Max's Folly

by Bill Turpin

“You know you’re the only man here who likes purple hair.”

  “That’s because they don’t know anything about women.”

  “And you do?”

  “Well, I know what I like.”

  She smiled.

  “Your Globe and Mail is waiting for you in the lounge.”

  “You’re very kind,” he said, noting sourly to himself that for some reason he knew the way to the lounge. Been here too long.

  Max was deep into the newspaper, enjoying another coffee, when one of the kitchen staff walked up to him holding an envelope.

  “Hey Max,” the kid said. “You gave me this and told me to give it back to you this morning.”

  Max stared at the friendly-looking kid who, judging by his weight, clearly wasn’t stealing food from the kitchen. “Really?”

  “Yep. You said it was top secret. I haven’t shown it to anyone. You gave me 15 copies and said to return one to you at random about every week or so.”

  Max looked to see if the kid was just humouring him, but no. Apparently he was an ally. The return address on the envelope said The Beacon Arms.

  “The Beacon Arms?”

  “Yeah. That’s where we are. The Beacon Arms.”

  Max tore off the end of the envelope, blew into it theatrically and said: “And the winner is . . .”

  There was a handwritten letter inside, in Max’s handwriting, the salutation of which said: “Dear Self.”

  “Anything interesting?” the kid asked.

  “Apparently it’s a blast from the recent past,” Max said.

  Dear Self,

  If you’re reading this, the kid from the kitchen should have interrupted you while you were reading the Globe.

  Correct, Max thought, impressed with his foresight. Hindsight, not so much.

  With luck, today is the day you’ll find a note in one of your pants pockets explaining how to escape this place. If it’s there, ACT RIGHT NOW! Don’t worry about Purple Hair. They won’t fire her.

  Max checked his pocket. Bingo! There it was.

  Good work! First, there are tens and twenties in your shoes, underneath your orthotics. Put one bill in your pocket.

  Max slyly slipped a twenty from his right shoe, put it in his pocket and returned his attention to the note.

  Go up the stairs to the second floor. The fire alarm should be to the right of the door. Set it off and wait 30 seconds. Then go back downstairs. Purple Hair probably won’t be there, so she won’t be punished for your escape. Punch in the code you found in your pocket and Go, Baby, Go! DON’T WAIT. GO NOW! LEAVE THE BLOODY GLOBE AND MAIL BEHIND!

  Except for a little indecision about leaving his newspaper behind, Max’s thoughts were clear and laser-focused. At the second floor he opened the door and looked right. There was the fire alarm. He’d always wanted to snap one of those glass bars and so he did. The alarm rang out loud and clear.

  School’s out, Max thought.

  He got to the main floor just in time to look through the safety glass and see Purple Hair marching purposefully down the hall, wearing a hardhat and a vest that said “Fire Warden.” No one was at the door. The number pad beckoned.

  Max looked at the note: 3948. He punched in the code. Nothing. Behind him he heard Purple Hair reassuring folks that everything was all right. He punched it again. Nothing.

  Just as panic seemed inevitable, Max’s mind cleared. He was calm, calm like a crocodile drifting with the current toward a fat shorebird. He carefully punched in 3948 and finished it off with #. The door buzzed. Max leaned on it . . . and he was out.

  He slid the paper back into his pocket, hurried along the path and turned randomly, which was up a small hill leading to a large supermarket. A good place to hide while he figured out what to do next.

  Max didn’t look back, but he did worry that his escape would hurt Purple Hair’s feelings. He hurried toward the store, hoping to ensconce himself somewhere inside before people started looking for him.

  1981

  Talks with Collective End Well

  MAX LOOKS DOWN the length of his scarred meeting table. Mr. Nipples — the class-war reporter — and three compositors are sitting two to a side. This is the entire Collective. In deference to the inherent equality within collectives, no one has taken the spot directly opposite Max.

  Nothing distinguishes the three compositors from one another. They all wear blue work clothes and all are ruddy with anger, although nothing has happened yet.

  Mr. Nipples opens the discussion.

  “The Collective has discussed what you said to me yesterday,” he begins. “We’ve concluded that you lack the authority to give direction on reporting assignments and we are issuing a reprimand for the unprofessional way you spoke to me. To wit: the phrase ‘Mother fucking Teresa’.

  “Furthermore, this meeting is to inform you that the Collective will not take direction from you and will issue an advisory to all staff that you have no authority over them.”

  Meeting apparently concluded, the four arise as one to leave.

  “Wait a second,” Max says. “Let’s chat.”

  The Collective members exchange glances and arrive at consensus: they will stay.

  “I was looking at your personnel files . . .”

  Mr. Nipples interrupts: “You have no right to those files.”

  “And yet, I have them right here,” Max says. “The short version is that not one of you has any of the skills required for your job.”

  “This is typical of the ruling class,” says Mr. Nipples. “You know full well that the so-called qualifications are just a façade enabling employers to pick and choose who they hire.”

  Max nods solemnly.

  “You are absolutely right,” he says. “And I hereby use the powers vested in me by ‘the façade’ to fire you immediately. Your severance is waiting for you at the front desk.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Yes, I can. You haven’t passed your probation, comrade. I can fire you just because I don’t like your haircut. Even the severance is an act of generosity. You are four incompetents who’ve spotted an opportunity to acquire some power that you know will never come your way otherwise.”

  Max can see the three ruddy compositors thinking this one over.

  Mr. Nipples stands up. “Do you have something against the Collective?”

  “Well, the Collective and I have met a few times before,” Max says. “It’s never gone well.”

  Mr. Nipples is literal-minded, and Max can see he’s having trouble recalling their previous meetings. But he can see the others got the point.

  “If you’ll excuse us, the Collective would like to caucus,” Mr. Nipples says.

  Max holds up his hand. “With great respect to the magical wisdom of the Collective, I feel I should say that it would be only slightly more difficult to fire the rest of the people in this office. More importantly, I have additional information that may prove useful to your comrades.”

  Mr. Nipples remains standing; the others sit like Easter Island statues.

  Max turns away from them and starts perusing resumes. Finally, one of the compositors can take the silence no longer.

  “What information would that be?”

  “Glad you asked,” Max says, handing out slips of paper to each of the compositors. “With the departure of your fearless leader here, the ‘façade’ has an extra salary to work with. We’ve divided it by three, and those bits of paper have your new salaries written on them, should you decide to stay.”

  Too late, the penny drops for Mr. Nipples: “Comrades, it is at times like these that solidarity is most important.”

  “Yeah, for you,” says one.

  “We’re not going to listen to you if you don’t deliver the goods,” says another. “This guy — and I’m not saying he’s a prince — just delivered them. From
you, we’ve got squat.”

  Max turns to the third compositor: “Do you have anything to add?”

  “No. Even after taxes, this raise is going to make a difference.”

  “Well, I guess we’re done then,” Max says, flashing a phony smile. “Lots of work to do before the day is over.”

  Mr. Nipples heads for reception to get his money. Two others head back to the composing room. The last waits just long enough for a private word.

  “We’ll never forget this,” he growls. “You fucking prick.”

  “I understand your anger,” Max says, oozing false sympathy. “But that’s self-discovery for you.”

  1983

  A One-Child Family

  MAX IS UNEASY about being at the Paper. He missed the birth of the Son because he had “one last story” to cover before closing the Montreal Daily’s Latin America bureau and returning to Montreal to become the night police reporter.

  Today, in Halifax, he hasn’t the slightest idea what that story was.

  Now, he worries that he’ll repeat the mistake. With a hoped-for baby daughter on the way, even a hint of trouble with the pregnancy makes him want to stay home. This is such a hint. He and the Wife and Son went for a long walk yesterday and a few hours later she developed cramps. They had been through minor scares with the Son but those were later in the pregnancy and all dismissed as normal by her doctor.

  By bedtime, the Wife was better and in the morning insisted that Max go in to work. The pull of the newsroom and the fear that he might miss something, combined with the Wife’s insistence, won out. He calls her from his office for the fourth time in three hours, but now she says he should think about coming home.

  “It’s not the pain. Something just doesn’t feel right.”

  Max says he’s headed home and begins loading his briefcase with things he can work on. The City Editor, wearing a sharply-pressed Girl Scout uniform, knocks once and cruises in.

  “Gotta go home,” Max says. “I need you to take the news meeting. Don’t worry, nothing’s wrong.”

  The City Editor wants Max’s advice. The Paper’s business section wants a grip-and-grin photo at the chamber of commerce; Entertainment wants a shot of a busker who breathes green fire.

  “You have to ask?”

  “Business will be really pissed. They say you’re always grinding them for pictures and then cancelling their assignments.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Indubitably.”

  Max tries to walk past Sports on his way to the Business desk.

  “Hey Max,” says the dayside guy. “Did you see the typo those nightside assholes let through last night?”

  Max’s stomach lurches.

  “Look at this: ‘the Montreal Canadiennes’. What kind of idiot spells Canadiens like a girls’ team? I don’t know why I bother coming in if these guys are just going to fuck it up.”

  “Why are you here at all?” Max asks. “It’s noon on a Wednesday. Who the Christ is playing sports at noon on a Wednesday?”

  “Someone’s got to plan the coverage.”

  “But you’re claiming overtime at night for that because you don’t have time to do it in the day.”

  Max senses the Cartoonist breathing behind him. He desperately wants to ignore him and leave.

  “What have you got?”

  He’s got a nice drawing of the Minister of Education teaching an elementary class. The words “HOW I LIED ABOUT OUR SCHOOLS” are printed neatly on the board behind him. The caption is “Education Minister explains his actions.”

  “You can’t call people liars,” Max says. “It’s hard to prove and it makes them determined to sue.”

  “But he’s a liar.”

  “It’s a bitch to prove. How do we prove he didn’t just make a mistake, or misspeak, or was misinformed?”

  “We’ll prove it in court,” the Cartoonist says.

  “Spoken like a man who’s got fifty grand in his pocket. It’s not about losing, it’s about the cost of winning. We have to pick our spots. This isn’t one of them.”

  “Really? Fifty grand? OK. Can I change the wording?”

  “Yes, but call me at home.”

  By the time Max gets out the door, it’s been half an hour since he closed his briefcase. The drive home is reckless, but too late.

  The Wife is sitting up in the big bed, looking drawn and teary.

  “I lost the baby,” she says. “It was a girl.”

  “You can’t tell at this stage . . .”

  For the first time in their lives together, the Wife yells at him. Through her sobs.

  “Don’t tell me what I saw. I’m the one who flushed it down the toilet!”

  Max climbs on the bed and spoons with her. He wraps his arms tightly around her and lets her cry. When she’s done for a while, she turns and faces him.

  “Nature took something from you,” he says. “It’s not your fault.”

  “But I feel so empty and useless. And you wanted a little girl. I shouldn’t have gone on that walk.”

  “The walk had nothing to do with it, you know that. And I have you and our son and I love you both so much. That’s everything I want. Everything.”

  Max’s guilt is an anchor chain around his shoulders.

  “It’s not your fault,” she says. “I told you not to stay home.”

  “I knew better.”

  Just as he knew better than to stay that extra day at the Latin American Bureau.

  • • •

  Two mornings later, they are eating a late breakfast, having packed the Son off to school. Max, still shaken by the miscarriage, can’t taste the food. But the Wife is cheerfully devouring everything on her plate, looking up at Max periodically to be sure he’s getting the message: I am moving on from this.

  “Maxie,” she says. “I’m not sure we should try to have more kids. The miscarriage was a message.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” Max says.

  “Don’t be so sure. There may be more going on in the cosmos than you think.”

  Max isn’t prepared to believe that. But, although he was excited about the possibility of having a little girl, the truth is his feelings are more about guilt than loss.

  “I don’t think I’m an earth mother,” the Wife says. “Besides, the Paper’s never going to pay enough and we need to start making some decent money.”

  This is true, Max thinks. Newsroom salaries back home have been going through the roof, but not in Halifax. Max is definitely having more fun than his buddies in Montreal, but his take-home is a fraction of theirs.

  The Wife wants to apply for a public relations job at the University.

  “Actually, they call it communications now,” she explains.

  “But it’s still the Dark Side,” Max says, echoing the prevailing view among journalists.

  “Yeah, well, Darth Vader pays better,” she says. “Anyway, it’s just journalism in reverse.”

  “Can flacks and hacks be married?” Max asks.

  “Mixed marriages are more and more common,” she says.

  1983

  A Column from the Editor

  WHEN NATURE DECIDES ON ABORTION

  We had a miscarriage in our family recently, and I was surprised by how hard we took it. My wife and I already have a son who finds ways to make us happy every day, and we know that miscarriages are common. Our doctor says one in five pregnancies end this way, and lot more if you count ones that occur before the woman knows she is pregnant. Almost all occur before the foetus is viable on its own.

  It happened at home and I was late getting there, so it was all over before I got to my wife’s bedside. We called our son’s school and left a message that we were out for a while and he should wait for us at his friend’s house down the street. On the way to the hospital we decided t
o tell him when he’s older, if at all.

  After an examination the hospital sent us home, stressing how routine it was and assuring us that we could have another pregnancy if we wanted. Nonetheless, the drive back was lonely. At home we ordered a pizza, but before we could eat my wife hugged our son and left the table in tears.

  Later that evening, as we were preparing for bed, I remembered what my wife said when she broke the news to me. “I’ve lost the baby,” she said.

  I didn’t think anything of it then, but now I realize the words imply that my wife was somehow at fault for what happened, as if she had left a baby on a park bench.

  We don’t talk about miscarriages much, but they can be packed with grief. A woman whose pregnancy has suddenly ended in the death of the foetus not only has to deal with her sense of loss and guilt, but also the departure of powerful hormones that were preparing her for motherhood.

  Phrases like “lost the baby” only reinforce a woman’s sense of guilt.

  My wife experienced one of the common risks of pregnancy, but there was never a baby. There was a foetus and there was a spontaneous abortion.

  Nobody was at fault.

  NOW

  Minor Incident Blown

  out of Proportion

  MAX WANTED TO put distance between himself and the Beacon Arms as fast as his gout would let him, but he couldn’t resist looking back for just a second. The street was placid. There was no sign of a search party or vicious tracking dogs angered by having one of Max’s used socks rubbed in their noses. But it was early. Or was it? There was no way of knowing how long the time-jump had lasted in so-called “real” time.

  Ahead, at the top of a gentle hill, was a large grocery store. A great place to get lost in a crowd. Max focused on the huge Canadian flag above the building and pressed on. By the time he made it inside, he wasn’t sure why he was there. Whatever: it beat sitting in his dungeon.

  There was a “Hot Snacks” area in front of him and to the right, hallelujah, a government liquor store. It was under the same roof as the groceries, but enjoyed its own entrance. Time for a beer, he thought. There never seemed to be any where he lived. Max plunged a hand into his right pocket, feeling the tight balls of paper within. One stood out for its size and texture. He retrieved it and found it to be a twenty-dollar bill.