I woke up in the hospital bed, which seemed peculiar to me at the time because I had no recollection of going to sleep in one.
A big police officer sat next to the bed. He must have seen me stir, because he said, only partly under his breath, “Ah, the beast awakes…”
“Where am I?” I asked. As the police officer formulated a witty response, I discovered that my head ached. I didn’t like it.
“Massey Hall,” the officer finally said. I felt like applauding, but I didn’t have the energy to lift my arms. The police officer reached into his massive coat and removed a notepad and pen.
“Thanks,” I weakly responded.
“Now,” he said, opening the notepad to an empty page, “I wonder if you’d mind telling me, in your own words, exactly what happened last night…”
I thought for a moment. “I…I don’t remember…”
The officer’s face appeared to be made of granite, so I couldn’t tell if he was being stern with me, or if that was just the way he always looked. “Do you remember talking to any farmers?” he asked, still poised to write down anything I might say.
“No.”
“Do you remember being in a bar?”
“Oh, it’s unlikely that I would be in a bar…”
“Why?”
“I don’t drink alcohol and the cigarette smoke makes me sick.”
The officer slowly put away his notepad and pen. “I was afraid you were going to say that,” he muttered.
:What’s going on, here?”
“You were apparently at the centre of a barroom brawl last night,” the policeman told me, rising. “You were brought in here with a nasty bruise and a concussion.”
“How did I get that?”
“We’ll talk later,” the policeman stated, and left. Good morning! I thought.
I closed my eyes and tried to picture myself in a barroom brawl. If my head hadn’t hurt so much, I might have broken into a hearty laugh, possibly even a great guffaw. Still, not being able to remember what happened worried me.
A young doctor entered. “Well, no, Mr….” He looked at my chart, “…Adams. How are you feeling?”
“I’ve got an awful headache,” I replied. “But, other than that, I feel generally awful. What happened to me?”
“You tell me,” the doctor responded, producing a thermometer and sticking it, with little fanfare, into my mouth. “No answer? Well, we can always talk about something else…hmm, have any opinions about the Tory leadership race? Maybe you have a favourite candidate?”
“Why should I care?” I said as best I could (does a thermometer count towards the “not talking with your mouth full” mother’s rule?). “I’m not at all interested in the Conservative Party…”
“That’s not what I heard,” the doctor told me, taking the thermometer out of my mouth and examining it closely.
“Why? What have you heard?”
“Good,” the doctor said, making the thermometer vanish as mysteriously as it had appeared. Then, to acknowledge that I had asked him a question, he added: “You rest. We can always talk later,” and left.
“Is he gone?” a deep voice asked. “I thought we’d never have a moment alone.”
I was scared to turn my head, so convinced had I been that I was alone in the room. But, like all those stupid people in horror movies that I swore I would never act like, I looked. What I thought I saw was the ghost of John Diefenbaker.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“John Diefenbaker.”
“But, he’s dead.”
“I’m his ghost.”
I guess first impressions aren’t always deceiving.
“What do you want?”
“I’ve come to give you a warning.”
“I don’t believe this is happening.”
“Okay, I’ll go.”
“Wait.”
“Okay, but, do you mind if I sit down? My feet are killing me.”
I said it was okay, and the ghost sat next to the bed, in the chair the policeman had occupied earlier.
“What’s going on?”
“Well, prepare yourself for some scary news…”
“Look, I’m already on the verge of a heart attack. For goodness’ sake, will you tell me already and forget this cheap attempt at creating suspense?”
The ghost looked let down. “Alright,” he said, resigned. “It’s your problem. When there’s a full moon, as there was last night, you turn into a…Conservative.”
I had to take a few moments to digest this. “You mean – I don’t – what the heck…” A variety of emotions fought for control of my mouth. “How…how can such a thing happen?”
“Do you remember a party you attended at the Press Club last month?”
“Vaguely.”
“Do you remember being bitten on the shin by Lubor Zink?”
“Sure, but it wasn’t anything serious. He barely drew blood.”
“Well, that’s how it all begins. Now, whenever a full moon is out, you become a rabid, raving, big C Conservative. Like last night…”
“What happened last night?”
“The impression I got was that you got into an argument with four or five farmers who had lost everything they owned to banks. You were telling them, in very unsympathetic tones, that this was one of the unfortunate but inevitable consequences of the free enterprise system, and that losing their farms was their own faults for being too greedy and not working hard enough.”
I was horrified. “That can’t be!” I protested. “I have nothing but sympathy for farmers. Why…I think it’s a crime that a man works for 20 or 30 years on a farm and then has nothing to show for it because a bank…farmers are the backbone of this -“
The ghost put up a hand to stop me. “Look,” he asked, “Do you want me to tell you what happened, or do you want to make me cry with a lot of liberal sentiments? I didn’t want to be here, you know. I had to give up a perfectly good hearts game with Lester Pearson, and he’s a terrible player.”
“Sorry…”
“Although,” the ghost continued, dreamily, “I have gotten a lot of pleasure out of seeing the Conservative Party operate these past few weeks…with any luck, mine won’t be remembered as the worst Conservative government in the history of Canada…”
“So, I become a Conservative. What can I do?”
The ghost was about to answer when the door opened and a nurse walked in. “We’ll talk,” he said, and was gone. “Everything okay in here?” the nurse asked, moving towards the bed on the far side of the room.
“I’m a…I’m a wereConservative!”
“That’s nice,” she said, and started making the bed.