What It Takes (177 page)

“I did not!” Dukakis responded. “Look at the transcripts of what I said, and what I advocated—the policy of no-early-first-use!” (No one was going to challenge Michael’s answers to this quiz.) “A very, very different thing, which has been the policy of our government and the policy of the NATO alliance for many, many years.”

“Yeah, but under ...”

“But ...”

“... what circumstances ...” This reporter did not want the answer to the quiz. He wanted to know when Michael thought he would or should use nuclear weapons.

“...
fortunately
...”

“... under what ...”

“... the
challenge
of the next President, I expect, will be not that ...” Michael was in segue to another of his sound-bites. “... but also a series of negotiations to limit the conventional forces in Europe, on the ground ...”

Michael turned to his left, seeking safe haven. But there was no haven ... no questions on health insurance.

“The
Daily News
also says this morning that you would advocate letting American hostages die, rather than making concessions to terrorists. Is that true?”

“What I’ve said repeatedly ...”

“Would that include letting American hostages die?”

“... never, ever make concessions to terrorists ... what we did in Iran-contra ...”

“
So the
Daily News
is correct when they say that you would allow American hostages to die
?”

“
Senator Gore has responded to your statement in the
Daily News
today, saying that, uh, you are unwise and irresponsible in both those statements
...”

“
Governor, if Soviet troops did overwhelm Western conventional forces, on the ground in Europe
...”

“
Sir, did the
Daily News
misquote you? Because they said you advocated using
...”

On the platform, Michael looked like a man who’d suddenly remembered his dentist appointment. He stopped pointing to this one and that one, and took the question from the loudest voice.

One reporter had the temerity to ask him what any government could do about good-jobs-at-good-wages.

Another question actually began: “Governor, now that you’ve equivocated on the issue of a Palestinian homeland ...”

Fifteen minutes in, the Governor rediscovered his watch. Thereafter, he checked it every minute or so.

Finally, a reporter asked: Wasn’t it racist for white voters to vote for a white candidate just because he’s white?

Dukakis snapped: “Of course.” Then he marched out of his own press conference.

How could he have known, he would never have another press conference in that room—in any room—that was uncolored by the leap of faith he was making in New York? When Michael Dukakis finally said to himself, and to the world, he was going to win, he was going to be the nominee, he meant to be President of the United States ... well, that didn’t mean
he
was different—did it?

He didn’t think so.

But everything was different.

He went back to New York for the big Salute to Israel Parade. Jesse Jackson wouldn’t march—that was the news of the day. But the news to Michael was the day itself, a splendid spring morning of fresh sunshine and a breeze that held promise of warmth, of restoration, growing things. It seemed to Michael, he’d spent the last six months in the perpetual twilight of airplanes and cars, the dead fluorescence of meeting rooms, or wincing into wake-the-dead television lights. But here he was in God’s good sunshine, marching the wing tips down the center line of Fifth Avenue, with thirty feet of glorious open space on either side, between him and the crowds—cheering
him
: “
Mike! Go get ’em, Mike!
...” He waved. They
loved
him. All he had to do was keep marching, straight down the center line: “
WE LIKE MIKE!
...” Sometimes they screamed for a smile and a wave from “
KITTY
” ... “
KITTEEEEE!
” ... which made him happier still. Because there were times, in the last six months, he worried—
had
to worry: Had he done the right thing? Could she take it? Those nights in Iowa she couldn’t sleep ... so serious in New Hampshire ... the way she felt that Florida rested on her shoulders—his bride! The way she suffered—sinuses that hurt every time she flew. He told her! See a doctor! What d’ya do when you have a problem? How long since you’ve seen an ear-nose-and-throat man? “
KITTEEEE!
” ... His Katharine! She didn’t have quite the same steady stamina as, ahh, her
husband
... no. But they came through, together, to this day, to this wonderful ... street and straight line, just as far as he could see, open all the way, for
him
! This win ... for
him
, for
them
! ... A miracle! A wonder. “
MIKE! ... MIKE! ... MIKE!
” He turned to Kitty, and she looked beautiful, waving to the crowds. “Remember when I first brought you to this town, twenty-six years ago?” She turned her smile to him in the sunshine. Good as new. ... How could he have known, his bride would never be the same?

Michael always thought, somehow, if they could just get this thing locked up, get past this ...
crazy
time—
somehow
... well, things would settle down. Not all the way—he knew ... but somehow, back to his life. He had to hold on to his life. That’s why he wouldn’t take the Secret Service. He didn’t want to take that last step (he thought it must be the last) into the bubble, where he would just ...
his life
would disappear. He told Estrich he was going home—the night of the primary: he was going to win New York, he was going home. End of discussion. Susan wouldn’t fight anymore. She’d lost too many—spent her last on Wisconsin. Well, they won that, and his prize was ... home. He thought, maybe, he could plant ... well, a little early, but he could start, turn the soil. ... If they could just get by
this
—how could he lose? He wasn’t afraid of the White House. The job was governing. They’d be together. He’d be home for dinner, six o’clock. You live over the shop! ... And if not—well, thank God, he could go back to a job, a life, that he loved. If he could just keep marching. This was ... terrific. ... How could he have known, he would never have his life back?

He went to a shelter for AIDS patients—Bailey House. He finally made the Advance team pick a small pool of reporters. He didn’t want to crash in with a halogen circus—he wanted to show concern. This wasn’t easy for Michael. He didn’t approve of homosexual—well, any of that kinda strange (he could only imagine!), that kinda ... but he went. He talked to the patients, they asked him questions. But it never turned into a conversation. Michael was uneasy. There was a patient named Petrillis (a
Greek
?) who asked Michael if he’d invite AIDS patients to the White House. Michael shrugged. “I
might
... I’ve been inviting everyone else.” So when the pool report got to the bus, everybody wanted to know: What the hell did
that
mean? What it meant was: there was work, and there was home. What did
they
mean, “to the White House”—to his
home
! ... But how could he explain that to a hundred and fifty reporters? For that matter, how could they ask, in a mob on the street? They could only shout their questions into the knot of tape machines around his head. So they screamed:
WHAT ABOUT AIDS? ... WHAT ABOUT AIDS?
... Michael didn’t know why they were screaming at him. What had he done wrong? Just an offhand remark! He’d gone to show his concern—tried to be correct! ... How could he have known, there would be no more offhand remarks?

The day before the primary, he was flying upstate. Overnight, the U.S. Navy had shot up an Iranian oil platform—retaliation for mines sown in the Persian Gulf. The press wanted to know: What did Dukakis think of the action in the Gulf? Michael was careful. He said he’d have to study the reports. He was seeking full information. ... Then he walked down the aisle of his big new plane, to the bathroom in the rear—one thing about these events: if you’re the star, you never get a minute to pee. So he was trying to edge into the can, and the Reuters guy asked him again: “How ’bout the Gulf?” Dukakis just wanted to get by—for God’s sake, he had to pee! “Well, it, ahh, seemed like a measured response.” So, of course, next stop, the Reuters guy filed ... and everybody else went bullshit! Their desks wanted to know: “Why no Duke-react? Reuters has Duke-react!” ... So on the plane, they were screaming:
WHADDABOUT IRAN?
And in front, Michael’s wise guys were bawling him out: “Don’t
do
that! Don’t go back there.”

“I was going to the bathroom!”

They told him not to go to the bathroom.

He could not understand—he would not—that life, as he knew it, was over. He wasn’t gonna lose ... anything. No! He was winning! He was right! He was doing everything right! He could feel it turning—that was good, wasn’t it? This was what he’d been working for—this moment!—when he knew ... and everybody conceded, he was going to be the nominee. The chosen. Him!

On the last night, he went to Brooklyn—a gym in a beat-up school. Charles Schumer, the Congressman, made Michael come. For what? For basketball! Anyway, that’s what they promised the press bus—film of Michael, playing ball. So they got to the gym, and the place was a madhouse. There wasn’t any basketball game. A few huge guys, on the court, shooting, and the bleachers full of Puerto Ricans—God knows what Schumer promised
them
... and in the middle of the gym floor, politicians, the school principal, a hundred and fifty pissed-off reporters and cameramen, and sound men, auteurs. ... Marie Cocco,
Newsday
, was screaming at Jack Weeks, the Trip Director, near mid-court. “You assholes said a basketball game! There isn’t any fucking basketball game!” Weeks just shrugged. What the hell could he do ... what could anyone do, with this? They put Michael into an orange T-shirt with a big number 8 on the front, and on the back the words: “Street Corner Stuff.” Michael got onto the floor—set shots. Fifteen feet, twenty feet—a miss, another miss. Then he hit. He was such a cocky little bastard, he clapped his hands for the ball.
Hey! C’mon! I hit my shot. Gimme the ball!
... Schumer was screaming at the crowd through a cheap P.A. “
On the last night before the New York primary, we have the next President of the United States. He’s come to Midwood to do us proud
...” All of a sudden, the three huge guys on the court had ahold of Michael, and had lifted him up like a beachball, in front of the basket, with the ball in his two hands like a kid would hold it, in his stupid T-shirt, his wing tips kicking little spasmic kicks with the effort ... WHAM ... he stuffed the ball. Greek Thunder! So everybody with a camera was enraged because Schumer was screaming they’d missed it, so up Michael went again, with the “Street Corner Stuff,” and the wing tips wiggling ... and he almost missed. They were filming. He looked ... well, not to put too fine a point on it: he looked ridiculous, undersized, out of place.

How could he have known how he looked? He never worried about that. They were happy, right? He did his basketball thing—right? It’s over? Good. Let’s go.

And they were happy—the wise guys, the press. It was over, this mess of New York ... their man was
winning
. They were going on to Pennsylvania, Ohio, all the way to California—L.A., the pool at the Century Plaza! And beyond, to the convention ... the White House! Jesus! ... They all felt the turn. In the press bus. Jack Weeks barked at the driver, in Southie patois: “Awright, Fred. Fastasyacan! Everybody get yer seats!
Wahp speed.
” So the diddybops were yelling at Weeks: “What’s a Wahp? Whadd’yahave against Wops?” Weeks was yelling back at them: “What’s the headline? What’s the HEADLINE? Duke slam-dunks New Yawk? ...” And from the back of the bus, catcalls: “
WHADDABOUT IRAN, JACK?
” ... “
WHADDABOUT AIDS?
” ... Phil Lintz, from the
Chicago Tribune
, had an electronic keyboard he was hauling home, a gift for his kid. So now he started picking out the tune the Puerto Ricans sang ... a catchy Latin thing:

“Mike Du-ka-kee ...

“El Presidente ...

“Mike Du-ka-kee ...

“El Presidente ...”

The bus was pitching and rolling—sixty miles an hour on the humps and ruts of a Brooklyn street, while they sang ...

“
Mike Du-ka-kee
...” Stomping the floor, banging the windows. “
Presi-dente
...”

And in his quiet car, Michael turned against his belt in the front seat and arched his eyebrows: “So, gentlemen,” he said. “A year later, wiser ... but still standing. Taking nourishment. And it’s nice to be escorted by New York’s finest.” That was for the cop at the wheel. Michael was expansive, inclusive ... he’d made it through.

He wasn’t counting chickens—but he could read a poll. He was beating George Bush—ten points ... “Not too bad for a guy from Massachusetts whom thirty percent of the people don’t know.” Michael said everybody assumed the GOP had some kind of lock—a built-in advantage. He couldn’t see it. “The country is coming offa that.” He was out there! He saw the way people
responded
to him—especially now, when it was coming down to Bush ... and him.

Who would have thought?

All the rest had fallen away—Hart, Biden, Gephardt ... Gore, too, after this ... just Jackson and him. He would go on and beat Jesse in Pennsylvania, Ohio, West Virginia ... that would be different—him and Jesse. It was always the other guys who helped Michael to define himself. Not that he hauled them down.

“Nick, you remember that black guy in the little restaurant? You know, before the Wall Street rally? ...” They’d used a small Greek restaurant as a holding room. A black lawyer there said to Michael:
Thank you for running a real Presidential campaign
. ... “Ya know what he meant, don’t you?” Mitropoulos knew. Michael was the one who wouldn’t hit Jesse. That was a great satisfaction.

God, he loved New York ... he loved his life ... he loved ...

“Kitty has been
wonderful
. Down here, she’s been using Yiddish—I couldn’t believe! ... Nick, what was it she pulled out the other day? ‘Why does a duck have webbed feet?’ ... in Yiddish? I couldn’t believe it! There was a terrific story in the
Globe
today, her with these old Jewish people, using Yiddish ... and they’re sitting back there, whispering, ‘I didn’t know she was Jewish!’ ”