America, C'est Moi

By CALVIN TRILLIN

My wife and I, who not that long ago were suspected of being part of The Eastern Media Elite, have been transformed into The American People. Surveys on the White House scandal reflect our views precisely. When the Sunday talk-show commentators whom I refer to as the Sabbath Gasbags pontificate confidently on how The American People are going to respond, the Gasbags are always wrong. In January my wife and I sometimes had to wait for a survey result to find that out. Not anymore. We now realize who we are.

On a recent Sunday, for instance, one of the Gasbags said on ABC that around last July, The American People began thinking that the way to put this episode behind us was for the President to resign.

"Did you start to decide in July that the President should resign?" I asked my wife.

"July? No," she said. "I mostly read novels in July. I don't think the President should resign."

"Well," I said. "Wrong again."

My wife and I are like the people in Magic Town, the '40s movie about a pollster (James Stewart) who moves to a town that is a perfect microcosm of national opinions and adopts a cover to keep the townspeople from getting self-conscious. In fact, I sometimes imagine James Stewart having coffee in our kitchen, disguised as a UPS deliveryman. "Some people on the route are saying that the President's actions were reckless and inexcusable," James Stewart says.

"I'd agree with that," I say. My wife shrugs, and mutters something about what's typical of the adolescent male. James Stewart smiles. Surveys show women to be less shocked by the White House dalliance than men are.

"But I take it you don't think this rises to the level of impeachment, and you're troubled by this relentless pursuit of someone's private behavior," Stewart says, sounding a little stiffer than UPS folks usually sound when they're telling you where to sign and wishing you a nice day.

"That's right," we say.

Lately, I've felt some trepidation about our being The American People. The Sabbath Gasbags seem increasingly angry with The American People for not sharing their level of outrage. I can imagine being in a crowded Washington elevator and encountering one of the Gasbags, who, recognizing me as The American People, grabs my lapels and shouts, "The unmitigated gall--ignoring what we tell you to believe!"

Standing just behind a tall bike messenger is a man who looks like Pat Robertson, sometimes described as the only person angrier at The American People than the Sabbath Gasbags are. He is glaring at me, and I can't help but recall that he tips off God to send hurricanes toward people he disagrees with.

Suddenly, the tall bike messenger steps in front of me and says to the Gasbag, "Maybe you should calm down, fella." The Gasbag calms down. I look closely at the bike messenger. It's James Stewart. He has reason to protect me. He knows that I'm The American People.