* * ^ < x * 0 ^ < C v* _^®HPtJV* ^ W W K PROLOGUE: he had no interest in pursuing the nomination. Frankly, his body language on TV made me believe him. I knew little about Joe Biden or Mike Dukakis, but a DC friend told me that Biden thought out his position while he was speaking. This can do in a national candidate. I pondered my heart’s choice (Paul Simon) versus my head’s choice (Mike Dukakis). After calling Boston and getting some position papers, I finally placed my bets on Dukakis. With only a few days to get my affairs in order and drive the 2,000 miles to what might as well have been another planet, I turned the management of the house over to my ex, sorted out clothing, had mechanics pore over the car, paid my bills, and saw my best friends. WELCOME TO CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS JULY 4, B87 EUGENE, OREGON ISUPPOSE IT ALL BEGAN THE DAY MY WIFE FORGOT TO COME HOME BEFORE SHE BOUGHT A NEW CAR WITHOUT TELLING ME. THE FACT THAT WE HAD BOTH BEEN OUT OF WORK FOR A T LEAST SIX MONTHS DIDN’T MAKE MATTERS ANY BETTER. AT THAT POINT, I DECIDED THAT LIVING IN THE GREAT HOUSE IN EUGENE WASN’T MAYBE AS IMPORTANT AS I ’D THOUGHT. THE MARRIAGE WAS OVER. With a lot of time on my hands, I began asking myself what it was I wanted to do when I grew up. Speeding toward my fortieth birthday, I had not gone where I really wanted to be in politics. I’d given up hope of being an elected official a long time ago, having lived with one for eight years. They had to be nice continually to mindless weinies indignant over leashlaw violations. Sitting on the Lane County Planning Commission had been okay, but I was in the process of burning my bridges behind me, having successfully alienated the conservative city-county dads over a land-use dispute. I was not particularly interested in serving in yet another rural community as a city administrator. Having ambition and credentials, I wanted to go to Washington, DC. I had been there in June for three weeks searching for anything even remotely governmental. My dream had always been to do staff work in the White House. There could be nothing higher or finer for a political junkie. History in the making, and all that good stuff. By scoping out who had the best chance of winning the election and signing on early, a dedicated campaign worker might be rewarded with White House jobs somewhere between washroom attendant and Ambassador to France. Being a campaign staffer seemed the only chance I would ever have of living out my fantasies. HANDICAPPING THE PLAYERS This was the time of the Seven Dwarfs (after Gary Hart exploded), and the political playing field was filled with little knowns such as Joe Biden, Paul Simon, Bruce Babbitt and Dick Gephardt. Theoretically anyone could win, but who had the best chance of winning the nomination? Just as importantly, who could I work for without choking down a strong sense of moral revulsion? A close race and a brokered convention was possible, but I knew that three or four people would drop out of the race after New Hampshire, leaving three or four candidates who would represent fairly distinct factions of the Democrats. Gary Hart, the clear favorite, had been destroyed on the Monkey Business. The new ideas crowd was as interested as I was in the left-of-center, professionally oriented candidate inclined to implement defense reform and increased domestic spending. Carl Oglesby’s SDS theories from The Yankee-Cowboy War made me think that cowboy money from the Sunbelt had already seen their people in charge under Reagan. Yankee interests were chafing at being excluded from power. This put two strikes against Babbitt, Gore or Gephardt. Okay by me, as they represented the right wing of the party. Gephardt seemed a particularly nasty dude. In a perfect world, someone with Jesse Jackson’s kind of politics would be my choice for President, but a black man with no government experience was not going to be the people s choice. I knew I could work for Paul Simon like rolling off a log. We’d met in 1969 when he was an Illinois State Rep. Eugene was his birthplace. A college chum was one of his top campaign aides. However, Paul Simon had disadvantages. With his bow tie and big ears, he had what I called the Orville Redenbacher effect. He was also trying to build on Walter Mondale’s creaky old coalition. I wanted to work for Senator Simon, but didn’t think he would go the distance. Even so, he could be a formidable contender, as Democrats have always been willing to nominate the person they should have put up four years earlier. My semi-finalists were Mario Cuomo, Joe Biden, and Michael Dukakis. Everybody liked Mario (I love the way his brother Perry sings), but he kept saying ENLISTING IN THE ARMY SALEM, ORAUGUST, B87 Between appointments I wandered through the statehouse offices just to see who might be there. The only person I came across was Rep. David Dix from Eugene, state coordinator for the Massachusetts governor. Having told him I was interested in working for Dukakis he immediately picked up the telephone and called Des Moines (much to my surprise). “ Hello, Theresa. How you doin’? Weather hot enough for you? Hey, I’ve got a great guy for you. No, he’s not a road warrior.” He covered the receiver and said, “Theresa Villmain is the Iowa state coordinator.” When he finally hung up, he asked, “ How does $800 a month sound?” I was taken aback. I hadn’t anticipated getting an immediate job offer or a salary less than half my previous one. “ I'll have to think about it, I’ve got a couple of other things hanging in the fire.” “Well, here’s the number of Dukakis headquarters in Iowa. Call them up when you're in the mood.” Still in the running for a $40,000-a-year state job—the Job of the Century—I thanked Dix and left for Eugene. MOHDAY, NOVEMBER 22 EUGENE AND SALEM The Job of the Century selection process dragged on and on as only civil service can. My interview took place on JFK Assassination Day. Facing the 15- person review panel, it was apparent I was not a finalist. By some strange quirk, the moment I got back home from Salem, a call came in from Iowa. I had made contact with the Dukakis campaign out of desperation. My Boston phone call had been a cold pain in the ass, but Iowa was friendly. They were calling me—telling me to report to Des Moines, with my car, before 5:00 PM, December 1. IN A PERFECT WORLD, SOMEONE WITH JESSE JACKSON’ S KIND OF POLITICS WOULD BE MY CHOICE FOR PRESIDENT; BUT A BLACK MAN WITH NO GOVERNMENT EXPERIENCE WAS NOT GOING TO BE THE PEOPLE’S CHOICE. At 3:30 PM, December 1st, I parked my car in the handicapped space of the loyva Red Cross, a nondescript two-story commercial building. I was entitled. In four days of driving, I slept in a series of Sam Shepard Fool for Love motels. Late one night, in the Idaho-Utah scrubland, I watched a man torch my brand new tire with gasoline while mounting it. Don’t try that one at home, kids! In Wyoming, I figured out that James Watt had once again developed Teapot Dome, the famed symbol of an earlier corrupt Republican administration. And in Laramie, a shyster mechanic performed psychic surgery on my steering wheel. Driving sixteen hours a day, my car turned into a space capsule—a very messy space capsule—complete with a Nebraska speeding ticket, a dozen orange peels, and a stray Talking Heads tape. The only evidence of the headquarter’s mission was a couple of Dukakis lawn signs taped to the glass doors. Inside it conformed to the movie vision of what a presidential campaign central should look like. Twenty-five-year-old aides ran around. Large photos of the candidate and handmade campaign signs graced the walls. The Dukakis campaign looked, at first impression, well organized. I assumed this to be the positive influence of the Harvard Business School. I was told of a 5:00 PM meeting, and that someone would take care of my accommodations. It seemed a good omen that the Iowa Democratic Party offices were on the same second floor where I reported to the conference room. Sixty faces sat around folding tables arranged into a giant hollow rectangle. A small, swarthy, Boston-accented guy standing at the front of the room introduced himself. Joe Ricca welcomed us to the campaign. One of the best kept U.S. government secrets is that it’s largely run by young whippersnappers. Sure, we all know about the President, cabinet members, and congressmen. Those are the cushy jobs, but someone has to do their work for them. Oliver North is equal to or just one 8 Clinton St. Quarterly—Fai l/Winter 1988
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