Famous Last Meals by Richard Cumyn Page B

into sticky situations and try to get out
of them.”
    â€œOh. Cool. I once saw a guy put his whole body through a tennis racket.”
    â€œThat must have been a strain.”
    She looked at him blankly. She was so beautiful, with impossibly clear skin and plump lips and monumental cheekbones, that he felt the strong desire to spirit her away from this den of fractured dreams, to bring her with him when he made his own escape.
    â€œWhat do you like to drink?”
    â€œVodka Martini,” he said, never having tasted one. “Shaken, not stirred.”
    â€œComing right up!”
    How much did she miss? She was like a supple container he imagined would expand to accommodate whatever was put into it. An old woman at a video lottery terminal put her forehead to the console and began to sob. A security guard led her out of the room.
    â€œHow would you like to work for me?” he said after winning a modest bet on red.
    â€œYou mean as part of your act?”
    â€œIn a way. I’m going to be a Member of Parliament and I need a staff.”
    â€œWould I have to move? I really like it here.”
    â€œYes, you’d have to move to Ottawa,” he said, labouring slightly over the name of the city. Another cocktail appeared, its olive eyeing him suspiciously.
    â€œDon’t you, like, have to win an election or something first? Or do you get picked?”
    He assured her that getting elected was going to be the least of his problems.
    â€œThat’s right,” said a familiar voice coming from behind them. He turned to look over his shoulder. It was Emma. He missed placing his next bet, not that he had many chips left.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?”
    â€œSame as you. So, have you decided yet?”
    â€œYes, I’m putting it all on thirteen.”
    â€œAbout running in the by-election.”
    He looked at her straight on. He was reminded of their first exchange on Sparks Street, when she had told him that she was keeping an eye on him. “We don’t quite have a bead on you yet.” Well, she—they—had a “bead” on Adam Lerner now. He was in their crosshairs. She waved at somebody across the room. Adam looked over and saw the others, Gilles, Pookie, Isaac, Eugène, Jean-Marc, Oliver. What a remarkably average-
looking group they made. Did they know as much as Emma did about his impending decision? And why him? He was the least political of them all. He had no idea how to run for office, what his staff would have to do. He liked gathering information, but didn’t care what it was used for. They wanted someone they could manipulate, someone naïve, bland, visibly attractive but not arresting, someone who would go down smoothly with the electorate, someone they wouldn’t have to think too much about. Well, he would see about that. He would show them. But when he tried to formulate that next thought, the “what” he would be showing them, he drew
a blank.
    Then he heard himself say, “Yes, I’ve decided. I’m going to do it,” as if hearing someone else, and Emma grabbed his upper arm with both her hands. “You’ll need a chief of staff, someone with an administrative background. I’d be perfect, Adam. I have all these ideas about reforming the electoral process and getting better representation. Just think about it. Keep me in mind. We’d be perfect together. You might need some media coaching. I don’t know, I’ve never heard you speak in public, but I bet you’re great. If you did need some pointers, though—those scrums can be deadly, you have to think in three-second sound bites. I did my first degree in communication. Oh, Adam, this is so right on. Hey, you guys!”
    They were all crowding around now, congratulating him, giving him hugs and good-natured punches on the shoulder. Eugène promised to teach him to speak French in two weeks. No one aside from Emma tried to pitch