ESSAY

By John Skow

To his credit as a Cal Coolidge conservative, President Bush does not interfere with the internal affairs of a sovereign nation, the United States. Since all agree that the country's internal affairs are in woeful shape, this should give the Democrats a fine opportunity to pelt him with rotten fruit and dead cats in the most important political yard sale of the quadrennium, next February's New Hampshire primary. Here in New Hampshire, however, we are looking at our watches and asking, "What Democrats? What primary?"

The only announced candidate to show up so far is Paul Tsongas, a decent fellow who needs career counseling. This is serious, because New Hampshire's economy is based largely on primary filing fees and the political media's bar bills.

"Dunno," said Mildred, my neighbor. "Seems like Mario Cuomo should be here by now." We met at the town recycling center. She was trying to slip an elderly single-bed mattress past the vigilant fellow who runs the garbage hopper.

"No mattresses," said the hopper commandant.

"The lady before me dumped a television."

"Yup. But no mattresses," the environment's guardian told her. I helped Mildred stuff the mattress back into her old Pinto, the one with the REGISTER LIBERALS, NOT GUNS bumper sticker just below the LIVE FREE OR DIE license plate. A Democrat with a solution to New Hampshire's mattress problem could win it all. I know one man who had to bury two old mattresses in his pasture, like dead cows. Anyway, in all primary seasons up to now, you would have found Gary Hart or some other left-winger with good teeth staked out at the town dump, ready to shake your hand.

That noon at the Peter Rabbit diner I met Brisket, who owns the big motel by the interstate, and Graftwell, the paving contractor. They were having lunch with the Town Fool, one of our town's two registered Democrats. It was the Fool who in 1988 urged that the Democrats nominate Franklin Delano Roosevelt, on the theory that F.D.R. at room temperature was smarter than Bob Dole or George Bush at 98.6. The Constitution, he had pointed out, requires that a President be native born and at least 35 years old, but does not insist that he be alive. After the ritualistic denunciation of the Red Sox, which is required of New England males, our conversation turned to the missing candidates. "Don't sweat it. They're just a little late, is all," said Graftwell. He looked sweaty as he said this.

"They've got to come," said Brisket, a Sununu monarchist.

"Heigh-ho, primary woe," sang the Fool, jingling the little bells on his cap.

"What in tarnation does that mean?" Brisket demanded. Folks in New Hampshire practice saying "tarnation" and "ay-yuh" every four years for the network news.

"Rumble dee, rumble dum, Democrats aren't going to come," sang the Fool, doing a little dance step.

"That's foolish," said Brisket, out of patience. Then he added, "Sorry. No offense intended. I just meant . . . "

"Quite all right," said the Fool, pulling a red, white and blue streamer out of his right ear.

"But look here," said Brisket, "three lousy ski seasons in a row, then the banks all catch cold, and the legislature starts talking about broad-based taxes. Then of course we get gypsy moths. We gotta have candidates." Brisket values the two-party system that fills his motel with political staffers.

Then, as every New Hampshireman knows, Democrats will take you to lunch, marvel at pictures of your grandchildren and listen to your views on the perils of fluoridation.

"Really good guys," Brisket told me in 1988. "That Jesse Jackson, he bought me pie a la mode. I respect that man." But now the Fool was saying that the Democrats knew they couldn't beat Bush in '92. "Whaddya mean?" Graftwell said, trying to sound encouraging. "The Prez could lose. Four days out of seven, he's an empty suit. Ay-yuh, if it wasn't for Noriega and Saddam Hussein and them two wars, nobody but William Safire would know which one's Bush and which one's Quayle."

That certainly was true, I thought, but . . . The Fool was standing on his head juggling American flags. "Hear the sound-bite, pull the lever, Democrats are gone forever."

"Lay off Mother Goose," I told him. "What's your point?"

"Listen and learn," said the Fool. "Since 1776, the conservatives have had one unshakable idea, and only one."

"Golf?" asked Brisket.

"No, that the Federal Government can't do anything right, and shouldn't try," the Fool explained.

"Every real American knows that," Brisket agreed.

"So first Reagan, and then Bush, told the electorate, 'The Federal Government can't do anything right, and watch us prove it.' And the voters all nodded, saying, 'Sure makes sense to me,' as they watched the S&L mess, the Housing and Urban Development mess, the defense-contracting messes and the education mess, the drug-war mess, the homelessness mess, the health-care mess, the banking mess and more environmental messes than you want to think about."

"Well, you can't blame the Republicans for any of that."

"No one would dream of it," said the Fool. "If the Federal Government is, by definition, a terrible idea, then running it incompetently is more praiseworthy than running it well."

"George Will never said it better."

"But now you see why not even Al Gore has turned up in New Hampshire. If total failure succeeds brilliantly for the Republicans, how does a Democrat campaign? By saying he will cause complete economic and social collapse?"

"You could privatize the White House."

"Reagan already did that."

"Yeah, well, we still need candidates."

"We're working on it. Bill Bradley has taken his phone off the hook, but we're waiting to hear from Zachary Taylor."