The vice president: Washington - humor

National Review, Dec 19, 1994

Dear Rusty,

It was terrific to see you last week! Sarah, Kristin, and Little Al loved the slides of the Orinoco Rain Forest. Little Al especially liked the blueish spider in a jar you brought him, though we all had a good scare when the thing got out somehow. It wasn't until one of the Secret Service guys swelled up like the Michelin Man and collapsed that we found it hiding in his trouser leg. Oh well.

Thanksgiving at our house was tense, to say the least. Mom and Dad flew up Wednesday. Tipper picked them up at National and then headed to Union Station to pick up Karenna and her boyfriend, Geoffrey, who has a job lined up for next year at Heritage. So right off there's a problem with Dad.

Then, just as I'm dashing out of the office to see the last half of Sarah's soccer game, HRC drops by. "Drops" is probably the wrong word; "glided and rustled' is more descriptive. Ever since the election, HRC has taken to wearing big, hoopy dresses with lots of lace and frills, and she talks in a breathy whisper. It's kind of creepy. Kristin calls her "Miss Havisham Rodham Clinton."

"Knock knock!" she cried out cheerily.

"Hi, Hillary."

"Oh, call me Puff. That's what the gang called me back at Wellesley."

"Okay, Puff."

She produced a large basket from somewhere near her bustle. "Just a little scrumptious something for your table this holiday. Some homemade jams and cranberry-lemon relish, and a little Virginia ham. Gotta run! Happy Turkey Day!"

That night, Mom, Dad, Tipper, and I had a quiet moment together in the living room. The fire was roaring, and I was nursing my Diet Snapple.

"Are you relaxed, honey?" Tipper asked. I nodded.

"Sure, son?" Dad asked. I nodded again.

"We've brought in somebody to talk to you," Dad said, waving his highball in the air. "Come on in, Stan," he called out.

Stan Greenberg walked in from the kitchen with an easel and charts. He cleared his throat, set up the easel, and put up a chart. "As you can see, over 60 per cent of Americans have a negative or nonpositive response to the question `Should Bill Clinton and Al Gore be re-elected in 1996?'--"

I turned to Dad. "You brought him all the way over here to tell me that

"Let the man finish, son," Dad said.

"--but as this next chart shows, when the question is narrowed a bit, to, say, what their reactions are to re-inventing government--" Stan flipped to a new chart "--or, say, to a Kerrey-Gore, Gore-Kerrey, Gore-Powell, Powell-Gore, Gore-Perot--"

"Okay! Stop it!" I shouted. "I know where this is going and the answer is no. Understand? No!"

"Show Al the videotapes of the focus groups," Mom said to Stan.

"Focus groups?" I asked. "Polling data, focus groups, multi-question responses ... this is all pretty expensive stuff, Stan. Who's footing the bill?"

"Well, son," Dad began, "what with the election results a few weeks ago . . ."

"It's for your anniversary, honey," Mom said. "It's something your father and I wanted to do."

"Hell, that bastard Dick Armey's going to means-test my Social Security, so I may as well spend it now, huh?" Dad said.

"Should I go on, sir?" Stan Greenberg asked. "I have a few computer models to show you."

"Thanks, Stan, but no. My future and Bill Clinton's future are inextricably linked."

Mom and Tipper started to sob quietly. Dad made himself another highball. I walked Stan to the door.

"You know, Mr. Vice President, they're only trying to help," Stan said.

"I know, Stan. But I'm a big boy now. I got through Vietnam. I'll get through the Clinton Administration. "

"Can I just leave you this summary handout? It covers all the major points of my presentation in a uniquely shreddable format." He looked so hopeful that I couldn't disappoint him.

"Okay, Stan, you can leave the handout."

"Thanks, Mr. Vice President," Stan smiled.

"And, what the hey, you may as well leave the computer models."

He beamed. "And the overlays showing your positive profile in Florida, Illinois, and California?"

"And California?" I asked. "Okay, leave that too. You know what? Leave the videotapes too."

I walked back in the house carrying all that stuff. Tipper stopped sobbing.

"I'm just saying that I'm going to read it, that's all, " I said.

"That's all we ask, sweetie," Mom said.