A mile or so away, closer to the sea and with eyelids flickering, Stuart Craspedacusta was finding his way out of a particularly pleasing cave of sleep, tasting the air for sunlight, carefully limning whether or not the hand between his legs was his. In a moment, after moving it (sign No.1) and feeling the hair on its knuckles tickle his inner thigh (sign No.2) it became clear that the hand was indeed his own, and he went back to sleep. An hour later, he awoke again, and, this time, between his legs was not his hand, but Samantha's. Samantha was his longtime ex-fiancée, with whom he slept, often, providing enormous pleasure for both, while they each looked for other, better, permanent companions. She was practical, funny, loud, doing well without being what one would call ambitious, and built like a professional soccer player. She was, in fact, a former professional soccer player, now a lawyer, one who hated to go to sleep without an orgasm, a point of view Stuart admired greatly. She slept three times a week at Stuart's house, which he shared with a college friend named Dudley, whom Stuart had not seen in six months, though they both slept at home every night, shared a shower and, unwittingly, a robe.

Samantha's face, prone, was chinning itself toward Stuart, her mouth set in a beatific grin. She was asleep and he took this as an opportunity to look at the tiny scars on her forehead, evidence of a fall through a skylight as a teenager; from the roof, she'd been spying on her foster parents having relations on a stationary bicycle. For her scars and other reasons -- before she put a CD in the stereo, she would toss it in the air, perpendicular to the earth, like a magician tossing rings to interlock -- Stuart had love for Samantha, more than she had for him, and he couldn't blame her.

- - - - - - - - - - - -
Stuart couldn't remember exactly when he decided this would be a good idea, this running for State Representative. It seemed so long ago, as fuzzy and indefensible as any choice made under duress or the influence of rage or beer. It brought to mind other paths he'd taken and was eventually puzzled by: in high school he'd briefly thought himself a singer and at the talent show had sung "I'll Be Your Mirror" accompanied by Hammered dulcimer, played by his French teacher, Mme. Bialosky -- she was sex on legs, whoa nelly! It had not gone well, but was glory and conquest compared to the disaster of his Clan of the Cave Bear fan club or, in college, his leading of the Young Conservatives March Against Protests. He'd had his successes, yes. He'd lettered three years in track and had twice been the RA with the highest approval rate, and now his cellphone ring-customization outfit was flourishing. He made a good living. His skin was clear. He could play pickup basketball with anyone, and had loyal friends who knew when to stop talking. So why this, now, a run for statewide office? It had seemed easy enough six months ago but now was a grind, and everyone involved seemed to be taking it much too seriously.

But he'd always thought of himself as political, or potentially so, and he'd been told again and again he had the name for it. Though growing up he'd been called everything from Crab-Dip Custard to Crappy Pad-Thai Custer, his ancestors had actually helped to settle the area. A number of the district's buildings and even a great travertine obelisk bore his family's name, and thus when the GOP was looking for someone to run against Murray Olongapo, the well-liked three-term Democratic incumbent, Sergei Andropov came to Stuart Craspedacusta.

After they'd agreed he would run, Sergei leaked the possibility of Stuart's candidacy to the press, who promptly asked Stuart if this were a possibility, his candidacy.

"I have to consult with my family," he said, because Sergei had told him to say this, even though Stuart had no real family to consult. He was an only child, and hadn't spoken to his parents, divorced and fulfilled and busy and too happy to care about his fortunes, in a couple years. For companionship he had a pair of cats, one blind and one hyperactive, who wandered his house tied to each other with a bungy, a strategy that had greatly reduced the number of head injuries to both. And here they were now, jumping as one onto Stuart's bed, making their way to his face, where the sighted one will nuzzle its face against Stuart's, while the other will nod, eyes wild, looking perhaps to add to the calligraphy on Samantha's face.

After deciding to run, Stuart waited a week and then, standing on a stage with a couple in their seventies and a pretty, well-dressed woman in her thirties -- none of them related or married to Stuart -- reported that his family had given him the green light. Neither Stuart not Sergei made any claims that these people were his family, nor did they claim that the broad coalition of Latinos, whites, blacks, American Indians, Asians, children and the aged standing behind them literally were actually a broad coalition of Latinos, whites, blacks, American Indians, Asians, children and the aged standing behind him metaphorically or in any other way. Who they were and where Sergei had found them and what he'd paid them no one would ever know.

- - - - - - - - - - - -
Stuart showered and ironed a white shirt. He would not drive but walk to the fairgrounds, he decided, because a candidate -- of course! -- should walk the streets he wants to represent. Stuart mentally shook his own hand for that decision, a very good decision, though he also knew that had he wanted to drive, he was unable, for while he'd been lathering in the shower, Samantha had taken his car, which she often did, because it caused them to argue, and she was more likely, she said, to achieve her climax if they both started at a point of sensory elevation. Man, she was a hard woman. He'd made her really angry a few times, and he saw that her bones were steel, reinforced with lead, buttressed by platinum and iron and stone. She was tough as dirt. But things were good between them, for now, and Stuart was content and alive on a California day, the sky singing an aria to him. He left his driveway and ambled toward the high school.

"Hello, ma'am," Stuart said, passing a hair salon, outside of which a woman was sweeping human hair onto the sidewalk.

She did not say hello. People do not often say hello on sidewalks in Southern California, but Stuart did not allow this to dampen his high spirits. He was wearing new shoes. He'd decided that new white sneakers every month was a luxury worth any price, given what a strange little boost it gave him. Just as his handwriting got better when he was using a Uniballer instead of some cheap knockoff, so did his pace improve, and accordingly his entire outlook, when wearing some new K-Swiss. And today he was striding with great confidence. He'd lived here from the time he was seven, when his family moved from upper Michigan, and he'd loved the years in Solano Beach as only a non-native could. He felt lucky every day to be here. And the memories! He couldn't remember too many of them on his own, but when friends called him or drank imported beers with him, he would say Oh yeah, yeah. I remember that. And he liked saying those words, I remember that.

He walked with jaunty steps and freely swinging arms, knowing that he could be happy now, before he reached the fair, at which point he would be less cheerful, given he would have to face the voters, whose feelings toward him often had nothing to do with him, and whose words, sometimes, were confounding.

From a woman with twins in a widebody stroller: "I'll be disappointed in you no matter what you do." From a very tall man in a seersucker suit: "I want you to know pain, son. Don't feel it, know it. I will provide that pain for you, if you'd like." From an older man carrying a full square belly, like a sack of flour: "You should get my daughter committed." Stuart had started to speak. "You stupid prick!" the man added, puckering like he was waiting for a straw. "Speak, doofus! You're running for office, aren't you? Are you a mute?" Stuart couldn't find a word. The man seemed disgusted but then softened, perhaps subdued by the candy apple he'd just taken a great bite into. "You're no damned better," he managed, while grappling with the caramel, "than Matthew Modine."

The odd thing was that Stuart Craspedacusta looked very much like Matthew Modine, like a shorter version of Matthew Modine, with his sandy brown hair, his plainly handsome face, the tilt of his head, a little back and to the side, always implying an affability bordering on arrogance. Stuart had been mistaken for the actor a few dozen times in his life, but only once had he allowed a woman to believe, throughout the course of a very pleasant evening and morning, that he was indeed Matthew Modine. He'd memorized the actor's oeuvre for such an occasion, though while watching Cutthroat Island and Vision Quest -- the second movie very solemn and about high school wrestling -- he'd had to keep himself focused on the goal, his eyes on the prize. Stuart took some solace in knowing that a certain amount of those who would meet him at the fair would assume that Matthew Modine was out stumping for some slob named Stuart Craspedacusta, as opposed to the reality, which was that Stuart Craspedacusta was out stumping for Stuart Craspedacusta, and wasn't even sure why.

But for now Stuart had to chuckle. There, on the lawn he was passing, was a sign that said OLONGAPO, TELL THE TRUTH ABOUT TRUDIE!

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