Primary Colors (23 page)

We began to move through the small terminal, all plate glass, potted palms and aviation sorts. The governor looked about, sported the men's room-and I had a decision to make. I followed him in. It was a rwo-holer. I had to go but didn't. I stood by the sink as he went. "Governor," I said.

"They're great," he said. "Your folks. Just great-wish we could just stay out here and-"

"Governor."

Now he got it. He looked at me hard.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Fat Willie, the Barbecue Man, came by headquarters this morning," I said, reaching for calm but quavering a little. "His daughter is pregnant. She says you're the father."

He betrayed nothing. "Who else knows?"

I shrugged.

"What does he want?"

"just to tell you. He was embarrassed, I think."

The governor wheeled and slammed the wall, open-handed on the tile. The sound was something between a slam and a splat. "I just can't catch a break, can I?" he said. He moved past me to the sink, leaned on it, stared in the mirror, ran water. "1 want you to call him- No. I better do it. I need him to understand this is some kind of mistake," he said, with an earnest intensity that was pretty convincing. "I need to have some- How pregnant is she?"

"Didn't say," I said. "I don't think he knows."

"Can't be more than a few months, can it? Four, five months tops. And the girl?"

I didn't know what he was looking for.

"Yeah," he said. "How could we know? But he'll give us a week, right?"

"I suppose," I said.

He was calm now, emotionless; I had never seen him so cold. There was something weird here. "This stays with us, okay? Don't tell Daisy." So he knew about Daisy. It was amazing what was known, and not known. Everyone knew everything, except for the most basic things. "Do you want Libby?"

"No!"

He turned away from the mirror, leaned against the sink. "They all think I'm dead," he said. "They're gonna look at me and not look me straight in the eye. It's gonna be sickening. The worst will be the ones who try to commiserate, the shitbuckets who had troubles of their own, who got caught smoking crack or feeling up a teenager. The ones who got bombed and strafed by the press. They think I'm one of them now. Soon, Henry--someday, I predict, there will be a fraternal order of those who've been raped by the media. We'll have our own old-age home, like the Will Rogers Institute, or whatever they do for bad actors out here. Ours'll be: The Mike Milken Home for the Fatally Flawed." He stopped, folded his arms over his chest, stared down. I was ready to move him along, but he wasn't ready to go. "A lot of thesis aren't going to show tonight. I don't care. I won't give them the satisfaction. Henry--" He stared at me very hard, his blue eyes rheumy and rimmed with pink, but riveting. "Henry. You will never be ashamed that you did this. Do you understand? You will never have to swallow it, or duck it, or apologize for it. I am not going to let that happen."

The door swung open. Conroy. "Guys?" He said.

I went with Mother and Arnie for an early dinner at an airy place on Melrose, with brick walls, a high ceiling and billowy fabrics suspended in air--sharp, breathtaking swatches of color: royal blue, wine red, chartreuse. We would have this time, then go on, have dessert and listen to the governor speak at the Beverly Hilton. It was almost a shock to be among normal people, people who didn't know everything, people who couldn't read your mind. It was annoying. That was, I realized, the other thing about Mother's composure--it was uncomprehending. She couldn't sense my confusion and utter discomfort, much less the aggravating impact the sultry ease of Los Angeles had on it. She was pleased to see me. She was proud of me. She was concerned the campaign wasn't going so well. "He seems a wonderful man," she said.

"And she's a looker," Arnie added. "I wonder what it is. . . . So what are you going to do next, Henry?"

"Go back to New Hampshire," I said, purposely avoiding Arnie's real question: what was I going to do after the campaign folded. I realized, suddenly, that Mother and Arnie were living through this embarrassment too. But they were okay; they were living through it in an LA sort of way. It didn't matter that I was associated with a campaign that had become something of a national joke. It was a credential. It made me a marketable commodity. Arnie would be able to say, "Henry used to work for Jack Stanton," and in Los Angeles, in show business, they would know what that meant. I would be considered a veteran, a gladiator, someone who understands how bright the spotlight could be, who had worked at media riot control, and that experience would make me valuable-to other candidates for The Milken Home. I realized that Arnie was about to offer site a job, and that it wouldn't be charity. "It's all right," I said. "It's a tough time. Look: Under normal circumstances, we'd be dead. And yeah, I know it looks like we are-and we might be-but, then, you think: Who's gonna beat us? I just can't imagine any of those guys doing it. I mean, who can? Y'knowhattamean?" I said, racing, sounding like Richard, sounding insane. "So we play it out. We go day to day. We got a week. A lot can happen in a week. Even if Harris beats us there, where else is he gonna win? So, I'm not- But you know, it's not an easy business."

"Henry," Arnie said. "When it's over. Your mother and I have been talking. When it's over, I can make a place for you-I mean, I could really use someone like you. It's nice out here, you know? You should enjoy life a little before you kill yourself working like this." "Thank you, Arnie," I said. "But at this point I don't know that I'd be alive doing anything other than this. It's the strangest thing-like being a mine worker. New Hampshire is like working in a mine. You get this great, tactile pleasure from chipping away at it. At least I did, when we were working retail, coffee to coffee, winning the activists one at a time, before he became a household name. I sound nuts, right? Well, being here, in Los Angeles, is just so completely strange. It's like coming out of the mine, being blinded by the light. It's like almost painful being exposed to all this light."

Mother was discomforted by my discomfort. She had no idea what I was getting at and probably never would. So I did the next best thing: tried to reassure her that it was only temporary. "There are people-

Richard Jemmons, Arlen Sporken--who do this over and over, who can't live without it," I said. "I'm not like that. I'm doing this once. I made a commitment to Jack Stanton and I'll see it through. But I don't think I'd have the stomach for this business, the desperation and intensity of it, if I didn't have a real rooting interest."

"Well, if that's the case," Arnie said, laughing a little, "maybe we'll see you out here next Wednesday."

"Yeah, it may not last much longer than that," I agreed. "But if it doesn't, I'll be real upset. He's got some problems, some weaknesses--that's for sure--but I think Jack Stanton's capable of doing some really great things for this country."

His speech that night was awful, but not desperate--a plus. He stayed in control. He saw immediately what he was up against, a replacement audience and an unreachable one at that; the ballroom at the Beverly Hilton seemed distended and over-air-conditioned, the audience chilled and seated way at the other end of the hall from the podium. But that, I realized, was only my sense of room. These were people quietly, furiously engaged in one another, desperately checking out how the competition looked and dressed, performing intricate physiognomic calculations: whose cheekbones or breasts or fanny might lift them up from the mailroom or out from behind the reception desk; who had come up with the slightest hint of a new look; who had locked into the ephemeral Hollywood calculus of sensuality and sophistication. They were geniuses at such evaluations; it was their basic grammar. They did it the way Leon read a poll or Daisy cut a spot. And so they paid Jack Stanton no attention at all. And he did something I'd rarely seen him do: he mailed it in. He didn't even try to distract them. It was an unlikely act of discipline, the conservation of energy--a sign of very intense seriousness on his part.

Mother, of course, thought he was very inspiring. Arnie mumbled some encouragement but clearly figured that Stanton had given up, that he was dead. I felt a reflexive twinge of elation: he was focused. He was ready to return to New Hampshire.

night--perhaps it was the Gulfitream--I was deeply, comfortably asleep when we hit the runway in Manchester. We seemed to land hard. I was up with a start. You could feel the cold even before we got off the plane; you could feel it through the plane. It was still dark, but there was a sense of impending grayness. Several people, bundled in goosedown, determinedly waving our familiar red, white and blue STANTON FOR AMERICA signs, stood next to three vans. We had come all this way--and gone nowhere. We were still in the same place: it was like Chutes and Ladders. We climbed ladders; we slid down chutes. We always arrived at the same airport, the same time of day, the same caravan waiting to take us to the same places, all of which we'd hit several times by now The cold was painful after Los Angeles. We moved into it reluctantly. The governor looked at me--and this was the first time I'd ever seen him anything less than totally enthusiastic about entering the arena--and shrugged: Here we go again. Mitch was there to take suitcases, help Susan down the slippery stairway. And then, as we came off the plane, people emerged from the vans--and began to applaud, a deep, solid gloved affection. Stanton walked down the line of them, hugging them--eyes tearing from the cold, or perhaps just tearing. The last was Danny Scanlon, with a box of apple fritters. "B-brought you somethin', Governor," he said.

Stanton looked around at us, glowing, with a goofy grin. "God, it's good to see you, Danny--why aren't you at work?"

"Took the week off. I'm working for you now."

"Well now, isn't that-- Listen: everyone gather around." And we did, in a tight huddle, arms entwined, warm on top, but with a bitter wind whipping our legs. "I will never, ever forget you coming out like this for us," Stanton said. "We have a tough week ahead. We may not win. But I can promise you this: no candidate will work harder these next seven days than I am going to. And you will never regret this. And I will never forget it. . . . So what do we do first? Mitch?" "We've got the McLaughy Wire Factory plant gate, but that isn't for another hour."

"C'mon, there must be something we can do before that," the governor said. "A diner or-- Danny? Where's your competition this time of morning?"

"Silver Moon'll have some folks," Danny said.

Silver Moon it was. Stanton moving down the counter, then over to the booths, shaking hands. Truckers, factory guys with dark brows, lined faces, knit caps, staring at him, shaking their heads, smiling private smiles: "What you doin' up so early, Governor?" one asked. "You startin' the day or just endin' it?"

"Last week, fellas," he said. "Workin' double shift. What can I do for you? What you want to know?"

They looked at each other, thinking: So what about Cashmere? But no one had the guts, so one of them asked, "So you gonna take our guns?"

"Only if you've got an Uzi or a bazooka."

He moved on, and kept moving. He was up now We all were. At one point, he jumped out of the van at a red light and began knocking on windows, waving, shaking the hands of fellow motorists. As we moved from plant gates to markets, I broke off and went back to the hotel, where Arlen, Daisy, Lucille, Richard and Leon were in the Stanton suite--it was as if they'd never left, as if we'd always be there--arguing over the last week's media buy.

"Who's gonna watch the fucking thing?" Richard was asking. "They're just gonna be pissed off at us for preempting 'America's Most Fucked-Up Home Videos.' "

"You know what we get out of thirty-second spots now?" Daisy said. She was sipping a Diet Coke. "Nothing. Thirty-second spots only reinforce the bad shit--that he's just another politician. You ain't gonna thrill 'ens with bands and flags now, you're not gonna move 'em on health care. We gotta let them listen to him, take him on, hit him with their best shot--y'know? We gotta let them see that there's something there." She looked at Lucille. "Flannel shirts and ax-tossing ain't gonna make it anymore."

"But if we go dark, they'll think we're folding," Arlen said. Interesting: he and Daisy were taking conflicting positions. She was stepping out, away from him; the rift we hid assumed, and subtly encouraged, was now open--she might have to find new work after the campaign. I hadn't had a chance to talk to her about any of this; I couldn't remember the last time we'd had a moment, a nonstressed phone conversation. Saturday night? Aeons ago.

"There's something to that," Daisy said, pulling back-acknowledging that Arlen did have a point. "Maybe we cut the buy, or cut the TV, go more to radio? More bang, less bucks?"

"That's not nothin'-you technocrats figger that one out," Richard said. "The big question is the Jackathon. What do you think, Henri?" Richard asked. "Seems to me we hit a weird fucking place when the advertising guru's goin' responsible on us. 01' Daisy Mae here wants to take us down-no more spots-and blow it all on a telethon Saturday night."

"Saturday night?" I asked. "Who's gonna be watching TV on a Saturday night?"

"All the people who might not trust a candidate who fucks around," Daisy said. "Leon, tell him about Cashmere."

"Site's got higher name recognition than Bart Nilson," Leon said. "So?"

"What good does a thirty-second spot do us at this point?" she said. "We've got to figure out a way not to be a typical politician." "How we doin', Leon?" I asked.