What It Takes (168 page)

If nothing else happened, he was going to win. He was going to win everywhere on Super Tuesday. He was going to win it all.

George Bush had come out of the bubble for that one needy week in New Hampshire. When he won there, he dove back inside with purposeful finality, and he would never have to come out again. His Super Tuesday style made his Iowa campaign look homey and personal. Through fifteen states in twenty days, he met people he knew, or people who were picked to meet him—anybody else, he’d barely stop to shake hands. He said nothing for ten minutes at a stretch at three dozen airports, and nothing for five minutes a pop in a hundred local TV “interviews” in three dozen media markets. Meanwhile, he spent $3 million buying airtime everywhere there was a vote: there were ad images of Bush-with-Reagan, Bush-with-soldiers, Bush-with-grandchildren, Bush-with-ocean, Bush-with-farmland, Bush-with-flags.

He wasn’t negative.

He didn’t need to be.

Super Tuesday was invented by southern Democrats as a grand and futile prophylaxis against a liberal nominee ... but the way it worked out (what a Good Godly stroke!) ... Super Tuesday was made for George Bush.

As it turned out, New Hampshire and South Carolina would restore (just in time!) Bush, Inc.’s, most successful rationale—inevitability.

As it turned out, that rationale was strongest when the campaign schedule threw together, on one day, so many contests, so widely dispersed, that no one could make (for more than a couple of hours) a concerted appeal to any set of voters in any one place.

As it turned out, Bush, Inc., was the only campaign with the reach and resources to play everywhere across the South. Super Tuesday was so vast and vacant of content, it rewarded pure movement and muscle—or at least the money to buy muscle ... everywhere at once.

As it turned out, Bush’s strongest opponents were beset in these same three weeks by dire self-inflicted woes: Bob Dole’s smart guys and Big Guys had eaten through the fortune he’d raised and were now busy eating one another in an orgy of press leaks and attempted coups. Pat Robertson was visited by revelations (of nuclear missiles in Cuba, and the exact location of U.S. hostages in Beirut) ... which the Reverend announced with some fanfare but, alas, could not begin to prove.

Bush alluded with mild derision to his rivals’ troubles—“unstable” was a word that popped out—but he didn’t have to name names. To him, their incapacities were evident, and the real and final rationale for his candidacy:

They
shouldn’t be President.

To him, the noiseless, newsless operation of his white men and their hirelings, all across the South, was the confirmation of his bedrock faith:

This was
his
time—he was ready for this game, like no one else.

As it turned out, Bush, Inc., was blessed in these weeks with a candidate who was closer, each day, to the full flush of confidence ... uniquely able, by virtue of his resources and the inability of rivals, to project across one-third of the country, without static—almost without argument—a clear and faithful view of his own beliefs, the issues that informed his candidacy, the outlines of his possible Presidency ... his hope for the nation, which he meant to serve ...

Oh, the vision thing.

As it turned out, there was none.

At every stop, in every state, he shot for the safest common ground. Speeches ... well, he didn’t make many. Mostly he’d blow into a room and assure the crowd, with a grin:

“Don’t worry. I’m not gonna drop the full load on you ...”

Often, he’d bring up the word “change.” (Teeter’s numbers showed that voters wanted “change”—a
good word
, Teeter said.) But change, for Bush, turned out to be just a change of watch at the helm of the great ship. The point was to ...
be
... the next President of the United States.

He’d like to “
be
... the Education President.” But he wouldn’t want the federal government interfering in local schools (i.e., the only schools we have).

He’d like to “
be ...
the Follow-on President for Arms Control.” He was
the first U.S. official to meet Gorbachev
(at a funeral). But he would not affirm any fundamental difference between Gorbachev and his predecessors ... nor envision a shift in U.S. policy toward the Soviets ... a reevaluation of containment ... no.

He’d like to have a
line-item veto ...
the better to battle Congress over federal spending. But that would require a Constitutional amendment, which would take years (if it ever happened). Meantime, his plan to balance the budget ... was no plan.

He did repeat his vow not to fool around with taxes.

In fact, from the Super Tuesday evidence—local interviews (his only interviews)—Bush was not going to fool around with anything. From the evidence, he did not see anything to do.

Sure, there were U.S. factories closing ... the Reagan flood of guilt-free debt left a few million have-nots high and dry. “There’s some people still hurting,” Bush allowed. “Some jobs gone. But, generally speaking, a very successful President.” (Bush also referred to the Great Depression as “the thirties, when we had some economic difficulties.”)

One of the local anchormen asked: “What will distinguish a George Bush Presidency from ... from anything? What will be your place in history, if you have your choice?”

Bush said: “It’s hard to say at this juncture. But, I hope, peace.” Then, there was a pause, before Bush mentioned, for a second time, he’d like to be the Education President.

Mostly, he answered horse-race questions:

Was he going to win South Carolina?

“I will win South Carolina ...”

Would a win in South Carolina echo into Super Tuesday?

“It will have an effect ...”

Thank you, Mr. Vice President.

Curiously, the vacuity of George-Bush-winning was not discussed as character ... nor even Karacter. Maybe the Kops had spent themselves in the war of wimpdom. At any rate, the Karacter query on Bush
was
the Wimp Factor ... and no man is a wimp to the political press corps whilst he win.

So the dive of George Bush back into the bubble was discussed in the press as tactic—on which ground it was hard to fault. In these three weeks, Bush was appealing to Republicans across the South. He knew who they were—how they came to be Republicans.

They were Democrats all, when he first moved among them, in the forties ... when the Democrats brought to the South the schools, hospitals, the electric lines that it so desperately needed. And he lived among them through the fifties, while the region caught up in development and wealth ... and into the sixties, when the Democratic Party identified itself with the struggle for civil rights. ... For four decades, Bush had watched these people as they moved in from the countryside—or the cities moved out to meet them—where they now had roads, schools, hospitals, country clubs ... and homes in suburbs, attained and established, they insisted, by their labor ... and the last goddam thing they wanted was the government to come in and get in their way ... to take more taxes, for example ... or, worse still, to erode, to
take away
, any measure of the security and comfort they had attained ... those schools, houses, neighborhoods, jobs ... in any effort to bring along the have-nots—blacks, for instance, or the poor in those rotting cities, the workers in rust-belt factories ... bailouts, affirmative action, Congressional mandates, federal court orders ... no!

These were the got-mines that Joe Biden used to talk about:

“Got mine ... go get yours!”

These were people who thought they wanted government to do ... well, not much ... save to stand tall for America, God bless her.

“I’ll never apologize for her,” Bush vowed, in Super Tuesday speeches.

As it turned out, George Bush was perfect for Super Tuesday.

“I wouldn’t mind if I could get the paper to recognize how mindless it is ...”

This was David Hoffman,
The Washington Post
’s lead reporter on the Bush campaign. He was in Greensboro, North Carolina—the Four Seasons Mall. Bush was receiving a merit badge from the Boy Scouts at the Greensboro Scout-o-Rama—six months of Advance, six minutes of event: “The Boy Scouts,” Bush said, “represent American values.”

Hoffman was a man near the end of his rope. He was, among the big-feet, the most thorough and ambitious reporter. He had files that went back years, on everything Bush said. He had them organized for instant access to the history of Bush-thought—or at least Bush-speak—on any subject of moment: arms control, Soviet relations, civil rights, education, the environment ... Hoffman was ready.

“The Boy Scouts,” George Bush affirmed, “represent the best of America!”

Hoffman was stuffing his mouth with a two-dollar cookie. He’d just got off the pay phone outside of Scribbles ’n’ Giggles. “I can’t get this shit in the paper.”

Behind him, Marie Cocco of
Newsday
was on the phone with her editors. “He hasn’t talked to the traveling press in eight days,” she said. “The other day, we jumped him about something in his speech, and it was right behind a diesel. He acted like he couldn’t hear—just like Reagan.”

Bush was already finished with the Scout-o-Rama. He’d been whisked away for three local TV “interviews” at a hotel. The big-feet and big-feet-to-be were not invited. It was just the VP and a single blow-dry in matching armchairs—very intimate—they could really get to know one another ... you know, for four minutes and thirty seconds.

(“You really must be running around!” said Action News, Channel Five. “Oohhhh,” said George Bush. “Exhausting!”)

Meanwhile, the fleet of Greyhounds had deposited the national press in a cold gray wind in the middle of a rock quarry. There were craters in the ground and mountains of gray gravel and stone. No one could figure why they were standing for a half-hour in this chill moonscape.

David Hoffman was furious. He’d had a standing request to interview George Bush for a year and a half—since October 1986. Once he got so close as to have a talk with Bush about why he should get to talk to Bush. Then he called Craig Fuller forty times. Then he had to write a letter. But by that time, Iran-contra had transpired and Bush had gone to ground—Bush talked to no one. Then, the Wimp Factor surfaced—Bush talked to no one. The only interview Hoffman ever saw was a wet kiss from David Frost, the celebrated English brownnose. Hoffman said the white men had prepared Bush for
days
... “like it was some kind of goddam summit meeting.” Bush never did the Marvin Kalb interview, like all the other candidates.

“He’s never done a substantive interview on
anything
,” Hoffman said.

George Bush was arriving, in a whoosh of thirty vehicles ... straight into the rock quarry, where the pod-people set up a ropeline. Secret Service held the limo door for Bush, and Hoffman was at the rope, screaming:

“WHY ARE YOU HERE? ... WHY ARE YOU HERE?”

Bush just waved and grinned, climbed into the cab of a front-end loader. Off to the side, all the plant brass were gathered, and local Bush supporters—women in fur coats. There was a man on the ladder, next to Bush, who knew how to run the machine. He pointed to a lever. Bush pulled the lever.

“WHY ARE YOU HERE?
”

Beep-Beep-Beep ...
the loader drowned out all other sound with its electronic warning, as the front scoop lifted a ton of rock, preloaded for the Deputy Commander in Chief.

A dump truck rumbled into camera frame.

The man on the ladder pointed to another lever.

“Great,” said one reporter. “Now he can finally drop the full load.”

The next reporter kept his eyes on Bush: “Does he remind you of a three-year-old?”

“My three-year-old has more maturity and sophistication.” There were some hoots behind the rope. “And vision,” someone said. The one with the three-year-old said: “Helen Keller has more vision.”

Bush pushed the lever. Rock tumbled into the dump truck.

The cameras were rolling. They could mock all they wanted. Bush was getting
his
work done—and they were helping.

Bush Advance and the mobile white men were having a good yuk about Hoffman’s question: “Why the hell do you
think
we’re here?”

Meanwhile, Bush was ending his inspection of a rock separator. He came to the ropeline for a minute of spasmodic friendliness. Someone got his attention for a question—what was he doing in this quarry?

Bush shrugged. “There’s a lot of show-biz in politics. There are a lot of things about campaigning that I don’t like. One of the things I
do
like is meeting the people who hold a job, and do the work, building
the strongest economy this country’s ever had
.”

The limo came purring through the moonscape behind him. Bush disappeared into the backseat. He was having a chuckle, too. These reporters didn’t understand the value of the bubble. The limo was backing to turn around when he grabbed the microphone inside.

“See you, guys!” he called to the quarrymen. One of his arms was flapping out the side of the limo. “See you, guys! Thanks for the visit! Thanks, guys! Appreciate the visit!”

I
T WAS JUST HART
and Lee sometimes, or Hart and Andrea (Lee’s sinuses were hurting again) ... and one or two friends who’d help. Sue Casey had tried to run the whole campaign from Denver, but she burned out—there were days now you couldn’t find Casey anywhere. When he could, Billy Shore would travel with Gary. Or Mike Stratton would go along. There was a new guy who showed up for some trips, a Californian named Bernie Schneider—Hart called him Bernie the Attorney. Four Advance kids were half-killing themselves, hip-hopping the South, trying to set up something ahead of Hart.

But that was it: his campaign, his crusade, had shrunk to this hardy, hopeless few. You could seat them all at one table for dinner—which he did, almost every night, along with anyone else who took an interest—people who wanted to be delegates, the kid who drove him to his speech at the local campus, the poli-sci professor who introduced him in the lecture hall, a guy from the local radio who’d never met a Senator.