Hello, Mr. Harper

(Note: Hello Mr. Harper is based on a true story, but is the product of my own imagination as I have not-- to date -- mastered the art of mind-reading).

The greatest Prime Minister in Canadian history lives down the street. His house is just five houses down and across the street, so I can see his front door when I go outside to get the paper. Not that my wife would agree.  She isn’t so far left that she would vote NDP, but I am certain she voted for that Liberal imp, that scion of that west-hating, national energy program propagator, may there be warts-on-the-tongue-of-your-firstborn, Pierre Elliott Trudeau. If you ask me, those ads were right; he just isn’t ready. I am not sure how I ended up with a leftist wife, but there it is. We can’t always chose who we love.

Every morning, when I get the paper, I glance nonchalantly down the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Not that he is Prime Minister anymore, The Scion of Evil having prevailed, Prime Minister Just…no, I can’t even say it. He still has RCMP protection though, to judge by the black sedans that are often idling in the street. But usually, it’s just me, a little disheveled in my housecoat, and my cat. He  -- my cat -- likes to come out with me to get the paper and feel the breeze, smell the rabbits that nibble on god knows what on our lawn all winter. His whiskers gently vibrate as he tests the air. He isn’t an outside cat, another restriction of my leftist wife. And I think there is a city bylaw too, but if I can blame it on Liberal politics I will.

My wife doesn’t approve of me getting the paper in my housecoat.  I don’t think she’d care if the paper was on the front step, but it never is. I’ve seen the guy who delivers it, early in the morning, and he tosses it on the driveway from the comfort of his car. Of course, she’d really prefer I gave up the paper altogether and got my news online, but I love reading the paper in the morning with my coffee. It’s like time stands still, flipping the pages slowly and reading yesterday’s news. I like to get up early, before I wake her, so I can luxuriate in newsprint.

I dream of what I would say, should I see him one morning. “Hello, Mr. Harper!” I’d wave, casually, and turn away. But he’s a savvy man. He would be able to tell at a glance that he and I are the same, Conservatives to the core, and he would take a few steps in my direction. “Nice morning!” He’d say, and then we’d chat some more, after I’d magically floated the five houses down the block and across the street. Physics says that space and time can bend when the gravity of a body is strong enough, so this could happen, because Mr. Harper is like a small sun. We’d part on a handshake, knowing that we’d chat again tomorrow morning.

I’ve actually met him before, briefly, when we were both students. While president of the UBC campus Conservatives, I shook the hands of the great Conservative politicians Joe Clark and Jean Charest.  I’ve never shaken the hand of Mr. Harper, but we do have ties. He is a good friend of a friend of mine, and he did his master’s degree at the University of Calgary at the same time I did my doctorate. It makes us practically frat brothers.

Yesterday I was waiting in the driveway for my wife, car ready to go. She’s a bit disabled these days, and can’t drive on her own, so I chauffeur as needed. I am just sitting there, waiting, when I glance in the rearview mirror. There’s a guy, in black and a hat, shuffling by the end of the driveway. I don’t pay too much attention, but then a black car also passes, going slowly. I look up and watch, and yes! The man in black turns in at His House. I just missed saying hello to Mr. Harper. I am a bit crushed. My wife gets in the car, and I tell her I’ve just seen Mr. Harper but didn’t realize it until it was too late. She might be Liberal, but she knows this would have meant a lot to me. “I’m sorry, sweetie”. I think about it all the way to the hospital. It’s a missed opportunity, and it throws a grayish tinge over the rest of the day.

For the next few weeks, I keep a sharp eye out. He’s not always there, Mr. Harper. Sometimes I suppose he must go to Ottawa. He’s still a sitting MP, after all, although it must be hard for him to go from Prime Minister to backbench. It’s hard enough for me to watch. Not that I really watch the news these days. My leftist wife spends a lot of her time watching the news, listening to Power and Politics as she recovers from cancer treatments. I didn’t like the previous host, but Rosie Barton seems OK. I am a bit suspicious though, since my wife also likes her. My wife says she’s tough on everyone, but it is just possible Rosie is a closet lefty. Fortunately, I am rarely home when it is on. I also must work.

It’s a cool grey day. My cat – his name is Leo, which my wife tells me is supposed to be short for Leonardo de Vinci, but which was too long for everyday – is practically dancing in his eagerness to go out to get the paper. All I do is call, “Little guy! Time to get the paper!” and he comes running. He’s a smart cat. It’s a good thing doorknobs are round, or he’d be able to get in and out on his own. A lack of opposable thumbs is all that is holding him back. I pick him up, adjusting my housecoat as I go so it doesn’t flap open in the wind. I mean, I do wear boxer shorts, but still. The paper – we get two, actually – is at the end of the driveway. I pad down and bend to pick it up.

“Nice cat”. I hadn’t even noticed the guy walking along the sidewalk, almost right in front of my house. It is Mr. Harper! I do a small dance, in my head. In reality, my feet stay firmly on the cool pavement. I’d forgotten he likes cats, even though (for some unintelligible reason) it’s almost the only thing my wife likes about him. “He likes to get out, does he?” I smile cautiously, but that doesn’t mean much. Most of my smiles are cautious. My wife calls it the “family grimace” since most of my family has the same reaction upon being faced with a camera. Selfie sticks are wasted on us, although might I point out that someone called Justin probably has a few to spare should we ever need to get one. I manage a nod and a brusque “Good morning. Yes, he does”, before the greatest Prime Minister ever continues his walk down the street.

When my wife finally gets out of bed and stumbles down for her café au lait, I make it for her and create a big smile in the foam. At least, she thinks it’s a smile. When you turn the cup 90 degrees, it’s a big Conservative “C”. It’s going to be a great day.