This was when New Hampshire, that somber state, was plagued, for months, by self-immolation. Put simply and more precisely, people were blowing themselves up. Every week someone did it, and the blood and flesh was not always found and cleaned for many days. This was in the arctic depths of winter, when the population had doubled in anticipation of the primaries, when rental-car agencies were booming with business, when the roadside sporting-goods stores were briskly selling gloves and hats to clueless West Coast reporters and functionaries, and when people were blowing themselves up at a rate that was quickly becoming alarming. No one could figure out why the people were doing it. About twice a week for seven weeks thus far, someone blew him- or herself up and no one knew who they were or why they were doing this. It was unsettling to everyone, and it was casting a pall over the entire primary season, usually one filled with so much good-humored rancor and hatred.
Yes, unfortunately, the easy assumption was that most of those blowing themselves up were of the Muslim faith, but there had been no discernible connection made to any terrorist groups, and besides, these men and women -- and of the seven dead so far, four were men, three women -- had apparently taken pains to avoid harming anyone else. Each explosion took place in a public place, a town square or outdoor amphitheater, but always at midnight or thereabouts, when no one was close. Each time, the explosion would be heard, and the authorities would arrive to find the remains of the victims -- if they could be called that -- and the mystery would deepen. No names were yet known, and no motives.
This was during one of the most open presidential contests ever witnessed, when the Republican incumbent, J. Junior Inferior II, was seen as vulnerable and was being challenged from the right and the middle. This was when there were six Democrat rivals, the strongest field ever assembled, some said, a field including two generals, three Purple Heart recipients, and a former senator who'd had all but four fingers blown up in Korea. This was a contest where no Democrat who hadn't been shot, grenaded, stabbed, tortured or somehow physically or mentally disfigured even bothered to compete for the nomination. This was when all six of the candidates carried entire sets of free-weights with them and when the gyms and fitness centers of each city replaced coffee shops as the preferred location for photo ops and mini policy discussions with the surprised citizenry. Toughness was key for all of them, and thus battle injuries, visible scars, medals, tours of duty and bench-press capabilities all became part of one's boilerplate biography. A few weeks earlier, a seventh candidate had been laughed out of the race when it came out he not only had a first cousin who was French, but that he himself had once owned a Eurail pass.
This was when J. Junior Inferior II was being opposed by two Republican challengers, at least one of them serious about sticking around till the convention. Carol O'Mealy was probably not that candidate, was instead a 100-market radio pundit and bestselling author of romantic novels set on nuclear submarines, who had begun as a protest candidate, finding J. Junior too soft on crime and gun opponents and too tolerant of immigrants, foreigners and other deviants. Blond and tall and hideous, she was very popular among older men who bought her books to masturbate to her author photo as she eviscerated single mothers who called to talk about their difficulties paying for child care. The other challenger was Alexander Washington Hamilton, the three-term congressman from Indiana who was widely respected, almost universally liked, both fiscally conservative and socially compassionate, and African-American.
Seeing the incumbent as speaking from the middle but governing from the farthest, most rightward reaches of the political horizon, Alexander Washington Hamilton had entered the race with a more moderate message and with the consent of party leaders, who along with the incumbent saw the whole endeavor as a superlative P.R. coup. By having not only a woman but an African-American presence at every GOP debate, they looked inclusive, progressive even -- the party of the future. It was not lost on many that the Democrats, with their field of six, put forth no women, no black candidates, hadn't thought it was important until too late, and now looked plain silly. The Republicans appeared to be the party of the big tent, of respect for all. They were not threatened by the presence of a woman, of an African-American candidate -- but were the Democrats? GOP operatives asked this at every spinning opportunity, and in this way went to work on young professional women and on the black middle and upper-middle class. Who speaks for you? they asked. The party of Carol O'Mealy, the brilliant bombshell, and Alexander Washington Hamilton, a millionaire developer and co-owner of an arena-football team? Or the party -- yes, Dems! -- of the old boys' club?
Carol O'Mealy was the golden calf around whom the GOP loved to dance, and had been for many years a required presence at any fundraising event. As for her counterpart, the only problem with Alexander Washington Hamilton was ... well, what was it about him? This is what Richard L. Heinie, the head of the American Victory Corporation and the Republicans' most ludicrously prolific fundraiser ($290m by December), was trying to figure out and with which he was hoping his assistant could help him. They were in Heinie's Georgetown rooftop hot tub, watching Hamilton speak on C-SPAN. The hot tub was outside, and the TV was inside, making Hamilton's words -- though he was known as a brilliant speaker -- inaudible.
"You think he's too dark?" Heinie asked, tilting his head and squinting at the screen. "One shade too dark, am I right?"
His assistant, Carl Tuckerson, 24 and looking 16, considered this, watching the plasma screen through a thin fog emitting from the surface of the tub. "He's no darker than that one actress," he said, "the one with the great tits. The one who won the Oscar."
"He's definitely darker than her!" Heinie protested. Heinie reached for his Scotch, which he drank straight, from a collectible tumbler bearing the face of Sandra Bullock in "Speed 2." He loved Sandra Bullock, who he'd met once at an Austin benefit for some random disease. He'd gone just to meet her and ask her to marry him. He didn't want to think about that now. Hadn't gone as planned.
"Darker? You think?" Tuckerson said, watching Heinie's face. He loved Heinie unconditionally but knew he would have to wait for him to make the first move. "C'mon," continued Heinie, "Look at him! He's more like African black. He's not pop-star black. There's a crucial difference. There's an almost universally desired skin color, and it's a medium tan. All around the world, white people try to tan themselves to that point. You ever been to Scandinavia?"
Tuckerson had not, but if Heinie asked him to, he would. In a quick fluttery beat of his fragile heart, he would!
"You go to Scandinavia. Every lady you see has this tan. This caramel-colored tan. They have tanning salons on every corner. And that's the color people like in their black people. It's pop-singer black. Light brown, or beige, you know? But not much darker."
"Like the golfer," Tuckerson offered.
"Right."
The two sat for a moment, watching the C-SPAN audience stand and applaud for Hamilton. Every audience Hamilton spoke to, invariably and completely white, was only too happy to stand for this man, who made them feel infinitely less guilty about absolutely everything.
"His nose is too flat," Heinie observed.
"Is it?" Tuckerson said, and wanted to punch himself. Stupid! He hoped Heinie didn't think he was doubting him. He knew how much Heinie knew about everything, and how little he himself knew, for while Heinie had been educated at the University of Hard Knocks -- he told him this often and had a sweatshirt that underlined the point -- Tuckerson had graduated from Swarthmore, having studied Classics. Thus he knew nothing and wouldn't know anything until Heinie told him what to know.
"Way too flat," Heinie reiterated.
"You're right. You're so right. Now I see it. Wow. Totally flat. No bridge at all."
"And the nostrils. Way too flare-y."
"Yeah."
"You see how much they flare? Like manholes."
"Right. Big manholes. Man, you are so correct about that." Tuckerson had never kissed a man but knew this was right, he knew this man was the door through which he would pass on the way to joy, to enlightenment, to a life of light and glamour and fame.
"The strange thing is that while this guy's preaching about appealing to the middle, he's actually racially extreme, you know? If he was so serious about the middle, he'd be a little lighter, am I right?" Heinie warmed to the subject, impressed with his own powers of insight. Sometimes he wondered if his brain was wearing some kind of X-ray lenses that enabled him to see through all the hocus-pocus and lies, to see how everything worked, the patterns, the machinery, the sociopolitical equations in constant action, the 1s and 0s. He glanced at Tuckerson, who seemed to be closer than he was a second ago and whose mouth seemed to be quivering.
"I mean, the nostrils should be a little less nose-flare-y, right? I mean, really, how can a guy talk about bridging the gaps between us, leading one nation together and upward -- whatever he's always saying -- when he insists on being this totally black-black guy, right? Why not do the caramel compromise, am I right? The guy's just plain hypocritical, if you think about it."
