We had come off the plane at a quarter past noon, but the sun was muted in the haze of the nearby city, and low-flying clouds kept a constant strobe skimming across the faces of the constituency gathered in the newly cleared wheat field.
Hayworth was taking the stage, and the hush that always occured when he did fell over the crowd.
"I didn't start this campaign to lose", he was saying, and the applause interrupted him. "But if we're going to take back our government, I need your help- I need you on my side." More applause.
Liddeman turned to me with his wolfish grin."He's got it today- he's got them on the moral high."
I rolled my eyes. "When doesn't he?"
The mob seemed to agree with me. This was the last stop before heading to California, and Hayworth seemed to have a serious turnout from the rural blue collar crowd, as well as their children and wives, which meant that they saw Hayworth as a man that could stand for their families. What did Sarah say was the number of farmers in this county? It couldn't be much more than this, and there was no sign of a dissident group present. So in all likelihood, many of these people had come from the surrounding counties and towns. A good sign for our country following, and if California was half as good as this, and it would be, we had a lock on the nomination.
I had worried since the get- go that Herbert was going to be too left for the rural folk and too right(or just countryish) for the city liberals. There was, I had feared, and I voiced it to him often, a dangerous recipe apparent for a vicious campaign suicide- the candidate ending up being seen as apathetic in the middle, like Joe Biden or Harry Reid. This wouldn't, of course, be true, for Hayworth was anything but apathetic, but neither was the Democratic leadership, and they had managed to be seen as such, by both sides of the spectrum.
But I was beginning to feel more confident that this was not the case with my man. He had the prescence of Theodore Roosevelt and the cunning of FDR. He seemed to be able to combine country moral values with an attitude of pious tolerance that did not in any way seem "soft" or endangering of children's upbringing. He carried a big stick, and even when he spoke softly the area reverberated with his voice. It was impossible, I thought, to hear this guy, even on TV, and not get a mental image of protecting strength. This key trait allowed him to steer clear of the nationalist rhetoric that ruined Joe McCarthy, made Nixon sound like Goering, and would later make George Bush sound plain dumb.
But enough of this contemplation, I thought.We knew what we were doing. I was gaining confidence indeed in this wily bastard, and my previous assumption that he would, like all the others, turn into a rat when the ship sank, was fading quickly, and turning into something I hadn't felt in a long time- a lump in my throat when I thought of the possibilities.

So there we were, at last, at the terrible end of our journey, surrounded by the finest pedigree of Texas prime blood. These boys are a special breed, and are unique to the vicinity of Central Texas. They are instantly recognizable- white button down shirts, UT hats, redwing boots, faded Levi 101's, brown leather belts- but there is something else- a genuine air of wealthiness, a mixture of boyhood ranch experience and white- collar breeding- a certain cleanliness that seems bestowed by their mothers.
These guys, unlike serious ranchers or cowboys (who most certainly still exist), are very rarely dirty. They never stink, and their hair is usually very soft and well kept, parted down the side but slightly shaggier than in boyhood. They have a predelection towards business school- they have good connections. I understand this because I grew up with the mongrels. I watched their development, and this has given me a special insight into this strange country boy/city socialite mindset.

I eased around the club, trying to avoid eye contact. But it was too late. One of them recognized me, and came barreling through the sea of his pledge brothers, shouting my name and waving, his face red with drink and the rut. I cursed under my breath, but what could I do? I have, after all, had relatively close contact with this type since boyhood. Some of their fathers are friends or business acquaintances of my father's, and I had played baseball in youth with this particular fellow. He reached me, and my drink met violently with the bar as he slammed into me, wrapping me in his one- armed embrace, and I was engulfed in a pungent mixture of Chaps cologne and whiskey, the former being the choice scent for his brood.

" How ye doin' boy?" he bellowed, and the din swept up his voice, and very few of his comrades took notice. He squeezed me hard, and I was grinning, but desperate to escape. The threat of recognition by someone more influential was very apparent. They were here, I was sure of it. They would box me in, then shuffle me off to a small lavender room to work out on my ribs and fingernails... and I would surely spill the beans, the motive of our adventure would be revealed. And after that, only God knew what these punks were capable of- especially after they had counted me as their own, and I had decieved them- I would be flogged, branded as a traitor, a very uncomfortable standing to hold in this lot.

But what? Do I see Herbert Hayworth striding up through the crowd? Now? Here? What the fuckhell in the Kingdom of Jesus was he doing here? He was not welcome among such circles, he had worked hard and long to put down many of thier legislative agendas. Strangely, in the same moment I saw him, and the dim spark of hope alighted in me, I heard the Grateful Dead come on the speakers- someone with balls had put on "New Minglewood Blues", and the good boys that closed in on all sides liked it, but thankfully they didn't know what it was.
"Saving Grace", I muttered under my breath, and wriggled my shoulders imperceptibly, but enough to allow my old friend to react, letting his arm drop and turning his wayward attention
away from me, towards a younger pledge who had spilled punch down his front, but didn't seem to notice.

Hayworth took his advantage, and sidled up next to me, his hat brim low over his eyes."What the fuck?", I whisper-screamed in his ear. "Are you crazy? Don't you see the company you're in? They know your face. These fuckers will bash you like a pinata. Get out- you'll be lucky if you last that long."
I was very, very far gone in drink and craziness, which allowed me to speak in this manner to my boss, but Hayworth looked at me cooly.
"I'll tell you what you're going to do," he said conversationally. "You're going to get straight , get that crazy fear off your face, and talk to your friend there"- he nodded towards the large fellow, who now had the young, semi-conscious pledge by the shirt collar, and was slinging him back and forth, while laughing and muttering something about his mother and goats. "See if you can't get a sit- down with his dad- yes I know who he is- maybe tomorrow. They don't know you work for me."
"Someone does, goddamnit!" I whispered. "They lit up our limo like a lantern. They'll do it again."
"That was Colson's limo, that you stole, for no good reason other than your desire to do historic things. It was a message for him, probably."
"Perhaps, but that doesn't explain why- Jesus, this whole thing is starting to get a little heavy," I moaned. "If there were going to be car- torchings, I wish I had known, so that I could arm myself properly."