The French Revolution

by Matt Stewart

  “She’s lame,” Robespierre whined to her executive committee, this time gathering at one of the nicer downtown restaurants, both to be seen and because their recent fundraising spike permitted it.

  “She’s absolutely safe,” declared the professor emeritus. “She’s the establishment candidate. Which means you have to stand for change.”

  “She’s kinda cool,” remarked Kelly, a new intern who spent rush hours twirling a STOP THE WAR! sign along Lincoln Way. “I mean, she’s amazing in a half-pipe.”

  “We have to do something,” Robespierre said. All the options in the world in front of her, and the money made it real.

  “It really depends what kind of leader you want to be,” observed the emeritus professor, who was feeling at home between the fine wine and upscale environment, nearly as comfortable as the faculty club. “The conventional route is to come up through committees, earning your way to prized positions through seniority.”

  “I want to be the leader who stops the war,” she said, watching the committee warm to this, their bodies shifting in her direction, somewhat incredulous but in love with the idea, the balls.

  “Typically you’d start with a personal introduction,” the younger professor said, “because people want to know who they’re voting for. But you’re weak there. So I think you dive right into the issue and overwhelm them with emotion.”

  “You have to provide the spiritual genesis for your journey,” David continued, and she had it, the flash point, thousands of withered souls and a lifetime’s supply of air strikes compressed into a dot on her forehead.

  Their first mailers were composed of photos of dead and dying soldiers, charred corpses, leaking body bags. Pictures of funerals and memorial services, framed grade school portraits of the deceased, wives and children clutching hands, paltry floral arrangements. Blood figured everywhere, matted dirty burgundy blood, bloody clotted bandages, blood tarring hands and faces, blood seeping through uniforms, dripping from eyeballs, blood washing cavities where limbs should be. Body parts scattered across sand, wedding rings on severed fingers. Beaten helmets balanced on rifle tops. Flattened Iranian houses flying fresh American flags. Blood trickling from rippled, screaming mouths, missing teeth, missing flesh, high-resolution shots printed on glossy cardstock slipped into the daily mail haul.

  And what happened when children came home from school and saw this carnage on the kitchen counter, when they asked their parents what was wrong with those men, why were they bleeding, were they sad, did it hurt? Did parents shred the mailers and flush the scraps down the toilet where that crap belonged, being totally inappropriate for kids and adults too, worse than an R-rated movie, they didn’t ask for this garbage, all they’d ever done was pay their taxes and work hard and keep their nose clean so why this in their mailbox? Did they place searing telephone calls and send vitriolic emails to Robespierre Van Twinkle’s campaign headquarters and ask what kind of made-up name was that anyway, was this a joke? Did they rant online and demand apologies, inundating Violet Chin with cash? Or did they dig deeper when their shock simmered down; did they reflect and metabolize and explain to their kids that there was a war going on in the Middle East, the United States had attacked a fundamentalist regime that had fired missiles at Israel, denied the Holocaust, threatened to turn North America into a quenchless fireball, and gotten started by setting the podium at the United Nations ablaze? That the Iranian people had revolted and hanged President Ghodrat Mohtashemi from the Azadi Tower, deposed the rest of his regime, and apologized at length, but the boots were already on the ground, the tank brigades rolling toward Tehran, the emergency budget authorized, the oil fields within range? How seven hundred thousand American soldiers were fighting a war already won, and losing it, and dying?

  Frozen over the kitchen table with a curious child nibbling graham crackers beside them, these passions swirled raw.

  Stop the War!

  Robespierre’s campaign email blasted a video the following week: desert footage with no music, no voiceover, no intro slate, tricking many viewers into thinking the wrong version was up, they’d served up the nightly news by accident, the omnipresent Iranian massacre splattering onscreen from different angles until they realized it was a war footage compilation and that was the point. The narration was edited out so the battlefield filled their speakers and headphones, tracer fire zipping across living rooms, detonations behind desks, distant screams in the center of their brains. A bazooka connected with a helicopter, the rotor stripping off and shearing a platoon of infantrymen, clouds of sand scratching the screen. Bearded men dropped flaming soda bottles into tank hatches. The sky dark with metal. Panning through a hospital tent, armless Americans on thin mats on the ground, desiccated Americans twisted into mannequin poses, seemingly unhurt Americans drawing pained, broken breaths. Some ranting and muttering from the wounded came through, but most of the agony was muffled and internal, sundered American lives reaching for dignity in their most terrified moments.

  Then Robespierre appeared in a somber charcoal suit, devoid of jewelry, minimal makeup, her widely spaced eyes imposing calm through the lens, shiny lips hanging a notch open, hair drawn back in a high ponytail. Lines etched into her forehead strained red.

  “I’m Robespierre Van Twinkle, candidate for supervisor in District 4,” she said flatly. “Join me to stop the war. Thank you.” The slogan filled the screen and disappeared.

  TO: vantwinklem@us.army.gov

  FROM: robespierre@stopthewar!.org

  SUBJECT: staying alive, campaign, etc

  DATE: Monday, October 20, 2012 8:36 AM

  hey, hope you’re still alive & kickin. they showed footage from the raid on tabriz last night on the news. anderson cooper got killed there, you know the guy from cnn? shot through the head on camera. cripes. i couldn’t find anything about fighting in qom on the news or the net, so i assume it’s pretty calm & you’re doing ok. but i can’t shake the feeling you’re on some supersecret commando raid & you’re not allowed to talk about it, so whatever you do try to keep all your blood in your body ok?

  the campaign’s going pretty well. the videos and mailers are getting noticed, lots of controversy, but i have no idea if it’s working. we’re way behind in the polls but i’m not that worried. i think my candidacy needs to grow inside people for a while, to make them think about this war & what it’s really about.

  i opened up a brokerage account for you with some of dad’s cash. risky & high-growth as requested. don’t blow it all on strippers when you get back.

  -R

  TO: robespierre@stopthewar!.org

  FROM: vantwinklem@us.army.gov

  SUBJECT: RE: staying alive, campaign, etc

  DATE: Monday, October 20, 2012 23:48:36

  Reenactments. Hire some homeless people and stage skirmishes in the street. That’ll get them talking. And thinking.

  Fuck Anderson Cooper. What a dipshit.

  Halloween morning was warm and breezy, the sky clear as a raindrop. At 10 AM a small fleet of motorboats bounced through the Ocean Beach surf. The transports rode over sliding waves and puttered into the shallows, then swung parallel to shore and held steady as best they could while ninety ragtag men splashed overboard. Holding toy guns over their heads, the men looked generally military but less professional, with most out of shape and wearing mismatched fatigues and certainly not charging ahead for a power landing in the proud tradition of the United States Armed Forces. Instead they trudged and twirled through hammering breakers, shrieking and coughing up seawater and mouthing off about how fucking cold it was. Several men launched into incoherent ranting accompanied by spitting; two emitted long brain-busting high-pitched whines. They were older than most active soldiers, but similarly unshaven and nervous, chemically dependent, battle-realistic tremors in their muscles. Eventually they made it to the beach, where several kissed the ground and a few began crying and one took a leak in the direction of a frolicking schnauzer. A bullhorn announcement interrupted, and t
he men assembled in three loose formations, shaking out their ill-fitting surplus-store boots and the plastic helmets bought in bulk from the costume shop on Haight Street, every one of them uncomfortable in wet underwear. They waited for a few minutes while a video team tested the live feed, trying to remember what came next.

  “Move out!” the bullhorn crackled. Unsavory language ripped through the assembled forces and, after a few minutes of complaining, they began walking east. It was a grim start, their heavy heels dragging over seaside dunes, their pants accruing a dark mud liner, sand sneaking into their mouths and socks, the cold progressing from shock to body shivers, the total effect being to devastate élan and stoke hearty agreement that this was a ding-dong clusterfuck of epic proportions. Eventually they piddled over the Great Highway to Santiago Street, which was cordoned off with police barricades and made for an unimpeded if slightly uphill stroll. They stamped their boots and shook the grit off their clothes, rolling along in a disinterested mosey until another bullhorn transmission reminded them of their orders and they grudgingly peeled open their backpacks and lobbed flowers onto the sidewalks, planted flags on lawns and parked cars, pulled on bottles of whiskey hidden beneath their flak jackets. Passersby gathered and cheered sedately, assuming a costume parade, a war memorial, a movie filming, some weird combination. The troops perked up with the attention, picking up the pace and waving, tipping their helmets to ladies, whistling and passing out cigars. For a few blocks they marched with honor, long purposeful strides taking them in the direction of downtown.

  Mothers pushing strollers, dog walkers, cyclists, repairmen, letter carriers, café dwellers, telecommuters—when they saw the street shut off, the rows of damp ragtag soldiers cracking jokes and carrying toy rifles, they came and watched and called their friends. Television crews jostled for position at intersections; Mexicans pushing ice cream trucks materialized and did some business. Police officers observed from the sidelines, reviewing the soldiers for familiar criminal faces.

  The troops pushed past the swelling crowd, their shot of morale started to falter. They’d been drafted from a long-term hotel in the Tenderloin, enticed with cash money and new clothes, and most hadn’t hiked this far in years without a break. They were not reinvigorated by the young women picking up the soldiers’ flowers and tucking them behind their ears, and were flat-out annoyed by the kids from Lincoln High jumping the crowd-control gates and walking alongside them in mock military stride. The formations loosened as they lumbered into the sun, stragglers from the first group dropping into the second, some breaking ranks to find a liquor store, some stopping to sit on the curb and rest a while. Three caught a bus and went home. They’d already been paid half up front anyway, a solid day at the office.

  Ninety mock soldiers dwindled to eighty, seventy-five, seventy-three.

  The procession slowed to a country stroll where Santiago bent steeper at 40th Avenue. The men cursed and spat, spat and cursed, half-English rants buffeted with exhaustion. In the last platoon, a bottle broke against the pavement. This was far enough, they were out of juice; they hadn’t been trained or built up or given decent supplies; and anyhow what was their objective, what the fuck was the point?

  At 10:45 a trash can between the second and third units started steaming. A police officer was jogging toward it when a thunderclap boomed, men hit the deck, children cried out, and chaos arrived. In the smoke troops lit firecrackers as instructed and fired their fake weapons at each other, civilians, police officers, the skies. Noises churned together, crossfire pops from weapons, war cries, hissing steam, cops’ emergency reaction shouts, the slaps of sprinting shoes. Mothers grabbed their children from strollers and pulled their shirts over their noses. Normally sedate spectators started flailing, shoving, and throwing elbows, trampling and kicking. Car windows shattered, sounding alarms. Mist billowed through the avenue, a tipped column of white smoke bleeding into alleys and cross streets. Some in the crowd gave up and lay on the ground, unable to react; some broke into homes and searched for knives, shovels, vases, heavy chairs. A plurality ran like hell, fingers firing across cellphone keypads. A news chopper dipped down for a closer look, cameras rolling, wind-whipping blades impressing the beat of war. Among the uniformed militants, a handful began to bawl—even though the attack had been detailed in their contract, the briefing, the reminder phone call, the predawn briefing, they’d forgotten about it, or it was worse than expected—while the real vets among them took cover behind parked cars and started planning exit strategies.

  Then the liquid hit them. Some kind of magenta juice on their clothes and hair and skin, fired from invisible artillery, salt-flavored shrapnel dripping down their faces. It landed in lines, painless, easy, discoloring contact lenses and staining socks. The sounds of pumped water, hidden sprinklers shooting red tracer fire, painless bullets blanked by shock. The crowd ran calling for medical attention, shelter, a goddamn explanation, but instead found unrepentant Van Twinkle volunteers a block away handing out campaign literature and coupons for free dry cleaning.

  On Santiago a cluster of troops fought through it, baring shanks hidden in their socks, lengths of hard plastic pipe, a crowbar. Bottles flew through the air, at the smoke, at cops, and then the police backup units arrived and it ended. Cops flung soldiers’ faces onto asphalt, clubbed necks, chained wrists, kicked knees, shoved punched disarmed, threw them in the paddy wagon and hauled them off to jail.

  Five minutes later Robespierre’s campaign released a statement and the city caught on fire.

  Robespierre Van Twinkle was incarcerated in short order, fervently booed on her perp walk. Bail was not posted. Her money had run out.

  She won no endorsements, a condemnation in the Chronicle, dismissive remarks from Violet Chin, an ocean of hate mail and scathing online chatter, rebukes from mothers and fathers who claimed to want her corrosive gimmicks gone—she didn’t respect the law and had ruined a good outfit and scared the crap out of the kids and besides what could she do about that war anyway? When did lawlessness become a virtue? How’s inciting a riot for bad judgment? Why give the conservatives more ammunition, a left-wing lunatic soiling the Progressive name?

  But within many homes they thought it out, the tension turned, and they knew she was right, and they were ashamed for not having the courage to bring it home like she did.

  The guards updated Robespierre with poll results every hour on Election Day, falsely reporting a blowout loss to fuck with the bitch. Her life took on apocalyptic qualities; she saw it in red and black insects that flashed on the insides of her eyes; all that money thrown away and nobody changed; a wasteful, painful exercise purely for her own entertainment. At least she’d grown as a person, she tried to console herself, but all that stuck with her was the futility of it all, the impossible planetary inertia, how little there was worth getting out of bed for.

  She slept in angry bunches, wriggling through demented dreams involving blood-soaked Iranian battlefields and whirling red wheelbarrows and driving Violet Chin’s Corvette off a pier into the sea. At some point the door to her cell clanged open, that lawyer guy was there, somebody was telling her something, whispers chewed her brain. “You again,” Robespierre mumbled. “How bad was it?”

  “Ma’am, it’s a pleasure.” J. Malcolm Fletcher removed his hat and handed her a bouquet of roses.

  “This some kind of asshole joke?”

  “They’re for you.” He gyrated his head and bunched up his lips, a look of conquered emotion, fighting back tears or pain or last night’s undercooked chicken pesto. “Allow me to offer my congratulations,” he allowed.

  This set off laughter, loads of it, at the absurd situation and the preposterousness of the claim and this guy’s asshole charm, not only dressed like a 1950s gumshoe but playing the part too. Briefly she admired his acting. “Blow off,” she giggled.

  “Certainly.” Even as a cold glass of water. “May I buy you breakfast?”

  “Go for it. Got a muffin with a file baked in?�
��

  A guard appeared in her field of vision, microfiber mustache and shaved head. “Bail’s posted,” he reported, “you can go.”

  “What?”

  “Correct,” the lawyer said. “Additionally, I thought you would be interested in this morning’s newspaper.” He passed over the Chronicle late edition, a block of election results with one circled in marker.

  VAN TWINKLE 47%—CHIN 44%

  “No shit.” Color vacated Robespierre’s face as errata compiled in her head, to-do lists and program initiatives, applications of the unbelievable.

  “All right, you won,” the guard said. “Now get out.”

  “I won.” This was the only fact that mattered, barred windows and jail jumpsuits nothing compared to the truth of victory. At age twenty-two, fresh out of college, she’d fucking won a city election.

  She wanted to kiss J. Malcolm Fletcher more than anything on earth, and did with a full-tongue treatment that got the whole cellblock whooping.

  The lawyer dabbed his face with a handkerchief and replaced his fedora on his head. “Shall we go?” he asked. He looked over his glasses at Robespierre and was struck silent by her slivered eyebrows, bleak mouth, pores clogged from nerves. She was shutting down, eyes sinking gumballs, cheeks the color of skim milk. He stepped over and caught her before she fell, then helped her hobble out with a hand from the guard, her jailhouse slippers dragging with a war’s worth of fatigue.