A Bird in the Hand
"Top of the mornin' to you!" said The Candidate as he pumped my arm.
I was dumbfounded.
As an Englishman resident in the United States, I am used to my accent being misinterpreted, usually as Australian. This was the first time it had apparently been taken for Irish.
Dan Quayle and I were standing outside the Masonic Temple in Derry, New Hampshire. It was a quarter-to-eight on a beautiful September morning.
We were not alone. A clutch of local reporters and cameramen attended him, along with a smattering of local Republican worthies. I was the only civilian.
I had arrived half-an-hour earlier in something of a rush. I had found out about Dan's appearance at St Luke's United Methodist Church Community Breakfast only an hour before.
When I arrived, a couple of families and a sprinkling of senior citizens were tucking into pancakes and scrambled eggs. The eggs looked as if they had escaped from the window of a Japanese restaurant. I had coffee and orange juice.
Each place setting was decorated with a Quayle campaign flyer. Dan Quayle, I learned, not only 
claims God as his running mate, but is also a keen proponent of "family values".
Hmmm... Whose family? Which values?
I am suspicious of candidates who lay claim to the "family values" platform. I suspect they hearken back to an age which existed, if ever, for a few months or years during the Eisenhower Administration.
An age populated by white, affluent, Leave It To Beaver, nuclear families. An age everyone remembers - but few actually experienced.
An age with little connection to the mass of Black, Hispanic, Amer-Indian, Asian, Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, atheist, divorced, homosexual, young, childless, city-dwelling, rural, poor Americans. Not to mention the rest of us...
Quayle wants to keep America out of any foreign intervention which is not "vital to America's strategic interests." Kuwait's OK? How about Kosovo? Or - whisper it - East Timor?
A couple of young men entered the hall. They had the self-satisfied look of mid-80s yuppies. They did the rounds of the diminishing diners, distributing Quayle: Campaign2000 stickers. I took one and stuck it on my breast pocket.
I went outside for a cigarette and hung with the hacks.
A minivan (the symbol of white, suburban America) pulled up. Out stepped Dan Quayle. Sans Marilyn, much to my chagrin.
He was immediately accosted by a mildly attractive, middle-aged woman clutching a copy of his latest book. He signed both it and a large campaign pin.
He greeted local politicos by name. He spoke at length with a small man wearing a large cowboy hat.
Then James Danforth Quayle's and my cosmic paths intersected.
He appears short. (I'm no giant - but I was wearing clogs.) His complexion is ruddy, with a tracery of broken veins across his cheeks. His sandy hair is short and graying. He was wearing a brown, checked sport coat, a crisp white shirt open at the collar, beige slacks and brown loafers. He seems older than his 52 years.
He was cornered by a hack, who quizzed him at length about Pat Buchanan's possible defection from the Republican Party. His answers were measured and articulate. He didn't actually say anything.
Dan Quayle, the consummate insider, former Indiana National Guardsman, Senator and Vice President of the United States of America, remarked bitterly, repetitively and at length, that the Republican nomination had been "all wrapped up" by George ("W") Bush with his $(pick a number between 40 and 100) million in campaign funds. I almost felt sorry for him.
We moved into the hall, now bereft of civilians. He posed for photographs with the kitchen staff and flipped a few pancakes, beaming all the while.
He smiled. He shook hands. He kissed children. He made small talk. He was gone.
It was as if he'd never been there.
September 18, 1999
© 1999 John Blower