The NAFTA Blueprint
Page 25
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We checked-in to a local hotel in Concord, the historical Colonial Inn, after leaving Walden Pond around late afternoon. Helena was exhausted and wanted to be alone to review the documents, while I wanted to go for a walk or a jog around the Monument Square. Physical exercise helped clear my thought process during a stressful conundrum. It paved the way for a mental map used to brainstorm interpreted data.
Also, I wanted to call Pencho to get an update on my apartment, which he informed me was clear. I had Canada on my mind. This latest information on water was riveting. Now that we were here in the Northeast and close enough for a dash, I had to build up enough courage to ask Helena if she would join me. I didn’t know if she was married, or if she had a boyfriend…or girlfriend, but at least I know I hadn’t seen a ring on her finger. She never talked about relationships either...she was professional and private. So if I did ask, and if it was too bold on my behalf, it would be a natural invitation extended out to her without any strings attached. And if she was married, I wouldn’t be a total scumbag because a man will assume a woman is not married if she’s not wearing a wedding ring. So many rules, why couldn’t she just tell me if she was or wasn’t, I wouldn’t have to tread like a teenager.
With this entire political corruption exercising ascendency over me, I missed being a crime reporter in L.A. covering the local detritus. It gave me satisfaction that good people read my stories and felt safer when criminals were caught. Since I hadn’t found my beat with the Chronicle because I was too distracted with Chloe, I produced lousy work. In hindsight, I could now articulate my folly.
I was lucky Franklin gave me the go-ahead on coming to Massachusetts but I had to push for Canada as well. Just a few more days and I could furnish empirical evidence―all the way to the Governor’s office. This would drag me out of stagnation. Franklin was satisfied I had taken the initiative to get involved in the international arena. It’s what I was known for. It was now or never, I had to go for the gusto. When I called him on the phone to talk about going over to Canada, he brought up that Gold Shirts piece again, notoriety was his ambition. That’s what he yearned for because he wanted recognition from sponsors for a raise to appear as a mentor.
It finally made sense. International reporting was profitable and increased popularity, Franklin wanted to go along for the prized ride. I covered numerous stories in Latin America years ago. He wanted me out there again, so going to Mexico was deemed a positive decision. Canada was different because of its privileged and westernized status, but also its lack of coverage in domestic newspapers. Prior to this story, I hadn’t left Texas since I moved here because…well I’m just a bit embarrassed to tell you, but…ok, I’ll tell you, but you should already know by now. It was because I was waiting for Chloe, I know…I’m a sucker, but I was terrified. What if she came back crawling on my doorstep and I wasn’t there to receive her with a warm welcome, with arms outstretched? I couldn’t live with myself.
I even became jealous of my friend Pencho, what if Chloe went over to my apartment while I was covering this story, he would nonetheless seduce her and have his way with her on my mattress. I wouldn’t put it past her. I think I was ready to move on, my career was stagnant, but I found something that really fascinated me―North American continental union concerns and the development of NAFTA. This was my stomping ground from this day forward. And what about Helena, she was so close to me yet so far. Maybe something could happen between us, even though she was a brunette.
Whatever story I wrote about Canada needed to benefit the paper by linking the supercorridors in order to unravel the NAFTA blueprint. How would this story fit into the life of the readers of the city of Houston? I didn’t know what I would discover in Canada, but it would have to be of social significance for them to want to read about, more so in conservative Texas.
I remember my boss saying, “Hell, Canada’s filled with nothing but bleeding-heart socialists, they should take all the Mexican immigrants up there instead…and I speak for all Texans.”
Americans on the average, I’ll repeat―on the average, didn’t know much or even care about Canadian concerns. Maybe just on the bordering states, but on the other hand, Canadians were very aware about America and the sweeping Americanization taking place around the globe. But could you blame us? We’re the third Roman Empire, what’d we care about people. Unless they had natural resources, we weren’t concerned. Then it occurred to me…I remember my boss being impressed with a brief story I wrote about the supercorridors connecting up to Canada, Canamex.
There was a Manitoba-Texas water pipeline. It was linked with the Halifax super-port and water pipeline that would transfer Canadian fresh water to U.S.-based storage facilities via the NAFTA supercorridors. The amount of monies needed to build the project for tax-payers on both sides of the border was staggering, therefore the Chronicle readers could benefit from such awareness.
This story would perpetuate the beginning of the domino effect to collapse the blueprint in order to bring it out into the limelight. It felt like graduate research on the North American process of deep integration combined with public and private corruption, but with a murder attached. This could be award-winning material. I wanted to go substantial―front page, sidebar, two full pages inside…the works.
So far I had only written a handful of stories where perhaps few could recognize it as a pattern. That’s how mainstream media functioned. You could almost know the truth by piecing fragments of info and deducing your own connections and reality. That’s what investigative journalism was all about, speculations and connections to create a pseudo-environment mixed with facts that are skewed according to the publication.
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