But now was different. There was a certain amount of concern allowed now, though truth be told, there wasn't so much he was concerned about in this district. He wished the bars stayed open later, and that he didn't have to drive seven miles to see a movie, but otherwise, he was content. So much so that every time he thought overly hard about why he was running for office, against a man who seemed to have done a very fine and honest job and about whom one would have to effectively invent complaints, he had to pull himself back and remind himself that democracy relies on the challenging of all incumbents, if only to keep them honest and the debate vigorous. Those who said that lengthy campaigns left all candidates so wounded, smeared and, after being accused of lying, scheming, obfuscating and fudging, incapable of regaining the public's trust, were missing the point. The point wasn't so much governance; it was heating the debate to a temperature at which things could change, minds could be bent and shaped. Or so Sergei had said. He had that engraved on a dartboard he kept in the closet.

Across the way, he spotted Murray Olongapo working the crowd. Watching Murray Olongapo chat with families and -- just now -- chase a quickly crawling baby down and return him to his parents -- Stuart knew Murray Olongapo should stay in office. Olongapo was kind, and people liked him, he was deeply invested in the community and his decisions were careful without being cautious. Best yet, he aspired to no other office. Stuart had a fleeting notion that if he wanted to help the district, he would find a way to work for Murray Olongapo, to bring his own followers into Murray's fold, to create a coalition, a compromise, a bipartisan effort to do what would be best for the constituents. Hell, in the name of humility, he should actually just vote for Murray. But somehow this just didn't seem like it would be much fun. It was more fun to have his name on banners and buttons, and have promotional videos made with him walking on the beach, thinking hard about things, skipping stones into the waves. And wasn't that more in the American mold? What kind of American would be forever content to work in the background, toiling away without ever venturing out on one's own? That was more of a Socialist way of thinking, wasn't it? Socialist or collectivist or lazy or something -- so opposed to the pioneering mentality so ingrained in him, from his own plains-crossing ancestors, the Traveling Craspedacustas. To back out at this point would be cowardice, a betrayal even of the ideals manifested by his people, who didn't, after all, stop in Missouri and work for the local grain company -- they kept going, on their own, burying children and shooting at Indians on their relentless and single-minded quest for the Pacific.

So of course he had to stay the course. America was about the dialectic, about two parties, Good and Evil, each villainizing the other to the most hysterical degree possible, always painting for the populace a robust picture of Boschian hell should the other side be elected, accepting no middle, accepting no compromise -- for wasn't compromise just another way of saying "I give up"? Sergei had taught him that; it was engraved under a 20-pound trout mounted above his office door. Stuart's thoughts were slashed by the piercing sound of -- what the hell was that? -- it sounded like the screams of a thousand babies. He jogged toward the noise, weaving through the crowd until he saw Sergei and Jeannie Two, Dmitri and everyone else huddled around a large remote-controlled airplane, sputtering in the long grass, spitting blue smoke.

"Here we take over," said Sergei, who was now wearing an aviator's scarf. "Here we end this thing. Here we win."

"You know how to fly that thing?" Stuart asked.

"Of course," Sergei said. "In Russia I did this for money."

Stuart chose not to pursue the subject. Sergei said that often -- "In Russia I did this for money" -- and the phrase had started to make him queasy.

The plane was colored red, saffron and green, giving it a pleasant Jamaican aura. It was time for takeoff. Dmitri's personal and highly original touch was to attach to the plan a pair of sparklers, one on either side of the fuselage. He'd bought slow-burning sparklers which would last at least 10 minutes, and he lit their tops and held the plan aloft, as Sergei, already feeling triumphant, signaled him to throw the plane aloft.

The plane took to the air, and the reaction was immediate: People were intrigued, excited and repulsed. It was, Stuart had to admit, pretty impressive, and Sergei seemed to really know what he was doing -- not that Stuart would ever have doubted him. The plane was pulling a 10-foot-long banner that read CRASPEDACUSTA -- A NEW BEGINNING STARTS NOW. The plane made one streak across the fairgrounds, at a low altitude, and people ducked and twittered and smiled. A plane with sparklers! It was too much. It was brilliant, charming and fully worthy of and a tribute to this consecrated day. Hail the plane with the sparkling wings! Look, there it goes! Sparks descended harmlessly into the crowd, who grabbed at them as children would at bubbles. Sergei banked the plane and then crossed the grounds from the other side, making an X. Everyone loved it, though only a few knew what the hell it was doing flying overhead.

"Whose plane is it?"

"I think it's the Lesbian Gay Alliance's plane."

"Oh, that's probably it."

"But it says Craspedacusta."

"What does?"

"The plane, the banner it's pulling."

"What's Craspedacusta?"

"I don't know. But it's a new beginning. Something's gonna happen, apparently."

"I sure hope so. I like it when things happen."

Even the teenage boys loved it. They were back, en masse, looking sated but each walking like he'd ridden a horse over the plains. Children clapped and whooped and Sergei was emboldened. He rolled the plane, turned it tight around flagpoles, sent it high into the air and plunged it toward the crowd, only to pull up at the last moment. The plane was a hit, was insisting on attention and even admiration from everyone but those who were gripping their ears in excruciating pain.

The plane was loud. It was about as loud, when it swooped over one's head, as six or seven lawnmowers or leaf blowers screaming in concert. The engine was similar to those attached to motorized skateboards, a rider of which, days before in Santa Monica, had been chased down by a mob and fed to feral dogs.

"Look at that," Sergei said. "Beautiful. The people love it." Sergei was so happy. There were now two aircraft in the sky: one of them bloated and dull, the other quick, nimble, capable of astounding tricks.

"More tricks!" the crowd yelled.

Sergei made the plane swing through the crowd, skimming heads and shoulders. Everyone squealed with delight.

"Make it hurt someone!" the reporters begged.

Sergei was about to accommodate this request when the plane stopped responding to his commands. The controller in Sergei's hands had no effect on the plane, which was still aloft, but was moving with impunity. Its movements became, oddly, more even, more assured and determined. It began circling the blimp, perfectly, sharklike. With each trip around the fairgrounds, it got closer to the blimp, and the throng below it became more deeply excited. Something new and big was about to happen, and they would be right under it. They were at the center of something momentous, here in Southern California, whatever that momentous something would be, and this was yet another reminder of why they lived here, where things were possible.

When the plane finally made contact with the zeppelin, the intersection was slow, insinuating. The zeppelin seemed to give way, voluntarily, allowing the plane to slowly enter it. There were gasps of recognition. Squeals of approval. Parents shielded the eyes of their children. And with enough wiggling and pressure, suddenly the plane was gone, inside the airy expanse of the zeppelin, and the audience laughed and chortled and pointed and laughed more. It was, they all thought, to themselves and aloud, a great Fourth of July. It was something to tell again and again at work and at weddings. Thank god for this. The plane that looks like a -- Wiggling into the -- It all looking like the process of -- It was too rich.

But then, a sucking sound. And a hissing. And with a crisp, whipcrack sound, it all began. A blue sort of light from the end of the zeppelin. Fire. Fire. It started on one end of the zeppelin. That end quickly tipped down, and the flames fingered their way toward the zeppelin's forward tip. Flames of a strange teal tint. A blimp the size of a small home was burning 20 feet above the heads of the thousands assembled, debris falling from it already, leaping from its skeleton, great black burning chunks of its skin whirling to the ground. People screamed. Others, assuming it was part of the planned entertainment, roared with glee. The burning airship's anterior started tilting first, falling. The crowd chortled and ooohed and ahhed and was hysterical and desperate, some now leaping over each other to vacate the spot where the blimp would land. Angry Man screamed, "I told you so! I told you so!" but was quickly crushed under the blimp's armature, and was eventually taken to a single-payer Canadian hospital -- at his request -- where he died awaiting a doctor. As the public flailed and ran, others waited for the ship to land on them, and it did, scorching their skins, melting their eyes and ears and mouths, as they yet marveled at the wonder of it all, how perfectly revolutionary it was, how they'd had a hand in bringing this on. The reporters asked the dying how they felt, and the dying dutifully obliged. Those on the bleachers watched with detached amusement, observing the fiery mass of aircraft descending onto a representative group of whites, blacks, Asians, Latinos, adults and seniors and children, and thought it was totally wrong but fantastically amusing nonetheless. Sergei stood with Ronette and stole from her a long and impassioned kiss, each of them knowing the other was their only friend and that their love was not, in fact, for each other but for the impact of their lips, the twisting of their tongues. Stuart, now standing in relative safety under the shadow of the great statue of his ancestor Miguel Craspedacusta, wondered if this meant he could go home early.

Next: The Fishmonger Returns

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