Max's Folly

by Bill Turpin

  Max’s recognizes the phrase: made-up Latin for “don’t let the bastards grind you down.”

  When he finally opens the envelope, Max finds his Page 3. Except for gaps where reaction quotes will go and a picture of the Premier, the page is ready for the presses. It seems the City Editor and the Indonesian have been busy.

  With his work done for him, Max has time to go home and resume his sleep. But first he spends an hour in the pressroom, admiring the machinery and inhaling God’s own elixir of ink and paper dust. The sun is rising when he finally steps outside.

  • • •

  In the afternoon, the Cobra slithers into Max’s office. Max is editing letters to the editor and doesn’t notice him.

  “You’ve been a bad boy, Max,” he says.

  Max snaps his head up and sees the Cobra’s hood has already flared. He’s ready to strike.

  “I thought I told you I don’t want to see that stupid ‘road to nowhere’ story in the paper,” he says. “But I have it on good authority that you’re working on it, and maybe some other stories that I might not like.”

  Max makes a show of checking his notes: “I said only a fool would run it without you seeing it. That’s all. And I believe that if we get the story, you’ll be bowled over by it.”

  “Really?”

  “There are few things I’m certain of,” says Max. “This is one of them.”

  Finally, after all their years together, the Cobra strikes. In a flash, he bends forward at the waist and stops with his face millimetres from Max’s.

  “Well, don’t try anything smart-ass, Mr. Editor. This is my paper and nothing happens here that I don’t know about. Nothing.”

  He rears back to the strike position and Max looks him in the eye.

  “I can say with 100 per cent sincerity that I stake my job on it,” he says.

  Max watches him depart. It’s those little legs, he thinks, that let him walk without moving his head.

  • • •

  An hour later, the City Editor is in his office to say the News Weevil is on the Batphone and wants to talk to him.

  “Why the Batphone?” Max inquires. “I have a phone right here on my desk.”

  “You have to ask? It’s not enough that I tell you it’s the Weevil?”

  Reluctantly, Max trudges after her to the Batphone. She asks him to be quick because there are serious journalists who use that line.

  “Chief,” he whispers. “It’s Weevil. I’m in the legislature library.”

  Max explodes: “Why are you fucking WHISPERING?”

  The newsroom goes quiet.

  “Because I’m in a library.”

  Max can feel his intestines waking up. He takes a breath.

  “Okay. Point taken. Why are you calling yourself Weevil?”

  “It’s a great nickname, Chief. I want to keep it.”

  Max allows his head to free-fall to his chest. The Weevil continues.

  “It’s in the Premier’s riding.”

  “What is?”

  “The runway. The road to nowhere.”

  “But it’s not. We triple-checked that.”

  “Yeah, but our map was from before redistribution. There was a delay printing the new one,” the Weevil says. “We never checked the actual report.”

  Max wants to kick himself. The Paper was focused on the big picture, i.e., the game of transferring voting power from Halifax to the outback. They — Max — forgot the details.

  “The Premier’s new riding lost a sliver on the east and added one on the north,” the Weevil says.

  “And how did that work out for him?”

  “The eastern section voted heavily against him in the last election, but the polls in the north are pro-Premier. This gives him a better cushion.”

  “Especially if the area has road-building money coming in,” Max says.

  “That’s right, Chief,” the Weevil whispers. “Everybody loves a new road. Even if it doesn’t go anywhere.”

  Max goes to see the City Editor, but she cuts him off: “I know. We’ll fix up Page 3 and keep it hidden. It’s kinda fun sneaking in here at night. I mean, you know.” She has a sly look on her face.

  “Spare me the details,” Max says, but he’s already looking around the newsroom to see where an enterprising young couple might “do it.”

  • • •

  Max’s revenge is at hand. He and the Wife are watching Apocalypse Now on the VCR when the Indonesian calls. Max cradles the phone against his cheek while he opens a third bottle of Côtes du Rhône. The Indonesian is reading from notes prepared by Max.

  “Hello, Max. I’m calling about a large brown envelope I found on my desk when I came in tonight. On the outside, it says to call you at midnight.”

  Max motions to the Wife. He returns to the phone and confirms that the Collective has gone home.

  “Good. Now, for the record, have you ever seen this envelope or its contents before?”

  The Indonesian is a famously honest man, so his answer is a long time coming.

  “No,” he says.

  “Correct. That is because I myself secretly set the type and made up the page for the camera. One moment please . . .”

  Max mutes the phone.

  “This is the last chance to call it off,” he tells the Wife.

  “You can call it off, or you can live with yourself,” she says. “Do it.”

  Max returns to the Indonesian, speaking slowly and carefully: “I am instructing you to take that page, for which I have sole responsibility, to the press crew and have them substitute it for the current page three. You can do this, or you can pack up your personal belongings and go home — for good. For greater clarity, if you do not do it, you are fired immediately.”

  The Indonesian clears his throat: “Max, I do not wish to be fired and, after reading the page, I can see no reason why I would not follow your instructions. Therefore, I have no choice but to do as you say immediately.”

  Thirty minutes later, the Indonesian calls to say the presses are running.

  1995

  The Smell of Napalm

  in the Morning

  IT’S A WEEK before election day. Max is staring at page three, thinking about the nice job the City Editor and the Indonesian did putting it together. The road to nowhere story was so outrageous that the Other Paper had no choice but to assign reporters to it. The other media picked up the signal and followed suit.

  “I and my colleagues have nothing to apologize for,” the Premier is telling the broadcast hacks, over and over. “This government is not afraid to help Nova Scotians. That is all I have to say. What I can tell you is how much I wish the newspaper that published the so-called story had given us a chance to comment. But they wouldn’t have a story if they did that, would they?”

  As well, all the competing media jumped on the priest story because the church is now officially a target. And they all hate Bentley & Steele, so that was a no-brainer.

  But oddly, even though he came in early just for that purpose, Max hasn’t been fired yet. The phone rings and it’s the Lawyer. The Cobra must have asked her to do the firing.

  “I’ve been taking calls all morning,” she says. “The libel actions and the contempt investigation have been dropped. Human Rights is backing off, too. I’ll have to dial-down my vacation plans, but I’m happy for you.”

  Max needs a moment to absorb the news.

  “You don’t find it all a bit strange?” he asks.

  “Nothing about your Paper surprises me any more. Bye, Max.”

  In his fevered fantasies, Max’s private homage to Apocalypse Now never got past Robert Duvall extolling “the smell of napalm in the morning”.

  Now, Max thinks, this could truly be “the smell of victory.”

  He calls the Wife at work.

  “Every
thing okay?” he asks.

  “Definitely. A courier just delivered a note from his Excellency — copied to the board chair — praising my work.”

  Max asks what she thinks is going on.

  “Maybe they’re trying to get you to drop your guard. Maybe someone will shoot you in the parking lot tonight.”

  “Yep. That’s it. You’ll miss me, then?”

  “Oh, terribly. Gotta go, but while I still have you on the line, do you have that car dealer’s number by any chance?”

  “He’s not nearly enough man for a woman like you,” Max says.

  • • •

  Max is as fond of the City Editor as ever, but their meetings have been duller since she started dressing professionally, swearing less and making fewer suggestive remarks.

  “This came for you,” she says, pulling a video cassette out of a courier package, popping it into Max’s VCR and hitting play.

  “Don’t let me hold you up,” he says. “Feel free to play it.”

  She hands him the sealed envelope that came with the cassette.

  Onscreen they see a colour image of a naked white man, middle-aged with a considerable paunch. He’s on his hands and knees atop some kind of bench about four feet off the ground.

  “Excellent definition,” the City Editor says.

  A skinny woman with breasts held up by a pointy half-bra enters the frame wielding a ping-pong paddle. She lines it up with his backside.

  Whack!

  Max and the naked man flinch in unison.

  “Is this one of the tapes from R v Spadinsky?” Max asks.

  “Well, it’s not Mr. Roger’s Neighbourhood.”

  Whack! The young woman strikes an especially effective blow. The man groans. “Now shush,” Spadinsky urges him. “This is what you signed up for.”

  Whack! Whack! A deeper groan.

  “Ewww,” the City Editor says. “I hate it when they dangle like that. I like ’em high and tight, you know?”

  “Of course,” Max says solemnly. “Everyone says that.”

  There’s a break in the action. The naked man turns his head back to face Spadinsky.

  “Recognize anyone?” the City Editor asks.

  “Well, it’s not his best angle, but is this . . .?”

  “You bet it is,” she says. “Wait ’til Mother Mary sees this.”

  Whack!

  “Make friends with the paddle, your Excellency,” Spadinsky says, coaxing him on.

  “There was a note taped to the cassette,” the City Editor says. “There are four other names on it, all of whom you’ll know.”

  Max scans the note: “Well, certainly they’ve all been bad boys. Very bad.”

  Whack! “Oh!”

  “Take that you nasty little boy!” the City Editor barks to the screen.

  Whack!

  “Should I put the Weevil on it?” she asks.

  “No. It’s their private lives,” Max says. “The important thing is that they believe we’ll use this stuff, if they’re not careful.”

  “Well, why did you fight the ban then?”

  “It’s what we do,” he says. “Anyway, the Spadinsky case is toast.”

  Max has no doubt the tape explains all the conciliatory phone calls and other positive news this morning.

  He opens a sealed envelope that came with the package. Inside is a card with the words GCPR in gold across the top. And below that the words “Communications and Public Relations Consultants.”

  There is also a handwritten note:

  Max — Found this in our office yesterday. No idea where it came from. We felt the ethical thing was to send copies to all those depicted. (No, I don’t mean you’re one of them. Maybe next time.) We just thought you might be interested. And remember, our invitation to join our rapidly-growing firm remains open.”

  It was signed by the CEO.

  The City Editor leaves and Max calls the Dancer’s special number, which turns out to be a satellite phone.

  “Maxie!” she shouts. “Sorry it took so long to answer. The concierge had to bring it to me. You should be at this party. No one’s wearing any clothes. You’d love it!”

  Happily, the party turns out to be in Milan.

  “Where did you get the tape?” he asks. “I thought you were out of that business.”

  “I don’t know what tape you’re talking about,” she says. “But if I did, I would say that selling real estate, a person meets all kinds of people.”

  They chat for a bit, but the Dancer has to go: “It’s cold just standing around.”

  The City Editor knocks on his door: “The Crown just dropped the Spadinsky case.”

  1995

  The Campaign:

  Sic Transit Maximus

  IT’S A WEEK after Operation Apocalypse Now — election day. Max is watching the television coverage in his office. An hour in, CBC declares the Party and the Premier re-elected for the fifth time. Unprecedented, they say.

  Everyone’s reporting that the Premier’s popularity actually shot up after the road-to-nowhere story.

  Max looks up to see the Cobra standing in his doorway.

  “Max, I’d like you to meet your replacement,” he says.

  Beside him is Big Mac — Amhuinn Maolmuire Maceach­thighearna — older but no less hairy.

  The Cobra looks like he’s found a sunny rock to relax on. Max knows his days at the Paper are over.

  “Aye, that’s him,” he says to the Cobra, pointing to Max. “He fired me because I’m from Cape Breton.”

  Max rises and extends his hand: “Actually, I said Cape Bretoners move too slowly in the winter because the cold makes their blood thicken up. Still, it’s close enough for the game we’re playing, right? How’s your dog?”

  “I’m afraid he’s passed, but he sired a sturdy lass that’s waiting in my car.”

  “We can’t have an editor who’s biased against Cape Bretoners,” the Cobra says.

  “You’re right. I might as well be a racist,” Max says.

  Big Mac lunges toward him: “You are a racist — are you sayin’ Cape Bretoners are not a race?”

  “Never mind,” Cobra tells Big Mac. “Max, we’ll need a cover story for your departure that won’t embarrass the Paper.”

  “I’ll have that by tomorrow morning and I’ll be gone by mid-afternoon.”

  “Good,” the Cobra says. “In case you wondered, dickhead, I don’t like being underestimated, either.”

  • • •

  Max calls the Dancer’s special number again.

  “I want to join the firm,” her tells her.

  “That’s wonderful. I just knew you would,” she says.

  She starts talking madly about the arrangements, including the $500,000 price of buying a partnership. Max breaks into a sweat. He doesn’t have that kind of money.

  “Of course you do,” the Dancer says. “Your shares of Golden Cat Enterprises are worth twice that. We’ll just do a swap.”

  To Max, this does not seem possible.

  “Maxie, every year for more than two decades I’ve called to ask you if you wanted dividends or more equity,” she says.

  That was because, until very recently, Max assumed the Dancer didn’t have much money and needed the cash. He didn’t want to put her on the spot.

  “That’s what I thought,” the Dancer says. “You’re so adorable that way. But I did tell you I’d make you rich. And it hurt that you never asked. Oops! Gotta go — partner!”

  2005

  You Think You're So Clever

  and Classless and Free

  THE EMCEE CALLS Max to the podium to accept his award as Halifax’s Communicator of the Year. The crowd is still applauding a ludicrously expensive video about his career. Spotlights are lurching drunkenly across the crowd.

  Max grabs
both sides of the lectern, looks out at the room and waits. Just as the rhubarbing begins to decline, but not before, he looks over at the Wife and then speaks.

  “Now,” he says, and the noise drops immediately. Max knows he has the crowd on his side. They’re dying to laugh or cry with him, as required.

  He realizes that he’s back a bit from the microphone’s sweet spot. This is confirmed when he sees the sound technician getting ready to adjust the gain. He moves in a little.

  “Now,” he says, getting the resonance he wants this time. “If I had said . . . a decade or so ago . . . that tonight I would be accepting the Communicator of the Year award . . . how many people here would have bet against me?”

  On cue, the Wife extends her lovely arm and almost the entire room follows suit in a crescendo of warm, boozy laughter.

  So, Max says to himself, this is what it’s like inside the tent. God, what bullshit.

  1973

  Seduction Truth Revealed!

  “Here. This is the place,” Max’s own voice says in his head.

  He is disturbed by the voice on the one hand but, on the other, he has the feeling the voice is speaking some kind of truth. Then the voice and the memory of it are gone.

  • • •

  Without the avuncular presence of the Copy Editor, Max and the Veteran Reporter sit in silence at the Cat Shack for almost the entire length of You Are the Sunshine of My Life. The Veteran Reporter is watching the dance floor. Max uses the opportunity to discreetly “take a look”, as advised by the older, wiser Copy Editor.

  Obviously, she has no grey hair. God, he thinks, she’s kind of elegant and, at most, maybe three or five years older than me, not 10. For the first time since they met, Max tries to check out her breasts. His angle is awkward, but he is able to confirm actual cleavage.