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  PRAISE FOR

  UP AND DOWN

  Finalist, Stephen Leacock Medal for Humour

  “Not too many Canucks have ventured to write humorous books. There is Stephen Leacock, of course. And Robertson Davies cranked out a couple … Count Terry Fallis among the few to achieve success at the form.… Poignant.”

  – Ottawa Citizen

  “The wait has been worth it for Terry Fallis fans: his third novel has already earned a well-deserved spot on the shortlist for the 2013 Leacock Medal, Canada’s most prominent award for humour writing.”

  – Publishers Weekly

  “One of CanLit’s crowned king of chuckles, Terry Fallis hits stratospheric heights with [this] well-balanced and unpredictable satire.… Fallis is a gifted storyteller.”

  – Telegraph-Journal

  “Fallis’s hilarious running commentary on the minutiae of modern life recalls the comedy of Seinfeld. … In Up and Down, space is the metaphor for a braver, better world.”

  – National Post

  “Gently satirical and intelligently frothy, Up and Down achieves a delightful weightlessness as transporting as the space voyage it deals with.”

  – Andrew Pyper, author of The Demonologist

  “[A] lighthearted plot involving slamming doors, vaudeville turns, plot twists, and a lot of good-natured badinage.… Vivid and dazzling.”

  – Globe and Mail

  “Fallis spins a hilarious story.… Memorable.… Quite enjoyable from start to finish.”

  – Montreal Gazette

  “Terry Fallis has done it again. Up and Down is another hilarious page-turner that also packs an emotional punch. Only a very talented writer can balance humour and pathos so skillfully. Beautifully written, these characters rocket off the page and straight into your heart. This is satire at its finest.”

  – Ali Velshi, former CNN anchor and chief business correspondent

  “A fascinating story of the divergence of Canadian and American values, the importance of family, unlikely friendship, second chances, ageism, a love of Sherlock Holmes, insight into the awe-inspiring world of space travel, and the importance of using your head but following your heart.”

  – Winnipeg Free Press

  “[Up and Down is] the literary equivalent of a roller coaster for kids.”

  – NOW magazine

  “A rollicking good ride. Funny one moment, serious the next, always compelling: a reminder that we can all dream.”

  – Marc Garneau, Member of Parliament and Canada’s first astronaut

  “[Terry Fallis has] done it again. What a great read!”

  – Waterloo Record

  PRAISE FOR

  THE BEST LAID PLANS

  Winner, 2011 Canada Reads competition

  Winner, Stephen Leacock Medal for Humour

  “Amusing, enlightening – and Canadian, it deftly explores the Machiavellian machinations of Ottawa’s political culture.”

  – Globe and Mail

  “A new brand of political satire – the most irreverent, sophisticated, and engaging CanLit has seen since Stephen Leacock.”

  – Winnipeg Free Press

  “Brisk and humorous.”

  – Ottawa Citizen

  “This is a funny book that could only have been written by someone with first-hand knowledge of politics in Canada, including its occasionally absurd side. This is a great read for anyone thinking of running for office, and especially reassuring for those who have decided not to.”

  – The Hon. Allan Rock, former Justice Minister and Canadian ambassador to the United Nations

  “Bravo! This is a wonderful book with a clever and funny storyline. Humour and heart run through these pages. The parliamentary setting and the backroom shenanigans reel you in.”

  – The Hon. Paddy Torsney, veteran MP and parliamentary secretary

  “Terry Fallis’s novel has two things that kept me hooked: characters who I cared about and a story that made me want to find out what would happen next. And often, very often, there was a line that made me laugh aloud or think twice – sometimes at the same time.”

  – Mike Tanner, author of Acting the Giddy Goat

  “Terry Fallis has found the cure for Canada’s political malaise: a stubborn, old, irreverent Scotsman with nothing to lose. Until Angus McLintock walks out of fiction and into public office, where he would surely save the nation, the only place to find him is right here among The Best Laid Plans.”

  – Tom Allen, CBC Radio host and author of The Gift of the Game

  PRAISE FOR

  THE HIGH ROAD

  Finalist, Stephen Leacock Medal for Humour

  “The High Road will surely make you laugh. There will be snickers, occasional snorting and hooting, and almost certainly rip-roaring belly laughs.”

  – Halifax Chronicle Herald

  “Fallis writes in pictures … that the mind’s eye can see clearly.… An easy-reading page-turner.”

  – National Post

  “Terry Fallis scores again with The High Road.”

  – Guelph Mercury

  “In a perfect world, the federal government would establish a Ministry of Humour and put Terry Fallis in charge of that department. The High Road is brilliantly written and hysterically funny.… Do yourself a favour and pick up this book, find a quiet place to read it, and enjoy … you will laugh out loud on almost every page.”

  – Ian Ferguson, author of Village of Small Houses

  “Doing battle with the prigs and prats that rule the halls of power has never been more enjoyable since … well, since The Best Laid Plans. Thought-provoking and funny.”

  – Jim Cuddy, singer/songwriter, Blue Rodeo

  Also by Terry Fallis

  The Best Laid Plans

  The High Road

  Up and Down

  COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Terry Fallis

  McClelland & Stewart is a division of Random House of Canada Limited, a Penguin Random House Company

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication available upon request.

  ISBN 978-0-7710-3616-3

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-7710-3617-0

  Cover art: Bea Crespo/Imagezoo/Getty Images

  Cover design by Terri Nimmo

  McClelland & Stewart,

  a division of Random House of Canada Limited,

  a Penguin Random House Company

  www.randomhouse.ca

  v3.1

  For my twin brother, Tim

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER 1

  What’s in a name? For many, nothing. For some, not nothing, but not much. For a very few, blessed or cursed, it’s everything. I’m one of those few. And if you’re wondering, I usually count myself among the cursed.

  When I turned forty
, I lost the desire, and even the ability, to sleep in. So I was an early riser. Yet, at 7:45, I still wasn’t the first into the office that morning. I heard him as I crossed our marble lobby, past the futuristic “reception pod” where Angela and her headset would soon be stationed. He called out to me from down the hall.

  “Morning, Hem. Um, you got a minute?”

  Bob was standing just outside the corner office, the corner office, his corner office, at the end of the corridor. This was not good news. Bob was never in before 9:30. And when he eventually did arrive, it was to start a workday that was almost always devoid of any real work. Bob, BOB, BOB. I’ve never really liked the name “Bob.” It’s just so short. Simple. Primitive. Unrefined. In fact, I have a theory on the name’s origin. Six million years ago, when the early hominids first discovered their vocal cords, I think the sound “Bob” may well have been among their first harsh guttural utterings. Shortly after “Grrrrr” and “Aaaah” would have come “Baaaahb.” Short, simple, primitive, unrefined. Much like Bob himself.

  Conveniently, I disliked Bob as a person as much as I did his name. We’d joined the New York ad agency Macdonald-Clark within weeks of each other nearly fifteen years ago. But we’d been on different trajectories ever since. Over the years, I rose through the ranks as if I were sauntering up a gentle slope, stopping often to lounge at patio rest stations along the way. But soon after we started, Bob seemed to board the space shuttle, docking with the corner office after what seemed to me like a very short ride. How it happened so fast – no, how it happened at all – was more a mystery to me than Bigfoot. I still cannot fathom how Bob parlayed his principal assets of incompetence, paranoia, and mediocrity all the way to the top. But there he was, M-C’s general manager, waving me into his palatial enclave, with an expression on his face that suggested his next words just might be “Grrrrr” and “Aaaah.”

  On the other hand, despite its shortcomings, I’d be thrilled to have a name like “Bob.”

  “Sure, Bob.”

  I turned and followed him in.

  He led me to the couch and easy chair at one end of the office, far away from his barren desk, where very little work was ever done. I took a spot on the couch, lowering myself into what felt like upholstered quicksand. I sank in so deep that when I stopped, I could almost rest my chin on my knees. I wondered how I was going to get back out. Bob sat in the chair across from me.

  “So, Hem, um, how have you been?”

  “Just fine, Bob. You?”

  “Awesome, thanks.”

  Cue awkward silence. Bob shifted his position in his chair. I tried to shift my position but the couch simply wouldn’t let me.

  “Well, um, I guess you’ve heard the rumours,” he continued.

  “Actually, Bob, I’ve been here too long for that. I make it a point never to pay attention to stray rumours or anything else I may encounter in these hallways. If I see a colleague crying in a corridor, or yelling at an intern, or moaning in a bathroom stall, I quickly make a show of checking my watch, turn around fast, and head back the way I came. That’s my policy. So, no rumours have reached these tender ears.”

  “So you really haven’t heard anything? No rumblings? Nothing?”

  “Not a peep, Bob. Should I have?”

  His face clouded.

  “Come on, Hem, you’re not helping!” he snapped. “We plant those rumours for a reason. They help condition the staff and prepare them for bad news. Strategic rumours are an important part of our internal communications program. You’re a senior guy. You’ve been here a long time. You should know that.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Bob. Had you flagged and tagged them as ‘strategic rumours from the corner office’ I probably would have paid more attention.”

  “Shit.”

  “Bob, I’m a copywriter. I sort of work on my own. I just follow the brief and try to think up the right words and how best to arrange them. That’s what copywriters do. I don’t really hang out much with the account teams. I’m generally oblivious when it comes to office gossip.”

  “Shit.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  Bob sighed, then looked at the ceiling as he spoke.

  “You’re out, Hem. It’s over. We have to let you go. Today. Now. I’m sorry.”

  I laughed. Well, it was more of a chortle.

  “You’re kidding, right?” I looked around the office. “Where’s the camera? This is for the Christmas party, right?”

  I could tell from his face. No, this wasn’t for the Christmas party. I just looked at him for a moment as the news settled over me like ash from an angry volcano.

  “Bob, I’m shocked. I don’t understand this. I’m hurt. You could have at least given me some warning.”

  “Shit, Hem, I floated the balloon last week. You seem to be the only one in the agency who didn’t pick up on it.”

  Come to think of it, in the last few days folks had been kind of giving me the cocked-head, arched-brow, sad-eyes routine as they hustled by.

  “Bob, I’ve been here fifteen years. I’ve won awards! You promoted me last year and gave me what I thought at the time was only a modest raise. But still, you did give me an increase!”

  “Hem, calm down.”

  Calm down? That was a surprise. Incarcerated in that couch, how could I look anything but calm? I could move only my upper body. I guess I may have been waving my arms around a bit.

  “I am calm. Calm and flabbergasted. Calm and furious. Calm and, um, apoplectic. What possible rationale can you have for firing me?”

  “Hem, we’re not firing you. We’re just letting you go. We’re thanking you for your years of service, giving you a generous settlement, and parting ways. That’s all. It happens all the time in the agency world.”

  “Well, it’s never happened to me,” I said. “And you still haven’t explained why.”

  “Hem, come on. You really don’t know? You’re a long-form copywriter. You’re a relic,” Bob said, waving his arms around a bit. “The world has changed. In fact, it changed a decade ago. I’m amazed you hung around this long,” he said. “Everything is short and punchy now. We live in the 140-character universe. Ad agencies don’t need long-form copywriting any more. We held out as long as we could. I’m sorry.”

  “But I’m good at my job. I’m in on virtually every new biz pitch. My writing has won the agency awards. I’m … um, good at my job. I’m great at my job!”

  “Come on, Hem, don’t fight this. Don’t make this difficult,” he soothed. He pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and held it out to me. “Hem, you’ve got a huge package.”

  “Well, kind of you to say, Bob, but I’m really more interested in the settlement you’re offering,” I deadpanned.

  Perhaps I shouldn’t have deadpanned. Bob was befuddled. I opened the envelope. The cheque was for the equivalent of a year’s salary. Wow.

  “It’s well above the legislated requirements. Don’t bother trying to negotiate. This is as much as I could get for you. If you choose to push back, the offer will be withdrawn and you will receive the bare legal minimum.” Bob said this part like he was reading me my Miranda rights.

  I know I should have fired back with both barrels blazing. But I really wasn’t good at this. I was out of things to say. I had nothing.

  “Hem, think of this as a gift. You’ve got at least a year to do what you want. You can finally write your novel. Think of this as freedom.”

  “Freedom?”

  “Yes, freedom.”

  I wanted to say, “Fuck you, Bob,” like they do in the movies. But I just couldn’t get it out. My civility instinct prevailed.

  “Hem, you have to go see Marlene. She has all the paperwork. You need to sign it all if you’re going to keep that cheque,” he said, almost in a whisper, as if he were talking me off the ledge. “Pop back here before you go.”

  I nodded and tried to get up.

  “Bob, do you mind?’ I reached out my hand.

  “Sure, Hem
.” He pulled me up and out of the couch.

  It only took a few minutes to deal with Marlene and her stupid paperwork. She was Macdonald-Clark’s human resources specialist, or as she was sometimes known among the account teams, Human Overhead. She was nice to me. I signed without even reading the termination agreement. The cheque stayed in my pocket.

  It’s such a cliché to load your personal effects into a cardboard box before making the long walk to the elevators. So I was relieved when Marlene actually gave me a largish clear plastic bag instead, in return for my key and security card. It didn’t quite seem a fair exchange. I emptied my desk drawers and bookshelves of all the personal stuff that just seems to accumulate over a decade and a half spent in the same office. Marlene hovered outside my door as if I might steal a pad of Post-it notes on my way out. I could feel anger building. Finally, I picked up the framed shot of Jenn and me taken at Club Med in Jamaica four years ago, just before we moved in together. We both looked deliriously happy. And I guess we were. I tossed it into my plastic bag where it landed photo side up and stared back at me. The bag was full and heavy. Being able to see my “personal effects” through the clear plastic made the whole scenario seem all the more pathetic. I left the plants where they were. They’d die if they came home with me.

  It took some effort, but I thanked Marlene for her assistance, balancing curt and courteous – call it “curteous” – and headed back to Bob’s office.

  True to form, he was sitting at his utterly empty desk, gazing out the window.

  “Settle down, Bob. You have to pace yourself or you’ll just burn out,” I said.

  “I’m sure going to miss your sparkling wit, Hem.” Bob sighed as he stood. “Did you sign off with Marlene?”

  “I did, but just now, when cleaning out my desk, I had a change of heart. You can tear up the paperwork, I’ve decided that you can’t terminate me because I resign,” I said, staring him down.

  Bob smiled and held out his hand. It sort of looked like he wanted to shake, so I automatically reached out my hand. He shook his head.

  “No, Hem, not your hand – the cheque, please,” he clarified. “Since you resigned, you have to give back the cheque. There is no settlement when you resign.” His hand stayed there, outstretched.