What It Takes

by Richard Ben Cramer

  Dukakis couldn’t figure it either. Poor Michael and his brainy young patriots on Chauncy Street used to tell each other every day that Bush would never get away with this crap. This furlough crap, this flag crap—Bush was craven. People would see. ... Of course, people saw and concluded, rightly, that here was a guy who’d do what it took. Bush met the nonnegotiable criterion—they voted him in. Their only other choice was a guy who showed in a hundred ways, he didn’t know what it took, he knew only what he wouldn’t do, and he was not gonna lose hold of his life! No! Dukakis was the King of No ... and no was just another way of saying he wouldn’t see this as bigger than himself. He would not concede, his life was meat. People put all kinds of words on this failure; the wise guys pointed to defining moments. The favorite was the national gasp in the second debate, when Bernie Shaw tried to draw Michael forth by asking about the rape of his bride; Michael turned his sober, hooded eyes to the camera and answered with statistics on capital punishment. Thereafter, a million words recapitulated Dukakis’s fatal lack of passion, and a couple hundred thousand decried the vulgarity of the question. But passion was never nonnegotiable (Bush would win no ribbon in that bake-off), and the question always struck me as kindly: an invitation for Michael to give us a purchase upon his life. He refused.

  And this was no momentary choke. Dukakis could never get that he had to (as Arsenio says) give it up! You could have seen the campaign’s disastrous end months before that debate—soon after Dukakis returned to Brookline, seventeen points ahead in the polls, with his primary triumphs like a neat stack of bills in his briefcase. Kitty was recuperating from her neck operation, still confined to Perry Street. So her new press honcho, her new body woman, and her new Advance staff brought the world to her. So it happened one morning, 6:30 A.M., Michael padded down his steps and ran into the crew, camera, lights, cables, field producer, coffee-in-a-paper-cup and doughnut-wrapper-on-the-floor of The CBS Morning News ... in his living room. So much for lack of passion. Michael Dukakis, in his little striped pj’s, stood at the foot of his stairs, bellowing, “KATHARINE! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?”

  Give it up! (Woof-woof-woof-woof!) ... Only one man could. He would become President ... which goes a long way toward answering the final, most persistent and troubling question: Why ... when at last we mop up the quadrennial bloodbath and shove one of these fellows toward the White House, why ... when no matter who he is, he rides a national flood of goodwill, bears the public’s hope for a fresh start and better times, why ... when he surfaces, smiling, under the Great Eagle Seal to become the embodiment and emblem of our age, why, invariably ... does this poor bastard seem so out to lunch?

  Because he is stunned with blood-roar; witless; spent ... which explained, also, the sour, furrowed face on George Bush, November 8, 1988, his great day. He just wanted it to be over.

  But it seemed like the day that would not die. There was the smile for TV at the polling place—had to get that tape on the air; then a drop-by at the phone banks, where Bush made a couple of ritual calls; then the schedule went blank, but it really was a white heat of White Men calling network friends for exit polls, then badgering Bush for satellite chats with anchoroids in Markets That Might Make a Difference. If it had been up to the White Men, Bush would never have got to Houston; they planned to fly his raggedy beehive to five or six contested states on Election Day ... until Barbara Bush emerged from the forward cabin of AFII and announced, “Well, we’re going to Houston.” She meant her and the Veep, of course—which meant the White Men could do what they wanted, but they’d have no bloody shirt to wave. It was Jeb Bush, second son and heritor of the Walker steel, who put the kibosh on the satellite chats: “Let the old man have his peace!”

  Alas, there would be no peace while the polls were open, or even after—not till the network Gods of Election had painted their maps Bush-blood-red across the South and West, proving Bush had held on to the Gipper’s old homestead and would soon take over the big house. Bush went to dinner with family and pals at the home of his old neighbors on Indian Trail, the Nebletts. The way Charles and Sally Neblett planned it, this was to be the real celebration with real friends, the Hugh Liedtkes and the Bill Liedtkes, the Chamberses, the Kerrs, the Fitches, the Pressie Bushes, the Jonathan Bushes, and, to leaven the mix, Jim Baker, and then, too, Nick Brady, and for politeness’s sake, Teeter, and Fuller, and Atwater, and, of course, the body man, McBride, who could eat in the kitchen with the Veeply traveling doctor, who couldn’t drink on the job anyway ... and the friends were properly ebullient and ready to kick it out in glee for George, once they’d gone through the buffet in the dining room and drifted with their plates into the living room, where the Nebletts had arrayed four TVs ... but Bush was slumped in a chair where no one could come between him and the screens, and what with all those White Men still twitchy on the job, it just never took off. Some state would start flashing red, and a friend would shout, Hurray! Kentucky! But Baker would snap, like a teacher who heard giggling at the back of the class, “That’s our base,” and then he’d march upstairs to make another Important Phone Call, which let people know what they saw downstairs didn’t really matter a good goddamn. ... Before 8:00 P.M., ABC’s computers bumped Bush to 240 electoral votes—just thirty shy! But Teeter said, “Yeah, and ABC called six states wrong last time.” So no one got to yell—Even after one network called it, then another, there was, still, that sonofabitch Dan Rather—just wouldn’t call it—hoping for a miracle, Atwater said. ... And even at 8:17, when CBS finally lit Missouri and put Bush over the top, Bush just mumbled, “Nuhh, premature,” and bent his face toward the screens like the maps might change if he blinked. So, finally, just on his own say-so, the Nebletts’ son cranked up the stereo with “Chariots of Fire,” and in the living room, Dr. Neblett asked Bush, “Would you come with me?” And Bush hemmed and hawed, but he couldn’t be impolite, so he let himself be led to the garden room, where everyone was gathered, and they showed him the cake, with the candles and the frosting that read: “Congratulations Mr. President!” But Bush still didn’t want to admit it, so he mumbled around, and said, “I really think I could do a good job, if I win—but if I don’t win, I still have my friends, and ...”

  And he had to go, back to the hotel to get ready for the real Big Victory Thing, which would employ the brand-new convention center, dolled up for the night with a grand scale model of the White House, and confetti cannons, towers for balloon drops, and two stages, and huge banners that said AMERICA WINS, and there’d be bands and singers of famous name, and hundreds of fat-cat contributors who called themselves The Eagles, and The 100 Club, who’d have gold tickets for admittance to their own rooms (with open bars and potted palm trees) that Bush would have to stop by, after he stood on stage for the nation and read a speech that Peggy Noonan wrote (that’s how Big this deal was), with a buffalo herd of satellite trucks and all the big-feet on duty to describe the dawn of a national era, and the networks, of course, with correspondents and crews and producers and even news execs, who had come in person to make damn sure they and their outfits were in on the ground floor of the Age of Bush—heavy power-tripping in heavy power suits—all amid massive security, for this was a night that would bring out the nuts, like Christmas spurs suicides, peak of the curve, and the Service could read an exit poll, so they had, seemed like, a thousand earplugs, to the point where Advance could pretty much pick and choose who was going to get to the front of the room, where Bush might have to see them, and surely who’d get to the ropeline, where Bush might have to talk to them or hear them talk, which was a good thing because they worried for days about this one guy, Judge Lindsay, who wasn’t a nut but an old Bush friend and the current dean of the Harris County GOP, who was hosting a party for thousands of visiting Young Republicans, who learned their manners in frat houses and who would surely be shitfaced and creating a scene—what Bush Advance was pleased to call “a real goat fuck”—but Advance knew, if Lindsay got to the ropeline and asked the President-e
lect to stop by, well, Bush would never say no to a friend, so then they’d have the Free World’s Leader-to-be in a YR goat fuck, and the fretting went so far as suggestions that someone could, you know, “take Lindsay out,” or “maybe just put him away for a while.”

  They needn’t have worried. By the time a tiny, distant, slope-shouldered Bush got on stage and gummed Noonan’s chewy prose down to fast food, and stopped by The Eagles and the 100 fat-cats (about four minutes apiece amid the potted palms), it was clear he wanted to go nowhere but home. He saw old friends, but he couldn’t even say thank you, they couldn’t get near him, what with all the earplugs—who were suddenly strangers (where was his own detail?)—and people calling him Mr. President, like that would please him, when all at once, he really wanted to be George. And he didn’t know yet, but they were screwing around with his hotel, too, which was as close as he had in Houston to home, assigning new guards to close off his hallway all the way from the ice machine, moving “safe people” into rooms all around, even above and below his old rooms, where they even changed the seal on the door (how’s a guy to sleep with a new seal on his door?)—tired as he was, he wasn’t going to sleep well ... but at least it was over. He made for his motorcade, then fidgeted behind his bulletproof glass while they loaded all the cars, and he really didn’t seem to relax till they moved, past the buffalo herd and off the convention center grounds, onto his hometown streets, heading for the Houstonian. ... They took a route through the center of town and swept past the Hyatt, where Lloyd Bentsen’s disappointed Democrats were streaming out—that was the first time Bush seemed to inhabit his own skin. On the corner, three lady Democrats took the opportunity to salute Bush’s limo, each with her middle finger upraised.

  “Isn’t that nice?” Bush said mildly to his plate glass. “They’re already saying, ‘We’re Number One.’ ”

  By that time, the networks were frantically filling between ads already sold, trying to breathe life into their telecasts by turning a couple of tight Senate races into a national crisis and flashing around the studio and stratosphere to stiff-shouldered correspondents who were encouraged to fritter a few minutes apiece, discoursing upon news they’d squeezed out, fast as they could, a couple of hours before.

  “So ...” said a desperate Dan Rather. “Did he have any coattails? How big a mandate does he get? All of those things are still very much up for grabs. Ed Bradley! In your conversations with voters today—keeping in mind that that was your assignment, to go out and talk to actual voters, uh, what was their reaction to the tone of the campaign—do they agree with the press and a lot of the pundits that it was particularly nasty?”

  “No question, Dan,” said the candid Bradley. “As you know, we’ve all talked to, uh, a number of people, and a lot of people expressed the opinion, uh, recently, that this has been a very negative campaign, and that was, uh, carried out, borne out, by the numbers we’re seeing from our exit-poll survey. Most people thought that both of the candidates spent more time attacking the other man than they did explaining their own positions, uh—but they blame George Bush more for that negative tone. In fact, if we take a look at the numbers ...”

  That was the truth that everybody-in-the-know was known to know, that this campaign had turned so (unphh, unphh!) ugly—so personal (How could it get that way, a mystified press wanted to know)—that it really, well, it wasn’t about anything, like, you know, running the government, and so ... everybody knew, there would be no mandate, no national consensus, no societal satisfaction, no, no ... no honeymoon for Bush! Not after he’d helped them defile their own bit of history—no! ... Said the Wednesday morning Boston Herald: “The honeymoon is over before it even begins.” Said the well-known TV-guest-in-the-know on well-known knowledge, William Schneider: “I would argue, the honeymoon is over ...”

  Everybody knew, but Bush. By the time he appeared that morning, after church, for his first press conference in the Age of Bush, he was convinced: all rancor (all politics, in fact) was behind him ... “and the American people are wonderful when it comes to understanding when a campaign ends and the work of business begins.”

  So, though he was gray as his suit, and more wrinkled, Bush turned to the work of business. He announced that he meant to become the President of all. He said he never ridiculed liberals. He commended Dukakis and Bentsen as distinguished patriots who “have given a major portion of their own lives to public service. I have the greatest respect for that commitment. I know that each one is going to serve the public interest as they see it, with the same energy and conviction that they demonstrated so well in this campaign.” Bush worked in some praise of Bob Dole—said he’d “done a wonderful job. I think we can work harmoniously together.” Bush promised to use the phone, unceasingly, to maximize his personal contacts. He promised frequent press conferences. Two or three times, he commended the press for “a magnificent job” in the campaign and thanked its representatives gathered before him that morning—in fact, Bush would not cease to praise and to thank everyone, that day, or for months thereafter. At least a dozen of those reporters in Houston would find in their mail one of Bush’s stiff, cream-colored cards with the embossed seal, and an intimately charming note of personal thanks ... as would, of course, Bush’s friend and OVP honcho in Houston, Jack Steel; and Bush’s hosts for election night, Charles and Sally Neblett ... and the Reverend Tom Bagby, who presided at St. Martin’s Church that morning-after and gave Bush a Bible to guide him. The note to Bagby was dated that same day, and mailed from Washington, D.C. “Tears came to my eyes,” Bush wrote, “when you mentioned all five kids by name at today’s service. Thanks for being there, thanks for my Bible, and thanks for your love and friendship.” Of course, Tom was an old friend. And Bush was determined not to lose a friend—not now, when he felt on the brink. There was a note Bush wrote earlier that year, when it came clear he was facing the prospect of life in the White House. Apropos of no occasion in particular, he wrote to Bob Boilard, a fishing guide and Bush fishing-buddy, in Biddeford, Maine: “... Bob, I’m going to win, but I’ll promise you one thing—it won’t affect our fishing together. Life is about friends and values. You are my Friend. Keep your fingers crossed. Love to Maddie. George B.” As Bush said in his press conference, “Reach out and touch someone!”

  And by the time that press conference ended, the Bush honeymoon had begun. One of the reporters said at the door, “D’you notice how many questions he took?” His happy pal nodded, “Yeah! He gave short answers, but at least we got a chance!” In the next month or two, those happy scribes would discover Bush knew their names, he’d call on them in press conferences, he’d joke with them (on camera! even better!), they’d get invited for cocktails with the President-elect ... and, not entirely by coincidence, they would discover his thousands of friendships, his endearing affection for country music, for baseball, and popcorn, and horseshoes, and grandkids, burgers-and-bloodies, Chinese food at the mall in Virginia, speedboats, fishing boasts, tennis rankings, goofy smiles ... God, Bush was so nice! Bush, in short, would have a honeymoon and a half—a gorgeous romance with the myth-makers of the capital that would last till inauguration (when George and Bar got out of their car to walk on Pennsylvania Avenue!) and beyond, through the first weeks of his administration (when Bush greeted tourists at the White House gates!), and would not fade, even as the cherry blossoms burst forth, which blooms Bush was wont to point out to guests from the windows of the White House’s third story, the floor of “private residence,” where guests had never been brought before—fourth- and fifth-term Senators had never seen those rooms—but he so much wanted to share ... and he knew how they’d love to have their pictures taken while they sat on the Lincoln Bed, so he’d snap them himself, with his Polaroid, and then sign the pics—the man knew how to make friends! And after all, that’s how he planned to confront the enormity of the job: the same way he got it—Bush would make his honeymoon, he’d earn it—making friends, one by one, if need be, or now by the thousands, or
the millions, with each halogen-lit gesture. There wasn’t any feeling but good feeling, when George Bush wanted to be friends. You could see it all over the guy! ... As you could that morning-after, at the close of his first public appearance, as he was ushered into a holding room, and he executed his first written act as President-elect.

  “We really gotta get moving,” Jack Steel was warning.

  God! It was true! November already!

  George Bush tore a strip of paper off the bottom of a letter, and with his pen in his left hand, leaned his forearms flush against a wall, and wrote:

  “We count our special blessings.

  “We are grateful for our friends.

  “We give thanks to God.”

  “Don’t lose that!” Bar commanded Steely. “That’s our only copy.”

  True enough, but soon to be replicated, for so many thousands ... the first written order of the Age of Bush: the message for the annual Christmas Card.

  That day, Michael Dukakis had a press conference in Boston. He looked weary, punch-rumpled, hard-cheese-beat-up—but in no way shaken. Michael knew what he had to do. “I spent the morning,” he announced, “in my State House office, getting reacclimated and going back to work on my job as Governor of the Commonwealth. ...” In fact, he’d marched into his office before 9:00 A.M.—“Good morning. Good morning, good morning,” he said briskly, then put his coffee cup on his desk, stripped off his jacket, and sat down on his hard-backed chair—to govern. This was the life! ... In the autumn of the campaign, when he was sure the detested press could not overhear, he’d murmur to one or two Boston friends, “At least I’ve got something I love to go back to.” Here was Michael’s real life renewed.