Capital Letters: Road Trip

In which our man in Washington lights out for the territories to explore culture and find the people behind the polls

Michael W. Lynch from the March 1999 issue

(Page 3 of 4)

Amber and I shared a seat through Texas, engaging in enjoyable conversation. An Army brat, she has a year of college under her belt and would like to return for a degree in computer science but can't afford the tuition. She plans to look into the Army as an education ticket. She's bright and certainly recognizes Clinton's crimes: "He lied under oath, that's the main thing." But she is willing to forgive: "Everyone after him probably lied as well."

Lying in Washington? That's just the sort of impression that worries Sally Quinn's pals. "Washingtonians can't abide it that the rest of the country might think everyone here cheats and lies and abuses his subordinates in the way the President has," says Quinn.

But Amber was pretty typical. During my 35 hours, I interviewed just about two dozen people from disparate professions and trades--a newly minted truck driver, a retired railroad man, an ex-speed freak, U.S. Marines, an Army man, a retired schoolteacher, a factory worker, students, carnival hands, a just-released convict, and more. With two exceptions--a Marine who felt that the commander-in-chief shouldn't get away with adultery and a conservative Nashville-based songwriter--every single person sided with Clinton.

It didn't matter if I talked to them at 3 a.m. in a crowded, loud, and smelly Memphis bus station or at 8 a.m. in Nashville. It didn't matter if they were male or female, black or white. Clinton has the Greyhound vote wrapped up--which is another way of saying that the Greyhound sentiment is, judging from the polls, more representative of the American sentiment than those who are well paid to shape it in Washington.

These folks don't just like him--many of them love and even admire the man. "To me, Clinton is like The Man. He's The Man," enthused Kenneth the fighter. "I ain't never seen a president trying to bring such unity."

It's always good to see the country from the ground. On the way west, the Lovely Wife and I had gotten stuck in Dallas due to the ice storm. I grumbled for two days about how this illustrated 1) why it is called fly-over country and 2) why fly-over country ought to be flown over. I was wrong. It should be driven through. Preferably on a bus.

The people are great. Sure, flying first class from Dallas into Reagan I have been fortunate enough to sit next to Jim Woodall, the man who runs "Concerned Women for America." He reflected well the conservative consternation with Clinton, relaying stories about how debauched the White House has become under Clinton as we ordered our free drinks from a stewardess with whom Woodall was on a first-name basis from frequent flights. On the bus, we had to get our own drinks from the 7-Eleven, and no one cared about the depths to which Clinton has brought the White House--mostly because they don't care much about the White House or Washington.

Take George Ferris, the retired railroad man I met. Traveling from his home in Pratt, Kansas, to North Carolina to see his "sweetheart," he told me railroad stories. Like Bob Dole, who likes talk about himself in the third person, George referred to himself as "Bear" on a couple of occasions, as in: "My buddy said, `Bear, he was just scared,'" referring to an incident when a drunk driver was strangling Bear and yelling, "Keep your hands off my wife." At the time, Bear was trying to pull the guy's pregnant wife from the car Bear's train had just smashed. (Bear experienced 57 accidents during his 29 years on the Midwest's rails. Don't, I repeat, don't try to outrun a train. It takes them 1.5 miles to stop, with all systems locked up.)

Bear's view on Clinton is close to that of James Carville and Larry Flynt. "I think they should investigate the whole damn bunch of 'em," he harrumphed. "The House, the Senate, all those boys who want to hang Clinton. Let's see how much rope they can take."

Bus riding is a great way not only to meet interesting people but to bone up on the ins and outs of the American economy--to fill in the details that think-tank wonks lose in their aggregates. For instance, I've always wanted to know more about carnies, the hands who work the summer fairs. So I was pleased to run into Mike Burns, a self-described "carnival man" who sported a blue stocking hat and a full white goatee that had turned yellow around the mouth, probably from his enthusiasm for cigarettes.

"I don't think the president should have been caught playing his 'monica," he said with a smile, glossing over the fact that "Hands-Off" Bill's story is that Monica was the only musician blowing anything. But I didn't want to get hung up on the particulars of Zippergate. I wanted to know about the carnival trade from a man who's spent 20 years working it.

What does it take to get a job? I asked. "Show up," he advised. "They don't ask any questions and don't take any paper." Just stay away from the" pig iron," which is carny slang for the rides. The hands working the rides make only $250 for a seven-day, 15-hour-a-day week. The rides are dangerous and, after the party is over in one town, the pig iron attendants have to break down and deliver the rides to the next stop.

Burns is a game man, making his pay on a cut of the day's take. Why would anyone choose pig iron over the games, I asked? They get an ego boost out of it, letting girls ride for free, he explained, adding, "They get a lot of dates."

Traveling by bus, I confirmed another long-held economic hunch: No one should spend seven years in graduate school mastering the refinements of the humanities, at least if they want to eat. They should spend one month learning to drive a truck.

Rick Meyers, a pony-tailed man I would put in his 50s, sat in front of me on the journey's first leg. He had just finished a month of truck driver training and was taking the bus to Texarkana to pick up a rig for his first run. He had three job offers before he even had a license and expects to make between $700 and $1,000 a week driving long haul for Deboer Inc., which pays 24 cents a mile. Of course, he'll be home only two days every two weeks. But after 27 years of marriage, he isn't too concerned about that. He said something about looking forward to the loneliness.

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