“Just my luck,” Dole said. “You come for me now, just when I’m putting it all together. I really had a chance this time.”
“Study to shew thyself approved unto God!” the angel intoned, hovering a few feet off the ground, his wings fluttering gently, creating a balmy, almost narcotic breeze that reminded Dole of his Bal Harbour condo.
“So you guys really talk like that–Biblical?” the senator asked. “Will I finally be able to play golf . . .up there?”
“Not so fast,” the angel replied, in a more terrestrial voice. “I just had to get past the opening formalities.” He lowered himself to the ground. “It’s sort of like politics–you have to establish credibility. The Old Man says the best way to do that is cite Scripture.”
“The wings would have been enough,” Dole said. “So I’m not dead?” The angel nodded, and Dole narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?”
“Talk a little politics,” the angel said. “Come to an understanding, maybe help out. We have an interest in this race.”
“An understanding, eh? Never touch the stuff. I’m my own man,” Dole said. The angel fluttered his wings again, another soft breeze. ““Course,” Dole smiled, “might make an exception in this case . . . Hey, you talked to Phil Gramm? He loves deals.”
“We have reason to believe that he has signed with the opposition,” the angel frowned. “They make more attractive offers–short-term, of course. We think they gave him Pat Robertson’s mailing list, a steady supply of folksy metaphors and much better posture. No more slouchy Phil. Our operation is different. You do good works in this life and we’ll take care of you in the next.”
“Robertson’s list, huh?” Dole mused. “And You can’t offer me anything for ‘96. And good works–what’s that mean? Water and sewer projects? I don’t think so. What if I decide not to play?”
“Don’t even think about it,” the angel thundered, transformed. The walls shook, the lights flickered. “Sorry,” he said, calming. “Sometimes He’ll get impatient and speak through me. Anyway, what we can offer for ‘96 is that the Lord will cause His Countenance to shine upon you and grant you peace . . . Don’t laugh. You need peace as much as Gramm needs metaphors. Peace means you’re not angry or impatient. It means you can connect with the multitudes, speak their language, inspire them. You will never again bore civilians with talk of subcommittee reports, markups or appropriations. You will be radiant in the sight of the Lord.”
“Like one of those clocks that glow?” Dole said. “What’s my part of the deal? . . . I’ve always been Right to Life. You can look it up.”
“Not enough,” the angel clucked. “You’ve got the prose. You need the poetry. You need to speak the Word of the Lord. Oh, and We’d like right of first refusal on your running mate.”
“Whoa! Too much. Don’t want to get too far out there on abor-, ah, pro-life. Don’t want to make folks uncomfortable. You remember the Houston convention. Anyhow, doesn’t He want one big tent? And didn’t He create pro-choicers like Christie Whitman in His own image? Sure gave her family a lot more money than mine.” The angel shook his head, tapped his foot. “Look,” Dole said, “would you settle for tuition tax credits for parochial schools? Some sort of voucherized thingie? That’s big bucks in a lot of poor parishes.”
“We set the terms,” the angel thundered again. “The people hunger for a spiritual message, but a little less Old Testament than Houston. You will not win unless you meet their need. You must show them what is in your heart.”
“Not my style,” the senator said. “Can’t I just talk about leadership? Leaders lead. Don’t want to sound preachy.”
“Leaders have vision,” the angel shot back. “We’re offering you a vision implant. Without Our help, you will seem cold and clumsy. Anyway, you’re going to need Us to get you through the next legislative session. Phil Gramm and his crowd are gonna be all over you when you help kill tax cuts, term limits, their kind of welfare reform–all those Newty things that’ll die in the Senate. You’re already blowing the balanced-budget amendment. I can see the Gramm spots now: “Bob Dole: Contract Killer’.”
“No way. I’m bringing everyone together,” Dole said. “Produce the real deal. Show ’em I can make this town work.”
“And Clinton’ll get all the credit,” the angel said.
“Clinton,” Dole snorted.
“Snort all you like,” the angel said. “Clinton understands the power of redemption.”
“He collects green stamps?”
“Nobody collects green stamps anymore. That’s old. That’s a problem for you: Clinton can make you look too old for the job.”
“Hell, I’ve always been too old for the job,” Dole said, suddenly angry. “I’ve been ancient for 50 years. I went from a hotshot kid to Methuselah in a single bullet . . . Hey, who did that to me anyway? Was it you?”
“You were doing the Lord’s work,” the angel said sheepishly.
“And now you want me to do it again,” Dole said. “Gotta tell ya, it wasn’t so radiant the last time. Gonna have to think about it before I commit. You sure Gramm’s got the mailing list?”
