The Media Candidate (19 page)

“But the candidates today are not even
politicians,” Elliott said. “They’re movie stars and rock musicians
and basketball players. They don’t debate the issues. They don’t
even know what the issues are. Most of today’s candidates are
really low-life, hack actors who don’t have any idea what the
problems are or how to solve them.”

“You know, Elliott, I don’t have all your years
of experience, but I took a lot of poli-sci courses in college, and
what I remember is that the politicians of your era were pretty
low-life, too. And they were professional liars, and everybody knew
it, but everyone kept on voting for them anyway. I read about some
guy who was a senator somewhere on the east coast, and he was
playing around with his secretary, and he drowned her one night
when they were out screwing around and then lied his way out of it.
But everybody knew he was lying, and he was one of the most
arrogant jerks that ever lived, and barely had two IQ points to rub
together. And he stayed in the Senate for another forty years. And
he wasn’t unusual. All the politicians lied all the time, and all
they ever cared about was their little empires and passing laws
favorable to the money interests that supported their campaigns.
And they all kept getting reelected, and they were all killing the
country. And nobody cared! What we have today is a lot better than
that.”

“You don’t understand. What we have today is
just … it’s just … well … bullshit! It’s hype and bullshit!”

“Well, Dr. Townsend, it’s a lot better bullshit
than you had.”

The conversation ebbed. Guinda paid the bill
with her fingerprint. She was the next to speak. “You said you
wanted to help, but you can’t support our candidates. And you
haven’t voted for forty years, and you probably have never played
one of the political game shows. And arguing with me is certainly
no help. So what’s the help?”

“Well, I thought I knew, but maybe …. It seemed
clear to me a couple days ago. I thought I could do something to
help … not the parties but the people. I want to help our country,
but I guess I can’t be much help to
you
.” Elliott looked at
his beautiful companion and then glanced away. When he looked back
at her, she was studying him. There was no animosity in either
look, only wonder.

“I have to be getting back to the office. We’re
pretty busy now.” Guinda rose, followed by Elliott, and the two
walked to the door.

As they walked past the bar toward the lobby,
Elliott said, “You know, Guin, I’m on the outside looking in
because I’ve been out of circulation for a long time.”

They faced off again. “That’s what I keep
hearing about you. But you’re director of a big lab and have a
Nobel Prize and a family. I don’t understand why you’ve been out of
circulation.”

“I guess that’s one of those long stories, and
I’m sure you don’t have time for it. I just—”

“There’s a table and two chairs,” she said. “I
have time if you do.”

“I’m retired, you know, so I’m made of time. But
you have a party to run.”

“This is party business. Besides, I’m not
worried about getting fired. I have a perfect body.” They both
laughed as they headed for a table in the corner. After ordering a
pair of beers, she said, “Some creep at COPE looked you up and said
you might be dangerous. Is that true?”

“I think I’m safe. I promised my wife, Martha,
that I’d stay out of trouble.”

“But you’re meeting a beautiful young woman in a
bar. Wouldn’t Martha call that trouble?”

“I don’t think that’s the kind of trouble she
had in mind.” He checked his watch. “Besides, she’s probably
meeting with her virtual family right now. The wonders of
technology.”

“And you don’t approve of that?”

“I guess she had to find some other family
because I was always at the Lab.”

“How about Luke and Susie?”

“They’ve been gone for a long time now. Luke’s
in Japan and Susie’s in the Bay Area.”

“But you must have been a family once.”

“Yeah, and I thought we were a very happy
family, but …”

“What were they like as kids?”

Elliott focused through his glass of beer, his
gaze merging with the bubbles as they sought freedom. “They were
great kids, and we had so many great times together.” He turned the
glass, looking for wisdom, finding none.

* * *

“Let’s bike up to the cliffs and ride the Goat,
Dad!” Susie shouted, her hair trailing behind her as she skipped
toward her father.

“How does that sound to you, Snake?” Elliott
asked as Luke scaled his back using his belt for a foothold. “Think
you can ride that far?”

“Uh huh, snakes can go anyplace. But I like to
play tag at the bank, too,” Luke grunted as he inched up the
mountain.

“The bank’s on the way to the cliffs, so maybe
we could do both,” Elliott said.

Luke reached the summit and grabbed Elliott’s
forehead as he swung his leg over his shoulder. “I’m glad you
didn’t use my ear. Last time it almost came off in your hand. Want
me to look like that lady at church with only one ear. What would I
do with all my extra earrings?”

“Daddy! Boys don’t wear earrings, and Mommy says
you shouldn’t make fun of her. She’s got a … what do you call that
thing she’s got?”

“It’s what she doesn’t have that’s so funny. Her
husband can buy her a pair of earrings, and it’s good for two
birthdays. Lucky guy!”

“No, Daddy, that’s not what I mean,” Luke said
as he settled on his shoulders in triumph. “It’s what Mommy says
she’s got so she can park in that special place.”

“You mean a handicap. She parks in that spot so
she doesn’t have to walk so far on one ear.”

“Handicap. That’s it. Mommy says you shouldn’t
make fun of a lady with a handicap.”

“I’m not making fun of her. She walks like this
because her head is too heavy on one side.”

“Daddy!” he laughed. “That’s just what Mommy
said you shouldn’t do. That lady can’t help it that she’s only got
one ear.”

“Just like you can’t help it that all you have
is a head and a tail. That’s just the way God made snakes. But it’s
still funny!” He flipped Luke over his head and buried him in the
sofa.

“Look, Dad.” Susie interrupted their giggling.
“Mom got this picnic stuff for us.”

“Where are you three off to this morning?”
Martha asked from the doorway. “I just want to know what direction
to send the police when you don’t come home by dark.”

“We won’t get lost, Mom,” Susie replied. “Dad
knows the way. It’s not far.”

“I know, but you might decide to live up in
those rocks and just come back for food.”

“Dad, are you going to take us skiing this
winter? Last year you said Luke was too little. You said when he
got to the second grade, we could all go. Now I’ve been cheated out
of three years of skiing, so I think we should go.”

“Tell you what, Otter, suppose the four of us
talk about it over pizza and beer tonight.”

“Okay. But don’t try to change the subject or
make a joke out of it. Okay?”

“Fair enough!”

“Can I carry the picnic stuff in my basket?”
Luke asked. “I’ll be real careful.”

“And while you’re out being foolish,” Martha
said, “I’ll be here slaving over the stove.”

“We’ll stop at 7-Q and bring you back your
favorite prize,” Elliott said.

Off they went, the trio on another adventure.
They peddled to the empty parking lot of the bank where they
terrorized each other in a game of bike tag, their favorite weekend
activity besides riding the Goat.

Goat Rock sat on the cliffs above the
surrounding plains. When the Townsends sat on the Goat, they were
more together than at any other time. Yet each knew it was a time
for reflection, to be alone but connected, a time to share dreams.
Elliott even stopped joking then.

The city seemed so near in that crisp air that
they could reach out and stop the cars rocketing along the
freeways. Elliott showed the kids how he could place his hand
across the river, and they’d watch the waters rise until they
overflowed their banks and inundated the whole city. Susie would
wait for just the right instant when the water was lapping up the
very street where they lived. Then she would lift Elliott’s fingers
one at a time, and the waters would recede.

Their goat rode above a cloud of cottonwoods
billowing up from the canyon below like rolling hills of grass.
They’d close their eyes and catch an updraft, looking down on
themselves astride their goat. The magic of the Goat would live
with them long after they returned to their other world.

* * *

“Sounds like you had a great relationship with
your kids,” Guinda said. “I wish my dad had been around to do stuff
like that with us.”

“Those were wonderful days, but it didn’t always
stay like that.”

“What happened in 2010?” Guinda asked.

“You really do your homework, don’t you.”

“I owe it all to COPE.”

“I remember 2010, all right,” he said. “That was
the year of the science fair.” He sipped his beer and made some
repeated pattern in the condensation with his thumb.

“I could brush off all the political hype and
platitudes of the day, but I took it a lot more personally when
these social tides started to affect our kids. The education
community was great at masquerading various politically correct
issues as compassion for some group. Trilingual education,
multi-culturalism, and cultural diversity were the main buzzwords
then. One evening I noticed Susie working on her computer. And she
wasn’t just surfing the Web the way most kids did to fool their
parents and teachers into thinking they were engaged in some great
educational experience. She was working hard on something.”

* * *

“It’s a letter to the president of Fantasy
Cola.”

“What happened? You lose a quarter in the
machine at school?”

“No, Dad! This is serious! They’re using up all
our oil and destroying the environment.”

“That is serious! Is there a Fantasy tanker
leak, and it’s killing all the fish?”

“I said this was serious. Our science teacher
told us about how they’re using plastic bottles even though it’s
bad for the environment. Did you know those plastic bottles are
made from oil? They’re using up all the oil, and the plastic ends
in the trash, and it’s bad for the environment.”

“I see. But what about the letter?”

“Our teacher said if we wrote a letter to
Fantasy, she’d add seven points to our grade. I could get an A in
science just from this letter. She says if enough kids complain,
Fantasy might change.”

“Sounds like a plan, Susie. What should they
change to?”

“Glass bottles. Our teacher says glass is made
out of sand, and the world is full of that. And you can just grind
up the glass and make new bottles so it doesn’t fill up the garbage
dumps.”

“Did your teacher mention that you can grind up
the plastic and use it over again, too?”

“You can?”

“Did your teacher give you any kind of handout
material about this problem?”

“No. She just told us about it and said to write
the letters, and she’d send them for us.”

“I see. That’s Ms. Dobbs, isn’t it?”

“Uh huh.”

The next day Elliott made an appointment to see
Ms. Dobbs.

“I understand you have the fifth graders
crusading against plastic bottles, Ms. Dobbs.”

“Yes! Isn’t it exciting? They’re learning they
can make a difference with just a little effort.”

“But I thought you were teaching science, not
political action.”

“This
is
science, Mr.
Townsend—environmental science.”

“Then you’ve surely analyzed the energy and
pollution tradeoffs between plastic and glass.”

“What do you mean?” she responded.

“If you’ve concluded that glass bottles are
environmentally preferable, you must have some scientific basis for
it. Maybe you’ve done the analysis yourself, or maybe you’ve read a
report.”

“Mr. Townsend, it is common knowledge in the
environmental community that the less plastic you consume, the
better off the environment is.”

“The literature I’ve read,” Elliott said, “shows
that a glass bottle consumes much more energy to recycle than a
plastic bottle. I just can’t understand your position.”

She paused in shock at the heresy. “I don’t know
where you got your ridiculous information, but it’s not your
position to question environmental
science
from your
lay
position.”

“I’m not questioning the science, just
your
knowledge of it. Environmental scientists employ the
scientific method in gathering data rather than simply accepting
what they read in the paper.”

“I received my information from a very reliable
source,” Ms. Dobbs said in a slow staccato, “and it is
my
responsibility to ensure that
my
children understand the
scientific issues. I demand you allow me to discharge my
responsibility without any more of your emotional
interruptions.”

“Pardon me, Ms. Dobbs, but I also have an
interest in one of
your
children, and I don’t care for her
head being filled with nonsense. And I fail to understand the link
between science and political-action letters. When I learned
science, we didn’t write protest letters, we studied scientific
principles and worked problems. Maybe you should start an
environmental-activist club to promote your views. But don’t use
valuable science-class time to inflate your esteem in some yuppie
cult. You’re a science teacher, Dobbs. That’s an exciting and
challenging and terribly important job! But you’re diluting it with
… with bullshit!”

“Since you have such a tainted view of my
abilities as a teacher and such a vile way of expressing yourself,
you should talk to our principal. He’s a man and might be able to
appreciate your verbal defecation. His office is right next to the
front door on your way out.”