Free Easy to Like by Edward Riche

dissociative psychopaths. They weren’t method actors;
rather, they were method humans.
    The CBC programs Elliot best
remembered, and then only fuzzily, were about nature; typically, documentaries
about the people and fauna of the north. Most memorable were the “Hinterland
Who’s Who” public service announcements, produced by the National Film Board of
Canada for the Canadian Wildlife Service and dropped into plentiful unsold
advertising slots. Elliot could hum the forlorn flute part that signalled the
beginning of each one, and still knew that the muskox formed a circle to defend
against wolves (a strategy that a proved a failure against the rifle), that the
beaver’s teeth were yellow and never stopped growing, and that the moose was the
largest member of the deer family.
    It was quaint, really, that a vice
president of the CBC could be forced to resign for having fucked the weathergirl
and then given her a show as a reward. In the Darwinian world of television in
the States, it wouldn’t have mattered until the ratings came in.
    There were other stories in the
newspaper about sundry goings-on in Canada, stories of too small or too regional
an interest to have attracted attention outside the country. At least the
disgraced former VP of English Television had some excitement in his life. It
was a shame the CBC turfed him; he was the kind of leader Canada needed.
    The paper had done the work of a couple
of Lectopa. Elliot dozed off.

Five
    â€œ BIENVENUE À TORONTO said the
voice over speakers the moment the plane’s wheels finished bouncing on the
runway at Pearson. But it was only after waiting another hour and a half on the
tarmac, waiting to be assigned a gate, that Elliot set foot on his native soil,
or at least its flooring, for the first time in more than a decade.
    His scheduled connection was tight. He
jogged to his departure gate. Studying the ticket for the next leg, to Paris, he
saw that he was again assigned to the back of the bus. This time he took it up
with the ticketing agent at the gate.
    â€œThere was even room in business
class,” he complained of the last flight.
    â€œCan I see your ticket, sir, and your
passport.”
    She was the youngest Air Canada
employee Elliot had met that day, but she looked tired. She picked up the phone
and said something Elliot could not make out. This was Canada. Elliot felt
himself relax, his shoulders dropping. Action was finally being taken. Business
class. To France.
    â€œSo you’ve managed to sort it out? I’d
prefer an aisle seat.”
    â€œI’m afraid not, sir,” she said.
    â€œBut it’s —”
    â€œThe issue is not with your ticket,
sir. It’s your passport.”
    â€œWhat about it?”
    â€œIt expires in six days.”
    Elliot snatched the document back from
her hands. It was true. In the photo, taken but five years earlier, Elliot
looked a decade to the good, less drawn, eyes reflective. Those were happier
days; the first bottlings of Locura Canyon were nearing early maturity and
would, Elliot mistakenly believed, soon to be ready to show. Lucky Silverman’s
EA was telling him that the coverage on one of his scripts — none other than The Feinting Spell — was positive. Lloyd Purcell
had a thing that was sure to go with HBO and had guaranteed Elliot a couple of
episodes. Patricia Franchini from Warner was asking whether he had time to take
on an adaptation of a hot chicklit property. None of it would ever happen.
    â€œI’ve called Border Services,” said the
ticketing agent. “Someone will be here in a moment. If you wish to re-book the
flight, please call 1-888-247-2262.”
    His Border Services escorts fancied
themselves cops but were, in the main, too fat for a beat. Elliot dared not make
a crack; he could tell from the way they carried themselves, and from the number
of African and South Asian women sitting around the office weeping, that they
were