Rush Limbaugh: An Army of One by Zev Chafets Read Free Book Online

give me a personalized tour of Rush’s boyhood. When Big Rush came back from World War II, he, like many veterans, bought a modest cottage—David thinks he paid eleven thousand dollars. As the boys reached their teens, the family upgraded to a brick ranch house with a wraparound porch, big windows, marble floors, and, of course, the downstairs rumpus room. There had been happy times there. David hadn’t shared Rush’s burning desire to escape, and he pointed out the scenes of their boyhood with what seemed like fondness.
    Rush was due home for Christmas in a few days, and David was both happy and sad. He finds it painful that his brother has no children. “He comes every year, flying in with a plane full of presents like Santa Claus. My kids are crazy about him. I don’t talk to him very much about how wonderful it is to be a father, because I don’t want to cause him any hurt. But I wish he could know the joy of it. I think he’d make a great father.”
    “David idolized Big Rush and now he idolizes Rush,” a high school friend told me. I mentioned this to David and he didn’t disagree. “Rush is like a general of a huge army. He’s the leader of a movement,” he said. “Whatever success I’ve had with my books and columns, that’s not much really when you compare it to him. I guess a lot of people think I ride on his coattails.” He gave me one of his sideways looks. “Maybe you think that, too.”
    “Why would I think that?”
    “Everybody does,” he said glumly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you did, too.”
    Unlike a lot of small Midwestern cities, Cape Girardeau hadn’t been hurt too badly by the economic dislocations of the past two generations. In fact, except for some down-at-the-heels stretches of Broadway and a few other commercial streets, things appeared to be booming. The economy is anchored by the university and two large regional hospitals, and it is a commercial center for agricultural products. A Proctor & Gamble factory provides steady work. Retail in Cape ranges from high-end antique galleries and a shining island of national chain stores and restaurants not far from Limbaugh’s office to places like Nearly Perfect Shoes (“Actually they are perfect,” a saleslady told me, “it’s just that they didn’t sell, so we get them”). I also spotted The Aggressive Mortgage Company, which soon went under, a victim, presumably, of its own hawkish business philosophy.
    I was glad to find the Varsity Barber Shop, Rush’s first employer, still open for business. The chair where he once shined shoes is still there; in fact, the entire place looks like it hasn’t been so much as painted since the 1960s. I dropped by on a Tuesday morning, about eleven o’clock. The barber, a large man in late middle age dressed in a flannel shirt and droopy jeans, was just finishing up a trim. Otherwise the shop was empty and silent. The barber, whose name was Fred, subjected me to a not-especially-veiled inspection. Clearly the Varsity doesn’t get much drop-in business.
    “Just came by to get my haircut,” I said.
    “Sorry,” said Fred. “All the slots are taken.”
    Vacant chairs lined the wall. The unmanned shoe station stood in a corner. Not even a radio was playing. “There’s nobody here,” I said.
    Fred nodded. That was a fact, but not a relevant fact. “Around Christmastime, people come in for a haircut. They make appointments,” he said. “You didn’t make an appointment.”
    “I didn’t know,” I said. “I’m from out of town. Can’t you just squeeze me in?”
    “Nope.”
    “When can I make an appointment?”
    “After Christmas,” he said. “Before Christmas folks come from forty miles to get a haircut.”
    Christmas was ten days away. “Did Rush Limbaugh really work here?” I asked.
    “That’s what they say. Never met him.”
    “Ever hear any good stories about him when he was working here?”
    “Nope. Can’t say I have.”
    We looked at one another for a long