hour after six months! Bankrupt farmers trickled in, but starting wages depended on the boss’s mood. There was no job security. Storm Lake developed its own homeless problem. It was said that entire families lived in their cars during the Iowa winter. The Democratic candidates were a little skittish about this issue. Al Gore’s dad was on the Occidental Petroleum board. Bruce Babbitt had garnered certain fame for busting a strike of Kennicott Copper workers in Arizona. Though the national press didn’t report it, IBP was the concern of the locals in northwest Iowa. Jesse appeared at IBP’s front gate for a rally in Storm Lake. My phone request miraculously got action from the candidate himself. Mike Dukakis, appearing at a Cedar Rapids packing plant, said that IBP was a crime. He wouldn’t allow conditions like that in Massachusetts. He called for toughening OSHA (the federal work-inspection agency). This is likely my major contribution of the entire campaign. OF THE PHONE! BY THE PHOHE! FOR THE PHOHE! Ilived somewhat better than a packinghouse worker. Our eighteen-hour day, seven-day week was supposed to crest on February 8th, election day. Free time was spent in two and four-hour chunks watching MTV or running six miles in a blizzard. The rest of the time was always the same. On Sunday the comics were in color. Tour the country during the day. Phone at night. Phone on Saturday. Phone on Sunday. Go to Des Moines to work on New Year’s Eve and January 1. Campaign Iowa only respected two institutions—Christmas and the Super Bowl. The holiday season held its own horrors. I drove to Chicago to visit Mom during my three days off for Christmas, racing a Paul Simon bumper sticker in the dark from Des Moines to the Illinois border. Returning to Cherokee, I didn’t know the snow had closed the freeway. Only semi lights were visible. I could go 55 mph, or I could go sideways into the median strip. My Rabbit skipped over the ice ridges as I slid by cars going into the ditches. The campaign staff threw a New Year’s party for the recruits. Dukakis decreed that no one would be driving. A Greyhound bus drove us to the college bars of Des Moines as the kids and I warbled theme songs from The Flintstones and The Brady Bunch. For the thirteenth time the labor staffer drunkenly said that Mike Dukakis thought Joe Montana was the greatest quarterback ever. My bursitis was killing me. Everyone but me spent the night in a Dukakis crash pad. At 3:30 I got a cab to a motel on the other end of town. After the 10:00 AM New Years’ briefing, I had my picture taken in front of every campaign headquarters in Des Moines. Otherwise, day in and day out, the same telephone conversation repeated itself. I talked about Dukakis and health care—an issue I knew about. The more I called, the more other campaigns called. My phone spiel became less and less welcome. Once in a while, my routine would be’ broken by calling someone with Alzheimer’s disease. One old lady got turned on by the second syllable in Du- ka-kis. I can count only one person that I’m sure I convinced to vote for Mike by phone. This experience did give me a lesson in political power. Listening to the rise and fall of voices, I began to gauge real attitudes towards the presidential campaign. What is the issue most important to you? How do you feel about Mike Dukakis? I began to develop world-class information on how the campaign was going. Des Moines told me very little, but I had access to an opinion poll larger and more detailed than anything Gallup or Harris could put together. I knew Gary Hart was a joke even when the big-city newshounds were ballyhooing him. Paul Simon had large but soft support. Richard Gephardt might win the election, and he was spending way too much money. Public opinion flipped all over the map, depending on what was on the nightly news. I’m sure that Mike Dukakis would have won Iowa if the election had been held a week earlier. Daniel Ellsberg once said, the only thing about being in the seat of power is that you know what the nightly news will be a week or a month from now. That doesn’t necessarily allow you to control the situation—it just makes you better informed. REAL CAMPAIGN BIRT Des Moines attempted to control things by phone. Every couple of weeks there would be a 70-person phone call—always very strange. Eight or nine of the most important pieces of party line were delivered rapid-fire on a giant party line. Once they played a tape of Dukakis singing “ Itsy Bitsy Spider.” I was glad I hadn’t ended up in Des Moines. My first phone boss had grown more short-tempered and bitchy. Without warning, she was transferred to Waterloo, in disgrace. Andrea Dukakis replaced her. Andrea was sweet but something of an airhead. Then came someone I dubbed Surfer Girl, a California friend of a Massachusetts scion who came to Des Moines with no winter clothing. I listened over the wires to the campaign’s disintegration. Surfer Girl began asking me the same questions two or three times in the same conversation. Theresa Villmain turned into Madame LaFarge (Off with their heads!). The Insanity Quotient rose from 10 to 50 to 120. For five days a key campaign aide disappeared. No one knew whether he was dead or alive. He just showed up at his desk with no explanation. It sounded like headquarters had turned into the last outpost of Apocalypse Now. Important campaign events for my area were scheduled with three-days notice, only to be cancelled without warnI LISTENED OVER THE WIRES TO THE CAMPAIGN’S DISINTEGRATION. THERESA VILLMAIN TURNED INTO MADAME LAFARGE. IT SOUNDED LIKE HEADQUARTERS HAD TURNED INTO THE LAS T OUTPOST OF APOCALYPSE NOW. ing. I was pulled off regular duty to make sure that Euterpe Dukakis was not being scheduled into Iowa’s only leather bar. Des Moines staffers lived on cold pizza and slept at their desks. They got angry and distracted when Shirley MacLaine or Tom Brokaw swept through the place. They were too busy. MY LAST WEEK IN MEGA-POLITICS: THE RIG MISTAKE! While headquarters went crazy, I began to go sane. I had called every registered Democrat in one county, and 80 percent of the D’s in Cherokee County. By the time I began phoning in Cherokee itself, every campaign was inundating people with calls. My local advisors all said it was unwise to call; Des Moines wanted redoubling of efforts. On Thursday, February 3rd, we were first or second. On Friday, I rechecked my numbers for accuracy. From a few key phone calls, I determined that 30 percent of Dukakis supporters had evaporated. Paul Simon’s Des Moines Register endorsement had swung people, and I could do nothing about it. Des Moines sent out a useless volunteer to help me. I quickly dubbed him Cronin the Barbarian. He was a spoiled rich kid from Massachusetts. At a Gary Hart do, Cronin nearly caused a campaign incident. He told Hart’s daughter that he was not associated with the Dukakis campaign; someone else had to correct him publicly. His campaigning skills included liking girls and liking beer. Mentally, physically, and geographically I was phoned out. I couldn’t get any more converts to save my life. Instead of being a good soldier, I let Cronin talk me into doing a Saturday night on the town. Another night of reporting goose eggs wouldn’t make any difference. Arriving home drunk at 1:30 AM, I received a phone call from Surfer Girl screaming, WHY HADN’T I BOTHERED TOCALL IN MY NUMBERS?!? She called fifteen minutes later to repeat her message. Fifteen minutes later the same call again. At 2:30 AM, Joe Ricca was on the line. By this time, I was so drunk and tired that I did something unusual—I calmly explained to Joe that our voters had gone south. Dukakis would finish third, and there was nothing we could do about it. I heard silence and then the dialtone. My campaign daydreams during the Siberian winter had me sent to Marina Del Rey, California, to do fundraisers with Jane Fonda. Had I stayed on, my next assignment would have been International Falls, Minnesota, because Iowa wasn’t cold enough. FEBRUARY 9TH: THE AFTERMATH After Dukakis finished third, the troops were gathered for the last supper. People were going to find out their new assignments (South Dakota or Minnesota), and there was going to be a celebration party. For one thing, we had made Simon and Gephardt spend all their money. At headquarters, there was cameraderie in the midst of shambles. The most impressive sight was a five- foot-tall mound of loose typing paper. Special arrangements had been made, and workers were actually being booked into motels with real beds! We were sleeping four to a room. The Dukakis Sleep Dictator was still making room assignments! I was beyond caring. This was my last day on the campaign. I had gotten a job in Portland, and I had to be in Grand Island, Nebraska by the end of the evening. Clinton St. Quarterly— Fall/Winter 1988 11
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