something terribly ugly and cruel in this country? And a horrible tragedy like this bombing could really make people step back and ask themselves what is happening to us.”
“Absolutely,” Lisa agreed instantly. “The same way that there was a backlash against the overkill after 9/11. All the taking away of civil liberties.”
I started to remind them that George W. Bush was reelected and any backlash happened more than a decade after 9/11, when everyone was feeling safer. And it was the current absence of feeling safe that was driving Armstrong George toward the White House. But I knew it was this side of Hilda Smith, call it a fervent reasonableness, that had drawn Lisa to her years ago. One night after we had won New Hampshire and done better than expected on Super Tuesday, Lisa and I had ended up in a bar alone, drinking too much. She’d told me that Hilda had looked like a star that day she first saw her speak, her blond hair dusted with snow, standing there in her husband’s trench coat, borrowed when the sunny morning had suddenly turned into a snow squall. “Government can’t do everything,” she had said, “but we must do a better job of educating our citizenry, or the new century is sure to dawn on the declining days of our great country.” Pretty heady stuff for a state rep race.
“That’s our play,” I agreed. “But something like this just makes a lot of people want the toughest sheriff west of the Pecos to come in and kick ass,” I said, and when Lisa and Quentin Smith both glared at me, I didn’t stop. “People are scared to death out there. Their terrified, racist eyes see all these little yellow and brown people taking what jobs are left, and we shouldn’t kid ourselves that there is something reassuring about—”
“A thug like Armstrong George,” the vice president finished.
“On a dark night, having some jackbooted thug on your side can make you feel pretty good.” I tried to smile. “Remember, the innocent have nothing to fear.”
“Let’s go to bed,” Quentin Smith said, standing. He reached for his wife, holding out his hand.
When I was at the door, I glanced back and saw the three of them watching me, waiting for me to leave, like I was the hired help who had overstayed. It was a fact of life. They loved you for saving them and hated you for needing to be saved.
One more reason I had to get out of this business. And all I needed was a handful of delegates—then Hilda would win, and I would be a moderately Famous Person with my own political show franchise. Then I could just talk about all the people who did what I used to do. Bliss.
—
As soon as I stepped into the hallway, I could feel something different. I was halfway to the elevator when it struck me: in the twenty minutes I had been inside with the vice president, extra Secret Service agents had been posted. Instead of the usual detail of two agents in front of the suite door and another by the elevator (entrance to the floor was controlled by passkey), there were now eight.
They were all faces I recognized. The agents liked me because I never gave them a hard time and always respected their needs. When Kim Grunfeld, our dragon lady of a media consultant, had tried to boss them around during the filming of a commercial, I had made sure I came down on their side and told Kim to either quit acting like she was a real film director or take a walk. As I was getting on the elevator, I saw that two of the guards had swiveled their Uzi submachine guns from their normal rear-sling position, where the machine guns rode in the small of their back, to the front, just under the flaps of their coats.
My daily senior staff meeting was scheduled to convene in the war room at six thirty, which was in just a couple of hours. Moving a campaign to a convention was never easy. Our regular headquarters were in Montpelier, Vermont, the smallest capital city in the country. This was partly because it was cheap but mostly to
“Absolutely,” Lisa agreed instantly. “The same way that there was a backlash against the overkill after 9/11. All the taking away of civil liberties.”
I started to remind them that George W. Bush was reelected and any backlash happened more than a decade after 9/11, when everyone was feeling safer. And it was the current absence of feeling safe that was driving Armstrong George toward the White House. But I knew it was this side of Hilda Smith, call it a fervent reasonableness, that had drawn Lisa to her years ago. One night after we had won New Hampshire and done better than expected on Super Tuesday, Lisa and I had ended up in a bar alone, drinking too much. She’d told me that Hilda had looked like a star that day she first saw her speak, her blond hair dusted with snow, standing there in her husband’s trench coat, borrowed when the sunny morning had suddenly turned into a snow squall. “Government can’t do everything,” she had said, “but we must do a better job of educating our citizenry, or the new century is sure to dawn on the declining days of our great country.” Pretty heady stuff for a state rep race.
“That’s our play,” I agreed. “But something like this just makes a lot of people want the toughest sheriff west of the Pecos to come in and kick ass,” I said, and when Lisa and Quentin Smith both glared at me, I didn’t stop. “People are scared to death out there. Their terrified, racist eyes see all these little yellow and brown people taking what jobs are left, and we shouldn’t kid ourselves that there is something reassuring about—”
“A thug like Armstrong George,” the vice president finished.
“On a dark night, having some jackbooted thug on your side can make you feel pretty good.” I tried to smile. “Remember, the innocent have nothing to fear.”
“Let’s go to bed,” Quentin Smith said, standing. He reached for his wife, holding out his hand.
When I was at the door, I glanced back and saw the three of them watching me, waiting for me to leave, like I was the hired help who had overstayed. It was a fact of life. They loved you for saving them and hated you for needing to be saved.
One more reason I had to get out of this business. And all I needed was a handful of delegates—then Hilda would win, and I would be a moderately Famous Person with my own political show franchise. Then I could just talk about all the people who did what I used to do. Bliss.
—
As soon as I stepped into the hallway, I could feel something different. I was halfway to the elevator when it struck me: in the twenty minutes I had been inside with the vice president, extra Secret Service agents had been posted. Instead of the usual detail of two agents in front of the suite door and another by the elevator (entrance to the floor was controlled by passkey), there were now eight.
They were all faces I recognized. The agents liked me because I never gave them a hard time and always respected their needs. When Kim Grunfeld, our dragon lady of a media consultant, had tried to boss them around during the filming of a commercial, I had made sure I came down on their side and told Kim to either quit acting like she was a real film director or take a walk. As I was getting on the elevator, I saw that two of the guards had swiveled their Uzi submachine guns from their normal rear-sling position, where the machine guns rode in the small of their back, to the front, just under the flaps of their coats.
My daily senior staff meeting was scheduled to convene in the war room at six thirty, which was in just a couple of hours. Moving a campaign to a convention was never easy. Our regular headquarters were in Montpelier, Vermont, the smallest capital city in the country. This was partly because it was cheap but mostly to
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