Bush on the Brink

The salmon-and-gold ballroom of the Vista International Hotel in Manhattan was decked out in seasonal splendor. A menorah and a Christmas tree flanked the lectern. Three young women in red capes, and dresses, called “Santa’s Friends,” sang “Winter Wonderland,” “We Need a Little Christmas,” and other carols of the modern age. Three men dressed as toy soldiers—white faces, red lips—stood rigidly beside them. Two Santas with bush for president buttons on their caps worked tables of Bush men and women from nearby Wall Street, passing out bumper-stickers. “Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice announced, “the Vice President of the United States of America.” The crowd rose, the toy soldiers snapped a smart salute, and George Bush appeared, bringing good tidings of great joy which would be to all Republicans.

But first he greeted the Republicans individually. A memory stirred. For four or five months in the summer and fall of 1982, I wrote speeches for Vice President Bush part time, a stint from which I learned almost nothing: nothing but this. The one trip I took with him, on Air Force Two, he seemed to spend a phenomenal amount of time writing notes and letters. It was as if he knew every Republican in America personally. How many did he know at the Vista International? The first table he approached, everyone rose. He gestured, please sit. Of course they didn’t. By the second table he gave up the effort to be deferential. At 63, the appearance of youth is finally leaving him. His hair is not so much greying as lightening all over; lines remain on his face when the deep, open grin ends. All the time he shook hands, his left hand stayed in his pants pocket; sometimes both hands, after emerging for a gesture, would retire there. He did 16 tables, ate a little, then did the other thirty-four.

About the Author

Richard Brookhiser

Historian Richard Brookhiser is a senior editor of National Review and a senior fellow at the National Review Institute.

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The salmon-and-gold ballroom of the Vista International Hotel in Manhattan was decked out in seasonal splendor. A menorah and a Christmas tree flanked the lectern. Three young women in red capes, and dresses, called “Santa’s Friends,” sang “Winter Wonderland,” “We Need a Little Christmas,” and other carols of the modern age. Three men dressed as toy soldiers—white faces, red lips—stood rigidly beside them. Two Santas with bush for president buttons on their caps worked tables of Bush men and women from nearby Wall Street, passing out bumper-stickers. “Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice announced, “the Vice President of the United States of America.” The crowd rose, the toy soldiers snapped a smart salute, and George Bush appeared, bringing good tidings of great joy which would be to all Republicans.

But first he greeted the Republicans individually. A memory stirred. For four or five months in the summer and fall of 1982, I wrote speeches for Vice President Bush part time, a stint from which I learned almost nothing: nothing but this. The one trip I took with him, on Air Force Two, he seemed to spend a phenomenal amount of time writing notes and letters. It was as if he knew every Republican in America personally. How many did he know at the Vista International? The first table he approached, everyone rose. He gestured, please sit. Of course they didn’t. By the second table he gave up the effort to be deferential. At 63, the appearance of youth is finally leaving him. His hair is not so much greying as lightening all over; lines remain on his face when the deep, open grin ends. All the time he shook hands, his left hand stayed in his pants pocket; sometimes both hands, after emerging for a gesture, would retire there. He did 16 tables, ate a little, then did the other thirty-four.