Neal Stephenson - Interface

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 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 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 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 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 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-two 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.