Taft 2012

by Jason Heller

  And yet it wasn’t just Irene. Nor was it just the overwhelming vertigo that came from trying to navigate the conflicting agendas of all these Taft Party patrons. Something, he felt, was askew. Unsettled. What was that saying Archie Butt had been so fond of, about waiting for the other boot to drop? That was the sensation Taft was experiencing, that he was hanging in an ill-defined limbo, failing to grasp some fundamental piece of the jumble that made up his existence.

  Well, he thought, at least he’d been able to grow his mustache back to its full glory. He wouldn’t have to stand in front of the assembled hordes of the Taft Party and recite his platform speech without the comfort of his luxurious twin tufts. That was something.

  Not for the first time, he thanked the heavens that no one in the press had ever thought to refer to his whiskers as “Taft tufts.” Or, at least, hadn’t done so anyplace where he’d seen it. And then he sighed heavily as he remembered that, these days, even a child as young as Abby could likely use the Google to find fifty-three occurrences of that very formulation across eleven decades, without even trying very hard.

  WELCOME TO THE 2012 TAFT PARTY NATIONAL CONVENTION MEDIA CENTER

  Created by the 2012 Convention Host Committee in conjunction with the City of Cincinnati, this online pressroom provides media with ongoing news updates, access to hi-res images, and factual information about the host city.

  FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS

  Where did Taft dine and drink in his native Cincinnati, then and now? What’s the best place to score Taft memorabilia? Where is the Party truly partying this weekend? We have the answers to all your questions regarding the big buildup to William Howard Taft’s historic platform speech at Great American Ball Park on Saturday. // Click for more.

  DEMS AND GOP CONSPICUOUS IN THEIR SILENCE

  Friday, June 15, 2012

  The Democratic and Republican leaderships—up to and including their parties’ presidential candidates—surely have a strong opinion on the Taft Party National Convention. So why are they dodging questions and flagrantly ignoring it? Are they afraid—or really afraid? Cincinnati’s best and brightest discuss the issue. // Click for more.

  THANKS TO TAFT, HOT DOG CARTS GO GREEN

  Friday, June 15, 2012

  Many Taft conventioneers have been asking themselves a crucial question over the last two days: what’s up with the hot dogs? Per William Howard Taft’s explicit request, all twenty-two of Great American Ball Park’s licensed hot dog vendors are now serving only organic, non-GMO veggie dogs for the duration of the TPNC. That’s right: no meat. But what do the vendors—some of whom, like sausage vet Larry Welton, have been serving all-beef wieners at Great American since the days of Riverfront Stadium—have to say about the switch? // Click for more.

  CHICAGO PUNK BAND THE LOUSY KISSERS HOLD “FLASH CONCERT” IN FRONT OF GREAT AMERICAN BALL PARK

  Friday, June 15, 2012

  The first night of the Taft Party National Convention wound down with a series of speeches by Taft Party luminaries at Great American Ball Park. But the party was just getting started: a rowdy, inebriated, and by all accounts musically inept group called the Lousy Kissers pulled up to the ballpark’s front entrance in the beds of two pickup trucks equipped with generators. Within moments, an equally unsavory crowd had formed around them—and the band’s singer, later identified as Rob Reitman of Chicago, began screaming bawdy songs about Taft’s allegedly legendary sexual exploits and the “piss-poor quality” of the veggie dogs the park had been serving all day. // Click for more.

  The Taft 2012 Convention Daily—Friday

  Delegate Spotlight: Why Taft, Why Now?

  RAFAEL DELGADO, LOUISIANA: “When Taft was the governor general of the Philippines after the Philippine-American War, he refused to use the U.S. military to put down the Filipinos who kept resisting the occupation; instead, he trusted the local law officers to take care of it and gave them the support they needed. And it worked! Does that sound like a guy who’d, I don’t know, say, get American forces stuck in Iraq for a decade? Because it doesn’t to me. Taft 2012 all the way.”

  CHELSEA PENNYPACKER, CALIFORNIA: “He doesn’t try to make stuff sound good for TV. He just talks. He doesn’t care about getting good press, but he also doesn’t try to shut the press out, and he doesn’t waste time arguing with them. I can’t remember the last time I saw a candidate who used so many polysyllabic words in the same press conference. Taft isn’t afraid to be smart, but he also never sounds condescending.”

  MARIA JONES, MICHIGAN: “His first year in office, I guess, President Taft stuck his neck out to fire Teddy Roosevelt’s favorite forestry officials when they couldn’t get their act together and figure out how to work with the new bosses. I know at the time that Taft caught a lot of flak for it from the environmentalists, but I still like the fact that he cared enough to investigate the whole thing himself, instead of just accepting whatever either side told him. That reassures me that I could trust Taft to do what’s right about the whole global-warming thing, because I know I sure can’t figure out which scientists to listen to.”

  HERB YOUTIE, FLORIDA: “I’m a Republican because my father was a Republican, which means he would have voted for Taft in 1912. This is probably going to be the last election I’m around for, so I’m voting for Taft in 2012. Seems like the right thing to do.”

  Excerpts From Remote Surveillance Log, Great American Ball Park, Ground Floor, Men’s Restroom 3, Urinals 7 and 8

  Saturday, June 16, 12:56 p.m.

  —There’s still one thing I’m not totally sure about, though: Taft’s stand on immigration.

  —Yeah, I’ll agree with you there. Seems like it’s not his main focus. I sure know what I wish he would do about immigration, though.

  —What’s that?

  —Just open the damn borders and charge money for citizenship.

  —You’re not serious?

  —As a heart attack. Look, we waste how many billions of dollars trying to stop people from coming here? What’s the point? I’m not even trying to get idealistic about it. I know America was built on immigration and all that, but that’s not the point. I’m just being practical. If you can pay, you can come here. If you get caught without your receipt, you work it off until you can.

  —Right. Like washing dishes if you can’t pay your bill at the diner.

  —Exactly.

  —I’m truly impressed. I can’t honestly tell if that’s racist or not.

  —See, that’s why Taft is the man to do this. He was around before racism even existed, right? So he’s in the clear.

  —Um, I gotta go wash my hands.

  Saturday, June 16, 3:49 p.m.

  —I don’t know if I can take another damn speech. Know what? Taft should outlaw political speeches. I mean it. Fuck ’em. Just a bunch of hot air. [Subject eructates.]

  —Yeah, well, I don’t know if I can take another one of those shitty plastic cups of Fulsom Lite. What do they brew that stuff with? Dishwater?

  —Actually, I think you’re looking at it.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Why, Taft, old man, you’re looking positively svelte.”

  The man who stood in the hotel hallway outside Taft’s suite, speaking from around the back of Kowalczyk’s shoulder, was tall, gray haired, and patrician, his flawlessly tailored suit accentuating the sharp lines of his nose and chin. Taft had never seen him before, though he knew the type: wealthy Northeasterners who wouldn’t dream of carrying their pocket cash with anything other than solid-gold money clips.

  “Wouldn’t give me his name,” said Kowalczyk, blocking the doorway, “but he’s clean, and he says it’s an urgent message from the party committee.”

  “That’s about the size of it,” the man said, stifling a yawn with an oddly contorted hand. Taft started as he recognized the twisted configuration of fingers. It was the secret greeting of the Taft family’s old college legacy, the Skull and Bones Society. Taft was bemused to see his first face-to-face confi
rmation that the esoteric fraternity indeed still thrived, though of course they’d taken note of his reappearance and sent him that typically bizarre Christmas card. But what the devil could the man possibly be pestering him for, a mere three hours before he was scheduled to address the whole of the Taft Party National Convention from its main stage?

  “My good fellow,” Taft said, “I do appreciate your solicitousness, but I am—I am rather thoroughly occupied today! Why don’t you leave me your calling card, and we shall schedule a meeting when I might devote the proper attention.”

  “Of course,” said the man in the suit, smiling faintly, and withdrew a card from his breast pocket. Taft took it and had already opened his mouth to bid the man farewell when the name on the card registered in his vision: AUGUSTUS FULSOM. Taft’s mouth hung open as he stared from the card back to the man, who nodded silently.

  “Kowalczyk,” Taft said, “this gentleman and I will speak privately for a moment. Do let any other callers know that I’m unavailable until after the speech, yes?” Ignoring the bodyguard’s quizzical look, he gestured for Fulsom to enter the room and closed the door behind them.

  “Good to see a brother Bonesman back on his feet, Taft,” Fulsom said, seating himself upon the desk by the window overlooking the river view. “Ah, Cincinnati. Beautiful city. Did you know that Cincinnati has one of the highest per-capita rates of Fulsom Foods products in the Midwest? And for the Midwest, that’s saying something.”

  “One of the highest obesity rates, too,” Taft answered. He drifted to the coffee table in front of the sofa and nonchalantly flipped over his open notebook. “Not to mention diabetes, heart disease, and colon cancer, and the industrial runoff from the three Fulsom plants in the vicinity.”

  “Plants that employ approximately two thousand Cincinnatians, if I remember correctly,” Fulsom said. “In a recession, no less.”

  “I think it might be best, sir, if you explained your visit,” Taft said stiffly. “Surely you are aware from my public comments that I am not a supporter of your company’s work.”

  “What, that?” Fulsom waved a hand casually, as if to brush the remark aside. “That’s nothing to worry about, Taft. We all have the game to play. I don’t take it personally.”

  “Game? You think I play mere politics, sir? You foist unwholesome foods upon the American people, and I shall continue to say so.”

  Fulsom arched an eyebrow. “Everything is politics, and there’s nothing ‘mere’ about it. Take this campaign of yours. It’s a lark. It’s a carnival show. You’re playing the role of the jolly jester who’s allowed to say silly things because you’ve got a silly mustache and a silly belly. And yet you’re winning the hearts of Americans left and right. Crazy as it sounds, Taft, you just might take this election.”

  It was a thought Taft had been refusing to think. “And?”

  “And whether you do or not, I’m on your side. I’m behind you, William Howard Taft. Because we Bonesmen have got to stick together. Eight years ago—before your time, I know—we had two Bonesmen going at each other for the White House, the Republican and the Democrat both, and it was ugly. Not the race—that’s always ugly—but the rift it caused in Skull and Bones, half the membership taking sides against the other half. Ruined Christ knows how many perfectly good business partnerships just because people took their politics personally. I’m not about that. I want to see the wheels of commerce keep on spinning smooth as ever. And that means never mind what you say about me in public. What matters is, behind closed doors, we all know that we’re lending each other a hand.”

  Taft’s lip curled in disgust as he remembered the last two times he’d done business with Fulsom Foods behind closed doors: in Rachel’s bathroom after Thanksgiving dinner and in the obscene food factory of Atomizer restaurant. “I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so, Fulsom, but Bonesmen or not, I generally prefer to choose my own intimates, and I specifically prefer to decline this ‘helping hand’ of yours, thank you.”

  “Well,” Fulsom murmured, “it’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?”

  The smug confidence of the man’s tone made Taft more nervous than he cared to admit. “Pardon me?”

  “Oh, Taft. You big, innocent Taft of a man. Do you really think all these little Taft Party clusters around the country just willed themselves into being on a wing and a prayer? Do you think the poll numbers move themselves? Where do you think Osborne got the money to pull together so many Southern Christians, Eldridge got the money to assemble all those malcontent Republicans and Libertarians, Lommel got the money to convince entire trade unions to consider an alternative to the Democratic Party?”

  “From … citizens’ groups,” Taft said, and he could hear the sound of sick revelation in his own voice. There, he supposed, was that other boot dropping at last.

  “Sure. One citizen’s groups. Mine. What you had, Taft, was a bunch of fans around the water cooler and on the Internet. I made sure they got enough money and support to turn themselves into a Taft Party. This whole convention? You’re welcome. Consider it a welcome-back bash.”

  Taft’s mind scrambled furiously to make sense of it. This was madness. If there was one, single thing he’d never do with his reputation, with his good name, it was ally with the forces of an amoral sick-monger like Fulsom, who doubtless saw men and chickens alike as only so much meat to be pureed and reshaped. But the sinking pit in his stomach assured him that, madness though it might be, it was also the truth. He’d encountered many men like Fulsom during his years in government—men who found their own worth only by controlling the fates of others—but he’d always held a sure enough footing to avoid being tripped up by their manipulations. But now he was in an unfamiliar world, and he’d allowed his disorientation to make him a target—a big, fat target, he thought bitterly.

  And yet, he thought, it couldn’t be that simple. Something wasn’t right. “Why on earth,” he said, “would you want me, Bonesman or not, back in the White House, using the bully pulpit to denounce your infernal sausage grinder of a company?”

  Fulsom slid to his feet. “Think about it, Taft,” he smiled. “For God’s sake. You’re a big boy.” He walked to the door, put his hand on the knob, and paused. “Oh, and about that. Congratulations on your diet. But don’t lose too much weight, now. You’re a brand, Taft. A valuable brand. Just like Fulsom.” Then he slipped out the door quietly, leaving Taft to his privacy.

  Taft sat perfectly still, unmoving, for fifteen minutes, then twenty, then twenty-five, as the threads of yet another new reality wove themselves into a pattern he could comprehend.

  Blast it all, he hadn’t asked to be in this damnable position. Had he? He had. He had felt so lost in this strange new world, so helpless, that he had seized upon the first opportunity to make a grand assertion of potency. His granddaughter, the Tafties—he’d seen a way to help them, he thought, and thus to prove his life still had meaning. And so he’d hurled himself right back into the very campaign trail he’d been so eager to walk away from, just a year and a hundred earlier.

  And, if he was to be honest with himself, he hadn’t just done it for them, either.

  He looked over at his desk, where several stacks of books and papers were piled three layers high. A particular manila folder sat at the bottom of the tallest stack. All right, he thought violently, it was well nigh time to stop hiding from the past. He jerked himself to his feet before he could change his mind and pulled out the folder where Susan had gathered all the records of his apparent death. He brushed his hand across the photo of Nellie, then shuffled the papers below it and pulled out the eulogy Teddy Roosevelt had delivered at his funeral.

  He read it. And then he sat still for five more minutes.

  He rose again and went to tell Rachel what had transpired, and to suggest to her what they should do about it. He knew she would agree. But he had to give her the chance to disagree. She was, after all, her own woman.

  But he knew she would agree. She was, after all, a T
aft.

  From Taft: A Tremendous Man, by Susan Weschler:

  When I first set out to study William Howard Taft’s life and presidency, one question presented itself over and over again: how did he ever get to the White House? Taft hated the dirty business of politics. Hated the sorts of people who care about holding power. Hated lies, little white ones or otherwise. And, as far as I could tell, he hated it when people didn’t like him. Because he loved to be able to agree with people, to find common ground with them.

  Finally I realized: I, like most of those who’d known him, had underestimated him. Taft was modest and agreeable, but he wasn’t milquetoast. And he wasn’t lacking in ambition, either. The closer I examined the turning points of his résumé, the more certain I was that, often, he let those around him think they were leading him around when, in fact, the opposite was true. That’s not to say he was manipulative—it seemed entirely possible that he didn’t even realize he was doing it—but he became president because he’d always put himself in a place where his decency would get noticed. Noticed, rewarded, and relied upon. That, in and of itself, was a kind of ruthlessness.

  Who knows what might have happened if Taft hadn’t vanished in 1913? How might he have turned his reelection defeat around—turned losing the presidency into an eventual triumph for himself and the principles by which he lived?

  Tantalizing as the question may be, we can never know the answer to how Taft’s twentieth century might have been different. We can only know what happened in the twenty-first.

  Transcript, Raw Talk with Pauline Craig, broadcast June 16, 2012

  PAULINE CRAIG: Welcome to a very special edition of Raw Talk with Pauline Craig. Viewers, just a few short months ago, Raw Talk brought you the nation’s first live, one-on-one conversation with former president William Howard Taft. Since then, I’ve made sure you’ve had a front-row seat to what just might be the most important political phenomenon of our generation: the birth of a new party, inspired by the rebirth of a great American. The Taft Party has quickly become a remarkable juggernaut on the campaign trail, though both the Democratic and Republican parties have done their best to ignore it, to pretend everything is just business as usual. Well, I can tell you, everything is not business as usual. Especially not today. Today, anticipation among the Tafties is at an all-time fever pitch, as the thousands assembled in Cincinnati wait for William Howard Taft to deliver his keynote address to the Taft Party National Convention, just two short hours from now. Over the past week, we’ve seen the poll numbers take a remarkable curve, as significant numbers of previously undecided voters now say they’re planning to vote Taft. And if today’s Internet search trends are any indicator, come tomorrow the major party candidates are finally going to have to stand up and admit that the Taft factor is real, it’s massive, and it’s not going away anytime soon.