Free Easy to Like by Edward Riche Page A

drunk with power. For an interrogator Elliot drew a blockhead — once of
Newfoundland, judging from his accent. The fellow typed some details from
Elliot’s dated papers into a computer. The profile the machine produced must
have been particularly dull, for the bulky official yawned, an effort that
pulled his lips above his gums and aired his tonsils. He made no effort to cover
his mouth.
    â€œWhy would you change your name from
Johnston to Jonson?” he opened.
    â€œLot of Johnstons out there, my name is
my business. I’m my own brand.”
    â€œAnd you go by your second given name,
Elliot?”
    â€œThat’s correct.”
    â€œPierre Elliott Trudeau?”
    â€œHe wasn’t yet a public figure in
English Canada when I was born, he was still just another anonymous Jesuit
Franco-ist, catholic in his sexuality.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œOr perhaps by then he was a socialist
playboy. I went to university in Montreal, and my Québécois friends, they kept
changing the story.”
    Mr. Border Services took a moment to
simply stare at Elliot and scowl before returning his gaze to the computer
screen.
    â€œWhat’s a bayman like yourself doing
down there in Tinseltown?”
    â€œI’m sorry?” Elliot said, though he
well understood the question.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with Canada? You have a
problem with Canada?” He was leaning back in his chair and pushing his gut
toward the roof. Was he displaying the great mound in an attempt to somehow
intimidate Elliot? Maybe he was doing some sort of exercise to try to reduce the
thing. He remembered his agent pushing his belly into his desk. Maybe it was a
new exercise craze.
    â€œNo, not at all. Why would you even
suggest such a thing?” Elliot said.
    â€œYou’ve been living down there for
years. Is there some reason you left Canada?”
    â€œYes, there is. I’m in the film and
television business. There wasn’t a whole lot going on here. I got a green card
in the lottery, went from there.”
    â€œI know someone who works in the
Canadian television business.”
    â€œLucky them,” said Elliot.
    â€œYou know a program called The Littlest Hobo ?”
    â€œI have a vague recollection.”
    â€œMy cousin . . .” He
thought for a second. “My second cousin, actually, he moved up here from Leading
Tickles in Notre Dame Bay. Up to Guelph it was. His daughter is — was —
married . . . they divorced . . . was
married to the fellow who owned the dogs that starred in that show.”
    â€œDogs?”
    â€œThey had two or three that looked
alike, pack of Hobos.”
    â€œI remember now. Alsatians, right?”
    â€œGerman shepherds. Good show.”
    A dog barked. Elliot convulsed. The
border guard tensed and congealed. In a moment he relaxed and grinned. He
slapped his wooden desk with an open palm.
    â€œFuck me,” the guard said. “Talking
about dogs!”
    The dog barked again. The sound came
from a room beyond, might have passed a couple of walls, but travelled easily on
account of its deep pitch. Sourced from a bigger breed of cur, Elliot reasoned.
The heavy official came forward, leaning over his desk. “That’s bad news for
someone trying to bring a souvenir back from down south. You should see ’em, the
expression on their face when there is this dog barking at their bag. And then
they realize they’re caught. I’ve seen fellas shit themselves.”
    â€œI can see how they might,” said
Elliot.
    The agent moved back and straightened
in his chair. Perhaps he had completed his full set of gut thrusts.
    â€œBy comparison, your problems are
small,” he said. “You have to get a new passport.”
    â€œCan you issue me something
temporary?”
    The man laughed. “It’s not a hall
pass.”
    â€œBut I have a ticket to Paris,” said
Elliot. The man now stood and