The Big Push

The tellosophical bishop of Pasadena was striding down Colorado Boulevard, his black-velvet cape flowing behind him, his brass-nobbed cane tapping the way.

He passed a theater showing “Sex World Girls” and waved cheerfully to the ticket-seller.

A few stores down he rapped at the window of a gift shop and called “Hello, Mary!” to a woman inside.

Several times he greeted passers-by and asked them to vote for him. One of them said “For what?” but it was too late. The bishop was striding on, goatee to the wind, flashing a mystic smile, thinking cosmic thoughts.

Welcome to the underside of the 1988 presidential campaign.

The tellosophical bishop of Pasadena, also named Basil Tellou, is running for the highest office in the land as a write-in candidate in 13 states, including, of course, California.

I was fortunate to be asked to accompany him through Pasadena on the first morning of what he calls his Big Push.

“How exactly do you intend to initiate this Big Push?” I asked, trying to keep up with him as he hurried to his campaign headquarters, which is a corner table at Beadle’s cafeteria.

“Why, with you!” he said firmly.

“I’m your Big Push?”

“Oh, there’ll be others. Don’t worry about that.”

Unlike the two major candidates running for President, Basil is not an ordinary man.

He is an actor, a poet, a mystic, a dancer, a psychologist, a vegetarian, an Oriental chanter and the creator of a new form of writing called cosmic composition.

Also, he has Jesus as his vice presidential running mate.

“That’s Jesus in spirit, “ he explained. “Be sure you add that or people will think I’m batty because Jesus ain’t here, you understand?”

Basil offered the vice presidency to former California Chief Justice Rose Bird. She responded by sending him a picture of herself. Then he wrote Jackie Kennedy Onassis. No answer.

“For a while I considered asking Jessica Hahn,” Basil said. “Then it came to me one night. I jumped out of bed. Why not Jesus!”

I shrugged. “Why not?”

We entered Beadle’s cafeteria, a large, lackluster place with serving counters along the side. Old people ate bread and mulligan stew.

Incredulous gazes followed Basil across the room. In addition to the cape, he wore a clerical collar, a dark suit and dark glasses. He calls himself bishop because he claims to have been ordained by a church he won’t name.

But no matter. He’s transferred the title to the Church of Tellosophy, which he created.

At his corner table, the bishop hunched over coffee and a small cup of custard pudding. By now he was wearing two pairs of glasses at the same time, the dark glasses pushed slightly up on his forehead and a pair of reading glasses under them.

The glasses overlapped slightly. Glance at him quickly and you think you’re seeing double.

“At the end of this interview,” Basil was saying, “I am going to give you the most terrifying words in the universe.”

He was leaning in close and looking at me through all four lenses.

“All right,” I said, “but first I think you ought to tell me exactly what kind of platform you’re running on.”

“We were never meant to die!” the bishop intoned loudly, arms outspread. It was his Macbethian voice. Heads turned. Other diners stared. Basil ignored them.

“Your pudding is getting cold,” I said, crouching behind my coffee.

“My main issues are purity and immortality,” Basil said in a less stentorian tone. “Purify the country, the air, the ground.” He leaned close again. “Get the preservatives out of bread!”

“What about immortality?” I asked.

“We’re working on that,” he said mysteriously.

I asked for the terrifying words he had promised.

“Any man who lets his wife comb his hair has no guts,” he said.

Well, actually, he didn’t say guts, but I am not allowed to refer to that part of the male anatomy.

“Those are the terrifying words?” I asked.

“No, no,” the bishop said. “I was thinking of Dukakis. He lets his wife comb his hair.”

He took a deep breath. “The most terrifying words in the universe are, ‘Once I pass by, I never return!’ ”

He leaned back and smiled.

“That’s it?” I said. “What does it mean?”

“I never explain what I mean,” the Pasadena bishop of Tellosophy said. “Let the people wonder, What does he mean? What does he mean? A good ending, right?”

Perfect.