And then we eased down the tracks to Sebring, where a feverish throng of about 150 senior citizens were on hand to greet the Man from Maine and pick up his finely honed message. As the train rolled into the station, Roosevelt Grier emerged from the caboose and attempted to lead the crowd through a few stanzas of “Let the Sunshine In.”
Then the candidate emerged, acknowledging Grier’s applause and smiling for the TV cameramen who had been let off a hundred yards up the track so they could get ahead of the train and set up . . . in order to film Muskie socking it to the crowd about how “It’s about time we good people, etc., etc. . . .”
Meanwhile, the Muskie girls—looking very snappy in their tricolored pre-war bunny suits—were mingling with the folks; saying cheerful things and handing out red, white, and blue buttons that said “Trust Muskie” and “Believe Muskie.”
Meanwhile, back on the train, a goodly chunk of the press roster were over the hump into serious boozing. A few had already filed, but most had scanned the prepared text of Big Ed’s “whistlestop speech” and said to hell with it. Now, as the train headed south again, the Muskie girls were passing out sandwiches and O. B. McClinton, “the Black Irishman of Country Music,” was trying to lure people into the lounge car for a “singalong thing.”
It took awhile, but they finally collected a crowd. Then one of Muskie’s college-type staffers took charge. He told the Black Irishman what to play, cued the other staff people, then launched into about nineteen straight choruses of Big Ed’s newest campaign song: “He’s got the whole state of Florida . . . In his hands . . .”
I left at that point. The scene was pure Nixon—so much like a pep rally at a Young Republican Club that I was reminded of a conversation I’d had earlier with a reporter from Atlanta. “You know,” he said, “it’s taken me half the goddamn day to figure out what it is that bothers me about these people.” He nodded toward a group of clean-cut young Muskie staffers at the other end of the car. “I’ve covered a lot of Democratic campaigns,” he continued, “but I’ve never felt out of place before—never personally uncomfortable with the people.”
“I know what you mean,” I said.
“Sure,” he said. “It’s obvious—and I’ve finally figured out why.” He chuckled and glanced at the Muskie people again. “You know what it is?” he said. “It’s because these people act like goddamn Republicans! That’s the problem. It took me awhile, but I finally figured it out.”
On Monday morning, the day before the Florida primary, I flew down to Miami with Frank Mankiewicz, who runs the McGovern campaign.
We hit the runway in Key Biscayne at just over two hundred miles an hour in a strong crosswind, bouncing first on the left wheel and then—about one hundred yards down the runway—on the right wheel . . . then another long bounce, and finally straightening out just in front of the main terminal at Miami’s International Airport.
Nothing serious. But my Bloody Mary was spilled all over Monday’s Washington Post on the armrest. I tried to ignore it and looked over at Frank Mankiewicz (who was sitting next to me) . . . but he was still snoring peacefully.
I poked him. “Here we are,” I said. “Down home in Fat City again. What’s the schedule?”
Now he was wide awake, checking his watch. “I think I have to make a speech somewhere,” he said. “I also have to meet Shirley MacLaine somewhere. Where’s a telephone? I have to make some calls.”
Soon we were shuffling down the corridor toward the big baggage-claim merry-go-round. Mankiewicz had nothing to claim. He has learned to travel light. His “baggage,” as it were, consisted of one small canvas bag that looked like an oversize shaving kit.
My own bundle—two massive leather bags and a Xerox telecopier strapped into a fiberglass Samsonite suitcase—would be coming down the baggage-claim chute any moment now. I tend to travel heavy; not for any good reason, but mainly because I haven’t learned the tricks of the trade.
“I have a car waiting,” I said. “A fine bronze-gold convertible. Why? Do you need a ride?”
“Maybe,” he said. “But I have to make some calls first. You go ahead, get your car and all that goddamn baggage, and I’ll meet you down by the main door.”
I nodded and hurried off. The Avis counter was only about fifty yards away from the wall-phone where Mankiewicz was setting up shop with a handful of dimes and a small notebook. He made at least six calls and a page of notes before my bags arrived . . . and by the time I began arguing with the car rental woman the expression on Mankiewicz’s face indicated that he had everything under control.