At Clinton HQ, Washington Operatives Get a Taste of America
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Page 1 14 of 15 DOCUMENTS The Washington Post October 2, 1992, Friday, Final Edition Little Rock, Where Spin Meets Homespun; At Clinton HQ, Washington Operatives Get a Taste of America Joel Achenbach, Washington Post Staff Writer SECTION: STYLE; PAGE C1 LENGTH: 3054 words DATELINE: LITTLE ROCK, Ark. This is the unWashington. People don't walk fast. They don't have car faxes. They don't have the classic Washington attitude of I'll give up my cellular phone when they pry it from my cold, dead fingers. Breathe the air: The absence of power and influence is detoxifying. The only sign of monumentalism is the requisite dome on the state Capitol. The last really important thing that happened here was in 1957, a civil rights riot down at the local high school (that is, until this Nov. 3, when, just maybe, there might be something new to talk about). Today the citizens are so friendly that total strangers act like they want to give you a big ol' bear hug. When Clinton aide Jacquelyn Davis's car was hit in the parking lot, she found a note saying, "I am so so so so terribly sorry I hit your car. Here is my name and number... ." The closest thing to a power lunch spot is Your Mama's. "Your Mama's Good Food" says the sign on the window. A plate of meatloaf, turnip greens, purple hull peas and corn bread costs $ 3.99. The place, a humble storefront next to a Kinko's copy center on Louisiana Street, opens at 11 and closes three hours later, and in between there's always a confab of Clinton campaigners with elbows on the checkerboard tablecloths. "The Republicans are at [Washington's] 21 Federal, we're at Your Mama's," bellows James Carville, Bill Clinton's senior strategist and official Large Personality. "No Red Sage here!" He is filling up the restaurant with his high-calorie Cajun accent. "Man, we havin' jambalaya Friday?" he shouts to the cook. In June there had been a debate over where to establish the presidential campaign's national headquarters for the final five months. The obvious choice: Washington. In Washington the human and electronic infrastructure is in place to support a logo-centric and imagistic enterprise, and it seems natural and appropriate and perfectly seemly to spend your entire life in the desperate manipulation of the political process. When doing as the Romans do, go to Rome. But Bill and Hillary Clinton wanted to stay in Little Rock, where they have their only home (the Governor's Mansion) and where their daughter, Chelsea, goes to school. At first, some of the senior campaign operatives didn't cotton to the idea -- they'd have to change planes in Atlanta! For someone from Washington or New York City or Los Angeles, Arkansas is about as nowhere as you can get. Distressingly near Mississippi. Dozens of newly hired campaign workers found themselves heading to a place that for all they knew had the lowest teeth-to-people ratio of any state in the union. The state song would be "Dueling Banjos"! Everyone would be named Bubba and Buford! Even the women! And the food: Endless iron skillets overflowing with chicken-fried steak; bottomless bowls of black-eyed peas. Page 2 Little Rock, Where Spin Meets Homespun;At Clinton HQ, Washington Operatives Get a Taste of America The Washington Post October 2, 1992, Friday, Final Edition But the operatives were surprised. They were intrigued by the very absence of intrigue. "This is a very interesting place to be engineering the peaceful takeover of the Free World," says Bob Boorstin, policy adviser, formerly of New York City. "Because Little Rock is America." America! The place they'd heard about for so long. The place they had all aspired to live, in those reflective moments back in the big city when the cappuccino was just taking effect. Matt Smith, from Chicago, says, "You can say hi to someone in the Woolworth's and they return it. It's not like, 'Hey, you talking to me?' " Jeff Eller, the political communications director, recently of Washington: "You get out here and it's Sunday morning and people are going to church." Innocence is rare in politics. Some of the campaign workers almost seem a little sad that they'll be leaving in just a few weeks. They have destinies elsewhere. This may be America, but they're still just tourists. All Work By 7 a.m. the War Room is packed. At midnight many will still be here in the Gazette Building, the old newspaper office serving as Clinton campaign headquarters. In these final weeks the campaign never really sleeps. There are people who look as if they've been living on a diet of candy bars and adrenaline. Thirty-six days, 35 days, 34 days, they count it down, they know the number. There is no time and no energy for casual conversation -- they have to maintain the focus on victory. If this is a confident bunch they don't want to let it show, they don't even want to feel that emotion -- this year has been too crazy, the campaign too up and down, no one wants to jinx anything. And Perot is back. Weird! "It accentuates the need for discipline," says Carville. This is the great thing about Little Rock: There are no distractions, nothing to do but work. The drawbacks of Arkansas turned out to be attributes. Not many reporters. No running into think tank guys on the sidewalk and feeling obligated to chat. No future Clinton administration wannabes wandering around looking for a lunch partner. "People on the Hill don't constantly call us and tell us what they just saw on 'The McLaughlin Group,' " says Clinton aide Carter Wilkie. "Also in Washington you can't park for $ 2 a day," says Matt Smith. Everyone at the Clinton campaign has a CNN tan. They start early and work late and if someone offers to buy them a beer for dinner they say no, a Diet Coke will be fine, there're some briefing papers we need to go over back at the office. There's an ethic of zeal. "You guys are 9-to-5ers," says one worker to a colleague from another department. "How late were you here last night?" "11:30." "2:10!" This is not an Arkansan kind of conversation. "It's a little bit of a Washington thing," says Carville -- speaking, it should be noted, at 6:30 in the morning as he scans the newspapers in the restaurant of the Capital Hotel, which he calls home. "You know how everyone in Washington runs around telling you how hard they work? I don't care about that, go bore someone else with all that crap." But he adds, "I tell you what, when this thing is over, you're looking at someone who's not going to hit a lick for a while." What'll he do? Page 3 Little Rock, Where Spin Meets Homespun;At Clinton HQ, Washington Operatives Get a Taste of America The Washington Post October 2, 1992, Friday, Final Edition "Stare a lot. You know, just stare into space." Carville's routine never changes. Wake-up call at 6:15. War Room meeting at 7. Lunch at noon. A quick nap on his office couch. Another meeting after the evening news. A jog. Dinner, with a martini before and a glass of wine during. Usually he goes to Doe's Eat Place with other campaign workers. At the beginning of a meal they vow not to talk about the campaign. They then break the vow. Nothing else matters! They can hum the CNN theme music. They can imitate that deep lionlike growl of James Earl Jones: "This ... is CNN." At the Clinton headquarters you hear snippets of wistfulness: "Sylvia, did you go on that Buffalo River trip?" "No, we were preparing for a Monday policy event." Put it this way: There's a little Washington in Little Rock. Nowhere is that more obvious than in the thrilling, frenzied pace of the Clinton campaign. Win or lose, the Clintonoids will go down in history as quick-draw artists. They never met a Republican they didn't spite. The rule of the campaign is, every assault must have a counter-assault. Bush hits, Clinton hits back. Did not, did so. The strategy seems to be working -- the only drawback being that it has given the campaign the feeling of a huge water gun fight. Godzilla vs. Mothra, armed with Super Soakers. Behind a closed door in a corner of the third floor of the Gazette Building is the hyper-efficient spin control operation. George Stephanopoulos, the super-charming communications director, sits behind a CEO-size desk with three phones, one labeled "Batphone." Like the true Washington character he is, he can simultaneously converse with a live person and a telephonic person even while glancing constantly at the TV to catch the most recent pretty picture from the trail, the latest-breaking sound nibble. An electric shaver, plugged in, rests on top of the fax machine. To run a political campaign in the '90s you have to be able to shave and fax at the same time. "... I actually think we're going to get a good pop back on the networks," Stephanopoulos is saying into the phone. "Hello? ... It worked! ... It totally worked! It created a new story." He's sipping from a mug of coffee. His grin softens for a moment and he says, "We're low on spin here." You can sense wheels turning inside his head; let's ratchet it up a notch.