The Running Mates

Washington Monthly, July, 1999 by Alexandra Starr

Who will be on the tickets in 2000?

"I do not propose to be buried until I am really dead," replied Daniel Webster when he was offered the Whig Vice Presidential nomination in 1848. For much of our nation's history, live entombment has been a largely accurate analogy for the Number Two job. Men who hoped to one day become leader of the free world have found themselves attending funerals, refereeing spelling bees, and playing political errand boy. Few have enjoyed their stint on the peripheries of power; most would probably agree with John Nance Garner's bitter assessment of the position. "The vice presidency," said FDR's first running mate, "isn't worth a pitcher of warm piss."

Ambitious politicians, however, have lusted after the V.P. slot. Remember the dramatic contest between John E Kennedy and Estes Kefauver to run with Adlai Stevenson in 1956? And who can forget Dan Quayle's unbridled enthusiasm--reminiscent of a kid who had just been tapped to join a college fraternity--when he was introduced as George Bush's running mate? The first impression most Americans had of the future second-in-command was of a breathless man tugging at Bush's sleeve, shouting "Let's get `em!"

Perhaps Quayle's excitement was justified. After all, more than half a century after Garner made his often-misquoted remark, the veep's job description has changed. Since Jimmy Carter assured Fritz Mondale a weekly luncheon, West Wing office, and access to his own aircraft (Spiro Agnew had to ask permission to be ferried around on what his staff dubbed Air Force 13--a military transport plane without windows), the vice presidency has become more than a spare tire in the automobile of government. Al Gore is the most activist veep in history, serving as head of the Reinventing Government task force, point man on the environment, and occasionally as de facto Secretary of State. "It's not a job where you wait for the president to die anymore," says Matthew Dickenson of Harvard University. "The office has its own sources of power." It can also be a stepping stone to the presidency: Since 1960 every sitting vice president who sought his party's nomination has won it.

As we veer towards the 2000 elections, the choice of who will be a heartbeat away from the presidency is no insignificant matter. There are, however, few clear indications of who will occupy the office. The selection calculus can be inscrutable: Who would have guessed Barry Goldwater would ask William Miller to be his Number Two because the New York Congressman "drove Johnson nuts"? For that matter, who had Gore on their short lists? When Clinton picked a centrist babyboomer from a neighboring state, he threw traditional V.P. selection rules out the window--with impressive results. "1960 was the one year where the vice presidential choice was decisive; Johnson really helped in the south in a tight race," says Charlie Cook of The Cook Political Report. "But you could argue that when Clinton chose Gore, the sum was greater than the parts. It was chemistry that worked."

Clinton's choice was perfectly suited to the era of information-based politics, say political strategists. With campaigns essentially conducted via TV screens, it's important for nominees to articulate a clear message, and the vice presidential pick can be a way of reinforcing the candidate's themes. With two young stars on the ticket, the Democrats could legitimately lay claim to the "New Generation" mantle in 1992 and 1996. "When Clinton chose Gore, he called me and said, 'The message is going to be the changing of the guard,'" says Al From, chairman of the Democratic Leadership Council. "Voters connected with that"

Traditionally, presidential nominees haven't used the veep choice to expand on the campaign's image so much as to "balance" the ticket and preferably lure a certain demographic to the polls. It was never a surefire approach. Michael Dukakis, liberal governor of Massachusetts, played it by the book when he tapped Lloyd Bentsen, centrist-conservative senator of Texas, to be his running mate. (The campaign had a dreamy eye on the Kennedy-Johnson ticket, what Dukakis called the Boston-Austin connection, where geography tipped the election.) Pitifully few Americans thought Dan Quayle was better qualified to be vice president than Bentsen. But Bush won the election decisively; a reminder, perhaps, that people vote for the president, not his running mate. On the demographic front, Geraldine Ferraro didn't bring a surge of women voters to the Democratic ticket in 1984 (she didn't even carry her home state, New York). Nor did Dan Quayle prove a seductive poster boy for baby-boomers (in fact, he may have reduced Bush's margin of victory).

Whether the 2000 presidential nominees adhere to an "amplification" (e.g., Clinton and Gore) or "diversification" (e.g., Dukakis and Bentsen) strategy remains to be seen. Ultimately, presidential nominees want to tap someone who will help them win the election but could also be a plausible president. As the Quayle choice demonstrated, ignoring the qualifications of the veep in the hopes of attracting a certain demographic to the ticket can backfire. "The feeling is, if you're a serious candidate for the presidency, you pick a serious running mate," says Tom Mann of the Brookings Institution.