Three minutes, four minutes ... Bush sat in the car.
“What the hell are they waiting for?” That was Brady. The gray-granite schist was rumbling. You can’t put people out like that! (Look at them, standing with their arms clenched, in the cold! They were waving no more.)
The Service men were in confab on their wrist radios.
Five minutes ...
Bush didn’t want to tell the Service how to run its job. (“You might as well be protecting yourself then.”) But he was catching the dread and fatal affliction. He was ridiculous.
“Well, I’m getting out,” he said. And he did—but what the hell could he say after that ... Hi?
So much for mixing with the people.
On this weekend—his Man of Peace trip—Bush did his speech at a Moose Lodge, took questions at Grinnell High School, did a motel funder for the Johnson County GOP, stayed overnight in Iowa City for a morning address to the Foreign Relations Council, spoke to GOP activists in Keokuk, got a lovely crowd in Keosauqua ... and he didn’t meet a soul.
By nightfall of the second day, he was back at the air base—it was after the TV news deadline, so there was no stage, no questions, no kids with signs. Just a couple of cameras stabbing light toward his plane, and the shadowy ant colony of trucks and reservists on the dark tarmac. Anyone—any voter, that is—who’d come to see him was stopped a quarter-mile from Air Force Two.
Did Bush know?
He stood atop his flight-stairs to wave ... he must have known. He was so far away ... a tiny man, lit in the doorway of his big plane ... waving with slow exaggeration, his whole arm—like he was cleaning a plate-glass window.
He turned to enter the plane. He was tired, he could stand a drink. He’d have Meet the Press tomorrow to praise the treaty, and the rest of the day off, before another week of travail.
That was the week—when he got back to Washington—he learned Bob Dole would endorse the treaty ... in the White House press room, on stage with Ronald Reagan. The Gee-Six howled protests at the President’s staff ... to no avail. Howard Baker, Chief of Staff, said Bob Dole had to vote on the treaty. Bob Dole would lead the fight for Ronald Reagan.
That was the week the White House and the Iran-contra Committee agreed to declassify and publish a note from 1986—a memo from Admiral Poindexter that was rescued from the White House computers: the memo named George Bush as a “solid” supporter of the arms deal with Iran. (The memo was published in a joint statement by the Committee Chairmen, and the ranking Republican, Senator Rudman—who was chairman of the Dole campaign in New Hampshire.)
That was the week new polls showed Dole had climbed sixteen points ahead of Bush in Iowa. “Bush got no immediate benefit,” said Paul Taylor’s frontpage story, “from his high-visibility meeting with Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev ...” Nationwide, over the last two months, Dole had cut Bush’s lead in half.
The only break for Bush was that this woeful sequence played out in shadow. Bush atotter was not the lead story—barely made the papers. ... That week, there was only one story.
92
Like Old Times
IT WAS LIKE OLD times in New Hampshire, when there were just a few around Gary, the first circle: Sue Casey, Ned and Sally Helms, Dan Calegari. They were there in ’82–’83, and here they were, on the morning of December 15, 1987—like family ... like a family coming together again. And Lee was with Gary, and John was coming. (John was supposed to meet them at the Helmses’—where was John?) Only Andrea was missing. She had to stay behind for exams at the University of Denver. (But she was so proud of her father—and excited. She was going to be his Campaign Manager!) And Billy Shore stayed in Washington. But he was busy, like old times, working the phones for Hart.
And it didn’t matter that Billy couldn’t see the path ahead. Or that Sue Casey argued, almost to the last minute (“Gary, they’ll kill you, it’s gonna be miserable!”), until they all met at Ned and Sally’s house in Concord. Or that Ned Helms had signed on months before to help Al Gore in New Hampshire ... or that Calegari came by just as a friend—he was Gephardt’s northeast regional director—he arrived in a rent-a-car from the Gephardt campaign.
Didn’t matter. They were together ... and once again, with a shared secret: only they knew what was going to happen that morning, on the granite steps of the statehouse. Even they didn’t know how it would go. Sue Casey had called a few friends and a few of the big-feet the night before, just to warn them—naturally, word leaked out ... and that morning, they heard on the radio, from the wires:
Sources say Gary Hart is on his way to the statehouse ...
Casey wished she’d had time to make a bigger round of calls, to make sure there were press, not to mention citizens—a crowd! If only fifteen or twenty showed up, Hart would look awfully lonely—he could end up looking ridiculous! Sue was seized with spasms of panic—Hart alone on the gray steps, shouting into the wind. ... There were a couple of friends supposed to check out the scene and report back to Ned and Sally’s before Gary and the rest piled into the van. But the friends never showed. No scouts. No report. “Gary,” Sue warned him, “I only had a chance to call, like, eight people. I don’t know who’s gonna be there.”
But that was like old times, too—the oldest times. Hart seemed serene. He didn’t know how it would go. He couldn’t know ... but he had that certainty within himself. It was like all those times in his life when he did what he thought was right, pushed open that door, and ... there it was, just as he’d imagined—the opportunity, the path only he had seen.
He used to say, in tough times, in ’72—even ’82: “The Lord will provide.” People thought he was joking. But he wasn’t.
The fun was in watching.
Just as Hart watched now, as his friends at Ned and Sally’s house went outside, one after the other, to try to start the van in the cold gray wind. ... The van wouldn’t start. And it was all they had to drive.
Sue Casey looked at Dan Calegari.
“Casey, no!” he said. It was Gephardt’s car.
“Danny, it’s the only way.”
“I’m not even supposed to be here!”
“You can let us off, like, a couple of blocks away.”
“Ohh, shit.”
So the Harts and their shrunken first circle packed into Dick Gephardt’s rent-a-car and drove through the first flakes of a snowstorm toward the statehouse.
In the end, Lee decided she would not be the one to say no. She would not be the focus of the doubt, years later. (You know, it might have worked, if it hadn’t been for Lee.) No! She would not do that to Gary. She would not do that to herself.
He didn’t pressure her to help ... just like he told his friends, the supporters who’d moved on to other campaigns, other lives—he didn’t expect them to drop anything ... that would be a presumption. He told Lee: “You don’t have to do anything. You could stay home. You don’t have to go anywhere.”
Well, that was ridiculous. She told him: “Are you kidding? If you go out there, I’m coming along.”
Sure, she was apprehensive—what if people laughed, or said ugly things? But she would not let that apprehension get hold of her. She told herself, you can deal with anxieties. You don’t have to let them destroy you—Gary always said that.
In the car, Gary was asking how many people might be there ... and Lee was surprised to hear apprehension coming from him. Casey said, too tersely: “Maybe you’re all alone. I don’t know.” She added: “You’re on the steps, you’re gonna have your back to the statehouse. People that do come, supporter types, we’re gonna have them behind you.”
“Behind me?” Hart said. “I want to talk to them.”
“Gare—read my lips. They’re behind you. You walk up to the podium. You give your speech.”
Casey was snapping answers ... because she didn’t really know. She’d asked for a podium. She had no idea what the hell was out there. ... Then she realized she wasn’t the only one snapping with nerves. Gary just wante
d some friendly faces to talk to. She said, more gently:
“You’re gonna talk to the cameras. It’ll be okay.”
God, please, let there be cameras.
They stopped a couple of blocks away, got out of the car ... and they knew. They couldn’t see the steps yet, but they could feel it—the crowd. And a gaggle of cameras, lights on in the gray air, still photographers, pencil-press writing mile-a-minute in notebooks—and no one’s said a word yet! And everybody pumped up from the cold and the wait, and the ... history happening. They cheered the moment Hart came into view. They waved leftover Hart placards and raggedy homemade signs—Magic Marker on dull brown cardboard from a cut-up box! STILL THE BEST ... WELCOME BACK, GARY! Lord, wasn’t that beautiful? ... People he’d never seen! And they weren’t just behind him on the steps—they were all around, and all around the press, cheering ... steam from their hot breath rose in the glow of TV lights—no one could miss the feeling. It was electric. Hart was dressed in a blue pin-stripe suit. No coat, no hat, no gloves. He wasn’t cold. There was the podium. There was a microphone! There was John in the crowd, eyes shining as he watched his father. ... Hart stepped up and let the cheering subside; he would wait just one extra beat, so his voice—high and clear with the cold air tightening his throat—would cut into expectant hush, a shock through the winter air. He knew exactly how he’d begin.
Sometimes, the best thing to do is what you feel you must do.
But he waited, yet another moment, to let silence generate that extra ache ... while he looked over the crowd—he would remember this ... while he found Sue Casey’s eyes so he could flick his brows up, with the joke—he knew she knew—his eyes flashed with light from the cameras and asked without words:
Pretty miserable, hmmm?
“... Getting back in this race is about the toughest thing that I have ever done. And believe me, it is not done lightly. My family, Lee, John, and Andrea, understand clearly the difficulties that lie ahead. And they are totally behind this step, because we believe in ourselves, and we believe in the American people.
“We are together on this decision, because we love this country, and because we are not quitters.
“There is no shame in losing, only in quitting. If you believe in yourself, and if you believe in what you’re doing, then we believe—I believe—you don’t give up.
“We want to let the people decide. We believe in the American people, because you are fair and you have been good to us. You’ve been generous with your friendship, your support, and your kindness. We trust the fairness of the American people, and we are prepared to let you decide.
“This will not be like any campaign you’ve ever seen, because I am going directly to the people. I don’t have a national headquarters or staff. I don’t have any money. I don’t have pollsters or consultants or media advisers or political endorsements.
“But I have something even better. I have the power of ideas and I can govern this country.
“Let the people decide!
“I’m back in the race.”
Hart gave his thousand-dollar check to the Secretary of State. He signed his filing papers. Then he was going to walk Main Street, Concord—direct to the people! Just as he’d said.
He, Lee, and John walked away from the statehouse, down Main Street, and the press surged upon them—they had to get this! What would people say to Hart? What would they say to Lee? ...
They didn’t get to say anything.
GARYGARYLEEwhaddyaMRS.HARTIthinkaDONNARIy’gonnaWINthinkyaWINPOSTgonnaprintaLEEstorygottaRICEGaryMONEYLEEEEHEYYY!
The noise from the press got louder, closer, the more Hart showed he was trying to look past them ... he was looking for the people.
He couldn’t see a thing.
The cameras were solid around Gary and Lee. Reporters in the back were pushing in, thrusting tape recorders forward, into the air over the shoulders of reporters in front of them. They thought Gary must be talking to voters. Hart couldn’t get to a voter.
He stopped. He spread his hands, long enough so the picture would be boring. He said, very quietly:
“Look—just a three-foot path, please.” He caught the eye of one cameraman, and with one hand, made a motion to one side—just a bit to the side. “You have your job to do,” he said, “and I have mine.”
It went on like that for a block and a half ... and Hart didn’t even get testy. He stopped to plead for room, three times ... and then he was laughing. It was just silly. They had to get away.
“Where we going?” he said.
Casey looked at him and smiled. She’d spent maybe ten minutes, total, on a schedule for the rest of the campaign. She figured they could go down to Nashua, to a shopping mall.
“Where’s the car?”
What car? ... Calegari brought his rent-a-car to the end of Main Street, all the while, protesting: “I gotta get to work!” They got in his car, and decided on lunch.
“Let’s stop somewhere.”
“Is everybody hungry?”
“What do you want?”
“Let’s go. Come on!”
Reporters were running for their cars while the Harts acted out America’s noontime drama—Heyy! How ’bout lunch on the way to the mall?
“What about pizza?”
“Let’s sit down somewhere.”
“Come onnn!”
“Danny, make a few turns and we’ll lose ’em.” This was Casey, who was not ready for a chase scene. The snow was falling steadily. All they needed was a high-speed pile-up:
THREE DEAD AFTER HART ANNOUNCEMENT
Great.
“Danny, just lose ’em and find someplace for lunch.”
“We don’t have any gas.”
“Jesus, Danny!”
They doubled back through the narrow streets to the bottom of Main Street, near the Ramada, and turned into the first gas station. They were still packed in the idling car, at the pumps, waiting for the full-service guy. Calegari craned around to look into the station ... and there it was. In the window, a hand-lettered sign—white paper, black felt-tip marker:
GIVE ’EM HELL GARY HART
That’s what good Advance would have done—would have found the place, told the guys at the station to be nice, even if they were Republicans ... then made sure the candidate had to get gas ... so he’d see. He’d feel good.
But Hart didn’t have Advance. This was magic.
Gary was instantly out of the car, into the station office, talking to the guys. From outside, you could see him throwing his head back, laughing—that bark of delight. Guy was saying, his wife was never gonna believe this! ... He was always for Gary, always! ... “Who gives a shit about that stuff they wrote up on you? You show ’em!”
Hart’s face was a study in pleasure, and excitement ... his posture was different—chest out, head back, like he wanted to see all he could of this scene ... in which it was shown, unalterably: he was right! People didn’t care about things the press harped on. He was right, from the start! It did not matter!
After that, of course, Hart was insufferable. “Pretty horrible, huh?” ... “Kinda miserable, Casey?” Then he’d crack up at his big joke. He was too cute for words.
They stopped for lunch near the Amaskate Bridge—little place, mostly takeout, five booths—Pappy’s Pizza. They got in the door, and here came Pappy in his wheelchair.
“Can we get lunch? ... Do you have a phone?”
“Come on back—use my phone,” Pappy said.
“I’ve got a credit card,” Casey told him.
“No, just pick it up—use it!” Pappy said. “And food’s on me! ... Greatest thing that’s happened to my place! Greatest thing that’s happened to this country!”
They looked at Gary, ready for his laugh. His eyes held the joke—they all knew. But, tell the truth, he wasn’t sure anymore whether to laugh ... or heed that tightness in his chest that only happened ... when things got very serious.
93
Serious About th
e Business
THE GLOBE SAID THIS was good for Dukakis. (To the diddybops, everything was either good or bad for Dukakis.)
Hart would raise the stakes in New Hampshire. He’d won there, in ’84, and started his amazing surge that almost unhorsed poor Walter Mondale. The Globe pundits thought Hart still had strength in New Hampshire. If Dukakis could hold on and beat him there ... well, that would make Michael’s neighborly triumph mean a great deal more.
Hart, after all, was somebody.
Beating somebody, like Hart, was better than beating nobody—dwarves like Simon, or Gephardt, Babbitt, Jackson ... or Gore. Who’s gonna notice?
Just to make sure, the paper cited a quickie poll, which confirmed the fondest hopes of The Hub:
Duke ... 39.
Hart ... 19.
Gorgeous!
And then, to make doubly sure, the day after Hart came back, the Globe attached to his name the following epithets:
“Unbelievable.”
“Weird.”
“Crazy.”
“Out of his mind.”
Those were in the news columns, mostly on the front page.
The inside pages were chockablock with wise-guy quotes, like this pearl of analysis from the ever-reliable William Schneider: “An act of pure narcissism, a show of contempt for the party. I think it’s contemptible.”
And, lest the reader miss the drift, a Globe editorial harrumphed: “The element of the bizarre in Hart’s reappearance hurts Republicans, Democrats and anyone else who takes seriously the business of electing Presidents.”
Ah! There was the nub of the matter, and the reason the Globe was in such comfy Hart-bashing company ... why even the gentlemanly David Broder (such an admirer of Hart’s speeches only months before) felt constrained to weigh in with a column of condemnation—the headline: WHEN AMBITION OVERRIDES ALL OTHER CRITERIA ... why the influential Des Moines Register ran a front-page cartoon with Hart as a seventh dwarf, Sleazy, pushing the other six over the side of a cliff.
What It Takes Page 114
