All Too Human: A Political Education by George Stephanopoulos Read Free Book Online

end of the hour, he acknowledged that his marriage had “not been perfect or free of difficulties,” but assured the room that he and Hillary had worked it out and expected to be together forever. The message was clear: His past wasn't prologue.
    Nothing more had appeared in the press, but the rumors didn't stop — and not everyone wanted them to. Congressman Dave McCurdy, a conservative Oklahoma Democrat, was conducting a whispering campaign against Clinton on the. floor of the House. McCurdy wanted to jump in the race, so he was presenting himself to centrist fund-raisers and activists as the clean-cut alternative to Clinton — a Clinton with “character.” It didn't work. After the tawdry excesses of 1988, political elites were groping for a shared understanding of how much privacy a public figure deserved and what was fair game in the heat of a campaign. It seemed like a zone of privacy was being staked out.
    So despite the well-intentioned warnings of my friends, I wrapped things up at work, sublet my apartment, and packed my bags for Little Rock. Then, one more hiccup. The Friday before I left, the Northeast corridor was buzzing with a new rumor: Cuomo was getting in. At a fund-raising breakfast in Manhattan, he had cracked open the door to a candidacy. The news hit me like a kick in the stomach.
Why now? Where were you a month ago?
But the discomfort faded faster than I expected. Something
had
changed for me.
    The messianic streak in Kerrey's camp had left me cold. But I was yielding to a similar temptation with Clinton. I barely knew him — one meeting, a couple of phone calls. But the feeling I had when we first met was taking root, putting him and his cause at the center of my life. Maybe I couldn't help it. Maybe I had to romanticize the mission in order to survive the impossible hours, the inevitable compromises, and the intense personal pressures that I knew would come with any campaign. Maybe I had to turn it into a crusade. How it happened is still a mystery to me, but I was on the road to becoming a true believer, developing an apostle's love for Clinton and the adventure we were about to share.
    Bruce Lindsey met me at the Little Rock airport. Clinton's old friend and aide-de-camp, he was smaller than he sounded on the phone, with short hair and a handsome, dark face hidden by thick black glasses. He wore a standard-issue blue blazer, gray pants, and white shirt, and his voice was friendly but flat. His whole demeanor seemed designed for the job he held: Clinton's shadow. Wherever Clinton went, Bruce followed — hanging backstage, collecting names, keeping secrets, shuffling cards for a game of hearts.
    We drove straight to the governor's mansion, where Clinton swung open the aluminum screen door by the kitchen to welcome me in and show me around. The heavy autumn haze had left him with a swollen head and a red nose. “I have a hard time thinking when allergy season hits; always sleepy,” he explained. But that didn't stop him from picking up our conversation right where we had left off in Washington. “I feel good about it, but we're behind. … Got a lot to do. … Trips to New Hampshire and Chicago. … Need to set up a network to get me ideas from my friends. … Decide what to do about the Florida straw poll.”
    He kept on talking as I followed him to the bedroom, where he started to change out of his jeans for a downtown lunch, then stopped to hand me an article from a pile on one of the night tables. There were two of them — one for him, one for her — both loaded down with novels, magazines, issue papers, and spiritual books. I hadn't yet met Hillary, but seeing the night tables made me picture the two of them propped up late at night, passing their reading back and forth, arguing, laughing, educating each other, sharing a passion for ideas.
    Then she appeared in the bedroom door. Hillary was prettier than the pictures I'd seen, with a dimpled smile that didn't match her high-powered