Sunday, Jul 6, 2008
"Besides, Fogliani's loony," said Sergei.
"Right."
"Why else would she be running for office?"
Nicky paused, doing the math. He hated math.
"Yeah, she's a loon," he said, nodding in a way he'd practiced in a mirror, to look both thoughtful and menacing.
"Like Angry Man."
"Right, like Angry Man."
Angry Man, the fourth candidate in the race, was at the podium, out of earshot for Sergei and Nicky, but it was clear, even from their vantage point, that he was angry. His name was Roger Something, but no one could hear his name over the roar of his wrath. He was angry that he was considered fourth, and not first or second or third. He was angry that he was not polling higher -- he was angry that the voters, whom he wanted so badly to lead and whom he loved so much, were such imbecilic pea-brained sheep and couldn't see that he was the only person qualified for this job. He loved this country so much that he wanted to change everything about it. He loved California so dearly, and was so proud of its many achievements, that he wanted to save it from itself and turn it completely around. He frequently compared the state to a ship, and said that he, as its skipper, would right it. He very much liked his ship metaphor and used it often, but one day, while he spoke to a group of three at a night-school class for recent immigrants learning English, someone mentioned that as a freshman state assemblyman, he probably wouldn't be the skipper -- that he'd be more like the gofer or assistant bartender on the Lido Deck. This had gotten a chuckle from the class, and had made the Angry Man angrier. Angry Man only had a few volunteers working for him, people who hated every boss they'd ever worked for, and now hated Angry Man. As he spoke at the Independence Day Walkabout and Arts Fair, at least a few people in the audience noticed that someone was talking.
"Man, that fellow sure seems upset."
"Is that Karch Kiraly?"
"I think so."
"What would he be so upset about? Didn't he just get some award?"
The Angry Man continued to talk about what he wanted. He wanted the country to be given to people like him, because he had ideals and passion and no one else did because they were getting the donations he'd tried and failed to get. They were getting the TV time he'd tried and failed to get. Why would people ignore him? This made him angry. He was sure there were people behind this, his low poll numbers and low campaign funds, and this, in him, stirred more anger. He'd been given four minutes but at this point he'd been speaking for 22 and hadn't gotten to any of the items on his notes. Every time they asked him to wrap it up he became enraged at the fact that this was what democracy had come to, yanking a guy off the stage because he wanted to discuss the issues.
No one seemed to be able to figure out how to get him gone, and were all puzzling about this, when over the stage came a great growing shadow, enveloping Angry Man in darkness. Angry Man looked up just in time to see Nicky's giant black balloon-ball roaring from the sky -- bearing down and growing over him with the most perfect finality, and with a surprisingly quiet sort of "POONK," it knocked the Angry Man flat, leaving him unconscious or dead.
The EMTs arrived immediately -- they'd just rescued three children who'd tried to swim down the Log Flume -- thus precluding Stuart's chance at the microphone.
The audience, what was left of it, went back to the fair. The fraternity brothers who had launched the ball, using a giant slingshot built to launch the depledged, came to retrieve it; no one faulted them, and no arrests were made. There was a brief press conference in the tent behind the stage, all four candidates present, and Stuart was elected to go first. He was about to open his mouth when he was beaten to it.
"Say something," said one reporter, a small man who looked like an actor playing a reporter.
"How do you mean?"
"Something good."
"Attack Olongapo maybe. Call him a boob."
There was a rush of excitement. A second reporter chimed in: "Yeah, will you call him a boob?" A fourth reporter arrived.
"Did he just call Olongapo a boob?" He was reaching for his cellphone.
"Not yet, but he's about to."
"I'm not calling Olongapo a boob," Stuart said.
"So you're afraid to take a position."
"He's like the rest of them."
"Why are all you politicians so afraid to say something!"
"Just these broad platitudes!"
"Why does political speech have to be so colorless and vapid?"
"Inspire us!"
"Elevate us!"
Stuart sighed. "But how?"
"By calling Olongapo a boob."
Another reporter arrived. "Did he just call Olongapo a boob?" He was reaching for his cellphone.
Stuart, because he was, at his core, someone who liked to please those around him, softened to the idea. Maybe these reporters, who didn't seem so cheerful, would be happier if he called Olongapo a boob. "What would you do if I did call him a boob?" he asked, in a collegial spirit.
"Oh, we'll crucify you for it."
"We'll rip you many new holes."
One of the reporters drew his finger across his throat.
Seeing Stuart blanch, the writer from the Sea Breeze had an idea. "How about saying 'Oriental' instead of 'Asian'? You say, 'Blah blah Murray Olongapo, blah blah an Oriental' ... It'll sound like an innocent slip. Just do that -- that'll work."
They all brightened. "Oh yeah, say that! Say 'Oriental.' That'd be perfect."
"We'll take it from there."
"Everyone who we call to see if they're outraged will be outraged."
Stuart stepped back. "But I would never say 'Oriental' instead of 'Asian.'"
"C'mon! It's just one harmless word: 'Oriental.'"
"Just whisper it."
"Have some courage!"
"It's such a small word ..."
"Until we put it in a headline."
"But don't worry -- no one'll care."
"Until we tell them they should care."
"Just four little syllables."
"No one will see them."
"Except those who are outraged."
"And we'll make sure they're outraged."
"If they're not outraged, we'll ask what happened to our collective sense of outrage."
"But they'll probably be outraged."
"And then we'll ask the appropriate groups if they're demanding an apology."
"Then they'll say, Yes, we are demanding an apology!"
"Then you'll apologize."
"But not right away."
"Let us pressure you into it."
"Then we've got a second story about why it took you so long to apologize."
"And a third story about what this says about your pigheadedness."
"Oh, and we'll need a former co-worker or boss to say you're pigheaded. Who should we call?"
- - - - - - - - - - - -
At 3 p.m., in the bleached light of the late afternoon, the blimp was still there, circling, but most had forgotten it. Sergei Andropov, however, had not forgotten it. That it was still above him, shadowing him after all these hours, brought him to a boil. In it he was now seeing faces, as a child would in clouds or clothes in the dark. He saw the face of every Big Government liberal from FDR to LBJ to WJC. He saw the faces of Richard Rubin and Ted Kennedy and all of the known and future Cuomos. He could tolerate it no longer. He stomped away from the fairgrounds and, as if in a trance, found himself minutes later at a giant toy store, the size of an airplane hangar and filled with more toys than Eastern Europe, where he bought a remote-controlled airplane, expensive and elaborate, and returned to the booth.
"Yikes," said Nicky.
Dmitri helped assemble it. It was about 3 feet long, nose to tail, and powered by gasoline, which Sergei had forgotten and sent Jeannie Two to fetch.
Stuart, much to his own amazement and that of Sergei, was still having a good time. He liked to be able to roam like this, to stand and watch the dunking booth or the squirtgun-horserace game, and call it work. Sergei thought Stuart's ease with people was amazing and wondered whence it came. Had Stuart run for office before, ever, even in high school? Not close. No one who'd ever wanted to be elected in high school ever was elected, and it seemed, at least then, he thought, the natural and correct state of things. If you wanted the office, you could not be trusted with it, and thus only those aloof to power were elected. The less one seemed to care, the more likely one was to win, and Stuart, afraid that he might care, or be perceived to care, had abstained.
Get Salon in your mailbox!
