What It Takes (147 page)

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.

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.

I
T 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: