party will use any means necessary. Professional union organizers are now in charge. They are prepared to do whatever is required to win,” she said.

“Wow, what is next? Are you going to start breaking knee caps? Hand out bottles of rum, crack, or better yet, how about fentanyl? Keep this shit up and you will start making postal unions look good! What about the anthrax attack on our office? Did your crew organize that too??” I said.

“No! We are not sociopaths! I have no idea who did that to you.”

“Right. So why should I believe you now?”

“Look, you have every right to be angry. I deserve it. In the beginning, I bought into the idea we need to win at all cost, but I found out I don’t have the stomach for it. I want to feel good about the work I do,” she replied. She raised her gaze from her coffee and looked straight into my eyes.

“So, why come here today and tell me this? Are you just trying to get this burden off your chest to sooth your socialist soul?” I asked sarcastically.

“No. I came to warn you. I am here to tell you they are taking it a step further,” she replied.

“What? They didn’t think getting one of my friends to spy on me was rock bottom enough so they had to get the shovels out?? What the hell are you talking about?” I asked.

“The latest NDP internal polling has you clearly in the lead. I am sure your numbers are showing the same. By everyone’s measure, you are the frontrunner.”

“Good to hear,” I interjected.

“To bring you down, The NDP will be on the ground talking to parents in front of the schools about how the Tories will slash the education budget. At the grocery stores, they will tell shoppers the Tories will cut social assistance. People have been instructed to use your name as much as they can,” she explained.

“Are you kidding me? None of that stuff is true! In our platform education gets an increase, not a decrease and there is also an increase to social assistance! What the hell are you talking about?” I said unable to contain my anger.

“Most people don’t take the time to read a political party’s plan. Whether it is yours, the Liberals or ours. Even if they do read it, it doesn’t make much goddam sense to most people,” she replied.

“With this kind of dirty shit going on no fucking wonder!”

“I agree. It is dirty. I am sorry.”

“So, tell me Margaret, why do you think people will believe these lies?” I quipped.

“Because the NDP haven’t been in power yet, that is why. The party is not tainted by compromise. People see the NDP as the earnest party, the party without a history of breaking promises like the rest have,” she added.

“Wow, I don’t know what to say. This is pretty nasty stuff,” I responded. At this point I was more dejected than angry.

“I am afraid there is more Troy,” she said.

“More? What now? A billboard is going up that says Conservatives back the death penalty and outlaw abortion? Welcome to Gilead, everyone! The Handmaid’s Tale comes true!”

“No, it’s about you. Do you remember Laura Scabber?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“She has told the team you put your hand up her skirt at a conference. The news has already been leaked to the press,” she said.

My mood changed immediately. I started to laugh out loud.

“Why are you laughing?” she asked in disbelief.

“Because your NDP friends are a a little sloppy with research.”

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.

The micro marketing campaign went ahead regardless of what I said or did, short of shooting myself in the head. Some hills are worth dying on but this wasn’t one of them. Even if I did shoot myself in the head, I was certain Kathleen and her crew would move on without me. I wouldn’t have been the first dead guy on a ballot.

The debate was a good distraction. I threw myself into it like a student cramming for finals. Todd, Suzanne, and Frank volunteered to play the roles of the other party’s candidates while Al stood in as the cranky local evening news anchor moderator. Everyone jumped into character and played their roles to perfection.

I was impressed with everyone’s grasp of the issues as seen through the lens of the parties they represented. Frank did a fantastic performance as the Green Party candidate. His British Columbian indigenous upbringing and knowledge of current affairs was mixed with just the right amount of environmental passion to make him sound believable, but not like the usual Green party lunatic ready to chain himself to a dump truck.

We worked long into Friday night. Dale, not to be left out, played the role of the audience. He clapped, hissed, and heckled. Kathleen floated in and out of the conference room we used as a stage. She had picked up the campaign slack created by the rest of us being busy with the debate.

Her management style was as subtle as a wounded moose and when the moose wasn’t howling we knew we were on the right track. In most workplaces Kathleen would have been labelled a workplace bully. However, in politics, her abrupt style and win at all costs attitude was desirable. She could command a special forces team. No wonder Clive liked her.

Speaking of Clive, Kathleen asked him to give us a final security briefing. We tried to blow it off but she said it was mandatory.

At two o’clock Saturday afternoon we had covered every issue which would come up. We had done enough. We were as prepared as we could be.. Energized, I offered to knock on doors that afternoon but Kathleen told me I could go home and relax after Clive’s briefing. Going home made better sense. This gave me time to press the shirt and tie she told me I could wear.

Clive had waited patiently for us. With a quick nod from Al, he marched into the room in full battle mode. He wore a new sharp, still too tight, blue suit. He closed the door behind him. This was unusual for him as he liked to keep an eye on what came his way. With his line of sight compromised, I guessed he was on edge. With his methods modified, I guessed he had something important to share. We stopped talking and waited. He walked to the head of the table and sized each of us up like he was Jack Reacher deciding who he was going to assault first.

“Ok folks I will get right to it. Our friends in the intelligence community have informed us there has been a significant increase in social media chatter in the last twelve hours regarding tonight’s event. This suggests there may be attempts to organize significant disruption at the debate tonight,” he said.

What the fuck? This was big news but Clive delivered it like he was the morning Fed Ex guy.

“Sorry to interrupt Clive, but before you move on can you tell us what you mean by ‘significant disruption’ please?”

“Sure. We believe ANTIFA warriors and other far left groups will be out in full force to stop you from speaking tonight. They will employ their usual tactics of using loud protest to disrupt your platform. They have invited warriors from outside the province to assist with the demonstration tonight. Our sources have confirmed there has been significant uptake to this call to action,” he explained.

“What? Are you serious? What in the hell would bring people from outside the neighbourhood, let alone the province, to this event?” I asked with shock and disbelief.

“Not what, but who. It is you they are fired up about. Since the day you put your life on the line to defend your soccer mom friend with the anti-immigrant crusade, alt-right groups all over the world have adopted you as a hero. While you may find being a poster boy for the alt-right disturbing, what is more concerning is far-left groups now see you as someone who champions hate speech… You are also in an election you may win. This puts you on a hit list. In ANTIFA’s opinion, you must be silenced and we are concerned they will use all means necessary to achieve this objective,” he added.

“All means necessary? This has to be a joke?” I stammered.

“It’s no joke. Rest assured we will mitigate all risk to the best of our abilities. This is what I am here to discuss with you. May I continue?”

“You have the floor Clive. Shoot,” said Al.

“We have a solution that will lower the risk factor significantly. We appreciate the show must go on so we are not suggesting we cancel the event. That said, we see no need for the live audience. We have talked to Eastlink and they are prepared to live broadcast the event tonight. This will give our event far greater reach in the community and will eliminate the opportunity for spectators to disrupt the event,” he explained.

There was a long moment of silence while we processed what Clive had just said. This brief quiet was shattered when all of us started making noise at the same time. Not all of which were words. For a group of articulate people, we sounded more like a hungry barnyard with our cacophony of grunts, snorts, whistles, and guffaws. Al brought order back to our decent to conversational chaos.

“Hey! Calm down! One and a time!” he said as he slapped a big hand on the table.

We shut up and gave him our undivided attention. Clive jumped when Al’s hand smacked the wood.

“Ok Clive, let me get this straight. You want us to keep the public out of a public event?” asked Al.

“That is correct Al. As you are aware, ANTIFA have a history of radical behaviour and we strongly believe they will disrupt the event. They will employ noisemakers, shouting, etc. to create conditions which will make the debate unmanageable. In our assessment, that is the least they will do. Let’s not forget one member of the group took a shot at Colin… They may try to do it again. With an Eastlink broadcast and the audience virtual, the event can happen safely,” he explained.

“Clive, we appreciate your commitment and professionalism. You have done a great job, but pulling the candidates together in a public forum to debate issues is an important piece of every election. The debate it is an opportunity for the public to have direct contact with the candidates and see how they perform under pressure. We are not going to lock the public out… This show will go on and the the voters will be part of it. The person who took a shot at Troy is not typical to the group. She suffers from serious mental health issues and is currently locked up. ANTIFA has publicly distanced itself from her and has apologized. This debate will happen and we will invite the public. Do I make myself clear?” said Al calmly.

“Yes, Al you do. Loud and clear. The show will go on. Whatever you decide we will make work. I wouldn’t be doing my job though if I did not brief you on all the potential risks. Now, if there are no more questions I need to get going. I have a lot of work to do,” replied Clive.

After a quick lunch at Subway we stopped at the office to clean up after Camp Day. I smelled like coffee and sparkled with donut dust. Dot welcomed me with an extra firm bone-crushing hug. She smelled like brandy. After the chaos of Camp Day I was jealous.

“Mr. Candidate. I was very proud of you this morning!” said Dot with enthusiasm.

“Proud? For what Dot? I didn’t do anything,” I replied puzzled.

“You sure did. That bastard is intimidating as hell and you held your own,” she replied.

“Not really Dot. I didn’t get a chance to say a word during the announcement and the canvassing wasn’t much better. As for Camp Day, don’t get me started. Words can’t describe that shit show.”

“Really? Hey, you showed up. Sometimes that is the hardest part. In my books, you are still number one!” she shouted.

“Thanks Dot. I appreciate your support,” I said with a smile.

“Was Camp Day really that bad?” she asked.

“Unbelievable. It was the hardest hour I have ever worked in my life. I have no idea how they do it each and every day. I get why we have welfare. Most of us aren’t capable of working at Tim Horton’s. I wouldn’t last a four-hour shift in the place. Thank God I stayed in school!” I replied.

“Story of your generation. All of you are butter cups,” added Dot with her usual gravel road laughter.

“Thanks Dot. You are a sweet heart. That is the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day,” I said with a bigger smile.

“No problem, Mr. Candidate. What can I get you for lunch? We can’t have your fragile constitution collapsing this close to the line,” she replied.

“How about an extra lean turkey breast sandwich on twelve-grain? Can you cut the crusts off too?”

“Sure thing. Whatever you want sweet pea. Should I call Tim’s? Or have you had enough of the place?” she asked.

“Why not? Just don’t tell them the sandwich is for me. They may poison it so I won’t show up next year,” I replied.

“One anonymously ordered turkey sandwich coming up,” said Dot.

“Good luck pretending to be someone else. Your voice is unique in Dartmouth. You have as much luck hiding it as Jordan Peterson on a right wing pod cast. Poison sandwich to go!”

“Don’t worry, you may not get a chance to eat it. Al said he wanted to see you as soon as you got in. You better get moving. Chop, Chop!” said Dot.

“Is he pissed off?” I asked.

Dot gave me her trademark look of distain, the one with her head tilted toward me while her eyes looked over her glasses.

“He is always pissed off. Why should today be any different? Now, get your candy ass in there.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

I made the short walk to Al’s office. The door was open and he sat in a new over-sized, over-engineered chair. This furniture looked failproof. It was large enough for a lion to nap in . Al was busy. He had a pen in his hand that looked like a toothpick.

“Hey boss, Dot said you wanted to see me?” I asked.

“Yes. Come in. Have a seat,” he replied.

I took a chair and waited for what was next. I surveyed his massive body in the new furniture. Thankfully, there were no signs of structural strain. This well-built chair was double wide and appeared reinforced with aircraft grade materials. I had no idea there was a market for such big office chairs. If I sat in it I would look like a child waiting for Santa.

‘What’s up?” I asked.

“Just touching base bud. How did today go?” he asked with a glimmer of warmth.

“Oh, the usual morning of politicking Al. I spent the day with a maniacal control freak who treated me like his bitch. If this keeps up people are going to have to get in line to treat me that way,” I said.

“I heard it went well. To be clear, you are his bitch. Don’t forget that. The leader and his crew will always be at the front of the line when it comes to you.”

“Of course, I am his bitch. I just like to believe I have some say in this campaign,” I said.

“So, what do you think about the policy announcement?”

“To be honest Al, that piece of shit pissed me off. Interesting choice for Dartmouth, don’t you think? I didn’t realize we are the crime capital of Canada. It is a shameless attempt to appeal to people’s basest fears. Stats on crime don’t support it. The way he talked today you would think we are sitting in Chicago’s inner city. It’s bullshit Al. Do you feel unsafe here?”

As soon as I asked the question I realized how stupid it was. Al felt safe everywhere, including Chicago.

“Look Troy, it is all perception. You have been around long enough to know that. The national polling shows crime as the number one issue and our local polling confirms it. With the stakes high in this race, the gloves are off,” he said.

“Seriously? With all the real issues like: the environment, the tanking economy, and our shambles health care, people really think crime is the number one issue?”

“Yes. Put a few handguns on the streets and people get scared. The press has been busy with gun stories and social media has stoked the fire. It is the same old story… if it bleeds, it leads,” he replied.

“A few punk, dirt-bags have everyone hiding in their houses?”

“The same,” he replied.

“Those shitheads couldn’t hit water if they were shooting from the beach!”

“That is the problem Colin… The latest shoot up in front of the Children’s Hospital has got people rattled. These stupid fucks can’t seem to hit each other but they keep picking busy public spots like hospitals to have their gun battles. It is only a matter of time before some bystander gets killed. Christ, what is wrong with people today? There used to be a time when criminals had some respect for social order. Can you imagine the Hells Angels or Tony Soprano taking a shot at some douche bag in front of a children’s hospital?”

“Of course not, Tony had respect for family. On top of that, he would want to kill the bastard with his bare hands,” I responded.

“Exactly. There wouldn’t be stray shots breaking windows in every house in the neighbourhood,” added Al.

“Tony knew how to take care of business. Rest in peace.”

“Absolutely, not like these teenaged wannabe gangster shit heels who are too lazy to learn how to use a gun and too stupid to know where to use it!” added Al.

There was a moment of silence before we shifted back to a clearer connection to the reality of running an election campaign and not about traditional gangster morality as interpreted by popular television dramas.

“Okay. With crime the big issue, what does head office want us to do? I asked Al.

The big man fumbled through papers on his desk until he found what he needed. He picked up a high gloss Conservative blue card. It was big and bold. I saw my headshot on the card. He tossed it to me. My picture was on one side and on the other was the Liberal candidate. He was not a bad looking guy, but this photo made him appear weird and disfigured. It was like his head had been hit with a shovel. Underneath the picture was the caption, in bold tabloid style, ‘Liberal MP MacDonald supports bill to keep prostitutes and gangster pimps on street’.

“Jesus Christ Al, who came up with this?” I asked.

“Our friends from National.”

“Wow, this has got to be a joke.”

“What do you think? Are you okay with it?” he asked

“Really? You have to ask me that question? Okay, I will tell you what I think. I think it is a piece of shit! Where in the hell did they get that photo? Wow, they make MacDonald look like Charles Manson after someone drove over his head! Fuck Al, what are we supposed to do with this?”

“National says it will launch tomorrow and you will start sharing it today,” replied Al.

“Are you kidding me?”

“No, bud, I am not. This is the plan.”

“Why the negative shift? You know it’s not me. How the hell am I going to sell this piece of crap?”

“Why? Because we are so close to winning. National thinks going negative will close the gap and put us out front. Real or not, the crime issue is hot right now. People are on edge. Don’t forget the shooting three weeks ago at Woodlawn mall at three o’clock in the afternoon. Kids were walking home from school for Christ’s sake! People want to feel safe again. I have to agree with them on this one kid. This is an issue where we can make the Liberals look soft,” he explained.

“What about me?” I asked.

“You don’t have to like it. I don’t like it much either. All of your friends here know it’s not your style. As far as I am concerned, you don’t have to try and sell it if you don’t want to. If people want to talk about it just say the Liberal record speaks for itself and move on. Tell the press that too if you feel so strongly about it.”

“But Al, prostitution? Couldn’t they have stuck to gun crimes, break and enters, teenaged swarming, vehicular homicide, child pornography or some other scourge of society that I can at least get on side with?”

“Prostitution was the only thing they could get MacDonald on the record with. Head office did an extensive Hansard search. Trust me, if there was anything else out there they would have found it. The opposition research is the most rigorous I have ever seen. These people are very thorough. Just be happy they are working for us and not the Liberals,” explained Al.

“No fucking kidding. I can only imagine what they would do to me,” I replied.

I took a deep breath and stared at Al. The urge to run out the door and forget this whole mess returned. Negative campaigns weren’t my style. I wanted people to support me because I had inspired them. I didn’t want to be elected because we had hacked someone else at the knees. I had a strong sense that if we went down this road there would be no coming back. I took a deep breath and continued.

“Al, I can’t do it.”

“You don’t have to do anything Troy,” he replied calmly.

“That is easy for you to say. You aren’t the one who has to go door to door handing out this shit,” I snapped.

“Trust me, I have your back on this one. We will do the heavy lifting. I will get Todd to put together talking points we can use for cover. As for you, just keep doing what you are doing. As far as I am concerned you don’t have to change a thing,” he said.

This really had become a runaway band wagon. Even Al was on board with national’s plan to take the gloves off.

“You really think it will work?” I asked.

The big man stared at me for several moments.

“Yes. Times are changing and I think we need to recognize that,” he said.

“Fuck me. Sounds like it is a go then. Tell me Al, you didn’t bring me in here to get my permission on this move, did you?” I asked.

“No, I didn’t. In addition to the card drop, we are running ads in the two weeklies and firing a blitz of targeted social media ads. There is also a radio spot in production. It will be ready tonight,” he replied.

“Wow, what happened to team work Al? Shouldn’t I get to have a say? My name is all over this stuff!” I snapped.

“Look, I get it. I would feel the same way. What did you think was going to happen? That it was going to be all about how great a guy you are? People want to know you are able to ask the tough questions and deal with the shit that keeps people awake at night. Nice guys may thrive in your business but in politics you need to be a pit bull.”

“Tough is one thing but going after the guy for doing something right isn’t fair,” I countered.

“Fair? Come on kid, who ever said politics was fair? You don’t have to agree with everything but we are all in now. This race is too close to call so let’s pull out all the stops and see what happens. If we win, you can do more to change things than you can sitting at home screaming at your television as the country swirls down the toilet,” he said.

I took a deep breath and held it. Election Day was in seven days. This train had left the station. My options were few. I could quit or publicly apologize for the negative marketing campaign. Both choices would mean defeat. I felt like a self-important bit character in a Tolstoy novel. I had little choice but to gut it out to the end. With a sense of resignation, I calmed down.

“Okay Al. Let’s see where this goes,” I said.

I saw him smile for the first time in the campaign.

“Thanks Mr. Candidate. The job is much easier if you are on side,” he replied.

“I am your man,” I said.

“Excellent. The entire riding will be covered in forty-eight hours. You don’t have to deliver any yourself. You stay focused on Saturday’s debate preparation. You continue what you are doing. Don’t change a thing. Just buckle up.”

“Whatever you say. The show must go on… There is one more thing Al, if I may?”

“Shoot,” he asked.

“Can I still have my hooker friends in the office for coffee and muffins?” I asked.

“Sure, your friends are always welcome here. If they will still talk to you,” he replied.

On the morning of the leader’s visit, I arrived at campaign headquarters early. I didn’t want to be unprepared. Dot and I hugged. The smell of cigarette smoke had become strangely comforting to me.

“Good Morning Mr. Candidate. Are you ready for the royal visit?” asked Dot.

“As ready as I will ever be,” I replied.

“I noticed in the schedule there is a policy announcement. Any scoop on what it might be?” she queried.

“None. Your guess is as good as mine Dot. If we are lucky, maybe he will announce his government will ban all immigration from countries with sand,” I responded.

“Well, that may sell well here given all the sand we have. We don’t need any more of it falling out of the shoes of new Canadians. Seriously though, you need to get interested in policies if you want my vote,” she replied.

“You are right Dot, I need to get my policy groove back. Kathleen has me too busy worrying about what to wear.”

“Don’t sweat it boss. We are in the home stretch. Two crazy days, then it should be smooth sailing,” said Dot.

“I hope you are right. As for the policy announcement, I can’t imagine it is anything substantial.”

“Don’t be too sure,” replied Dot.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I don’t know… just a feeling. The party has been on a policy offensive lately. The past few days have been quiet so we may be due for a good one. Something bold and attention getting,” she suggested.

“In Dartmouth?”

“Why not? The Party is keen to make an impact on this coast. What better riding than Dartmouth-Cole Harbour to do it in? We have a rock star candidate with name recognition better than the Leader’s in Atlantic Canada. People will be watching.”

“Jesus Dot, you might be right. Maybe he is going to announce we will outlaw abortion or restrict the right of women with children to work?” I quipped.

“Easy kid, that is your boss you are talking about,” said Dot with a smile.

“Only if I am elected Dot and I don’t see how he is helping us make that happen.”

It was not long before the campaign headquarters buzzed with activity. Clive paced the perimeter showing, unusual for him, signs of stress. If securing a candidate’s debate in a school was a challenge, then I am sure hosting a meet-and-greet with the Conservative Party leader on a busy public sidewalk had him wound tighter than a Christmas tree on a transport truck.

He still looked sharp though, in his tight tailored blue suit, crisp white shirt, and green tie. He was excessively fit to show real sweat, unless he was running up a steep hill carrying a fallen comrade in one arm and an assault rifle in the other.

With the exception of Dot and myself, even the most cynical of the staff and volunteers were excited. Some were gooey with anticipation. I caught Kathleen looking in a compact mirror. When she took the disc out of her purse I would have guessed it was a device she used to communicate with her robot overlords before I thought it was a makeup accessory.

After this quick flash of humanity, she was back to business. She barked orders and rushed around making sure everything was in order. However, she had a nervous flush to her cheeks which I hadn’t noticed before.

Watching Kathleen blush was like spotting an endangered species of tropical bird in Point Pleasant Park. At that moment, I felt like an outsider. I was the truant teenager waiting with trepidation for the school principal while the rest of my colleagues were like kids standing in line for Santa Claus.

Our wait was soon over. Kathleen’s iPhone buzzed. She answered it immediately and spoke with great formality to some unknown entity. She then placed the weapon back in the holster she wore on her hip like a crime fighter.

“Okay folks, the leader’s bus is almost here. Everyone be sharp!” she said loudly.

No one moved. We were locked in line like ice sculptures in a winter carnival competition. The office clock read eight forty-four. The leader’s reputation for punctuality was not at risk in Dartmouth. I cut Kathleen some slack. Sometimes, there is little time to provide direction to a group and someone has to jump in front of the parade.

“Where’s the candidate?!” Kathleen screamed.

“Right here. Reporting for duty,” I answered.

I stood directly behind her and straightened my tie so it met her rigid standards.

“We need you outside to meet the leader. Turn around and let me look at you,” she said with a shift in tone from angry school teacher to evil step-mom.

I threw her a fake smile and walked outside. It was only seconds before a large recreational vehicle came around the corner. As soon as it was in sight, members of the press gathered around me and jockeyed for position. They had a variety of portable tools of the trade: video cameras, microphones, and palm-sized digital recorders. Among them was a familiar face, the CBC reporter with her phone on a selfie stick who was at the library the day I was shot.

Seeing her, triggered a flash of anxiety. My heart began to race. Maybe this was the beginnings of the post-traumatic stress I was warned about? My psychologist said it can happen at the most unlikely times. These moments were becoming more frequent. I took a few deep, slow breaths. I needed to get a grip on my emotions.

I smiled at the CBC reporter and felt the effects of my controlled breathing take effect. It was showtime. I pushed the anxiety away and tucked it into a dark corner before it made me run out the door.

Fortunately, most of the reporters ignored me. One radio reporter, beside me while we waited for the door to the RV to open, even joked like I was a bystander: “What is taking him so long? Do you think he is having trouble putting on that wooden wig?”

Our laughter returned my pulse to normal.

The RV had been at a full stop in front of the building for an uncomfortable two minutes. Two minutes doesn’t seem like a long time until you are in a group of people jockeying for position waiting for something important to happen like the start of a road race or the running of the bulls. The scrum of reporters moved closer to the door of the vehicle. I conceded my ground to them. I didn’t need the additional stress of being pushed around, hit with microphones and cameras on selfie sticks.

I noticed two other parked Conservative Party vehicles. A podium had been set up on the sidewalk complete with a portable sound system and a sharp Conservative back drop. On each side of the stage was a party banner. A full two meters tall, they swayed gently in the easy morning breeze. This portable political theatre had been set up quickly, quietly, and without fuss. The national campaign staffers really were magicians.

Kathleen was on the street looking professional in her bespoke blue suit. She smoothed her collar, adjusted her perky breasts, and flipped her perfectly coiffed blond hair. Most of the reporters, men and women, forgot the leader’s RV for a moment to check her out. I had to give her credit for knowing how to dress and use her looks to get attention. Great ass too. No doubt, the product of countless hours chugging away on aerobic equipment in an upscale climate-controlled gym or whipping people into submissive shape at a dominatrix club.

Satisfied with her personal appearance, she scanned the crowd until she found me. She moved toward me with the determination of a Terminator robot. In her grasp, she pulled me by the hand through the press scrum to the door of the RV. On cue, the door opened and the leader stepped outside. He waved to the large crowd as he walked toward us and found a spot beside Kathleen and me.

I stared at his hair. Jesus. Up close, it looked even more like wood. Wood crafted by a fine hand with an exquisite attention to detail, but still wood. I am sure if he stood in a hurricane his hair wouldn’t budge.

He extended his hand and I shook it firmly. The snapping sound of digital pictures filled the air. The press scrum closed its circle around us and the phones on sticks came in for the kill. I was sure Clive lost his shit as he watched this situation develop. If he had snipers on the rooftops he would have told them, via ear piece, get ready to shoot.

“Troy! Good to see you,” said the Leader warmly.

“Welcome to Dartmouth Sir,” I replied.

“I hear you have been doing great work here in Dartmouth and Cole Harbour. It is my pleasure to spend some time with you today!” he said.

Before I felt awkward or wondered what to say, Kathleen and her national crew shepherded us away from the RV and toward the podium. The leader ignored the journalists. He gave all his attention to the citizens who had gathered to hear him speak. He shook hands, exchanged greetings, and answered a few questions. He made eye contact with everyone. This surprised me. The national media had framed him as being robotic and having a complete lack of warmth. Not so this morning. He did a remarkable job connecting with people on Albro Lake Road including my favorite sex worker Maggie. She gave him a hug and he returned it with enthusiasm.

He was warm and sincere. This guy connected with people in this street level theatre of retail politics like a pro. There was nothing cold or stiff about him. Except for his hair. I watched it all the way to the podium. It never moved. Not a single strand.

On stage, I was directed by Kathleen to stand behind the leader. She vanished before the video cameras started to roll. Alone on the tiny dais with the leader, I stood rigid. I was awkward and uncomfortable, more like a nervous security guard than a political candidate.

I had no idea what he was going to say. I knew there would be an announcement. As for details, I was clueless. I had learned, being on this team, did not mean you had a role making decisions. I didn’t know any more about the party’s plans than the audience. However, I knew I would be defending his comments whether I liked to or not. Dot’s earlier comments echoed in my mind. I worried Maggie would see me as just another political whore.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for joining me and our Dartmouth and Cole Harbour candidate Troy Myers!”

I waved to the crowd. I caught Kathleen’s eye. She had materialized again and stood close to the front of the podium. She nodded her head with approval.

“We have gathered here today on Albro Lake Road to tell you that the Conservative Party is serious about crime. For far too long the Liberal Government has been soft on criminals with their hug a thug attitude. We are here to say enough is enough. If elected, a Conservative government will invest more in fighting crime to make our neighbourhoods safer. A Conservative government will give you your streets back! We will do this with new, bold initiatives! Initiatives which will include…”

As he went on, I grew angry and embarrassed. I had lived in this neighbourhood for over ten years and walked these streets, Albro Road included, day and night and I haven’t seen my neighbours cowering in fear. What gave him the right to tell us how unsafe our streets were? He made Dartmouth sound like Toronto’s Jane and Finch. On top of that, when did safe streets become the responsibility of the federal government? Other than putting people in jail for longer periods of time, what the hell was he talking about?

Much to my surprise, the crowd responded with enthusiastic applause. Stuck on the podium beside him, I clapped like a trained harbour seal. Hearing support, he doubled down on the theme.

He talked about proposed changes to the criminal code, investments in law enforcement, and infrastructure for healthier communities. He spoke of getting prostitutes off the street. In the Conservative Party’s view, a society that gives up on fixing the smaller problems will only see itself slide further to a worse place. A place with bigger problems and more trouble.

From here, he was fired up. He said Canada’s current poor state of affairs illustrated we are a society in peril—a society that a morally corrupt Liberal Government has created after eight years in power, and this downward slide can only be stopped if the people elected a Conservative government.

Wow! I couldn’t believe my ears.

With ramped up passion and rhetoric, he went on to tell the crowd how a new Conservative Government would halt the country’s slide into chaos and depravity. The path back to greatness would begin by taking care of the small, petty crimes, crimes like prostitution. This way, the community would find its pride again and take the streets back from the hookers, pimps, and muggers. We would make it safe for the dog walkers, the strolling seniors, and the children playing road hockey.

At this point, it dawned on me this was a direct rip off of New York City’s ‘Broken Windows’ policy of several decades ago. He had spiced it up with Canadian content but it was almost an exact copy of the policy New York had created to combat crime all those years ago. This realization reminded me of another lesson about politics: there are no new ideas, only recycled ones. He likely wasn’t aware a couple of hookers were in the audience trying to decide who to vote for. This speech made their decision that much easier.

Having lost Dartmouth’s hooker vote with this get tough on crime announcement, I guessed the three crackheads in the crowd had made up their minds to ditch the party as well. They would have to stick with the NDP as the Conservative Party had no intention of making their lives easier. Free coffee and Timbits from the candidate’s headquarters were as good as they would get from the Big Blue Machine.

His speech continued with the theme of cleaning up neighbourhoods and streets. In his view, the Conservative party of Canada was the only party committed to helping law-abiding citizens take their cities back. Behind him, I put on a brave face but I am sure the hot flush in my cheeks gave me away as a fraud. My stance became more awkward and rigid. My skin crawled and my heart raced. The urge to run returned.

Mercifully, the speech ended. His narrative, supported by dubious statistics of growing gun violence, led us to believe Canada was sliding into chaos like a town run by El Chapo. I couldn’t bear to look at the hookers and drug addicts. I had let them down. I hoped the free donuts and coffee Dot had set out had distracted them.

After this dystopian prophesy of Canada’s future under the Liberals, I was pleased the leader stuck to his usual habit of not taking questions from journalists. The press was excited. They had news they could sink their teeth into and sensationalize. This new crime fighting policy platform was a big deal. While short on details, it promised our party would fund more police officers on the street, usually the domain of municipal governments. Unless he was prepared to grow the ranks of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police avoiding questions on this idea was a good idea.

“Sorry we do not have time to take your questions today. As you know we have an election campaign to win and I am here today in Dartmouth to help Troy get elected. You, the people of Dartmouth and Cole Harbour, need a strong man like him, a man of integrity, grit, and character, to be your Member of Parliament and I want to do everything in my power to make sure your get the strong voice in Ottawa that you deserve and need! I want to thank you all for coming today! I ask you to join us on June twelfth and vote Conservative so we can make Canada safe again! Peace! Order! And Good Government!! Join me! Peace! Order! And Good Government!! Again, Peace! Order! And Good Government!!”

What happened next, left me stunned. The crowd of more than a hundred people began to join his call to action. Together, they chanted enthusiastically Canada’s boring motto crafted over one hundred and fifty years ago in Charlottetown. People screamed like this was a top shelf soccer game.

“Peace! Order! And Good Government! Peace! Order! And Good Government!! Thank you everyone! It has been great to see you today! Now, please excuse me we have some doors to visit! Thank you!! Merci!!”

I was in shock as we left the platform and walked to the RV. Folks jostled each other to shake his hand. I had little choice but to follow. My phone vibrated like an adult toy in my pocket. Did he really just say ‘Make Canada Safe Again?’ What the actual fuck?

The true press professionals didn’t give up. They closed in on us. The Leader continued to ignore them. He pushed through the scrum. I stuck close to him. I filled the gap he cut through the tangle of arms, video cameras, and audio recorders. No one was interested in me.

Tucked in his shadow, It struck me this contest depended much more on what he said and did than anything I did. He was the face of the Conservative brand. I just waved the flag.

He moved again through the people who had come to see him. He shook hands but only with folks new to him. His reputation for cold calculation and rat trap memory was real. He spent his political capital wisely knowing voters often lent support based on a firm handshake or two seconds of eye contact.

A well-timed and sincere human connection could be the difference between winning and losing. He knew this well having won his first election by only twenty-two votes. He knew this race would be tight too. Every seat would count. That is why he came to Dartmouth and that is why he took a policy risk. He wanted momentum in his race to be Prime Minister. The receptive crowd suggested he found it.

Back at the campaign RV Kathleen was waiting at the door with her national campaign clone by her side. The Leader took the steps two at a time. At the top, the door opened on cue. He turned and waved to the crowd then disappeared inside the RV. I stood at the bottom of the stairs unsure what to do. Kathleen put a hand on my back and ushered me onto the bus. She and her clone followed behind and closed the door.

She directed me to sit at the table with the leader. I took a seat opposite him and watched him scrolling through his social media feeds and text messages. Without looking up he asked, “Thirsty? Want a diet Pepsi or a Red Bull?”

“Red Bull?” I said with surprise.

“Sure. I love the stuff. I used to be a Pepsi freak but Red Bull has more kick. The little cans are the perfect pick me up. I like to feel lean and mean when I campaign,” he replied as he thumbed his phone.

“Red Bull it is,” I responded

“Regular or sugar-free?” he asked.

“Sugar-free please. Best to keep it lean and mean,” I replied.

With the sleek silver and blue in hand, the Leader was back to his phone while Kathleen’s clone briefed him on the updated schedule and the latest poll numbers. He also watched CBC News World channel on the small flat screen monitor bolted to the wall above the table.

I had no idea what to say. Should I talk to him about the campaign? Should we talk about the economics of Nova Scotia? Ask him questions about his family? How about the weather? Everyone has something to say about the weather.

Instead, I sat mute and stared at a Red Bull can. I waited for the boost of energy and clarity the beverage promised. Nothing. The Leader ignored me. He was busy multi-tasking. I was impressed with his ability to talk intelligently, read emails, and watch the news all at the same time.

“Kathleen!” he said loudly.

“Yes sir?” she replied.

“That went well. Please pass on my thanks to the entire team. You guys are doing a great job. What’s next?” he asked.

“Thank you, sir. I will pass on your comments. As for the plan, we will canvas with Troy for thirty minutes. Then, we are volunteering an hour at the Tim Horton’s on Wyse Road,” she replied.

“Tim Hortons’?” he queried.

“Yes sir. It’s Tim Horton’s annual Camp Day. All money spent at the store today is donated to the camp fund which supports sending underprivileged kids to experience the outdoors. Community leaders help behind the counter. You and Troy will be serving coffee,” she explained.

“I love it! Sounds like a great idea! No hairnets I hope. The liberal media would love to get a shot of me looking like a moron in a hairnet,” he said.

“No hairnets sir. We talked to their PR people and we have arranged two Tim Horton ball caps. They have been pre-sized so all you have to do is put them on,” she explained.
Pre-sized? How the hell did they know my head size? I don’t remember answering that question on the candidate profile form. Have they been harvesting data my social media? What the hell else do they know about me??

“Our man looks a little surprised,” said the leader with a smile.

“He is wondering how we know the size of his head. Well kid, you are on the big blue bus now. We know everything about you. Don’t forget that. Big Blue Brother is watching you,” he said.

His comments were followed by an awkward moment of silence. He stared at me with a determined intensity in his unblinking eyes. My feeling of unease spiked exponentially. I looked at the door and considered jumping. Big Blue Brother scared the shit out of me.
He then pointed a finger at me and broke into a wide smile. His laughter filled the bus Everyone else to joined in.

“Hey pal, gotcha… and people think I have no sense of humour. Fake news!”
We all laughed this time.

“All right party time is over… let’s get this rig off the road. We need to find Colin some votes!” said the leader.

“Yes sir. We are almost there,” said Kathleen, or her clone. In addition to looking and dressing like each other, they now sounded the same.

“Did you pick out a friendly neighbourhood?” asked the leader.

“Sir, this is Dartmouth and Cole Harbour. There are no friendly neighbourhoods,” replied the clone.

The Big Blue Bus pulled over to the side of the road and the Leader and I exited with Kathleen and two others. The staffers took off ahead of us to knock on doors. This advance team worked as a filter. If no one was home, they would wave us by. If the person at the door was hostile, crazy, or senile they would signal for us to skip the house. The advance team made sure the Leader didn’t waste time.

The street we worked was low income. While it was not the poorest postal code, it was a diverse mix of people who struggled daily. I was surprised this is where Kathleen wanted us. Perhaps I was being too critical of her?

Ahead of us, the advance team talked to a crazy constituent. The volume was loud enough for us to hear the conversation from the sidewalk. His voice reminded me of soiled blanket man. However, this guy was well-groomed and had clothes. His appearance may have been fine but he ranted how George Bush was responsible for 9/11 and Donald Trump is the anti-Christ. We heard how the world was waiting for the Jewish people to acknowledge Jesus Christ as the son of God. This would signal the end of the world as we know it.

Speaking of signals, we didn’t need one to move on. The leader and I passed on the opportunity to talk to this local doomsayer and walked on to the next house. Given his rant, we likely had his vote.

With our advance team occupied we pushed on blind. At the next house we were encouraged by the well-kept appearance framed with a freshly painted white picket fence. I jumped in front, opened the gate and held it for the leader. As he walked to the front door, a dog barked. It sounded like a big dog with a deep, desperate nasty howl. We both stopped in our tracks.

In defense mode, I scanned the yard. The animal, a thick rottweiler, hurried toward us. The animal moved as fast as his overweight girth allowed. He sounded angry and looked hungry. I wasn’t sure what to do. Clive’s advice to carry pepper spray no longer seemed stupid. Too bad, I didn’t listen to him.

The leader was frozen in his tracks. A look of panic on his face. It was apparent he had no idea what in the hell to do either. As host, I accepted my duty to step into the breach for the boss. Where this would lead, I had no idea. However, it was my job to protect the leader even if it meant being this beast’s chew toy.

The big animal approached us swiftly. I saw the dog’s frothed mouth and angry eyes. It looked at me like I had come to steal its puppies. My heart raced. I struggled for air as I stepped in front of the leader. I stretched out my hands and splayed my fingers wide toward the beast in a weak attempt to look large and menacing. I readied my stylish but practical librarian shoes to kick it in the head. Thick with bone and muscle, I knew my shoes would be no match for the dog’s massive skull. With the animal only a couple of metres away, I tensed my muscles and readied for attack.

“Conan! Sit!!” shouted a voice from the side of the house.

With that command, the big dog, which had been running at us like a locomotive, stopped. In an instant, it sat completely still except for a stub of a tail which wagged happily.

“Good girl!” shouted the same voice.

A man with no shirt, a drink in each hand, appeared from the side of the house. A lit cigarette balanced from his lower lip. He walked toward us and his happy dog.

“Hey fellas, don’t worry about Conan. She’s harmless,” he said, the cigarette still on his lip.

“No problem. We could tell she was a big pussycat,” I said.

The man smiled broadly. He knew I was full of shit.

“Yes, Conan is a big pussycat. Just like a horny hungry tiger. She would bite off your balls if I told her to.”

He erupted into loud laughter. I guessed the two drinks weren’t his first. Once close enough to see the interlopers in his yard, he recognized the man who stood behind me.

“Hey, wait a second… I can’t believe this! The leader of the Conservative Party of Canada is walking up my sidewalk… Holy shit! On little lowly Scotia Court in this shitty town I have the leader of the Conservative fucking party standing in front of me! Jesus, this is awesome!” he said.

He put the drinks down on the arm of an Adirondack chair and extended his hand.

“How the hell are you sir? Welcome to Dartmouth. It is a true honour to meet you,” offered our host.

The leader grabbed his hand and shook it firmly.

“I am pleased to meet you too. That is a beautiful dog you have there,” said the boss.

“Thanks, she is a sweetheart. Plus, people don’t mess with my place if you know what I mean. Shit I still can’t believe it! What brings you to this shithole neighbourhood?” asked the man.

The Leader showed no shock to the question. While the leader had calmed down, I still felt the stress of this close encounter with Conan, and now a two fisted drunken character straight from Trailer Park Boys was chatting with the Leader! Jesus, where was the advance team when you needed them? The staffers were nowhere to be found. We needed an extraction team too.

“Hey,” the Leader chuckled,” I’m in town to talk to the people of Dartmouth about what matters to them. I am also here to help our local candidate, Troy Myers, win this seat for the Conservative Party and bring his strong voice to government. Have you met Troy?” he said as he gestured in my direction.

“No… but I know the name. You are the guy who was shot by the freak in the library!” the man said as he stuck his hand toward me. I offered him mine as I began to calm down.

“Nice to meet you bud. I am Ricky Ray. It is a true honour to meet you as well. It took a lot of guts to do what you did. There are not many civil servants standing up for free speech these days. Too many of your type are trying to take away our freedoms. Not protect them like you did. You sir are a true warrior for democracy. A storm trooper for freedom! I have to say though, I didn’t expect a librarian to be the guy to step up. No offence bud, but you all seem like pussies to me,” he said.

“No offence taken. As we say in the business, don’t judge a book by its cover. Pleasure to meet you Ricky,” I replied.

I wondered if his storm trooper comment was a World War Two reference or a more recent one from the Star Wars.

“Hey, welcome to my humble abode. Can I get you guys a drink?” asked Ricky.

“No thanks,” we responded in unison.

“We wish we had more time Ricky but we have a lot of ground to cover. While we are here though, are there things you want to talk about?” asked the Leader.

He gave no indication if he found it strange to be offered a rum and coke this early in the day. Obviously, it was not his first visit to the Maritimes.

“Issues? Shit… where do I begin? Well to start with can you guys let go of the sex stuff? I would like to state for the record I am not bothered by that cougar cabinet minister sucking her assistant’s dick! Christ, can we finally get the fuck out of people’s bedrooms and leave folks alone?”

I was going to interrupt and remind him the blowjob happened in the front seat of a government car on public property, Parliament Hill, but I decided to shut up and not let the facts get in the way of his story.

“I still think the Liberals have got to go. They are blowing the environmental file with this bullshit about the pipelines and they have dropped the ball on healthy globalization. Take the recent trade discussions, a resource rich country like Canada should be showing some true leadership in liberalizing trade. Instead, they are blowing it! Jesus Christ, don’t they see they can make this world a better place if they just strengthen trade? That all relationships start because someone wants to buy or sell something? Can’t they just get on with it? Not a fucking chance! Instead, they get on their high horse and start talking about gender issues, workers’ rights, and other bullshit that has nothing to do with the price of tea in China! The arrogant pricks can’t help themselves! And what the fuck for? All in the name of showing leadership! Nice leadership when you destroy the economy and force people to live on the streets until they can’t take anymore and beg for a government funded death!”

“Exactly Ricky,” said the Leader, “the Liberals have had more than enough opportunity to champion the causes that matter to us all, like promoting trade. It is time Canadians hold them accountable for their poor stewardship. The future of our children depends on the decisions we will make today, both at the environmental and economic levels as you mentioned. Right on, man!”

Ricky smiled broadly and reached over and picked up one of his drinks. He took a swill and emptied half of the glass.

“You sure I can’t get you a rum?” he said.

“I would love to join you but we have to find some votes. The clock is ticking,” said the Leader.

“Well, you can take a raincheck. I have been a Conservative Party supporter my entire life and you can count on my vote! Go out and get ‘em fellas! I hope to God you send those arrogant pricks packing… Give them all the free time they need! Hell, that way, they can suck each other’s dicks all day long! Just, please, get them the fuck out of power! They are ruining our country!”

“Thanks Ricky. We appreciate the support. Tell your neighbours too please. Spread the word!”

We shook his hand one last time and turned to walk down the pathway. The ball-biting dog was now completely asleep on the warm concrete. We had to step over her to exit. She snored softly and did not move a muscle as we hurdled her impressive bulk.

“See, I told you she was harmless,” said Ricky with a big laugh.

“You guys can send someone back with a sign if you want to. I want one of those big-assed four by four footers. Hell, send two of ‘em if you want. They can sit close to the road so everyone can see the brand! And don’t worry about anyone fucking with the signs in this yard. No one messes with Conan!”

We waved to Ricky and moved on down the road.

Out of earshot and on our way to the next house, I considered cracking a joke about all the oral sex references we just heard. The Leader was far more personable than his reputation so I thought he might enjoy the humour. The Leader commented he found Ricky to be an interesting character, and that was the end of it.

The rest of the people we talked to were not as interesting. We ran into the usual collection of chatty seniors and disinterested millennials who had little clue a federal election was happening. Most, couldn’t pick the Conservative Party Leader from a lineup of sales people. If these were the kids, lazy and disconnected from current affairs, that Ricky was so interested in securing futures for, God help us all. The only votes they would cast were on Reddit or via text for Canadian Idol. Ask them to vote for their elected Member of Parliament and they couldn’t give less of a shit.

One day they may wake up, smell the democracy and accept responsibility for nurturing it. However, there was no sign it would happen anytime soon. As long as they had their toys, text, and digital media they were happy. Without complaint, they had traded freedom for comfort and entertainment.

Back in the campaign bus we were on the move as soon as we sat down. I leaned over and grabbed a Red Bull from the fridge. I drank it quickly thinking it would taste better with three fingers of vodka.

The Leader was back multi-tasking. He was back to his phone and the news. All the campaign girls dressed the same in power suits with just a wink of sexiness. If they had curves, they usually daylighted enough cleavage to attract attention. They used it as currency, unlike the Leader. He was the least sexy person I could imagine. He struck me as someone who had not seen himself naked. From a leadership point of view, this worked in his favour. In a country like Canada, we want our leaders to take care of everyone business, just not their own.

The RV rolled along the streets of Dartmouth. The driver understood he was driving a moving billboard and he made the most of it. With everyone on board busy with work, I sat back, sipped my Red Bull and enjoyed being part of this hive of political activity. I accepted my role as the local whore. If they only needed me for one thing then so be it. I would dance when they asked me to dance. Until then, I would enjoy the ride.

Kathleen and her clones worked away. They were three steps ahead of the next whistle stop and the buzz was contagious. On top of that, I was energized by the leader. This surprised me since I had come into this campaign with such negative impressions of him. I was ready to be underwhelmed by his lack of charisma. This was not the case. I had him wrong. The media had framed him as a wooden policy wonk with the empathy and cold calculation of a serial killer and I had bought it all. After only an hour with him, I could see he was not how the media had framed him.

“Another Red Bull?” asked another blonde in a blue suit.

“No thank you. The can says I should not exceed two servings per day. I am at my limit,” I replied with a smile.

“Are you sure? We are going to be at the Tim Horton’s in a couple of minutes. We need you on the top of your game. This is going to be busy and we are counting on you at the coffee shop. We can’t let the Leader down. We are expecting big things here,” she said with a smile showing her perfect teeth.

“I am pumped. You can count on me. The boss is my number one priority,” I said.

“We know we can,” she said with the same manufactured smile, “and remember, this is your area so we are here to help you as well.”

“Thank you. Of course, you are,” I replied.

What the hell was that comment supposed to mean? My natural cynicism kicked in and I guessed she meant if a fire broke out they would not hesitate to walk over me as they led the boss to safety. Jesus, just when I started to have a little fun she came along and shoved me off balance again.

Moments later, the bus pulled into the parking lot of the Wyse Road Tim Horton’s. One of Kathleen’s clones announced it was show time. I looked at my watch and saw we were thirty-five seconds early. Damn, they were good. As the vehicle stopped, the team jumped to action. Everyone, except for the driver, was up and headed to the door. I waited for my cue.

“Troy, we want you follow directly behind the Leader, and please straighten your jacket collar! It is up a little on your left side just below your ear,” said Kathleen. I touched my collar and found she was right. I smoothed it to her satisfaction.

While I had become de-sensitized to her grooming tips, I was certain my treatment by these femme bots had reached a new low for gay culture. We usually give fashion advice.

With the symmetry of my shirt restored, I got in line behind the Leader. We left the RV and walked toward the Tim Hortons. We pushed past the press without taking questions. I followed and stopped when he did to shake hands and say hello to people who came to see us. Kathleen and her clone moved inside the Tim Hortons while a young guy in a suit held the door. I had no idea who he was or where he had come from. He greeted us by name as we entered the store. I guessed he was part of another advance team for this Tim Horton’s stop. I spotted Clive. He was with another obvious security pro. They were both jacked up in their tight grey suits scanning the crowd for trouble, ready to spring.

Inside, we were ushered into the staff area of the store. Kathleen introduced us to the store manager. She was a pleasant middle-aged woman with a warm smile and a sturdy frame. She was almost as wide as she was tall. Her corporate uniform, brown polyester pants and matching shirt, did nothing to hide the extra weight. I looked at Kathleen beside this woman and could not believe they were the same species let alone the same gender. Nor, did they shop at the same stores.

“Welcome boys,” our polyester clad host said.

The leader extended his hand to her. She swatted it away and wrapped both arms around him and gave him a big hug. She did the same to me.

“Ok fellas, are you ready to work?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am,” we said in unison.

“Alright let get out there! Do you want to clean or serve?” she asked looking at the leader.

“Serve of course! That is why we are here!” said the leader with a smile.

“Are you sure?” she replied.

“Absolutely,” he replied.

“Okay… serve it is. I hope you are ready for it,” she responded.

“We certainly are!” I bleated in.

She looked us over with a wry smile.

“Don’t worry, we won’t leave you two sugar cookies alone,” she said with a laugh.

Her nearby busy coworkers chimed in as she handed us tacky foam-fronted trucker style Tim Hortons caps.

“Here put these on. They are ugly as hell but super bitch over there will not let me put hairnets on you so I can’t give you guys visors like the rest of us. I had to dig deep for these babies. This is as good as it gets boys!”

The leader took his hat, curved the brim, and forced it over his wooden hair. I grabbed the other one and placed it high on my head. I left the brim straight like I was a trucker or a hip-hop star. I was sure I looked ridiculous.

Our hats on, the square-shaped manager led us to the front counter. The store was packed. All the tables were occupied and ten people waited in line. She gave us a two-minute orientation and explained the workflow of the front counter. She showed us the stainless-steel milk and cream dispensers. They stood side by side and were identical. Neither had a label.

“Okay, pay attention. This is very important. The cream is on the left and the milk is on the right,” she explained. She pointed to each one as she spoke.

“No labels?” the leader asked.

“No. You get used to it,” she replied.

“I don’t think we are here long enough to get used to it,” he said.

“Well then, you will have to pay attention to what I am telling you won’t you?” she said with a smirk.

“I guess so. You leave us little choice,” he responded.

The leader jumped right into the mix. He walked to the centre of the counter and started taking orders. He then repeated them to me word for word. His legendary memory was in full display. With the order passed to me he moved on to the next customer. Our roles were set: he gathered orders and I poured coffees.

The orders came fast. Double doubles, single singles, triple singles. Some wanted cream. Some preferred milk. While other people wanted a mix of both. To complicate the ambiguous situation with the dairy dispensers, the sugar sat in a bowl beside its’ twin of artificial sweetener. The spoons were also identical. I fired the cream, sugar, milk, and artificial sweetener into lines of paper cups. It was a storm of dust and splashed liquid. I did my best to keep up with the complicated orders which came in like a hurricane. Few wanted black coffee.

Ten minutes in, the counter was a mess and my head hurt. I had put together dozens of coffees and screwed up half of them. As a black coffee drinker, I was hopeless. I had no clue how much sugar or sweetener to scoop or even how to distinguish between the two. Then there was the milk and cream… Jesus, put some labels on the machines?!

I was ready to blow a gasket. Thirty minutes at Tim Horton’s reminded me why I stayed in university. This was not the kind of public service I wanted to do. I didn’t have the patience, stamina, or focus for the demands of the coffee business.

Back at the frontlines, the Leader took orders and fed them to me at a furious pace. Any respect I had felt for him was now completely gone. His lack of regard for the amount of labour required to fill the orders left me feeling contempt for him. He may be Prime Minister one day but I wanted to put a plastic spoon in his eye! I was not the only one who wanted to hurt him with plastic utensils. It was obvious most of the store’s regulars were pissed off too.

The hardcore regulars, the ones who visit Tim Horton’s several times a day, had an obsession for Tim Horton’s coffee. An addiction really, and they had as much patience as a heroin addict in line at a needle exchange. They were put out by having to answer the question ‘What can I get you?’ On a regular day, they walked in and stood mute while the girls put together the coffee. No words needed.

These people could not understand how the company could place this important business in the hands of incompetent strangers. The ritual of daily coffee was sacrosanct to them and they were not happy to have their routines messed with, even if it gave poor urban kids an opportunity to experience a wilderness adventure. I was sure most of the regulars would prefer to avoid Tim Horton’s on Camp Day. That is, if they were not so addicted to the coffee.

To help with the mind-reading, one of the girls came to our assistance. Trudy, a fifty something heavy girl with a nice smile, tucked in beside the Leader and quietly recited the orders. Trudy told me what people wanted without a single word spoken from her regular customers. I tried to keep up. At this point, I was sprinkled with sugar, NutraSweet, and wet with dairy. She, on the other hand, was calm and competent. I was enthralled by her photographic recall of people’s coffee preferences. Not one voiced an objection with her recollection of how they liked their coffee—most of whom drank coffee with two or more sweeteners and a double measure of milk or cream.

I had destroyed my polyester brown uniform and the counter was a disaster. I was more and more stressed with every cup of poorly assembled coffee that passed my hands. Most of the mistakes I made were tolerated. However, there were some sins customers had every right to be upset about. Things lke: mistaking sugar for NutraSweet, or giving dairy instead of soy to someone. Camp Day or not, these coffees were promptly returned by irate customers.

Dealing with these complaints of outright negligence, the girls we worked with impressed me more. They worked their charm on angry customers. Folks calmed down quickly like a Jedi mind trick had charmed them.

I realized the girls did not let the leader and I stray too far. They stayed close and kept us on very short leashes. A day like Camp Day should have offered staff a chance to take a break from doing their regular duties. Instead, having rookies work the counter only resulted in the pros working harder. Most people would not last a full day in this business.

We spent only an hour at the Tim Horton’s. It seemed longer. A lot longer. I was never so grateful for a job to end. When it did finish, the girls graciously lied to us and said we had done a great job. Bullshit. We did not even come close. They knew it, customers knew it, and we knew it. Such are the common graces of civil societies. Sometimes, lying to people is the right thing to do. The leader and I finished our volunteered time with a false sense we had done some good. The girls gave us this gift. I was grateful. Even if they were full of shit.

The Big Blue Bus idled on the shoulder of Wyse Road. The road was busy with traffic. I guessed the exact positioning of the bus was deliberate after a careful review of the area’s traffic patterns. Well run political campaigns left little to chance. This national crew may not be warm and likable but it ran a tight ship.

We cleaned ourselves up and returned our ballcaps. Kathleen and her clone ushered us outside. I could tell by the Leader’s pace he was looking beyond Dartmouth. His time in this little east coast riding had come to an end and he had other visits to prepare for. He was a man with a clear purpose and he showed it. He wanted to be Canada’s next Prime Minister. It was obvious to everyone around him.

As we left the coffee shop and approached the bus the door opened on cue. Before jumping on he turned and stopped. He grabbed my hand and shook it firmly. He leaned toward me and grabbed my elbow with his other hand. The nearby press obliged and snapped away.

“Troy, it was a pleasure working with you today. I would wish you luck in the rest of the campaign, but luck is for losers. Hard work is the only thing I believe in. In politics, sweat beats talent every time. You and your team are doing a terrific job. You deserve to win this thing. Press hard to the end. You are just the kind of person Dartmouth and Cole Harbour needs in the House of Commons and Canada’s next Conservative government will be better with people like you in it.”

He squeezed my elbow and winked at me. He said goodbye and bounded up the stairs with Kathleen’s clone behind him. I watched the bus pull away from the side of the road and disappear toward the MacDonald Bridge. While I waved at the RV with its darkened windows I wondered what he meant by people like me? Maybe, he knew more about me than I thought.

Moments later, Kathleen and I were picked up by Frank. I fought an urge to get him to drive straight to the Old Mill Tavern. My baptism in the coffee business left me craving a drink. I am sure Kathleen could work eight hours at Tim Horton’s and still log ten kilometers on a tread mill, but I was gassed.

“Ok, what’s up next?” I asked reluctantly.

“A little lunch and then back on the street,” Kathleen replied.

“We are wasting time on food?” I deadpanned.

Frank laughed while Kathleen ignored me. She scrolled her messages.

“Troy, we will be using the new marketing tools. As you know, we are ramping up our efforts for the final push. The new door knocking cards are ready and will be in circulation today, so will the social media. Mostly targeted Facebook ads with a bit on Twitter, Snapchat and Instagram. I am really excited about the potential of these ads. However, to be sure we have all bases covered, we will also run print ads in the Herald and the community weeklies on the same theme,” said Kathleen.

“Theme?” I asked.

“Yes. All tied to the Leader’s announcement this morning. The campaign is getting tough on crime and this means you are getting tough on crime. Our recent polling indicates security is the biggest concern for people in Dartmouth and Cole Harbour, and we want them to know we are here to clean up their streets and make them feel safe. Have you seen the latest polling data? Community safety has overtaken the environment by a full ten points. We have a real opportunity to win,” she explained.

“Okay, so the air we breathe will degrade to the point where we are all left sucking wind. Without clean air, I think crime will be a non-issue because thieves will be too handicapped with respiratory issues to cause trouble,” I snapped.

Frank covered my sarcasm with his laughter. Kathleen ignored me and went back to thumbing her phone. My comments didn’t matter. This new get tough on crime approach was not up for debate. The decision had been made and the train was rolling down the tracks. I could jump off and take my chances or shut up. I pushed my anger back in the corner. Frank went quiet when Kathleen told him to pay attention to the road.

“So, what does the new stuff say?” I asked.

“Don’t sweat it. You will see soon enough,” replied Kathleen.

The next few days went by like a supersonic blur. The debate preparation kept me busy with little time to think about potential traitors and saboteurs.

On top of the debate work, I increased the pace of canvassing. Frank and I spent twelve hours a day knocking on doors. We were on the street from nine in the morning until nine at night. I also spent two hours a day replying to emails, phone calls, and social media. It was all campaign, all the time. I was doing nothing else when I was not sleeping six hours a night. The pace and commitment was monastic. I had lost ten pounds. I hadn’t had a drink in weeks.

Each day’s frantic pace became something I looked forward to. I found a new level of energy and enthusiasm talking to people. Sure, there were were many crazies, wing nuts, and conspiracy theorists, but I became attached to my community and its characters. I had lots of opportunity to connect with people when I turned up at my neigbours’ front doors with my hand out.

As the days went by, I grew more comfortable with old school salesmanship. I had to be sincere, honest, and to the point. I created a simple style woven with plain language and an economy of emotion. The more I delivered it, the more it resonated with folks. I also learned to listen to people more than I did in my early days at the door. This included complex nonverbal cues. Often, people said much without uttering a word.

I started this adventure without a clue how to ask my friends and neighbours for their votes but I had it down pat now. This connectivity with my community, via real flesh and blood social networking, fueled me on. The pedestrian act itself became less of a chore and more ritual, ripe with opportunity. I became addicted to this basic democratic activity like an eager Facebook user collecting friends and likes.

Dot had put Margaret to work on the call lists and had given her a tight script to stick to. Dot gave her a table close to her desk so she could keep an eye on her. While Dot didn’t say it, I think she had warmed up to Margaret. Dot was one of those old people who would never admit she was wrong but she become noticeably friendlier to the suspected spy in our midst.

With Kathleen and Al co-chairs, there was poor karma in the office. They butted heads hard and often. I came in only when needed. Today was one of those days. We were close to the debate and they both wanted me off the streets at noon for final preparation.

Dot gave me her usual smoky hug followed by a wink and a smile when I asked how things were going with Margaret. She said Pastor Perry had called again. My maturity as a door to door retail politician had fortified me for challenging people like Pastor Perry. I felt he deserved a response before election day. I didn’t have to agree with him but I should listen to him even though my view of him was prejudiced by stories I heard. This was wrong. I had never met the man.

I forgot Pastor Perry when the iron lady walked into the room. She didn’t waste time with common courtesies. She got straight to business.

“Okay let’s get this meeting started,” she said as she thumbed her phone.

Her phone vibrated before she finished her sentence. I checked the time. It was twelve o’clock. I watched as the minute hand on her stainless-steel Tag Heuer lined up with the hour hand on the top of the dial as she began to speak. I admired her punctuality; her precision was impressive and rarely seen in Nova Scotia.

Kathleen said our primary objective today was to go over details of the debate. Before we got to it, she asked each of the committee chairs for an update. Following her lead, everyone was quick and to the point. Todd shared with the group the exact number of signs installed to date and how many were going up in the next twenty-four hours. Suzanne followed with a report on our community contact efforts, including exact numbers of the calls completed and how many doors were left to knock on. Kathleen was pleased to hear the door-to-door canvassing was well ahead of schedule.

With the reports completed, Kathleen moved on to preparations for the debate. She started by asking Clive to give a security briefing. He reported his assessment of the risks and concluded the chance of a disruptive event happening during the debate was significant. However, he delivered this news in his usual professional, locked-down, unemotional style which gave everyone the impression he had everything under control. He shared a risk assessment heat map he had created.

People nodded as Clive walked us through the heat map. No one was surprised by the data displayed or the conclusions reached by our campaign security chief. This shocked me. While I had some confidence in Clive and his professionalism, I felt compelled to interrupt his presentation. I was concerned with the section labelled ‘potential for physical harm to candidate’; it was shaded a blend of orange and red. While these hues were pleasant to look at, his message was anything but calming. The colour indicated the risk was moderate to high. I didn’t let him continue until he provided more information.

“Excuse me Clive. Can I ask a question?” I said with as much politeness as I could muster under the circumstances.

Clive looked at me like I just pulled a gun on him. Kathleen gave me a similar stare as she looked up from her phone.

“Sure Troy, shoot,” he replied.

“Can you elaborate on the section labelled physical harm to the candidate?” I said like I was sitting in a seminar class discussing a modern atrocity to which I had no connection.

“Good question. Our assessment is based on a number of factors. To begin with, there is the history of a previous event. This fact is a reliable predictor of risk. The data is clear, if an incident has happened before there is higher chance it will happen again. On top of this science, we are holding the event in a venue which has security challenges. It is an auditorium in a high school. Also, we expect a large turnout. Lastly, social media security experts suggest some threats against you are credible,” Clive explained like he was giving directions to a tourist.

“Credible threats?” I interjected trying to hide my anxiety.

“Yes, there is reason for concern. Frankly, if the decision was up to me I would cancel the event. This said, I am confident in the mitigation measures we have instituted. I can, with great assurance, tell you the chance of any incident escalating to catastrophic consequences is extremely unlikely,” he said.

At this point in the conversation, Kathleen jumped in. As cold and as unemotional as she was, she didn’t need to have the sensitivity of Mother Teresa to realize discussing this subject further wasn’t going to help us prepare for a successful debate.

“Thank you Clive. On behalf of the entire team, I want you to know we have great confidence in your professionalism and we know you will do everything in your power to ensure a successful event. Now, can you go over the measures which are relevant to all of us here? It is not my intention to rush this very important topic but please be as brief as you can. We have a lot on the agenda today and very little time to get to it,” she said with her best impression of a smile.

While Clive briefed the group, I chewed on his previous comment that he would cancel the debate. He didn’t say no one would get hurt. He said, ‘the chance of an incident escalating to catastrophic consequences was extremely unlikely’. What the hell did he mean by that?

Feeling my anxiety rise, I took a few deep breaths to calm down. Was this how post-traumatic stress disorder started? Maybe the stress of being shot had finally caught up to me? Up until this point, I had been happy to be alive and move on. Maybe, this campaign wasn’t the best move after all? Maybe I should have taken more time to recover?

I pulled my attention back to Clive’s briefing just in time to hear him say the candidate should wear a Kevlar vest. I was shocked to see a few nods of agreement.

“Pardon me Clive, did you say a Kevlar vest?” I asked with as calm a voice as I could muster.

Kathleen and Clive glared at me. I glared back. Clive looked at Kathleen. She gave him permission to respond.

“Yes. Given the internet chatter of credible threats, we need to be concerned one of these anti-free speech activists may plan to disrupt the event. In my opinion, you are a more appealing target. In order to mitigate this risk, you should wear a vest. It is a low-profile model. It weighs twenty kilograms and has a thickness of two centimetres. You can wear it under your dress shirt. It will be barely noticeable,” explained Clive.

Again, heads nodded. Only Al showed disagreement. This gave me hope there was some sanity left in the room. I continued.

“Barely noticeable? You want me to wear something which weighs almost fifty pounds under my shirt? Are you serious? I only weigh one hundred and seventy pounds. I won’t look like the same person Clive!, Not to mention, I will be sweating like Donald Trump in church! I am not doing it. Picture it… The other three candidates are dressed normally while the conservative is on the stage wrapped in a flak jacket looking like a hot, sweaty mess. Forget about it! It is not happening!” I said unable to control my raging anger.

Everyone stared at me speechless. I looked at them like I was the last person with a grip on sanity. Before I ran, Al came to my rescue.

“I agree with you. This is asinine. We can’t have you wearing a bullet proof vest in a debate. You will look like an idiot. Can I remind you all that our man is resonating well with voters? If his current popularity trend continues, he will be the guy to beat and everyone will be gunning for him. It makes no sense to put a target on his back. Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you all? I am with Troy, I would rather take my chances getting shot at than to look like a fucking moron in a Kevlar vest!”

Al slammed his fist on the table with total disregard for Kathleen’s tablet next to him. The tablet hopped in the air and fell with a thud. He continued while Kathleen picked it off the floor.

“Clive, sit down please. I have heard enough. You can move forward with all your other security measures for Saturday but he will not be wearing a vest. I will personally guarantee his safety. I don’t care if an entire brigade of Al Qaida terrorists armed with AK-47’s and suicide bombs show up I will take care of it. There will be no harm to him or anyone else Saturday night! Do I make myself clear?!” he said, with his voice rising like a cresting wave.

There was stunned silence. With a sense of reason recovered, Al asked for reports from the committee chairs. No more was said about the debate, bullet proof vests or risk chatter on the internet. Al succeeded in getting us back to business. Discussions were focused on: signs, phone calls, door knocking, managing volunteers, press reviews, and polling data. Not as exciting as talk of flak jackets and terrorist attacks. I welcomed the shift and felt my anxiety wane. It would prove to be the calm before the storm.

Kathleen worked on her phone while Al led the discussions and wrapped up the meeting. At the end, he asked her if she had anything to add. She nodded in the affirmative. Her mood was upbeat and verged on genuine excitement, at least as close to genuine excitement as her machine-like artificial intelligence allowed.

“I am very pleased to hear things are progressing well. Please keep up the good work. Head office wants me to pass on a big thank you for all your efforts. It hasn’t gone unnoticed. They have asked me to share some big news with you. Before I get to that, I just received the latest internal polling numbers from national and the data shows our support is growing. We are currently in a dead heat with the Liberals and six points ahead of the NDP! The message from national is simple: please keep doing what you are doing. On behalf of the entire national campaign team, please accept our sincere gratitude for being one of the top campaigns in the country!” she said with almost believable warmth and excitement.

We were pleased to hear Kathleen and her Ottawa colleagues considered us a competent group. This head office validation was appreciated and not expected given Kathleen’s heavy-handed approach to date. Even Al smiled and blushed with enthusiasm.

“The second piece of good news is national is going to give us more help. First, they have agreed to pay for the production and distribution of a mailing card which will be sent to every address in the riding. It will be slick, sharp, and the message will be tailored to issues important to the people of Dartmouth and Cole Harbour. National is working closely with the best social media data harvesting company in the world and will be micro-targeting the messages for maximum impact”, she explained.

“No cost to the local campaign?” asked Al.

“None whatsoever,” replied Kathleen with a broad smile.

“Can you elaborate on what you mean by micro targeting?” asked Dale.

“Sure. There are street level issues which constituents are always concerned about. Things like schools, playgrounds, etc. With the right messaging, we can get campaign traction from these concerns,” said Kathleen.

“Kathleen, schools and playgrounds are provincial and municipal issues. Why are we talking about them? We are going to look like we don’t know what the hell the federal government does. With the debate coming up we could put Troy in an awkward position. Can I help craft the messaging?” asked Todd finding it hard to hide his frustration.

“You will get your chance. National is sensitive to our schedule and will not initiate any piece of it until after Saturday night. As for schools and playgrounds, most people don’t have a clue which level of government is responsible for them,” she responded.

Kathleen’s response did little to quell concern.

“How is national going to know what the local issues even are? Aren’t we better positioned to determine what people in our neighbourhood care about?” asked Todd.

“Don’t worry Todd. Our friends in the national office have been polling extensively. They are also using the best social media data harvesting techniques. They know what people care about better than we do. We can only talk to so many people. With the advanced analytics and algorithms the team is using, they listen to everyone all the time,” she responded.

Her statement was followed by an unsettling moment of silence. I had a difficult time sharing Kathleen’s glee for the power of robots watching our every move. Big Brother wanted to help us get out the vote.

“Look, we have to trust our friends in Ottawa. We should consider ourselves lucky. They believe we can win this riding and they want to help us. Speaking of help, I have saved the best for last,” said Kathleen.

We leaned forward and gave her our undivided attention.

“I am very pleased to share with you, confirmed only moments ago, the leader is coming to Dartmouth!” she said.

Abuzz again, we waited for more.

“Yes, people, On Friday we will have the leader for three hours of campaigning. Looks like things are heating up! There is no better indication of head office’s validation of our efforts. If the leader is coming to visit, then they believe we have a real shot to win!” elaborated Kathleen.

“The leader is coming here?” I asked.

“That’s right, and he will spend three hours with you,” replied Kathleen.

Without another word, I stood up and walked out of the room.

“Hey, where are you going?” yelled Suzanne.

“Out,” I replied.

Yes, things had heated up.

I walked past Dot without saying a word. I grabbed the current canvassing file and left the building. I needed to cool down. Frank jumped up and followed me out the door. My pace was quick so he had to jog to catch up.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asked.

“Let just walk for a while,” I said.

“Okay, where are we going?”

“To knock on doors,” I said.

“Are you sure that is a good idea? Maybe we should grab a coffee first?” he replied.

I looked at Frank dressed in my pink Lacoste shirt, blue slacks and with a fresh haircut. I was impressed. He cleaned up well and this reminded me appearances, while important, can be a thin veneer. He was right, I needed to calm down.

“Coffee it is… Let’s go to Tim’s,” I replied.

Ten minutes later we were at the Tim Horton’s on Wyse Road. I offered to get the coffee. Frank told me to sit down and went to the counter. I found an empty table near the back of the store close to the toilets. Frank joined the queue while I stared out the window. Wyse Road was busy with traffic. Outside, everything looked in order. I couldn’t say the same for myself.

“So, what’s up boss?” asked Frank after he placed two coffees on the table.

“Frank, the leader is coming… and he is going to spend three hours with us. This Friday…” I replied.

“And that is bad news? How?” he said with a smile.

“Of course it is.”

“Why? I don’t get it. I am not a political pro but it seems to me this is something we should be happy about. He obviously doesn’t waste his time with people who are losers, so why are you all worked up? There are only thirty days in this campaign and there are thousands of places he could spend his time and he has chosen to spend a half of a day with us. That fact should make you feel good bud, not like someone pissed in your coffee,” said Frank.

“Listen Frank, it is not about what he and his team think about us. I get having him here will get us more attention. My issue is different. I am not a fan. Let’s just say the leader and I don’t see eye to eye on a few things,” I responded.

“Such as?” he continued, not content to let me blow him off.

“Look Frank, forget about it. I don’t want to bore you with policy discussions,” I said.

“What? Just because I live in a shelter and wear hand-me-down clothes, you think I don’t have any interest? Or, I am too stupid to give a shit about anything except my next meal?” he replied sharply.

“Sorry Frank. I didn’t mean it that way. I just thought… well, you wouldn’t be interested. It wasn’t my intention to offend you. It has been a busy couple of weeks, and things are about to get crazier. I am sorry.”

“Hey, don’t sweat it. Together, we have gone door to door talking politics on every kind of issue from garbage pick-up to kids who can’t keep their dicks in their pants. I have been with you twelve hours a day working for nothing but food and coffee. Why don’t you try me?” he said with a smile.

I looked at Frank. Since our first day together he had proven himself time and time again. By far, he was the campaign’s most dedicated volunteer. I was wrong to cut him short. He sat silent and waited for a response.

“Okay Frank, you’re on. Let’s start with abortion. The leader has publicly stated he is against abortion. Only women should decide if they are going to have children or not,” I said.

“Yes, but he has also stated the Supreme Court of Canada has settled this and he has no interest in reopening it. Even if it does not square with his Roman Catholic faith that abortion is an offence to the sanctity of life. Personally, I have respect for someone who recognizes the tragedy of abortion but will still support the important division between Church and State and acknowledge a woman’s right to choose her own destiny. I don’t see Canada imitating The Handmaiden’s Tale any time soon. Next,” he replied.

“Fair enough. I hadn’t thought about it that way Frank. How about same-sex marriage? The leader has said often that he doesn’t support marriage between same-sex couples. This is offensive to people’s fundamental rights and freedoms,” I countered.

“Yes, I agree with you that is a more difficult one, but he has also said, when he is prime minister, he will ensure Members of Parliament will have a free vote on it. What is wrong with allowing MP’s to vote the will of their constituents? If someone is elected by people who are fundamentally opposed to same-sex marriage then this MP should reflect the will of the people who voted for him don’t’ you think? We shouldn’t have to agree with people who think this way but we should respect their right to disagree with us. Now, you are the political pro and I am just your homeless helper, but I can do the math on that vote. With the Bloc, NDP, and most of the Liberals and Conservatives supporting it, this issue has been a done deal in Canada for a long time now. The House of Commons has already had the vote and Canada will never have a future government over turn it. This issue fell off the radar quicker than Eddie Murphy’s singing career,” he said with a smile.

“Eddie Murphy sings?” I asked.

“Exactly. Anything else you want to talk about Boss?”

“How about the war in Ukraine and Canada’s role?”

“Sticky for sure, but even a peace-loving librarian should see that sometimes we all need to stand up for something. Ukraine is now a shit hole. It deserves better. Where is your global view man? As real conservatives we have an obligation to promote some core universal principles and beating back foreign invaders should be one of them,” he said.

“Of course, Frank. Basic human rights should be considered universal, but I don’t believe violence is how we achieve success,” I responded.

“Sometimes we have no choice. We have to fight for what we believe in. More importantly man, let’s get back to you. Are you telling me you need to agree with everything the leader says and does? Think about all the people you have ever worked for… Have you ever agreed with every decision they made? Are you that much of a zealot that you need to share every bit of his, or anyone’s, vision?” asked Frank.

“Of course not, but politics is different,” I replied.

“No, it isn’t. The way I see it, you get to have your view and he gets to have his and the party will be a mix of everything in between. No one should swallow the policy platform whole. This campaign is starting to look like a big tent political movement to me, and politics shouldn’t be different than any other workplace. Running a country may be more complex but it is still the same. It is a business where we strive to achieve common goals without pissing too many folks off along the way,” he said.

I smiled. Frank was a quick study. He sounded more reasonable than most of the people in this business.

“How about his negative comments about people from Atlantic Canada. The whole ‘culture of defeat’ stuff?” I asked.

“I have only been here a couple weeks but I have to agree with him. You people in Atlantic Canada are fucking lazy. There are help wanted signs everywhere and there are folks sitting around doing nothing except complaining there are no jobs! Look around this Tim Hortons. We see the same goddamn people every day bitching to each other about how the government keeps screwing them. Culture of defeat? Are you kidding? He was being polite with that comment. You can’t be defeated if you won’t even get in the game! Jesus, most of the volunteers in your campaign spend more time eating donuts than they do knocking on doors! You have to face facts bud, Nova Scotians are a bunch of lazy fuckers,” said Frank returning my smile.

“Watch your language. We need these people’s votes.”

“These people? Vote for you? Not a chance in hell. Ha! That will be the day! They won’t turn up for anyone but the NDP because they all believe in that fundamental principle of socialism,” he joked.

“What would that be?” I asked taking the bait.

“Simply put, I have nothing; let’s share! Even Newfoundlanders who squandered their oil money have fallen off their high horse of financial independence and are now back on the teat of federal transfer payments,” Frank replied with laughter.

“Ha, I suppose you are right.”

“Of course, I am. Now let’s get the hell out of here and go find some votes!” he said with enough volume for at least half of the people in the coffee shop to hear him. He held his hand in the air and held it there. Without embarrassment, I returned his high five.

The more time I spent with Frank, the more my respect for him grew. He was a good kid who didn’t deserve the shit he had experienced in his young life. He had also found the strength to push on with life when most people would have given up. I was humbled by his commitment to helping someone like me whom he barely knew. I only wish I felt as confident about other people on this campaign.