And then, suddenly, a golden light on the terrace, the most golden light he’d ever seen, a light that seemed to ease the burdens of mind and body, a light to put a spring in his step: he was the Astaire of the treadmill now. A diaphanous shimmering through the plate-glass door, and there, before him, hovered an angel who’d visited him once before, in his office, an angel who looked very much like Ralph Reed of the Christian Coalition. “Greetings, my child!” the seraph purred. “You are truly glorious in the sight of the Lord!”
“Don’t feel too glorious,” Dole muttered. “Thought our deal was, sign on with you and shine. Gave my word on it after you said Gramm signed up with–the Other Guy. Made that Hollywood speech for you. Got all warm and cuddly with the wing-nuhh–ahhh, the religious wing of the party. And what’s it got me? Been sinkin’ against Clinton all year. The House Shiites hate me. Up in New Hampshire, folks . . . hey! Stop that! What’d ya do?”
The treadmill had turned to molasses, his legs felt thicker, weak-er–he was Prometheus now, Astaire was but a memory. “O ye of little faith!” the angel chided. “Thou art blind and in need of healing! The Lord’s been out there working overtime for you, doing Bible-level interventions–and this is the welcome I get?”
Dole was huffing, sweating on the treadmill. “C’mon! C’mon! Lighten up. What do you mean, Biblical things?”
“Pete Wilson decides to run for president and is immediately struck dumb,” the angel said. “A polyp or the Hand of the Lord? And what about Colin Powell? Who put a chill in his soul? And look at the bounteous gifts He has bestowed upon you now!”
“Gifts?” Dole asked, treading more evenly. “I’m stuck in Washington with the Blabby Twins. I can’t make my case out in the primary states. Folks need to see the real Bob Dole.”
“That’s the last thing they need,” the angel sighed. “Lord knows. He really does know. He tried to make his countenance shine upon you–and you were still a stiff: ‘Leadership is what it’s all about. Leaders lead.’ Blah, blah, blah. So He goes back to the drawing board. On to Plan B: work in mysterious ways.”
“I’ll say,” Dole said. “Name one.” “I can name three,” the angel replied. “The budget, Alan Keyes and Steve Forbes.”
“You said mysterious, not nefarious–right?” Dole replied.
“You really don’t get it?” the angel said. “Look: The Big Guy arranged it so no one–no one who can win, that is–can get any traction against you. You feel trapped? Just think how Lamar Alexander feels. You watch the news in Iowa, all you see are electrical fires, fender benders and the budget.”
“That’s just great,” Dole said. “The folks see me here, makin’ deals in D.C.”
“You’re doing OK,” the angel said. “You’re good at communicating discomfort. They see you grimacing next to Newt-ie each night and they say, ‘Bob Dole–he’s one of us!’”
“That was my slogan in ‘88: ‘One of us.’ Probably should a stuck with it,” Dole said. “But what’s Keyes got to do with it? And what about Malcolm?”
“The Lord loves His flock,” the angel said, “but He’s not a protectionist. He didn’t want His sheep to drift over into Pat Buchanan’s pasture. So He gave them Brother Alan, wonderful, wonderful messenger of virtue and redemption–and no economies! He’s drawing some righteous crowds in Iowa. And as for Malcolm S. Forbes Jr.-don’t call him MalcoLm. He’s Little Stevie Wonder, far as you’re concerned. He is the sunshine of your life.”
“Cuttin’ me up pretty good in his spots.”
“So what?” the angel said. “Look what he’s doing to your opponents. He’s more of an outsider than Alexander, smarter than Gramm, richer than Croesus–he’s had so many ads on the air, folks in Dubuque think he’s the Energizer Bunny. What more can you ask from the Lord than an opponent who squishes all your real opponents? If you want to know what hell is like, what happens when you make a deal with the Other Guy, look at Gramm: he’s got Keyes and Buchanan taking the Christians from him, he’s got Forbes taking the flat-tax libertarians. The only folks who still like him are the mean caucus: assistant principals, loan officers, repo men. Lately he’s been trying to get back on Our team. He’s trying to smile, play humble, but his upper lip keeps twitching. It’s sad.”
“Hah! Hmmm. Sounds pretty good for Bob Dole,” Bob Dole said, Astaire again. But he noticed the angel had grown quiet and was staring at him sadly. “OK. What gives?”
“It’s just–well, I don’t know if I should . . . It’s the Big Guy,” the angel said. “He blows hot and cold. He loves you. You are bathed in His light. But he’s kind of intrigued by the flat tax. He likes the way Forbes is selling it–as a way to root out corruption in Washington. Messes up the Other Guy. He’s also tickled by Forbes’s act: monotone delivery, no facial expressions, no hand gestures–the closest thing a human being can get to an animatronic figure. Big Guy’s wondering if it’s the Year of the Nerd.”
“Sounds more like the Year of the Rich Guy,” Dole scoffed. “‘Course, if He wants a nerd . . . All I do is work, watch AMC and eat takeout Chinese. I can be a nerd, if that’s what you want.”
Trudge. Trudge. Trudge. Trudge.
