Total Recall: My Unbelievably True Life Story

by Arnold Schwarzenegger

  “I have someone here who is interested in running for governor,” Rove said to me, “and I wanted you to meet her because this is our candidate for 2006. You should get to know each other.” He said it smilingly, but it was the kind of smile that meant “Arnold, shit in your pants because this woman is going to trample all over you. There won’t be a recall, the governorship will be up for grabs in 2006, and when 2006 comes, I have already planned it, I have it all laid out, and this is going to be the Republican candidate.”

  How could Rove have been so wrong? He was a political genius, and he dismissed me! And he dismissed the recall! I understood why Condi was getting the nod. She’s intellectual, she’s Stanford, she’s the National Security Advisor. I’d heard that story before about 2006. At a Rod Paige education dinner, Maria and I were sitting with a group of Republicans, and a woman turned to me and said, “We’ve gotten the signal from the White House to go with Condi.” So I was aware.

  By the time I got home, I told this as a funny story, but at the moment it happened, it stung. “What an asshole,” I thought. But I reminded myself right away, “Actually, this is good! This is one of those situations where someone dismisses you, and you come from behind and surprise the shit out of them.” I never argued with people who underestimated me. If the accent and the muscles and the movies made people think I was stupid, it worked to my advantage.

  —

  I didn’t sign any movie contracts that summer. If the governorship really became a possibility, this time I wanted to keep my options open. As the recall movement continued to gain momentum, I kept in touch with my advisors and broadcast to the public that I shared the sentiment behind it. “Our elected leaders will either act decisively, or we will act in their place,” I told the audience at a celebration of the twenty-fifth anniversary of Proposition 13.

  I didn’t exactly say I wanted to be governor, but I couldn’t resist leading off my remarks that night with a joke about Gray Davis. “This is really embarrassing,” I said. “I just forgot the name of our state governor. But I know that you will help me recall him.” It got a good laugh. I sent another smoke signal about running by telling the New York Post, “If the party needs me, I would without any doubt be interested in doing that rather than doing another movie. I would give up my movie career for that.”

  Meanwhile, in trying to reduce the budget deficit, Governor Davis found a sure way to commit political suicide: he tripled the “car tax.” This was a fee Californians have to pay when they register their vehicles. Technically, he wasn’t raising the fee, just canceling an abatement, put in place by his predecessor, that was costing the state $4 billion a year in lost revenue. But Californians love their cars, and none of that mattered. The number of signatures being collected each week for the recall petition went through the roof.

  Each time Gray Davis made another mistake, I was boiling. What was he doing giving driver’s licenses to illegal immigrants? Why was he increasing fees rather than pushing back on pensions? Why had he taken campaign money from Indian tribes that owned casinos? Why were we running out of electricity? Why would he sponsor job-killing legislation that would force businesses to flee the state?

  I thought about what I’d do: cut taxes, end driver’s licenses for illegal immigrants, cut the vehicle license fee. Spend no more than the state is taking in. Rebuild California. Find alternatives to fossil fuels. Make the Indian gaming tribes pay their fair share of taxes. Stop the whole system of money in, favors out. And bring business back to California.

  I also had a personal beef with the guy. I’d asked him five times what he wanted from the Governor’s Council on Fitness. He never replied.

  I began to despise everything about Gray Davis. When I saw his picture in the newspaper, I didn’t see the picture, I saw a monster. I had a plan. I visualized myself taking him down. (Oddly enough, later, when we met after I became governor, we became friends. I realized it was hard for any governor to make the changes that were needed. Gray Davis couldn’t do it by himself. No one could.)

  But I had to ask myself, Why did I want to step into this mess? Why not just stay an actor? The state was staring at a deficit that had grown to $37.5 billion, businesses were moving away, the lights couldn’t stay on, the courts were ordering prisons to release inmates due to overcrowding, the political system was rigged for the incumbents, the spending was locked in by formulas, and no one ever seemed to fix the schools.

  But I love it when people say that something can’t be done. That’s when I really get motivated; I like to prove them wrong. And I liked the idea of working on something bigger than me. My father-in-law always talked about how it gives you extra power and energy, but you don’t really feel it until you’re in the middle of it. Plus, I was going to be the governor of California! It is the place where everyone in the world wants to go. You never hear anyone from abroad say, “Oh, I love America! I can’t wait to get to Iowa!” Or “Gosh, can you tell me about Utah?” Or “I hear Delaware is a great place.” California was wrapped in problems, but it was also heaven.

  It wasn’t too early to be thinking about a campaign strategy, and I’d begun to envision one that made sense. This was the subject of long, private discussions with Don Sipple, the top media consultant for our after-school campaign. It was essential, we agreed, not to jump in too soon; better to wait until a recall election was formally qualified and scheduled. Don crystallized our approach in a fax called “Some Thoughts,” which he sent me at the end of June 2003.

  If I did jump in, my campaign would have to be truly unique, because I was a nonpolitician responding to a populist revolt. We needed to avoid trying to win over the press and instead play to the people. When I went on TV, I’d go on entertaining national shows like Jay Leno, Oprah, David Letterman, Larry King, and Chris Matthews rather than wonky local broadcasts. And then, just as the media decided my candidacy was lightweight, we’d surprise them with speeches that went deep on key issues like education, health care, and public safety. Above all, the campaign had to be big. I was all about leadership and major projects and reforms that could attract massive public support.

  I especially liked the way Don channeled my message: “There is a disconnect between the people of California and the politicians of California. We the people are doing our job: work hard, pay taxes, raise our families. The politicians are not doing their job. They fiddle, they fumble, and they fail. Governor Davis has failed the people of California, and it is time to replace him.” These words resonated more strongly than any movie script I’d ever read. I memorized them and made them a kind of mantra.

  —

  I shifted gears to promote Terminator 3. It opened across the country on Wednesday, July 2, and became America’s top movie for the Fourth of July weekend. But by then I was half a world away. After the premiere in LA, I flew to Tokyo for the Japanese premiere, and then on to Kuwait. And on July 4, three months after US-led coalition forces had seized Baghdad, I was in the Iraqi capital showing Terminator 3 and entertaining the troops at a former palace of the toppled dictator Saddam Hussein.

  I opened, as I always do, with a joke. “It is really wild driving around here,” I told them. “I mean, the poverty, and you see there is no money, it is disastrous financially, and there is the leadership vacuum—pretty much like in California right now.”

  From Baghdad, I flew from one Iraqi city to the next and then worked my way back west making appearances across Europe. Then I made promotional trips to Canada and Mexico. During all this, I didn’t even think about running for governor; I stored it in the back of my mind but wasn’t consciously making plans.

  On July 23, the last day of my trip, I was in Mexico City when it was announced that the California recall election would go forward. Over 1.3 million voters had signed the petition, almost 500,000 more than were needed. The following day, the special election was scheduled for the first Tuesday in October 2003, less than three months away. Candidates had barely two weeks—until Saturday, August 9
—to declare.

  The quick deadline didn’t deter people from jumping into the race. Because of the low entry barrier, the recall was a magnet for dozens of fringe candidates, attention seekers, and people who just wanted an interesting item for their résumé. Eventually the ballot listed 135 candidates. We had a porn queen and a porn publisher. We had a bounty hunter, an American Communist, an actress whose main claim to fame was advertising herself on billboards around LA, and a female swing dancer who had also run several times for president. Gary Coleman, the former child star, jumped in. So did author and political pundit Arianna Huffington, who would become my foil in the debate before dropping out. There was an antismoking crusader and a sumo wrestler.

  Serious candidates who had political capital and financial backing faced a tough choice about whether to risk getting lost in the circus atmosphere. US senator Dianne Feinstein, a hugely popular Democrat, said she didn’t like the whole idea of recalls—she’d faced a recall attempt at an earlier point in her career when she was mayor of San Francisco. Congressman Issa, who had been a real visionary in bankrolling the signature gathering, stepped away too, saying tearfully at a press conference that he could go back to his job in Washington now that others were prepared to lead.

  As soon as the election was confirmed, I knew I had to run. I saw myself in Sacramento, solving problems. I was not the least bit intimidated by the thought of a campaign. It was like every other major decision I’d ever faced. I thought about winning. I knew it would happen. I was locked in automatic pilot.

  It was time to talk to Maria.

  CHAPTER 24

  Total Recall

  AS EVERY SPOUSE KNOWS, you have to pick the right moment to bring up a loaded subject. The recall of Gray Davis was just a maybe when I flew off to promote Terminator 3 at the beginning of July, and Maria and I hadn’t talked about it or what it might mean for me during the three weeks I’d been away. At home, after the kids were in bed, we often took a Jacuzzi to relax, and that was the moment I chose.

  “This recall election is coming up,” I said.

  “Yeah, people are saying that you are running, and I tell them they’re crazy,” she said. “You would never do that.”

  “Well, actually, I want to talk to you about that idea. What would you think about me jumping in?” Maria gave me a look, but before she could say anything, I said, “Look what’s happening to the state! We’re becoming a laughingstock. When I came here, California was a beacon. I know I could go there and straighten it out.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, I’m serious.”

  And she said, “No, no, come on, please tell me that you’re not serious.”

  Then she added, “Don’t do this to me.”

  I said, “Look, I was just . . . I haven’t made a commitment. I’m just thinking about it. Obviously if you say no, I’m not going to run. But I was just thinking it’s a perfect opportunity. It’s a recall, and there is only a two-month campaign; it wouldn’t be that much. I think we can work our way through these two months. And then I’m governor! And, Maria, I can see it. I can feel it. This can really be done!” I felt a surge of enthusiasm just talking about it.

  “I’m tired of this acting stuff,” I went on. “I need a new challenge. I’ve had that urge to do something different for some time. This is a chance to do the kind of public service your father talks about. And I think I could do a much, much better job than Gray Davis.”

  As I rattled on, I was astonished to see my wife start to tremble and cry. I just couldn’t believe it. I guess instead I expected a Eunice to emerge and say, “All right, now, if that’s what you want to do, let’s sit down right away and make some decisions. Let’s get the experts and start the briefings.” I expected that kind of Kennedy-esque response. I wanted her to say, “This is unbelievable. We inspired you, and now you’re joining the family business. You’ve grown so much since I’ve known you. Here you’re willing to give up millions to become a public servant. I’m so proud of you!”

  But I was dreaming.

  “Why are you crying?” I asked. Maria began to talk about the pain of growing up in a political family. I knew that she hated being dragged around to events, always being part of the photo op, and then on Sunday nights having the house invaded by advisors and operatives, and having to get dressed up for that. She’d hated her father’s campaigns, having to be out there at five in the morning in front of the factory, telling people, “Vote for my daddy, vote for my daddy.”

  But the part that never registered with me was the trauma she’d felt as a kid. We had been together twenty-six years and married for seventeen, and it was a shock to me that her childhood as a Kennedy—with its intrusions, its humiliations, and its two assassinations—had shaken her to the core. Sure, her father lost his campaigns for vice president and president. I put those in the category of experiences that make you stronger. I didn’t understand the public embarrassment she felt. In politics, everybody knows everything. You’re totally exposed. All your girlfriends in school talk about your stuff. Maria had suffered tremendously: not only her father’s losing two campaigns but also the tragic deaths of her uncles Jack and Bobby. Then there was her uncle Teddy’s accident at Chappaquiddick, with horrible stories in the press. And then tauntings in school and on the sports field and anywhere she went in public. Kids would make cruel remarks: “Your dad lost. What does it feel like to be a loser?” Every time it was like being stabbed.

  Given all that, my telling her that I wanted to be governor was like an accident where she saw her whole life flashing before her. All of those upsets and fears came flooding back, which was why she was trembling and crying.

  I held her and tried to calm her down. All kinds of thoughts were racing through my mind. Total shock, first of all, to see her in such pain. I knew she had been through a lot of drama, but I thought it was in the past. When I met Maria, she was full of life, excitement, and hunger for the world. She wanted to be a rebel, not have a job on Capitol Hill. That was why she wanted to be a news producer and be in front of the camera and be really good at it. She didn’t want to be lumped in with the Kennedys; she wanted to be Maria Shriver—the woman who interviewed Castro, Gorbachev, Ted Turner, Richard Branson. At the time, I thought, “That’s just the way I am; we really have this in common! We both want to be really good and unique and stand out.” Later on, as we got more serious, I felt like whatever I wanted to do, whatever the goal was, she was a woman who could help me achieve it. And I felt like whatever she wanted to do, I would help her get there.

  But, to be fair, politics had never been part of the deal. Just the opposite. When Maria met me, she was twenty-one years old and she felt very strongly that she wanted a man who had absolutely nothing to do with politics. There I was, this Austrian country boy with big muscles who was a bodybuilding champion and wanted to go to Hollywood and be a movie star and get rich in real estate. She thought, “Great! That will take us as far away from politics and Washington as possible.” But now, almost thirty years later, the whole thing was coming full circle, and I was saying, “What do you think about the idea of me running for governor?” No wonder she was upset. I realized she’d shared some of this with me before, but it had gone right over my head.

  Later that night, I lay in bed thinking, “Man, this is not going to work. If Maria doesn’t buy into the idea, then it is impossible to go out and campaign.” I never intended to cause her that kind of pain.

  What I hadn’t told Maria was that I’d already committed to appear on Jay Leno. The day the recall election was confirmed, I’d bumped into The Tonight Show’s producer at the hairstylist. “Whether you’re running or not running, I’d like to be the first show where you talk about it,” he said. I thought, “If I really run, this would be a cool way to announce it.” So I’d said yes, and we’d agreed on a date of Wednesday, August 6, three days before the filing deadline.

  It was not a pretty night. All the tears, all the questions, very li
ttle sleep. “If she doesn’t want me to do it, then we just don’t do it,” I thought. This meant I would have to unwind my vision, which would be very difficult because it was now fixed in my mind. I’d have to turn off the automatic pilot and manually fly the plane back to the airport.

  The next morning I told Maria, “Running is not the most important thing to me. The family is the most important thing. You are the most important thing, and if this is a tremendous burden for you, then we don’t do it. I just want to tell you that there’s a great opportunity here, and I think that if you want California to do better—”

  “No,” she said. “It would be terrible. I don’t want you to do it.”

  “Okay, it’s over. I’m not going to do it.”

  That evening at the dinner table, she announced to the kids, “You should all thank Daddy because he made a decision that was good for our family: not to run for governor. Because Daddy wanted to run for governor.” Of course, the kids all started talking and having their reactions. “Thank you, Daddy,” said one. And then another one said, “That would be really cool, running for governor, wow.”

  Several things unfolded over the next few days. First, Jay Leno called to check in, and I felt obliged to tell him that I was likely not to run. He said, “No problem.” There had been so much speculation about me running that he knew he would get a big audience either way. “You’ll be the first guest,” he said.

  Meanwhile, Maria talked to her mother, and Eunice wasn’t happy. She and Sarge were big believers in me and were always encouraging me to serve the public. In fact, after I’d told reporters in June that I was thinking about joining the race, Sarge had sent me a note that read, “You’re making me very happy. I can’t think of any person today that I would rather have in office. If I were a resident of California, I hope you realize that I’d be voting Republican for the first time ever!” As for Eunice, she’d always had the drive to be in public life and the will to move past defeats and tragedies. Maria always joked, “I married my mother.” So now, when Maria told her mother that she didn’t want me to run, Eunice told her to snap out of it. “What happened to you?” she said. “We women in our family always support the men when they want to do something!” I wasn’t there for the conversation, of course, but Maria told me later on. “And by the way,” her mother added, “when a man gets that ambition to run, you can’t put it out. And if you stop him, he’ll be angry for the rest of his life. So don’t complain. Get out there and help him.”