Hugo Boss for Prez!

By CALVIN TRILLIN

I've had a series of recurring visions since sometime around the Iowa straw poll. Men who are wearing suits and carrying loose-leaf folders put me in a plain room with a large mirror that I somehow know is one-way glass. They tell me I'm a focus group, all by myself. They assure me that I'll be paid $50 for my cooperation and be provided with a box lunch, choice of chicken-salad sandwich or smoked-turkey-and-arugula wrap. I should be aware, they say, that my lunch choice, coordinated with my party registration and weighted for my age and sex, will be used as one of the predictors of who will occupy the White House after January 2001.

"But I don't want to be a focus group," I say.

They tell me that, even though it's months before the first primary vote is to be cast, they've interviewed or surveyed or analyzed everybody else in the country. I'm the only one left. If I'm not willing to be a focus group, there can be no more focus groups, and everything will go sort of fuzzy.

"Maybe instead of another focus group we should just go ahead and have the vote now," I say.

They look aghast at that suggestion. They tell me that the analysis and the surveys and the focus groups have become the most important part of the process. In fact, they're thinking that next time around we may be able to skip the voting altogether.

"So what did you think of John Kasich's haircut?" they say, without further ado. "Do you think that the way he combs his hair makes him look boyish or just a little bit goofy?"

"Kasich?" I say. "Are you certain that was this campaign? It seems so long ago."

"Do you think Lamar Alexander should have kept wearing that plaid shirt?" they ask. "How about Paul Wellstone's beard? Did Elizabeth Dole smile too much?"

"But these people have all dropped out," I say. "Have you run out of things to ask about the candidates who are actually still in the race?"

"Certainly not," the men in suits say. They look through their loose-leaf folders for a while. Then they say, "What do you think of Al Gore's new wardrobe?"

As it happens, I actually have an opinion on Al Gore's new wardrobe. I disapprove. It's not just that he now looks like those guys who hang around the bar in the sort of New York City restaurant I try to avoid. It's that somebody who thinks he can run the country oughtn't to let other people tell him how to dress. I'm pretty close to believing that a candidate who wants my vote has to campaign in his own clothes.

But I don't tell the men in suits that. It would only encourage them. "Al Gore's new wardrobe is O.K.," I say.

"Well, then, do you think John McCain doesn't smile enough? What do you think of the theory that, now that Elizabeth Dole is no longer smiling all the time, as a counter-balance John McCain ought to move to the smile center?"

"Listen," I say. "How come all your questions have to do with appearance? Don't you have any questions of substance?"

The men in suits look a little bit hurt. They look through their loose-leaf notebooks. Finally, one of them says, "What's your choice on the box lunch?"