Pleading that an issue was beyond the federal government’s jurisdiction did not fly. “What about traffic?” “What are you doing about the schools?” I would be asked. One grandmother said, “You have got to do something about that school,” pointing up the street to Forest Hill Collegiate, one of the city’s best secondary schools. “What’s the problem?” I asked. “My granddaughter can’t keep up — those Asians do nothing but study.” She didn’t know it, but she was right — immigration is a federal responsibility. I moved on.
A middle-aged man, about six-foot-five, 250 pounds, with a sparse beard and wearing a housedress, said, “I’ve been thinking about the upcoming election, but I’m a little confused.” “Confused? I bet you are,” I said. I’m not particularly proud of that moment. A candidate must be disciplined. I forgot to ask if he/she would take a lawn sign.
In the relentless pursuit of votes, fantasy abounds. A “yes” at the door is bankable; a “no” is a maybe; “maybes” are marked down as “likelys.” One could never be sure. First, people lie to candidates. They say, “Yes, you can count on my support,” when they have no intention of voting for you. They want to be nice or not to be bothered, so they lie. Self-absorbed, strung out, and drunk on his own rhetoric, the candidate usually has no clue what is actually happening. That was me. But if someone slams the door in your face, you don’t go back. Personal injury is beyond the call of democratic duty.
I hated canvassing bus stops and subway stations, but Wagon Master made me do it. The problem is that while there are many people about, none of them want to speak to you. You stand between them and the train to the office, and they are not at their best; or, in the late afternoon, you stand between them and dinner, and they are ready to kill. At a bus stop one morning, a man viciously cursed me and all the other “goddamned Liberals.” Later, in a client meeting, I recognized him. He sat opposite me, the general counsel of my law firm’s largest client. I slid down in my seat and took off my glasses to disguise myself.
“It’s raining and cold,” I complained to Wagon Master. “Keep going,” he said. “But it’s wet and miserable.” “People may vote for you because they’ll feel sorry for you. Ditch the umbrella, look wet and miserable and earnest,” he said. I continued to whine. “Then do apartment buildings.”
The only good news about apartment buildings is that you are indoors. But first you have to get in. Superintendents are preternaturally grumpy and possessed by demons. This manifests itself in the jealous guarding of tenant privacy and a wanton disregard for the Canada Elections Act, which guarantees candidates access to buildings. Best to hope some kind soul invites you in, or to slip in as someone slips out.
Apartment buildings contain many (sometimes a great many) identical floors. As you and your staff take the elevator to the top and start to work down, you quickly become separated and confused in the heat and close air. You hear your name being called, but you don’t know whether to go up or down. Behind you, a tenant finally unbolts her door, and you race back up, only to have the door slammed in your face. You try to slide literature under the door, but too many apartments are hermetically sealed, for medical reasons or experiments, I guess. You spend precious minutes folding and wedging literature between doorknobs and frames. Being stationary, you become light-headed from the mix of odours — curries, chicken fat, sewage, refuse, and Lysol.
My aunt lived in a large apartment building. While canvassing there one night, I promised my hungry and exhausted volunteers that she would invite us in and feed us something. I knocked. “Who’s there?” my aunt responded. “It’s the Liberal candidate for St. Paul’s,” I replied. “Leave your stuff under the door,” she said. “It’s me, Barry, your nephew,” I said hopefully. “I know. Leave your stuff under the door, dear.” I’m not sure how my aunt voted. “It’s a secret ballot,” she told me after the election.
If your campaign is well organized, you have a voters list, people enumerated for the last election, and it tells you generally whose door you are knocking on. I was nervous approaching the home of a renowned psychiatrist. What does he think of politicians? I wondered. I knocked. He answered. I delivered my spiel. “Why are you running?” he asked. I gave my well-honed answer about the need for new focus, new ideas, and I gave it with a certain urgency. “No,” he said, “why are you really running?” I had no answer. Did he know something I didn’t? Maybe running for office is not what you think it’s about, but that and more. Anyway, I had no time to linger and ponder.
An elderly woman with a cane was leaving her house. “Here, let me help you down the stairs,” I said, taking her elbow. “You know,” I continued, “you remind me of my late grandmother. She had a cane just like that.” “Well, then,” she said, raising her cane over my head, “pretend I’m your grandmother, and get the hell off my stoop.” I marked her down as a “probable.” She had restored my faith in old people.
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