Читать книгу Chasing Hillary - Amy Chozick - Страница 20

“Secretary! Can you believe you’re back in Iowa?”

“Hillary! Does this mean you’re running?”

“Can you win here this time?”

Hillary stood in front of a Char-Griller, pretending to flip a steak at the Harkin Steak Fry in Iowa. It was the political event of the year for Democrats, Hillary’s first trip back to the state that had wrecked her 2008 presidential campaign, and the clearest public sign yet that she would run again. (For decades, the Harkin Steak Fry was the mandatory testing ground for would-be Democratic candidates.) I watched as she held the wooden handle of a spatula at a safe distance, as if a garden snake were coiled around the end. Then she gave the photographers a smile so open mouthed and amplified that, looking back on it, I should’ve seen it as a cry for help. The entire Democratic Establishment should’ve seen it. The image screamed all at once, How long do I have to act like I enjoy this shit? and Why the fuck am I back in this state? and Dear God, what am I doing? But what Hillary actually said to the press that afternoon was:

“It’s gurrrrate. It’s fabulous to be back. I love Iowa.”

I LOOKED AROUND the press scrum at the steak fry. We were all scrambling to write almost identical stories, using almost identical quotes and almost identical color (“She smiled in front of hay bales, an American flag and a John Deere tractor.”). The last time I’d been in Iowa with Hillary, I still felt like a foreign correspondent. Now, my journalism had become more like a feeding frenzy than a moveable feast.

I was no longer the kid who didn’t know any better than to stand up and cheer at a town hall. I’d become omnivorous, driven beyond all rationale by byline count and Twitter mentions. I lived in fear of being scooped over even the most insignificant minutia. Politico may have beaten me on the Ready for Hillary fund-raiser at the Standard Hotel in New York. But damn it, I heard the exclusive news that tickets cost $20.16 and that the signature cocktails included an eighteen-dollar gin-and-lime concoction called the Ultimate Ceiling Breaker. We were so starved for tiny morsels of news that I groveled with one of The Guys to use the names of his cats, Uday and Qusay (named after Saddam Hussein’s sons “because they were little terrorists”), in the “Planet Hillary” story. I was starting to see things—even how Hillary flipped a steak—with cynicism, and I feared the coming campaign would engulf what was left of my wide-eyed 2008 self.

AT THE STEAK fry, Iowa Hillary—the most belabored of all the versions of Hillary I’d mentally characterized—delivered an unintentionally ominous “Hello, Iowa, I’m baaaaaaaack.” She cracked a joke about Bill’s vegan diet. “It does really feel just like yesterday when I was last here at the Harkin Steak Fry, or as my husband now prefers to call it, the stir-fry,” drawing some giggles from the leery crowd of party faithful.

She then embarked on fifteen minutes of vanilla remarks. “In Washington, there’s too little cooperation and too much conflict …” she said, in what, even for Hillary, ranked high in the pantheon of pabulum political talk. This was when Bernie Sanders was still an obscure socialist senator from Vermont, and Hillary’s aides had urged her to take out any references to raising the minimum wage, advising that “this might still be too hot and partisan and might prefer just saying ‘We have a choice whether to move forward …’”

Bill sat behind her, his mouth newly flopped open in a way that made people assume he was older and sicker than he actually was. He wore a red-and-white gingham print button-down shirt, a recent birthday present from Hillary. “It kinda makes me feel like a tablecloth at a diner,” he told us.

When Hillary finished, Tom Harkin took the podium and in nine folksy words stroked Bill’s fragile ego and undermined Hillary in a scene that stayed with me for the rest of the campaign. “We saved the best for last, didn’t we, folks?” Harkin said. Chants of “Bill!” echoed over the grassy field.

As both Clintons headed back to their SUV and an accompanying eleven-car motorcade, a handful of young Latino immigrants, whose numbers had swelled since 2008, shouted out to Hillary about whether she agreed with Obama’s mass deportations. Would she deport their families, too? She shoved a thumbs-up their way and said, “Yaaaay!”

Salon called the event THE DUMB IOWA STEAK FRY: AN OMEN FOR THE HORRIBLY DULL POLITICAL YEAR TO COME. MSNBC’s Joe Scarborough said of the footage of Hillary flipping steaks with a forced grin, “Hillary Clinton’s problem for people that know her and like her—like I know her and like her—she puts on that political hat, and then she’s a robot.”

WHEN I GOT back to Des Moines that night, I grabbed a seat at Centro at the end of a long table next to Hillary’s faith adviser, a blubbery, histrionic man. We called him Hands Across America (HAA) because he’d traveled the country with us in 2008 after a sexual harassment allegation led to his brief banishment from the Hillary campaign’s Virginia headquarters. A young staffer said he planted a wet, unwanted kiss on her head. (The staffer was transferred to a different department.)

After that, HAA ran an outside group that supported Hillary’s 2016 bid, using his position to regularly feel up several of the young women who worked for him in hopes of landing a job on the campaign. He would be frozen out of the official 2016 campaign team.

HAA exhibited generally creepy behavior, but seemed more pitiful and effeminate than threatening, which is why I tried to ignore his rubbing up and down my back at the steak fry as we posed for a selfie that I posted on Instagram as if we were old friends. I once had a meeting in DC with HAA and a family friend of Hillary’s who had the porcelain smile and abundant black lashes of a daytime TV host. HAA rubbed his hands together and said in his Southern drawl, “Ay just luv my job. I get to be in a locked office with all y’all pretty, young girls.” Hillary would sometimes mention him on the campaign trail, referring to her “friend” who “sends me scripture and devotionals, sometimes mini-sermons every day,” always leaving out the small detail that everyone suspected he was a pervert.

As I took my seat next to HAA I tried to ignore this detail, too, because that’s what political reporters do when we are in Iowa. We write identical stories and suck up to drunk, lecherous sources at Centro.

HAA massaged my shoulder with one hand and drank a whiskey on the rocks with the other. I put a couple of the fried brussels sprouts with ranch dressing on my plate and sat there without speaking, attempting to contort my face into the expression I thought an unbothered male reporter would make.

The other reporters grilled HAA about when Hillary might declare and whether she would even have a primary opponent. He pretended, like everyone on the unofficial payroll then, that she hadn’t made up her mind.

“Now, c’mon y’all, give her the space to make up her mind. She wants to take her time, do it right this time. I sent her a scripture this morning that said …”

I felt his hand move down my back.

“I’m not feeling great, I think I’m going to head back to the Marriott,” I said, jumping up.

“No, Ames, now c’mon, you just got here,” HAA said, tugging on the arm of my blazer.

I dug around in my backpack and pulled out all the cash I had, eleven dollars, and tossed it in the middle of the table.