Primary Colors

by Joe Klein

  "Well, Jack," Bart Nilson said. "Guess this is it."

  Stanton nodded. Charlie Martin came over, wearing a tie with little hot-air balloons on it. "Kinda gettin' used to the folks up here." "They're just great," Stanton agreed. "Even after all the shit, they've been just great. They really listened. They really cared about the issues. I was just out in LA, and it was like a different country. They aren't havin' this election out there."

  And now-a first!-Lawrence Harris approached, looking prohibitively academic. He was wearing a brown herringbone jacket, a tattersall shirt and forest-green knit tie; his reading glasses dangled from a lanyard around his neck. "Well, mates," he said. "Our last tango." I could see Stanton's jaw tighten. Reds actually reached up and patted him on the back. "I just vvantecPco tell you fellows what a memorable experience it's been for me."

  "Yeah," Charlie Martin said. "It's like we were lost in the Andes or something--the plane went down in this strange tribal culture where the only thing they care about is politics."

  "Then again," Stanton said, checking out Martin carefully, "maybe we're the Donner party."

  "Well," Harris said, breaking off, his work here done. "I just hope we'll all be able to unite when this is over. I think it will be very important to have a united parry if we're going to win in the fall and set about the difficult work of getting the fiscal situation under control." "Larry, I'm sure whichever of us wins the nomination will be honored to have your support," said Bart Nilson, with a deftness I'd not anticipated. Harris sniffed, grinned uneasily, retreated.

  Stanton and Nilson walked together down the cinder-block hall. "Bart," Stanton said, his arm resting gently on the older man's shoulders. "Whichever way this comes out, when it's over--I'm with you. We work as a team, far as I'm concerned."

  Nilson stopped, looked at Stanton. "Jack," he said. "I've been a loyal Democrat all my life, always voted the party line--but if that bloodless prick wins the nomination, I'll stay home in November."

  "This is a great country, Bart," Jack Stanton said with a smile, "and 'less I miss my guess, if that boy's gonna' win the nomination of this party, he's gonna have to learn a few things about the folks."

  "Pay good money to see him get that education," Nilson said. "May be able to see it for free," Stanton said.

  The candidates stood at walnut podiums in front of a deep, rich burgundy velvet curtain. It was nicer than the usual banal TV-station blue. That--plus the audience, plus the climactic nature of the event--added a depth and resonance to the proceedings; all four of the candidates seemed larger than usual, almost presidential. Especially Jack Stanton, who was on a mission that night. He took care of Tibor Lizickis in the first ten minutes. The opening question was What are the three main challenges facing the next president? The economy, of course; crime, certainly. But instead of health care, which normally would have come next, he drifted into America's place in the world. "We must provide leadership. The Cold War may be over, but challenges remain. We must encourage Russia to continue its path to partnership in the Western alliance-and we must make sure that the Russians know that partnership will not be complete until they take the final steps to disengage from their former republics, especially the Baltic republics. We must be sure that Russian troops are no longer stationed in Latvia, in Estonia, in Lithuania. And of course, there's other pressing business to take care of back home-health care-" "Hey, Jack," Charlie Martin interrupted. "You gonna hog the whole show?" Titters from the audience.

  "jack, jack-focus," Susan whispered. We were sitting in a greenroom, just offstage; the two of us and Danny Scanlon. "Take it bit by bit," Susan said. "You can't do it all in one bite."

  He seemed to hear her; he pulled back. He let Charlie Martin get lost in health care, and Ban Nilson do his New Deal Redux number for a sad last time. Bart was aiming it at Larry Harris, digging it at him, talking about the need for compassionate government, a government that would meet the needs of the people. Harris was shifting impatiently, one podium to his left; he was pursing his lips. The smart move was to let the old guy have his valedictory.

  "Senator, if I may," Harris interrupted.

  Susan grabbed my hand. "Good!" she said.

  "Senator," Lawrence Harris intoned, head tilted back, eyes almost closed. "We would all like to do many things. I, for example, would have loved to play shortstop for the Red Sox. But that was not a realistic wish on lily part-I'm left-handed. You can't have a left-handed shortstop." The joke fell flat. Harris didn't seem to notice. He would teach us now, tell us about reality. "The reality is, we can't afford to be as compassionate as we'd like.

  "The reality is, we've been spending far too much for far too long. "The reality is, if we're going to leave a better world for our grandchildren, the American people are going to have to live with some pain. Sacrifices will have to be made."

  "Larry, you gotta be kidding," said a familiar voice.

  "Excuse me, Governor Stanton?"

  "I mean, I know you're from up here and you're more popular than a Christmas turkey and all, but I've got to wonder just what state you've been hymn' in. I mean, the state I've been travelin' in-

  we've all been practically livin' here these past few months--you go anywhere in this state, and you see folks who've had a great deal of personal experience, recent personal experience, with pain. I don't know if the word's reached you up there at Dartmouth yet, but we've got a recession goin' on here in New Hampshire. Folks are hurtin'. They're losin' their jobs, losin' their homes. Senator, are those the folks you're sayin' gotta learn to sacrifice? Just what else you want them to give up?"

  "Governor--"

  "Now, Larry, you just let me finish. Then you can go on with Economics 101." Laughter. The crowd--Harris's crowd--was with us now. "I don't mean to make light of what you're saying. We all know you've got a point. Republicans been runnin' deficits like a bunch of drunken sailors for a decade. We've gotta do something about that for sure. But we've got to fix this economy first. You keep on talkin' about our grandchildren--and we're all concerned about them. But what about the parents of our grandchildren? We just gonna cut them loose, let 'em drift? Larry, tell us about your plans for then."

  No applause, but a buzzing. "I think they're looking for a leader," Harris said, looking directly at Stanton. "I think they're looking for someone who is decent, honorable, someone they can mist." A scattering of applause, but also a few hisses.

  "Cheap," Susan said. But not ineffective. I gave our boy the decision on points, but who could say? Susan was making the same calculations. "We won the hall and the TV audience," she whispered, "but Harris probably took the bite."

  Right. Stanton's case against Harris, succinct and deadly as it seemed in real life, was too long, too complicated to communicate in a two-minute spot on the evening news, especially in the standard "sparks flew among the candidates" debate wrap that broadcast scorps inevitably favored. In fact, Stanton might even come off looking petulant, petty: they'd go with the governor's "Economics 101" bite--and with Harris's "decent, honorable" riff. Harris would come off stable, straight, while reinforcing our decency problem.

  "Shitty prep," Susan said.

  "You think he would've let us prep him?" I said, defensively. "A-any p-punch--" Danny stammered.

  "Shoosh!" Susan said, flashing a stern look at him. Danny recoiled, as if he'd been shot, and Susan quickly relented, ashamed. "Danny, I'm sorry . . . go ahead."

  "A-any p-punch he th-threw woulda been c-countered," Danny said, seeming to assume Susan Stanton would have the same weakness for late-night sportsblab as the governor. "He w-wins it on my scorec-c-card 'c-cause he th-threw a punch for the p-people. C-can't play rope-a-dope n-now."

  Susan inhaled sharply and hugged Danny, burying her head in his neck. "No. You're right, Danny," she said, pulling back, putting her hand, full, flat on his cheek. "You're right, honey. We can't play ropea-dope now."

  Meanwhile, onstage, the storm subsided. Everyone said what he always said. The closing statem
ents went about as expected-until Charlie Martin, who was last. "Our parry has a grand tradition," he said, with a stentorian seriousness that did not quite make it. "A tradition of energy, compassion and honor. We need a candidate, a standard-bearer, who is energetic, compassionate and honorable. I ask you, my fellow Americans, to make the following judgment: Which among us has the energy, the compassion and the honor to serve and to lead?"

  I could see where this was headed. So could Susan, "Uh-oh," she said.

  "Senator Nilson is a distinguished Democrat. I ant proud to call him my friend." Martin paused and for an instant I hoped he wouldn't pull the trigger. No such luck. "He's had a long and distinguished career--but does he have the energy to take this battle to the Republicans? As for Senator Harris, I know he's a neighbor of yours. He and I served together in the Senate. I know the quality of his mind. And, as president, I would want him very close by; I would depend on his advice. But his is an academic intelligence. It needs to be leavened by practicality. And Jack Stanton." He paused again-and again, I had a twinge of hope: he'd only implied Harris's lack of compassion. There was a chance he'd be equally cautious with us. He wouldn't want to get too graphic-and he didn't, which made it all the more brutal. "Now, Governor Stanton, we all know, is energetic and compassionate and intelligent-and he has been the victim of some questionable charges in this campaign, very questionable charges. But even if you believe that he has been unjustly slandered, even if you believe he is an honorable man, we must, as Democrats, make a practical judgment. Is he damaged goods?" I think I gasped: it was so stark. "Would he be able to make the best possible case against the Republicans, or would he be too busy defending himself against an incumbent--and a party--that hasn't been shy about using any and all available weapons in the past."

  "Sucker p-punch," Danny said.

  Susan shook her head, shrugged, and began to wander out into the hallway to greet Jack when he came off. As it happened, Charlie Martin was off first Jack Stanton was lingering, as always, reaching down into the audience to shake hands--and Susan grabbed the senator by the arm, smiling sweetly. "Hey, Charrr-lie," she said. He stopped, gave her a peck on the cheek. "So that's how you got all those medals in Vietnam," she said. "What do you get for bayoneting someone in the back? The Double-Cross with oakleaf cluster?"

  "Susan, it's part of the game."

  "Charlie, it's not a fucking game."

  Stanton came last. He pushed Susan back into our greenroom and closed the door. He slammed his fist on the top of a chair. "I just can't get a clean shot," he said.

  "You did g-good, G-governor," Danny said. "You t-told

  "Yeah, but I took some, too." He turned to Susan. "Was it worth the risk?"

  "What've you got to lose?" She replied, coolly. But then, sensing his distress, she added, "You couldn't have said it any better than you did. Someone had to. I'm glad it was you."

  My turn. "Martin was coming at you, no matter what. It's probably a good thing you took a poke at Harris--shows you can still do some damage. The scorps may have sonic second thoughts about your viability."

  If only I believed that. I was exhausted, totally wiped that Saturday. It was a beautiful day, a sudden thaw. There was a Carolina breeze;

  everything was dripping, melting. But Charlie Martin had taken it out of me. His argument sounded too plausible for comfort. "Oh for Chrissakes, Henri-you are too fuckin' literal," Richard said as we speed-walked-there was no other way with Richard-from the hotel down to our campaign headquarters on Main Street. It was a good mile or so, but there was the sense now that our work was pretty much done; there was nothing more to do. We were killing time. We walked past a scruffy row of fender and lube shops. "No one gives a shit about closing statements, Henri," Richard said. "By the time that stupid fuckin' hippie kamikaze unloaded, only God was watchin' the show. Folks at home were channel-surfin'. Half the folks in the hall were roustin' around, lookin' for their scarfs and galoshesy'knowhattamean? Anyways, you telling me you never heard that argument before? 'Damaged goods' is so old even the small-city scorps ain't writin' it anymore."

  "It's one thing for the scorps to write it and another for Charlie Martin to present the world with the biggest, fattest sound bite imaginable," I said. "Y'know, Richard? Y'knowhauamean?"

  "What is this?" Richard asked. We were near downtown now, moving through clusters of volunteers. Some were standing with signs on street corners; others were working sidewalk tables. "You think only ugly girls interested in politics nowadays?" Richard said. "This is like the inverse Miss America contest. You gotta figure the Republicans do better than this, right? They get cheerleaders and prom queens. We get tree huggers and NOW ninnies. We get whole armies of women who look like Lucille." Richard did have fairly mainstream taste, and a fairly constant frustration level.

  "Richard, shut the fuck up and look at this," I said. It was, in fact, a remarkable scene. Downtown Manchester was a political street fair. There were clowns and mimes. The Rotary Club was giving away hot dogs. The millionaire vanity candidate was handing out purple balloons with his name on them; there was a Lyndon Larouche sound truck circling, playing Beethoven's Ninth; there were Operation Rescue fanatics waving dead-fetus posters. Harris volunteers were handing out green-and-white pom-poms. A Nilson Dixieland band played in the park facing the Holiday Inn.

  "Brigadoon," I said. "By midweek, it'll all be over. Just some techies packing up. By next weekend, half these storefronts'll be empty again."

  "I mean," Richard said, oblivious. "Henri--you assessing this talent? Pathetic. 'Lo, Tom."

  Tom Brokaw was coming the other way--with Richard Cohen, The Washington Post columnist, and several other scorps. "Hey, Jemmons, you got numbers?" Brokaw asked.

  "Steady as she goes," Richard said. "You?"

  "Hear the Globe track has you up nudging twenty again. . . ." "And Harris?"

  "Thirty-five or so . . ."

  "That boy's only gettin' one outta three in his home state with half a ton a trash on our head. Wait till we get him down home."

  "You gonna make it down home?" Cohen asked.

  "Well, who the fuck else gonna make it?" Richard snapped. "Ozio?"

  "In the South, in the South?" Richard shrieked. "You talk about Orlando down home, they think you talkin"bout Disney World. You got any other hot ideas?"

  Cohen shrugged and smiled, palms up. We moved on. "Jeez," Richard said. "Heavy fucking lifting. It's like goin' through life carryin' Libby Holden on your back. And they think we don't earn our money."

  "The Globe number--Leon's showing more than that," I said. Leon was, in fact, showing us moving again after the debate.

  "A bump, a bumplet, a sta-tis-tical hiccup: we're still fucked, Henri." "What do we need?" I asked as we passed Martin headquarters, which was overflowing with student volunteers. Several dozen college kids were milling on the sidewalk around a very attractive blonde who had a street map and a megaphone. She was giving out assignments. Richard gawked at the blonde. She smiled back at him. "Listen, honey, you wanta learn about the intricacies a' politics?" he asked. She shook her head slowly, sexily, and blew Richard a kiss.

  "What do we need?" I asked again.

  "I'm smitten," he said. "Fuckin' hippie has the best-lookin' talent--wouldn't ya know it? I'd take that girl door-to-door in a hot-flash, we'd push every doorbell in town."

  "Richard, for Chrissake." We were stopped at a red light; a Harris station wagon sped past, slushing us pretty bad.

  "Fuck you, asshole!" Richard shouted, then, to me he said, "We need one outta four, long as Natural Forces stays under forty and no one comes up behind us. We can limp our sorry asses outta here with twenty-five--and we're nowhere near that."

  "Leon has us twenty-one on a three-day track," I said, assaying an argument I didn't quite believe, "which means last night and this morning had to be near twenty-five."

  "And sample size?" Richard said. "You call four people. One of them giggles like a heathen and says, 'Well, that redneck son
ofabitch sure tucked it to of Professor Perfect las' night. Mebbe I'm for him.' You think that means something? Call my broker. He'll sell you all sorts of shit."

  Our headquarters, halfway down the next block, wasn't nearly as bad as I'd feared. It was alive, every bit as alive as Martin's had been. And a better sort of crowd: student vols in plaid flannel and jeans mixed with older folks in union and tavern windbreakers. "Cross between a Nirvana concert and Tuesday-night bowling league," Richard said. "Not bad. Not fucking bad at all, for a cripple."

  Brad Lieberman sat at a desk in the front, working a phone, handing out piles of literature and xeroxed neighborhood maps to a line of coordinators. He waved to us, gave a thumbs-up. We squeezed past the pegboard partitions behind Brad to the larger back room, which had three long rows of tables with telephones and thirty people working them. Off to the side was another table with two large coffee urns and dozens of boxes of doughnuts, cascading, half open, half eaten. Interesting people were working the phones. Bill Johnson was back there, as well as several of the Gang of Five. And Momma, puffing Slims and radiating cheap perfume from the middle of a row, her raven beehive sucking up like a textile-factory bobbin-all of them working down lists of people who'd been called at least once in the past month. I went over to Johnson when he put down the receiver. "How's it goin'?"

  "Twos and threes," he shrugged. "We ain't lightin' it up." "No fours?"

  "Shitload of fours. But you gotta expect that. Count every hangup a four. Where's the candidate?"

  "At the mall," I said. "He's just gonna stand there and work the mall all day, if you can believe it."

  "No touring?"

  "He said every minute in the van is a minute wasted. He figures he'll get a steady flow all day this way-"