The Best Laid Plans by Terry Fallis Read Free Book Online Page A

it!” Angus offered from two rooms away.
Blast
, indeed, seemed the appropriate term.
    When Angus eventually returned to the living room, my rent receipt in hand, I saw his eyes fall again on the coffee table and the letter bomb that had detonated an hour and a half earlier. He stopped short and groaned. I watched him slide back down into his couch and his blue funk. “There’s not much I wouldna’ do to let this vile cup pass me by,” he breathed in a voice so low I barely heard it.
    Idea approaching at ramming speed. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. It all came to me in a matter of moments. It seemed fated. I don’t even remember how I broached it with Angus, but I knew that if my idea were to fly, I had to move quickly. I didn’t know how long his descent into the depths of despair would last. The man was desperate, and so was I.
    Within twenty minutes, the deal was done. Pending the university’s approval, I had an extra class on my teaching schedule, to which I gave barely a thought that night. More importantly to me, Cumberland-Prescott finally had a Liberal candidate – at least in name – no doubt to become yet another forgotten footnote in the political history of the safest Tory seat in the land.
    Angus McLintock was a tough negotiator, and with three days until the gun would sound, I wasn’t exactly in a strong bargaining position. Secure in the knowledge that a Liberal could never win this riding, Angus agreed to let his name stand with the following stipulations:
He would make no campaign appearances.
He would do no media interviews.
He would do no door-to-door canvassing.
He would attend no all-candidates meetings, debates, information sessions, coffee parties, or individual voter meetings.
He would take no phone calls from anyone other than me.
There would be no Angus McLintock lawn signs.
There would be no Angus McLintock campaign Web site, blog, or podcasts.
There would be no Angus McLintock campaign song (I just threw this in as a freebie to soften him up. I had no plans for a campaign song, anyway – just good, old-fashioned, shrewd bargaining).
He would have no contact with the campaign workers (either of them).
Finally, he would not even be required to be in the country, let alone in the riding, throughout the campaign.
    In other words, he had to do absolutely nothing, diddly-squat, nada – other than sign his nomination form to put his name on the ballot. But rest assured, this was not a lopsided, one-way negotiation. No, siree. He gave up stuff, too. Here’s what I negotiated:
We could produce one inane pamphlet for soft-drops.
    Yes, I know. It was hardly worth a bullet point. Finally, Angus did accept that while defeat was assured, we needed to preserve at least the pretence of an active campaign. Or as my former colleagues on Parliament Hill might have put it, we needed to ensure the “optics” were good. I, at least, owed my party good optics.
    We signed the napkin on which I’d written up our little agreement and shook hands to etch it in stone. Though poker-faced during the negotiations, Angus looked ecstatic now that the deal was done. He kept walking around, saying, “I cannae believe this is happening. Free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, I’m free at last.” Or words to that effect. To my chiropractor’s great dis appointment, Angus stopped just short of locking me in a bear hug and waltzing me around the room. I managed to maintain a calm and dignified demeanor befitting a junior faculty member and limited myself to two loud “woo-hoos” and a little end-zone touchdown dance of my own creation – win-win personified.
    After three games of chess and the excitement of the deal, I was exhausted. The events of the evening seemed to have the opposite effect on Angus. He continued to pinball around the room, sporting a face-fracturing grin that was clearly beyond his control.
    Eventually, Angus walked me down to the boathouse in the dark to spend