Rumours & Lies, Page 2

Murray mumbled.

  Russell and Gloria both looked at him; he had a lifeless defeated expression on his face which they had seen several times over the last couple of days.

  “Sir, you’re about to become Mayor of Lister Falls,” Russell said, the annoyance of having to massage Murray’s fragile psyche well hidden. “This is your life dream. You’re ahead in the poles, and now with the pot thing, I mean, this is as close to a lock as you can get.”

  Murray stared at John Harris again, and wondered what had caused him to be so careless. Harris seemed like a bright guy, and had certainly shown enough smarts to build a large successful business, but to smoke pot this close to the election was reckless and showed poor judgment. Murray himself had never smoked marijuana or tobacco of any kind, had never touched alcohol, and had raised his three sons in the same manner; he hadn’t been overly strict with them, but they had made the same decisions as their father, and this made him proud. His wife Margaret had the occasional cocktail, but that was fine, who was he to judge.

  Despite the fact that he didn’t truly trust Russell, Murray was beginning to realize that his feelings and judgment about the pot controversy were bang on. If he chose to, he could bury Harris within a day or two, but he’d do as Gloria had advised and play it low key, stay conservative and not pile on. People might love John Harris, might think he was the most charismatic man in the world, but when they were tucked away in the solitude of a voting booth, picking someone to take the reins of their city, they’d pick Murray Carson.

  The limousine pulled up to a small park in the downtown core; there was a fountain, and a statue of the first Mayor of Lister Falls, the legendary James Kettle. The setting was perfect for a brief twenty minute question and answer session with the press. Kettle was a famously conservative man, and Gloria and Russell couldn’t think of a better place for their candidate to take his first question about John Harris’ pot exploits.

  Trying to exit the limousine, Murray caught his left foot on the edge of the car door and almost went down. In mid-fall he shot his arms out wildly in panic and made a small noise which was higher pitched than anyone present would have thought possible, given his size, gender and age. Finally, standing upright, his cheeks ashen from embarrassment, he searched his mind for something funny to say, but there was nothing in his inventory. He nestled up to the microphone, his long grey wool knit coat safely punched up by a sky blue silk scarf hanging loosely around his neck, his small round metal glasses reeking of fiscal prudence, his hair freshly cut that morning, Russell and Gloria standing immediately behind him. “Jane,” he said pointing at one of the reporters who formed a semi-circle around him now.

  “Sir, can you give us your thoughts on John Harris getting caught smoking marijuana.”

  “Jane, I don’t think it would be right for me to stand here in front of all of you today, and drag John Harris’ name through the mud. Listen, I don’t think what John did was very smart, and I’m sure he’d agree with me, but let’s give him and his family some space. I mean, this must be difficult for them.”

  Jane continued, “Is this race over?”

  “I’m certainly not going to look at it that way Jane. I’m going to keep working as hard as I have for the last two months. It’d be silly for me to sit on my laurels. I’m going to work hard at getting my message out, getting my message to the people, so they understand what kind of Mayor I’ll be for Lister Falls.”

  Russell scratched his nose, only so he could hide the impish smile trying to push its way out of his mouth. “This thing is definitely over,” he thought to himself.

  Jane started to ask a third question, but was cut off by Gordon Post, a weathered reporter with the city’s largest newspaper. “Do you think, in today’s day and age, that this pot thing is really that big a deal?” Post asked.

  “Well Gordon, I think each voter in this city will need to ask themselves that very question. Listen, I think John Harris is a good guy who made a serious mistake. People are going to have to decide for themselves.”

  “But is it really a serious mistake?” Post continued. “Society views marijuana with a little more tolerance today.”

  “We each have our own set of values Gordon. Mine are different from yours, are different from the next person. We’ll all have to make that judgment.”

  “Are your values above John Harris’,” Jane asked, picking up the line of questioning from Gordon Post.

  Russell frowned, and worried that things were getting messy. Gloria stayed expressionless, and looked closely at Murray; he seemed a bit agitated, but she thought he could get himself out of it.

  “Jane, Tolstoy once wrote that . . .”

  What followed was an attempt by Murray Carson to answer Jane’s question regarding his and John Harris’ values with a humorous analogy. Jane had no idea what Murray was talking about, and didn’t respond. The other reporters looked at each other in a confused manner. Murray started to laugh, enjoying the analogy, and the obvious (to him) humor in it. He didn’t stop laughing; he couldn’t stop laughing—he thought the analogy was the funniest damn thing he had ever said or heard.

  Russell tried to speak but couldn’t. His mouth was a lifeless little hole now, hanging open while his entire brain tried to work through what he had just heard. Finally, he turned to Gloria and said softly, “What the hell was that? My God. That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Look at him; he’s laughing like an idiot. He looks like a four year old.”

  Murray stopped laughing for a brief moment, took a deep breath, and then burst out laughing again—this time uncontrollably.

  Russell continued, his eyes narrowed as one’s might be when confronted with something oddly foreign. “He’s gone crazy. Gloria, we’ve got to get him out of here,” Russell said and glanced back at the limousine. “We just went from a nice stoic comment by our candidate being the takeaway here, to now, possibly having his sanity questioned. I mean what was that Tolstoy thing; it didn’t even make sense. We need to end this.”

  Gloria agreed, and had edged her way closer to Murray. “Sir, let’s end it here.”

  Murray, his laughter almost subsided, leaned over to Gloria and said softly, “If Tolstoy had said that after a thousand pages, he wouldn’t have finished War and Peace.”

  Gloria tried to register what he had said. She looked into his eyes; they widened and then he was gone. He laughed so hard that he made a snorting noise. She had never heard a human make a noise like that or laugh as hard and wildly as Murray Carson was now. Russell’s eyes rolled back into his head and he almost passed out.

  Gordon Post smelled blood. “Mr. Carson, what’s the wildest thing you’ve ever done?”

  Murray settled himself, and thought for a moment about the question. “Let me turn the tables on you Gordon. Why are you asking me that question?”

  “It’s just that you and John Harris are polar opposites, as far as your demeanor goes. People don’t really know you, and can’t make a relative comparison between the two of you.”

  Murray knew what this was all about. Over the last month, Gordon Post had delicately insinuated, through his articles and through his direct questions that Murray was out of touch with today’s moral plane; out of touch with the kind of life that the majority of his voters led. Gordon Post had essentially insinuated that Murray Carson lacked pizazz—that he was a bore.

  “Gordon, rather than focus on the wildest thing that I’ve ever done, why don’t you and I and everyone here today work towards putting together a decent plan for how we’re going to get this city out of debt.”

  “Perfect line. Let’s quite on that one,” Russell whispered to Gloria. She nodded.

  “Sir, good line to end on,” Gloria said quietly to Murray.

  “And further more Gordon, I’m really not that boring.”

  “Noooooooooo,” Russell said under his breath.

  “I enjoy reading about an assortment of different topics. I enjoy swimming. I enjoy playing bridge, and I’m goin
g to enjoy being the Mayor of this wonderful city. Gordon, what do you think?”

  Gordon Post was mildly startled that he had been asked another question. He smiled coolly. “I’m sure you’ll be a great mayor sir. I suppose for some things, boring is good.”

  There was that word. Murray hated the word, and for the life of him, couldn’t understand why it had attached itself to him. He was not boring; not now, not ever in his life. He thought back to the Tolstoy analogy, and wondered why it hadn’t been appreciated. God it had been a funny moment; why had they not laughed? He didn’t want to be a great mayor; he wanted to be a great mayor who was also a great guy. He wanted to be a great mayor who was loved.

  Murray looked from face to face, locking eyes with a few. He thought of John Harris, standing in front of the same reporters a few hours earlier, lobbing witty one liners into the crowd. He wondered what that felt like; wondered what it felt like to feel warmth and acceptance cursing back from a group like this. The mouths under the eyes staring blankly back at him weren’t smiling—some were yawning. There was no wanting in those faces, nothing to suggest that anyone in the crowd desperately wanted to be like Murray or would even be mildly interested in sharing a social moment with him.

  Murray Carson took a deep breath. He began to say something and then stopped and took another