The group of visitors is posed outside the main entranceway, with the Fletcher name clearly visible. The two potential federal leadership candidates, chests out, teeth on display, jostle for the most prominent position in the frame. The others group around them.
The Honorable Sal O’Nally, Minister of Justice; the Honorable Anthony Price, Minister of Heritage; the Honorable Sebert Stanley, Minister of Veterans Affairs; and Mr. Lonnie Gordon of Gordon Strategy, Chair of the Board for the Makeshiweg Festival. Accompanying them is Minister O’Nally’s son, Frederick O’Nally.
Sal is paunchier by the year; Tony’s ultra-tailored in his sleek suit, with still a good head of hair. Sebert Stanley has always looked like a seal—small head, hardly any ears, small eyes, pear-shaped body—and he still looks like one. The boy—Freddie O’Nally—is handsome enough—dark hair, white smile—but he’s looking off to the side. It’s as if he doesn’t like the company he’s keeping, even though one of that company is his father.
Flanking the central group is a clutch of government minions and gofers, and some of the Fletcher higher-ups, who are most likely wetting themselves because it’s not often they’ve had a ministerial visit. In fact, it’s not ever.
Estelle is in the background, half obscured: she doesn’t like to be too obvious on such occasions, she’d told Felix, but she’d promised to run interference for him: reassure, distract, just in case the Warden’s group got nervous. She’d synchronize her watch and make sure the two videos played at the same time.
“Think of me as lubricant,” she’d said. “I’ll make things run smoothly,
guaranteed.”
“How can I thank you?” Felix had said.
“We’ll talk.” She’d smiled.
—
—
The main doors open. The group enters. The main doors close.
In the viewing room, Felix settles himself behind the folding screen. “Take us to PPod’s mic,” he says. He puts on his headphones.
There’s a murmur of voices. The ministerial group is being run through Security one by one, just like anyone else, no exceptions, as Dylan and Madison explain politely. Quite right, says the voice of Sal O’Nally, glad to know you boys are doing your job, haha.
All is joviality. As Felix knows from Estelle, they’ve just come from a local political bunfest; they must have been well received, and he assumes they’ve had a few drinks. A quick stop at this holding pen for bottom-feeding social misfits and they’ll be on their way, and the quicker the better because it’s supposed to snow. There may even be a blizzard. Already some of the lower-downs whose function it is to attend to such details must be nervously checking their watches.
—
Sal’s feeling mellow. They’ll go through the charade of seeing this play or whatever it is, mostly because Freddie has insisted on it and he, Sal, thinks the sun shines out of Freddie’s ass, even though he wants him to be a lawyer and not some fruity actor. But he’ll humor the boy, and then, after they’re back in Ottawa, Sal will announce the cancellation of this frill, this so-called literacy thing, whatever it is. Prisons are for incarceration and punishment, not for spurious attempts to educate those who cannot, by their very natures, be educated. What’s the quote? Nature versus nurture, something like that. Is it from a play? Sal makes a mental note: ask Tony, he used to be in theatre.
Better still, ask Freddie. The kid will be disappointed when Sal puts it to him that it’s law school or no more monthly allowance because he’s had his playtime. It may seem severe, but Sal wants only the best, and the boy would be wasted in the arts, it’s a dead end and about to become deader under Tony’s stewardship, as Sal happens to know.
“Can’t take your cellphone in there,” says Dylan to Sal. “Sir. Sorry. We’ll keep it safe for you here.”
“Oh, surely,” Sal begins, “I’m the Minister of…” but he sees Freddie looking at him. The boy doesn’t like it when Sal pulls rank; though what’s the use of having rank if you can’t pull it? Nonetheless, he hands over his phone.
Tony has other things on his mind. Here he is with two potential leadership candidates, Sal and Sebert, and both of them want his backing. Sal feels Tony owes him, considering the help he’s given Tony with his career. Supplanting Felix Phillips was just the first step: Tony’s risen like a gas balloon ever since.
From the life of theatre to the theatre of life, you could say, and Sal was his ladder. But once you’ve climbed a ladder, what use is it? You kick it away, if you don’t intend to go down it again. Surely it would be better for Tony to back a candidate to whom he owes nothing; who owes a debt to Tony, instead. How to shake off Sal and tip the scales for Sebert? What’s the long game?
Having sacrificed his phone, Sal turns out his pockets, gives up his Leatherman pocket knife, also his nail file. “Clean as a baby,” he tells the two security guards. Much reciprocal grinning. A security pager is clipped to his belt: not that there will be any use for it, says Dylan, but no exceptions, everyone must be issued with one. Sir.
Tony sails through the X-ray with his hands in the air, affably clowning it up.
Sebert does it straight-faced, smoothing down the hair on his little head after he’s gone through the scanner. Lonnie proceeds through sadly, as if he’s sorry there has to be such a thing as a security checkpoint, in such a thing as a prison. Freddie is awkward, wide-eyed: this is a whole other world, one he’s never thought much about.
Now they’re all through, and, as if on cue, around the corner comes a group of men dressed as—what? Pirates?
“Welcome, gentlemen all,” says the one in the lead. “Welcome to the good ship Tempest, which you are now aboard. I’m the Boatswain and these are my sailors. We’re sailing you across the sea to a desert isle. Don’t be worried if there’s some strange noises, it’s part of the play. And this is an interactive piece of theatre, experimental in nature; we’re alerting you of that fact in advance.” He leers ingratiatingly. “Right this way.”
“Lead on,” says Sal. Might as well be a good sport. It hasn’t escaped him that these men are inmates, but the Warden and several guards are right there in the background, smiling, and the Warden says, “See you after the show, enjoy it, we’ll be watching it too, from upstairs.” “Have a good time,” says Estelle what’s-her-name: her grandfather was a Senator, he’s seen her at a lot of parties, she’s on committees or something. Now she smiles and waves at them as if seeing them off on a ship. So it’s all fine, and he follows the Boatswain down the corridor to the left.
Tony and Sebert are right behind him, and Lonnie and Freddie are right behind them. Right behind Lonnie and Freddie are three of the sailors, tossing— what’s this?—handfuls of blue, glittering confetti. “It’s water drops,” says the Boatswain. “There’s a storm, right?”
“Oh, right,” says Sal. What are shenanigans like this doing inside a prison?
These men are having way too much fun.
To the rear of the party a door slides shut, locking with a clunk. Only to be expected, thinks Sal. Of course. It’s the security. He feels safer.
In the distance there’s a rumble of thunder.
“Right in here,” says the Boatswain. “Gentlemen.” He ushers them through the door into the main screening room.
“Well done, PPod,” Felix whispers into his mic. He checks his watch again.
There’s a large flatscreen at the front of the room. More black-clad sailors escort the visitors to their places, indicating with bows and flourishes where they are to sit. Four of the sailors hand around soft drinks, in blue and green plastic cups, and little bags of popcorn, a homey touch. The three Ministers and Lonnie are in the front row; there’s a row of sailors behind them.
Felix, looking at the screen, sees that TimEEz is in the middle of the second row, his round moon face smiling vacantly, his nimble fingers hidden in his sleeves, poised to lift the security pagers as soon as the lights go out.
Where’s the rest of the party? Sal wonders. Oh, right. Upstairs with the Warden and what-not. That nice-looking woman, Estelle: a bit flashy but obviously well connected. He should take her to lunch sometime. He sits back in his desk chair. He’s feeling the drink from that bunfest they went to.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” he says to Tony. He checks the time. “At least they didn’t take my watch,” he grins. He digs into his popcorn bag: lots of salt, he likes that. He takes another hefty swig of ginger ale, from the green plastic cup. He’s thirsty. Nice idea, this ginger ale. Too bad there’s no booze in it.
—
Freddie’s beside Anne-Marie, in the third row. “Hi,” he says to her. “I’m Fred O’Nally. I guess you’re the Miranda? In the play?”
“Yes. Anne-Marie Greenland,” she says.
“Really?” says Freddie. “Are you that Anne-Marie—Aren’t you—weren’t
you dancing with Kidd Pivot?”
“You got it,” says Anne-Marie.
“That’s awesome! I must’ve watched your video, like, a hundred times! As a director, I want to integrate, like, more movement, and some crossover—”
“You’re directing?” says Anne-Marie. “Cool!”
“Well, not exactly,” says Freddie, “I mean, not my whole own productions yet. I’m more like an apprentice. But I’m getting there.”
“Here’s to getting there,” says Anne-Marie, raising her clear plastic cup.
Freddie raises his. He’s gazing deeply into her wide blue eyes.
“Fabulous dress,” he says. “It’s got the right…” Now he’s looking at her one bare shoulder.
“Thanks,” she says, pulling her sleeve up a little but not enough to hide the shoulder. “I made it myself.”
—
There are three sharp raps from behind the folding screen at the front of the room: Felix, with his fox-head cane, on the floor. 8Handz’ index finger hovers over the Play button. In the light from the computer his thin face is impish.
Felix glances anxiously around the dark space: where is his own Miranda?
There she is, a glimmer behind 8Handz’ left shoulder.
The hour’s now come, she whispers to him.
