A Bouquet for Also-Rans

By Roger Rosenblatt

"I'd like nothing better than to stay in this race and compete in all the caucuses, compete in every single primary and win the nomination of my party. But over the past few weeks it has become clear that in 1984 none of these things are likely to happen."

--Senator John Glenn, withdrawing from the race

Off they drop, one by one, like logrollers dancing frantically to keep their worlds afloat and themselves vertical. But no. There goes the equilibrium, the legs can't hack it. Splash. From the cold white suds, a big brave smile.

Nice try, fellas. Three cheers for Candidates Glenn, Cranston, Hollings, Askew and McGovern. "I know the difference between reality and dreams," said Alan Cranston in his swan song a couple of weeks ago. Did he really know the difference? Wasn't the whole enterprise of running for President a disavowal of that knowledge? Oh, the candidates could sound steeled and pragmatic enough when reality came a-clobbering in Iowa, New Hampshire and on Terrible Tuesday. But up to those points of reckoning, dreams fueled the campaigns, were the order of the day. Wasn't that Reubin Askew snoozing on the hall couch, muttering the oath of office in his sleep? Wake up, Mr. Hollings. You were humming Hail to the Chief.

Unrequited love; the very worst kind; of all forms of disappointment, the darkest and most complete. Round the bottom of the staircase stood the suitors in a huddle, cravats perfectly pinned, boutonnieres sprouting from the lapels, a bouquet of roses in each fist. While slowly descended the United States of America played by Scarlett O'Hara, who blew them a kiss, batted her eyes and sailed over to Rhett.

But how the dropouts sought her favor. Old-fashioned swains, shivering at the factory gates before sunrise, grinning for Roger Mudd, shaking snow from their socks. They poured out their hearts to the heartless lady. All for nothing. One hasn't seen such "reality" since Cyrano de Bergerac noticed the shadow of his profile on the garden wall and knew that no woman could love him.

And it wasn't your foreign policy they rejected, gents. Nor your lean-but-prudent defense budget, nor your exquisitely designed tax plan either. It was you. That's where it hurt. The American people in their infinite, unexplained, casual wisdom weighed you in the balance, and found your nose too big.

You wonder how things got so bad so quickly. Life certainly wasn't as cruel or unrewarding as this back in 19-something when you ran for class treasurer, or whatever your first ambition happened to be, eh George? Or the time you geared up to make that second run for the Senate. Remember those heady days, Ernest? The new frontiers of politics, John? Or the day you decided to go for broke and take a stab at the governorship, Reubin. Nobody stopped you then. Every Floridian adored you. What could possibly have gone wrong this time? You're the same good fellow you ever were. Ideas progressive, record impeccable, teeth intact. What did they want, Alan--blood? You dyed your hair, you bronzed your skin, you stuffed your face in order to put on ten pounds so's you wouldn't look like a cadaver. What good did it do? No flair, they said. No charisma. What the hell is charisma? In Iowa, you finished behind "Uncommitted." You even made the de rigueur joke about that. And how did your countrymen respond? They sat out there in the high school gym, row after row of headstones in a churchyard, waiting coolly for the main attractions. But seriously, folks.

Why did you go through it? For the good of the Democratic Party? Undoubtedly it did some good, the sight of all of you lined up onstage during the televised debates, eager A students squirming in your seats, bursting with the correct answers. The enthusiasm, the intelligence, the visible concern; all made a favorable impression. The public saw life in the old machine yet. And you wanted to get your positions across to the voters. You accomplished that as well. Maybe you thought that running for the presidency would be valuable for you personally: self-scrutiny, the exercise of will against fate, that sort of thing. It was certainly useful for you, George; you never looked more dignified. And didn't those folks in Des Moines sit up and take notice when you asked them not to throw away their conscience?

Or did you all make the attempt simply because you thought it was the right thing to do? Or perhaps because you didn't know any better. A long time ago, some cockeyed patriot told you that anybody could be President, and you believed it. As strong a motive as any. After all, no one demonstrated how the system operates more dramatically than the also-rans. Before he made his exit official, Glenn told his supporters, "Don't look at it as just putting in effort for me. It's for all of us." We'll buy that. Irrational as the preconvention process is, it somehow manages to work. The candidates glow and fall and make it work. Without Americans like them . . .

But the voice begins to trail off, drowned out by the drums and the horns. Nobody pays much attention to the sidelines. That's part of the process too. Look, Pa, here come the front runners. Autograph, Mr. Hart?

So long, gentlemen. It's been good to know you. Grownups to a man, you gave the campaign a depth of field, a seriousness and a connection to history it would never have had without your lovesick perseverance. You also made it fun. And by the way, you were wrong about the country not loving you back, in its fashion. Didn't you catch the look in the lady's eyes when she threw her arms around you, knowing all the while that she was going to marry someone else? If only she hadn't said that dreadful line: Can't we be friends? --By Roger Rosenblatt