Excerpt from Grandpa Jack
Jack Dodger, an unlikely third party presidential candidate, is campaigning across the country in an RV.
For four weeks, the campaign had rolled along almost flawlessly, cutting across the heart of the Gulf Coast states, dropping down into the Florida Panhandle and then turning north into Georgia and the Carolinas. The journey was marked by planned rallies and speeches in the state capitals and larger cities and unplanned stops in smaller towns where it looked like they might be able to find a dozen or so people. This worked especially well around lunchtime, as every small town had a diner where the local folks gathered at noon. Standing in the parking lot or behind a lunch counter, Jack would deliver his simple message of responsibility and respect.
At the planned stops, they were greeted more and more by signs and banners that said “Grandpa Jack for President.” Just as Billy had anticipated, the public had found an affectionate name that suited Jack’s image well. Because of the potential issue of Jack’s age, it was not a moniker that the campaign actively promoted, but Billy was not about to discourage it as long as the connotation continued to be maturity and wisdom and not simply age. When word came down that a Golden Eagles chapter in Tennessee was making signs that said “Codgers for Dodger,” Billy told Wilton to make sure the signs were destroyed and never seen.
The question of age was raised in at least one women’s magazine, but it wasn’t Jack’s health that they were interested in. Under the headline “A Step Back in Time?” a writer asked, “Why aren’t there any women on Jack Dodger’s campaign team? Is it because in his generation women were supposed to stay home and take care of the kids? Is that his vision of America?”
Wilton wanted to counter immediately with a letter to the editor listing the women who were in leadership positions throughout the Golden Eagles. Billy reasoned that they should hold off until Jack was confronted with the issue in a face-to-face interview. Jack agreed with Billy. He had been raised by a strong woman, was married to a strong woman, had fathered a strong woman, and had always encouraged each of them in their various endeavors. “I’ve got nothing to hide, my life speaks for itself,” he said.
As Billy had predicted, the one-on-one interviews with the media were proving to be a big success. With Jack at ease in what Billy jokingly referred to as his “natural habitat”—sitting at the kitchen table in the RV—reporters one by one became acquainted with his insight, intelligence, and warmth. As a result, these reporters were more likely to write about Jack’s “wisdom” and “maturity” rather than using the “A” word.
Still, Jack had weak spots in his resume that could not be totally brushed aside, and these were handled with calm honesty, as prescribed by Jack himself. Most prominent of these weak spots was foreign policy.
The subject came up in earnest one early afternoon just outside of Greensboro, North Carolina, as Jack was being interviewed by a local reporter.
“Mr. Dodger, I know that you’ve won a lot of admiration and support for your common sense approach to life and your desire to restore some dignity to the political scene here at home, but as you are well aware, the president of the United States is looked to for leadership in matters around the globe. And quite frankly, there’s a strong feeling out there that you are woefully lacking in your knowledge of foreign affairs.”
“Woefully lacking?” Jack asked with a soft chuckle. “Are those the actual words that people on the street are using? ‘Woefully lacking?’ Or is that what the reporters and editors are saying up in your newsroom? I’m always a little skeptical when the media tells us what people are saying ‘out there,’ because I don’t think the media spends much time ‘out there.’”
“Okay, okay,” said the reporter, surprised at Jack’s backroom media knowledge, “but you’ve got to admit that it is a valid concern. Don’t you?”
“Well, sure it is,” Jack said. “I’m admittedly light on my knowledge of foreign affairs. Haven’t been outside the country in years, and that was just to Mexico. Before that, my only real experience with foreign affairs was in the Korean War, and I was a bit player in that show.”
Jack leaned forward to make sure his next point was heard.
“But look at the presidents we’ve had over the past half century. How many of them had a lick of experience with foreign affairs before becoming president? Most have been governors or congressmen. Heck, the most successful president of the past forty years was an actor turned Hollywood union leader turned governor, and yet, he forced the Soviets to their knees and ended the Cold War.”
“I understand your point,” said the reporter, “but how do you propose to bring yourself up to speed?”
“Same way the others have done it,” said Jack. “Surround myself with good people.”
The reporter paused a moment to look around the RV. Kevin was at the wheel, his scraggly hair hanging from beneath a faded ball cap. Franky sat in the front passenger seat, his head bobbing in the midst of one of his signature afternoon snoozes. Billy looked like the green twenty-four-year-old that he was. Wilton had the polished, patrician looks of a senior advisor, but the illusion was shattered when his cell phone buzzed, startling him and causing him to spill his notebook on the floor.
Aware of the reporter’s visual survey, Jack spoke up.
“Of course, there are those who help get you elected, and those who help you lead. And if I were to get elected, I think there’s a wealth of good men—and women—who would be willing to pitch in. We’ve got bona fide world leaders in retirement right now who still have a lot to contribute.”
“And what would your role be, Mr. Dodger?”
“It would be the same as any president. Listen to the advice of the best people available and, then, make a decision based on common sense, practicality, and a sound philosophy.”
“And how would you characterize your philosophy?”
“Well, first and foremost, we’ve got to stop this business of basing our activities abroad on personal ego or political legacy or public opinion polls. And we’ve got to be more consistent. Why do we rush in to help one group of people, but then, we sit back and watch this other group over here starve or get slaughtered? Makes no sense.”
“Are you suggesting that we help everyone? Or that we help no one?”
“I’m suggesting neither at the moment, because I don’t know all the details of these situations. I’m just saying we need to be consistent.”
The reporter shrugged and scribbled in his notebook. Jack stood up for a moment, stretched, and then pulled open the refrigerator door. He fished around and pulled out two bottles of iced tea, handing one to the reporter.
“You know,” Jack said as he sat back down, “we Americans have this notion that we can fix everything. We always have. It’s one of the things that sets us apart—makes us special. But our population is getting larger and older and more diverse, and we’ve got to be careful not to overextend ourselves. We’re gonna end up like a doctor I knew in East Dallas who worked night and day to help indigent patients, all the while neglecting his own health. One day, he had a massive heart attack. Now he’s not helping anyone. He can’t, because he’s dead. We’ve gotta take care of ourselves here at home too.”
Jack always tried to ease these “kitchen table chats,” as they came to be known among the media, into lighter discussions before they came to an end, and the session with the Greensboro reporter was no different. By the time Kevin pulled the RV into the airport parking lot in Richmond, Virginia, Jack and the reporter were engaged in a lively discussion about the merits of different breeds of dogs. Jack extolled the virtues of Labradors and in particular his adopted Blackie, while the reporter was partial to the frantic liveliness of spaniels.
“Well, thankfully, God saw fit to give us a lot of different breeds to choose from,” said Jack. “He knew our needs for companionship would be very different.”
“And leadership too?” the reporter queried. “Everyone’s got a different idea about what type of leader the country needs, don’t you think?”
“Yep. That’s a fact. And that’s another thing that makes America unique. We’ve got a real choice when we go to the polls. Some might think it’s not a very good choice, but it’s a choice just the same.”
The RV pulled to a stop, and Jack and the reporter stepped out into the parking lot. It was well after dark, and the air was quiet except for the drone of a turboprop somewhere on the other side of the terminal.
“Mr.Dodger,it’s been a pleasure,”said the reporter.“I appreciate your candor and hospitality. I have to be honest, though, I think you’ve got an uphill drive in front of you.”
“Ever driven to the top of Pikes Peak?” Jack asked. “I did it once. Almost burned up my engine on the way. Had to pull over every few minutes to cool it down. But when I got to the top, the view was magnificent.”
Jack extended his arm, and the two men shook hands before the reporter hustled into the terminal to catch his commuter flight back to Greensboro.
The campaign rolled up the Atlantic Coast, bouncing from town to town. With each group of citizens he met and each reporter he engaged, Jack gained name recognition and familiarity. By the time they reached Virginia, national polls indicated that 56 percent of the electorate knew the name of Jack Dodger, and, more importantly, they knew he was running for president. Less promising, however, was the fact that only 4 percent of the respondents said they would vote for Jack if the election were held tomorrow.
“The numbers are lean, but we can build on them,” Billy reassured the team. “We’ve just gotta keep pushing forward.”
Jack’s low poll numbers kept the mainstream national media from giving him anything more than a wink and a nod. Television coverage of the campaign painted him as a “curiosity” and a “political oddity” on the sidelines of the main event. The coverage often came as a thirty-second tongue-in-cheek coda to the newscasts before the anchors signed off, shuffled their papers, and rolled the credits.
Interestingly, Jack got more serious attention abroad. Some of the European, Middle Eastern, and Asian press expressed concern about what a man like Jack Dodger might do with regard to their region’s hotspots: Kosovo, Israel and Palestine, China and Taiwan, Iraq, Iran, Russia. At the other extreme, a French newspaper was preoccupied as the French so often are. “Any old girlfriends we should know about?” they asked.
Outside of the Golden Eagles and other senior groups, endorsements were nowhere to be found, although the campaign did receive some congenial advice and encouragement on some editorial pages. The publisher of a small-town daily in South Carolina wrote:
I like Jack Dodger a lot, but the presidency is more than one man. I’m concerned about his ability to field a competent cabinet and executive branch staff. Based upon what I know now, I’d have to wish him well, but reluctantly vote for an established pol. I’m specifically nervous about his lack of foreign policy experience. Maybe he should seek out a retired general, or even a retired former president, as an advisor on foreign policy matters. He needs to somehow develop, in the minds of the voters, a sense of confidence and credibility that he can assemble a team to run the country successfully, to go with his captivating patriotic down-home personality. If he can do that, I’d be with him in a heartbeat as the most refreshing, exciting candidate in years. We’ll be back to the idea of a ‘statesman’ vs. a politician, and public service vs. a chance to grab personal power—but only if he has the right people with him. Otherwise it’s politics as usual.
Another publisher provided a more cautionary analysis— directed at both the candidate and the electorate:
If the campaign picks up steam, the two big parties will begin to paint Jack as an incompetent old man who has no business leading the country. They’ll say it will be dangerous and irresponsible to elect him, even if you like his quirky personal style. They’ll say that even if Jack Dodger is well-intentioned, others will take advantage of his inexperience in office and control the country from behind the scenes, or other countries will run roughshod over us.
And such was the political “Catch 22” that the “Grandpa Jack for President” campaign faced. As long as Jack’s poll numbers remained low or marginal, the rest of the political community would treat him kindly and in fact welcome his down-home idealistic philosophy. But the minute a reasonable percentage of the electorate began to show more than a passing interest in what he had to say, the mainstream parties likely would dispatch their hired talking guns to “take him out.”
While Wilton worried out loud about potential damage to the campaign and the Golden Eagles, and Billy quietly formulated plans for countering such attacks, Jack was calm as usual.
“I’ve been shot at and mugged. I’ve had loved ones taken from me long before it was their time,” he said. “If talking ugly is the best these folks can do, then let ’em get on with it. Nothing they can say will ever add up to anything approaching my worst day.”
Jack let the concerns of the others drift by like the telephone poles and mailboxes that raced past their windows as the campaign crossed Virginia on its way to the District of Columbia.