by Joe Klein
"Lordamercy," Stanton said. He had to say something.
"I stood up there in New Haven," Picker said quietly, "and I didn't know what to do. Did you see it that night?" Stanton nodded yes. "You know what I was thinking about, standing up there? I was thinking about you. Well, sort of. I was thinking: They're gonna find me out. Even if I don't have AIDS I'm fucked. They're gonna find me out--and then they're gonna do to me what they're doing to Jack Stanton." Picker wiped his brow with the back of his hand. The room was gently air-conditioned--it wasn't the usual arctic Southern overcompensation--and he was beginning to perspire. "It suddenly seemed so cruel, what they were doing to you. I mean, I haven't been a great person in this life. I've done a lot of stupid, selfish things, and running for president may have been one of them--but I didn't think I'd done anything that might remotely merit the humiliation, the viciousness . . ." His voice trailed off, his eyes clouded over. "It was like some sort of pagan ritual, the way they were ripping you apart. And I'd been kind of getting off on it, feeding it even. At least, until that moment in New Haven, and that's when I realized: Stanton probably doesn't deserve it either."
Well, I thought--he deserved it some.
Stanton glanced over at me quickly, sensing that I was betraying him. I may have been, but Picker wasn't in any shape to notice. He was staring off into space, running a nervous hand through his hair. He was still back in New Haven, lost in his story: "I didn't know what to do. It was unimaginable--all those people waving posters with drops of blood. I mean, can you imagine? Drops of blood? I wanted some room, some time to think. So I tried to calm them down. And, of course, the exact opposite happened: Every last thing that came out of my mouth got them even more worked up. It was an order of power I'd never even imagined. It was like some stupid fairy-tale sort of curse, a King Midas thing. Everything I tried to shut it down only made it bigger, and I didn't have the courage to really shut it down. They were so . . . easily led. I began to think that even if I was okay, even if my blood was clean-I wasn't sure I really wanted to do this. I could never live up to their expections. I could never give them what they needed."
He lowered his head and wiped an eye. I had come to expect that any politician I admired would be like Jack Stanton--larger than life, as formidable in the flesh as he appeared on television. But Freddy Picker wasn't. He was, resolutely, life-size--in every respect but one. He had a parlor trick; he could perform--brilliantly, instinctively--for the cameras. He didn't seem to have any higher purpose than that; he didn't seem to know much about politics. What Picker realized in New Haven--about the desperation of the crowd--Stanton had known from the womb. Jack Stanton also understood, intuitively, that the real challenge was far more difficult than simply meeting their expectations. It was about exceeding their expectations. It was about inspiring them. If you couldn't do that, you were Millard Fillmore. It was a very tough game. There were only two or three winners per century, and a fair number of the losers were burned at the stake. Or disappeared from memory--and the Picker phenomenon was evaporating before my eyes. "So I called the hospital the next day," he was saying now. "I told them I'd been anemic in the past, and was feeling a little tired, and I just . . . I just waisted to see if the blood had been tested, y'know? They put me on hold." He laughed. "As if I were a normal human being. You know how it is, jack: when you're governor, they never put you on hold. But I waited--and waited, and it was awful. Finally, the nurse came back on and said that, yes, they'd checked it and, no, there was nothing unusual about my blood, everything was fine."
I think I exhaled.
"But everything wasn't fine," he said. The words were coming faster, just cascading out of him now "In fact, it got worse. I felt even more trapped. I began to obsess about the drugs. I drove myself crazy, making a list, trying to think of all the parties I'd been to down in Dade--parties just crawling with jerks who might give me up. And then there was Renzo. Who was Renzo, anyway? Had he told anyone? Would he tell someone now? Would he tell the National Flash? I got up every day wondering if this would be the day they found me out. It crowded out everything. You saw how much trouble I had keeping up with you during that Geraldo debate, right? It became impossible to think seriously about what I was doing--I was running for president, and all I could think about was my imminent national embarrassment."
"Tell me about it," Stanton said.
"But, ack, the difference was: I was in over my head," Picker said. "You'd been preparing for this forever--least that's what I read. I just jumped in. It was more than a lark--but it wasn't quite serious either, if you know what I mean. I hadn't prepared. I didn't really know the issues. But most important, I hadn't thought about--all this stuff. And after New Haven, it became the only thing I could think about. So when we won New York, I made the announcement that I was going to come home and consider what was 'best for the country.' Hah! I was trying to come up with a way to get out before they found me out. And, ack, I'd like to thank you for coming here tonight the--the honorable way you did." He turned to me--"Henry, I'm not even angry you went snooping around my past. Better you than most anyone else. . . . Anyway, you've given me the excuse to finally do what I'd been trying to get up the courage to--"
"Whut?" Stanton asked--impatient, finally.
"I'm dropping out," Picker said.
"Jesus," Stanton said, not surprised. "Are you . . ."
"Sure?" Picker laughed. "Yeah. You know how I said that all the things they'd hang me for--all my sins--were so far in the past that it seemed they'd happened to a different person? Well, I've come to believe that my political ambition is part of that, too. Something dangerous that should have been left in the past, like cocaine and the rest. The idea that I could be invincible, that anything I wanted to do was okay--that's an adolescent thing, right? I look at my boys and they . ."
He stopped. The thought of his boys seemed to stop him cold. "I figure the press'll still find me out. They'll be all over this story, right? But maybe I can preempt them a little, give them part of it--and they won't go find the rest. I really don't want them to find out about Renzo. But, Jack, the bottom line is still: I'm a national joke, right? I don't see any way to get around that. And I still have to explain it all to my boys." He frowned, then stared down at his hands. They seemed paralyzed, palms up, futile on his thighs. He looked up at Stanton, his dark eyes sharp again. His tone hardened. "No matter what I do, those motherfuckers are still going to find the rest of it, aren't they?"
I couldn't see exactly what Jack Stanton did at that moment, it must have been something with his eyes--a twitch, a wince, a premonition of a tabloid headline, a glimmer of the agony to come. Whatever it was, Picker caught it--and seemed to implode, shriveling on the couch, knees up, shoulders shaking slightly, uncontrollably, arms over his head.
Stanton was up and across the room before I fully realized what had happened. He gathered up Freddy Picker, who curled in, burying his head in Stanton's chest. And he rocked Picker for what seemed a very long time, occasionally kissing him on top of the head--until, slowly, the former governor of Florida regained his composure. All of this transpired without a word, with barely a sound.
"Governor," Stanton finally said, "I don't know if you're a drinking man--I'm not much of one--but I think we could both use a small jolt of bourbon just about now."
Picker disengaged himself from Stanton's embrace, went to a cupboard and brought out a bottle of Jack Daniel's and three glasses. There were napkins in the cupboard, and he blew his nose with one. His eyes were wild and bloodshot, his hair was all over his forehead. But, somehow, he hadn't lost his dignity. "Jack," he said, "I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but you seem so impervious. Not sitting here. Here, you seem like a normal guy. But how do you wake up in the morning--like in the middle of New York, when they were pulverizing you--how do you just get up and face the world, knowing they're gonna tear your lungs out today, make you seem a crook and a fool and a liar, same as yesterday? I'm curious because it's a skill
I'll probably be needing."
"I don't rightly know," Stanton said. "There just doesn't seem to be any other option for me--nothin' else I really can do. And yeah, I'm sure a part of it--a big part of it--is ego sickness. You called it an addiction. You're right. But that's not all of it. I do love it--the part you talked about, moving a crowd. And the strategy, too; the game of it. But I don't think I'd be baring my butt for random whipping by that self-righteous, hypocritical pack of shitbirds if I didn't believe that you can, on occasion, make people's lives a little better. I know it sounds corny, but I still get all excited when I come across some program we've done that actually works," he said, with genuine enthusiasm. He stood up, getting ready to go. "I mean, have you ever been to an adult literacy class? Grown-ups trying to learn how to read? You talk about New York. You know what comes to my mind? Not the primary. I already forgot that. What I think about is this little adult literacy program up in Harlem, Henry and I visited once." He turned to me, eyes glistening. "It was the day we met--right, Henri? It was just pure glory. It was like going to church."
Picker stood too, now "Jack"--he smiled--"you may want to reconsider dropping out tomorrow."
"Yeah, well . . ." Stanton paused, blushed. "I've been thinking 'bout that."
"Truth is," Picker said, leaning against the door, hands scrunched in the pockets of his jeans, "this wouldn't have lasted much longer even--even ill hadn't been carrying around all this extra luggage. I'd pretty much run out of things to say. I didn't know what else to tell them." He laughed. "I'll bet that never happens to you."
"Freddy, you know what I was thinking, watching you that night in New Haven?" Stanton said then. "I was thinking: That's what I should have been about. That's the campaign I should have run. But / didn't have the courage." He paused, then, needing some physical punctuation, put his arm straight out on Freddy Picker's shoulder and looked him hard in the eye. "See, it doesn't really matter why you did what you did: you raised the game a notch. You created a standard--of, yeah, candor--the rest of us are going to have to deal with now. That's a real good thing for the country."
"I appreciate that, Jack," Picker said. "Even if it is unadulterated bullshit."
They hugged in the doorway. "Bullshit'll grease a lot of doors," Stanton said. "The real test is what you do when you walk through 'em. . . . Anything I can do to help you through this, Freddy. Anything. Right?"
"I know, ack," Picker said. "I'll remember that."
The governor whistled a sad country tune as we walked down the gravel path to the station wagon. He didn't say anything as we drove to the airport--but as soon as we his the tarmac he asked, "So, Henry, you still want to have that meeting?"
"Yeah," I said.
"Ten o'clock at the Mansion tomorrow"
He whistled his sad song again as we walked toward the plane, drifting through the voluptuous north Florida night. And then--in his effortless, understated way--he sang the chorus:
"I can still feel the soft southern breeze in the live oak tree
And those Williams boys, they still mean a lot to me-Hank and Tennessee .. .
I guess we're all gonna be what we're gonna be So what do you do with good ol' boys like me?"
"You know why I love that song?" he asked.
"Probably the line about the Williams boys," I said.
"Not bad, Henri," he said, tossing a big arm across my shoulders, gathering me in. "Not bad at all. See, the rednecks'll always pretend otherwise, but everyone who comes up from around here knows: It's never just Hank. The picture ain't ever complete without ol' Tennessee."
I was awakened by the smell of coffee. Daisy was bustling about the place, at ease--at home. She saw me stretch and came over to the bed. "I don't want this taken as a precedent," she said. "You're gonna have to make coffee, too. Whoever is up first, okay? But I guess you had a rough night."
"An amazing night." And I told her.
"So Stanton lives for the umpteen-fortieth time to fight another day," she said. "You think the term dumb luck might apply here?" "He probably sees it as perseverance," I said. "But Libby was so completely right: he never has to pay the bill. Even when he wants to. He was ready last night. He was gonna quit the campaign--and Picker just wouldn't let him."
"You think this is what people mean when they talk about destiny?" she said, and laughed. "Pretty pathetic stuff. You sort of want destiny to be something grander." She poured me a mug of coffee and brought it over to the bed. "So what are you going to do?"
"I'm packing for . . . where? Jamaica?" I asked. "Wherever destiny ain't."
"You sure?" She asked. "Henry, don't do it for me. It's okay if you want to see it through."
"Naww," I said. "Too much water under too many bridges. It could never be the way it used to be."
"Maybe that's all to the good," she said. "Maybe you'll be better at this if you don't do it so worshipful."
"You want me to do it?"
"I want you," she said. "I don't care what you do. But it would be nice if we had some politics to talk about, in between all the mushy stuff."
"There's all kinds of politics," I said. "I might be better off spending my time helping Bill Johnson run for attorney general over in Alabama."
"I could help, too," she said. "I could do some killer positives for him."
"I love you, Daisy," I said.
"Love me," she said, "love my ads."
Stanton was upstairs in the Mansion, a sanctum I'd rarely penetrated. He had a small office up there--a desk, a television, pictures of Susan and Jackie, a picture of himself taking the oath of office, a bookcase filled with the classics of Southern politics--V. 0. Key, W. J. Cash, C. Vann Woodward, T Harry Williams on Huey Long, many others. There was a gray loveseat just off to the side of the desk, facing the television. Susan was sitting there, and I joined her.
"Thanks for last night, Henry," the governor said. He was dressed for success, wearing a blindingly white shirt and his red-and-blueand-gold striped tie; his navy pin-striped suit jacket hung on a doorknob. Susan was ready for prime time, too, in a blue cotton suit with a beige crepe blouse. "Meant a lot to me, your being there. Pretty incredible, huh? Freddy called me this morning. He said he talked to his boys after we left--batted .500. Older one seemed okay, younger one took it pretty rough, slammed the door on him. But I'll bet you anything they smooth it over. He'll be on the air soon," he said, glancing at the television--CNN, muted. "So what's on your mind?"
"I'm resigning from the campaign," I said.
"I don't accept your resignation."
"Look, I just don't feel comfortable about this anymore." "About whut?"
I couldn't quite say.
"I spoke to Richard," he said. "He's back on board. And I'm putting him in charge: campaign manager. He'll be right here, in this office, within the hour. Howard's goin' back to being consigliere. I'll keep Adler around--peripherally. He has his uses, but he'll answer to Richard. And look, we can bring Daisy back if you want, too." "That's not what this is about," I said.
"Then what is it?"
"Libby--Libby's test," I said, searching for some concise way to tell him it had all been just too much. Even after all the time we'd spent together, I still found it difficult to just cut loose, speak my mind. My chest was tight, my throat constricted. "You flunked it."
"Oh, for Chrissake, Henry," he said. "This ain't the Boy Scouts. This is-- Wait a minute, here he comes."
Picker had gone to Tallahassee. He didn't look too good, but his body language was determined, proud. He stood there alone. His boys weren't with him. He was wearing a dark suit, a blue button-down shirt with narrow stripes that didn't work too well for television, a muted tie. He took a yellow piece of legal paper out of his pocket, but didn't read from it.
"All right," he said. "Today, I am ending my surrogate campaign for the presidency." There were groans. People were shouting, "Why, why?" Susan got up from the loveseat and moved around behind her husband, an arm across his shoulders, her cheek res
ting atop his head. Picker tried to smile. "I know sonic of you are thinking this is deja vu. We've been this way before. And we have. And I was right the first time--back in 1978: I'm not cut out for this work. I'm not qualified to even pretend to run for the presidency." Someone jostled the CNN camera; there was mayhem, people seemed to be rushing everywhere. "When Martha Harris asked me to continue her husband's campaign, I was so honored--I didn't stop to think about the consequences. That was thoughtless of me. I'd like to apologize--"
"Why aren't you qualified?" Someone shouted.
"Because I knowingly broke the law when I was governor." He sighed, and plunged ahead. "At a time when a lot of people were experimenting with drugs, I did too. Actually, it was more than experimentation--if I'd just been messing around, that might have been forgivable. But I lost control of myself. I--"