The Year of the Refuseniks

By Laurence I. Barrett/Washington

Sam Nunn was just back from a holiday in Switzerland, where he had digested a sheaf of memos explaining how he could win the Democratic nomination. But doubts about shouldering a presidential campaign on top of his Senate duties plagued him. There were moments when he thought he would make the plunge, but he woke in the middle of one night last week convinced that he should not. So Thursday morning, he activated what he called Operation Red Light -- the distribution of a no-go statement. His wife Colleen phoned his mother Elizabeth in Perry, Ga., with word of the verdict. "I'm happy with any decision he makes," the elder Mrs. Nunn said. "I am not disappointed."

Others were. The owlish Georgian had been viewed, especially by fellow Southerners who are helping to organize the region's Mega-Tuesday primary next March, as the Tory knight who could draw centrist and conservative Democrats back to the party. The two immediate beneficiaries: Tennessee Senator Albert Gore, who despite his more liberal record could become the South's favorite son; and Jesse Jackson, whose solid base of black support is likely to win him an even greater share of Southern delegates with the region's white vote splintered.

When Nunn told reporters the "window and the door are closed" for him, he noted there was still an opening for another entry. Former Virginia Governor Chuck Robb was afraid Nunn would name him as a replacement. "If you do," Robb jokingly warned Nunn on the phone, "our long friendship is over." Nunn did, and also mentioned New York Governor Mario Cuomo and New Jersey Senator Bill Bradley.

Actually, Nunn was calling the roll of his more prominent fellow refuseniks. Not running for President has become the rage this year, quite a paradox considering the opportunities. Rarely has the gold ring seemed to be so reachable. With the incumbent retiring and neither party boasting an automatic heir, just about any credible politician could board the presidential carousel. Many have, along with some less credible ones, 14 all told at last count. Yet the number who decline to whirl has grown just as startlingly.

Last week set a record. Former Republican Senator Paul Laxalt of Nevada, an active player since spring, abruptly quit. There just was not enough campaign money to go around, he said. Ohio Governor Richard Celeste ended his brief toe dipping in Democratic waters, explaining he could not do his duty to Ohio and a presidential campaign simultaneously; Cuomo made the same argument in February. Others, including two Arkansan favorite sons, Senator Dale Bumpers and Governor Bill Clinton, have pleaded family concerns. Gary Hart, chased out for his lack of such family concerns, last week tentatively decided to end his quirky flirtation with re-entering the race and, friends say, is preparing to issue a statement to that effect.

To hear the defectors tell it, you have to be an unemployed monk with rich friends to run comfortably. The nominating process, the product of accident rather than design, imposes crushing demands. At some point each hopeful must ask a cruel question: Am I a thick-skinned workaholic unconcerned about my . family's privacy, with enough ambition and money to carry me through more than 30 primaries and hundreds of fund raisers?

Bob Dole still carries the duties of Republican Senate minority leader while campaigning cheerfully every spare moment; to him politics has been vocation and avocation for decades. Governor Michael Dukakis divides his week, not quite so cheerfully, between the road and the Massachusetts statehouse. One Sunday night in Knoxville, Iowa, he wistfully told two dozen citizens how Sunday used to be his sacrosanct family day. But there he was at yet another coffee hour, fresh from a debate in which his record had been attacked, and he wondered if he might have some pecan pie with ice cream before the interrogation started. It arrived in due course, but Dukakis watched the ice cream melt while the impatient voters grilled him about Central America.

Laxalt, like Nunn, seems to lack the gene that ignites the requisite fire in the belly. He got into the race reluctantly, never having admired George Bush much and believing that true-blue Reaganauts would rally to him rather than to Jack Kemp. Instead, he found only a trickle of supporters and contributors -- and realized he is a reluctant presser of flesh.

Laxalt also discovered the Shrinkage Phenomenon, a mysterious effect that diminishes prospects' stature as soon as they enter the race. As Cuomo observed last week, "The minute Bradley or Nunn or Cuomo or Bumpers or Celeste actually run, they become dwarfs like everyone else. The press will see to that." There is also the obverse effect, an optical illusion called the Sidelines Magnifier. When the Cuomos and Bradleys and Nunns stay out, wrapped in the dignity of duty or humility, they seem so much grander than those scurrying after votes and donations.

Despite the wealth of contenders, the sighs of unrequited love are likely to linger, especially among Democrats. Dreamy scenarios will be spun about luring one of the reluctant warriors into the fray, though it is already too late for a new entry to organize for the early primaries. Those could of course transform one or two of the active dwarfs into giants. But if that does not happen, the murmurs about Nunn or Cuomo or Bradley sweeping in and brokering their way to victory could start up anew.