Site Presented By
Monday, Nov 9, 2009
Episode 3: "Here we take over," said Sergei, who was now wearing an aviator's scarf. "Here we end this thing. Here we win."
Jan 30, 2004 | At 1 o'clock, a program was scheduled in the makeshift bandshell, a brief medley of patriotic songs performed by the elementary school's Lesbian Gay Straight Transgender Alliance, followed by two minutes for each of the three candidates for State Assembly, followed by the finale, the presentation of a lifetime achievement award for Karch Kiraly, perhaps the greatest volleyball player this nation has ever known, who was at the moment in the infirmary, having his head bandaged and ribs taped.
All Sergei wanted in the world, and he did not think it too much to ask, was for Murray Olongapo to fall off the platform. He did not want Olongapo to incur any permanent injuries from falling off the platform, he wanted only a stumble, a noticeable stumble that might underline Olongapo's age, perhaps imply a drinking problem, a flaw with the functioning of the inner ear, and therefore put in doubt his ability to function in the workaday world of Sacramento politics. Sergei had been responsible for -- long story; he had his reasons, none of them partisan; he'd loosened the railing -- Dole's fall from the podium in Grand Rapids, and he liked to take credit for underlining in everyone's mind that 77 years old was a sliver from 80, and 80 could be proven to be markedly different from 45, or even 56. All Sergei wanted and needed was for Murray Olongapo to stumble off the platform and into the crowd. If he could get Olongapo to stumble off the platform, or trip over a chair, or have great difficulty with the microphone, he could then ask Olongapo to take a physical, and if that happened, and everyone was told about this physical, Olongapo would be crippled, even if he was healthy.
Sergei had already put one nail into Murray's coffin, or so he believed, with SuitGate, the controversy enflamed by Nicky and Jeannie One and which produced magically delicious results.
There was a small item in the paper, about 14 months before, about Olongapo having left his just-pressed suit on the roof of his car, and having arrived at the ribbon cutting for a new skateboard park without the suit; he'd had to conduct the ceremony in a shiny Diadora sweat outfit, leaving everyone to wonder if he was trying to blend with the young people, or was trying to take Jerry Brown's anti-establishment wardrobe philosophy a few steps, tragically, further. This opened the door for Sergei's favorite maneuver, which was forcing the opponent to release his medical records. He'd done it in every race in America, especially against candidates over 60. After the lost suit, Sergei had called a press conference and got serious, doing his best Jesse Jackson, exploding a local injustice into something universal while presenting an air of enlightened disinterest, of annoyance even that he was the one who had to bring this to the attention of the public. "With all due respect to our senior citizens, in light of this revelation of the incumbent's favorite suit being left on the top of his car, left to fend for itself in traffic, where it fended, my friends, rather poorly [at that point Sergei produced a photo of the suit, shredded and forlorn, found by a local fisherman, who held it like a 4-foot tuna], in light of the fact that the incumbent absentmindedly left this suit to wither and die just before a crucial engagement with our district's best and brightest youth -- what the layman, what the average voter, what the concerned constituent might be compelled to think is that this man, this honorable man, might, perhaps, be very likely almost definitely suffering from early-stage Alzheimer's. And yet! And yet, I will make no definitive claims until a licensed physician provides a second opinion. But for now, I urge all residents of our community to say a nondenominational prayer for Murray Olongapo, and wish him a speedy recovery. Are there any questions?"
It had worked wonders, Sergei believed, and now Murray Olongapo was standing on the platform, a few feet from the superstar Karch Kiraly, and was making a typical Murray Olongapo speech: It was charming in its clumsiness, ingratiating in its shrugging way. He was not a graceful public speaker, and often said so, and people's expectations were lowered and thus they smiled at every damned word he managed to get out. Stuart, sitting on the platform waiting for his turn, watched Olongapo with a low, rumbling admiration. Olongapo had brought state money into the area, had improved the community colleges, had started a number of vocational programs for those unemployed during the downturn, fought gangs with midnight basketball, the list went on and on, and was pretty much beyond reproach. The man was fairly clearly a decent person; he'd been a high school teacher for 22 years before running for office, and he had six grandchildren, whom he never pulled onstage with him. Stuart even sort of liked his socks and his tie and his smile and easy manner, and felt that in hassling him, in casting aspersions and dragging his name through the mud -- they'd done so literally at a monster truck rally, using a Olongapo banner stolen from Murray's mother's home, after they'd knocked over her mailbox -- well, Stuart couldn't help feeling a little finky.
The Lesbian Gay Straight Alliance sang their patriotic medley, all four verses of "Amazing Grace," one student doing beatbox, three more playing the recorder, and stepped off the stage. Karch Kiraly accepted his award and was cheered by all, and introduced the audience to Sharon Fogliani, the third candidate in the Assembly race, whom Stuart had never heard of. She was running as an independent and was polling at about 8 percent, to Stuart's 14 and Murray's 41. Sharon Fogliani was the most qualified candidate and thus could not win. She was the ethical candidate, which meant she didn't have the cojones for the job. When she spoke, people heard reason and compassion, and the media yawned and went home because it was impossible to write about reason and compassion. As she spoke, the assembled reporters, sitting only a few feet from her, loudly complained about her style.
"At least Olongapo wears bright blue socks."
"Seems like the least you can do."
"And sometimes he says funny things."
"It's fun to quote funny things he says."
"It makes people happy."
"And he remembers my name every time he sees me."
"Me too!"
"But Fogliani treats me like some kind of ... journalist."
"Why can't Fogliani just go ahead and wear some bright blue socks?"
"It seems like shooting oneself in the foot, not to wear bright blue socks."
Fogliani had a master's in civil planning, had been on the historical preservation board for a decade, and had just spent four months in Kazakhstan building job retraining centers. She had a husband who owned a construction business and had three kids -- two kids in junior high, both of whom played oboe and ran track, and a daughter in college, at U.C.-San Diego no less. "She's not a factor," Sergei said, loud enough that Fogliani could hear. He was in the front row. "Why not?" Nicky asked.
"First of all," Sergei explained, "if she's so qualified, why is she running as an independent?" Nicky knew this one. "Because she's hiding something?"
"Exactly."
"You know what?" Sergei gasped at his own brilliance: "I bet her daughter's a lesbian!" Sharon Fogliani's daughter was indeed a lesbian. And Sharon Fogliani's lesbian daughter was now at the microphone, congratulating the Lesbian Gay Straight Transgender Alliance and smiling lovingly at her mom. It was a touching moment and a score for Sharon Fogliani, whoever the hell she was. Sharon Fogliani's lesbian daughter was articulate and warm, and the audience was drinking her in.
"Goddamn all these candidates and their lesbian daughters!" Nicky whispered to Sergei. "Why does every other candidate have a lesbian daughter? This is getting ridiculous."
Nicky looked to Sergei for an approving reaction, but Sergei was thinking of the lesbian daughter without her clothes on. She was very attractive, Sharon Fogliani's lesbian daughter, with her strawberry blond hair cut so short, her petite but curvy figure -- man oh man, Sergei loved short hair on a woman! Every time he saw a well-shaped woman with a close-cropped head, he began to think of her without her clothes on, and perhaps with a stalk of sugar cane in her mouth. There was almost nothing Sergei liked so much as a naked lesbian with a stalk of sugar cane in her mouth, especially if that woman had a close-cropped head of hair. Sergei was very much somewhere else, in the Nile Delta with the Fogliani lesbian, when Nicky brought him back to the physical world, hissing.
"I'm fine with the lesbians and stuff, as long as they don't flaunt it, shoving it in our faces all the time. Look at them, holding hands up there," Nicky said, pointing to Sharon Fogliani and her daughter. "Disgusting!"
Sergei and Nicky walked back to the booth, weaving between a group of sailors and small children waving plastic Kalashnikovs. Clouds above parried with the sun.
"So what's she hiding, you think?" Nicky asked.
Sergei thought for a moment.
"Doesn't matter," Sergei said. "Independents, third-party candidates -- they can't win."
"Why not?"
"Because no one votes for third-party candidates."
"Why not?"
"Because they can't win."
"Oh."
Another cluster of balloons, liberated by Dmitri, floated overhead, en route to the highway, where it would eventually land on the cab of an 18-wheeler, covering its windshield, blinding its driver and causing it to plow through an elementary school yoga class. No one will be hurt, but yoga will be quickly banned from all schools in the district.
