Up and Down (12 page)

“Oh my god,” she started. “It’s from Crawford Blake. It says ‘Amanda, congratulations on what I’m told was a fantastic news conference today up north in Toronto. I knew with you in charge, we were in good hands.’ Oh my god!”

She was practically trembling in ecstasy and guzzled another huge mouthful of wine. As she stood up too quickly, hoisting her wine glass high above her, both her knees became better acquainted with the small table between us. It was tipping towards my crotch when I caught it and returned it to its normal upright position. I hadn’t caught the beer, but my lap had. She didn’t even notice.

“A toast to David Stewart for coming up with this insane idea in the first place, for working so hard to make today a success, and for not trying to take over my job in the process,” she intoned.

Then she wobbled a bit and took a few steps to keep her balance.

“Uh-oh. All of a good I don’t feel so sudden …” she said, swaying a bit.

With that, she promptly sat back down. Too bad her chair wasn’t beneath her.

I was happy to help her up and escort her out the door. She leaned most of her weight on me. With right my arm around her, I did my best to keep her upright.

The media coverage over the coming week or so was quite simply off the charts. In the three days following the launch news conference, we had over five hundred stories in print, on radio and
TV
, online, and in community papers. On the fourth day, as the earned media started to recede, the paid media broke from our sister ad agency, Campbell Creative, including
TV
, radio, print, online, transit, and outdoor. If you were alive in Canada that week, you knew about the Citizen Astronaut contest.

Our media relations effort also yielded 158 editorials and opinion pieces. Predictably, about a third of them were negative, linked most often to the cost of putting civilians in space. There was also plenty of criticism that the contest was simply a “
PR
exercise” with no real purpose beyond hype. As I read this, I realized that we needed to do a
PR
job on the term “
PR
.” Those two little letters attached to my chosen profession were usually delivered with a dismissive head shake, a pejorative tone, and a look that
straddled disdain and disgust. In the modern vernacular, “It was just a
PR
exercise” really meant, whatever “it” was, that it was completely devoid of substance. Or that smoke, mirrors, or both were somehow involved. Or that someone like me was spinning one lonely little positive attribute into a towering all-powerful juggernaut of virtue, while downplaying or even ignoring a boatload of horrific side effects that threatened (please select one or more of the following options) children, animals, trees, water, air, earth, the ozone layer, the Idaho striped blister beetle, and the entire human race. In my mind, that was the old
PR
, an outdated stereotype in decline. I was a practitioner of the
new
PR
. As far as I was concerned, my job was to tell the truth, and tell it well. And, no, that’s not spin. I believed it.

But I didn’t have time right then to rehabilitate the public’s view of my profession. I was too busy persuading Joe and Joanne Public to enter a contest that could land them in orbit aboard the International Space Station.

My phone chirped. Phones today don’t really ring any more. Chirped is as close as I can come to describing the sound. “
TK
D.C.
” flashed into the liquid crystal screen. I love caller
ID
. I had no idea who would be calling me from the
D.C.
office.

“David Stewart.” I opened with my usual greeting.

“David, it’s Crawford Blake.”

Uh-oh.

“Oh, hi, Crawford,” I said. “Congrats on all the great U.S. coverage. You must be pleased.”

“Yep, it was a triumph. I’ve never seen so much coverage on an announcement in my entire career. I reckon it shows just how many Americans actually want to go into space, the dumb fuckers,” Crawford said.

The profanity caught me a little off guard, but I had heard the term before.

“I’m callin’ for two reasons. First of all, you folks up there did a fine job driving coverage of the Canadian announcement. Kelly spoke very well of the
TK
Toronto team and of you in particular.”

“Thanks so much. We have a great group of
PR
pros in this office and they worked very hard under very tight timelines.” I was skating. “We were thrilled with the coverage. On a per capita basis, we ended up with more coverage than in the U.S.”

Idiot. I knew it as the words were passing over my palate. But I couldn’t seem to stop them. Why would I say that?

“Well, we’ve got so much more going on here stateside than you folks do up there in the wilds. The competition for column inches down here is fierce. So I’m not surprised you got the front page up there. I mean, what else is going on in Canada right now anyway other than ice hockey?”

“Right …” I had nothing else.

“Anyway, the second reason for my call is to make sure you understand how important it is that we end up with the right Canadian winner. The goal is to help
NASA
so we need a classic Canadian winner. You know, young and strapping, hale and
hearty, maybe even a hockey player in a lumberjack shirt. We want something quintessentially Canadian. Right, David?”

“Um, I’m a little confused. The winner is chosen through a random draw. We have no role in choosing the citizen astronaut,” I replied. “We’re not talking about ‘fixing’ the draw, are we? That would be a huge scandal.”

“Did I say ‘fix’? No, I did not. You said ‘fix’ and you should be ashamed of yourself,” Crawford scolded. “I’m just telling you to make sure your winner fits with our notion of the ideal citizen astronaut. Are you hearing me, David?”

“But I’ve got Borden-Bennett all over the mechanics of the draw. If anything is amiss, they’re going to blow the whistle and we’ll be royally … in trouble,” I said. “I think you should probably talk to Amanda or Diane about this.”

“I’m talking to you, David. And I’m telling you to get me a great Canadian astronaut,” he demanded. “Canada will not bring down this program by offering up a lame citizen astronaut.”

I was speechless. So, in keeping with the condition, I said nothing.

“Okay, then. Message delivered. Congrats again on the coverage. I’m looking forward to seeing who wins the big prize up in the land of snow and ice.” Crawford hung up with a bang.

I held the phone to my ear for a moment or so, stuck in neutral. Eventually, I hung up. Had I heard him right? Did that conversation actually happen? I sat at my desk for ten minutes trying to decide how to handle Crawford’s pointed message. After very
careful thought, weighing the pros and cons, assessing my options, I carefully conceived an elaborate and brilliant stratagem. I decided simply to forget that I’d ever had the conversation with Crawford Blake. That’s right, it had never happened. “Yes,” I said aloud. “I’m sure that will work.”

Lauren called late in the afternoon to let me know that Mom was having a good day and was reasonably lucid. I left immediately and headed over. Mom hadn’t had many good days in the last month, so I didn’t want to miss her. A nine-minute cab ride and I was there. I let myself in and headed upstairs. Lauren was sitting in the chair placed next to the bed while our mother was propped up on pillows with a magazine opened on her lap. A glass of what was either white wine or apple juice with a straw rested on the bedside table.

“Mom, you’re not dressed yet,” I teased. “We have to hustle if we’re going to make the ski-jumping class on time.”

Lauren rolled her eyes but said nothing.

“Sorry, dear, but my skis are still in Innsbruck,” Mom replied. “Besides, I’m really not feeling particularly aerodynamic today anyway.”

“No worries. Then how about monster truck racing? I’ve got Grave Digger parked just outside,” I offered. As usual, without thinking.

“Nice, David,” sighed Lauren. “Very sensitive.”

Why couldn’t I have chosen Bigfoot instead of Grave Digger.
It’s one thing to put your foot in your mouth. But I seemed to have swallowed my whole leg.

“Lauren, I’m kidding. Grave Digger is a black and green monster truck. It’s probably the most famous and recognizable monster truck in history. Mom knows that,” I backpedalled and looked at Mom.

“Well, I do now,” she said.

Just keep talking, I reminded myself.

“Anyway, you look good, Mom. How are you feeling?”

“Sit here, David.” Mom patted the bed. “I still feel like I’m in someone else’s body, but the fog in my head seems to have receded. I’m drained but more awake than usual.”

“I’m just going to head downstairs to put the kettle on,” said Lauren as she moved to the door.

I sat down and took Mom’s right hand in mine.

“David, while we have a minute and I have the energy,” Mom started. “No funeral, no memorial service, no family gathering of any kind with endless plates of inedible squares and egg salad sandwiches. I just don’t want any of it. The simplest cremation you can get. Donations to the Cancer Society, if people insist. But that’s it. Have you got it?”

I was just looking at her, trying to figure it all out. It was the most animated I’d seen her for weeks.

“Hello, David, hello,” she prodded, squeezing my hand.

“Mom, why all the morbid talk? You’re going to outlive us all. I mean …”

“David. Stop. Stop,” she interrupted. “Just tell me that you heard me and understood my wishes. Have I been clear?”

I thought about turning it into a joke, again. That’s always my instinct in moments of high drama. I resisted.

“Yes, Mom. I understand what you want. We’ll make it happen.”

“Good. Thank you. Lauren refuses even to talk to me about it. She’s usually so practical about such things, but she just puts her hands up, shakes her head, and walks out.”

“Well, I’m not sure I blame her. It’s not a conversation we’re used to having,” I explained.

“Well, it’s done now.”

Mom lay back and closed her eyes as if a load had been taken off her mind. Then she opened them halfway and looked at me. She was almost back under.

“Use your head …” she managed in a whisper.

“… but follow your heart,” I finished, and squeezed her hand. “I will.”

She smiled ever so slightly, closed her eyes, and was soon back down deep. That was a line we’d shared since I was just a kid. It was ours. I know it’s cliché but my mother believed wholeheartedly and headlong in its truth. I guess I believed it too. The proprietary phrase my Mom and sister shared was shorter, but no less profound. It was, simply, “Be kind.”

I gave Lauren a hug in the kitchen as she waited for the tea to steep. Then I headed home.

I didn’t know what I had been expecting on the numbers front. There had never been a contest quite like this one, so we had few, if any, benchmarks to help us forecast how many entries might come in. In the weeks following the launch news conference and all that media coverage, the number of entries submitted grew day by day. Online entries were more plentiful than those received through the mail. This was not surprising, given just how much of Canadians’ lives are spent online. By the end of the first week, we had over 9,500 online entries and about 300 via snail mail. By the following Friday, the end of week two, we were up to 106,000 entries in total.

Over the next several weeks, we continued to pitch media stories whenever we thought we had a hook that came within a few light-years of hard news. We were constantly issuing news releases as newly created thresholds were crossed, including when we hit 200,000 entries, when we hit the halfway point in the window for entering, when we hit 500,000 entries, when we hit the fortieth anniversary of the first space spew – you know, the first time an astronaut threw up in the space station. Okay, I was just making up that last one. But you get the idea. This “pimping” of the program helped us sustain media coverage, which in turn kept those entries flying in.