Chapter 1

Chapter 1

         In the past, I have done some bizarre things to prove a point. I defend my actions by claiming it is part of my job. I am a journalist. To research a possible topic, I submerge myself in that environment. It has not always worked out well. I have suffered broken bones, been stabbed once, shot twice and jailed on several occasions. However, I’ve always taken steps to ensure that I am the only one to suffer the consequences of my, sometimes silly, actions. This time is different.

         Municipal elections are 13 days away. My name appears on the ballot. Louise Lucille Murray is running for City Council in Ward 3. I didn’t think things would go this far. I was sure my reputation for being a hell raiser would have prevented me from getting past the nomination stage. Who knew all you needed were a bunch of signatures, a little bit of money and a big mouth. Friends and supporters supplied the petitions and cash; the gift of gab has been with me since birth.

         Surrounding me, in my makeshift campaign office, are boxes full of economic reports and forecasts; analyses of past budgets and projections for the next three years. I have copies of legislation, all types of legislation. The Municipal Election Act and the Municipal by-laws sit on the top of the pile. This is my nighttime reading. I blend this with studies prepared by the voters, letters from the constituents of Ward 3 wanting to know my position on just about everything and of course the media coverage. Attempting to prioritize my reading material, I become fully aware that this stunt does not affect me alone. I have carelessly put the citizens of my hometown in danger.

         What happens if I win? I never seriously considered this a possibility. I
was in this election to educate voters. In previous elections, at all levels of government, the political system, as it maybe, had been the subject of many of my articles. The candidates often portrayed as puppets of those with money and power. I rarely gave those seeking office any credit. I posed these civic minded individuals as egotists looking for external gratification. I felt strongly that not a single contender addressed the concerns of the voting public. These wannabes dictated the issues of the election. I wanted to change this.

* * * * * * *

         This past summer, while having drinks at Cicero’s, a member’s only lounge in one of the private clubs in the city, my cohorts and I began discussion about the upcoming fall elections. The general consensus was that nothing would change. The mayor and almost all council members would be re-elected. There were three councilors whom had decided to retire; one councilor each from Ward two, three and six. Our predictions were that the races for these three seats would provide the only intrigue in our election.

         “With the provincial elections on the horizon, I’m sure we’re going to see some of the major political parties throwing their weight around.” Marcus was the eternal pessimist, although he preferred the title of Devil’s advocate. He went out of his way to find flaws in our social systems, which the general public considered acceptable. “It shouldn’t be allowed. This is the only level of government where we should not have to concern ourselves with party politics. Vote for the person best suited for the job, the person who will best represent the concerns of our population.”

         A collective groan rose from the table. Marcus was trying to entice Maxwell into a lively debate. Maxwell had long been a proponent of having municipal candidates declare their political association with one of the major parties. He felt strongly any individual with political aspirations was a card carrying member of some recognized party. It was only fair the voters knew which party is was. The remaining members of our clique were noncommittal on the subject, including myself. All of us enjoyed a healthy discussion though, prompting Elena to fire a shot back at Marc.

         “Marcus,” she only ever called him Marcus when arguing a point, “are you not familiar with the popular colour scheme of our parties? I can explain them to you.” she chided. From her briefcase she grabbed a handful of pens and highlighters.

         “Oooo, props!” I laughed. Elena was a very visual individual. Rarely would she make a point without drawing you a picture.

         “This is Liberal red and almost any other shade of red you find. They aren’t particular.” She took Marc’s hand and wrote a large L on his palm. An orange highlighter came next. “Orange is the colour of the NDP. It cannot be any shade of orange. It must be a brilliant orange to match the brilliance of the party.” It was no secret where Elena’s allegiance lay. A large NDP was written on Marc’s other hand. A wide tip, permanent blue marker was in Elena’s grasp. Out of hands to write on, I was a little worried she’d be pulling off Marc’s shoes. Marc didn’t dare pull his arms away fearing Elena would make his face fair game. “This is a little bit darker than Conservative blue. I have to explain that because Conservatives are a little anal about how they are defined. The colour is the only thing the entire party agrees on.” With that, she flipped Marc’s Liberal hand over and wrote a large C on the backside. Where Elena’s rant would go next, we didn’t know.

         She continued to define the remaining parties, moving next to the Bloc and finally ending with her definition of an Independent candidate. The Independent narrative earned Marc a small, multicoloured arc on his right cheek. The many colours of the rainbow represented the various positions of the growing number of Independent candidates.

         “Match the colours I have shown you to the colours used on the candidates campaign signs. Their affiliations are obvious.” All the while, Marc didn’t fight back. He was enjoying the look of frustration, spread across Maxwell’s face. Maxwell had little patience for Elena’s theatrics.

         “Stop it!” Max scowled at Elena. “You are being part of the problem. This is an example of how no one takes politics seriously. We are laughing at those we elect and debasing the system used to do so. While humour is appropriate at the right time, it’s jokes like yours that compound our problems. Our party system is a pillar of the Canadian democracy.”

         I knew this was an uncontrollable blurt of annoyance. The words escaped Max’s mouth before he had the opportunity to censor himself. One had to be careful about using the word democracy, or any of it’s forms, around Carmine. His eyes lit up in disbelief that Max would let those words slip from his lips. This was his opening.

         “Do you believe we are a democracy? You buy into the notion that our government represents our country’s ideals and beliefs? A democracy only works when it’s people believe in the system. It cannot be successful in an area populated by apathetic voters. Do you understand the math of politics? The make up of our government is indicative of the demographics of those who vote and unfortunately, there are not enough of us.” Carmine was about to continue, but Max interrupted.

         “Carmine, you are proving my point. It is ourselves that are the flaw in the system. We have become a passive electorate. The composition of our city council, the provincial and federal governments reflect the wishes of those that do vote. In this country, that is a dismal fifty four percent. Mind you, locally we have averaged a sixty two percent voter turnout over the past four elections, but this number is not high enough! We are letting the wishes of a minority rule the majority.” Max rested.

         Peter, the newest and youngest member of our think thank, kept the debate alive. “Sixty two percent…..sounds like a majority to me.” He kicked me under the table and smiled. He knew what he was saying. Max and Carmine couldn’t resist attacking the statement.

         “Sixty percent does not translate into a majority Peter. I’ll show you the math!” Carmine grabbed a notebook and Elena’s not quite, conservative blue marker. “We’re going to use round numbers to make the math easier.” Max moved closer to man the calculator. Marcus sat quietly, pleased he had invoked this debate. He was, still is, a firm believer that good discussion forges great ideas.
“We are a country of approximately thirty two million people. Let’s be generous and say seventy percent of those people are eligible to vote. That means the decision making power is in the hands of approximately twenty two million. From the eligible voters, we have fifty four percent that actually vote. Our voter base is down to around twelve million. In any given riding a candidate, on average, wins with only forty to forty four percent of the vote. The long and short of it is that around 5 million people are making the electoral decisions for a country of 32 million. New math, old math, it doesn’t matter. This is not a majority.” Carmine rested his voice and Max took charge of the conversation.

“Now look at the local election math. We are a city of three hundred and thirty thousand. Of those, only two hundred and thirty thousand are registered voters. We’ll recognize our higher voter turn out rate. I believe we agreed it is around sixty two percent?” Marcus talks to himself aloud as he plugs the numbers into the calculator.

         “For the office of Mayor this means the winning candidate can be elected with only seventy two thousand votes. SEVENTY TWO THOUSAND. That is just over twenty percent of the population. A majority you said Peter? Not even close!” Feeling proud of making a point, Max waved his arm and signaled to the waitress for another round. “Marc, you started this conversation, you buy the beer.” And with that Max excused himself from the table for a cigarette break. I followed.

         Once outside, Max questioned the smirk on my face. After the speeches we heard about apathy, I could not bring myself to tell him how entertaining I found our math lesson.

         “I didn’t know you were so informed regarding voter statistics.” I light my smoke and inhale deeply.

         “I’m not. I made the numbers up, but I’m sure I’m close.” Now it was his turn to smile. “I needed to make a point to Elena about her stupid jokes. Carmine backed me up. I’m also concerned that Peter’s comment had no thought behind it. Are you sure we should be including him?”

         I knew Peter belonged with us. He was a political science student at the university. He had helped me with research on my last article about Federal Government equalization payments to the provinces. His passion for Canadian politics was unbounded. A bit intimidated by the members in our Thought Syndicate, he rarely spoke and had yet to prove himself to the group.

         “I think Peter belongs more than you know. He knew what he was saying. He was helping the conversation along. He was looking for a reaction. As always Max, you didn’t disappoint, nor did Carmine.” We finished our cancer sticks and returned to the table. The next round of drinks had already arrived.

* * * * * * *

         Peter stuck his head in my office. He was looking for a particular report about waste management. The municipality was considering taking in garbage from other cities, for a large fee of course. My campaign opposed this idea. Peter was preparing notes for me on this issue. He had become an invaluable member of my campaign. His education was current, his desire strong and nowhere could I find another consultant that would provide their knowledge and services for the low, low rate of nothing. Peter volunteered because he cared. Secretly, he had ambitions to become Prime Minister one day.

         “It’s the box pushed in the corner. It has a garbage bag sticking out of the handle hole.” I smiled.

         “You’re kidding, right?”

         “Nope.” I explained my filing system to him. “I knew you were coming to pick it up and I had to make sure you’d be able to find it.” I was still smiling. “No matter where the box got pushed or what got piled on top, it’s still easily identifiable.”

         “Never thought of writing on the side of the box? There is a label there just for that reason.” Peter moved amidst the cardboard obstacle course we called my office.

         “My eyes aren’t that good. Can’t read small writing from across the room. I can see the green plastic from anywhere. I even pulled the red drawstring out the hole to help my cause.” I leaned back in chair.

         Peter snickered. “Following that logic, may I guess the contents of these other boxes?” He pointed to other storage cartons, all with different objects protruding through, or tied to, a handle. Some bins had items taped to each of their ends.

         “You owe me a beer for each one I get on the first guess.”

         “You’re on.” I should be on the losing end of this deal. The concept behind my filing system was to allow anyone to find anything easily.

(indent}“Maps…this must be from the planning department.”

         “Not specific enough for a beer. Traffic.” I leaned forward on the desk trying to see more clearly into the congested corner where Peter stood.

         “Bus pass… I want to say public transportation, but I will limit my answer to the bus system only.”

         “You drink Blue, right Pete.” I’m glad he got that one. I would have questioned his intellect if he missed something so obvious. I had already explained how the system worked

         “Dog tags……you got to let me think about this one. And don’t call me Pete. It’s Pete-r.” He touched the tags as if feeling them would cause a revelation. I think it worked. He looked at me “These are not dog tags, they are licenses.” He looked at my face for a tell. “Licensing department?”

         I wore a grin from ear to ear. “Looks like the first two rounds are on me.” He was providing proof my system worked.

         “The sock makes me nervous.”

         “Don’t be. It’s just a box of odd socks.”

         “Why?”

         “Don’t know. It was here when I took over the office. It inspired my filing system.” Did he really need this explained.

         “And you are not disgusted by this? I would have tossed it as soon as I realized what was inside. Why would you keep odd socks that belonged to someone else?” He shook his head.

         “Why get rid of them?” I had a need to defend my socks. They never hurt anyone. They didn’t smell. They were a fabulous conversation piece.

         “Do I need to list the reasons for you?”

         “Please.” I knew I was driving Peter crazy. He hated small talk, especially the chats which were idiotic in nature. I’m sure this banter would qualify. Classic avoidance. He had bad news.

         Peter was now standing in front of my desk. He was navigating his way towards the door. “Get rid of the socks.”

         I couldn’t hold the laughter in any longer. The office chair squeaked as I leaned back again. I composed myself, but didn’t let the grin leave my face. “Peter, what do you really want to talk about?” I thought by opening the door to a tough conversation, it would make things easier. It seemed I was making him more uncomfortable. It had to be really bad news.

         “Max is on his way over.”

         This was an odd statement. Max coming to the office was not an unusual event. It should not be causing Peter stress. He knew something more. Do I push for the details or do I wait for Max? As patience was not one of my many virtues, I pushed.

         “You can’t leave me hanging like this Peter. Obviously you know what Max wants. Spill it!”

         Peter placed the crate in his hands on top of the box of socks.

         “One more reason to keep the socks.” I couldn’t resist.

         He looked down at me. “Elena did something.” He was trying so hard.

         “Anything in particular?” I was desperately trying to make this easier on him.

         “She told a reporter your campaign was a stunt?” He hung his head and his shoulders dropped. He appeared to be devastated. “We’ve worked so hard and she gets drunk at a party and tells a reporter this is all a stunt.”

         Elena was a character. She was her own person. She exuded power and confidence. It was all show. Elena rarely got her facts right. She had a short attention span, was not detail oriented and could never listen to anyone’s story from start to finish. Often this resulted into some sort of social faux pas. She had a standing order with the daily paper to save her two inches of column space in the classifieds every Thursday. In the “Personals” section, she issued a public apology to those she had misquoted, offended, libeled or pissed off the previous week. Although disappointing, the news was not altogether surprising.

         “Max and I will take care of it. This is not the first, or the worst jam Elena has gotten us into.” He gave me a nod of understanding, picked up his files and left my office. I assured him things would be okay as he disappeared out the door.

         I was hoping he believed me and was wishing I believed myself