There were plenty of places kids didn’t go when Bob was growing up. After oil was discovered (in ’23, the year Bob was born) under a knoll on the prairie west of town, the highways into Russell were studded with neon—at least for the boom years of the twenties. By the Sheriff’s count, there were twenty-seven nightclubs and honky-tonks: the Pineboard, Lindy’s, Jack’s Shack, and Geibel’s Gables, out about fifteen miles north of town at Highway K-18; the Cotton Club, out by the stockyards, the Lakeside, the Big Apple, the Sunflower, the Red Star, out on Highway 40 East. ... The bar rum was bootleg, there were slots, dice tables, blackjack, poker rooms. Women were expensive, in short supply. Drew Pearson passed through town in the 1930s, and wrote it up as “Little Chicago.”
Well, anyway, it was little. In the twenties, Russell couldn’t grow fast enough. The first handful of roughnecks who came in from Wichita, Tulsa, Oklahoma City, filled up the hotel and a couple of boardinghouses. The later ones ended up sleeping in garages, attics, and chicken coops. They were rough boys, too. The shopkeepers on Main Street called them Oklahoma Rounders—when you’d ask where they came from, they’d answer, “Aw, ’round Oklahoma.” If they got work, they’d spend their weeks in cabin camps out on the prairie, slinging mud, hefting pipe. Then they’d get paid and you’d see them in their new clothes, strutting to the pool hall on Saturday night. When there wasn’t work, some of them hung around Main Street, scorned as “oil trash” by the good women of Russell. If they got flat broke, they worked half-days, unloading cement at the railroad siding: that was hard labor, twenty cents an hour. But that was money in Russell, especially in the thirties, when the boom went bust.
People in Russell used to say, with an odd sort of pride, that there wasn’t any family in town that hadn’t been broke, one time or another. There just wasn’t any money around. When the roughnecks showed up at Dawson’s, got some ice cream, and slapped down a ten-dollar bill, Bob had to run to the bank to get change. When the oilmen’s kids showed up at the grade school with shiny new bikes—brand-new twenty-five-dollar bikes!—local kids couldn’t believe it. In Russell, you’d trade a bike for $2.50, and you might save for a year to get that. There was a lot of resentment on Main Street. And it could have got bitter on Maple, too, when Bina announced to the children that they could put their things down in the basement. Everything: clothes, schoolbooks, family pictures! The whole family was moving to the basement. Get your things downstairs! Right now! ... Doran would rig a bathtub for washing and a hot plate for Bina to cook on. He’d rented the house to some oilmen: hundred dollars a month, cash in advance, for a year! That was twelve hundred dollars, cash money! ... That night, Doran stayed out on the porch so late, the kids thought he was waiting for the bank to open.
Bob stayed awake that night, too. But he never said a word about it. Never called anybody “oil trash.” Never had a bad word for anybody. Wouldn’t spend the time on it, for one thing. No, he had plans of his own. For a start, he was saving for a new bike. It’d cost twenty-six dollars, but he figured all four Dole kids could use it. They could get a paper route, and that would make the money back, maybe help out at home.
Bob always had a plan. It was funny how that kind of will sprang up in a place where plans were so fragile. Back when the railroad first arrived, the town fathers had it in mind that Russell would rival Kansas City as the hub of commerce for the plains. Doran’s dad was going to buy more land, before the bad years hit, one after the other, and he lost his own quarter-section. And did Doran have dreams for the White Front Café? If he did, he didn’t bring them up anymore. In Russell, it was best not to talk about your hopes, past or present. Better just to make a joke, and move on. Put your head down, work for a living. That was hard enough, in the thirties—especially when the dust came.
When the dust storms hit, the sky would grow black in the southwest and the light would disappear as if a curtain were drawn across the prairie. They’d run to get the kids out of school. Kids were dying from the dust pneumonia. They had to wrap the babies in wet sheets, so they wouldn’t suffocate from the dirt in the air.
Bob’d run home, and Kenny would come stumping behind, to fill the bathtub and soak the towels and pack them around the windows and doors, trying to keep the dust out. But there wasn’t any way to stop it. You had to wash everything in the house so you could eat. If you left a bowl of water overnight, it’d be muddy by morning. You couldn’t see the pattern on the kitchen linoleum. On the west side of town, where the Doles lived, they scooped dirt out of houses with wheat shovels.
After ’33, when it pretty much quit raining for the next few years, the dust was the overwhelming fact of life. In town, they’d turn on the streetlights, and people would feel their way home, walking next to the curbs. In Hays, they had a basketball game, and they had to stop to sweep the floor every ten minutes. They couldn’t see the lines on the court. Anyway, the Hays coliseum was lit with skylights, and after a while, they couldn’t see to play, but they wouldn’t let anybody leave, either. They’d be lost out there in the dust.
Out on the land, the dust would cover the fence posts, drift up to the top of a barn. You’d see a pipe sticking up from the dirt, and you knew a tractor got caught in the dust.
The trees died. The grass died. Land was selling for five dollars an acre, if you could find a buyer. One farmer, up in Gorham, went to the bank and they turned him down, so he herded his cattle to a corner of the fence and he shot them, one by one ... and then he shot himself. In Russell, one of the Krug boys lost his hope somehow, and hung himself in his bedroom. Doc White went over, but all he could do was hold him while his daughters cut him down.
Jack Phipps, who had a place on Kansas Street, got the dust pneumonia. The men of the Russell Volunteer Fire Department stood in front of Jack’s house for days, doing shifts with a hose, in darkness and light, couple hours at a stretch, spraying water over Jack’s house, trying to keep the dust off. Doran was there, of course. He was a volunteer fireman for fifty-one years. He took his turn with the hose at Jack’s house. Seemed like every man in town did. But there wasn’t any way to keep the dust out. Jack Phipps died, right there in that house.
Bob Dole knew all that. Lord, in Russell, there wasn’t any way not to know. But that wasn’t him. His life was going to be different. And it wasn’t any dream, either. It was a plan. He worked on it every day, how he was going to make it happen.
In the Lincoln Town Car, you could feel Dole ease, you could almost see the comfort settle on him. It wasn’t just the car, although that was comfortable enough, all pleated upholstery that creaked quiet welcome as his back settled into the shotgun seat. The Lincoln was one of the benefits of the Leader’s job. It came to Dole along with Wilbert Jones, a solid, middle-aged Carolinian, who knew the ins and outs of Washington traffic. Dole never had to tell him which lane, which turn, or which hotel had a side entrance. And Wilbert knew enough not to small-talk. Dole always sat in front with Wilbert. He respected Wilbert as he did all working men. He always had a greeting for him, something about the weather, the hour, or how was Wilbert doing. Wilbert was always fine.
That was the best thing about the car. Wilbert was always fine. Dean would sit in the back, quiet, unless Dole asked for something. And after Dole stretched his left hand across his body to pull the door shut (he never liked people jumping out to open or close doors for him), after Wilbert hit the button and the power windows rolled up, there was no noise, nothing pending, and for the next ten minutes, or however long, there was no one who could get at Bob Dole.
There was a car phone, if Dole wanted to use the time, or he might fiddle with the radio, tuning in some news. Or he might, without warning, tune in the march he had running through his head: no one knew what song it was, or whether it was a song at all. But sometimes, when this ease settled on him, Dole would lean back, get a lungful of air, and let it out in a flat rhythmic chant:
“Bup-bup-bup-bup-bup ... bip-bip-bip-bip ...”
Or sometimes:
&nb
sp; “Yuuoooh, yut-dut-dut-dut-dah ... yut-dut-dah ...”
Sometimes it came out a whistle, more rhythm than tune, just a syncopated bit of prairie breeze. No matter. It was a way of sharing, almost like he was chatting. But he didn’t need anyone to chat back.
Tonight, he got into the car and said to the windshield: “Well, ’nother day at the office ...” That was for Wilbert, a form of Dole-code to show him Dole knew he’d been waiting. Dean, silent in the backseat, leaned forward and passed a briefing memo to Dole, who idly scanned it. Dole’s political action committee, Campaign America, sent a briefing memo for every event. But Dole didn’t need briefings. He did these Washington receptions every night, even if the Senate was working late. He’d schedule an hour or ninety minutes of debate, then he’d duck out and hit a couple of funders, sometimes three or four, twenty minutes apiece. He’d been at this twenty-five years now. He dropped the paper on the seat next to Wilbert.
As the car rolled through the Capitol lot, Dole spotted Senator Grassley, walking on the asphalt, back to his office.
“There’s Chuckie ...” Dole said. “Aghh, kep’ him up a little late tonight ...”
And while Wilbert and Dean quietly giggled, Dole rapped on the window and splayed his left hand up in a stiff wave as he rolled by, his face a mask of delight, as he said to the plate glass:
“Chuckeeeeeee!”
Then, he settled back again.
“La-di-da ... la-di-da ... bup-bup-bup-Bahhh! ...”
He was always happy when he was headed out to do his thing. There was nothing that got Dole going like a crowd. Sometimes, when he’d leave an event, he was so pumped up, he was like a kid. They loved him! They were cheering! Guy came up to him and told him he was gonna win! Guy said he was gonna help! Get his name! Sign him up!
Sometimes, when he’d finish a speech and a band would strike up some brassy tune, Dole wouldn’t leave the stage, wouldn’t even turn around to shake people’s hands. He’d stand there, watching them cheer, with the band pumping in his ears, and he’d swing his good arm in time to the music, and bounce on his feet, up and down, up and down, pumping that arm and hearing the cheers. ... He looked like a youngster, like a hep-cat from the forties, bouncing to the big band ... like one of those bandleaders who played the big dances, the guys who didn’t play an instrument or sing, but stood up front, swinging time to the music, bringing you the action. Bob Crosby & His Bobcats! Bob Dole! The Bobster!
And he was action! They’d meet him at the door, he’d hit the room, and they’d all come at him. Every head in the place would turn. Here’s Bob Dole! Here is juice! Here is power! Then, he’d do the place like a tornado, grabbing hands with his left hand:
“Bob Dohhll! ... Gooda meetcha.”
“There he ihhhzzz! ...”
If it was a dinner, he’d do every table:
“Aghh, must be the head tayy-ble! ...” Then he’d shake every hand, get their names.
If it was cocktails, he’d zigzag through, hitting every hand by some kind of radar. In Washington, Dean was always at his elbow, to hold things that people gave to Dole, or to hold out his leather folder, like a table, if someone asked Dole for an autograph. Usually, people asked for pictures: Would the Senator stop a second, to pose with Denise, here?
“Surrrre.”
Then Dole would laugh while the picture was taken, a prairie cackle that held no humor. It was his way of making his face right:
“Agh, hagh, hagh, hagh ...”
He never took a bad picture. Always had a great smile, unless the people couldn’t work their own camera. That happened, too. They were so in a flutter! Here was Bob Dole!
“Agh-hagh-hagh-hagh ...
“Agh-hagh-hagh-hagh ...
“C’mon! ...” It would come out teasing, in the middle of the laugh, but he meant it. He had other people to see.
“Agh-hagh-hagh-c’mon-c’mon-c’mon-hagh-hagh ...”
Later, in the Lincoln, Dole would remember the guy:
“Gahhhd,” he’d say, rolling his eyes. “Hundred fifty people standin’ there, guy can’t work his camm’ra.”
No one took liberties with Bob Dole’s time. If he was going to speak, it didn’t matter what the program said. They’d change the order of speakers to put him right on, whenever he got there. He never stayed to eat, never sat down at the head table for more than a minute, while they introduced him. If he had to wait to speak, while someone else finished, he worked the crowd, grabbing hands.
Then he’d get up there, and he’d lay ’em in the aisles, with the timing of a stand-up comic:
“I told the President, the other day, we wanted to work with him on the budget ...
“Can’t do it without Ronald Reagan ...
“Maybe we could do it without Don Regan ...
“But, seriously, the deficit ...”
It wasn’t a speech so much as a bracing stroll through the mind of Bob Dole. So much going on! And now, these folks at the dinner that night, these fortunate few, these important givers, were all included, all in the swim. The laughter that rippled through the hall was always a low, appreciative, knowing male chuckle.
Of course, the guys at Campaign America were still trying to get Dole to make The Speech. Something with a theme, a vision for America. America at the Crossroads! ... Don Devine, the professor-pol who was head of the campaign committee, used to fly around with Dole, giving him copies of that speech outline, over and over. Devine must have carried fifty copies of the thing. But Dole always tucked the speech into his jacket, or rolled it up to help shape his right fist, and talked about whatever was going on that week. Vision was well and good, people liked it. But Dole had a real job, solving real problems. People ought to know that, too.
That’s why he did these Washington events. Bob Dole had to be in Washington. He had work to do. Couldn’t spend all week flying around in Air Force planes, like George Bush. These Capital fund-raisers for every race in the country were Bob Dole’s way of checking in, spreading himself around. At least, that’s how his staff explained it. At Campaign America, the answer to invitations was yes to every event he could possibly get to. Then, they’d draw up a briefing paper, maybe talking points that Dole would ignore, and a contribution check for him to take along (Dole never showed up empty-handed). “What the hell,” Don Devine would say with a shrug. “He’s got to be in Washington anyway. So, if it’s not gonna tire him out ...” But they couldn’t tire Bob Dole out. They couldn’t overschedule him, or feed him too much information.
He was running the United States Senate, dealing with the White House, trying to hammer out a budget, trying to wind up a session, get his members home; he was flying all over the country to help his GOP members, trying to save his majority, working on their campaigns as if they were his own reelection. (In fact, Dole was running for reelection, but he’d scared all the big Kansas Democrats out of the race. His only opponent was a former carpet salesman from Wichita, a nice fellow named Guy MacDonald, who promised not to raise any money, or say anything nasty about Bob Dole. ... “Okayyy! Guy MacDonald! Great American! ...”) And meanwhile, he was working every day on the Other Thing.
As Wilbert made the last turn, Dole picked up the briefing memo. “Okayy, Guam!” he said to the dashboard. “Where America’s day begins! ...” That’s what they used to say at Republican conventions, when the proud Guam chairman would cast the island’s handful of votes. Dole never forgot anything. This Ben Blaz, the Rep to Congress, won a tough race a couple of years ago, knocked off an incumbent Democrat, beat him by about three hundred votes. Dole knew Ben Blaz was a comer. Dole was cohost of the reception tonight.
But Dole also knew that Bush would have the Governor of Guam all wrapped up. And the Governor would control the delegates. There wasn’t any way Bob Dole would get Guam, or its four convention delegates. In fact, there wasn’t any plan to this night—except more, more of the same.
He rolled the briefing memo into a cylinder and used it to round out his right fi
st. “Ready?” he said to the air in the car.
“Yes, sir.”
“ ’Bout a half-hour,” Dole said.
“Fine.”
Dole reached across his midriff and got the door handle as Wilbert hit the brakes in front of the hotel. And the Bobster was out of the car:
“Hey, Bob Dohhhll ...”
The point was, he wasn’t going to cut back on anything. He’d already given up enough in his life. He sure wasn’t going to give up the Senate. He’d only had the Leader’s job for two years—two short years—and reporters were already asking if he’d give it up for the ’88 campaign. Well, maybe he would. When he was good and ready.
The problem was, he could lose it in a hurry, lose his majority this year, ’86, if the GOP lost more than three seats. He knew which members were in trouble, especially the GOP class of 1980, the fellows who swept in with the first Reagan landslide. They were up for reelection this year, and Bob Dole’s leadership would rise or fall with them. He knew what it would mean if his Party lost the edge in the Senate: both houses of Congress run by the Democrats, no way for him or any Republican—not even Ronald Reagan—to control the agenda. No way for Bob Dole to do what he did best—carry the ball.
So no one was going to outwork Dole in a midterm election. No one had as many invitations, no one had a feel for as many races, no one showed up in as many recondite corners of the political map as Bob Dole did.
What It Takes Page 8
