"Is there a story there?" says Carl.
"Words spoken by a true journalist", says Aaron.
"What?" says Michael. "You're a journalist?"
"That I am", says Carl, with a very satisfied smile.
"So am I "says Michael. "I used to write for the Glob and Mail, back in the day."
"Why haven't I known that about you", says Carl. "You've only been living here for the last ten years."
"How many actual conversations have you and I had in ten years?" says Michael.
"Less than ten", says Carl.
"But what about that policeman you were just mentioning. There must be a story here."
Sheila turns to her son and growls , "You really don't have to, you know."
"Oh, what the hell," says Michael, "In the interests of Christian community and transparency, I think I am going to spit it out. After all those years of living under that cloud of shame named Douglas, it should be for all of us something cathartic and helpful."
"Michael, are you sure"" she says.
Ignoring his mother, Michael says, "Back in late ninety-seven, I was covering one of the protests against APEC. I was one of several rounded up and detained by police, after being pepper-sprayed. Remember the then-prime minister's comment (I refuse to dignify that bastard by naming him), that pepper is something he puts on his plate? Well, you get the idea. So we were held in police custody. And we were strip-searched..."
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