JANE AUSTEN, ANSWER YOUR BEEPER

By Barbara Ehrenreich

The President's speechwriters were dumbstruck by the Bob Dole that emerged at the Republican Convention. Here was a man who had never in his life successfully mated subject to verb rolling out sonorous subclauses! When the speechwriters realized that the brilliant acceptance speech had been crafted by novelist Mark Helprin, an actual writer of poetical prose, they began to search their brains for suitable ghostwriters for Clinton: Stephen King, perhaps, on welfare reform, Michael Crichton to explain the health system.

But the President needed something more presidential, something of enduring and classic value. It was a job, they realized, for the Dead White Men and, inclusively speaking, Dead Ladies too. No problem. Hillary could contact them through her medium and persuade Mahatma Gandhi to dig up their voice-mail numbers. Eleanor Roosevelt would brief them on the issues--if by late August any issues remained.

In no time at all, faxes came rolling in from the big 800 number in the sky. Homer offered a 400-page epic that began:

Proud came my chieftains-- the stalwart Gore, the tiny Reich, wealth-sated Rubin--and took their seats around the counsel table-- Heavy-laden with soft drinks and those butter cookies the White House kitchen does so well-- that we might implore the all-knowing seer Dick Morris to divine for us what sacrifice--of cattle, oxen or welfare babies-- Might best propitiate the god of polls and focus groups, lighthearted Hermes, ruler of nations...

Too, uh, retro, was the general feeling, and possibly subject to unflattering misconstruals. Dole had used a contemporary writer whose best-known book, A Soldier of the Great War, featured much manly adventure, so Clinton could match him with Raymond Chandler's offering:

"Washington isn't a place for the softheaded or tenderfooted. Walk into one of those happy-hour joints on Connecticut Avenue any weekday after 5 p.m., when the Piedmont winds are racing through the marshes and lobbyists have dispersed their Benjamin Franklins to the elected officials who call this marbled burg home, and you're likely to have to face off some Pellegrino-bloated Republican freshperson, waving an assault weapon or, worse, a bill to bring those hand cannons back to every suburbanite with a dandelion-free lawn to defend. Which is when you have to talk fast or else prepare to exit feet first, and just hope it doesn't take the undertaker too long to scrape the Brie smears off your mangled and purple throat."

There was the worry, though, that too much tough talk might narrow the gender gap. Clinton could actually widen it by hiring America's favorite female writer, the blockbusting Jane Austen! Eagerly the speechwriters studied her entry:

"Imitation is much maligned by those who, seeing no virtue in duplication, are disposed to think that one is a sufficient quantity for any entity, Republican presidential candidates included. But if there were only one Bob Dole, voting would be a fretful, time-consuming enterprise, requiring an investment of study and careful deliberation that lies well beyond the average citizen's means. So while my opponent promises to cut taxes, I promise to cut--nay, swiftly and thoroughly eliminate--all those subtle distinctions between the political parties which have so vexed the electorate to date. (In addition, of course, to cutting taxes.)"

All agreed that they preferred the movie and turned reluctantly to something Melville and Hawthorne had whipped up:

"Call me William Jefferson. I originated in a place called Hope, but which might as well have been called Lust or All-Consuming Ambition, and I came roaring forth filled with a soaring zest to converse, to consume, to bunk down with my fellow countrymen and especially countrywomen on the warm, level mattress of Democracy. But somewhere along the way, I discerned a cold, repellent glint in America's eye. Maybe it was my stepfather's rages, or the way my wife's face hardened when the subject turned to cattle futures or real estate or banking. So I learned quick enough to hide my appetites under a pious exterior and save the warmth of my promiscuous embrace for the donors of $10,000 or more."

There was some throat clearing for a moment among the speechwriters, as deep disillusionment overcame them. None of these classic guys, they realized, had ever written a convention speech before, and probably the whole lot of them working overtime couldn't put together a 30-second commercial if they tried. "Darn," said the President finally, "get me a real writer. Like that Helprin fellow, if he's still peddling paragraphs--or, hey, what about Peggy Noonan herself?"