The Media Candidate (26 page)

“Did you get into more trouble then?”

“No. The next year I played a bale of straw, and
Christine decided to sit that one out, so the whole thing was
pretty forgettable.”

“Suppose we sit on the deck instead of in here,
Ted.”

After arranging themselves on the glider at one
end of the redwood deck overlooking the manicured courtyard below,
Elliott said, “You never said much about growing up in Missouri.
Did you live in the city? You know, I’m from Missouri, too. I’m a
little curious about what it was like there a couple of generations
after I left.”

“I guess you could call me a city girl, maybe
suburban is a better way to put it. I grew up in a little town but
it was all surrounded by other towns, which were also surrounded by
other towns. A few of the towns even had downtowns. You could tell
when you were downtown because there was usually an old church or
an old town hall in among the Holo-Wars and the Century Plazas. In
some towns, they’d just have a rock with a brass plate to tell you
where the town hall used to be. That way you had more room for the
Psych Riders and Virtual Beats and things.

“When you drove around, you’d never know what
town you were in except for the sign that would say Ginkgo Heights,
Home of Virgin. And then you’d pass another sign that would say
Terman, Home of Rod Thumper. I’ve always been proud of coming from
the hometown of Long Comma Dick and Extortia. They’re pretty
famous, probably end up in Congress.”

“Did you have a favorite hangout?”

Guinda adjusted her long, golden legs across the
wicker table top in front of them. Her shorts stretched upward as
she sank deeper into the cushion, but no tan line appeared. “Sure,
we used to hang out at the Fairway Center a lot. Our favorite place
was O’Doul’s Deli. They had this Grindello Special, and if you were
good friends of whoever was working there, you could count on an
extra dill pickle and a free bag of chips. The owner knew about the
freebies, but she didn’t mind.

“She had this big TV in the back room where we
used to watch political game shows and talk shows and soaps; and
when we’d go home, Mother would have the same things on TV. She
said I was really lucky to be surrounded by so many solid,
public-spirited influences all those years. When she was a kid,
most of the shows were still the old-time ones before they started
putting the public figures on them. When she was in high school,
she took this course in contemporary women’s issues, and one of her
assignments was to demonstrate at the state capitol for that new
law that required that at least half of the TV shows feature public
figures.

“She told stories about the women’s movement
after the turn of the century. She said women were just beginning
to appreciate their sexual powers as a strong political force and
if women didn’t get into politics when they were young and sexy,
they were missing a real opportunity.”

“Is that what you’re trying to do, Guin?”

“Well, I guess that’s been in the back of my
mind for a long time now. I’ve kept my body in pretty good shape,
and I’ve got some Olympic medals, but I’m 26 now, and it won’t be
too long before my breasts start drooping and my nipples get
mushy,” she said matter-of-factly, “and then I won’t be worth much
in politics.”

“Do you think your breasts are your greatest
assets?”

“Sure! Don’t you?”

“Well Guin, I’ll have to admit that your body is
pretty exciting.” The blush rose on his face, overcoming the
evening shadows. “But it’s not your greatest asset. You’re so much
more than an exciting body.”

“Then what is,” she asked, sitting up straight
and taking his wrinkled, hairy hand between her soft, smooth hands.
“I’d really like to know what your opinion is, Ted.”

“I think it’s your smile. … I think it’s your
energy. … But more than anything else, Guin, I think it’s your …
your honesty,” he said, responding to her touch. “I admire honesty
and guilelessness and sincerity. I don’t see much of it anymore,
and you’ve reminded me of the simple beauties I used to know in my
youth … like the wind in my hair and the mockingbirds singing in
the treetops. I knew a girl like you in another century, on another
planet. I’ve replaced all that with equations and quarks for so
long, but you’ve reminded me that it’s still alive and that it’s
the same now as it was then. It’s me who’s changed. But you’re
bringing me back.”

“I can bring even more back to you, Ted.” She
stroked his hand and his arm. “Does my body still excite you?”

Elliott gulped and said fearfully, but without
hesitation, “Very much.”

Elliott peddled the dimly lit streets with an
impotent headlight challenging the obscurity ahead. The beacon
could barely sire a shadow. Elliott’s eyes probed the somber light,
searching for a course through the confusion. But the greater
confusion was one of feelings not shadows, of exhumed passions not
exacting passages. His progress was slowed more by a reeling soul
than by any unseen peril. Images filled the darkness ahead with
laughing teeth, blonde hair falling over bare shoulders, and
sanguine nipples pressed between famished lips. The images were
alien, impressionistic. They could only be inventions. He had
stumbled upon an oasis and feared that his interminable desert had
created a mirage conceived in desire.

Maybe Guinda’s forest green dress with the
single button undone had transported him to some dream world, a
soap opera where that button had been a subtle invitation. In that
world, such incidents led to cryptic flirts and double entendre,
then to passionate touches seasoned with frenzy. But tonight wasn’t
like that—was it? Could it have been real? And kissing Guinda had
not been the harbinger of something greater. It was one with what
followed, an essential element of passion. One flowed into the
other like dew condensing from a summer fog.

Would reality deny him this? He and Guinda were
separated by chasms of reality.

Tonight, however, he had become a dream, a
passion perfected. He had lingered in the soft flesh of a goddess
beyond reach. But he’d somehow reached her. She beckoned him to her
where she molded a man who had never existed before. It happened as
naturally as the sun fondles the earth, and the earth invites the
moon. He dared not fear that it was a fantasy, or it might be.

He stopped to clear his mind, to banish the
images, yet begging for their reinstatement. Tonight’s journey home
would have to be accompanied by these cherished ghosts. Elliott
would have to rely on reflex.

* * *

Martha was seated in the TV room with her
“family” when Elliott got home. He stood in the doorway and
watched, unseen by Martha. Over the years, she’d dubbed her
favorite TV series as “my family” because Elliott was usually not
around, and when he was, he would rarely watch TV with her. They
became a substitute for her own missing family after their kids
left home. This particular show was simply a tool for entertainment
and marketing with few political overtones. This evening’s two-hour
episode was being broadcast in interactive holovision.

Martha sat away from the center of the room and
two holographic images sat before her. The images were poor
quality, lacking the contrast and the vivid color of real people.
There was also a noticeable lag between Martha’s part of the
dialogue and the response of her family. Elliott imagined the
massive computers and data translators back at the network
processing mind-boggling volumes of data to analyze Martha’s
comments and then formulate and transmit her family’s responses.
All this was done according to a phenomenally complex set of
personal-interaction rules and algorithms customized for the
episode.

Joel and Jan were average looking Hollywood
family folks. They were well on the young side of middle age and
exuded good looks, confidence, polish, charm, wit, and wealth. They
represented the American ideal of what everyone over fifty wished
they could be. If you could not identify with Joel or Jan, you fell
outside of the range of average Americana that sought nightly
relief from the lunacy of life in the hyper lunacy of TV.

“You know, Jan, I don’t think Martha has ever
been to our beach home with us,” Joel said. “It really embodies the
magic of the sea. We always come away totally rejuvenated, don’t
we?”

“Yes, it would be marvelous if Martha would come
along next time. We have such nice neighbors, too. There’s that
handsome gentleman, Nicholas, who seems to always be trying to get
me into the bedroom. He says he always feels so aroused after a
nude romp in the surf, and he immediately thinks of me. What a
silly boy.” Jan looked at Joel and winked mischievously. “I believe
Marty would really enjoy him. He has such energy, and he’s so
clever. Do you know he can name every player on the all star team
and exactly how much each one makes?”

“He sounds very fascinating,” Martha said. “Is
he conversant in the arts?

The holographic images paused awkwardly as the
massive computer power at a far off TV studio churned and processed
volumes of data that would stagger the mind of even the most savvy
computer engineer. These computers were carrying on millions of
independent conversations with multi-media players all over the
country of over a half billion people. But it was the complexity of
the holographic image generation and the conversation logic and the
rate at which the network could transmit the processed and
formatted data out to the users that slowed the response
noticeably. But disciples had come to accept this small credibility
gap in a totally fictitious adventure.

“It’s funny you should ask that particular
question, Marty. Jan and I were just talking about it this morning
at breakfast.” Joel crossed his legs and smiled at Martha. His
smile displayed some of the flaws that the infant technology of
holographic animation exhibited.

Jan continued, “Nicky and I took a video tour of
the Shorter Collection of Contemporary Graphic Icons last week and
he was quite amazing. He follows all the auctions and can tell you
who bought what and how much they paid for it—”

“And who the artist’s lovers have been,”
interrupted Joel. “And he’s really quite liberal. He doesn’t care
whether the artist is gay or Lesbian or even straight. ‘It’s all
the same art no matter who they do it to in bed,’ he says.”

“He even dabbles in art himself. It’s his own
variation of misrepresentation greaser art. He feels the artist
shouldn’t be bounded by any media. His works are often filled with
invisible spots that he says relate to all the repression of his
youth. His latest piece is the cardboard side of a toilet paper
box, and he has this knife slice right through the middle of it,
and here’s the heavy part. He called it
Mommy
… just
Mommy
. When I saw that, it was like my first exposure to
real art. It made me think a lot about my mother and how I relate
to her. It’s one of those things that goes way beyond art.”

“That’s right, Jan. I think he’s a real
Renaissance man,” Joel said. “It wouldn’t surprise me if his stuff
ends up at The Shorter some day. He’s so deep and has so many
facets, and his art has such therapeutic value. I told my mother
about that piece, and she wanted to buy it, but Nicky said he just
couldn’t sell it yet. There’s too much of himself in it, and it
reveals so much about him. He’s quite shy and a very private
person.”

“When I see really sensitive art like that,”
Martha replied, “It makes me curious about how the artist is able
to achieve such meaning and emotion with such simplicity of
expression. I’m actually jealous that I can’t be so creative.”

“You know, Marty,” said Joel after a pause. “A
lot of people feel the same way. That’s why we’re thrilled to share
people like Nicky with people like you who can really appreciate
such talent. And you know who makes it all possible? It’s the
friendly people at InterCon Airlines. Did you know they have a
special package to take you from City Airport right to Los Angeles
International. It includes overnight accommodations just a block
from The Shorter Museum.”

The wall TV behind Jan and Joel filled with the
best exhibits of twenty-first-century icon art. The famous
Clouds J
filled the center of the collage with its marijuana
smoke plumes. “I’m sure you already know about all the other
cultural activities in that area. There’s the High Rollers Hall of
Fame, which is a tribute to the top moneymakers in the entire
entertainment industry, and of course, you can’t miss the brand new
Music Showcase. It traces the evolution of music since the turn of
the century. Their most recent addition shows how the long-running
battle between drug rap and DC crap for the top of the charts has
provided such a wealth of benefits for our country. Even the
President has endorsed this exhibit, saying it demonstrates once
more how much we have to gain by a healthy coalition of government
and the private sector.”

This was accompanied by more promotion filling
the wall. Jugs Gypsy danced across the screen in synch with some
room-shaking beats wearing nothing more than a single pink kneepad
and the sweat streaming from her tanned body. She was accompanied
by a chorus of male dancers called The Danglers who were similarly
dressed but with blue kneepads and each with a nose ring.
Jugs
and the Danglers
were the hottest entertainers in Hollywood.
Most of their incomprehensible wealth came from the endless
commercials they did. Every Madison Avenue agency understood their
drawing power.

“There’s so much to experience in the cultural
center of LA that you could spend a week there. Now that Ted is
retired, he might want to come with you on one of your trips. By
the way, you and Ted could combine that with a trip to see Luke and
Marie while they’re in Japan.”