Everything Is So Political

by Sandra McIntyre

  “It’s not that simple is it?”

  “No,” he says with a chuckle. “And yes.” He wets the tip of a fresh cigar between his lips. “Nothing is simple. But we make things simple.”

  The first smoke from his cigar hovers between them. K– smells it—sweet and winey—and it reminds him of something he just can’t picture.

  “Nothing is simple,” Dag repeats to himself, looking down into his glass again.

  The fluorescent lights suddenly flicker and go out. A hush falls over the room. Heads look around and up. And K–, in the silence and darkness, closes his eyes and takes one deep, calm breath.

  Diffused by the misted front windows, the glow from the streetlight out front slowly brings the room back into view. Faces reappear out of the darkness, but look softened. Shadows stretch across tables and across the floor. And one by one all heads turn towards the front windows, expecting an answer or reason to appear there.

  “It’s the storm,” someone says from the other side of the room. “Yes,” adds another, “it must have hit the power station.” And a light murmur begins again to fill the place.

  Dag leans across the table and whispers to K–, “Then why is the streetlight still on?”

  “Wait,” a silhouetted figure hollers from the front of the room, standing poised against the windows, one arm raised with fingers outstretched, the other wiping away at the condensation.

  “What do you see?” an old man demands impatiently from the back.

  “It’s not the storm,” the silhouette announces loudly, “there are still lights on everywhere.” Turning from the window he adds, “It’s just us—it’s just here.”

  A chair scrapes against the floor as someone gets up. Slowly people gather at the front windows, rubbing away the condensation and looking out into the stormy night street.

  A spark of light catches K–’s eye. The barman has struck a match and is lighting a candle. With the barmaid’s help more are lit and delivered to the tables. K– asks if there is still hot water as the barmaid passes. She relays the question across the room. The barman checks the small electric burner behind the bar but shakes his head “No.” The lack of hot water makes K– anxious, and then being anxious makes him cough. He winces from the sharp pain in his chest and tastes a bit of blood as it seeps between his teeth and settles onto his tongue. Trying to hide his actions he spits into the handkerchief while reaching for his vodka. Looking up again he sees Dag intently watching something across the room. Following his eyes, K– sees that the barmaid has discovered the briefcase and is asking everyone if it belongs to them. With every head that shakes “No” she becomes more confused, and also more intrigued. Finally, standing at the door, her hands on her hips, she stares back at the lone, black case, still on the floor by the bar, and waits, it seems, for the thing itself to reveal to her who its owner is. With a resolved shrug of her shoulders she drops her hands from her hips and marches towards the thing.

  “It’s late,” K– says, fingering his handkerchief nervously inside his coat pocket. “I should go.”

  Dag turns to look at him. “You haven’t finished your drink,” he says in protest, and refills both their glasses from K–’s bottle. “And I was just having a thought.”

  “Another time,” K– says, pushing his chair back from the table.

  “Wait,” Dag says, reaching his hand across to K– but not touching him. “Just one last drink,” he begs.

  K–’s eyes dart across the room. Veronika has tired of her young man, and with pursed lips and a look of absent boredom fingers one of the two candles on her table. And at the bar the briefcase is now laid on the counter, the barmaid and barman inspecting it together.

  K– turns back to Dag to find him with his glass raised.

  “I was just thinking, you know,” Dag says, his voice warm and melancholy, his eyes somehow both happy and sad, “that some things must be simple, because how else could we have such an idea.”

  K– lifts his glass. “Maybe you’re right,” he says.

  Dag grins, but sadly, and with a strange tone of finality, says, “Another time then, my friend,” and drinks.

  Getting up from his chair K– sees Veronika staring at him. A soft smile comes and goes from her face. Walking past her he slows nearly to a stop, looking down at her again, wanting to say something, but not sure what. She looks up at him, her smile returning. His lips twitch, nearly smile, then nervously retighten.

  As he leaves her behind his eyes come up and he sees the barman and barmaid working to unlock the briefcase with a knife. The air, hot and thick now, catches in his throat and he coughs. The barman and barmaid look over at him. He turns away quickly and heads for the door.

  Outside the air is cold and sharp. The wind tears up and down the street, thrashing hard, icy rain against everything in its reach. K– clasps his collar, holds the handkerchief to his mouth, and coughing painfully walks up the street as fast as he can.

  At the corner he stops, out of breath, and leans against a building. The wind shakes him back and forth. The rain has already soaked through the shoulders of his coat—he feels the cold and wet moving slowly down his back, chilling him and making him shiver.

  Someone suddenly calls out his name from behind. Turning, he sees Veronika running towards him, still in the midst of doing up her coat.

  Beside him, her face flushed, her hair wet and sticking to her face, her breath warm and smelling of saliva, she looks at him. He stares back at her, and his want to say something returns. He opens his mouth. Her lips part in anticipation. And just as he begins to make the sound of a word a deafening crack and boom and blinding flash of light blow out the front windows of the café-bar. Glass and debris shoot like bullets in every direction. A cloud of black smoke punches across the street, hits the buildings there, and curls back on itself. A streetlight creaks and falls onto a parked car.

  Veronika swallows and slips her arm into K–’s.

  The dust and smoke settle, blown and washed away by the wind and rain. And a soft flickering, from whatever’s still burning inside what used to be the café-bar, dances on the debris-covered sidewalk out front.

  K– coughs. Veronika squeezes his arm more tightly.

  “Do you have hot water and lemon in your apartment?” he asks, still staring down the street.

  “Yes,” she says.

  And as they turn and walk away, Veronika’s arm cradled inside K–’s, a lone siren starts up in the cold distance.

  Halifax on Strike!

  David Fleming

  February 2

  At 6 AM hundreds of pedestrians walk by the picket line of the Amalgamated Transit Union at the Dartmouth Sportsplex. Some look down at their feet, others glare at the striking bus drivers. They cover their faces against the falling of sharp snow. Their only hope, in the unutterable cold, is that this strike will not last long.

  February 7

  Miles is waiting outside of City Hall, wondering where the mayor parks. After two 80-minute lectures and a library afternoon, he is waiting for a ride home. Theodore Kelley exits the side door, hoping to be unseen.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Mayor,” says Miles.

  “Can I help you?” says the mayor quietly.

  “I need a ride.”

  “Oh?”

  “You do have a car, don’t you Mr. Mayor?”

  “Uhh…”

  “Or do you take the bus out to Bedford?”

  “I’m not sure why you are asking me this.”

  “I’d like a ride home, Mr. Mayor.”

  “From me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Clayton Park. It wouldn’t be too far out of your way.”

  “Isn’t there someone else you can ask?”

  “Yes.”

  “Someone you know, maybe?”


  “Yes.”

  “Then why me?”

  “To make a statement. To feel empowered.”

  “Oh,” Theodore Kelley says, as if it all makes sense now, and then bolts.

  The slight mayor is wearing a black suit with a blue tie and a white shirt. The embattled mayor is running across the Grand Parade, respectfully avoiding the pickets. Slush and puddles invade his dress shoes, make a joke of his thin dress socks.

  Miles makes chase through the square, but is less conscious of the union members. He is accidentally tripped, falls into a burly driver with a moustache who looks bigger than he is because he is wearing a t-shirt with a slogan over his puffy winter coat. The driver pushes Miles without thinking, sends him into another driver who catches him and says, “get outta here son” with a hand on each shoulder, frighteningly close to the neck, and gives a push that sends the young man sliding across the square. He turns to avoid striking another driver, but crashes into the stone wall that surrounds the Grand Parade.

  Regaining his composure, the student spots the mayor slipping down the stairs leading to the underground parkade at the World Trade Centre.

  “My name’s Miles, by the way!” the startled one cries. “Did you want to know my name sir? Name’s Miles Gilles!”

  Miles Gilles slumps his arms over the wall and Theodore Kelley is gone.

  February 14

  It is Valentine’s Day. Miles enters his apartment. He sits down and turns on the news. The story outlines how the transit union voted to accept binding arbitration and then marched across the bridge to the Grand Parade Square. The footage Miles is watching shows them wearing bright red t-shirts pleading, “Have A Heart Mr. Mayor. We Want Back To Work” over puffy winter coats.

  Ben Gilson adamantly addresses a cluster of reporters. “Well look, this mayor and this council have indicated that they are unwilling to negotiate, so the membership unanimously voted to accept binding arbitration. It’s the only option we have really. I put a call in to the mayor asking that council hold an open vote on it tonight. If it’s approved we could have the busses on the roads in twenty-four hours. It’s really that easy.”

  Gilson is wearing a black zip-up athletic jacket of the sort that was once worn only by professional cyclists but is now the uniform of the casually wealthy. Ben Gilson is holding a red shirt in his right hand, which he waves energetically as he speaks. Ben Gilson’s breath streams from his mouth into the cold.

  As Miles watches the union president he begins to hate him. He takes out a notebook and writes:

  Ben Gilson is not particularly good at spin.

  Ben Gilson takes no blame.

  Ben Gilson’s Chihuahua teeth protrude from his lips as he talks hysterically.

  Ben Gilson has a beautiful wife, but ignores her all summer to play golf.

  Ben Gilson ends his words with –in’- instead of –ing.

  Ben Gilson is a man of the people.

  Ben Gilson has a published salary, but other income he’d rather not disclose.

  Ben Gilson works out twice a day.

  Ben Gilson won’t be caught dead in a tie.

  Ben Gilson thinks it’s no big deal to drive an Audi.

  Ben Gilson would like to point out the experience gap in management.

  Ben Gilson is a douchebag.

  Ben Gilson takes photos of his genitals and sends them to young women.

  Ben Gilson should be admitted to the Nova Scotia Sanatorium.

  Ben Gilson wears wool socks in sandals.

  Ben Gilson has never read a novel in his life.

  Ben Gilson is endlessly pragmatic.

  Ben Gilson likes the camera too much.

  Ben Gilson sees an opening for his career.

  Ben Gilson talks to no strangers.

  Ben Gilson talks to angels.

  Ben Gilson has a receptionist screen his email for things that he actually cares about.

  Ben Gilson drinks three cups a day.

  Ben Gilson has never made a pot of coffee.

  Ben Gilson’s haircut came from an industrial supplier.

  Ben Gilson has no sideburns. On purpose.

  Ben Gilson was in a car wreck as a child.

  Ben Gilson has lost touch with reality.

  Ben Gilson is unaware of public distaste for the sound of his voice.

  Ben Gilson jumps off the bridge in my happiest dreams.

  Sometime after dinner, Miles learns, Council meets behind closed doors. They talk it over for four hours. They hold a vote. Strictly in camera. Theodore Kelley meets with the press, saying, “We are uncomfortable risking taxpayer money in binding arbitration. We are happy to have our negotiating committee sit down with the conciliator at the bargaining table.” Theodore Kelley speaks carefully to avoid stuttering in front of the demanding reporters.

  February 15

  Miles, waiting outside of City Hall, knowing full well where the mayor parks, does not expect this evening to be any different. After two 80-minute lectures and a library afternoon, Miles is waiting for the mayor to awkwardly avoid his request for a ride, so that he can start his long, symbolic walk to Clayton Park. He leans against a wall, looking at the signs of age in the sidewalks, and does not notice the approach of the mayor.

  Theodore Kelley quietly leans on the wall next to Miles, mimicking his pose. Miles still has not noticed the appearance of Theodore Kelley, when the mayor begins.

  “I do say, Miles, I’m impressed.”

  “What?” he says, startled and confused at the mayor’s sudden appearance.

  “I admire your pluck. What do you have going for you? Really?”

  “—” Miles bewildered.

  “You don’t have anything going on in your life. I can tell. I’ve been there, bud.”

  “—”

  The mayor’s speech was slow, and though his words were outrageous, the tone was gentle and Miles was stunned into a kind of reverent silence.

  Seeing that there would be no response the mayor took a visible breath of frigid air before continuing.

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ve seen you out here in the cold. I’ve seen you walking each morning down the Bedford Highway. You’re persistent. You’re quiet, and I’m not quite sure you know what you’re doing, but again, I sympathize because I’ve been there. It’s been what, a week since you started, well… stalking me. Now I don’t mean to use that word like I’m upset about it, because like I said, I admire you. I like you, Miles. I think I understand you.”

  The words were slow and quiet, as if measured by an hourglass.

  “There’s something to what you’re doing, Miles. I want to hear from you. I want you to talk about it. I know you can’t quite articulate what you’re doing. So I want to give you the chance to talk through it.”

  “—”

  “This is no joke. Please. Go ahead.”

  Miles looked at the mayor’s lips to be sure he was finished and glanced at the sidewalk. In the moment that he opened his mouth, he heard the sound of a rapidly shuttering camera. A man in a puffy blue coat with the HRM insignia on the left breast held his finger down on a flat, black, circular trigger, and caught the moment.

  Miles’ open-mouthed attention turned to the photographer, Theodore Kelley began to walk away.

  “Well I tried, bud,” he said helplessly as if to his own son.

  February 16

  Miles sits in front of the TV and holds a newspaper. On the front cover, a headline that may have been reused reads, “Transit Strike Continues: Commuters Still in the Cold.” Pictured above the fold is Theodore Kelley leaning against a wall, listening to a dishevelled young man speak.

  CTV News returns from commercial, and Miles’ attention shifts. He sees short, squared, Access-a-busses escorted by four private security guards, dressed in black, walking the stately beat of pal
lbearers at fifteen kilometres per hour. In the frozen blue dawn, enflamed piles of wood warm envenomed Transit drivers who pulse, “SCAB! SCAB! SCAB!” with random shouts of “shame on you.”

  A reporter takes over: This was the scene at six o’clock this morning, when Access-a-Busses driven by Metro Transit managers crossed picket lines to resume partial service. While Management stresses the necessity of providing transportation to regular medical appointments, ATU President Ben Gilson has this to say:

  “This was part of a planned statement we felt we needed to make in holding our line this morning. The police, and Metro Transit, were made aware that our intentions were not to block service, but simply delay it by ten minutes. We’re not chasing them down, we’re not harassing riders, we’re simply using the tactics we can use to make the public aware of what management is doing. I’ve also lodged a complaint with the labour board, as these managers are not trained as required by regulations. They are putting our clients at risk. It’s the riders we are doing this for.”

  February 22

  Miles’ confusion is giving way to confidence and anger. Each day, he holds his head higher and makes more eye contact during his symbolic walk to and from Dalhousie.

  Every day, he sees the work of stARTaKISS. Stencil art that has been popping up on the sides of public buildings, on salted sidewalks, and anything that is remotely associated with Metro Transit.

  The subject of the stencils is the relationship between Theodore Kelley and Ben Gilson. Portraits of each looking magnanimous with the word HOPE beneath them. Renderings of the two sharing a milkshake, the two grinning while the Boss holds the mayor in a headlock, even one of the pair walking arm in arm, a tribute to the cover of The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan. And in the bottom right corner of each, the block letters “stARTaKISS.”

  stARTaKISS. stARTaKISS. stARTaKISS! Miles whispers to himself while walking down Spring Garden Road for his usual afternoon appearance outside City Hall. Today, though, he decides to follow his gut. stARTaKISS, stARTaKISS, stARTaKISS! He speaks the name each time as a group of three.

  He picks up a copy of The Coast, decides he’ll spend the evening downtown. He goes everywhere The Coast says has live music this Monday night. The Company House on Gottingen. Gus’s Pub on North Street. Back to Dal for the Grawood open mic. To Reflections for something called Rockin’ 4 dollars. He asks every thrilling, serious, dirty, authentic, person he sees. WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THESE IMAGES?