Max's Folly

by Bill Turpin

  “Dare I ask what the Indonesian’s name is?”

  “Peter,” she says. “Some Indonesians only have one name.”

  “Like Suharto.”

  “Yeah!” she says.

  Max makes a steeple with his fingers.

  “Okay, let’s review,” he says. “I’ve got an Indonesian whose name is Peter of all things —”

  She interrupts. Her tone is a tad defensive, Max thinks. “His father was a missionary.”

  “— and I’ve got a Visual Arts Editor who knows nothing about the arts. And he’s from Cape Breton, but his name looks Indonesian. They call him Big Mac but —”

  The Wire Editor interrupts with a forceful, rapid-fire burst. “Because his cock-sucking terrier is supposedly better hung than he is.”

  Max raises his eyebrows.

  “Sorry. Potty mouth. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. Whew!”

  “Okay,” says Max. “But you say the guy with the Indonesian-looking name is actually from Cape Breton. You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. But it’s really Gaelic.”

  “And our friend Pete is from Indonesia?”

  “Peter.”

  “Where is Lewis Carroll when you need him?” Max murmurs.

  “Pardon?”

  But Max is too preoccupied with the solution that has finally presented itself to him.

  “So, how would you like to move to dayside and be the City Editor?”

  She looks at him sideways.

  “Men are pigs, I know that,” Max says. “But I think I’m entitled to the presumption of innocence.”

  “We can try that,” she says quietly. “By the way, I curse a lot. My shrink — my cock-sucking shrink — says it helps me relieve stress.”

  Max hasn’t noticed anything abnormal, but then she has been “holding it in.” He looks through his fish-tank window at his newsroom again. It’s like the zoo primate enclosure at high noon out there, he thinks. The inmates are too lazy even to brush the flies away.

  Max turns to his City Editor-designate.

  “Again, let me summarize,” he says. “I will continue to refrain from making sexual advances or comments to you, and promote you to City Editor. In exchange for this, you will utter lewd remarks and profanity according to your needs.” She nods. “All you have to do is this — the next time that terrier starts to take a dump on the floor, don’t stop it.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Get a picture and report the atrocity to me, of course. Can you handle it?”

  “Sure. Who gets to be the new wire editor?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “What about Peter?”

  “The Indonesian? I have other plans for him.”

  The new City Editor blanches. “Are you going to fire him?”

  Max is heartened by her casual insubordination.

  “You don’t fire competent people — that’s right in the editor’s manual,” he says. “But, for reasons I won’t discuss, I don’t want the Cobra to see him for a few days.”

  “But you fire the incompetent, right?” Her tone is hopeful.

  • • •

  Max just has enough time to swivel back to his desk when he hears a knock.

  The rangy man at the door, slovenly even by newspaper standards, sneers briefly at Max’s surroundings and introduces himself as the “class-war reporter”. He describes the dog’s breakfast the paper produces as a revolution in journalism — “a reporter’s newspaper.”

  Max agrees it’s exactly what a reporter’s paper would look like, except that it’s not edited by reporters, not even by editors, but by compositors, the guys who glue the stories to “flats” so they can be made into printing plates.

  “So it’s actually a compositor’s newspaper,” Max says. “Possibly the world’s first.”

  “That’s the power of the Collective,” the guy says. Max notes that he can see the man’s nipples through his threadbare white shirt. “We are able to tap into the abilities of the working class in a way that capitalists will never understand.”

  “Enjoy it while you can,” Max tells Mr. Nipples. “Because as far as you’re concerned, this isn’t a reporter’s paper, and it’s not a collective in name or otherwise. It’s my paper. Think of me as Stalin.”

  Max is surprised by his own words, but they feel good. And, thanks to his interlocutor’s use of the word “collective”, he makes the connection with the call from South Africa. Max keeps going.

  “Here’s how that works,” he says. “If you ever call Desmond Tutu again to enquire after Mother fucking Teresa or anything else, I’ll make the Gulag look like summer camp to you.”

  The young man needs time to process Max’s words. “I’ll take this up with the Collective.”

  “Based on my recent experience, you shouldn’t bet the farm on a collective, so to speak,” Max says.

  Mr. Nipples departs and, for the first time today Max is alone with his thoughts — three of them, as usual:

  One, it’s again time for him to actually contribute something to society, i.e., change the Paper into something worthy of its readers.

  Two, he may be the wrong man for the job but, if he fails, he’s going to fail by making his own poor decisions, not by letting others impose them on him.

  Three, he’s going to throw every ounce of blood, sweat and tears he can muster into the task.

  Max calls the Wife to tell her the news. She’s thrilled: “Good job, Maxie.”

  The Wife is and always will be his ultimate editor.

  • • •

  Max closes his office door and shuts the blinds of his fish tank. He gets 30 minutes of uninterrupted think-time before someone knocks on the door. He ignores it and calls the Cobra instead.

  “How do you feel about unions?” he asks.

  “Hate their guts.”

  “Ever seen Alien, Sigourney Weaver?”

  “Loved it,” says the Cobra.

  “Well, there’s something trying to burst out from the insides of the Paper and it looks a lot like a union.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Exactly. But I think I’ve got a plan.”

  • • •

  A few hours later, the Indonesian drops in. He’s tall, thin and good-looking. His eyes are alert; they are on the dark side, like his skin. He shows no signs of nervousness at meeting his new boss, but he’s leaning forward in his chair and watching Max closely.

  Max decides to administer the irony test right away.

  “Are you aware that your blood thickens up in the cold weather, causing you to slow down?” Max asks.

  “It’s news to me. Is there a procedure I can have?”

  “Science is powerless against this sort of thing,” Max says, eliciting a smile. “I want to be sure you start late enough that the Cobra doesn’t see you for a day or so.”

  “I know.”

  Max makes a mental note: his City Editor-designate doesn’t keep things to herself and may have a thing for the Indonesian.

  “You know, there was some concern you were going to fire me,” the Indonesian says.

  “Yes, well, I know where you got that idea. You guys an item?”

  “Just friends.”

  “Hmm. In any case, as near as I can tell, you are the only staffer here who has ever worked at a fully functioning daily newspaper. What’s your strength?”

  “I’m a desker — copy editing, news editing — love it,” he says.

  This is the best news of the day. A competent, engaged deskman gives Max a big head start in reorganizing the Paper.

  “I presume you already know who the new City Editor will be.”

  “Yes.”

  Max wants at least two people he can trust as soon as possible, one on nightside and another on days. His gut has decided they will
be the new City Editor and the Indonesian. Others will have to earn their way onto the trust list.

  He explains this to the Indonesian, who’s shocked by the speed of the decision.

  “I’ll know soon enough if you’re no good, and then I’ll move on to someone else,” Max says. “It’s faster than using some cock-eyed human resources bullshit.”

  The job Max has in mind for the Indonesian is the slot man, also known as the night news editor. This is the person who oversees the melding of pictures, stories and headlines, not to mention quality. It’s one of the hardest jobs on a daily paper.

  “Okay then. How would you like to work the slot? You’ll also have to look after the wire for a while.”

  The Indonesian clasps his hands together and shakes them like he’s just rolled seven at the craps table.

  “I’ll start right away, if that’s alright,” he says. “Brace yourself for complaints.”

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way. Why aren’t you working at the Other Paper?”

  “I thought you knew,” he says, smiling. “My blood thickens up in the cold weather.”

  • • •

  Wednesday.

  Amhuinn Maolmuire Maceachthighearna — Big Mac — swaggers in and makes himself comfortable at the long table in Max’s office. He’s wearing a tartan tie and a tweed jacket.

  He leans back in his chair and ostentatiously taps some tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, clearly at pains to demonstrate his job security.

  “Dew ya mind if I smoke, laddie?”

  “Quite a bit,” says Max.

  “Och.” He proceeds to light his pipe with a Bic lighter. When he’s done, he curls the left half of his lip and looks Max in the eye.

  “I see you’ve detected that I’m a CFA,” Max says.

  “Aye,” says Big Mac, spitting a shred of tobacco off his tongue. “You’ve got the look of a true wanker about you.”

  Max peers through the man’s nicotine-stained thicket of reddish-brown facial hair and sees that he is barely past his mid-twenties. The hair on his scalp is blondish. It starts out straight near the part, but then degenerates into short waves and then clownish curls.

  Max pointedly fixes his gaze on the ascending mushroom cloud from the faux-Scot’s pipe. At the ceiling, it spreads out and thins, along with any doubt that Max should fire him.

  “Well,” Max says, still watching the smoke. “That brings me to the purpose of our meeting today.”

  • • •

  Thursday.

  Under Max’s direction, the City Editor and the Indonesian have started organizing. It has the same effect as whacking the side of a henhouse with a two-by-four. Three people quit before word gets out that Max is accepting all resignations on the spot, no questions asked.

  There is a bounce in his step as Max trots up the stairs to see the Cobra, who greets him with his now-customary distaste.

  “Ah, Max, How nice.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Did you fire someone?” he asks.

  “Fucking right I did,” says Max, his tone clipped and firm with false pride. “I nuked the Indonesian, as per your request. Caught him letting his dog crap on the newsroom floor.”

  The Cobra’s eyes widen.

  Max then adds his best rendition of a conspiratorial chuckle: “And let me tell you that beast was a Great Dane among terriers.”

  The Cobra allows the bottom half of his face to smile. “Fucking Indonesians,” he says, shaking his head. “Letting livestock shit on the floor must be a cultural thing.”

  Max nods in the affirmative. “Yep. I nailed him dead to rights. The photogs got pics.”

  “What was his name, anyway,” asks the Cobra.

  “I couldn’t begin to pronounce it.”

  Har-har. Their enmity is absent for a moment.

  Then the Cobra goes quiet. He moves his torso slightly from side to side and he tongues his upper lip a couple of times. His eyes focus on Max’s throat.

  “Terrier?”

  “What?”

  “Did you say he had a ‘terrier’?” he asks.

  Max nods. He forces his facial muscles to go slack before his expression gives the game away.

  “You didn’t talk to him?”

  “Sure did,” says Max. “Very heavy accent.”

  “And that accent sounded Indonesian to you?”

  “It was impenetrable, just like his fucking name, eh?”

  But there’s no collegial har-har. The Cobra rises abruptly and glides into his private washroom. Max hears the door lock and the faucets being opened. He returns a few minutes later and resumes his seat, folding his hands on his desktop.

  “The sound of running water calms me,” he says, adopting the quiet tone of a PGA colour commentator.

  “Are you upset about something?” Max asks helpfully.

  “That’s wasn’t the Indonesian,” he says. “YOU FIRED BIG MAC! Everybody in the Party loves Big Mac.”

  “Whatever do you mean? That was Big Mac, the visual arts editor?”

  “You fired Big Mac, you idiot. And now I’ve got to smooth it over.”

  “Sorry,” says Max. “But really, anyone could have made that mistake.”

  • • •

  Friday.

  The end of Max’s first week at the Paper.

  He has invited the Indonesian to meet him for lunch. They’re sitting at a Formica table, surrounded by the comforting smell of hot deep-fryer fat. They each face a paper plate heaping with fish and chips. Each has been awarded five Kraft tartar sauce packets. Two kinds of vinegar are available in bottles.

  Max hands him a signed letter on the Paper’s stationery.

  The Indonesian sighs: “So you’re firing me after all.”

  “On the contrary,” Max says. “Put your signature under mine and your job is bulletproof.”

  The guy takes a closer look: “You’re putting me on probation?”

  “Yup. Until winter ends. If you can prove by March 31 that cold weather doesn’t thicken your blood, then probation’s over. If not, you’re fired.”

  The Indonesian smiles.

  “So, if I ever get fired for real, all I have to do is go public with this probation notice and . . .”

  “See? Bulletproof.”

  “But you don’t even know me.”

  “I didn’t know you when I was told to fire you, either.”

  • • •

  There is a busy highway between the Paper and the fish and chips shop. Max is too excited to walk back to the intersection to cross. Instead, he does it Montreal style, jay-walking into the traffic as if he’s suddenly lost the power of sight. Tires squeal as drivers in both directions stand on their brakes.

  In the newsroom, he pauses long enough to appoint a new entertainment editor before bounding up to the Cobra’s office. The publisher is lining up his collection of model Formula One race cars on his desk.

  “You fucked me over, didn’t you, Max?” he says without looking up.

  Max sits and crosses his legs at the ankle.

  “I hope so, yes,” he says pleasantly.

  “You did something to protect the Indonesian, right?”

  “It depends on how you interpret these things. He’s got until March 31 to prove his blood doesn’t thicken up. In principle it’s a formal warning, but I can understand how you might see it as protecting him.”

  “Not bad,” the Cobra says.

  “Thank you. Oh, and for good measure, I told Big Mac that Cape Bretoners’ blood also thickens up in the cold. That should keep you busy with the Party for a while, you dickhead.”

  This earns Max a pained look from his adversary.

  “You did? Jesus. Why? Why couldn’t you leave him out of it? Why not just go running to your friends in Montreal in the first place?”


  Because Montreal might have told him to pound sand, Max thinks.

  “Because I don’t like being underestimated. And you need to know that if you bloody my nose, I’ll break your arm.”

  The Cobra purses his thin lips. Max sees that he’s won this round.

  “Being underestimated can be useful,” the Cobra says. “But I promise I won’t make that mistake with you again.”

  On the way back to the newsroom, Max recalls interviewing a Peruvian colonel in charge of a dismal yearly ceremony marking his army’s worst defeat. “If you want victory, then defeat me,” he said bitterly. “But if you want peace as well, then be careful not to add humiliation to my defeat.”

  • • •

  Max picks up an expensive bottle of Cabernet-Sauvignon on the way home.

  “It’s been a great week,” he tells the Wife as he fills their glasses to the brim.

  The wine isn’t as good as he remembers it.

  NOW

  Welcome Back to the Dungeon

  MAX DEVELOPED A feel for what non-time travellers call the “present.” First, he noticed a pervasive hollowness because, in the present, the Wife was not alive. The present also featured causality: if Max did A then B would (or might) follow. When he was time-travelling, however, he was a helpless prisoner of experience. Even his awareness that he was travelling was fleeting and occurred only at the beginning of each sojourn and the first few moments of his returns.

  But that gave him the knowledge that he was indeed travelling in time — like never before — and full confidence that he would eventually encounter the Wife in the right place and time, and find a way to stay with her there.

  This took the fear out of returning to the present, but not the effort. There were large pieces of the present that had to be relearned. This, he concluded, was the price he paid for visiting the past.

  On this occasion, he found the glass and aluminum frame of an institutional entranceway resolving in front of him, as if he were emerging from a fog bank. Beyond, Max could see a rock-lined path and sunny colours. The path led to a broad street lined with a jumble of closely packed buildings. Inside, there was an elevator to Max’s left. A vase of bright flowers stood like an exclamation mark on a small table next to it. To his right, a reception desk. On the wall above that, the words The Beacon Arms.