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New Hampshire Is for Lovers

Jun. 23, 2004 | It was Alexander Washington Hamilton's turn first. He had three minutes for his opening remarks, and as he was introduced, he adjusted his lapels and microphone, fixing his eyes on some indeterminate space near his stomach. When the red light on his podium glared, he raised his head and slowly looked into the audience -- handpicked, much like a jury by the respective staffs of the candidates -- and he cleared his throat. He opened his mouth, then seemed to change courses, deciding at the last moment to address what was going on just outside the hotel.

"I am very honored to be here before you tonight," he said into the camera, level-eyed and unblinking. "But before I go on, I want to take this opportunity to send a prayer out to a man I admire a great deal. A man who has served this country for 50 years, and who is, as we speak, still dangling from a tree in the parking lot."

There were a few scattered claps, and then the whispered scoldings directed to the clappers. No one knew how to react.

"Thus, I would like to cede my remaining two minutes to silence," Hamilton said, nodding his head in a convincingly solemn way, "silence which I hope you will use to say a prayer for J. Junior Inferior Sr. May he get down safely from the tree in the parking lot."

At that, Hamilton stepped back from the podium and lowered his head. Awkwardly, but with haste, the other two candidates, Carol O'Mealy and J. Junior Inferior Jr., also took one step back and did the same. Silence briskly washed through the hall and soon everyone, all 350 audience members and staff members, were praying. The live shot, gripping and so perfectly quiet, of the three candidates bowing their heads, was interrupted only when the camera trained on the stage dipped for a moment, as the cameraman lost his hold on it, having decided to join in sending his wishes to the Almighty that the former president be freed from the tree that currently held him.

It had happened in a matter of seconds, and the media had caught everything, and within a few minutes, the conscious world, pretty much all however-many billions of them, knew about Senior's botched landing and subsequent internment in the clutches of the great tree. The guilty gust of wind, traveling off the river and swirling through the parking lot like a wee tornado or twee tsunami, had sent the Montana/Senior parachute soaring away from the runway and into a group of elms lining the parking lot. Their chute was quickly enmeshed in the elm's brittle gray branches, and after the initial jolt, Senior and Montana had found themselves thankfully injury-free but in need of a gardener or tree surgeon riding a very tall cherry picker.

That was an hour ago, the beginning of their entanglement. For the ensuing hour, the debate organizers had fretted and fumbled, but, having assumed that help was soon on the way, had decided to go ahead with the debate, albeit 30 minutes or so later than planned. Meanwhile, the news outlets had about a billion people worldwide riveted to their televisions, watching the former president of the United States hanging from a 70-foot elm.

Help was indeed on its way, but the closest cherry picker tall enough to be effective was 40 miles south. While it made the trip north to Manchester, the collected minds of the GOP operatives below tried to think of an alternative, and high in the tree, J. Junior Inferior Sr. tried to think of something witty to say.

Knowing how much mileage Reagan had gotten out of a few jokes cracked after Hinckley's attempt on his life, Senior tried to think of a good gag to yell down to the watchers below. Something folksy, pithy, something fearless and cheerful. Whatever he said, if it was good, would stick with him forever, would become part of his legacy, ideally would burnish same. But man, it would have to be good. For the first 10 minutes of the dangling, though, he came up blank.

"Montana," he said over his shoulder -- for his tandem partner was still attached to him, and was closer now than ever, with one of his legs somehow stuck over Senior's shoulder, his heel in Senior's armpit -- "we gotta think of something funny to say, make the people feel OK about yours truly being up here and all. Ha ha."

Montana gave it some thought. He was the kind of man who made noises when he thought. "Hmmm," he said. "Hmmmmmmmm."

"How about," Montana tried, "'Looks like we're really up the river'?"

"Oh," Senior managed, feeling immediately that Montana wasn't up to the task. Montana had seemed funny earlier, hadn't he? Maybe not.

Montana took Senior's reticence as an invitation to explain himself.

"See," Montana explained, "that's an expression you use when you're stuck somewhere. The whole thing goes like 'Up shit creek without a paddle.' But in good company you say 'Up the river' because --"

"Please," Senior muttered. "Please stop."

"Wait, I got it," Montana continued, too inspired to be dampened. "How about something about being cooned? Like we're raccoons, right? And some dog got us trapped in a tree? That would play well among hunters, I bet. And anyone who's read 'The Red Badge of Courage.' Wait, was that the book? Or was it ..."

It was no use, Senior thought. Montana was a dolt. This would be up to him alone. Whatever he said needed to be confident, reassuring, while poking a bit of fun at himself for getting into the predicament in the first place. He ran through possibilities.

"Hey, folks," he might say, "looks like I'm stuck in a tree!"

or

"Hey, everyone, looks like I'm stuck in this here tree!"

or maybe

"Hello, America, it seems that I've gotten myself stuck in a tree!"

or perhaps

"Look at me! I am in a tree!"

or even

"Who is that man in the grip of elm tree? It is I, the 41st president of the United States of America."

He was pretty sure any of those would bust people up, but could he do better? Probably. He'd have to keep it concise, though. He'd had a problem, he feared, with his ability to be economical with his speech, his ability to simply get to the point and say things in a simple and clear way. But here economy would be all. What was it that Reagan had said to his doctors, before they operated on him? "I hope you're all Republicans." That was pretty damned good. So quick, so perfect. Maybe he, Senior, could use that thread. Do an homage and make it his own. Aha! And suddenly it all clicked into place. He couldn't wait any longer.

"Hey down there," he yelled to the crowd -- a hundred members of the media and double that in hotel guests and gawkers. "I sure hope this tree here is a member of the party I am also a member of. Because it would be better that way, given I wouldn't want the tree, which is an elm, I think, lemme see here ... right, an elm. I wouldn't want this elm here to be a Democrat, or whatever, because who knows what a Democrat tree would do to me, right? You know what I mean. It wouldn't be as good if the tree were a Republican. Or an oak. I like oak trees."

Well, he could have done better, but still, he couldn't help himself -- he laughed till he teared up a bit. But with the water in his eyes, he couldn't see the reaction from the crowd. He didn't hear anything from them, either, but when his tears cleared and he looked below, scanning the throng for people slapping knees and such, he saw only faces of concern. Maybe they didn't hear him.

Inside, the candidates were lifting their heads from prayer, and it was time for Carol O'Mealy's opening statement.

-- By Dave Eggers