The Big Ass Bus

The big ass bus is parked in front of the Mowat Block. Emblazoned with the party logo and Patriot’s portrait, it blocks a full lane of rush hour traffic. At least everyone knows who to blame.

I have my camera, phone and recorder. They are all one thing. This is my first political ride along and I am so very excited. The Patriot is strolling the long walk from the block’s front door to the bus. There is always wind here but his hair seems to have a staple holding each salt and pepper piece in place.

Two uniformed boys and six black suits with microphones look at the Patriot and the small group of ride alongs. A stiff haired nod tells the boys to let the group on the bus. But not first. The Patriot is always first. His Hong Kong Custom blue suit hangs squarely on his short pudgy frame. Although not technically a “little people”, sunglasses always look odd on his face.

The Patriot is a true leader and walks with the confidence of a matador. Bus stairs seem to defy that as he stumbles over the third and final step into the bus. A low chuckle eeks out of the gathered, I give them a stern look. I do not want to lose this opportunity.

I am allowed a five minute interview. It is for “the Local” and I might be able to get on the radio with it as well. This could really help my writing career. I might be famous. I might be in the IGA and someone will give me an approving nod. I might get letters.

We all board the bus behind the Patriot. He is sitting in the middle of the bus. To be with his people. Amongst them.  I am the second last to not trip up the stairs and grab a seat as close to the man as I can. Three rows back and across the aisle. I can almost smell his Old Spice. Almost read the documents on his lap.

The driver closes the door and we are off. Today’s tour is to a small town North of the provincial capital. A farming community that is a splendid example of the Patriot’s trade agreement with China. No longer do these farmers need to toil day and night to produce their crops. No longer will these people need to live so far away from the action. They can all move. China’s shit is cheaper. The Patriot is going to tell them today. Their community can relax, he will say. Take a deep breath, sigh, move forward and be a part of the corporate growth. Yay.

I wore a tie. I am excited.

The drive is one hour through rush hour, one hour through the back country of Fall. The colours reflect magically in the man’s jacket and he glances out the window. His tight lips turn down and an noticible shiver passes through him. He looks back to his document as one of the suits approaches me. You're up he says.

I move to the empty seat across from Him.  I introduce myself and the publication that will be putting our words on famous paper. He doesn’t look up but that is OK. I am about to ask my first question but my eyes explode with a stunning vision that is coming at a very bad time.

I see myself slowly step out of my body. Pull my armrest out of it mooring and slap the Patriot in the head with it.

Gone.

Your government has a majority. It has been in power since 2006 but now will be able to pass some of the items that you may have had to put on the back burner while liberal elitists would have defeated them. What will you do first?

I saw the Patriots mouth move but the words were mumbled. A flurry of bats began emerging from the hole in the face of the Patriot that kept growing until it could accommodate the volume of bats.

I shrieked. Just a bit. I cleared my throat to cover.

Bats were circling the bus. Inside the bus. Crawling over unsuspecting heads and shitting on the velour seats. Some decided to grasp the upper racks and dangle upside down, staring at me. I ducked, and tied my shoe.

I decide to move on to my second question. Perhaps the bats would prefer that. I sat up and watched a bat crawl back into the Patriot’s mouth.  I took this as a positive sign.

When you merged the PC Party and Reform Party, you wrested power from Peter McKay. This after unseating Stockwell Day. Did you feel that it was your performance, your ideals or your steely determination that carried your momentum to a minority Government shortly afterward?

The Patriot nodded and a bat fell from his stiff hair. A tiny clawed, black wing was sucked in between his pursed lips and he answered. I am the God of value and my Hockey stick is my scepter. I will fight the beast of tax burden and environmentalist buggerists. I will free the oil and the seal hunters. The immigrants will not take your votes and we will bow to the southern Gods of Steer.

Smoke billowed from his ears. His voice echoed as if it had passed through a bass drum.

Okokok. I thought. This is the good stuff. I looked around the bus to see if the bats were bothering anyone else. Most were hanging now. Watching. Still, a few swooped and circled the smoky inside of the bus. If anyone else noticed, like me, they pretended not to.

This was going to be great on the radio. People would have a whole new respect for the Patriot.

Next. You have appointed several senators to the senate. Some unholy scum rockets think that this is hypocritical after decades of working toward the elimination of this practice. You have introduced legislation to those very people to eliminate their lifetime of salaries and permanent ability to confuse the valuable legislation that needs to be addressed without the people having to be concerned. Why has this  taken so long to happen, any idea when it may happen?

Excellent question says the Patriot. And golden trumpets popped from his ears. An angelic tune announced the arrival of twin Patriots. Mini Patriots. Even minier than the original. One on each blue shoulder. Each with their own Hong Kong suit, pressed hair and pudged bellies.

The left shoulder looks through me and at the Bat hanging over my shoulder. A stern look at the bat and it flies to the back of the bus. I watch it coast over my seat and rest just over the head of another ride along waiting to talk to the Patriot. I hope I am the only one that gets to talk to the little Patriots.

I giggled at the cute little things and almost reached over to touch one. Wondering if poking its tight little belly would elicit a giggle of its own.  

The two mini-Patriots reached into their tiny pockets and pulled out handfuls of chocolate kisses. Tiny silver wrapped chocolates. They peeled the teeny treats in unison and dropped their wrappers on the big Patriot. They fell like dandruff, floating slowly down to his lap and then fluttered away.

I looked back to the Patriot. His lips were moving without the benefit of audio. Then, a bubble. Not the bubblegum kind but a cartoon bubble. In perfect comic sans his words glowed. He looked at me oddly as I put my reading glasses on to look over his shoulder. The Patriot turned to look behind and see what I saw. He didn’t. Obviously.

I knew this show was for me. The Patriot’s glowing words spoke to this. I knew that I was special. The only one that was allowed to see. The bats, minis, ride alongs, boys and suits all watched me.

The bus driver looked over his shoulder and must have seen the look in my eyes, or my joyous smile. Or heard me laughing like a mad man.  He pulled the bus over to the side of the country road we were on. And opened the door.

Two suits and a boy escorted me to the side of the road.

I have other questions I protested. No use.

I watched the bus disappear in a cloud of dust and diesel stink. It disappeared over a rise and I crossed the road and put my thumb out. I reached into my pocket and grabbed the baggie of LSD. Another hit won’t hurt I suppose and watched the bats come screaming back over the rise, not wanting to be left alone with the Patriot.

Kids, drugs and politicians may not always go well together.