Max's Folly

by Bill Turpin

  “When asked about layoffs, you simply say that no one is jobless. Instead, four people who’ve proven their skills at the Abilities Bakery have found jobs working side by side with abled people.

  “When asked about the bakery’s future without government funding, you show them your business plan and say that you will double the current staff in five years.

  “When asked why you think your plan will work, you say that it was inspired by the courage, determination and resourcefulness that your staff demonstrate every day.

  “You say that your staff have taught you to see opportunity where others see adversity.”

  Jeez, this is good stuff, Max thought.

  When he spoke next, his voice was subdued but strong.

  “You can say that, because it’s the truth. You tell them that the Abilities Bakery has a new future. That your product is the best in town because your employees understand their abilities and they are ready to compete for their share of the market and on an equal footing. In the past nine years, no fewer than 14 people have gone from the Abilities Bakery to the mainstream workforce. A remarkable record.”

  Max concluded with: “My admiration for your company knows no bounds.” And he meant it.

  Half an hour later there were smiles all around as he escorted their satisfied clients to the elevator. By God, Maxie, you’ve pulled it out of the fire again, he thought as he watched them disappear behind the doors. But things weren’t quite as rosy at the debrief.

  “You can’t keep doing this,” his Communications Director said even before they got back to the meeting room.

  “What do you mean? We’ve been through dozens of scrapes like this.”

  The CEO spoke up next. “But, Max, it’s always been because the client wasn’t buying the pitch, not because . . . not because you forgot it.”

  “First time it’s happened,” he replied. He understood how others could interpret a bad jump as a memory lapse.

  “No,” said the Communications Director, with a gentleness that unnerved him. “There was Pike Video, the Archdiocese . . .”

  “The Archdiocese, those sons of . . .”

  “Nobody likes them, Max, but you gave them the Boy Scouts pitch.”

  “Well, they were very similar.” But Max had no recollection of that pitch. Buried memories usually leave a thread, something you can gently grasp and tug on until the whole thing comes free. But here, there was nothing. Not even a gap where a memory had once been. Max felt his heart picking up speed.

  “We’re with you all the way, Max,” the CEO said.

  With me all the way?

  He stared at the CEO’s manicured hands and the elegant gold ring on his middle finger and felt self-conscious. They were partners, they were friends, they made the same salary. Why did Max feel so out of sync?

  “What do you mean ‘with me all the way’?” he asked. “This sounds like the prelude to a buyout offer or something.”

  “No, Max, nothing like that.”

  “Well, like what then?”

  Now the Communications Director put her hand on his forearm: “It’s just a misunderstanding.”

  Of course, it was, Max thought on his way back to the office. I’ll never get them to understand the vagaries of time-jumping.

  Still, even though the details of the incident were fading, Max had difficulty shaking off his unease. Then, as if to add to the confusion, he walked into his office and discovered that the secret admirer had struck again: there was a bouquet of tulips on his desk.

  Max had lost count of the times he had strolled into his office and found flowers, chocolate and sometimes even cigars on his desk, just sitting there, without wrapping paper or even a note.

  Whenever it happened, he was careful to be seen taking the gift home that same day, so that no one would think he was engaged in something improper.

  “Your wife is a lucky woman,” his Office Manager would say. “So many flowers.”

  But the Office Manager was his prime suspect, so to speak. Without question no one had more access to his office. And he was certainly attracted to her. She had a way of smiling at him and a gallows humour that kept him going through assorted crises. Max trusted her completely. She looked great, too. Sometimes he imagined a wild encounter in the stairwell, and then quickly suppressed the idea. He was loyal to the Wife to the point of ditching the flowers before he got home. Even though she would have been thrilled with them, it just wouldn’t have been right to bring gifts from a would-be rival for his affections.

  But now it’s time, he thought, to bring this matter to a close. Max asked the Office Manager to come into his office.

  “Waddup,” she said, as usual. They kept it light when working together, no matter what.

  He took both of her hands in his. In their long association, he had never touched her. “These gifts, the flowers and chocolates and such, they’re from you, aren’t they? If they are, I understand, but . . .”

  Her tears were sudden and ferocious. She sputtered out a “No!” and fled the room. Alerted by her ultra-sensitive radar for emotion, the Communications Director peered in from across the hall. Max headed out, down to the street, where he resumed walking. But now the streetscape seemed sinister and made him wonder if his time-jumping problems were permanent. He should phone his brother to ask if he, too, was a time-jumper, and see if he had some advice.

  • • •

  The male voice at the other end was unfamiliar.

  “Just a minute,” it said.

  Max heard agitated conversation in the background. Then he heard the staccato of high heels nearing the phone.

  “Max?”

  It was the Sister-in-law.

  “Who was that who answered the phone?”

  A sigh. “My new husband.”

  In some part of his mind, Max knew what was coming next, but he asked the question anyway.

  “You’re divorced?”

  “No, Max. Your brother died. You’ve got to stop making these calls.”

  The dark wave of awful news threatened to sweep him away; and yet it felt familiar. Another bad jump.

  “Yes, that’s right, he’s dead, isn’t he?” Max said quietly.

  “Yes.”

  “Max, you’ve got to stop this. It’s breaking my heart. Can you get home okay?”

  The question startled him almost as much as the bad news. “Yes, of course I can get home. Just tell me one thing . . . was he a time-jumper?”

  It was a long wait for her reply. Max could hear water somewhere near him, gulls squawking and the traffic rumbling. When she finally spoke, he could barely hear her.

  “Yes. Just like you. Go home now. Goodbye, Max.” And then she hung up.

  Max took a moment to get his bearings. Good thing because, looking down, Max saw that he was one step from a 20-foot drop into the black water of the harbour. The only barrier was a four-by-four railing at foot level.

  In a day of bad jumps, this one took the cake. Max headed for his bus stop, his mind resolutely focused on the act of walking, lest he set off another, perhaps final, time-jump. By the time he boarded the bus, he could feel the pull of home and safety.

  As the bus rolled on, the harbour-scare slipped from his mind. Instead, he began to wonder if his increasingly complicated time-jumping theory was some kind of denial, like guys who explain away their chest pains as poor digestion until they collapse on the street.

  NOW

  Present But Not Accounted For

  MAX SAT CALMLY beside the Son and listened to the conversation with the specialist. He could feel the Son’s distress and wanted to be glad for it; wanted the Son to be a villain. But there are no villains in this piece, he thought.

  “It’s happening faster than we expected,” the Son said. “Last week, he took down every picture of my mother and threw them in the garbag
e.” The Son’s brown eyes were wide as they always were when he was upset. My eyes, for sure, thought Max. But the rest was the Wife’s — firm chin, prominent forehead.

  Max noted that people now talked about him as if he were not present in the room. More of that to come if he didn’t do something, he suspected.

  “The images of her were torturing me,” Max shouted, as if volume finally might break through the Son’s inability to understand. “I see her picture sometimes and I don’t know whether she’s alive or dead.”

  The Son asked the specialist if it was possible the sudden death of the Wife had hastened Max’s memory problems. The doctor said it was impossible to know.

  “Sometimes the healthy spouse will cover it up,” he said. “People don’t realize how bad it is until a crisis occurs.”

  Max did not care. He was no longer onside with all this nonsense.

  “Sorry, but you’re both full of it,” Max said. “I’ve got some memory problems that are perfectly normal for someone my age. The real issue is time-jumping. I’ve just got to adapt a bit.”

  “Dad, I thought we agreed on this.”

  “I was pressured into agreeing. Anyway, carry on talking. I know nothing I say will change your mind.”

  Meaning that he would soon lose his freedom. Further, he worried the incarceration would be a long one; he figured he had many years to go before time’s river returned him to the ocean. So, rather than rot away in an institution, he had resolved to become a full-time time traveller. He would find the Wife in the right place and in the right time — a snug spot along that river’s bank — and stay there.

  But even time travellers — perhaps especially time travellers — needed reference points.

  Max interrupted the meeting to ask for some paper (he already had a pencil stub).

  The Son failed to hide his irritation as he passed him a sheet of paper from the doctor.

  “What for, Dad?”

  “Just making some notes for the journey, Son.”

  Max isn’t sure how to begin the journey. Maybe click his heels a few times, or . . .

  1975

  Your Friendly Local

  Junta Cracks Heads

  MAX CAN ONLY stare when the Photog appears before him. The two of them are sitting in a classic Spanish-American plaza that Max hasn’t seen in 40 years. The Photog, on the other hand, continues talking exactly as he did back in the day without missing a beat.

  Max understands that he has made an enormous time jump, but the insight has the lifespan of a shooting star, gone almost before it arrives.

  “So, Max. What eez our RAY-cord as freelance foreign correspondents so far?” the Photog asks.

  Out of habit, Max pushes his hand deep into his left pocket, fishing for the familiar feel of the thrice-folded sheet of paper that he’s kept there, along with a pencil stub, since his first reporting job. They provide a rudimentary way of taking notes when he isn’t carrying a notepad. Also, when he is confused or has a problem to work out, the feel of the objects helps keep him grounded.

  “So, Max! What eez our RAY-cord so far?”

  The Photog is initiating their daily ritual of self-ridicule over their miserable record as freelancers since they quit the Sunday Tabloid and left Montreal to make their reputations. He comically exaggerates his Spanish accent. His tone oozes curiosity, as if he has no idea what the answer to his question might be. His face is obscured, as usual, by long black hair, some kind of floppy army hat, and cigarette smoke.

  Max is into the game. He liberates his notebook from his back pocket and pretends to stare thoughtfully at the blank pages before taking a pull on his beer. The Photog raises his eyebrows in bogus expectation.

  “We have been to four countries in four weeks, arriving in each case a day or so after the story we were chasing suddenly clutched its chest, keeled over, and died before hitting the ground,” Max says.

  His friend who, even at 25, looks like a genial plantation-owner — minus the expensive clothes and Panama hat, but with the bushy moustache — exhales a fresh blossom of blue smoke around his head. Max takes a sweet-potato chip from a bowl on their café table, which is leaning under the weight of the Photog’s bulging bag of cameras and lenses.

  The interior of the bag features a homemade prow of quarter-inch plywood built into the lining and designed for pushing through scrums. A wad of dubious identification cards is attached to the bag by a chain. The one on display reads: “Prensa Internacional.”

  They are in the shade of a balcony that extends the entire length of the long, wide-open plaza. Shops and restaurants line the ground floor. Above are three storeys of colonial-style apartments.

  “And . . . today, Max?” Again, an eyebrow is raised expectantly.

  “Today, we are in YOUR country, waiting for a student demonstration. This is because of something that successful correspondents call a ‘tip’. We are relaxing with beer and snacks because we expect, as per usual, that nothing will happen.”

  “Es verdad,” says the Photog. “I am a FOUR-een corr-eez-POND-ent . . . een my own . . . CONN-tree. My mother’s house . . . eez 10 blocks a-WAY. Tell me, Max, what will we do if there EEZ a demonstration?”

  “We will file a story and pics to an international wire service.”

  “Aha! A big payday at last?”

  Max pretends to consult his notes again. “For our efforts we will receive bylines and photo credits. Oh, and four rolls of film.”

  “But this time, lots of money as well, no?”

  “It seems not.”

  Max can see the presidential palace across the plaza, directly behind the Photog. It is a large baroque affair no doubt, somehow, celebrating the vicious exploits of the Conquistadors. The area in front of the palace, as well as the plaza itself, is paved with stones and devoid of anything that might interfere with a defensive line of fire from the presidential guard. A rugged iron fence forms the perimeter of the palace grounds. Max can easily picture bodies piling up against the bars.

  He hears engines belching. The noise heralds a phalanx of motorcycles that careens into the plaza from Max’s left and turns sharply toward the palace.

  “Ahh,” says the Photog, now doing an Ed Sullivan impersonation. “Ladies and gennulman, please welcome . . . El Presidente!”

  A black Cadillac limousine shoots into the plaza and tilts drunkenly toward the now-open gate. More farting motorcycles follow. A waiting honour guard decorated in feather-topped helmets and silver Conquistador chest-plates convulses to attention with salutes snappy enough to dislocate elbows. In dark civvies, El Presidente jogs up the steps, turns to wave to a non-existent crowd, and disappears behind massive wooden doors. The entourage roars off to someplace behind the palace.

  Max nods in their direction. “A good time had by all, it appears,” he says.

  “He thinks he’s the Patton of Latin America,” the Photog says. “But he is the chicken president. He has never fired a single shot in anger. I doubt he has even been to a practice range. He is not even in the Army. He’s a policeman. He should be writing parking tickets.”

  Max is only half-listening because he can feel a different mood taking over the plaza. The silver-breasted guards have disappeared. A pigeon nosing around the centre of the square thinks better of it and flaps away.

  “He is the ‘chicken president’ because he got his job the same day Army Command came to work at headquarters and found a basket of eggs in front of their gate. It was a gift from the Navy, where the sons of the rich do their military service dressed in spotless white uniforms.”

  Max notices the sun has slipped behind the cathedral. It casts a wide shadow over almost the entire length of the square.

  “The eggs, of course, meant the Army was afraid to execute the coup that the Navy had demanded . . . oh, shit.”

  An armoured personnel carrier marked Policia sli
ps quietly up to the edge of the plaza to their right. Ten yards behind it is an open Army truck with nervous conscripts sitting on benches on either side. They are uncomfortably clasping and unclasping their rifles. They have the bronze skin and prominent cheekbones of mountain boys.

  Max hears the Photog’s motor-drive bang off three quick shots behind him. The mountain boys stare at the Photog. Max stares at the worn muzzles of their rifles, waiting for the worst.

  “Don’t worry,” says the Photog, glancing at the troops. “They’re not dangerous. They’re pretending to support the police. Those boys just want to get back to their mamas and their alpacas. The real problem is the police.”

  The waiter is suddenly beside them: “Senores, come inside. Muy peligroso. Very dangerous.”

  “Momentito,” says the Photog, who begins measuring light levels while talking earnestly with the waiter in Spanish.

  Max sees four snipers take positions on the palace roof.

  A water cannon painted a flat carbon black lumbers in from another side street. The driver sits behind a window made of heavy wire screen. A large fire-hose nozzle, also painted black, swings back and forth, anxious for a target. For some reason, Max is surprised to see the Mercedes Benz logo on the front, above the word Policia.

  The waiter is getting frantic. “Senores, por favor . . .”

  There’s nothing to see yet, but Max hears chanting from the end of the plaza, where there is still sunlight. It is timed to the beat of a deep bass drum.

  “Max,” says the Photog. “Our waiter he says it’s very dangerous here. He says we can watch from the balcony above his shop.”

  “Fuck that. I didn’t come here to watch it all from box seats.”

  The Photog looks up at the balcony overhead and back at Max. He reluctantly waves the waiter away.

  “You idiot! You’re going to get me killed,” he says to Max.

  Whereupon the waiter clears the table and retreats.

  Max finally sees the reason for the excitement. Led by the drummer, a group of young demonstrators march boisterously into the square, chanting “Abajo con la junta” —down with the junta.