A Day in the Life of the New President

An intimate look behind White House doors at the emerging Reagan style

The amiable visage and quick humor that Ronald Reagan displays in public indicate a President unchanged by his first weeks of residence at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. For a closer look, TIME White House Correspondent Laurence I. Barrett spent most of Lincoln's Birthday at Reagan 's elbow, an exclusive vantage point that enabled him to watch the President at staff conferences, meetings with dignitaries, and ceremonial events. Eleven crowded hours revealed important differences between Reagan the candidate and Reagan the incumbent. Barrett's report:

It is 8:45 a.m. in the Hall of First Ladies on the ground level of the White House, and Reagan seems aware that he is exactly five minutes behind schedule. He leaves the elevator that has brought him from breakfast with his wife in the family quarters, bids a smiling "Hi, hi" to Secret Service agents and strides so quickly down the red carpet that the entourage must scurry to keep up. Reagan is not a morning person. He wakens at an unpresidential 7:30 or 7:45 (vs. 6 a.m. for Jimmy Carter). Today's 8 o'clock call from the White House switchboard found the Reagans already risen from their king-size bed.

He crosses the Rose Garden colonnade to the Oval Office, where he greets his personal secretary, Helene von Damm, with a boast. "Look what I did last night," he says, handing her a plump folder of papers read and signed. Also awaiting him, as they do each morning, are two of his top aides, Edwin Meese and James Baker. "The only reason I'm late," says the leader of the free world, "is that I had to oil my face." Though his Secret Service code name is Rawhide, the Southern Californian is finding it difficult to adjust to central heating. It leaves his skin too dry.

Reagan takes his black leather swivel chair, while Meese and Baker perch on either side of the massive oak desk.

The third member of the staff troika, Michael Deaver, joins them. The three advisers have already had their own breakfast meeting and participated in a larger gathering of two dozen staffers, refining plans for the day and the near future. Now Reagan and the trio talk in clipped sentences as they exchange papers. Reagan asks Meese about a pending investigation. "Don't we have to goose them a bit?" Reagan inquires. "Gee, it's been going on for two years."

As Governor and as candidate, Reagan had a reputation for disdain of detail. During the transition period, his "detachment" became a byword on both coasts. Now, preoccupied with the major speech on fiscal policy he will give in a few days, he raises a question about simplifying a point in his proposed tax-reduction plans. "I'm just thinking about the guy doing his return," Reagan explains. Meese says that the new tax rate tables will deal with the problem. Something else is rankling Reagan. His instinct is to cut the capital gains levy sooner rather than later. Says he: "This concern is doing us out of something far more stimulating [to the economy]."

Going over the day's drill, Reagan is also resigned to a packed agenda. He will not have time to change for dinner that night at the vice presidential mansion. Glancing down at the new dark blue suit he is wearing, he says, "I looked at the schedule. I'm already dressed."

At 9:15 George Bush and his chief aide, Admiral Daniel Murphy, arrive at the Oval Office to listen to the daily briefing by National Security Adviser Richard Allen. Reagan moves from the desk to a peach-colored wingback chair in front of a crackling hearth. Allen sits in a matching chair while the others occupy two sofas separated by a coffee table and a bouquet of freshly cut daisies, carnations and snapdragons. Allen starts with Poland. As the civilians who lack security clearances file out of the room, Reagan asks about the political leanings of Warsaw's new premier, Wojciech Jaruzelski.

Twenty minutes later, Allen is replaced by Press Secretary James Brady and Max Friedersdorf, chief of congres sional liaison. Brady wants Reagan to drop into the press room later that day to help publicize the release of an Administration "audit" of the state of the economy. Reagan readily agrees. Friedersdorf tells Reagan that Congress will again postpone the proposed pay increase for se nior Government officials. "That's too bad," Reagan remarks. "I guess it has to be, under the circumstances."

Strangely, considering the pressure of the clock, the conversation bogs down in minutiae: the choice of a chamber in which to hold a congressional briefing on the grain embargo issue, and the distribution of seats in Nancy Reagan's box when the President addresses Congress Wednesday night. The staff has already chosen the wives of several important congressional leaders. Reagan adds: "You know somebody else who ought to be in there? Paul Laxalt's wife."

At 10:07, after a recess of just ten minutes, Reagan takes a seat in the Cabinet Room for what has been the daily "budget working group" session for the past three weeks. In these meetings, Budget Director David Stockman and heads of Cabinet departments have been going over spending cuts, agency by agen cy and sometimes project by project. Reagan begins the session on a light note.

After some research, the President tells Treasury Secretary Donald Regan, he has discovered a class distinction in the way their similar Irish names are pronounced.

The President says of his subordinate's ancestors: "Those who called themselves 'Reegan' were the lawyers and doctors.

It was only the laborers and the farmers who called themselves 'Raygan.' " As the group laughs, Reagan scoops a handful of jelly beans from a glass vase and puts them on the table before him. He will eat them, one at a time, as the discussion goes on. He also doodles on a White House memo pad; his genre is comic-strip caricature, vintage 1935.

Despite this manual activity, Reagan pays close attention as Stockman, sitting beside him, leads the group through summaries of proposed reductions. The Bud get Director critiques, harshly, the spending habits of the Export-Import Bank and lays out his proposal. "Anyone have any comment?" Reagan asks. There is virtually no dissent as a large reduction is agreed on.

The Energy Department is next.

Stockman wants to end Government subsidy of the synfuels program for a saving next year of $864 million. Energy Secretary James Edwards makes a proforma pitch to save one experimental project -- a coal liquefaction plant to be built in West Virginia -- but Reagan appears unmoved.

After that, the group breezes through a proposed $125 million reduction in Edwards' administrative overhead. Again Reagan asks for comment, hears none, and says happily: "Good! All right. Turn the page quick." Stockman does not score a clean sweep, however. The Budget Director proposes a steep reduction in subsidies for the maritime industry. Reagan demurs. He later explains: "No maritime nation can look to the future and envision a national emergency in which we could no longer depend on foreign bottoms to carry our cargo." Officially the question is still being studied. In fact, Stockman has lost this round.

After the appearance in the White House press room that he had promised Jim Brady, Reagan climbs into the black Lincoln Continental limousine for a ride to the Lincoln Memorial, where he pays homage to the first Republican President.

Despite a brilliant winter sun, the frigid wind is piercing. Presentation of wreaths keeps the President--hatless, dressed in a lightweight black topcoat--standing in the cold for nearly 15 minutes, and he is almost shaking by the tune he speaks briefly about the President "whose grace, compassion and earnest commitment is remembered in countless biographies, folk tales and poetry."

Lunch at 1 p.m. in the White House second-floor dining room is a wooing session with representatives of 20 Hispanic organizations. As usual, Reagan dines with gusto: a rich shellfish soup, filet mignon, artichoke salad, California red wine and fruit compote. He assures his guests that five Hispanic appointments to the sub-Cabinet are "in the pipeline." By 2:15 p.m. he is back at his desk, making phone calls and signing papers.

He opens the red folder reserved for classified material and frowns over one document. His lips tighten, he shakes his head, lets out an audible "Hmmm" and replaces the paper. In Sacramento, Reagan relied heavily on one-page "minimemos" prepared by his staff. Now the memorandums are longer, and they conclude with a space for Reagan to indicate one of four options: approve, approve as amended, reject, no action. Some of the memos are thoroughly routine. On this Lincoln's Birthday Reagan promotes nine military general officers and approves a presidential proclamation on agriculture.

A light blinks on Reagan's white call director, the only phone he has in the Oval Office; his call to Dr. Edward N. Brandt Jr. in Austin has gone through. Says Reagan: "I'm calling to ask if you can serve your country as Assistant Secretary of HHS for health." The conversation is a formality; the appointee has already been primed. A few minutes later, near Helene von Damm's desk in the anteroom, Personnel Director Pendleton James is wondering aloud why Reagan did not immediately make one other similar call.

Von Damm says that the President found something wrong in the paperwork for the appointment. James and an assistant puzzle over the document for a few moments and then realize that Reagan had spotted an error: an appointee had been listed for the wrong job.

Reagan, meanwhile, receives the Italian Foreign Minister, Emilio Colombo. It is a courtesy call; Colombo has already talked business with Richard Allen and Secretary of State Alexander Haig. As Reagan and Colombo make small talk, there is a "photo opportunity": a herd of photographers and TV crews bursts into the room, cameras blazing, and leaves a few moments later.

For the first time in the day, Reagan seems ill at ease. Speaking with Colombo requires using interpreters, something Reagan has rarely done. Colombo delivers an ornate statement about the robust history of Italian-American relations. Reagan pauses, uncertain whether to address Colombo or one of the two translators, and starts his reply: "Well, I appreciate that very much. The feeling is mutual."

At 4:30 Pendleton James is occupying the other easy chair by the fire, and the subject is personnel. Jim Cavanaugh, who has been assisting James temporarily, is returning to his home in California. Since coming to Washington, Reagan has been complaining about the cold and joking about defecting. "Wait until I get my hat," he tells Cavanaugh. "I'll go with you."

Reagan's expression turns serious when James starts to talk about a review of the 255 presidential boards and commissions, a number of which are clearly boondoggles. James cites what seems to be a particularly bad case: a new body to study the conditions of native Hawaiians. The nine members were appointed on Jimmy Carter's last morning in office and are scheduled to go to Hawaii next month for a fee of $100 a day plus expenses. James wants the members fired and the excursion canceled while a broader examination of all 255 outfits goes ahead. George Bush speaks up, suggesting that Hawaii Senator Daniel Inouye may have an interest in the new commission. If he does, Bush says, "somebody should hold his hand because he can be very helpful."

Discussion turns to another advisory body, this one on ambassadorial appointments. It contains only one committeed Republican, former Pennsylvania Governor William Scranton, and was created by Carter, not Congress. "You can tell from that list it is pure gut Democratic politics," says Bush. "Right!" says Reagan. One down, 254 to go.

A little after 5, Reagan thinks about getting his weekly haircut from Barber Milton Pitts. He starts in that direction, then changes his mind and returns to the Oval Office for his daily wind-up session with Deaver, Meese and Baker, each of whom he has seen on and off throughout the day. This meeting is a quick one; the staffers stand around the desk.

Historically Reagan has never been a demanding boss. Yet the White House is changing his metabolism and his expectations. He does not pretend to keep the pace maintained by Carter or other recent predecessors, but he is chugging along steadily. To the trio in the Oval Office this evening, he ticks off requests --particularly his desire to get the first draft and back-up material for his Feb.

18 economics speech as soon as possible. He recalls a couple of budget issues he wants another look at. He asks about the task force on the hostage deal, which is due to issue its report soon. Finally he brings up something still troubling him: the Hawaiian junket. "Somebody has to take a look at that commission," he reminds Baker.

Then, sitting near the dying fire, Reagan reflects on his first 23 days in power.

Despite his fluent public performances, he had seemed initially uneasy with the routine--complaining to one interviewer, for instance, that he did not know when he was supposed to think. Now, he says, that feeling has passed. "It's very funny how quickly you settle in and your habits are formed, living habits and all the rest," he muses. "It's strange, but it has happened."

He does not have a moment for pleasure reading, the family quarters need a paint job, he dreads the "hue and cry" that he knows will greet his budget cuts, and he finds himself wrestling with "problems where there is so much right on both sides," Still, he insists, the business of decision making in the White House is not all that different from what he experienced in Sacramento.

So is his ability to relax. At 7 he and Nancy head for dinner at the Vice President's mansion off Massachusetts Avenue. The evening, which will end at about 9:30, is quiet, informal and closed to anyone but Reagans and Bushes. But before the President says good night to his journalistic visitor, he picks up a red sponge ball and amuses Bush's aging cocker spaniel, Fred. One of the Reagans' own dogs will soon make the trip east--a touch intended to help the new President continue his rapid progress toward feeling fully at home in the White House.

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