"Ladies and gentlemen," he shouted into the microphone. "You have to let me finish. I have to continue across the country. I have an election to win, an agenda to put into place. I have to get back to Washington, victorious, to make sure those career politicians aren't misusing any more of our money and dampening any more of our American dream."
My God, how campy. But the crowd went crazy, the sound of the applause and the cheers swirling toward the cavernous ceiling, mixing with the red, white, and blue balloons that floated in the netting overhead.
Dalton said, "It's been like this at every stop. I've never seen anything like it."
I gave the press secretary a quick up and down. He was dressed in a gray chalk-stripe suit with a brightly colored bow tie pinned up against what looked to be a remarkably expensive shirt, the type that had French cuffs adhered by monogrammed gold cuff links. As I may have mentioned, he had a rather puffy, pasty look to him, no doubt honed by years spent in conservatories playing the piano as a child or reading Shakespeare in his room in boarding school, or tucked away in some corner of a library at his Ivy League university. He made George Will look like the Marlboro Man.
"On background," he said, "between you and me, over in the West Wing, we just have to watch out that he doesn't get too carried away with this populist message." He gave kind of a knowing laugh, mostly through his nose, as if he had just said something funny, though I wasn't sure what it was. "We just have to make sure he doesn't start believing all this centrist pablum he's throwing out. God, President Cole must be rolling over in his grave."
On stage, Hutchins appeared to be on a roll himself.
"Look," he said, speaking with no notes in front of him, winging it, enjoying himself. "Let's make a deal. I like deals. Deals are what helped me get rich before I came to Washington. Here's the deal I want to cut with the American people. I talk about the American dream an awful lot, and I do it for a reason. I happen to think the American dream is the backbone of this wonderful country. The role of the government isn't to make sure you fulfill that dream. That's too easy for the people and too hard for the government. It's unrealistic. No, the government's role should be to make sure that every American-and that's every single American, black or white or red or brown, male or female, young or old, gay or straight-has the opportunity to pursue his or her dream. So here's what I want to do. I promise you, I guarantee you, I will work until the day I leave office to make sure that every American gets the education they need to pursue their dream.
That means the best primary and secondary school education, that means the best post-high-school education, that means the constant availability of job retraining for those who lose their livelihoods and are forced to look for something else, something different, a little bit later in life. I also promise you, we will not allow discrimination-not here in America, not under this administration, not because of age, sex, race, or even sexual preference."
The crowd was silent, listening intently, perhaps in a collective understanding that they were witnessing a rare moment of political improvisation. Dalton, on the other hand, had an uneasy look to him that bordered on actual fright.
"Here's what I want in return. I want you to be Americans, to go back to our roots. That means showing compassion for those less fortunate.
That means helping those who can work find a job. Let's break this cycle of dependence once and for all. Let's never return to the welfare state that we became. On the other hand, let's not be cruel.
Some of us need a helping hand, and to give it, that too is the American way."
A roar of applause, and Hutchins, looking businesslike now, waited patiently for it to stop.
"Let's end the crime. Let's end the discrimination. Let's put our time and our money where it ought to be put, and that's toward making this country a better place to live, where opportunity is available for the asking, and dreams can be fulfilled by those willing to work toward fulfilling them. That's the deal I'm ready to cut with you. That's the deal that's going to make an already great country even greater."
The crowd jumped to its feet in a massive roar. The balloons overhead showered down like a patriotic snowfall. Amid the noise and the blaze of color that framed this snapshot of triumph, I caught Hutchins's eye one more time. It was a fleeting moment, so maybe I'm wrong. But it wasn't the look of delirium you might expect, nor was it a look of despair. It struck me as a look of need, almost a plea, though what he might have really needed from me, I had absolutely no idea.
Hutchins sat at the head of an antique dining table drinking straight from a can of Diet Coke in what must have been the largest hotel suite I had ever seen. Two aides stood on either side, pointing out something on a sheaf of documents spread out before them. I had arrived in the company of one of the Secret Service agents, a man so large that the fabric on the collar of his white button-down shirt didn't appear so much tight as absolutely furious, ready to burst from the immense neck muscles that constantly pressed against it.
Hutchins pulled off his half glasses when he saw me come in and advised me where to sit. He pushed the papers together, straightened them on the table, and handed them to one of his aides, saying to him in that rock-hard voice, "Tell Benny I said to hand-deliver these to Senator Mitchellson Monday morning. I don't care where he is, Washington or Georgia or whatever. Tell Benny to tell Mitchellson that I said I'm ready to meet him halfway. Then tell him if he's not ready to meet me, whether I win or lose, we'll cut his fucking legs out from under him.
Tell him he'll need a fucking wheelchair just to get around the Senate floor."
"Yes, sir," the aide said, then sprinted from the room like the Cowardly Lion racing from Oz. As he left, Dalton appeared out of a nearby room and pulled out a chair as if to take a seat. Before he could, Hutchins told him he preferred to conduct the interview in private. When Dalton protested, Hutchins put his hand up, and the conversation was brought to an end. You don't easily question the president. That was a good lesson to take away from this meeting.
Hutchins sat in silence for a moment after everyone had left, and I had no choice but to follow suit. Finally he said, "What'd you think?"
I couldn't tell if he really cared. He had just stood before thousands of cheering, adoring supporters. They were pumping signs with flattering slogans high in the air. They were screaming his name.
They were even laughing at his less funny jokes. I should be so lucky.
Network television crews were beaming the appearance live into living rooms across the nation, in a precursor of what would likely happen in Tuesday's election, just three days away. And here he was, asking what I thought about it all.
"I thought your tie didn't match your suit."
I don't know where that came from. I was hoping for one of those belly laughs. Instead, he gave me a bemused look and said in a softer-than-usual voice, "This is one of my favorite ties."
He picked up his half glasses and twirled them in his hand. He put them on for a minute and glanced at a sheet of paper in front of him, then pulled them off and placed them back on the table, clasping his hands together in front of him.
"So here's what I have in mind," he said. "You heard me out there. I have lots of thoughts, and the crowds love them, for what they are.
But they're little more than unformed ideas. I have to figure out how to translate what's going on up here"-he conked his closed fist against the side of his head- "to the policy-making structures of the West Wing and the rest of that rathole we call Washington."
He paused for nary a moment and continued.