"Yes, you may have another," said the man who called himself Esperanza.
Blinking, Harmon Cashman succumbed to an urge that had been suppressed since childhood. He took another cookie. Grandma had always allowed him two. Sometimes three.
He bit the dry, crumbly edge off one. It tasted as sweet as he had remembered. And he had not eaten an Oreo sandwich cookie in a long, long time. He wondered how the man knew he used to gobble these things up by the boxful when he was in short pants.
"My full name is Enrique Espiritu Esperanza," said the cherubic man.
"I'm Harmon Cashman," Harmon Cashman said, through lips to which clung black crumbs and flecks of white creme filling. He licked them clean, but with the next bite they collected more chocolaty Oreo bits.
"I know. That is why I have come to converse with you."
"Say again?"
"I am running for governor of California, and I need you to manage my campaign. I understand that in what you do, you are the best."
"I never heard of you," replied Harmon Cashman, his mouth full.
"That is why I have come to you. You will help me to become known."
The man had such a pleasant way about him that Harmon Cashman immediately stepped out of the way and said, "Let's talk." They ate as they talked. Harmon Cashman somehow ended up with the bag of Oreos. The man took another out of the inner pocket of his suit. This was a small roll of Oreos. Lunch-box size.
As they munched away happily, Enrique Espiritu Esperanza talked of his vision.
"As you know, there has been a tragedy in California."
"They broke the most basic rule of political travel," said Harmon Cashman, gobbling his cookies. "You know, these are the best Oreos I ever tasted," he murmured. His eyes gleamed with pleasure.
The liquid eyes of Esperanza shone like those of a doe.
"They have called a special election. It is wide open. To anyone."
Harmon shook his head ruefully. "Only in California."
"It is a fine place. It is my home."
"Never been there more than three-four weeks."
"You will like it there-if you accept my offer."
Harmon Cashman extracted the last Oreo from the bag. He nursed it, as if afraid that when it was gone there would be no more like it in the world. Now he understood what some people meant by "comfort food." And he wondered why he had stopped eating the things. He thought it was around the time he had discovered beer. And girls.
"Are you familiar with those who are running to take the late governor's place?" asked the smooth, pleasant voice of Enrique Espiritu Esperanza.
"Yeah. The last Democrat to hold the job. Since he washed out of the Presidential race, he's claimed he had a conversion. He's a Republican now. And the state committee can't do a damn thing about it."
"The Democrat is just as strange."
"There's no way Rona Ripper has a shot," Harmon Cashman snapped. "She's a woman, and thirty pounds overweight, so the camera makes her look obese. And she's a card-carrying ARCRer. No chance."
"Her campaign theme is a good one. Anti-smoking."
"Hell, California's the biggest anti-smoking state there is. She's preaching to the converted."
"And Barry Black is promising Republican results with Democratic ideals."
"Mixed message," Harmon Cashman scoffed. "They don't sell. He's just splitting the vote."
"Precisely. That is why Enrique Esperanza has an exceptional chance."
"How come I never heard of you?" Harmon wondered.
"Before this, I was a simple farmer. Growing grapes."
"There's good money in grapes."
"But there is greater satisfaction in governing. I would like to be the governor of my state and help it prosper again."
Harmon Cashman ticked off points on his finger. "Good business background. Your smile's photogenic. Nice voice. You got the goods for a media blitz. But you're a dark horse."
Enrique Esperanza looked blank. "I am a what?"
"Dark horse," Harmon explained. "It's a figure of speech. It means a candidate who nobody has ever heard of and who has almost no chance. A long shot."
"A dark horse is like an underdog?"
"You got it," said Harmon Cashman, swallowing the last morsel of cookie.
"Then I will be the dark underdog," said Enrique Espiritu Esperanza. "I will carry this name proudly."
"You need a slogan."
"My name is my slogan."
"Huh?"
"Hope. I represent hope. I am Esperanza."
"Hmm. A lot of Hispanics in California. You know, it's so simple, it might fly."
"You are on board then?"
Harmon Cashman hesitated. "You got any more Oreos?" he asked, looking at the remaining cookies in Enrique Espiritu Esperanza's soft brown hand with open greed.
"Here," said the dark-horse candidate for governor. "You may have the last of mine."
"It's a deal," said Harmon Cashman, snatching up the Oreos. They were tiny, so he took smaller bites, knowing that he would have to make them last.
They were long gone by the time Enrique Espiritu Esperanza had outlined his plan to take the governorship of California. It was a brilliant plan., or so it seemed to Cashman, who didn't know the ins and outs of the California political scene.
As Esperanza explained it, the California population was gradually shifting. The influx of new blood from the Central and South American nations, from the Pacific Rim and other places, was inexorably pushing the state's demographics into completely uncharted territory for an American state. In such an uncertain climate, anything was possible. Even his election.
After he had explained it all, Enrique Espiritu Esperanza leaned forward and let the full beatific radiance of his smile wash over Harmon Cashman. His dark, liquid eyes were imploring. Harmon Cashman understood the nature of personal power. He understood that the simplest, most effective and direct way to cultivate personal loyalty was not to do a person a favor, but to ask one. Somehow, this cemented the wielder of personal power with his adherents.
He had seen it work a thousand times. And for all his savvy and cynicism, it was working on him.
"I accept," he said sincerely. "And proud to do it."
"What do you need to begin?"
"More Oreos," Harmon Cashman said without skipping a beat. "These baby ones just don't have the kick of the big ones."
Enrique Espiritu Esperanza threw his round head back and laughed like distant church bells. The sound reminded Harmon Cashman of Sunday morning back in Virginia, for some reason. But he was scarcely aware of it.
For he had everything he wanted in life: a candidate he could believe in, and a campaign to wage.
But most of all, he had hope again.
He spelled it "Esperanza."
Chapter 6
The days that followed were heady ones for Harmon Cashman.
The election was scheduled for six weeks hence. In national electioneering terms, that might as well have been next Tuesday. On the state level, it was the equivalent to a hundred-meter dash.
"We'll need signatures to get on the ballot," Harmon Cashman had said during the flight to California.
"I have been collecting them," replied Enrique Esperanza, who insisted on being called "Rick."
"It is a good American-sounding name, no?"
"Only in front of the right audience. In the barrios and out in the fields, you're Enrique."
"I am Enrique. And Enrique will have for you all the signatures you will need."
And he delivered. They came, in a torrent of paper. Mostly signed by Hispanic names.
"Looks to me like you got a pretty good field organization to start," Harmon Cashman had said delightedly, as they spread out the petition sheets in the storefront in Los Angeles, their main campaign headquarters.
Enrique Espiritu Esperanza smiled broadly. "I have many friends who like me and wish that I succeed."
"These guys are documented, aren't they?"
Esperanza smiled, "Of course."
"We'll need a hell of a lot more than these to put you over the top, Rick."
"I have a strategy I have devised for this."
"Yeah?"
"It is Amnistia."
"What is that-Spanish?"
Enrique Espiritu Esperanza laughed heartily, and with a total lack of self-consciousness. He patted Harmon's knee.
"Yes, mi amigo. It means 'amnesty.' I am referring to the Federal program which runs out soon. It provides that all illegal aliens, migrant workers-what some call crudely 'wetbacks'-be allowed to petition for citizenship. With citizenship comes American rights. Such as the right to vote."
Harmon Cashman blinked. "How many migrants in California?"
"Not just California. But in all of America."
"Only the ones in California count."
"Not if they come to California for their Amnistia."
Harmon's eyes widened. "Is this legal?"
Enrique Espiritu Esperanza's cherubic face became placidly confident. "There are no restrictions on where they may settle as citizens," he replied. "Is this not a free country?"
"It is not only free," Harmon Cashman said joyously, "it is the greatest country in the world. But how will you get them to come here?"
"Leave that to me."
"Will they vote for you? Most of them, that is?"
Enrique Espiritu Esperanza spread his generous arms like the statue of Christ on a Brazilian hilltop. "Look at me: my skin, my eyes, my voice. Do you think they could vote for any of the others if I am on the ballot?"
"Let's get you on the ballot, then!"
They got on the ballot. With signatures to spare.
"Now we need campaign workers," Harmon Cashman said. "Lots of them."
"Let us go for a ride," said Enrique Espiritu Esperanza.
Harmon Cashman drove the tasteful white Mercedes that seemed to be the perfect vehicle to convey Enrique Espiritu Esperanza from place to place.
"You must sell a lot of grapes," Harmon said, noting the custom interior.
It was early morning. All along Mulholland, brown-skinned men with sad faces and tattered blanket rolls under their arms stood waiting, their eyes watching the passing traffic with expectation. A faint, uneasy light, like tiny bulbs, could be seen deep in their dark eyes. From the first day he had arrived, Harmon Cashman had seen this phenomenon all over Los Angeles. He figured the bus system must be very, very bad.
They parked. A pickup truck rumbled up and the driver called out a summons in Spanish. Harmon didn't catch the words. He wouldn't have understood them if he had.
But the Hispanic men with sad faces piled onto the open bed of the pickup until they were spilling off the sides. There was room for perhaps thirty men, and near to fifty were scrambling for a place. A fistfight broke out. It was brief. The winners found places in back of the truck and the losers ended up sitting on the asphalt, tears streaming down their unwashed faces.
"They will be paid twelve cents an hour to break their backs in the fields," said Enrique Esperanza, his voice for once sad.
"It's a hard life," said Harmon Cashman glumly. "We will pay them a decent wage, and they will work for us."
"You don't pay campaign workers!" Cashman said in horror.
"We will change the rules. While others are playing by the old rules, we will win."
"But-but it's un-American!"
"Exactly. I intend to run the most un-American campaign ever."
At that, Enrique Esperanza stepped from the white Mercedes and walked up to a Mexican man who sat on the gutter, crying tears of shame because he had been too slow and now he and his family would not eat.
Enrique knelt beside the man and laid a hand on his shoulder. He whispered a few words. The Mexican's eyes went wide. He took up the man's toffee-colored hand and kissed it. Lavishly.
Enrique Esperanza helped the man to his feet, and lifted his arms. His voice rose, clear and bell-like. It called up and down the length of Mulholland.
It's like watching a modern Pied Piper at work, Harmon Cashman thought with admiration.
"Drive slowly," said Enrique Esperanza, after he had returned to the car.
At the wheel, Harmon Cashman craned to see out the back window. Mexican migrant workers had formed up behind the white Mercedes in lines three deep.
"Why?" he asked.
"So they can follow," Enrique said simply.
And follow they did. Others were picked up along the way. As they trailed behind the white Mercedes, their voices rang out joyously.
"Esperanza! Esperanza! Esperanza!"
"What did you tell them?" Harmon whispered, his eyes wide with awe.
"What I told them cannot be expressed in words. It is what I gave them."
"Yeah?"
"Hope, Harmon. I gave them hope."
"I getcha," said Harmon Cashman, fingering an Oreo cookie out of his vest pocket. He had taken to carrying them that way. One never knew when a person might need a pick-me-up. It was going to be a hectic six weeks ....
The white Mercedes pulled up before an empty storefront, the first they came to.
"What's here?" Harmon wondered.
"Our second campaign headquarters."
"Do we need two in L.A.?"
"Yes. One where the white people will feel comfortable, and one for the brown people. This will be the brown people's place."
"Good strategy. I never did think that 'Rainbow Coalition' stuff made any sense."
Within an hour, they had the rental agent opening the front door with a key. The storefront had been unrented for eight months. The haggling was brief. It ended when Enrique Esperanza offered the rental agent a second Oreo. The man also promised to vote for Esperanza. His eyes shone with admiration.
By afternoon they had phones installed, castoff desks and chairs in place.
"We have our new headquarters!" Enrique Esperanza announced in a pleased, infectious voice.
Harmon looked around. "Can these guys speak English?"
"English will not be necessary this first week. They will reach out to their friends, their relatives, their brothers of brown skin in far states. They will tell them of Amnistia, and the opportunities to have their voice heard in California. To elect one of their own."
Harmon Cashman frowned. "It's a good start, sure. But what about the Anglos?"
"We call them blancos. As for them, I have a message for them too."
"What's that?" Harmon Cashman asked, nibbling on an Oreo.
"That cookie you are eating. Do you know what the tax on it is?"
"No. Why should I care?"
"The tax is eight and one quarter percent. It is called the snack tax. A terrible outrage."
Harmon Cashman looked at his Oreo, the innocent Oreo of his Virginia childhood.
"You know, you used to be able to buy one whole box for thirty-five cents when I was a kid," he said wistfully.
"Now it is two dollars. Plus tax. How can they tax such a thing?" Enrique Esperanza asked morosely. "Children eat these."
"Damn it, that's ridiculous!"
"We must repeal this terrible, unjust tax," said Enrique Espiritu Esperanza.
"Ricky," Harmon Cashman said, his voice trembling with righteous indignation. "I know this is an issue we can make real to people."
"And we will. All we need do is hand these cookies out at rallies."
Harmon Cashman almost choked. "Are you sure there'll be enough to go around? These babies are expensive now."
Esperanza grinned broadly. "Of these cookies, there will be more than enough to win the election, I assure you."
"You've sold me," said Harmon Cashman, separating the two black wafers and scraping the white creme filling onto his tongue with his lower incisors.
Within two weeks, two hard-fought combative weeks, Enrique Espiritu Esperanza had himself a statewide network of staff. They came in all colors, brown, yellow, white.
It shouldn't have surprised Harmon Cashman as much as
it did. This was California, after all. People didn't vote color or race, they voted issues. The snack thing, which had festered for a year, suddenly erupted.
Harmon first saw evidence of this at a Burbank rally.
White staffers stood at the door of a rented hall, handing out glassine bags of cookies to everyone who walked through the doors.
The post-bills plastered all over town said FREE COOKIES in big letters and RALLY FOR HOPE in somewhat smaller but still prominent letters.
The legend, "Sponsored by the Campaign to Elect Enrique Espiritu Esperanza for Governor" was in small print.
The people who came out were not patronage hounds or sycophants, but a cross-slice of the California electorate. Some had agendas. Others were simply looking for a trendy cause, or a free snack.
"Tax-free as well as free," the staffers said, as they passed out the glassine bags. Ricky had coined that particular slogan. He was good at slogans. The man was a natural.
When the house had settled down, Enrique Espiritu Esperanza stepped up to the podium. No applause greeted him, just respectful attentiveness. In the back of the hall, Harmon Cashman was worried. The audience had not been salted with campaign workers, whose job it was to fire up the crowd. Ricky had insisted it was not necessary. This could be a disaster.
Enrique Espiritu Esperanza was attired in a white suit, shirt, and tie. These made his benevolent brown face stand out, starkly beautiful.
He began speaking, his tone steady, his words a velvet purr. He spoke of a change for California. Of the recession. Of unemployment. Of unfair taxes, and the public's growing distaste for the politics of recent years. The backstabbing, the bickering.
"I stand for what -I am," said Enrique Espiritu Esperanza. "I am Esperanza. I am hope. Hope for a better future."
It was sincere, polished, and said nothing risky. In short, it was a perfect campaign speech. High on homilies, lean on substance. Harmon Cashman had heard such speeches thousands of times in his career. But coming from the charismatic Esperanza, this one sounded fresh, clear as spring water-even brilliant.
At the end of it Enrique Espiritu Esperanza said, "I ask that you vote for me on election day. I will make you all proud that you did so."
There was silence. It was punctuated by the dry snap of Oreos breaking under the pressure of biting teeth, and thoughtful chewing sounds.
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