“I don’t like Mondays. This livens up the day.”
— Brenda Ann Spencer
In which a seemingly innocent pastime on a warm sunny summer day somehow turns gradually violent.
A weekday. I should be somewhere. Doing something. Where? What? School, maybe. That’s the ticket. Earn that diploma that promises future so bright gotta wear shades. Yeah, baby! Or on the job, putting my skills to proper use, fulfilling my obligation as a role model and responsible citizen, raking in real dough along with paid vacations, pension plan, my own personal key to the company john and a little something on the side. Sweet. Mebbe hangin’ out on da porch wit ma and pa over a pitcher o’cold lemonade fixin’ ta do chores around da ole homestead: collect eggs from da cows, milk da chickens, plow da paved back forty wit da Beamer, yeehah! In choich, accountin’ for me sins to the holy ghostlies: one Tequila, two Tequila, three Tequila, floor. Or else sitting my ass down in a coffee shop working on my latest blockbuster screenplay. Sick. Should be. Most definite. Instead. Fuckin’ the dog. Drawn by a notion. An urge. What could be simpler?
It’s a lovely, warm, summer afternoon, barely a breeze to whip up a distracting leaf or provoke a disturbing sound. The crowd is orderly, well-behaved, comprised of the usual: men, women, children in strollers, dogs on leashes. They wear sun hats, sun glasses, shorts, T-shirts, thin blouses, sandals. They reek a combination sun tan lotion (coconut, cocoa butter) and bug spray. Cameras hang from necks, though expectations are low in terms of actual worthwhile photo-ops arising. More for show. Or habit. Hot dogs and fries from the chip wagons are being consumed along with ice cream bars, giant Slurpees, Cokes, take-out coffees. Cigarettes are smoked.
Away from the action, off to the sides, not so much “ordered to” as “requested by” the hired security, down-atheel panhandlers ply their trade. The odd derelict drinks from a concealed bottle. A couple of pals pass a joint. No big whoop. Pigeons, sparrows and gulls bide time for whatever scraps fall from cardboard trays, so that, even here, at the fringes, exists an atmosphere of calm, polite civility. What’s that stupid joke? How do you get a crowd of Canadians out of the swimming pool? Say: “Would you please get out of the swimming pool.”
No one in a hurry. They stroll; they amble; they mill. A place for everyone and everyone in their place. They are perfectly suited, perfectly prepared for the scheduled event. Non-event, really. A truck stop at Nathan Phillips Square. One of many across the country in advance of an election. Mouth a litany of hollow words. Kiss a few hands, shake a few babies. That sort of thing. Blah-blahblah. Smile, wave, move inside city hall to share further lies with the local politicos. Hardly worth the bother, the expense, yet, there it is. Pomp and circumstance. Bread and circuses. When you can’t offer anything of substance to the people, pacify them with a parade.
Not that anyone’s dissatisfied today. They aren’t. You’d expect at least one token placard: Save The Whales, Abolish Abortion, Stop The Pipeline. Something. Anything. Instead, nada. Everyone happy happy.
There are uniformed police, of course, but they’re only present as part-of-the-job, appearing outwardly relaxed, leaning against low wire fences, their revolvers holstered, strapped, safeties on, sharing small talk, nudging elbows, telling a joke or two, laughing discreetly. Their entire conduct evidences unconcern. One middleaged cop with a paunch yawns into a hand. Maybe he’s working a double shift, scoring some easy OT so he can take the little woman to Casino Rama on the weekend, get their freak on with the Kiss tribute band. “Gonna rock and roll all nite and party everyday.” Is that tongue fer real or a strap-on, d’y’think? Or play the slots. Or maybe it’s dinner and a movie. Hit the Mandarin for Chinese buffet. Catch the latest asinine Apatow or whatever other drunken rom/com. Have a few yuks, hope there’s a bit of girlish T&A alongside the ubiquitous chubby funnyman’s hairy butt shenanigans. The possibilities for mediocrity being endless, there’s no lack of fun times if you’re orally fixated, emotionally challenged and/or clinically brain dead.
There are likely a number of undercover types as well prowling the vicinity though this precaution too would have less to do with a perceived threat than for reasons of protocol, tradition and the normal employment of bureaucratic procedures. Red tape and the like. Dotting ‘tees’ and crossing ‘eyes’ and so on. Just as the private bodyguards presiding on the small makeshift stage are there strictly for show. A flex of muscle. After all, beyond the usual (and expected) amount of low grumblings, odd booing, rarer tomato or cream pie toss, there is little to record in the way of actual violence at one of these affairs, low key or otherwise. Bruises certainly, a splash of blood here and there, admittedly, broken bones once in a while, understandably, though all of this among the crowd, not involving the dignitaries themselves who are generally tucked well out of harm’s way. To be honest, when there was violence it tended to occur in the pubs following, not during the official proceedings.
The bodyguards, in truth, look to have grown lackadaisical, off-hand, maybe even bored with their occupation. And who can blame them? In the entire Canadian political landscape there has never been a Prime Minister assassinated. Very few even died in office and most lived reasonably long lives after their terms in that position. “Oh, Canada, we stand on guard.” Those telling words. “We stand on guard.” Cooling our heels. Off-stage. Out of the limelight. Standing on guard. Waiting. Forever waiting.
How different from the good old US of A and its LAND OF THE FREE, HOME OF THE BRAVE lyric sung in bold letter caps and tattooed on the brain. The good old US of A with its right to bear arms and a bent to enter any fray with both guns blazing, no questions raised, no response required, no apologies necessary. No quarter asked, none given. The good old US of A where there have been four presidents assassinated with more than twenty further failed attempts and countless other rumoured attempts. Not to mention copycats down-theline gaining headlines with their own private brand of mass assassination covering thirty states from Massachusetts to Hawaii, twenty-five since 2006, at: a nursing home in North Carolina, an elementary school in Connecticut, a Sikh temple in Wisconsin, a theatre in Colorado, an IHOP in Nevada, a health spa in California, a café in Seattle — nowhere safe from anyone diagnosed armed and dangerous and little understanding why.
“The silicone chip inside her head gets switched to overload and nobody’s gonna go to school today.” Boomtown Rats riff on the old tune: up shit creek without a paddle and no one taking much notice, say, of a young girl perched in a third story window overlooking a quiet playground in San Diego, California.
Not that someone earlier hadn’t seen signs, suspected and tried to intervene — even recommended the girl be admitted to a psychiatric hospital — but her father stubbornly refused, and for Christmas gave her a Ruger 10/22 semi-automatic .22 calibre rifle with a telescopic sight and 500 rounds of ammunition.
She’d asked for a radio.
“Sweet sixteen ain’t that peachy keen … they can see no reasons, ‘cos there are no reasons.”
How do you get a crowd of Canadians out of the swimming pool?
The bodyguards go through the motions, patrol the stage, tap their earphones, adjust their sunglasses, straighten their skinny black ties: ten-four, ten-four. Whatever. Their minds are on other things. Grocery lists, laundry lists, plans for the weekend, the nice meal that goes with the job at the end of the day, red wine or white, what they’d do if they won a million in the lottery. A female bodyguard cleans an ear with an index finger and wipes it on a tissue. She uses a file on her fingernails. A male bodyguard has his binoculars trained across Queen Street: balcony of a suite in the Sheraton Hotel. There’s a skinny woman with sunk cheeks and a pointy nose wearing a tan-coloured leisure suit framed in the window, holding the drapes apart with spread arms, checking out the square. Perhaps the guard is undressing the woman in his mind. Perhaps he’s screwing her from behind doggie-style; perhaps he’s already screwed her; perhaps he’s prancing around her room sporting a platinum blonde wig, garish make-up, a pink lace bra, pink thong panties and a pair of black stiletto heels; perhaps he’s lying in a pool of blood, the sharp heel of one shoe imbedded in his eye, through his brain; perhaps he’s saying to himself: I’d kick her out of bed for eating crackers but I wouldn’t let her off the floor, harhar. Impossible to know for sure, there’s just that feel to the scene.
And so it is with the rest of the bodyguards, the police, the suits, the hired help, the crowd as well — here and not here; excited yet not; involved though so-so; interested while not giving two shits one way or the other. Merely something to do to pass the time and a beautiful day to be out, whether the PM arrives or not, and a million other things going through their heads at the same time. And me too, me too, as I am part of the crowd and also separate from the crowd, going about my business anonymously: unchecked, unnoticed, ignored.
How simple it would be, I think, given the situation, the surroundings, the circumstances. Imagine, an anonymous crowd attending an anonymous event? What better time? Wait for the PM to stand at the microphone. Wind through the crowd until you are directly in front and within a few yards of said target. There’s no one to stop you. Everyone is caught up in their own thoughts. Standing guard. Waiting.
So be it.
Withdraw a revolver from a deep pocket, a medium-sized purse or tote sack, a zippered backpack compartment, a plain brown paper bag, raise it swiftly to eye level, aim and fire. Empty the cartridge in rapid succession. Boom, boom, boom! Watch the PM jerk spastically on the platform as the bullets hit. The whole thing lasts maybe two or three seconds at most. The PM drops heavily to the ground. There’s an instant of shocked immobility by everyone present, followed by the sharp, almost painful, recognition of the truth of what has just occurred and, finally, the inflamed reaction around these events. Heads turn, cameras and cell phones are fumbled to faces as if a thousand Zapruders called upon to record for posterity, THE ACT. Black suited bodies fly through the crowd, shoving and pushing, brandishing handguns and billy clubs, there are gasps and screams and shouts, people wail and cry. Numerous rough hands work to pin the arms and legs of the assailant to the pavement. There are solid, punishing blows delivered to the downed face and body.
I feel those blows, feel those rough hands grabbing and tearing at me.
What else? I see the revolver. I see the fist holding the revolver. I see my fist holding the revolver. I see my fist raising the revolver to eye level, aiming the revolver at the Prime Minister, pulling the trigger. I hear the shots fire. Boom, boom, boom! I feel the cartridge empty. I see the body jerk spastically and drop heavily to the ground. I smell the burn of gunpowder and see the final trace of smoke exit the barrel. Next, in order: the Zapruder cameras, the flying suits, the rough hands pinning me to the pavement, the solid, punishing blows to my face and body, the sight of a dozen puzzled question marks twisted on a dozen broad foreheads.
Horse out of the gate and hindsight being 20/20, Boomtown Rats nail it all the way to the bank: “What reason do you need to die?”
What reason indeed?
“This livens up the day.”
I’d asked for a radio.
Would you please get out of the pool? Please? Please?