It was the single largest gathering of explosively tense people on the face of the earth. Tense people don’t like surprises. Therefore, there was a great deal of shock and unhappiness in that hall when, ten minutes before air time, just as the President and Tip McLane were emerging from their makeup rooms and taking their positions on the stage, Cyrus Rutherford Ogle appeared, walked up to the moderator, and informed him that William A. Cozzano would not be participating in tonight’s debate because he had more important things to do.
Pandemonium was a term coined by Milton to refer to the capital of Hell, where all of the demons were together in one place. From this it naturally came to mean any central headquarters of wickedness. Over time, though, as happens with many good words, its meaning had been diluted to mean any place that was noisy and chaotic. Nowadays, a person could speak of pandemonium at a birthday party full of two-year-olds.
Cy Ogle preferred the old definition of the word. No other word could possibly have described the situation in the auditorium after he strolled onto the stage and made his announcement. There was no doubt in his mind that if not for the presence of witnesses, the campaign staffs of the President, Tip McLane, the panel of journalists, and the organizers of the debate would drag him outside and hang him from a stately tree on the Columbia campus. Outside of an actual lynching, never had so much hostility been directed against one man by so many people for so many reasons. Consequently he could scarcely prevent himself from grinning through the whole thing.
There was an initial phase during which people merely screamed at him, then ran off into the wings to spread the news to other people, who ran out to scream at him some more. This probably would have gone on for quite some time if not for the fact that air time was rapidly approaching. So it got compressed into a very intense couple of minutes. A tone of emotional restraint was imposed by the technical types, who had a show to put on.
“Well, I can’t give you Cozzano in person,” Ogle said, “and I’m deeply sorry for that. But to make amends, we did blow quite a bundle buying some satellite time. We can bring you Cozzano live from his home in Tuscola.”
This announcement brought all of Pandemonium into a state of stunned silence. Cozzano could participate via TV? And Ogle was paying for the satellite time? We can live with that.
“Only thing is,” Ogle said, after they had bit on that, “that we will need to make one small change in the format. Cozzano has an important announcement to make. A very, very important announcement. And with your forbearance, we would like to have a minute or two at the beginning of this program for him to make that announcement.”
Absolute silence reigned on the stage.
Pandemonium had relocated downstairs, into the press room, where a couple of hundred reporters were screaming into their telephones. Most of them were screaming the same thing: Cozzano is withdrawing from the race!
They managed to launch the program on time. The moderator took these last-minute changes calmly, made a few changes to his notes, and sat down in his throne, unruffled. McLane and the President met in the middle of the stage and shook hands (this encounter had been choreographed during an hour-long summit conference between their campaign staffs) and Cozzano’s lectern remained unoccupied.
Out in the parking lot behind the auditorium, several semitrailer rigs were parked in parallel slots. There were some satellite uplink trucks, one GODS container on a flatbed rig, and a mobile studio from one of the networks, which was the nerve center of the whole debate: this was where the pool feed originated. Feeds from all of the cameras on the stage converged on this vehicle and showed up on small monitors. A director sat in front of them and decided which camera was going on the air. Now, the director had a new feed patched into his system, which came directly from a satellite downlink. This feed originated in Tuscola, Illinois.
When he had learned about the business with Cozzano, the director had been expecting just a simple, live, one-camera feed, probably Cozzano sitting in his living room by the fire, or something. It would be there all night long, and whenever Cozzano’s turn came up, he would push the appropriate button and the image of Cozzano would go out.
Naturally, it turned out to be a lot more complicated than that. The feed from Tuscola, when he first saw it, consisted of a long shot of Cozzano’s house as seen from the street. Obviously Cozzano’s house wasn’t going to participate in the debate. They would have to have at least one more camera, inside the house. Which meant that somewhere in Tuscola there was another director who was sitting in another studio like this one—a director who worked for Cy Ogle and William A. Cozzano. That director was managing feeds from at least two cameras, deciding which one was going to be fed up to the satellite.
The director, in his trailer behind the auditorium, was the first person in the United States to figure out that Ogle had taken them for a ride. The choreography of this debate, which had been hammered out through many hours of negotiations, over a period of weeks, had just been torn to shreds and replaced by something totally new, entirely Ogle’s.
The moderator began the debate with a few introductory remarks. On TV, you always had to explain the obvious, over and over again: “In four days, Americans go to the polls to select the man who will be their next president. This is a profoundly significant choice . . .”
“. . . this debate was originally intended to include all three major candidates. Tonight, we have two of them. The President of the United States. And Representative Tip McLane of California.”
As the moderator introduced the two men, the director, outside in the trailer, caused their faces to appear on the air. Neither one of them seemed to be ready for it. Ever since Ogle’s announcement, no one had really known what the hell was going on, what would happen when, who would be introduced in what order. McLane and the President had both spent a lot of time in front of television cameras in the last few days, in the privacy of their campaign headquarters, practicing what they would do at the moment they were introduced; now, neither one of them did the right thing. They looked agitated, sweaty, shifty-eyed, and when they realized they were on TV, they both looked surprised.
“The third candidate, William A. Cozzano, Governor of Illinois, announced a few minutes ago that he could not participate.”
The director cut to a camera that had been set up to show all three of the candidates’ lecterns in a single shot. McLane and the President looked stiff and self-conscious. The empty lectern made both of them look foolish.
“Instead, he will be addressing us from his home in Tuscola, Illinois.”
Cut to the shot of Cozzano’s house with the sun setting behind it. It looked inviting and refreshing compared to the stale tense atmosphere of the auditorium.
“Now, the format of this debate has been established in advance, by consensus between the campaign staffs and the sponsoring organizations, and I intend to adhere strictly to that format. But there is one deviation that needs to be made, and we will do that right now and get it out of the way. I understand that Governor Cozzano has an important announcement that he needs to make, and that he is going to make it now. So I will offer the floor to him at this time. Governor Cozzano, are you there?”
“Here goes nothing,” said the director, out in his trailer, and cut from the image of the moderator back to the feed from Tuscola.
The feed remained steady on the image of the house for a minute. Lights were coming on inside as the sun set spectacularly behind it. It looked cheery and welcoming. And it broke the rigid, lockstep schedule of the debate. Then the Tuscola feed cut to a shot of William A. Cozzano. But it was not the expected picture of Cozzano in a suit, sitting by the fire reading a book and smoking a pipe.
It was totally different. For a few moments, it was difficult to make out. Cozzano appeared to be lying on his back in a cramped space, staring upward, reaching up above him with one arm. “Good evening,” he said, “I’ll be with you momentarily.”
Cut to another angle on the same thing. Wha
tever Cozzano was doing, and wherever he was, they had at least two cameras on him.
This angle was a closeup of Cozzano’s hand. It was dirty and greasy and flecked with a small drop of blood where he had torn one of his knuckles. He was spinning some small metal object around between his fingers. Then he yanked his hand away and a stream of black fluid shot out of an opening and into a metal tray beneath.
Cut to yet another angle, this one showing Cozzano’s legs sticking out from beneath a car. He was lying on the floor of his garage.
Actually, he was lying on a mechanic’s creeper. He slid out from underneath the car, sat up, and rose lightly to his feet. He picked up an old rag and began to wipe oil from his hands, addressing the camera. “My apologies. I wanted to participate in tonight’s debate, but I’ve been very busy lately. A few days ago I stopped flying around the country for the first time in a couple of months and came back here to my home, the house that my father bought back during the Depression to impress a young woman named Francesca Domenici, who became his wife, and my mother.
“And, you know, I decided that I liked it here. And looking around the place I saw that there was a lot to do here that I had left undone.” Cozzano nodded at his car. “For example, changing the oil in my car. I just took it out for a quick drive through the cornfields, out to the old family farm and back, to warm up the engine so that the oil would flow out. It was a nice drive. Some people think that the landscape here is boring, but I think it’s beautiful.”
Cozzano had begun to walk toward the camera, which backed away from him. It backed out of the garage door and into Cozzano’s yard. Nearby was a large garden.
“This garden was in disgraceful shape. Hadn’t been weeded in quite some time, and the weeds were bigger than the vegetables. So I took care of that. You can see it looks a little better now.” Cozzano plucked a ripe red tomato from a vine and bit into it like an apple. Juice ran down his chin and he wiped it with the sleeve of his mechanic’s coverall. “Of course, home is more than just doing chores. Home means being with your family too.”
Cozzano had now reached a patio, which was illuminated. A picnic table had been spread with a nice tablecloth and set with fresh vegetables from the garden and a platter of hamburgers. Sitting at the table was Mary Catherine Cozzano, pouring iced tea from a pitcher into three glasses. At the end of the table, James was manning a sizzling barbecue, flipping burger patties and hot dogs.
“This is my daughter, Mary Catherine. You may have heard of her recently, as media manipulators hired by my opponents have made strenuous efforts to assassinate her character. She has been nothing short of noble in the face of this mudslinging.” Mary Catherine smiled and nodded at the camera.
“And this young man at the barbecue is my son, James, who has been working his tail off all year long, writing a book about this year’s presidential campaign. He has just signed a deal with a major publisher in New York, and that book is going to be published on Inauguration Day.”
Mary Catherine stood up, threw one arm around her brother’s shoulders, and kissed him on the cheek.
In the auditorium, the audience went, “Ahhhh.”
Tip McLane did not. He stepped away from the lectern and began to shout at the moderator: “I demand that this be stopped! This is no announcement! This is a free campaign commercial!”
The moderator looked at Cy Ogle, who was standing in the wings. “I have to agree. Mr. Ogle? I’m going to have to pull the plug.”
“This ain’t no campaign commercial,” Ogle said, “because there ain’t no campaign.”
On the giant TV screen above their heads, Cozzano was beaming delightedly at his daughter and son. He turned back toward the camera. “When I came back here a few days ago, my intention was to prepare for the debate. But the home and family that I rediscovered here delighted me so much that I could not bring myself to look at the huge briefing books and the endless position papers that my campaign staff had prepared for me. I found that I would rather dig potatoes in the garden or sit on the front porch swing reading Mark Twain.
“Now, these are perfectly good things to do. But in a modern political campaign, it’s regarded as improper, somehow, to act like a normal human being. And this brought me to the realization that there is something evil and twisted about the campaign process: the traveling, the speechifying, the television spots. The mudslinging. Wearing makeup sixteen hours a day. And most of all, the debates, with their false and pompous trappings.”
In the production trailer, the director could not restrain himself from punching the button that cut away to a long shot of the auditorium stage. At the moment, it consisted of a number of stuffed shirts, arguing, consulting with aides, and staring in shock at television monitors.
“And I made up my mind,” Cozzano said, “that the entire thing was corrupt. Only a scoundrel can participate in such a campaign; only a cipher can win. I am neither. So I have decided that I am no longer interested in campaigning for president of the United States.
“Earlier today, I drove my car down to Sterling Texaco, down on the corner. It’s a place I’ve been buying gas and tires ever since I bought my first car back in high school. And old Mr. Sterling came out to fill up my tank, wash my windshield, check my oil. This is kind of an old-fashioned town, and that’s still how we do things here.
“Well, Mr. Sterling, who sold me my very first tank of gas back in the early sixties, took one look at my dipstick and he told me to get out of the car and come have a look. I did so. And sure enough, the end of that dipstick was coated with the darkest, grimiest, sludgiest coat of oil I have ever seen. It was disgraceful, and Mr. Sterling didn’t have to say so. I knew it. I knew I’d gone too long without changing my oil. So I bought five quarts of fresh oil along with my tank of gas, and drove them home.”
As Cozzano told this story, he was strolling back into his garage, where his car was angled up on a pair of ramps. He kneeled beside the car, reached underneath with one arm, and slid out the metal basin, which was now filled with black oil.
“Just a few minutes ago, as I was crawling under the car to let that old sludge out of the system, I realized that there was a powerful metaphor for politics. Our political system is basically sound, but over the years it has gotten all fouled with dirt and sludge.”
Cozzano carried the basin over to a counter, where an empty plastic milk jug sat with a funnel stuck into the top. He held the basin up and tipped it, pouring the oil down the funnel and into the plastic jug.
“Of course, that kind of thing rubs off. It permeates everything after a while. And I realized that being a presidential candidate had fouled and stained my life in many ways, some obvious, some a little more subtle.”
Cozzano set the basin down. He took a metal oil spout off a pegboard on the wall, then picked up a fresh can of oil. He shoved the spout into the can, piercing its top, then tilted it just a bit and spilled a few drops of clean, clear, golden oil into the palm of his hand. “Now, that’s more like it,” he said. “This is how my life used to be. And this”—he set the oil can down and slapped the milk jug full of sludge—“is how my life was after a few months of presidential politics. Of course, the President and Tip McLane have been in the same game for much longer than I have. I don’t know how they do it.”
Cozzano pulled the rag out of his pocket and wiped his hands. “Well, I’ve got some burgers to eat. A son and daughter to get reacquainted with. Some new oil to put in the car. Then I think we’ll go for a stroll around town, maybe take in a movie. And I know that the President and Tip have got important things to do also. So I’ll let you attend to those things. Best of luck to you all, and good night.”
The Tuscola feed cut back to the long shot of Cozzano’s house, now just a silhouette against an indigo sky, lights shining warmly from every window.
In the press room, Zeke Zorn was standing on a table shouting. Important blood vessels were showing on his forehead, which, like the rest of his face had turned red.
> “This is an absolute disgrace!” he screamed. Then he took a deep breath and got himself under control. “This is the most dirty, underhanded, filthy campaign trick ever devised.”
Al Lefkowitz, the President’s chief spin doctor, was calmer, paler, seemingly almost distracted, like a man who has been hit on the head with a two-by-four and whose consciousness has withdrawn into a deeper neurological realm. He was speaking more quietly than Zorn, with the result that reporters, fleeing in fear of being struck by a loose drop of saliva ejected from Zorn’s mouth, had clustered around him. “It’s very disappointing. It’s an act of political vandalism, really. If he just wanted to withdraw from the race, that would be one thing. But he went beyond that and attacked the candidates. And more importantly, he attacked the American electoral process itself. It’s very sad that his career has to end this way.”
Zeke Zorn suddenly grabbed the floor by howling, “THERE HE IS!” and pointing toward the entrance. Cy Ogle had just strolled into the room and was now blinking and looking around himself curiously, as if he had wandered in while searching for the men’s room, and could not understand all the commotion.
Zorn continued, “Maybe you would like to explain how you’re going to get Cozzano’s name off the ballots in all fifty states in just four days!”
Ogle looked perplexed. “Who said anything about ballots?”
“Cozzano did. He claims he’s withdrawing from the race.”
“Oh, no,” Ogle said, shaking his head, and looking a little shocked. “He never said anything about withdrawing from the race. He just said he didn’t want to do any more campaigning.”
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