It started two days before the election. A last-minute Bush campaign appearance was scheduled in Covina, California, not far from where I live. I figured that, like it or not, he was a shoo-in, so I put on a "BUSH-NORIEGA" T-shirt and went over to size up our next President.
   Because most people assumed the race was over, the crowd was small and I was able to get within a few feet of the speakers' platform. Behind Bush a row of fat cats listened with glazed stares, each one daydreaming about what their loyalty might earn...Women? (Ambassador to Monaco) Parties? (Chief of Protocol) Endless vacations? (Chairman of the Legal Services Corporation).
   Bush was saying things like "Keep America moving" and "We are the change." Nearby were several homeless people who had to keep moving and hadn't changed in weeks. The irony was not lost on one of them. A woman, dressed in oil-soaked rags (like Mrs. Reagan, borrowed legally) held up a torn shopping bag that said "RALPHS GIANT BUSH SUCKS" – an eloquent merging of political comment and supermarket promotion. It was the only statement of substance, controlled or otherwise, to be seen or heard on this day. Or during the entire campaign for that matter.
   I noticed that the few people standing in front of me were all Secret Service agents. Like lizards, they stood absolutely still – except for their eyes, which darted about, searching the crowd's faces for that one dangerous oddball, that one loony – the unstable personality.
   Suddenly I realized that a lizard was staring right at me. It was obvious my T-shirt had attracted his attention.
   "Mind if I ask you something?"
   "Why?" I barked back. I knew I sounded like a wiseguy, but – I am a wiseguy.
   "Could you step over here, please? Away from the platform."
   Now I was getting nervous. He led me to this spot where a bunch of long black limousines were parked. I remember hearing a cheer in the background – Bush was wrapping it up – when the agent looked around to see if anyone was watching. At that moment I just knew I was going to get the crap beaten out of me.
   Then, he threw me a curve.
   "Where'd you get the T-shirt?" he asked.
   "What?"
   "I'd like to get one."
   "Yeah, sure."
   I didn't believe him.
   "No, I'm serious. I want to know where I can get one."
   From the look on his face I think he was serious. But I never had a chance to find out.
   At that very moment the candidate himself appeared, surrounded by a few aides. He had finished his speech and was hustling off to the next stop on the campaign. The only thing between him and his limousine was me.
   Bush seemed agitated as he approached. He was tired. And angry. He'd been under fire for running a dirty campaign; for covering up about his role in the Iran-contra affair; for lying about Noriega. And Dukakis was battling back, pulling closer here in California. Bush looked like a man who was stressed out.
   So when he saw me, an obvious troublemaker in a BUSH-NORIEGA T-shirt, he blew his Ivy League cool. Maybe for the only time in his life. But he blew it.
   "You bastards never give up, do you?"
   He then delivered a swift, solid kick to my shin.
   You read that correctly. George Bush, the forty-first President of the United States, kicked me! And then he was gone, his limo pulling away before I could grasp what had happened.
   The only witness was the Secret Service agent, and he wasn't about to talk. Anyone else that could have seen it was a member of the Bush campaign staff, and the last thing they wanted was word of such an embarrassing episode to get out. It would be catastrophic. Two cowards on the same ticket!?
   So, naturally, the first thing I heard was, "Five hundred bucks. No questions asked."
   The bribe came from a young, slimy, right-thinking eel who was serving, for now at least, as a Bush roadie.
   "Five... hundred... bucks?" I repeated. I think he thought I was negotiating for more, but I was in too much pain – and shock – to say anything original.
   "We don't want any trouble," he slimed. "You know that, don't you?"
   I was still wincing so it was hard to talk. He took it as obstinacy.
   "This is ridiculous. A thousand."
   "He didn't mean it," I finally got out.
   "Are you sure? It's good you see it that way, because-"
   "But it was no accident," I interjected.
   His mood darkened. He paused to study me. I could see the fear spreading across his face as he began to realize just how bad this could look. Negative campaigning was one thing. Kicking an innocent bystander was something else.
   "You're not going to tell anyone, are you? You realize that no one here will mention this. No one would believe it."
   He was implying, or trying to imply, that I'd be crying in the wilderness if I took this story anywhere.
   "And honestly," he added, "who's going to believe you?"
   He wasn't very convincing, and when I started walking away he practically tackled me.
   "Wait! Shouldn't you see a doctor? And what about the money? It's right here."
   I decided at that point to walk out of this situation with my dignity intact and my place in history secure. I had no idea what I would do. Probably nothing. But, the knowledge that I wielded such power erased the pain and gave me a heady feeling. I just wanted to get away from there to think about it. But in order to do that I had to first relieve this guy of his anxiety.
   "Don't worry. I won't talk, I won't press charges. As far as I'm concerned, it practically never happened."
   I then walked away and was gone before he had a chance to think about it. Little did I know it, but the Bush campaign was about to go into a panic.