Lincoln's Briefs

by Wayne, Michael

  While he was standing in the terminal wondering what to do next, three of his fellow passengers sidled over to him. “From Alberta, right? Calgary, maybe?” they inquired with friendly grins. It was a reasonable guess, given that he was wearing a ten-gallon hat, a gift from the President on his last trip to the ranch. The three men were from Alberta themselves, and when they learned that the individual they were addressing was an American, they prostrated themselves before him and began to kiss his feet. “What a quaint custom,” the Director of the CIA mused. Still, after ten minutes he thought he should be on his way. “Oh, but you must join us for dinner,” one of the men insisted. And when he demurred, they told him that they had witnessed his treatment by immigration officials and had “the means to rectify the injustice.” Since he was facing the daunting prospect of confronting Bobbi Jo Jackson alone (and now unarmed), he concluded that it was in his interests to accompany them.

  They were staying, as it happened, at the very motel where Yale Templeton and Bobbi Jo Jackson had spent their first night together. Not that we should expect a similarly erotic result from the encounter the men had with the Director of the CIA, whatever the underlying origin of their lusting after things American. They were the founding members, they announced proudly, of a new political movement: the Alberta Idea. They had gone to Texas to observe first-hand a society unashamedly devoted to literal interpretation of the Bible and free enterprise. And the trip had been every bit as rewarding as they had hoped. They even got the chance to see Rush Limbaugh and five of the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders at the opening of a suburban mall.

  The Director of the CIA was both surprised and impressed. He had not realized that such right-thinking people existed in Canada. And so began a love-in. Not literally, mind you. Not, as I said, with the erotic dimension of the rendezvous between Yale Templeton and Bobbi Jo Jackson. Not entirely, anyway. For one thing, no one burst into the room with a video camera. But the four men did find that they were bedfellows (as it were), sharing a common dream of a North America free of sin, free of gun laws, and most of all, free of taxes.

  The men from Alberta pulled out a series of pamphlets to demonstrate how completely they identified with the American heartland—pamphlets on the folly of socialized medicine, on the evils of public television, on the corruption of organized labour, on the emasculating iniquity of feminism, on the blasphemy of gay marriage. Pamphlets with titles such as How Government Handouts Destroy the Moral Fibre of the Poor; How Government Subsidies Strengthen the Moral Fibre of Multinational Corporations; Putting an End to Abortion: Because Life Is Sacred; Bringing Back Capital Punishment: Because Some Life Is Not All That Sacred; Immigrants: Speaking of Life That Is Not All That Sacred; Oil: The Myth of Global Warming; Evolution: A Perversion of the Godless; Oh, and In Case You Were Wondering, the Earth Is Flat.

  The Director of the CIA skimmed through all the pamphlets with great pleasure. To think that there was a political movement in Canada that so closely reflected his own vision. He asked the men from Alberta if they would be open to the prospect of annexation by the United States.

  They looked at him with keen interest. “What would that mean exactly?”

  “Well you would, of course, get to send representatives to Congress.”

  “And to the Senate?” one of the men asked.

  “Yes, to the Senate as well.”

  “And how many senators would we have?”

  “Two, the same as everyone else.”

  “And if the rest of Canada joins the United States, how many senators would Ontario have?”

  “Why, two of course.”

  “Exactly the same, then. Not three or maybe four.”

  “Yes, exactly the same.”

  And the representatives of the Alberta Idea starting dancing around the room, whooping and hollering and high-fiving, before finally flinging themselves on the floor and kissing the feet of the Director of the CIA all over again.

  The goal of Manifest Destiny was apparently much closer than anyone in Washington dared dream, the Director of the CIA said to himself. Maybe even closer than when Brian Mulroney was prime minister. “And imagine, I will have the privilege of breaking the news to the President.”

  But first, of course, he had a mission to complete. Without mentioning Yale Templeton by name, he explained that he was in Toronto to deal with someone who represented a profound threat to the United States.

  “A terrorist, you mean,” one of the men said.

  Not the most apt description, perhaps, of the newly appointed Abraham Lincoln Distinguished Professor of the American Civil War, but … “Yes,” replied the Director of the CIA, “a terrorist.” Which was why he needed to go well armed.

  The men from Alberta agreed wholeheartedly. And opening up a trunk, they revealed a most wondrous cache of weapons. The Director of the CIA was beside himself with excitement. He took a few minutes to examine the firing mechanism on several of the handguns before selecting a Beretta (of course), a Glock, a derringer (with ankle holster), a Bowie knife, and, just to be on the safe side, a .300 Winchester Magnum.

  “Whoa! Good choice with the rifle there, sir. You could bring down a moose with that.”

  Given his experience with immigration officials, he thought it best not to travel on public transit. Even taking a taxi posed risks. “The cab drivers in Toronto, they’re all from Uganda or one of them other Middle Eastern countries,” advised the member of the Alberta Idea responsible for immigration policy. So the Director of the CIA called up Avis and arranged for a rental van to be delivered to the entrance of the motel. It turned out a gun rack was unavailable. “We don’t get much call for those in Toronto,” the agent admitted. “Probably just as well,” said one of the Albertans. “Better to keep the Winchester hidden.” So the Director of the CIA slid the rifle under the back seat of the van, and after consulting a road map and making his goodbyes (allowing his new associates several more minutes for foot kissing), he was on his way.

  The most sensible course, he decided, would be to park a couple of blocks from Yale Templeton’s apartment and make his final approach on foot. It was night now, so he would have the advantage of darkness. Still, best to take evasive action. And he started to run snakily back and forth across the street, going from front yard to front yard crying “Serpentine! Serpentine!” (Standard CIA procedure ever since he had seen Peter Falk execute the manoeuvre in The In-Laws.) The result, however, was not quite as he had intended. When Mrs. Cordelia Devonshire-Hoskins saw a man weaving across the lawn of her stately mansion with a rifle slung over his shoulder, she did what she always did when the sanctity of Rosedale was threatened. Within seconds the Director of the CIA found himself pinned face first to the sidewalk by a team of police officers, a cocked revolver at his head and handcuffs severing the circulation to his wrists. It was a deeply humiliating experience, made worse by the fact he had to surrender all his new weapons.

  The night he spent in the Don Jail was deeply humiliating as well, the only consolation being his cellmate, who was also an American. A Native American, in fact—direct descendant of the illustrious Penobscot chief Governor Neptune Lookalike. His own name was Henry David Thoreau Lookalike, and yes, he had been named after the famous author, “a close personal friend of my great-great-great-grandfather.” For the next several hours he entertained the Director of the CIA with stories about Indian life and the world of American letters. As dawn approached he confided that “back on the reservation” he had an unpublished manuscript by Thoreau, “a penetrating exploration of the links between whale and moose” inspired by some ruminations passed down by Chief Neptune. He had long thought, he confessed, that he should make a gift of it “to someone like yourself who has an obvious appreciation for the role of Indians in the literary heritage of our great country.” All he asked in return was a donation to the charitable foundation he had formed in support of Native poetry. He would even throw in a guide to fine dining in the vicinity of the Don Jail “at scarcely any ch
arge.” The Director of the CIA was deeply touched, so much so that he not only accepted the offer, but acceded to a request by his new acquaintance that they abide by a hallowed custom of the local Ojibwa population and seal their friendship by exchanging clothes.

  Released the next morning on his own recognizance (since Canada allowed him the sorts of legal protection he conspired to deny foreigners in the United States), he started off in what he took to be the direction of Rosedale. Eventually he arrived at the corner of Church and Wellesley, where a crew was at work laying the foundation for a new branch of the YMCA. Nearby stood a policeman routing traffic away from the construction site. A good opportunity to get directions, the Director of the CIA thought.

  Across the street Jerome Bakee was sitting at the bar of the Neuter Rooster. He had just started in on his fourth cosmopolitan when, looking up, he caught sight of a man in Native headdress and fringed imitation moosehide pants talking to a police officer and a construction worker. There was only one conclusion possible, at least for the corner of Church and Wellesley. “It’s the Village People!” he shouted. And then he and everyone else in the bar poured out into the street.

  Soon they were joined by clerks and customers from all the surrounding shops, and the Director of the CIA found himself, along with the police officer and the construction worker, hoisted into the air and passed along a sea of hands to a hastily assembled stage. The staff at the Neuter Rooster came running outside carrying a sound system, and suddenly Church Street was alive with the pulsating rhythm of “YMCA.” Fortunately, the Director of the CIA was familiar with the song, having recently attended a bar mitzvah for a grandson of the chairman of the Federal Reserve Board. Inspired by the crowd, he put on a magnificent show. Even managed to fake his way through “In the Navy” and “Macho Man” before finishing with a twelve-minute dance solo drawing on his knowledge of Indian culture. (That is to say he shuffled across the stage shouting “Woo! Woo! Woo!” while whapping the palm of his hand against his mouth.)

  All of which was carried live on the local evening news, and as a result, witnessed by Yale Templeton and Bobbi Jo Jackson. Not that they made a habit of watching the local news. But tonight, immediately afterward, the CBC was running a special edition of The Nature of Things called “The Moose, Our Misunderstood National Symbol.”

  “I wonder, do you think that dance is authentic?” said Yale Templeton, referring to the performance by the Director of the CIA. “I’ve never seen a First Nations chief do a back flip.”

  “Hard to tell,” replied Bobbi Jo Jackson. “It is interesting, though. By the way would you mind if I moved the wicker basket for the old newspapers next to the front door? Just for a couple of days, I think.”

  Presumably at that point the fate of the Director of the CIA was, so to speak, sealed. After his terpsichorean improvisation at Church and Wellesley (followed by an evening of revelry at a private club in the neighbourhood), he tried to contact the representatives of the Alberta Idea. Alas, they had already checked out of their motel. He had promised the President that he would keep his mission secret, so he decided it best not to get in touch with anyone at the American Consulate. Instead he went to a costume store, where he purchased a mailman’s uniform, a cap gun, and what the clerk told him was a mask of Henry Hudson. (Actually a mask of Leonid Brezhnev the store had been trying to unload since before the end of the Cold War. In his defence, the Director of the CIA did think the face looked familiar.)

  A half hour later he was on the streets of Rosedale, though this time in disguise. Mindful of his disastrous experience just two days earlier, he decided to forego his Peter Falk imitation. Instead he strolled along as if he were simply another dedicated Canadian public servant going about his business. When he arrived at the apartment building where Yale Templeton lived, he discovered that the outside door was kept locked. Not wishing to arouse suspicion, he stood off to one side, making a pretence of sorting through some letters. When a tenant arrived burdened down with grocery bags, he tipped his cap and graciously offered to hold the door open for her. A few seconds later he was in the lobby. He had already ascertained that Yale Templeton lived on the second floor, in apartment B202. Locating the stairwell, he quickly ascended one flight and peeked out into the hall. To his relief, it was empty. Adjusting his mask, he made his way furtively past a nightstand and several potted plants, until he arrived at a door with a silver “B202” directly above a pair of miniature moose antlers. Instinctively wrapping his fingers around the handle of the cap gun in his pocket, he pushed the buzzer. At first all was silence. Then he heard the sound of a deadbolt being drawn back slowly, ever so slowly. The handle of the door began to turn and …

  Well, frankly, what happened next is so preposterous as to defy description. Suffice it to say, the Director of the CIA ended up inside a wicker basket surrounded by old editions of the Globe and Mail and Toronto Star. Because his arms were pinned next to his sides, he was prevented from getting to his Xanax. Smothering in his own panic, he passed out almost immediately. By the time he was removed from the basket and revived—this was several days later at the FedEx terminal in downtown Washington—his mind was a complete blank. As I noted previously, it would be several weeks before he could even begin to speak coherently about how he had ended up in the wicker basket. And he never did find out what happened to the original manuscript of Fluke and Antler.

  LVI

  Moose fight with others of their kind only in the rutting season.

  SAMUEL MERRILL, THE MOOSE BOOK

  September has come upon the Great White Moose. It was some weeks ago that he began his trek from the Temagami district, and since then he has remained steadfast on course. He is headed for the Chapleau Crown Game Preserve, to fulfill his destiny. Or, as I phrased it earlier, his Manifest Destiny.

  His direction has been north and west, over vast uninhabited (by humans) tracts of the Canadian Shield. Through forests and bogs, across rivers and lakes, along the edges of rocky outcroppings. From time to time his journey has brought him within a few kilometres of one of the isolated towns that fleck the northern wilderness—Shining Tree, Gogama, Milrod, Kukatush. But until today he has skirted all human settlements. By chance, though, rather than by design. He is moving without fear now—of humans but, more to the point, of the spectre whose memory until recently was a constant affliction. And so as he arrives late in the evening at the small settlement of Marshall’s Revelation, he feels no impulse to make a detour. Quite the contrary, he ambles blithely ahead, straight down the middle of the main street.

  Not that there is much for him to see: several homes, a drugstore, a diner, a grocery with a gas pump out front. The local headquarters for The Loyal Order of Moose distracts him momentarily, largely because of the magnificent set of antlers nailed above the front door. But it is only when he arrives at the appliance store that he comes to a full stop.

  In the window is a television set inadvertently left on by a forgetful clerk. Looking out severely from the screen of the television (and fixing him with his eyes, so it must appear to the Great White Moose) is a man wearing a collar so large and seemingly so constricting that it awakens in the moose long dormant memories of the cumbersome halter his keeper used to put around his neck for certain ceremonial occasions among the Ojibwa. What he has chanced upon is that sanctified artifact of CBC television, Hockey Night in Canada. It is first intermission of a preseason contest between the Toronto Maple Leafs and Philadelphia Flyers. The man in the collar is an evangelical preacher who has just mounted his pulpit to deliver a blistering sermon devoted to his favourite subject, “The Holy Commandments of The Game.” The Great White Moose regards him with … what? Bewilderment? Curiosity? Alarm? Impossible to tell from his dispassionate expression.

  “YOU KIDS OUT THERE,” the preacher exhorts, “I’M GONNA SHOW YUH SUMPIN’ HERE I NEVER NEVER EVER WANNA SEE ANY OF YOUSE DOIN’. LET’S RUN THAT CLIP.” On the screen a Flyer defenceman skates up behind a centre on the Maple Leafs an
d hooks his feet out from under him. The Leaf crashes face first onto the ice, then lies there motionless, blood gushing from his nose.

  “NOW, YUH SEE WHAT THAT THERE PHILLY DEFENCEMAN DID? I’M NOT GONNA MENTION WHERE HE COMES FROM, ’CAUSE YUH KNOW I CAN GET INTO TROUBLE FOR THAT KINDA THING.” Then he picks up a Russian flag and waves it around his head. “BUT YOU KIDS, I WANT YUH TO UNDERSTAND, CHEAP SHOTS LIKE THAT, KNOCKIN’ SOMEONE DOWN FROM BEHIND, THAT’S NOT THE WAY TO PLAY THE GAME. NOT THE CANADIAN WAY.”

  And then a second film clip appears on the screen. A player on the Flyers (a left winger who scored a total of four goals the previous season while running up 312 minutes in penalties) and a player on the Maple Leafs (a right winger with five goals and 279 minutes in penalties) meet at the faceoff circle and start exchanging what appear to be pleasantries about their respective mothers. Then suddenly they drop their sticks and gloves and begin flailing away at each other with bare fists. Two minutes later they lie side by side on the ice, motionless, blood gushing from their noses.

  “BEAUTY! YUH SEE THAT? FACE TO FACE! GOD LOVE ’EM! NOW THAT’S THE WAY REAL MEN PLAY HOCKEY!” chortled the preacher. “THAT’S THE CANADIAN WAY!”

  There was no one else in Marshall’s Revelation to witness the sermon on the television or to witness the Great White Moose witnessing it. The entire population of the village, young and old, male and female, had gone on a pilgrimage to Milrod to take in a hockey tournament involving twelve-year-olds from communities across the Far North of the province. Indeed, at the very moment when the left winger on the Flyers and the right winger on the Maple Leafs were preparing to knock each other senseless, the players on the team from Marshall’s Revelation and their opponents were mobbed together at centre ice in the Milrod Arena, ritualistically acting out their own sacred claims to Canadian masculine identity.