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Mission accomplished

By G.D. Maxwell "This truly is a four-season resort," I was thinking to myself.

By G.D. Maxwell

"This truly is a four-season resort," I was thinking to myself.

On the sunny patio of Dusty’s Smokin’ Joint on a recent globally-warmed, pre-spring, spring day, I was wallowing in the fourth season – second beer – of the day. Obviously the kind of activity capable of inducing deep, philosophical thoughts… or reducing them to vacuous marketing slogans.

Still steaming from a top-to-bottom, West Bowl-Peak to Creek run – Please God, don’t ever let Intrawest or their successor have a good enough year to waste money summer grooming those runs – a blazing March sun was beginning to burn the reality of another ski season coming to a premature climax through my wooden skull. Since heading up, I’d skied ice, chalk, packed powder, a cache of real powder I’d found over by… wait a minute, why tell you, slush and finally dirty schmoo. If it had only rained a few minutes, the day would have qualified as a Total Whistler Experience.

I had a standing order with the best waitress Williams Lake ever produced to replenish whatever I was drinking whenever my glass fell below the one-inch mark, order to stand until further notice. Judging by its rate of descent, I reckoned the sun had another hour before it was punctured by the jagged peaks of the Tantalus and late winter returned to reclaim the patio. At my current rate of consumption that would be another… carry the two… math is hard, a few more refreshing beverages.

"Paisan! Long damn time, no see-um." The voice croaked out of nowhere.

Sometimes, when your body is weary from a hard day of work or a hard day of play, and you close your eyes and stare at the inside of your eyelids and the sun’s shining really hard, after a while, sometimes, a very psychedelic checkerboard swirly pattern begins to mess with your confused optical nerve, creating a vortex sort of effect and making everything feel very, very strange.

But not as strange as having that feeling interrupted by J.J.

Even with my eyes still closed, I could hear him finish my beer. But I couldn’t hear him walking away. Instead, I heard the sound of a metal chair scraping across the patio’s bricks and the whoomph of his bulk sitting down.

"J.J.," I said. "I thought you’d checked out of this place or something. It’s been… a long time I guess."

"Hey, man, you can check out any time you’d like, but you can…"

"No J.J., don’t do this to me. Noooo…."

"… never leave."

"Let’s get one thing straight, J.J. If you’re going to sit down and drink my beer – and I know you are – The Rule stands. This is an Eagles-free zone. No Eagles, no Elton John, no words of wisdom gleaned from American Pie. Ever!"

"Sorry, dude. Just messin’ witcha."

J.J., Whistler’s only private eye, has been messin’ wit’ me for as long as I’ve been in town. One of those shadowy figures this place has in abundance, J.J. always seems to eke out a living on the fringe, finding things that have gone missing, running down bail jumpers, retrieving errant children for their worried parents back in Ontario and PEI. He claimed to be ex-CIA, ex-National Security and ex-Special Forces. He had three passports I’d seen, none of which could be relied on to get him back across the border in the post-Patriot Acts I & II suspension of civil liberties world, and, to top it all off, claimed to know what really happened to Jimmy Hoffa. In short, a sociopath who could be relied on to spin a good tale and drink on your tab until you cut him off.

"So, I know I’ll be sorry I asked, but what are you up to these days?" I asked, sorrily.

"I’m a consultant with Whistler’s Comprehensive Sustainability Plan team," he said, motioning for another round.

"Really," I said. "Well, I guess that explains a couple of things."

"Like what?" he replied.

"Like why it’s over budget. Like why it’s late to the point of irrelevance. Like why the whole sham of a process is just a smokescreen to hide behind while projects get approved that would never get approved if there was a real sustainability plan in place while things that should get done languish waiting for The Plan. Like why the black hole of Muni Hall’s been stonewalling on its true costs until the municipal auditor shamed them into coming clean. Like why I feel uncomfortably correct when I muse we’ll never see anything actionable coming out of it except a bunch of consultants taking early retirement… for starters."

"I just like to think of that as sustainability in action," he said, adding with a laugh, "Or is that sustainability inaction?"

"So, don’t take this the wrong way, J.J, but how’d you get hired on as a consultant? I mean, you have what most people would consider absolutely no qualifications whatsoever for the job."

"I just started submitting invoices," he said. "You think anyone would really notice?"

I looked at him in stunned silence. Was he kidding? Was this another ridiculous J.J. statement? Was he trying to see if he could push me far enough to pick up a beer mug and wallop him upside the head with it?

"Okay, J.J. Please tell me you’re just kidding. You’re not really submitting invoices into the abyss and getting paid, are you?"

"You think I’m lying? You think anyone’s really paying attention to this boondoggle? The only councilors raising issues are posturing. The others are defending the indefensible. ‘The process is democratic and transparent.’ ‘Everybody knows it’s been an expensive process.’ Ever notice how no one seems too worked up that it’s not going anywhere? That it’s not producing anything? That the end is nowhere in sight? That if this were a dog the only humane thing to do would be take it into the woods and shoot it in the head?"

"Now that you mention it, yes," I mused. "Seems like whenever there’s ‘public’ input required the whole process is hurry-up and rush. Once that’s done, things grind their way back to treacle while the Black Hole massages the input to nudge it towards the course they prefer."

"Yeah, tell me about the ‘democratic’ process. Was that the democratic process that ignored the public’s input on their preferred consultant? The process that tried to cobble together a Frankensultant out of people who’d never worked together before? The process that acknowledged most of the respondents preferred infill but is now ‘blending’ the outcomes to reflect the preferences of the Unknown Embedded Voter? They oughta all be whacked with a rolled-up newspaper until they’re senseless although it’d be pretty hard to distinguish senseless from whatcha see now."

"Gee, J.J. I didn’t know you cared."

"I don’t. I just figured if I ranted hard enough you’d buy me another beer to shut me up."

"Mission accomplished."