A Man Named Angel

[Author’s Cope: I am planning on opening each chapter with a segment from Eddy’s California Zero blog. Like California Future Motors, this serves as the opening vignette for chapter 2. This is also the last segment that I plan on posting online before I complete the rest of the draft.]

The slogan Viva Vincé rests on everyone’s lips and stands out in bold typeface on banners and signs throughout downtown Los Angeles. In all my life, I’ve never seen such energy surrounding politics in the city. There is a pervasive sense that this is greater than politics. By my estimation, all this excitement is probably a cathartic outpouring now that some of the Year Zero dread has worn off. Despite the burned-out suburbs, roads cracked by quakes, the lingering blight and omnipresent camps of the homeless, there is a feeling that the worst of it is over. 

I called my father to ask what he thought of Ángel Vincente. He told me that he was sure the man would be president someday. He made some remark about how you can get out of California, but it has a way of tracking you down. I found the comment surprisingly insightful. Even as the state falls apart, it seeks to devour. Perhaps the instinct is even more desperate now. That may be too dark of a way to put it. There’s still plenty of life here, and maybe Vincente is the one to bring it back to full bloom. I’ve never cared much for politics, but a spectacle is always of interest. 

That’s right, dear readers, Eddy Thrush went to a political rally. Before I get too far into the story, I’d like to thank my financial contributors who make this project possible. My biggest patron, Mr. B, came through again with a generous donation and provided some great recommendations for scenes and events to check out in the state. Remember, if you want The California Zero to cover something of interest, then my feet move cheaply. You can help tell our story of California and fill in some of the blank spaces. 

Thanks to a free ticket provided by Mr. B, I found myself at a publicity event for Ángel Vincente at The Majestic Downtown venue in LA. I took a ride-share from my place in Mission Hills after buying a second-hand brown colored suit. In the relative comfort of the thrift shop, I hadn’t realized the potential temperature issues presented by the wool material. 

Like most everyone in California, I had heard the name Ángel Vincente floating around in the ether. It bubbled up in conversation and seemed to float on the breeze from summer conversations outside cafés and bars downtown. People are ready for a change after Year Zero. Older folks tell me that it is like coming out of the nineties only more extreme. Nearing the millennium, California had a bloody nose, a black eye and a limp. By the end of the 1992 riots, the Northridge Earthquake in 1994, the fires, floods and landslides, over half a million people left the state. The Clinton Administration had to swoop in with federal funds to turn things around. I was too young to understand what it meant firsthand, but the poetics certainly rhyme with our current disaster spree. 

Year Zero was like the nineties on steroids. First, the big Burbank quake softened things up, then things kicked into high gear with the firestorms the next summer during the massive riots following the Emil Washington shooting. To cap it all off, the spring floods and landslides sealed the deal. For a while, the unrelenting procession of disaster totally paralyzed politics in the state. There’s no way to effectively govern total anarchy. A series of rotating federal emergency administrators ran things for a while. Now that most of the bodies have been pulled from the rubble and there’s enough time and presence of mind for finger pointing, Ángel Vincente is riding in on the winds of change. Although I’m a cynic when it comes to revolutionary politics, it’s one hell of a thing to watch.     

A recall election always makes for a particular kind of frantic politics in California. All varieties of oddballs come out of the woodwork, and anything seems possible. I did some research on Vincente before attending the event in downtown LA. It’s nice to have a little context before diving in. AV (That’s how I’ll refer to him for my own convenience) came up in the tech-adjacent non-profit world. He was a favorite of the Silicon Valley types who love to put gadgets in the hands of people very concerned with the wellbeing of the have-nots and their ecological habitat. AV led a number of initiatives focused on drones as methods of surveying damage for disaster relief. His Angel Eye group proved an ideal intersection of popular causes: private sector tech solutions, local grass roots problem solving and the all important concept of awareness. He went on to partner with the new Federal Police on ethical domestic drone use and spearheaded the use of drones for fire prevention in local departments. 

Sure, he’s probably deep in the pockets of The Valley, but AV never presented himself as the dispassionate eye in the sky. He was the empathetic liaison between the prime movers and the people on the streets. If anything, Year Zero helped to break down any remaining public reluctance about the coordinated action of the government and tech sector. AV’s popularity is a perfect illustration. He balanced expertly on precarious waves of racial and class grievances while still rubbing shoulders with the wealthy tech titans. Many people think that he’s a socialist, and he certainly plays to the notion with rhetorical breadcrumbs, but the man doesn’t come right out and say it. He knows that public sentiments have only moved more in his favor now that people are starting to think nostalgically about the cataclysmic floods that capped off Year Zero. The unending droughts that followed have been worse in many ways. People aren’t looking for a political leader. They’re looking for a savior, and a man named Ángel seems more appropriate than any other option. 

So there I was, sweating my ass off on the streets of LA while waiting in line with people dressed much more casually and appropriately for the hot weather. I had assumed that some measure of formality would be expected for a ticketed political event at a fancy venue, but I found out pretty quickly that I was wrong. We lined up along the curb, since the cobbled together dwellings of the homeless lined the side of the building. Their shopping carts and plastic bags of trash and filthy possessions blocked most of the sidewalk. Since year Zero especially, they are everywhere. The tarps and bits of wood forming the exterior structure of their abodes serve as a backdrop for the entire city.        

The young man waiting in front of me sported shoulder length blond hair and wore a wildly patterned red short-sleeve button up shirt and orange capris pants. He told me that his name was Gabe and seemed as good a source as any to get some street-level information on the appeal of AV’s political movement. 

“You think Vincente has a shot at becoming governor?” He asked. 

“I don’t really follow politics too closely.” I admitted. “I’m more of a general cultural scene guy.”

“Yeah? Are you like a content creator or something?”

“Sort of. I write about California on my website.”

“Oh yeah? That’s cool.”

I pulled the audio recorder out from under my oppressive wool jacket. “I’m trying to get the lay of the land. If you don’t mind, I’ll record our conversation, and you can tell me why you’re here.” 

Gabe’s blue eyes brightened, and he gave me an exuberant smile. “Yeah, man. No worries. It’s not even that interesting. I heard about Vincente on social media and through friends.” A look of slight embarrassment flushed his features for a moment. “I’ll admit that I wasn’t in a great place during the whole Year Zero thing. I was into DEK and some of the other doom scenes.”  

His admission piqued my interest. For those who don’t know, the unrelentingly dismal nature of Year Zero led to a multitude of oddball groups centered around apocalyptic media. Many of them proved almost entirely impenetrable from the outside. DEK, which is short for Dead End Kids, was the name of a punk band that provided the framework for one such group. Rumors of suicide pacts, destructive flash mobs and death-drug raves coursed through the social spheres of the young. The stories lingered in the twilight between urban legend and lost truth kept obscure by that instinctual avoidance of info-hazard. It is my job, dear readers, to suppress that instinct. 

“So, is half the stuff they say about DEK true?” I asked. I didn’t want to spook him, but it would have been a crime to pass on the opportunity. 

Gabe gave me a pained look, the kind of quick wince brought on by uncomfortable memories. Then he moved in a little closer so that he could speak at a lower volume.  

“I’m sure you had similar experiences, but it was tough growing up in the middle of all that craziness. Before everything went to hell, I was just your average suburban white kid.”

“Me too.” I added to reassure him. 

“When you’re still young and the world is falling apart around you, there’s no reason to believe in a future worth living. That’s how it was for me.”

“My parents moved out of the state when I was just starting college.” I explained. “They left before things really kicked off. I dropped out right in the middle of the riots and fires. What does a diploma matter when it feels like you’re living through the apocalypse? So yeah, I understand the sentiment.”

“Man, you are so right.” Gabe furrowed his brow and stared into the empty space between us with a faraway look in his eyes. “That’s how it was. I never even tried to get a degree. My parents split up after my dad lost his job, and I totally checked out. But it wasn’t how the older people did it, you know? They could check out and there was this sunny and optimistic California waiting for their dreams with open arms. When I did it, there was nothing waiting except the nightmare of living in a catastrophe. They were turning their back on a system. At least they could argue that it was a moral project. There was no light at the end of the tunnel for us, no purpose to it at all.”

“And that’s where DEK came in?” I asked, hoping he would not resent my insistence.

“Well, yeah.” He said with a shrug. There was nothing else to fill the void. Those doom scenes get a bad rap, but at the time that’s where all the energy was. Some of the worst stuff you hear about isn’t even true, and the most extreme elements got lost in the static. I never got involved with groups like Black Silence because I knew of guys who died in the pit during their GODISHERE rituals.”

We were entering real fringe territory. For my readers who aren’t familiar, there is a semi-secret history of extremely nihilistic culture under the sunny skies and palm trees. It spread across the state during the worst of Year Zero. Black Silence, an electro-pop noise group of the deep LA underground, passed in whispers on the lips of the hopeless California youth. I’ve compiled some rumors and legends in the years since, so I’ll provide a brief exposition. 

Leading up to the time of chaos, a fascinating new music scene emerged in California. The cutting edge of the art-punk movement undertook a new cultural phenomenon called Gnostic Layering. That title was given after the fact by the few who put any words down about the micro-culture. New Wave Total Love was the first group to illustrate the movement effectively. They were a hypnotic noise-punk group well received by the snobbish tastemakers of the genre. Their music was the typical material that people up their own asses call, “Challenging listening.” That’s the lofty way of saying it’s pretentious garbage. 

Nobody realized at the time that New Wave Total Love was the upper layer for a parallel project, the solar energy to a lunar twin. The same band made melodic doom-punk in disguise and under an alternate name composed of what appeared to be gibberish numbers and letters. The truth only came out after a fan figured out that the name was a cryptographic puzzle which translated to No WIll to Live. Then the connection was clear. 

At that point, the jig was up. NWTL continued performing in both forms until fading into obscurity, but the seed was planted. The hidden reality had endured for a long time due to the ironclad secrecy of the band members and their ability to generate two very distinct musical styles that catered to separate subcultures with very little overlap. 

As things started to slide toward destruction in California, Gnostic Layering only picked up speed. For the young especially, the developing culture mirrored their own experience of living as if everything was fine as the world sometimes literally crumbled beneath their feet. You go to school and smile for your parents before sneaking out a window at night to an abandoned warehouse for the big psychotic mind-fuck. The more secrecy the better. The streets became kaleidoscopes of hieroglyphics pointing toward the branching paths into the deepening tunnels of the under-life. Soon the roof fell off, and all that remained was the lower layer of the phenomena, one which lowered ever more as things fell apart.               

At the bottom of this tunneling movement rested Black Silence, a group so shrouded in mystery that rumors suggested all official conjecture was an upper-layer fiction meant to throw people off the real trail. People chased their tails in sordid internet forums. They speculated that whatever lay behind the Black Silence mythos was something beyond traditional categories of human understanding. Many enterprising seekers fell off the digital map, which only added to the ominous atmosphere of the ranging conjecture. An endless and staticky cocoon of unknowing drove off any clear image. 

The most common yet unsubstantiated rumors laid out a roving noise-punk experience, a dark chem-death ritual where everyone attending must partake in the cocktail generated by The Spirit Box, a machine that converted Black Silence’s music into a sequence of narcotic inputs. There was no turning back once the communion recipe finalized. Maybe you die in the pit or have the greatest night of your life. 

Was it true? I don’t know. I never looked into it too deeply. It’s one of those things where just the looking can grasp you with a disquieting alien hand. This Gabe fellow certainly believed the stories. I decided to get some clarification. 

“You know the Black Silence stories are real? You’re certain?”

His expression slackened and his shoulders slumped a little. “Well, I had friends who went looking for it, and they fell off the face of the Earth. I’m not sure what other explanation there is.”

There were plenty of other possible explanations. You could fill a book with the names of people who went missing during Year Zero. I decided not to press him on it and circle back around to DEK. 

“Tell me about Dead End Kids, then.”  I prodded. 

He shrugged and looked somewhat relieved. Dead End Kids was more on the normal side of things, you know? It still wasn’t a healthy culture, but options were limited at the time. For the most part, it was soft drugs and pretending that nothing mattered. I went to a few of their secret shows. Most people took it way more seriously than I did. Some ended up going in a bad direction. The point is that I got into Vincé because he was the first sign of hope, and I was done reveling in the negativity.”

“Do you think he’ll lead California in a good direction?” I asked. “If he wins, that is.”

Gabe cocked his head to one side, causing his mop of blond hair to spill over into a heavy curtain beside his ear. “I think so. People are ready, man. They need something to believe in. He has revolutionary ideas. Most of the systems need to be rebuilt from the ground up.”

At this point, the line started to move. I was thankful, since I had started to sweat into the wool suit in a quantity that would not escape notice much longer. I glanced down the row of people in either direction to get a better feel for the types who believed in the State’s new hope. Young people stood in small clusters as they jabbered and tapped at their phone screens. The motif of the solemn gray-haired couple, which represented the old California liberal, repeated at intervals with slight variation. Working class Hispanics made up about one third of those waiting. I noticed more than a few small and shriveled old women holding framed pictures of AV bearing stylized flourishes that gave them the appearance of religious icons. 

I patted the breast of my suit and told Gabe that I had expected it to be more of a formal event. He laughed. Above us, a Federal Police surveillance drone glided down Spring Street. We moved forward past the tents of the homeless lining the outer wall of the building. Some of them sat listlessly in the dark interiors and stared out at us with vacant eyes. Others talked to themselves and made meaningless motions with their hands as though to appear busy. One older man with long gray hair and a beard that reached his midsection stood in front of his hovel and saluted people as they walked by with a sunbaked and wrinkled hand. 

 “Great morning in LA, huh? Good day. City of angels, yes? Good to be here. Glad to meet you.”

We reached the venue entrance and men dressed in monochrome suits scanned our tickets before waving us into the cool interior. I’d never been to The Majestic Downtown before. I had read the place was featured in films and used for expensive galas and the weddings of the upper crust. Once fully inside, I could see why. AV’s people had the place decked out with floating islands of red and white balloons. Glittering strings of glass beads hung from the chandeliers and formed refracting columns of light. Black and white posters of AV’s face stared out from midway up the rectangular stone columns supporting the vast mezzanine which loomed over the open space below. Bold red letters above and below his visage spelled out Viva Vincé. Crimson bursts of red roses framed each of them. In that moment, the words seemed an echo of Caesar’s after the Pontic triumph. Although I knew little of Ángel Vincente, the allure of his adamant aesthetic took hold of me. The intricately painted and richly hued wooden ceiling grid took on a sudden significance, as if each beam represented a tapestry depicting historical inevitability. The stone arches decorated with pale blossoms and the cool sheen of marble floors evoked a politics beyond the mundane handshakes of the bureaucratic business as usual. 

I had not yet seen the man of the hour and wondered if he could live up to the spectacle. Was the visual poetry of his own composition? The desperate young who still cling to the crumbling remnants of bohemian culture whirled in wonder, seeming absurd visitors from another time in their casual attire. Sandaled feet smacked against the hard floors as they gazed upward in amazement. They had forgotten their phones for the moment. 

What does it mean? I wondered. Surely this is Silicon Valley money. I am one who sees all politics as a con and believes that all questions about its seemingly organic phenomena must find their answer in the conference room of a marketing department. This skepticism proved the source of my amazement. The atmosphere did not dispel but confounded it for the moment. I was seeing the purest form of geometric persuasion, the kind which is either a conspiracy of forms divine in scope or, even less believably, authentic. 

The room filled, and I milled about the edges to take it all in. A spread of catered refreshments populated tables lining one wall near the bars which faced the mezzanine. The staff served only mocktails. I saw no police presence inside or any sign of security. After about ten minutes, a man in a suit walked onto the stage and took hold of the microphone at the narrow wooden podium.       

“Hello everyone. Thank you for coming today.”

The chaotic babbling of conversation died out. 

“Vincé will speak to you shortly, and then he will make the rounds and speak to as many of you as he can.”

A wave of joyous exclamations rippled across the room. At that point, the space was nearing standing room capacity. People jostled one another as they moved closer to the stage. Fortunately, the temperature was accommodating to my wool suit. Then, without any warning except for a sudden upbeat surge of music, Angel Vincente took to the stage and moved along the front edge to lean down and clasp the hands that reached up toward him one by one. Vincé was a man of average height with dark hair and eyes. Although of Mexican descent, his skin shone a light shade of beige under the light, and his features bore only vague structural markers of southern origin. He wore a black dress shirt tucked into black slacks and no tie. His clean shaven face appeared even younger than I had expected. Once he finished moving from one end of the stage to the other, he looped back around to the podium and smiled at the energetic crowd while nodding in acknowledgment of the praise. 

“Wow, what an incredible welcome. Thank you all for coming today.” He had only the faintest hint of an accent, that Latin affectation which clips the ends of some words. “Are you all excited for the future of California?”

The bobbing sea of at least a thousand souls began a chant of “Viva Vincé!”

Vincé raised a hand to request silence. “Well, that’s good. But it’s not about me. This is about everyone. We have to be honest with ourselves about the challenges. It’s been hard for all of us. Let me give you some numbers.” He paused and gave a mischievous smile. “I know, I know! Numbers, numbers, numbers! They usually form a barrier around what is possible. They are like the squid’s ink shot out by the minions of the political class to mystify pursuers. I promise that I have a good reason for binging numbers. They are simple ones. Between the fires, the earthquake, flooding and civic unrest, over two million people lost their homes in California. Countless others lost their jobs when the economy paralyzed. The homeless population more than tripled in two years. To put it simply, we experienced a complete disaster.”

A hush fell over the crowd as everyone considered the enormity of Year Zero. No doubt many of them had suffered in their own ways. I’ll admit, dear readers, that I took a moment to think of how lucky I am to have escaped relatively unscathed. 

“The political leadership of California made many mistakes that contributed to our current crisis. City planners, especially in Los Angeles, gave in to the real estate developers. The sprawl moved into areas vulnerable to catastrophe. This mistake alone cost thousands of people their lives and forced millions to leave the state out of desperation. Decades of carelessness and greed turned what should have been the pinnacle of the American dream into a nightmare.”

He paused and gripped the sides of the podium. His dark eyes scanned the crowd. “That’s why I am running for governor of—”

The roar of the crowd drowned him out and he stopped to nod quietly along until the chanting died down. 

“I’m running for governor of California because I believe we have a chance to do it the right way this time. We can’t forget or ignore people or issues because they get in the way of some misguided idea of progress that only benefits a few people at the top. Progress is everyone.”

The people nearly eclipsed him with their noise again, but he forged on taking hold of the microphone and shouting above the wave of sound. “Progress is not forgetting anyone! Progress leaves no one behind! What is the point of building yourself up at the expense of everyone else if you reach the top and realize that you’re all alone?”

He gave the crowd time to settle down before resuming in a calmer tone. “You all saw those people outside on the street, yes? Well, let’s take one step into the future of California and invite them in.” He gestured toward the men in suits standing by the entrance. “Go outside and tell all those people living on the sidewalk that they can come in.”

The man who had preceded Vincé on the stage scampered up and whispered something to the man behind the podium. Vincé shook his head in response. I wondered if it was coordinated beforehand to add more credibility to the man’s maverick style.  

“What is the point of us being in here and talking about the future if they are stuck out there with nothing? California, the old and the broken one, failed them. Not anymore.”

A few people around the room started chanting, “Let them in! Let them in!”

Vincé joined in through the microphone, and soon everyone repeated the words together in a growing rhythmic swell.            

“Let them in! Let them in!” 

The group of men in suits clustered around the door discoursed in urgent conversation. They appeared uncertain of what to do. Finally, as the repeated demand grew to a deafening volume, a few of them broke off and moved outside. The crowd went quiet as everyone turned in hushed anticipation. 

Then the dispossessed began to file in. The filthy and unhappy people of the street carried with them grimy bags and backpacks. They blinked up at the shimmering beads hanging from the chandeliers. Some balked like wild animals at the sight of the expectant crowd. One man in the tattered remnants of clothing that hung from him in jagged ribbons howled like a dog and grasped tufts of his disheveled hair on either side of his head.

“Welcome, welcome!” Vincé told them. “We have food and drinks. Take anything you need. I’m sure there’s toilet paper in the restrooms if you want it. Take the plastic cups and paper plates. We will reimburse the venue. It’s all yours.” 

Some of the new arrivals broke immediately for the tables of food and began heaping the hors d’oeuvres onto plates and into their bags. Others still wandered around the edges of the room in disbelief. A few police officers came in and eyed the crowd from beside the doors. 

“Do not turn your eyes from need.” Vincé said. “The future belongs to the brave and humble in equal measure. It belongs to all of us.”

His voice turned to a droning in the back of my awareness. The invitation of the homeless only increased the confounding nature of the riddle that was Vincé in my mind. I was running up against my cynicism again. To believe that this was all some stunt arranged for publicity required a complex form of gullibility that was in some ways worse than the simpler form of accepting it as authentic. My thoughts returned to Gnostic Layering. I wondered if we in that building were on the upper layer of something, and the hidden reality lay below. Perhaps that phenomenon is born of crisis, and there is no need anymore. Maybe I’m wrong to be cynical, and the beauty of transcendent politics is the elevation and exorcism of the mysterious from the hidden tunnels of resentment into the light of shared effort toward something else. Only time will tell.