T. Boyle - Greasy Lake and Other Stories

*My awakening — I’ve always liked to refer to it as my “lunar epiphany”—came at the dog end of a disappointing campaign in the coach section of a DC 10 somewhere between Battle Creek and Montpelier. It was two months before the convention, and we were on our way to Vermont to spill some rhetoric. I was picking at something the airline optimistically called salade Madrid , my feet hurt, my digestion was shot, and the latest poll had me running dead last in a field of eight. My aides — a bunch of young Turks and electoral strong-arm men who wielded briefcases like swords and had political ambitions akin to Genghis Khan’s — were daintily masticating their rubbery coq au vin and trying to use terms like “vector,” “interface,” and “demographic volatility” in a single sentence. They were dull as doorknobs, dry as the dust on the textbooks that had given them life. Inspiration? They couldn’t have inspired a frog to croak. No, it was Lorna, former Rose Queen and USC song girl and the sweetest, lovingest wife a man could want, who was to lift me that night to the brink of inspiration even as I saw myself swallowed up in defeat.

The plane dipped, the lights flickered, and Lorna laid one of her pretty white hands on my arm. “Honey,” she whispered, with that soft throbbing City-of-Industry inflection that always made me think of surf caressing the pylons of the Santa Monica pier, “will you look at that moon?”

I stabbed at my salad in irritation, a speech about Yankee gumption, coydog control, and support prices for maple-sugar pinwheels tenting my lap, and took a hasty glance at the darkened porthole. “Yeah?” I said, and I’m sure there was more than a little edge to my voice: Couldn’t she see that I was busy, worn out, heartbroken, and defeated? Couldn’t she see I was like the old lion with a thorn in his paw, surrounded by wolves and jackals and facing his snaggle-toothed death in the political jungle? “What of it?” I snarled.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she murmured, her voice dreamy, seductive almost (had she been reading those women’s magazines again?). “It just looks so old and shabby.”

I squinted through that dark little porthole at the great black fathomless universe and saw the moon, palely glowing, looked at the moon probably for the first time in twenty years. Lorna was right. It did look pretty cheesy.

She hummed a few bars of “Shine On, Harvest Moon,” and then turned to me with those big pale eyes — still beautiful, still enough to move me after all these years — and said, “You know, if that moon was a loveseat I’d take it out to the garage and send to Bloomingdale’s for a new one.”

One of my aides — Colin or Carter or Rutherford, I couldn’t keep their names straight — was telling a joke in dialect about three Mexican gardeners and an outhouse, another was spouting demographic theory, and the stewardess swished by with a smell of perfume that hit me like a twenty-one-gun salute. It was then — out of a whirl of thoughts and impressions like cream whipped in a blender — that I had my moment of grace, of inspiration, the moment that moves mountains, solves for x, and makes a musical monument of the “Hymn to Joy,” the moment the mass of human-kind lives an entire lifetime for and never experiences. “Of course,” I blurted, upending the salad in my excitement, “yes,” and I saw all the campaign trails of all the dreary, pavement-pounding, glad-handing years fall away beneath me like streamers from heaven, like tickertape, as I turned to kiss Lorna as if I were standing before the cheering hordes on Inauguration Day.

Colin or Carter or Rutherford turned to me and said, “What is it, George — are you all right?”

“The New Moon,” I said.

Lorna was regarding me quizzically. A few of the other aides turned their heads.

I was holding my plastic cup of 7-Up aloft as if it were crystal, as if it were filled with Taittinger or Dom Pérignon. “To the New Moon!” I said with a fire and enthusiasm I hadn’t felt in years. “To the New Moon Party!”

The American people were asleep. They were dead. The great, the giving, the earnest, energetic, and righteous American people had thrown in the towel. Rape, murder, cannibalism, political upheaval in the Third World, rock and roll, unemployment, puppies, mothers, Jackie, Michael, Liza: nothing moved them. Their worst fears, most implausible dreams, and foulest conceptions were all right there in the metro section, splashed across the ever-swelling megalopic eye of the TV screen in living color and clucked over by commentators who looked as alike as bowling pins. Scandal and horror were as mundane as a yawn before bed; honor, decency, heroism, and enterprise were looked on as quaint, largely inapplicable notions that expressed an inexcusable naivete about the way of the world. In short, no one gave a good goddamn about anything. Myself included. So how blame them when they couldn’t tell the candidates apart, didn’t bother to turn out at the polls, neither knew nor cared whether the honorable Mr. P. stood for Nazi rebirth or federally funded electronic walkers for the aged and infirm?

I’d seen it all, and nothing stirred me, either. Ultraism, conservatism, progressivism, communism, liberalism, neofascism, parties of the right, left, center, left of center, and oblate poles: who cared? I didn’t even know why I was running. I’d served my two terms as a fresh-faced, ambitious young representative during the Eisenhower years, fought through three consecutive terms in the senatorial wars, wielded the sword of power and influence in the most armor-plated committees on the Hill, and been twice elected governor of Iowa on a platform that promised industrial growth, environmental protection, and the eradication of corn blight through laser technology. And yet, for all that, I wasn’t satisfied. I guess, even at sixty-one, I was still afflicted with those hungry pangs of ambition that every boy who can’t play center field for the Yankees will never wholly shake: I wanted to be top dog, kick off my shoes in the Oval Office, and stir up a fuss wherever I went; I wanted to climb high atop the mountain and look down on the creeping minuscule figures of queens, rock stars, matinee idols, and popes. It was a cold life in a comfortless universe; I didn’t believe in God, afterlife, or leprechauns. I wanted to make my mark on history — what else was there?

And so I — we — came up with the issue that would take the country — no, the world itself — by storm. From the moment of my epiphany on that rattling howling DC 10 I never said another word about taxes, inflation, Social Security, price supports, or the incumbent’s lamentable record on every key issue from the decentralization of the Boy Scouts to relations with the Soviet Union. No, I talked only of the New Moon. The moon we were going to build, to create, to hurl into the sky to take its place among the twinkling orbs of the night and recover the dignity and economic stability of America in the process. Jupiter had twelve moons, Saturn ten, Uranus five. What were we? Where was our global pride when we could boast but one craggy, acne-ridden bulb blighting the nighttime sky? A New Moon. A New Moon Soon: it was on my lips like a battle cry.

In Montpelier they thought I’d gone mad. An audience of thirty-seven had turned out at the local ag school to hear me talk about coydogs and maple-sugar pinwheels, but I gave them a dose of the New Moon instead. I strode out onto the stage like a man reborn (which I was), shredded my prepared speech, and flung it like confetti over their astonished heads, my arms spread wide, the spontaneous, thrilling message of the lunar gospel pouring from me in evangelical fervor. LUNACY, mocked the morning headlines. THORKELSSON MOONSTRUCK. But the people listened. They murmured in Montpelier, applauded lightly — hands chapped and dry as cornhusks — in Rutland. In Pittsburgh, where I really began to hit my stride (I talked of nothing but the steel it would take to piece together the superstructure of the new satellite), they got up on tables and cheered. The American people were tired of party bickering, vague accusations, and even vaguer solutions; they were sick to death of whiz-kid economists, do-nothing legislatures, and the nightmare specter of nuclear war. They wanted joy, simplicity, a goal as grand as Manifest Destiny and yet as straightforward and unequivocal as a bank statement. The New Moon gave it to them.