Inspired by Low Culture's use of "Auto Summarize," I screwed around with the Eggers serial in Word to figure out just why it was such an infuriating read. I discovered that the problem wasn't Eggers' imagination (which turned out to be more fecund than I had judged), nor his details or overall content. There's actually a lot of good stuff in his serial -- in particular, I dug the insouciant feel.
In a famous essay, George Bernard Shaw rewrote the final act of Cymbeline. It may have been hubris on Shaw's part, but it was an interesting way to understand why the play fell apart. Now I'm not Shaw, and Eggers isn't Shakespare. But reproducing another person's story has always been a good way (for me anyway) to learn just what makes it tick. This time, something different happened. As I started typing the first part of the Eggers serial, I found myself compelled to make syntactical changes.
Now I should note that the Salon serial represents a work in progress. I offer the results here not to badmouth Mr. Eggers, but to pose a question: Is Eggers' prose getting in the way of his storytelling? Here's the original. Here's my shaky attempt at an edit. I've given the story an active voice, and removed misplaced modifiers and repetitive details, trying to retain as much of the original tone as possible. You make the call.
"Bastards!" said Sergei.
"Can they do that?"
They could. There were no limits to this race. Thank God. Little Nicky wouldn't want it. The contest was filthy, without oversight. Today would be no different, even if it was the Fourth of July. The Stuart Craspedacusta campaign needed Total Visual Dominance. No more, no less. If the campaign could achieve this, they might win the battle. They'd gain momentum and juice, and Murray Olongapo, their Democratic opponent, would get discouraged.
Get the Olongapo team spending money now and Craspedacusta could run the home stretch. Better yet, get Olongapo trying something unwise. Like that time when Olongapo appeared in an all-male, outdoor production of "The Merchant of Venice."
Get the other side making mistakes and Sergei would know what to do. He'd swoop in for the kill.
But where to start?
Sergei knew the blimp was a bad idea. Preposterous, a perversion of democracy. "A goddammed blimp," he said. It wasn't even 8 o'clock and Sergei and Nicky knew the Craspedacusta campaign was in trouble. They came to the high school, expecting it to be empty. But Olongapo's minions were there inflating a blimp. It was the size of a ranch house.
"What kind of gas you think that is?" asked Nicky. "Is that air, or would it have to be something lighter?"
Poor Little Nicky. Clever, but always stating the obvious. His New Hampshire roots. Chubby, unshaven, wild-haired, a forehead that wouldn't stop sweating, the look of a man forever disarming a bomb. He wore a bandana to hide the carbuncles on his neck. When he blinked, his entire face twitched. As if he was clicking every part of his head. He was serious and methodical. But the minute anyone offered a joke or a witty observation, the little bastard couldn't stop laughing. Sergi was so unsettled by this that he stopped telling jokes in his presence.
But Nicky was the best special projects man in politics willing to work for a pittance. $600 a week, all expenses paid, living at campaign headquarters. He'd wake up in the middle of the night, listening to an informant trying to bring down Murray Olongapo, hoping that he'd have a Paula Jones or a Watergate.
"I hate that guy," said Nicky. "What kind of name is that anyway? Olongapo. Sounds African. Or Maori. Or Spanish."
It was Filipino. So was Murray for that matter. But Nicky would never understand. Even if Sergei explained it in clear terms, the man was damn dim that morning. So Sergei concentrated on the blimp. It rose from the football field, the gas filling it with unmistakable menace.
Nicky whistled. "It's like a planet," he said. "Or a big car."
Craspedacusta didn't have a blimp. They hadn't thought of a blimp. Where did you get one? "Fucking Internet," said Sergei. Man, he hated the Internet. Some things weren't meant to be purchased. Least of all, this goddam blimp. The two stood for a minute more, their shoes soaked through with dew, both wondering why they hadn't come up with the idea. Balloons and banners. What good were these things when the other guy had a goddam blimp?
The blimp was now aloft completely, tethered by ropes attached to twelve of Murray's Minions. Cute name. What losers. Sergei hated them and he hated Murray. It was always "Murray." Never Mr. Olongapo, or Congressman or Representative, or the Distinguished Gentleman, or even Sir.
"He's so charming," people said. "So down to Earth!" No. He was a doofus and a dunce. Any grown man -- and Murray was 66 -- who wore bright blue socks and a different fish tie every day was an abomination and a disgrace. Murray asked the world to call him Murray. Sergei called him Olongapo. Just to spite the bastard. The name Olongapo hinted at an exotic impentrability. Never mind that the man, and his parents, were born in San Diego.Posted by DrMabuse at April 6, 2004 08:27 PM | TrackBack