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.