Lowenstein had refused to answer that question in Chicago, saying, “We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.” But in Washington Draper said “Yes,” the Youth Vote could get behind Hubert if he said the right things—“if he takes the right positions.”
“How about Jackson?” I asked.
This made for a pause ... but finally Draper said the National Youth Caucus might support Jackson, too, “if he comes around.”
“Around to what?” I asked. And by this time I was feeling very naked and conspicuous. My garb and general demeanor is not considered normal by Washington standards. Levi’s don’t make it in this town; if you show up wearing Levi’s they figure you’ll either be a servant or a messenger. This is particularly true at high-level press conferences, where any deviation from standard journalistic dress is considered rude and perhaps even dangerous.
In Washington all journalists dress like bank tellers—and those who don’t have problems. Mister Nixon’s press handlers, for instance, have made it ominously clear that I shall not be given White House press credentials. The first time I called, they said they’d never heard of Rolling Stone. “Rolling what?” said the woman.
“You’d better ask somebody a little younger,” I said.
“Thank you,” she hissed. “I’ll do that.” But the next obstacle up the line was the deputy White House press secretary, a faceless voice called Gerald Warren, who said Rolling Whatever didn’t need White House press credentials—despite the fact they had been issued in the past, without any hassle, to all manner of strange and obscure publications, including student papers like the George Washington University Hatchet.
The only people who seem genuinely interested in the ’72 elections are the actual participants—the various candidates, their paid staff people, the thousands of journalists, cameramen & other media-connected hustlers who will spend most of this year humping the campaign along . . . and of course all the sponsors, called “fat cats” in the language of Now-Politics, who stand to gain hugely for at least the next four years if they can muscle their man down the homestretch just a hair ahead of the others.
The fat-cat action is still one of the most dramatic aspects of a presidential campaign, but even in this colorful area the tension is leaking away—primarily because most of the really serious fat cats figured out, a few years back, that they could beat the whole rap—along with the onus of going down the tube with some desperate loser—by “helping” two candidates, instead of just one.
A good example of this, in 1972, will probably be Mrs. Rella Factor—widow of “Jake the Barber” and the largest single contributor to Hubert Humphrey’s campaign in ’68. She didn’t get a hell of a lot of return for her investment last time around. But this year, using the new method, she can buy the total friendship of two, three, or perhaps even four presidential candidates, for the same price ... by splitting up the nut, discreetly as possible, between Hubert, Nixon, and maybe—just for the natural randy hell of it—a chunk to Gene McCarthy, who appears to be cranking up a genuinely weird campaign this time.
I have a peculiar affection for McCarthy; nothing serious or personal, but I recall standing next to him in the snow outside the “exit” door of a shoe factory in Manchester, New Hampshire, in February of 1968 when the five o’clock whistle blew, and he had to stand there in the midst of those workers rushing out to the parking lot. I will never forget the pain in McCarthy’s face as he stood there with his hand out, saying over and over again: “Shake hands with Senator McCarthy ... shake hands with Senator McCarthy . . . shake hands with Senator McCarthy”...a tense plastic smile on his face, stepping nervously toward anything friendly, “Shake hands with Senator McCarthy” ... but most of the crowd ignored him, refusing to even acknowledge his outstretched hand, staring straight ahead as they hurried out to their cars.
There was at least one network TV camera on hand that afternoon, but the scene was never aired. It was painful enough just being there, but to have put that scene on national TV would have been an act of genuine cruelty. McCarthy was obviously suffering; not so much because nine out of ten people refused to shake his hand, but because he really hated being there in the first place. But his managers had told him it was necessary, and maybe it was . . .
Later, when his outlandish success in New Hampshire shocked Johnson into retirement, I half expected McCarthy to quit the race himself, rather than suffer all the way to Chicago ... and God only knows what kind of vengeful energy is driving him this time, but a lot of the people who said he was suffering from brain bubbles when he first mentioned that he might run again in ’72 are beginning to take him seriously: not as a Democratic contender, but as an increasingly possible Fourth Party candidate with the power to put a candidate like Muskie through all kinds of terrible changes between August and November.