Everything Is So Political (7 page)

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 pallbearers 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?

He sees the images all the time as he ambles and breathes stARTaKISS, stARTaKISS, stARTaKISS.

In reality he is shy everywhere he goes. He only asks one person, a pierced, clean-shaven kid at a punk show.

“stARTaKISS? Yeah, I've met him. Big hair. Beard. Brown. His real name is Ethan and he's older. Like thirties-ish. Hang around Dartmouth and you'll run into him.”

February 27

Miles is walking nervously this morning. The confidence that stARTaKISS stencilled on him has withered over an uneventful weekend. He stops at the Lacewood Terminal. He wants to put a human face on the ATU. He approaches the picket line.

“Wo, buddy, where d'ya think yer goin'?” a burly driver asks.

“Ugh… I don't mean any disrespect.”

“What
do
you mean, bud?”

“I would like to see your Strike Captain.”

Miles is led to the makeshift shelter where the strike captain looks over a clipboard with a phone in his hand. “Can I help you?”

“I just wanted to see you. I've been walking for hours every day, man. I'm not trying to be rude. I just don't understand what you're doing here.”