One of the few remaining centres of activity was Rachel’s news bunker, where she’d assembled a big poster outlining each of the four presidential candidates’ campaign promises, as well as some basic biography and a photo. Tracy paused her pacing to consider Holtz’s jawline, the tragic scope of Samantha Gilmartin’s resumé, and Piotr’s fractured English and unfortunate official photo—he’d been caught in mid-sneeze, and afterward had insisted, without so much as looking at the first take, that it was good enough. The space left for Kennedy was almost completely blank. The only information she’d supplied was a single sentence that listed Emma Peel and Eddie Izzard as influences. In lieu of a picture, Rachel had swapped in a clip art question mark.
Joke candidates, Tracy thought. They only get weirder every year.
Time for a smoke. Tracy headed outside, and without quite realizing it, ended up walking halfway across campus, turning her story over and over in her head. She trotted up the AQ steps, still cracked and deformed from the time Arnold Schwarzenegger had driven a tank down them, nearly a decade earlier, in pursuit of his evil clone. Nobody knew if they’d ever be fully repaired. Then it was up through the gardens and past the statue of Terry Fox. Tracy tapped a knuckle against his artificial leg—a neat, albeit accidental, complement to the school’s reputation in the world of sci-fi. Maybe some of his luck would rub off on her, talismanically. True, a twenty-two-year-old kid diagnosed with fatal bone cancer probably wasn’t the best personification of luck. What he really offered, as every SFU student well knew, was hope.
At the edge of campus, Tracy took a seat in the courtyard next to the Higher Grounds where she’d spilled her guts to Anna about the breakup. Thoughts of Dave still occasionally flickered through her head, and every once in a while she’d come across a memory as raw as a canker sore, the kind so deep-seated that your entire mouth had to reorganize itself around the pain.
But these moments were rare, and getting rarer all the time.
On the other side of campus, Alex wandered back from Shell House, fuzzily hungover and replaying the previous night’s events on a mental loop. The light rain on his head and shoulders felt like splashback from the world’s biggest waterfall.
A handjob isn’t nothing.
He said it to himself again and again, like a mantra.
A handjob isn’t nothing. A handjob isn’t nothing.
They didn’t have sex. But it wasn’t a failure—no matter what Tyson might say later. He came. She came. It was undeniably sexy. Romantic, even. Afterward they cuddled on her mini-couch and watched old Arrested Development episodes on her laptop, touching each other’s fingertips until Maggie, at least, was up for another round. Alex grinned and ducked his head under the covers.
Then they’d both slept for ten hours, legs entwined. When he eventually woke up, Alex spent a full minute taking in the bristly white moustache staring down at him from the wall. It belonged to NDP leader Jack Layton, and his head was offset by the flare of party orange around him; in the picture he looked just about ready to tackle someone.
Maggie rolled over and propped herself up on one elbow. “Looks good, right? I mean, it’s no Norman Rockwell, but I like it.”
Alex turned to look at her. He put his face right up close to hers and scrutinized each feature in turn. She laughed, then clamped a hand over her mouth to cover the morning breath. It was the eye make-up—he’d been so distracted by it last night that he hadn’t processed why the rest of her had looked so familiar, and why his attraction felt oddly like déjà vu.
“The poster sale,” he said.
“Bingo.”
“That is so unfair. My god! Why didn’t you say anything last night?”
“Me?” she giggled. “Why didn’t you?”
Alex slowly pieced the details of their first meeting back together. “You were with your friend,” he said. “The one Tyson said he did all that crazy stuff with.” He faltered, embarrassed to say it out loud.
Maggie said, “You mean coming, like, all over her?”
“Uh, yes. Exactly.”
“Yeah,” Maggie said, rolling her eyes. “He probably did. I wouldn’t get jealous, though. Christine lets all the guys do that to her. It’s kind of her thing.”
Am I really having this conversation right now? Alex thought. “Really? Well, then—what’s your thing?”
She jabbed a finger into his ribs. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already.”
As Alex walked into the Mini-Mart, he replayed the whole exchange over again in his head. He said hello to the owner en route to the drink coolers. She got an impish look on her face and replied, “Someone’s in a good mood today.”
“Me?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Usually you are—how to put it?” She made an exaggerated frowny face.
“Grumpy,” Alex suggested.
“Yes. Exactly right. But today, it is different.”
Alex placed a bottle of water—plain, unflavoured, caffeine- and mascot-free water—on the counter. “I’m just hungover,” he said. “My mouth is made of sand right now. But thank you.”
Outside, he gulped down half the bottle in one go. In the distance a crowd was forming, near the cafeteria where the debate was due to start any minute. It looked like some media people were there, too—plus two security guards he could have sworn were the Metro goons. But they weren’t handing out newspapers now. They weren’t even wearing green. They were just standing there.
Alex made his way up the ramp to the office to go assemble the troops.
The cafeteria was filled with the usual piles of grubby old newspapers (the Metros outnumbering the Peaks at least 3:1) and hard plastic chairs, though today the former had been haphazardly swept to one corner and the latter organized into a grid. It was as packed as the film class had been the day before. The irritable politicians who’d stormed Holtz at the lectern so valiantly now looked simply run down, rubbing their puffy faces and continent-shaped bruises. Overall the shift in the crowd was mostly along departmental lines. The film kids had been replaced by bemused-looking political science majors. Mack Holloway sat in the third row, holding a fresh notebook. Alex, Tracy, and the other Peak editors slipped past the unblinking security guards and set up shop against the back wall. The debate was already under way.
Four podiums had been placed near the floor-to-ceiling windows. Behind them stood Piotr Ivanov, Samantha Gilmartin, and, sporting heels, a wobbly head of black hair, and massive fuck-off sunglasses, the enigmatic Kennedy, who was apparently not a figment of the imagination after all. They were all screaming at one another. Standing at one side was the IEC’S Lana Murphy, looking very tired indeed.
“Candidates, please,” she pleaded. “That’s enough.”
The fourth podium was empty. Holtz hadn’t shown up yet. His manager wasn’t in sight, either.
“Now, as I was saying,” Lana continued, “I’d like to welcome everyone to this, the presidential debate for the 2009–10 SFSS elections—Piotr, please. Enough.”
“It is all irrelevant!” Piotr boomed. “Let us get down to the brass tax, yes? Calamari on Pub menu. Yes/no vote. It is simple.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Samantha hissed. Her meticulously cultivated image as the SFSS’S heir apparent had, in the twenty-four hours since she’d helped instigate the riot, cracked to the point of near-uselessness. “You’re running on a squid-based platform. Your entire career is an Onion headline, you moron. The rest of us have important things to discuss here.”
Kennedy leaned forward over her podium. “I agree with Ms. Gilmartin. Calamari is gross.”
“That is not what I said.”
“Do you provoke me wilfully?” asked Piotr. “This will not stand.” He pointed at the scattered cameramen and photographers in the front row. “Reporters! Document this statement. It is sitting on the record.”
Alex whispered to Rachel, “You getting all this?”
“Unfortunately, I am,” she said. “Your breath is terribl
e, by the way.”
“Enough,” Lana said. “Let’s just get through this.” She turned to the crowd. “First, let me say that our office has received several complaints about each one of these candidates over the past few weeks, and more than one investigation is underway. Rest assured that we will get to the bottom of every one of them. But, since these allegations are as yet unproven, I will not be addressing them in my questioning today.” The noise started to grow again. “Of course, you all are under no such obligation. So have at it. We’re moving alphabetically—first opening remarks go to Ms. Gilmartin.”
Samantha cleared her throat and flashed a rehearsed, if somewhat desperate smile. “My fellow students, we are living through strange times, and at SFU those times have been stranger than usual lately. But times of uncertainty call for a rock to lean on. Not some flash in the pan, but a known quantity. Someone who knows the course, and more importantly … who knows how to return to it, when we’ve lost our way. And to stick to it. That’s also important.” She heaved a heavy sigh, and her smile wobbled. “A vote for me, Samantha Gilmartin, as your student society president is a vote for quality. I have three years’ experience in student politics. The other three candidates, combined, have zero. I mean”—an even heavier sigh—“seriously, just do the fucking math.”
Polite applause. “Thank you,” said Lana. “Next would be Duncan Holtz, but he still hasn’t arrived. So we’ll move on to Piotr Ivanov.”
Piotr gripped the podium with both hands. “Calamari on Pub menu. I say yes. Are you an asshole? Also say yes.”
More polite applause, and a few scattered coughs.
“Well, then.” Lana drummed her fingers. “Is that all, Ivan?”
He squinted. “Only assholes say no to calamari.”
“Oh, give it a rest,” Samantha said. “This is a serious election. I am a serious politician. Does everyone here know that you got kicked out of the Pub because of this calamari bullshit? You’re banned. For life. I mean, really.”
“That’s enough,” Lana said.
“Who’s going to vote for a head case who can’t even attend his own victory party?”
“We’re moving on,” Lana said. “Kennedy, please. Your opening remarks.”
Alex tried to pay attention as the enigmatic presidential hopeful adjusted her huge sunglasses and cleared her throat. But he couldn’t stop thinking about Maggie, and his graduation, and this whole bizarre world that had snowballed into what could now be called his university career. It was difficult to wrap his head around. He’d spent four years in the thick of something that he’d always assumed was a relatively normal experience. The Peak, he’d figured, was as good a front-row seat for university life as you could ask for. But now that he felt himself drifting away from it, an astronaut untethered from his space station, it was becoming more and more obvious that this would be the part of his life he’d spend the rest of it reminiscing about. For all his complaining, he was gradually accepting that he’d never know anything like it again.
No wonder he didn’t care about these people onstage. They were already part of a generation of students he couldn’t relate to. Alex already had his peer group sorted out—he had no interest in acquiring a new one so late in the game. He wanted to reminisce about a shared experience of the recent past, when Facebook was only for university students. He wanted to make sly references to old Swollen Members songs. He wanted to find a way to make the culture sit still, even for a minute, so he could find a way to enjoy it for a little while longer.
Alex was so caught up in his thoughts that he almost didn’t feel his phone buzzing in his pocket. He’d left it in the Peak offices overnight and hadn’t even had time to check his messages yet. He flipped the phone open to a new text message from Maggie: “had fun last nite. this is my number. use it sometime, k? and u konw, ive never actually seen the last waltz…. just an idea. :)”.
Konw, Alex thought. And emoticons? Jesus Christ. But already his heart was betraying him, doing a few reckless somersaults in his chest. Clearly, it knew nothing of grammar.
A crash from the front of the cafeteria brought him out of his reverie. Kennedy had tripped on the dangling fringe of her dress, and was keeled over next to her podium. Around her were scattered cue cards, her glasses, which she was straining to reach, and a chunky tape recorder, humming obliviously. Strangest of all, her hair had done a full ninety-degree pivot, revealing the buzz cut underneath.
It was a wig.
It was Claude wearing a wig.
The crowd froze, unsure how to react. Tracy and Alex turned on Rachel as the implications started to dawn on them. “Did you know about this?” Tracy demanded.
“No!” she said, as stunned as they were. “No, I never—why would I do something so—” She turned to the front of the room. “Claude, what the fuck?”
From the ground, he said weakly, “I thought it would help.” He covered his face with his dress. “Oh god.”
Lana was kneeling at the front of the room, trying to convince Claude back to his feet. But when he rolled away from her, in complete and next-level embarrassment, she stormed over and aimed a shaky, accusatory finger at the editors. “If this is what I think it is,” she said, “I will bring the full force of my office down on your heads. The Peak will pay for this. Honestly, is there a single person in this place who can do their job without committing a felony?”
She barked something over her shoulder and the security guards appeared. The first thing Alex saw was their shadows as they blocked out the overhead lights. “Looks like you guys really stepped in it this time,” one said with a chuckle.
“Time to call it a day,” the other added.
“Get these guys the fuck out of here,” Lana said to them, then left to try to bring what remained of the debates to a close. Claude remained on the floor in the fetal position, dress over his head. Samantha and Piotr were yelling into cell phones at opposite ends of the room. Cameras were flashing non-stop. Mack Holloway was hunched over his tape recorder, dictating into it with a huge smile on his face.
As the editors were being escorted out of the cafeteria, Alex stared into the eyes of the guard next to him: one was icy white, and one dark brown. “Hey, wait,” he said. “You are the Metro goo—I mean, the Metro, uh, distribution guys. Right?”
The one with the mismatched eyes nodded.
“Then—what are you doing here at the debates?”
“Our regular line of work is security,” the second guard said, shrugging. “All over town. Most afternoons we work at banks. You know the strip mall at Hastings and Willingdon? But after that dustup yesterday, we got called in to do this gig.”
The first guard added, “Handing out newspapers in general is pretty bush league, if you ask me. But times are tough. We both got kids to feed.”
Alex took this in for a minute. “So it’s a ‘fuck you, pay me’ type situation,” he said.
The guard looked down at him warily. Alex noticed for the first time the deep lines creasing his face; in this light, the guy could’ve been pushing fifty. “Yeah. I guess you could call it that.”
21
ONE HUNDRED AND ONE BEERS
“I mean, what the fuck was he thinking?”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
“This is pretty bad.”
“How did he even think this was going to go? What was his best-case scenario?”
“Mind-boggling.”
“But, I mean, it’s not that bad—is it?”
“Hello? We’re finished!”
“There are things you just do not do.”
“Did you see the look on Holloway’s face? It’ll be all over the Metro tomorrow.”
“Clear out your desks, people. Sneak out the back door.”
“Would you guys relax already?”
“Is anyone else a tiny bit proud of him?”
“Fuck him. That fucking fuck wrecked everything.”
“If you break the rules, there are consequences. That’s how rules
work.”
The CD string on the office door clattered, and a familiar-looking cross-dresser entered the room.
“Speak of the devil,” Tracy said. “Why don’t you have a seat for a minute, Claude?”
Rachel stormed over and yanked him by his ears into the closest computer chair. “What do you have to say for yourself?” she said, pointing a finger in his face. “Do you even realize what this means, you idiot?”
Claude nervously fidgeted with the hem of his dress. “It’s just—last night—Alex said we needed some new, crazy ideas.”
The others turned to look at Alex. “What?” he said. “I was drunk. He was drunk! And we do need new ideas. But Jesus, Claude. This is not what I had in mind.”
Rachel went on, “So you’ve been Kennedy this whole time?”
“No, no,” Claude said. “She was just this fake, joke candidate. Some guys in my department thought it up—I overheard them talking about it. Back in January.”
“Well, that could’ve been a great story!” Rachel said, exasperated. “Instead you had to pull this shit. Claude, there are rules in journalism. Have you ever heard of conflict of interest? Our whole credibility is shot.”
Suze added, “They’re going to shut us down!”
Claude’s face went white. “Really?”
“Okay, why don’t we all take a deep breath?” Alex said. “Listen. Nobody’s getting shut down. You think this is the first time someone at the Peak has embarrassed the paper in public?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Jesus. Not by a long shot. And we’re still standing here, aren’t we?”
“Well—what do we do, then?” asked Rachel.
Alex thought for a second. “We do our jobs. Which means the two of you”—pointing at Rachel and Tracy—“have to figure out the new angle, and then write your asses off for the rest of the day.” They exchanged a nod. “Suze, if you’re still going to run Claude’s CD reviews next week, you might want to put a pseudonym on them. Keep a little distance from the problem, you know?”
The Dilettantes Page 21