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Role Model The Talented Mr. Bushley (Or, Imitation is the Sincerest Form)By Rick Horowitz
When it all began, it was subtle, and barely noticeable -- a certain tilt of the head, a particular cut of the garment. You felt you'd seen it before, though you weren't sure precisely where. Later, there was nothing subtle about it at all. It was brazen, and you'd find yourself wondering, "Does he really think he can get away with it?" The "he" in question being a young man named George, a Texan of decent breeding, possessing a pleasantness (though no more than that) of face and form, yet saddled with the heaviest of burdens: Young George was expected to become president of the United States. Young George had come to expect it, too, had even come to believe it would be easy. That was before he saw the crowds around John. John was an Arizonan now, though his life had taken him to many places around the globe. While his rascal eye hinted at capers and passions lurking just beneath the surface, there was an air of seriousness about him as well. He was, as Young George could not help but notice, a fully formed adult. And John, too, wanted to be president of the United States. He didn't expect it, not in the way Young George expected it; he had learned long ago about the unpredictability of things. But he wanted it, and the adoring crowds that surrounded him everywhere he went made his desire seem almost achievable. Young George envied John his crowds, his easy way with a quip, his willingness -- or so he made it seem -- to say whatever came to mind, the consequences be damned. He saw the look in people's eyes when they watched John enter a room, when they heard him speak. There was just something about him, something that troubled Young George in a way he could not explain. He started avoiding the podium. It wasn't a big thing, Young George avoiding the podium; he might not even have been conscious of making a change. Where in the past he had spoken to his audiences from a lectern, from a dais, from a distance, now here he was, down on their level, devoid of all the trappings. It was exactly the way John did it. Young George's speeches were much shorter now, with plenty of time set aside to answer questions. John gave short speeches, with plenty of time set aside to answer questions. Young George started calling himself a "reformer." It was a term he'd seldom used to describe himself, yet now he couldn't use it enough. John was running for president as a "reformer." Young George wanted it known that he was a "reformer," too, and not just a "reformer" -- a "reformer with results." (There was nothing that said he couldn't go John one better, was there?) When he hired himself a bus, people started talking. John's bus was one of his most distinctive possessions. Reporters from across the nation would clamor to ride on John's bus, to watch him work and take note of his every word. Ordinary citizens would climb aboard at campaign stops to photograph the famous seats. John called his bus the "Straight Talk Express"; it was part of who he was. Young George hired a bus; he called it "The Victory Express." Can you blame people for talking? They kept talking when Young George declared himself a friend of campaign-finance reform. There was no issue more closely associated with John than campaign-finance reform; now here was Young George, offering his own proposals on campaign-finance reform. They looked second-rate, nearly transparent, but the details hardly mattered. Wasn't it the thought that counted? But what was the thought? Was it admiration on Young George's part, or envy, or something even more sinister? Would he stop at nothing? In a quiet hotel room just after dawn, Young George turns this way and that, considers his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The sudden silver in his hair looks almost lifelike, he decides -- close enough for government work. He clears his throat, and tries the words on for size: "Back when I was a POW..." Posted 2/17/00. You
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Rick Horowitz