"No, it's just ... Uncle Carl, it takes a lot of time, and I'm never going to be as good as I would have to be. I'm not like Charlie. He's just unreal! I was okay as a little kid, but at my age, I'm not even above average."
"Huh." I gave him an odd look. "Charlie's really good? I mean, I'm not a rider, so what do I know!"
He laughed at that. "Charlie's better at his age than half the racers at my age. He's one of the reasons for me to get out! For the last two years he's been smoking my ass blindfolded!" Bucky knew I wouldn't jump his butt over his language.
"Really?! I mean, I knew Charlie was winning races, but ... really?"
"He's unreal! He has reflexes ... you think you're doing good, and suddenly he blows his way through a crowded pack like he's on an empty highway with jets up his ass, and you're like, where did he come from?!" He shook his head with an amused smile on his face. "I could put him in the pro group now and I bet he'd win. He just needs to grow into a bigger bike."
"Wow! I had no idea. You're serious?", I asked.
He grinned and nodded. "Have you ever wondered what it must have been like playing on Babe Ruth's high school baseball team? That's what it's like racing around here against Charlie."
"Huh." I shrugged. "You're not giving up on bikes, are you?"
It was Bucky's turn to grin and give me the are-you-crazy look. "No way! I love riding! Girls like it, too!"
Oh Christ! Bucky was 15 at the time, and he was definitely past the girls-are-yucky stage. He wasn't street legal yet, but he could still ride at the races. "Oh, boy! Have you mentioned that to your parents?"
"No way!"
I snorted and shook my head with amusement. "Well, if you ever need to talk about that, let me know. You know, in case you want to talk or ask a question you don't want to ask your parents, hmmm? Maybe I'll send Charlie to see your old man some day when it's his turn." Bucky just laughed at this.
That was last year, and Charlie was improving as he grew up. It was too early to be sure, though. He might become a scholar after all, or he might figure out girls were a more interesting ride than a motorcycle. We'd just have to see.
Chapter 117: A Changing Of The Guard
Newt announced the Contract with America at the beginning of September. By then most of Washington knew something was up, but not the extent or breadth of the plan. The Democrats weren't stupid. They had their spies just like we did. They knew we planned something big and bold, and they knew we were writing legislation, even if they didn't have the printed copies in their hands.
Still, it was an election year and they were in survival mode. The mood of the country was changing and the pendulum was swinging from liberal to conservative. Even as the old diehards protested nothing was changing, everybody else was scrambling frantically, often trying to position themselves as conservatives, which made more than a few Republicans laugh.
John Boehner and I were pushing Newt Gingrich hard to make the Contract as showy and public as possible. We wanted this to dominate the airwaves for the next eight weeks, between now and Election Day. Every week was to be a big event. We started with press conferences and announcements, but by the third week of September we had a massive 'signing' of the Contract on the steps of the Capitol building. We flew in all the Republican candidates we could find who were running against Democratic incumbents, and had them sign as well. We swore oaths and made promises and shook pinkie fingers and gave each other the secret passwords and did everything we could to bind ourselves to the Contract. I wasn't sure whether it reminded me more of joining Kegs or of signing the Articles of Piracy on a buccaneer ship.
We were still keeping the specific bills locked up, even though we were now talking about them in general terms. Specifics would have been used against us, since there would always be something somebody wouldn't like. Meanwhile, our high minded opponents would promise a counterplan that would remedy whatever we would do. Without the specifics, they could only guess and screech about Republican promises and how we were high-jacking the ship of state. (I actually heard that phrase a few times!)
We also began to blitz the various Sunday morning talk shows. Newt might be on ABC, while John was on CBS and Rick was on NBC. The following week it might be another three of us. Between the Gang of Eight and Newt, we could alternate networks without wearing out our welcomes. The Democrats were fulminating loudly, but they were playing catch-up ball, and not doing well with it.
As we got closer to November 8, we just kept raising the pressure. I pushed Gingrich to bring the Senate in on things. Originally the Contract with America had been exclusively a House deal. Newt had an ego bigger than his butt, and he really wanted to keep it in the House. I was pushing to bring in the Senate. It wouldn't hurt to bring in all the Senators we had lined up to sponsor the Senate versions of our ten bills. Newt could stay in charge, but when (not if – I was always stressing the positive) we took control and he became Speaker, he would have all sorts of valuable markers to call on in the Senate, especially if he lined up some support with Bob Dole and Alan Simpson, the Minority Leader and Whip. Newt could be cantankerous as hell, and as proud as a peacock, but he was smart. He might not like what I was pushing him to do, but he could see the benefits.
"Carl, you can be a real asshole at times!", he once told me, while I was pushing for him to play nice with the Senate. "You're a goddamned pushy bastard!"
I simply smiled. "Those are just my positive traits, Newt. Go talk to my wife. She'll tell you the bad stuff about me!"
He just shook his head in disgust and made the call I wanted him to make. I only had about a fifty-fifty success rate with him, but there were people around us who told me I was doing better than most.
Back home, in the Maryland Ninth, Catherine Hartwick continued her flaming self-destruction by pissing off the state employee unions, which I had never even talked about. I was running a pretty plain vanilla campaign – I'm wonderful, here's what I've done to help you, let me shake your hand and kiss your baby. I hadn't needed to go negative, and she was spending all of her time trying to explain what she really meant to say.
On election night, we did the usual. Marilyn's parents came down and stayed with the kids, although they did drive them over to the campaign headquarters, where we showed them around. Charlie was now 13 and the girls were 10, and they were well behaved, if a little confused by some of it. I introduced Marilyn's parents to John Steiner and the others, with the proviso, "Don't tell them any campaign secrets; they're actually Democrats!" Since we didn't have any secrets, Marilyn just laughed and Harriet scolded me. Big Bob started arguing politics with John, so we just let him run on while my wife and I snorted in laughter.
After a bit, Big Bob and Harriet took the kids home. None of us were surprised when WBAL called the race at the first commercial break, with me beating Catherine Hartwick like a rented mule. After the applause and screams, things settled down again. Everybody wanted to see the rest of the returns.
I was using John Thomas again as my campaign director, and he and I dragged a white board out into the main room as returns started coming in. We had started the election with a House composed of 177 Republican Congressmen, 256 Democrats, and 1 Independent (One seat was vacant, the previous owner having died two days before the election.) The Senate was 47 Republicans and 53 Democrats. As returns began coming in, John Thomas began calling RNC headquarters and figuring out other races as well. We began erasing the numbers and putting up new numbers for the 104th Congress as the races were called.