The Dilettantes

by Michael Hingston

  Rachel sensed a soft spot. “Have there been any violations so far?”

  Success: Lana went briefly marble-mouthed before replying, “Actually, yes.”

  Rachel was about to keep pressing when another IEC member burst through the Rotunda doors. His face was drained of colour. “We have a problem,” he said. “Down at the printer’s.”

  Lana hopped to her feet. “Coming,” she said, then looked to Rachel with a sly, relieved smile. “Sorry. Looks like we’ll have to wrap up early.”

  “You know,” Rachel said, “I think I’ll come along. Just for fun.”

  The trio hustled along the main drag of the Maggie Benston Centre to Quad Books, the SFSS-owned and -operated copy store from which all elections materials had to be printed. But rather than follow Lana and her IEC cohort inside, where a group of people had already gathered, arms crossed, at the full-service desk, Rachel fell back to chat up the lone guy leaning against one of the grubby old copiers in the hallway.

  “Hello,” Rachel said to him. “I’m the news editor at The Peak.” She gestured with her thumb back at the door, as if to say, Those dummies don’t know anything. “Do you know what’s going on?”

  The guy looked around for a second. “It’s all this election stuff,” he said. “Every year it’s like this. I’ve been here for three of these things now, and it never changes.”

  Rachel’s recorder whirred away inside her jacket pocket. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, everyone gets fifty dollars to spend on their campaign materials. No matter what. And they have to get their stuff printed from our shop. It’s first come, first served. Those are the rules.”

  “Right. I knew this.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “except you probably also noticed that a certain presidential candidate’s got his posters in all the best spots around campus.” The guy looked around again. “Guess what time Duncan Holtz’s posters were supposed to be printed at?”

  “Pretty early, I’d have to guess,” Rachel said.

  “You’d think so.” The guy’s gaze wandered down to the floor for a few seconds. “Except I’m the one in charge of the wait list. Duncan Holtz was the last person to sign up.”

  Rachel’s eyes lit up. “Which means …”

  “His posters are still technically in the queue. They shouldn’t have even started printing until 4:00 p.m. today.”

  Oh, blessed dumb luck.

  Even Rick was impressed, and he told Rachel as much when he came by the office the next week to pick up his paycheque and—in flagrant violation of his doctor’s orders—take a quick look around to see what kind of shape the place was in. Due to budget cutbacks, the board hadn’t yet hired his temporary replacement. She held the cover story right up to his face.

  “It’s good, Rachel,” he said. “Real good.” He still looked dazed and overtired, as if he ought to have a cartoon bandage wrapped around his head. “Were you able to get any comment from Holtz?”

  She shook her head. “I got his manager on the phone, but he said he couldn’t comment on the—oh, what was the phrase? The ‘efficacy or lack thereof of a business run by the current administration.’”

  “Yuck.”

  “Yep,” she said, grinning. “So I just ran that.”

  “Good girl. Did anyone else up here cover it?”

  Alex jumped in from two chairs over. “I heard CBC mentioned it. And the Metro got it the day after we did. Just a short thing at the back, though—and Mack Holloway didn’t have our source from Quad Books. He was basically cribbing from us.”

  “Nicely done.” Rick started moving toward the door. With his health still fragile, he couldn’t afford to be around these kids for more than a few minutes. The way they carried themselves, with an air of independence, but so obviously looking for a parental figure to latch onto and suck approval out of—it put Rick in constant fear of relapse. He was a PhD student, for crying out loud. How had he ended up with a job that was such a terrifying simulacrum of middle age: the equivalent of eleven clingy kids and a mortgage he couldn’t afford?

  At the door, he turned back and saw, with a wince, the naked expectation on the editors’ faces. They had no idea how bad the situation really was. Well, he thought, at least there are some moments you get to relish. “It’s a victory, guys.” Then, reaching for the right combination of inspiration and tough-love inflections borrowed from an old soccer coach: “Keep it up. There’s lots more work to be done.”

  Rachel looked down at the cover again in wonder. “Yeah, there is,” she said.

  Lately Alex had been feeling weirdly optimistic. He’d banked a few of the better features from the CUP newswire and so was on easy streak at work, and his classes were as mindless as they’d ever been. The film course was a particularly good wheel-spinner. His professor began every lecture by quoting from that week’s film’s IMDb page. She had an ongoing pop quiz where students had to identify that particular movie’s plot keywords; among the correct answers for Antitrust, a 2001 tech-thriller starring Ryan Phillippe, included One Word Title, Racist Comment, and Babe Scientist. One week they’d walked around campus for all three hours, re-enacting scenes from the syllabus and comparing celebrity sightings.

  And it turned out that the week of the debate was also the week that Holtz was scheduled to drop by FPA 137 and give his hotly anticipated guest lecture. Thinking this might be an opportunity to pin the celebrity to the wall about the photocopying scandal, Alex offered to sneak someone else from The Peak into the class. There was an allotted time for questions following the lecture. Holtz would have nowhere to hide, and several hundred witnesses would be there in case he said or did anything stupid and tried to lie about it later. Rachel was ecstatic, until she realized she had to give an in-class presentation at that exact time. She groused about having to find a competent replacement, until, to everyone’s surprise, Tracy volunteered.

  “Copy editors,” Rachel muttered. “You people think you can do everyone else’s job better than they can.”

  “‘You people’?” asked Tracy.

  “Okay. Let’s give it a shot. Do you know what you’re doing out there?”

  “I’ve been reading your stuff all this time, haven’t I?” Tracy replied. “You think I didn’t pick up a thing or two? And besides, Alex here will be my co-pilot.”

  Rachel chewed on a piece of her hair, then nodded. “Take as much space as you need. Just make sure you get a good question in, okay? That pretty boy won’t even know what hit him.”

  15

  NERVES

  That afternoon Tracy and Alex headed to the lecture together, armed with hidden tape recorders and dummy binders. The class was big enough that Professor Monahan would never notice one new face in the crowd; in fact, other students had already started routinely sneaking in their friends, since it amounted to watching a free movie on a theatre-quality screen in a pleasantly air-conditioned room. But since they had to sit close enough to the front to make sure the Peak recorder would pick up Holtz’s voice, they weren’t taking any chances. It was all part of Alex’s plan—he’d even made a photocopy of the course syllabus to stick in the front page of Tracy’s fake workbook. When she saw it, she had to laugh.

  “So what’s this movie we have to watch?” she asked.

  “Maximum Death 2. You ever seen it? A real thinking-man’s killing spree.”

  “And they filmed part of it here?”

  “Yeah. There’s this terrorist/computer hacker with a secret mountain lair—located conveniently near Convo Mall.”

  They stopped for coffee at the foot of the gleaming new FPA wing. Suddenly Alex felt the full weight of his nerves come down on him. He shifted his backpack around and jingled the keys and change in his pocket, too embarrassed to tell Tracy he hadn’t even brought his wallet, for fear of being identified. All he had on him was a small wad of bills, in case of emergency. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a risk even as slight as the one Tracy was about to—if this was how strongly h
is body reacted to being an accomplice, how would it feel to be the actual perpetrator?

  On the other hand, he was a liberal arts student. Fostering timidity was what the discipline did best. It taught you about Shakespeare and Dostoevsky, and then expected you to venture forth into the world and become a citizen of action? What a joke. Every semester SFU was churning out hundreds of Hamlets, hundreds of men from the underground. The professors made crippling indecision sound like a virtue, those sneaks—and students paid them for the privilege.

  Just then Alex saw Tyson strolling down the corridor toward them. “Hiya,” he said. “What are you two gaylords up to?”

  When they told him, his jaw fell open. “No kidding. I love that movie.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” said Tracy.

  “You’ve got to let me come with,” he pleaded. “Please.”

  This was more than Alex had bargained for. Discretion had never been Tyson’s strong suit—in a way, it was surprising he’d never applied for a job at The Peak. A list of worst-case scenarios presented itself. Would Tyson whoop at every explosion during the screening? Catcall Holtz as he approached the podium? Maybe he’d try to pick up a girl sitting all the way across the hall, just for something to do. And since Alex was the only one actually enrolled in the class, he’d be the one to take blame when the truth inevitably came out.

  Relax, he told himself. Just tell him the room is full. Put your foot down, for once.

  But Tracy was already begrudgingly pointing out the classroom at the top of the stairs. Never mind. Alex sprinted a few steps to catch up, scalding his thumb in the process as his coffee splooshed up over the rim.

  At the entrance to the class, Alex reeled as he saw Keith and Chip standing there. Neither he nor Tracy had seen either of them since the firing.

  “What are you guys doing here?” he said.

  “We’re here for Holtz’s thing,” Keith said. Chip nodded vigorously in agreement. “And, uh, we figured you might be here, too,” he added.

  Alex felt sincerely happy to see them. They were from the same generation, after all.

  “Not even going to introduce me, huh?” Tyson elbowed his way in front. “I’m Tyson. You assholes must be from The Peak, too.” They swapped introductions. “Oh! You’re the ones who got canned. You must hate my boy Alex right now.”

  “On the contrary,” Chip said. “We all took the same marching orders. As they say, politics stops at the shore.”

  “You’re goddamned right about that, Chippo,” Keith said.

  Tracy said, “So what’s new? Have you guys been—hanging out together?”

  Keith and Chip belched at the same time. They both looked a little disheveled, Alex thought. And Keith was sporting what appeared to be the wispy beginnings of his own moustache. “How could you tell?” he said. “Hey, by the way, I have a copy editor question for you.”

  “Go on, then.”

  “What’s a funnier comeback: stick it in your dick?”

  “Well—”

  “Or stick it up your dick?”

  “It’s nice to see you, too,” Tracy said.

  Chip added, “What about, ‘Think quick, dick pic’?”

  The kid was a quick study.

  Christ, Alex realized. How am I supposed to get all of us in there? I’m gonna get busted for sure.

  He needn’t have worried. Inside, the lecture hall was packed to the gills, now more closely resembling an actual movie theatre—right down to the jackets splayed over chairs, placeholders for those yet to arrive, and the kids huddled in circles, staring hypnotically into their phones. The usual pre-class chatter had tripled in volume. Better still, thought Alex with relief, it was crammed full of people who didn’t belong there. He followed Tyson to the middle of the centre section, where his friend kicked three jackets onto the floor and brusquely told another couple to make room. “Go on—move.”

  Keith whispered to Tracy, “Who is this guy? I like his style.”

  As for the specific make-up of the crowd, Alex couldn’t get a good read. There were some obvious fans—had someone made a poster way in the back?—but also plenty of others in full nonchalance mode, not giving an outward fuck about anything. The kind of person who smirked at their every surrounding as if it were quaint enough, passable for now, but so completely outclassed by the places where they usually hung out. Alex found this pose frighteningly convincing, at least until he reminded himself that if such a Mecca of Hip actually existed, wouldn’t these people just fuck off there already and leave everyone else alone?

  The actual FPA students were easier to pick out. They’d at least bothered to bring books, if not open them. Alex realized the dummy binders he’d rigged up were about a thousand times more elaborate than necessary. A few of these budding cinephiles had removed their glasses and were rubbing the bridges of their respective noses, trying to block out the chorus of idiots surrounding them.

  From his pocket, Keith awkwardly pulled out a theatre-sized box of Milk Duds. Tyson leaned across the others to demand a handful; settling back, he said to Alex, “Who is this guy? I like his style.”

  Alex thought he also saw some of the other SFSS candidates milling around at the back, but he couldn’t be sure. This year he’d paid even less attention to the nominations than usual, since whoever won would be sworn in after he’d cleared out his stuff from the Peak offices once and for all. They would be the first government of the Post-Alex Era, and he couldn’t be bothered to keep up with the new narrative.

  “Hey,” he said, nudging Tracy. “Am I crazy, or is that Holtz’s competition in the back?”

  She shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  “Me neither. Seems weird, though, doesn’t it? To spy on a guest lecture about exploding aircraft carriers?”

  “Maybe they know something we don’t.”

  “Yeah,” Alex said. “Odds are good on that.”

  After a few minutes, Professor Monahan came in and started anxiously shuffling papers at her podium. Holtz’s manager approached from one of the side exits, whispering something in her ear and moving away again. He kept watch at the exit like a bodyguard, hands crossed over his crotch. Professor Monahan looked up, and squinted at the newly tripled size of her audience. The class’s hum gradually dwindled, then disappeared.

  “Hello, ladies and gentlemen,” she began. “I see some of you have brought a friend or two with you today.” Alex glanced furtively at Tyson, who was holding his cell phone out in front of him, brazenly filming the whole thing.

  Professor Monahan broke out in a girlish grin. “Well, I suppose that’s all understandable.” She gestured to both sides of the room. “Welcome to FPA 137. This is a course that’s 100 percent devoted to filmic media created right here at SFU. It’s the first of its kind, I don’t mind telling you. We are studying these wonderful films and television series in the hopes of coming to better terms with how our school’s representation in the media impacts our own identity as the students, TAS, and faculty who live and work here.”

  Tyson shouted, “Bring on the Holtz!”

  A woollier quiet overtook the room. Alex stared hard at the floor, the guilty ringing in his ears rivaled only by the creak of his tape recorder. Tyson, unfazed, still held his phone aloft; its red recording light blinked on and off, on and off, on and off.

  The silence was broken by Keith guffawing, his mouth full of chocolate-caramel goo: “Fang City!”

  A tidal wave of new chatter rose from the audience, dozens of whispered meta-commentaries from people who all assumed they were speaking much too quietly to be heard. Tyson turned to face the other students, chanting, “Bring on the Holtz! Bring on the Holtz!” A few scattered fans chimed in.

  Holtz’s bird-eyed manager was whispering to someone hidden in the wings of the lecture hall. He nodded, smoothed his lapels, and coolly walked over to Professor Monahan, who was shouting, “Please, please, class, could you—do you think—?”

  The manager gave her the a-okay sign with one
hand and neatly shooed her away from the podium with the other. Alex could tell this was how he dealt with a lot of people, the kind of guy whose assistant had her own smaller assistant. The manager gripped both sides of the podium and took a hard look around the room. In a quiet, even tone, he said, “I think that’s quite enough.”

  The volume in the room wavered a little, but too many of the students were once again staring down at their phones, and therefore unreachable. He added, raising his voice only a little, “Mr. Holtz has other places to be, you know.”

  Dead silence.

  The celebrity’s name snapped the crowd back to reality like a hypnotist’s safe word. Tyson and Keith swallowed their Milk Duds and sat at attention. Chip folded his hands politely in his lap. Tracy slipped her dummy notebook out of her dummy backpack and uncapped a pen. Even Alex found himself leaning forward in his seat.

  The manager looked around the room, then gave a nearly imperceptible nod. “Without further ado, I present to you my client, Duncan Holtz.”

  16

  METHOD ACTING

  Duncan Holtz bounded out from behind the curtain, genially waving at the crowd. Tyson and Keith jumped to their feet and hollered with both hands cupped around their Milk Dud–stained mouths. Other whoops echoed around all corners of the lecture hall. This was the true power of celebrity, Alex thought. To incite applause, no matter the occasion. Even the cinephiles and other political candidates were politely clapping. Standing to one side of the stage, Professor Monahan looked serene and lake-surface calm, as if she were in the throes of her favourite recurring daydream.

  Holtz let the applause wash over him for a few seconds. He looked almost regal against the polished oak of the podium. Alex checked the tape recorder hidden in his binder. He nudged Tracy and whispered, “You ready?”

  “I think so,” she whispered back. “Hopefully he goes for it—but it’s illegal to actually campaign here. He can’t be that dumb.”