He was all delight today.
Bush had something to say. Mikhail Gorbachev had just come to Washington with the INF agreement in his pocket. The Gipper signed the deal—killed off one class of missiles in Europe—the first major treaty with the Russians in ten years!
Everybody knew, peace was big in Iowa.
Bush was for peace—for the treaty.
Gorby was the hottest thing in Washington since ... speakerphones. And Bush had a sit-down with Gorbachev. They had breakfast! (And whom did Bush take to breakfast-with-Gorby? Cooper Evans! A grain dealer, a friend ... an Iowan!) Best of all—then ... when Gorby took his famous walk, got out of his car on Connecticut Avenue, and waved to Americans ... who was with him? ... George Bush!
So Bush had juice today. He had INF juice. He had peace juice. He had Iowa juice. He had ... Gorby juice. It was like some made-up concatenation of best-selling buzzwords—like one of those have-it-all headlines in the supermarket tabs:
JACKIE O’S SEX-BUDGET-UFO DIET!
This could turn Iowa around!
“As you know,” Bush was saying, “we’ve just come from Washington, where we’ve just signed the I-N-F treaty ...” Bush laid into those letters. He looked like he’d hammered out the treaty himself. He decried critics on the left, who blamed the Gipper for hanging tough against the Russians. He decried critics on the right, who were raising doubts about the new treaty.
Dole had not come out for the treaty. Big mistake. Bush was trying to drive this treaty through Dole’s heart like a wooden stake.
“And I think it’s good. I think it’s good for America. I think it’s good for my ten grandchildren.”
He spread his hands to indicate he’d take a question.
A voice behind the rope called out: “How good is it for you in Iowa?”
Bush’s eyes lit up. A lob! ... He swung into Iowa juice—how he’d taken heat for having Cooper Evans in that breakfast with Gorby.
“... An Iowan, a grain expert, presenting the views of American agriculture. So let the political opportunists take some shots. I think it was very good. And I kinda resent it, that because somebody’s from Iowa, and happens to be a friend of mine, that he should be excluded.” Bush was shaking his head: as long as he was in charge, his Iowa friends would always breakfast with Gorby.
There was a question on whether Bush expected more summits, more arms control. This was from the national press, which never got to ask Bush anything—except at these local press-avails. Bush took the chance to spread more Gorby juice.
“Well, clearly, he’s a man who’s in control. You may know, I was with him when he jumped out of the car ...” This was rich! His voice fell to confidentiality—but then, it was nearly inaudible, so he had to belt it out.
“You know, we’re riding in this big Russian limousine they have, and he says to me: ‘How do you like my bunker? ...”
Bunker! Bush was enchanted with the word. But curiously, it was the only line of Gorby-talk that Bush would share in Iowa. That, and one other word:
“Stop!” ... Gorby had barked that to the KGB man in the front seat.
“And I was with him, and I sensed, uh ...” Bush was trying to get the story out—it emerged in jagged bursts. “... The adrenaline pumping ... ‘Stop!’ ... And we stopped. And he got out of the car. So, he controls the agenda. And I saw that. Yeah. You.”
“Last question!” one of the pod-people shouted, as Bush pointed to a local. The guy was dressed in a blazer, with a rep tie. He had his own microphone, and his cameraman swung around to point the lens at him. This was footage! This was:
Action News caught up with the Vice President at the airport ...
“Vice President, you’ve said you feel your advice to the President should remain secret ...”
Bush’s lips drew into a thin, crooked line. He hiked his back straight and stiff, flashing his power tie.
“... As a candidate,” Action News was saying, “would you now ask the President to let you reveal, now, what you told him about Iran-contra?”
Bush’s head was already shaking. This was a Dole line. Like Bush was going to ask permission to dive into that shithole again.
“No ... no.” He’d beaten this answer around so many times, it was an omelette in his head. “... So, the point is, mistakes were made ... but, uh, you give me the credit for half of all the good things, and I’ll take all the blame, but, ah, I’m not going to start now to tell you ...”
Tell who? ... The camera hadn’t moved. It was still focused on the Action News guy. The point to this was not the answer but the cutaway shot: the picture of the newsman asking the question, then scowling and nodding while the Big Gulp provided the audio.
“So, yes, mistakes were made. The President said that. But you move on.”
And he was moving. “Thank you. Thank you all very much.” Like it’d been great to be there ... and he steered off across the tarmac, toward his choppers, while the pod-people screamed: Traveling press! Over here! Traveling! Traveling ONLY!
On the riser, the Iowa press was filming Bush’s back as he greeted one of his Air Force crew like he hadn’t seen him in years ... then he looked up, waved an instant of spasmodic friendliness to a steward in the door of his plane ... then craned his body around to wave to the press, like he’d forgotten to say goodbye ... and lunged to greet the Army men standing at the choppers ... and he was gone—disappeared into the helicopter.
Damn!
He’d flown in here with Gorby juice ... but it was clear, what was on TV tonight ... was Action News made him say, again:
“Mistakes were made.”
The great thing about that 1980 campaign was how personal it was. Bush didn’t have to work with strangers. Of course, with Bush, no one stayed a stranger for long ... but for most of those two years, you could meet the whole staff in one weekend hop from Houston to Iowa, and on to New Hampshire.
As for those few select, the Bushies of ’78–’79, they were spoiled by all the time spent with him, his endless personal attention. They’d travel with him—Bush and one body man, maybe a local who’d pick them up at the airport. Or, if they weren’t along for the ride, there’d be calls from him, every day ... a personal note if he got ten minutes ... an invite to burgers and bloodies in the backyard, if he happened to catch a Sunday home in Houston.
There were few days home. In his first year of campaigning, he traveled 180,000 miles, mostly flying coach. After that, the pace picked up. The normal road crew was Bush and David Bates, a twenty-seven-year-old Houston lawyer and body man—child of Bush-friends, childhood friend to Bush-son Jeb—and possessor of a hypereager sunniness that made him seem like a young copy of Ambassador Bush. Bates would show up, early A.M., at the new Bush house on Indian Trail. Don Rhodes would come by with the truck—they’d throw their bags into the bed. By nine in the morning, they’d be in the air to some midday event—Fred Jones for Congress, say—and after Bush told the crowd what a splendid friend was Fred Jones, he’d do a little press conference, if any reporters could be cajoled to hang around. Then came the heavy lifting—private meetings: Party leaders, activists, money men ... one-on-one, twenty minutes apiece, for as many hours as it took.
“How’s Janey? The kids? ... Jeez! College already!” (Bush had the names from his travels for the RNC.)
“Listen ... I really think I’ve got a good shot at this thing—think I can win, and, uh, if you could help, I’d really love to have you on the team.”
Some wanted to know how Bush thought he could win ... and he was ready for that:
“I think I can make a more active campaign than Reagan” (i.e., that guy is ancient) .... “I can show I have more experience than Reagan.” (Guy doesn’t know where the Treasury Department is, for God’s sake!)
Then they’d ask: Who would he have for State Chairman? Bush was always ready to discuss local politics. He could reel off the names of his supporters in the state without notes, without pause—like some people always know how m
uch money’s in their wallet.
Sometimes, a meeting would wind up with the pooh-bah telling Bush: “George, you know I wish you the best ... but I’d like to give it some thought.” Some would say, “Well, George, I know you’re going to do well, but I’m committed ...” (to Dole, John Anderson, Howard Baker, or, usually, Reagan).
Bush always understood if they were committed to somebody else. But if they said they were with him, and didn’t come through, they were off the list. That was a breach of the code. The ones that really got to him were the friends who didn’t sign up. What did friendship mean, if they weren’t going to help?
Whatever they said, Bush would follow up with a note. That’s how he spent his time on his afternoon flights: handwritten notes to the one-on-ones. “Really enjoyed the chance to catch up ... sitting down with you ... just want to reiterate that I’d really like to have you along.” So, if they ever fell off the Reagan boat ... or when Dole, Baker, or Connally foundered ... well, those pooh-bahs had a relationship with George Bush. Meanwhile, word got around that Bush was working hard, making friends.
That he was: there were also notes to Fred Jones (“Great to see you again ...”), to the chairman of the Fred Jones event (“Thanks for having me ...”), to the guy who herded the local press toward Bush, to the drivers, the cooks, the waiter who brought an extra glass of water. ... Those would be carried back and typed in Houston. Meanwhile, Bush was on his way to a dinner of the World Affairs Council in Indianapolis, or the Rotary in Keene, New Hampshire, or the Chamber of Commerce in ... well, he did the Chamber everywhere.
Actually, the schedule was more of a bitch than it had to be, because Bush would never say no to a friend. Bates learned to say no by reflex, right away. Margaret Tutwiler, the Scheduler in Houston, tried to train Bush, for months, to say: “Margaret’s the one who handles my schedule.” They couldn’t let a friend even talk to Bush ... because Bush would start fretting about ol’ Fitzy in San Francisco, or Binky in Cleveland (“Well, God ... Binky—shit, he’s been so good to me—maybe we could blow off that Chicago lunch!”) ... and he’d fly halfway across the country and back to show up under a tent in Binky’s backyard.
The fact was, he didn’t mind: the endless miles, the eight-event days—he liked the athletic feel of the race. If they made their motel at midnight, with just hours to collapse till the next event ... it was Bush who’d show up with coffee for the troops at 6:00 A.M. If they made their last plane at 9:30 P.M., with nothing but another airport, another long car ride, another motel ahead ... it was Bush who’d buoy them with his boyish routine: “Tray tables down!” he’d bark, like he used to run the flight-check in his TBM Avenger. “Note paper out! ... List! ... Pen! ... Commence!” If they ended, by chance, at a decent hotel, Bush would stroll the suite, noting aloud each luxury appurtenance. He’d end up at the door to his room, where, with a hint of a bow, he’d announce: “Batesy, I hope this is adequate to your needs.”
In Iowa alone, there were ninety-nine counties, and he was organized in every one. He worked every Kiwanis, Moose Lodge, Legion Hall, VFW ... he worked chicken barbeques, ladies’ auctions, cattle barns, farmyards ... he toured packing houses. He held (“Jeez, warm little critters, aren’t they?”) piglets!
And he made speeches, hundreds—actually, the same speech hundreds of times, a conservative speech about American strength ... in the world: how Carter let U.S. interests slip away by his moralistic fixation on human rights ... in the economy: how the nation’s vitality was sapped by inflation and overblown government spending ... in energy: how energy companies had to be unshackled to explore and exploit ... in intelligence: how a Bush Presidency would beef up the CIA and back it against its critics. (He started by playing down his connection to the Agency, but then he heard the applause when his devotion slipped out one day—after that, there was no speech without mention of the CIA.)
And that led him to his own life—or at least to his résumé. Here, too, Bush was conservative—he didn’t give much away. The point of the litany was that he’d had all those jobs, been all those things (“A President We Won’t Have to Train!”) ... not the effect of those jobs on him. The lessons he did adduce were conventional, or conventionally expressed: the CIA taught him how the world really was ... China showed the blessings of freedom we take for granted. ...
Despite the drill of repetition, despite visits to a speech coach (four hours at a stretch with a woman in New York—thousand bucks an hour!), Bush never became a great speaker. He could not really haul his listeners into his life. He did stop pointing with every phrase ... but now he’d mash the air with spasmic karate chops, or grab fistfuls of air and hold them to his breast to show how much he meant those words, or these, which his voice, arising, was about to strain forth into that mike. ...
But at the scale that Iowa offered—forty, fifty folks in a room—what they could see, or, precisely, feel, was his endless energy, the intensity of his want ... wanting to know them.
“I know about the cycle of seasons—the snow, the green, the upturned fields ... your sense of family. These things will make me a better President. I just know it.”
What they could feel—especially when they met him, one-on-one (Bush always tried to stay, to meet them)—was his rising confidence in his organization, in himself ... it was working! He could sense the momentum, the shift ... he could feel his time, feel the world, come to him! He couldn’t tell them how yet—the reporters, the pols, the Washington-wise who came out to Iowa—he just knew it was working.
And in that final winter, when Rich Bond and the boys brought the phones to fever, and all those County Chairmen got their captains out, and the buses lined up to bring the Bush Brigades to the big straw votes ... they clawed past Ronald Reagan as if he were standing still—Bush won every straw poll! ... Well, then, everyone could see. This guy had more than a hope. This was a guy to watch! (And such a nice guy—you know, they met him, they rode with him in that Oldsmobile, Bush made them so comfortable!) ... This guy was special! This guy was a winner. This could be The One.
That’s when Jim Baker and Teeter told him he had to define himself. He had to start giving people a clearer idea of what Bush believed in ... what President Bush would do.
“I don’t know,” Bush said. “I don’t get the feeling people want that.”
They argued ... but Bush just wouldn’t believe it. Personal quality was his “thing.” He thought people would see it ... once they took a look at him.
The fact was, he hadn’t a clue how to define himself. Some people saw him as moderate ... some, conservative—that was fine! He didn’t want to rope himself into ... positions.
Why should he?
The fact was, he wanted to be President. He didn’t want to be President to do this or that. He’d do ... what was sound.
When people would ask—reporters, usually—why did he want to be President, he’d talk about Big Pres: “My father inculcated the idea of service.”
True enough. But one could serve by raising money for United Way. Why President?
One time, a reporter kept asking. Bush said: “Well, you know ... doesn’t everybody grow up wanting to be President?”
Maybe where he grew up.
Anyway, Bush beat Reagan by two percentage points in Iowa, 1980 ... he got the bounce. He got Big Mo. He never did define himself. So it was in New Hampshire, 1980, that Reagan started painting the picture for Bush—a portrait Bush could not live down.
By December 1987, Bush’s claim to the Presidency rested on an even longer litany of being. Not only had he been all those good things: airman, oilman, Congressman, etc. ... Now he had been Vice President—seven years!
This was his time. He knew he could do the job. ... He just had to show that.
That’s why he’d had his people angling with the Reaganauts to let Bush be Gorbachev’s host ... let him spend the time, show up with Gorby, day after day, everywhere, on TV.
But, no ... the President’s men couldn’t see it
. Reagan could not favor Bush—not like that. The President had to be impartial in the campaign. (Not to mention Mrs. Reagan: Oh, no! It’s Ronnie’s summit!)
Seven years of loyalty ... and Bush got breakfast.
Alas, it would be left to him to make people see George Bush—to define himself—and still he had no clue. He wasn’t—couldn’t be—“not Reagan.” What kind of loyalty would that show? In fact, he couldn’t do anything on his own—to make people feel his confidence, his sureness ... at least his want.
How could they feel him at all?
That winter, Bush was scheduled to stop at a country store; actually, he wasn’t scheduled. Rich Bond had been back in Iowa for months now—kept demanding that Bush get out of the bubble, mix it up with the people! So Bush’s stop did not appear in the bible. He was going to happen by—like Gorby telling the KGB: Stop! ... then Bush would jump out, walk into this store, and talk ... with people!
Nick Brady was in the armored car that day, applying the balm of First-Friendship to Bush’s Iowa woe. (“He just couldn’t get unwound,” Brady said.) And he watched Bush get up for this happen-by ... with pleasure: he liked meeting people ... we love this stuff! They got to the store, the limo swept onto gravel ... and stopped. The Secret Service hopped out ... and stopped. The staff vans, the pool-press vans, the rest-of-the-press bus, the cop cars, the ambulance ... stopped.
Then, Bush sat. The Service wouldn’t let him out of the car.
A minute, two minutes ...
What was the holdup?
People from the store came out and stood in the cold parking lot. They were smiling and bending to wave at the Vice President through his shaded glass.
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