Interface

Cut to another angle of the same thing. Whatever 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 spi

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 cameras. "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 Dominica, 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 for a quick drive through the cornfields, out to the old family home 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 red ripe 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 overall. "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 ma

"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 shoulder, 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 a

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 and 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 fu

"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."