For a minute no one said anything. Joshua flipped open one of the books he’d chosen and leafed through it. “Jenna’s not entirely right,” he said into the pages, “but I would appreciate it, Daley, if you stopped asking me about the mascot thing, or the Antelope Valley in general.” He looked up from the book, first at Jenna and then at me. “Let’s focus on Oakland, and we should all be good to go. Yes?”
Jenna took another mug from the cupboard, filled it with coffee, and handed it to me. “That mascot shit means a lot of things to a lot of people,” she said, “so I understand why you’re interested in it. But for me, the mascot means someone else told him their version of his own story, and he bought it. He dressed up in their version of his story. You know? The difference between having the power to tell your own story and allowing other people that power is the difference between scuba diving and having your head held under water. Put that in your notes.”
“I will,” I said.
“And don’t use me as some vehicle for a different point of view. If I show up in your piece, remember that I’m a whole thing. That most of my time is spent with my camera weighing me down, looking for an interesting shot. That I care enough to pay attention and love this man over here, who isn’t just a representative, you know, and neither am I.”
THE EVENT
A stage had been set up in a park at the western edge of Lake Merritt, and the three of us made our way through the swelling crowd and dozens of organizers’ booths to a man who pinned a microphone on the lapel of Joshua’s suede jacket. Jenna, camera at her eye, stayed busy recording every detail. I remembered this was my job, too, to record, so I began to pay more attention.
Joshua couldn’t take five steps without an attendee at the event approaching him to shake his hand. I took note of his remarkable ability to remember names, faces, occupations, and situations specific to each voter. At one point, he asked an older black woman in a wheelchair how her granddaughter was adjusting to college life at Mills, and even this woman seemed stunned by Stilt’s memory. I looked to Jenna, who didn’t miss shooting a single embrace, to see if she was as impressed as everyone else seemed to be, but she only pulled her camera down from her face long enough to check the lighting in the previous photograph.
I had fifteen minutes before Joshua Stilt was scheduled to speak, so I took a walk around the park. Lining the perimeter were tables manned by volunteers of various city organizations and businesses. Food and beverage booths, including a vegetarian soul food restaurant called Souley Vegan, sent into the world the thick smells of fried polenta, tempeh burgers, and Ethiopian coffee. Every plate, cup, and utensil used for the event was compostable, and marked green bins had been arranged in neat rows throughout the park for that purpose. I bought an ear of barbecued corn, still in its husk, and found an open seat on one of the park’s benches. The whole setup reminded me of a more sophisticated version of a vaguely political rally I’d attended in my hometown, years ago. This was why my article wasn’t going to work, I thought. My central question — how had Joshua transitioned so seamlessly and successfully to life outside the Antelope Valley? — interested neither Joshua nor my editor. I realized this was why I’d never been interested in politics: I wanted to understand the past while everyone else wanted to talk about the future. I felt tired. Nearby, children tossed bread crumbs to the geese at the edge of the lake, and, behind them, a white kid — a high schooler probably — pulled up, one by one, his baggy pant legs.
I watched him wade into the lake, one long, splashless stride at a time. I had no idea what this boy was doing. I was confused and my headache was flaring up — otherwise, I might’ve shouted, Someone’s getting into the lake! When he was knee-deep in the water, he hunched over and covered his ears.
Then the ground shook, and I dropped my corn.
THE TRANSCRIPT, 3/3
DK: What do you believe in?
JS: I believe in Oakland’s next beginning. I spent a lot of time reading Zen philosophy in high schooclass="underline" D. T. Suzuki, mostly, despite his charmless nationalism. I still believe in some of that, the illusory nature of beginnings and endings. I believe in working to make beginnings breed off each other. I believe everyone can contribute their own beginnings to the city — whether it’s business or art or an idea for the classroom — if they have the time and energy and luck and support to find out what it is. I believe in celebrating differences instead of pretending we’re all the same. What else do I believe in? I believe in Beyoncé. [Laughter.]
DK: Are you dating anyone?
JS: You’re never going to ask about my plans as mayor, are you?
DK: I just want to paint a more complete picture of your life than your career.
JS: She’s a photographer and a sound artist I met in college, believe it or not.
DK: A sound artist?
JS: Yeah. She makes noises on her computer, and then syncs them up with symphonies in Japan. I don’t really get it, either, but it’s what she does, and she keeps winning prizes and everything, so I just trust, at this point, that she’s a genius.
DK: Is she Japanese?
JS: No, she’s a black girl from Oakland. She’ll be photographing me when we get back. Speaking of Oakland—
DK: One last question about the Antelope Valley. I promise it’ll be the last.
JS: [Sounds of the espresso machine.]
DK: Did you ever find out who painted the mustache on the mascot?
JS: No. I couldn’t imagine anyone at that school making a political statement like that. Nobody I knew thought the mascot was in bad taste, but the Hitler mustache seemed to suggest, albeit crudely, that someone did. Did you? I mean, did you find out who did it?
DK: I’m trying to find out. I’m interviewing people. Unless you think I should let it go?
JS: Hey, if we’re not going to talk about my plans for Oakland, we should get going. We’ve got to wade through the micro-city at Sixteenth and Mission to get back to the train.
DK: I like that, “micro-city.”
JS: It feels that way sometimes. Like we live in a Russian doll made up of one community on top of another.
DK: I know we’ve been off the record for a while now, but can I use that for the article?
JS: No, it’s dumb. It doesn’t make any sense. [Laughter.] Let me think of something better.
THE CALL
After the park was evacuated, we worshipped our phones. We knew when and where, so we searched the internet for information regarding the other three Ws: What, Why, and Who. I was on the corner of Grand and Perkins, aiming my phone’s video recorder at the emergency crews. I thought we’d had an earthquake, but then I checked Twitter. According to @Markus_2987, two homemade pipe bombs had been set off at the stage. According to @EllaElla11, however, only one bomb went off, from a compost bin at the center of the park. The low-pitched swell of the blast was still vibrating in my stomach, and I felt queasy. I couldn’t find Joshua or Jenna. I knew I may have seen a suspect in the lake, but I couldn’t remember anything about him other than his race. The name Elijah Retivat — Shelly’s son — entered my mind, but what were the chances that he and the bomber were the same person? I checked my notes, but nothing was there. So I sat, legs out, on the sidewalk, and called Lloyd.