The High Road by Terry Fallis Page B

headline writer’s a comedian. I rolled back over and managed to groan with what little breath I’d regained.
    An hour or so later, Lindsay headed out to the U of O library to work on a paper with a looming deadline. She claimed she was unable to work at home. She said it casually, but I liked the way “home” rolled off her tongue and hung in the air between us.
    As soon as Lindsay had gone, I switched into campaign mode and checked in with the two Petes, who were staffing the campaign HQ. All was well. In fact, seven more volunteers had shown up. Muriel was also there helping to slot the new recruits into appropriate roles. She had a gift for identifying those who were cut out for the perils of door-to-door canvassing, and those who should be isolated behind closed doors, licking envelopes and assembling poll kits. I chatted with Muriel for a while after hearing from Pete1. It was actually beginning to feel like a legitimate campaign complete with real volunteers, bad coffee, stale doughnuts, uncomfortable chairs, and riding maps on the wall. But if I didn’t deal with the money situation soon, we’d shortly have another staple of many political campaigns, debt.
    I was a few minutes early for my ten o’clock meeting with Angus, but I was keen to get going and I sensed he was too. I knocked on his front door and it swung open before I’d connected on the third rap.
    “There you are, laddie, I thought you’d forgotten,” Angus opened. “We’re burnin’ daylight.”
    “I’m five minutes early,” I pleaded. “I didn’t want to interrupt your morning primping now that you’re going to be in the public eye at least for the campaign.”
    “This is as primped as I get.”
    Wonderful. Angus looked as if he’d coiffed his hair and beard by thrusting his head inside a screaming jet engine. He desperately needed his own hair traffic controller.
    “Uhmm, I wonder whether we might consider a hair cut and a beard trim, or at the very least some industrial-strength gel?” I ventured, fearing for my safety.
    “What are you sayin’, man? My hair has always looked like this. I like it and it takes me no time at all when I get up in the mornin’.”
    “You don’t say,” I commented. I corralled my resolve. “Angus, let’s at least try to open a fledgling relationship with a hairbrush of some kind. We want your image to say
principled maverick
. But to those who don’t know you, sometimes your look can veer a little too close to
crazed psychopath
.”
    He said nothing but was quite eloquent with the glare he sent my way before turning to a mirror in the hall. I pushed just a bit more.
    “Angus, if we scare the voters, or even their children, they’re less likely to mark the little X next to your name on E-day.”
    Angus stared at his reflection and sighed.
    “All right, all right, you’ve made your point. I’ll think about it,” he concluded. The subject was closed. “So what’s on our agenda? Where do we start, now that I’m runnin’ on purpose this time?”
    “Why don’t we cover off some local issues that we’re likely to face in the campaign? Nothing undermines a candidate’s credibility more than being asked a question by a voter and knowing nothing about the topic.”
    “Grand. Lead on.”
    “Well, the first local issue is plastered all over the front page of today’s
Crier
,” I said as I handed him my copy.
    Angus eyed the front page, and dropped onto the fluffy chintz couch, losing his right hand in the morass of his hair.
    “Damnation, and the race hasnae even yet started,” Angus groaned. “I’ve tripped over my own feet on the way to the startin’ blocks.”
    “Angus, calm yourself. It’s not that bad,” I soothed. “There are many veteran campaigners who think that the worst kind of media coverage is no coverage at all. Here we are on day one of the campaign and you’ve dominated the front page.” I didn’t subscribe to the “all ink is good ink” theory but I wasn’t