By G.D. Maxwell
The days are golden at Smilin’ Dog Man’r. Birch and poplar, having fought pestilence all summer long, are finally blazing yellow in the lengthening rays of a waning sun. Sulfuric Lake’s Kokanee – the fish out here – have turned red and horny and are making new Kokanee in the marl of the lake’s shallow end like there’s no tomorrow.
The last frozen peas from the garden have been harvested and only a rapidly disappearing bounty of potatoes and carrots remain. Several tonnes of rock have been removed from the new strawberry fields forever bed, it’s clay soil amended with dung and peat, generous amounts of hope and anticipation.
And northern lights are dancing in the sky at night. Like spectral hallucinations, mists over moors, frosty breath on warm glass, they more suggest their presence than assert it. Not yet the spectacular dripping green and red lights they can become, these early apparitions are wispy and ethereal. If they didn’t appear and disappear before my eyes and pulsate like waves driven by unseen music across the sky, I’d write them off as light-lace clouds or high fog.
Nighttime has been a bonus here. Like nights camping or nights of childhood, the sky is inky black and filthy with stars half the month and lit up with blinding moonlight the other half. Zippy the Dog thinks our late night sojourn is all about him and his bladder. He can’t figure out why we have to just stand around craning our necks upward once he’s had a squirt and barked the deer and foxes away from his yard. He hasn’t perfected the art of doing nothing, hearing nothing, reveling in silence and darkness. Then again, I can’t lick my... well, you know.
Deep in such lofty thoughts, I barely noticed the headlights coming up the road until they started bouncing off the aurora. Annoyed at their intrusion, I was really startled when the sound of tires crunching gravel headed my way, slowed down and finally stopped just outside the gate. The sound of the engine died but before the silence of the night could re-establish itself, a car door in sore need of lubricant squeaked open. Blinded by the headlights and surprised at Zippy’s nonchalance toward the intruder, I was about to speak when a "Yo Bro" shattered what was left of my peace and quiet.
"That you, J.J.?" Please let this be a dream.
"Who else, Brudda."
"How’d you find this place?"
"You gave me a map. Don’t you remember?"
Scuttled by generosity I never expected to be taken up, I did have a vague recollection of extending an open, yeah-come-up-anytime kind of invitation. Carumba!
"Thought I’d surprise you. Got something to drink?"
It was always manic enough running into J.J. – Whistler’s only private detective – within the confines of the village or one of the mountains. To see him here was like amping up AC-DC at a piano recital. Over an indifferent scotch, I asked the inevitable question.
"Wassup? Last time I saw you, you were headed for Ground Zero with a model of Ricardo Montalban."
"Yeah, well, let’s not talk about that. You were right about that one."
"Didn’t see the sense of whimsy in your proposal?"
"Man, I just barely got outta there alive. Those folks are still real touchy about September 11."
"So why the trip to the Cariboo?"
"I need your help. I’ve decided to run for mayor and I wanted to pick your brain."
"Slim pickin’s in the first place and in the second, mayor of what?"
"Whistler, dude. Whaddya think?"
I couldn’t believe my ears. J.J., so much an outsider he needed his own postal code, running for mayor of Tiny Town. This was a man with more skeletons in his closet than Imelda had shoes.
"Have you been taking your medication, J.J.?"
"I’m serious. I think there’s a wide political void between three more years of somnambulism and mayor as CEO. There’s an opportunity here for the right guy."
"Well, you’ve got the lunatic fringe all to yourself, that’s for sure. But how do you propose reaching anyone else? What’s your platform?"
"That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I need help fleshing out my program."
"What do you need my help for? I told you, you already have a lock on the fringe."
"You’re an important guy. Lots of people read you."
"Lots of people read the comics. And pay more attention to them. But for the sake of argument, why don’t you tell me what you want to do. What’s the key plank of your platform?"
"The death penalty. I want to institute the death penalty."
"Ah... I think that’s a federal matter, J.J. But I’m intrigued. Who do you want to execute?"
"Washington drivers mostly. But there are others."
"Good choice. I’m not sure it’s going to get you that middle ground, but I know your heart’s in the right place. What else?"
"I want to make Whistler a nuculer-free zone."
"That’s nuclear, J.J. You’ve been listening to George Bush too much. Besides, I think British Columbia’s already a nuclear-free zone except for the sub testing base off the island and anywhere else the US military decides. What else you aiming for... and don’t say world peace?"
"I want to get people who aren’t involved in local politics involved. I want to get new voices heard. Vox populi, dude."
"Jeez, J.J., cut me some slack. Every hack politico wants to have open government and get people involved. It’s right up there with the cheque’s in the mail and I’ll respect you in the morning. We’ve got at least one sitting councillor who’s made a career on that tired chestnut and no one ever actually manages to accomplish it. How are you going to do it?"
"For starters, hold council meetings at Tapley’s. If we cut 10 per cent out of the budget for the Spring Creek Fire Mahal we can stand the whole town to free beer every other Monday. That oughta get ’em out and get ’em vocal. Heck, that’s where I hear most of the good ideas anyway."
"Hear, hear."
"And get rid of the consultants, dude. Nothing stifles creativity and conversation like consultants. More good ideas came out of the WORCA meeting than will ever come out of the sustainability white elephant. That’ll end up as another overblown report gathering dust on someone’s shelf. We’re drowning in process here, man. We need some action."
"What we need is another drink, some better ideas and a miracle."
"So you think I have a chance?"
"Under the right conditions, sure you have a chance."
"What are the right conditions."
"All the other candidates die, no one votes and you remember to show up yourself."
"That bad?"
"Let’s just hope some good, real candidates come out of the woodwork."
"I’ll drink to that."
