Time for Fast Dancing With Perot: It’s That Simple

It isn’t easy to get a one-on-one interview with Ross Perot--unless, of course, you happen to have a television talk show and an 800 number.

As an ink-stained wretch, I have neither, although this column is thought to command the loyalty of a small but deeply discontented following. Just the sort of group to which a Perot candidacy might be expected to appeal.

Thus, when I requested time to discuss this week’s astonishing allegations with the Texas billionaire, I was not entirely surprised that he agreed.

If this account of our subsequent meeting bears a certain resemblance to a well-known work by Lewis Carroll, what can I say except that life--particularly political life--often imitates art. And when it doesn’t, it probably should.

Knowing that the Perot campaign prides itself on its “unconventional” tactics, I didn’t flinch when I was told to go to the bank of a certain river and wait there for further instructions. There I sat over the course of a long, warm afternoon, growing sleepier with each passing minute. My eyes closed for just a second, and when I opened them, standing beside me was a large white rabbit with pink eyes. I recognized him at once.

“Orson Swindle, I presume.”

“Shhh,” he hissed. “Can’t you see I’m under deep cover?”

“Yes, and very deep cover it is, too. Nice suit, though.”

“Well, come on boy,” he said. “No time for slow dancing.”

I followed him to a nearby hedge, where he paused and drew from his waistcoat pocket a long computer printout, which I recognized as my credit report.

“Before we go any farther,” the Swindle Hare said, “there are a couple of things we gotta clear up. As you know, we can’t be too careful about who gets close to Mr. Perot, so sometimes we have to just check them out.”

“I understand,” I replied.

“Good. So, I’m sure you can explain this late car payment in 1978.”

“I was kidnaped by Baluchi nomads and forced to work as a camel herder until my rescue by elements of the British Special Air Services,” I explained.

“Makes sense. Those sorts of things happen to young people.” With that, the Swindle Hare produced an electronic card key and inserted it into a concealed slot. Down the rabbit hole we went.

Moments later, I was ushered into a room where Perot and his running mate, Adm. James Stockdale, were taking their afternoon tea. The admiral, also under deep cover, was dressed as a dormouse and feigning sleep over his cup. I thought it was a particularly cunning touch to have him stir occasionally and mutter drowsily, “Who am I? Why am I here?” It reflected, I thought, the sort of fresh thinking you find only in the private sector.

I immediately recognized Mr. Perot, despite the fact that he was wearing a hat so immense I could barely take my eyes from it.

“I see you have the typical media careerist’s instincts for the capillary,” Perot snorted from somewhere beneath the brim of the hat. “Go ahead, earn your bonus. Shoot, I’ll answer your irrelevant question before you ask it: I’m wearing this hat for security.”

I looked puzzled.

“First thing is, this hat is lead-lined. We received information from two high-level Justice Department officials, the credit manager of the Xenia, Ohio, Walmart and the shoeshine guy at the Hay Adams Hotel across the street from the White House that Republican operatives were attempting to use electronic rays to read my mind. There’s a lot of stuff in there they’d pay money for. But they’re not going to get it. I’m in this race to stay. Unless this hat gets too heavy, in which case I quit. It’s as simple as that.”

“Well sir,” I said, “I know you’d rather talk about the deficit, but I really must ask you about your allegations that people working for the Republican Party planned to distribute dirty pictures of your daughter and disrupt her wedding.”

“Boy, you are about as light on your feet as a coon hound with gout. I’ll try and simplify. No. 1, I love my family. And I think anybody who’s ever had some vicious crazy person write their sister’s name and phone number on the wall of a men’s room knows what I was going through. How could I possibly lead the free world and this great country that we love with that sort of thing on my mind? It’s as simple as that.”

“But Mr. Perot, you’re a pretty rich person. Couldn’t you have hired some security guards or rented Costa Rica for the weekend? And can you say a little something about the sources of these allegations?”

“That’s the kind of question that would make a buzzard barf. First, these are precisely the same sources who have provided me with the exact coordinates of the Laotian prison camp where Elvis is being held. And if the people of this great country’s 50 states want to send me to Washington, one of my first acts will be to appoint a commission of the private sector’s leading Elvis impersonators to get to the bottom of this whole thing. But I’ll just say right off the top: If you don’t want to clean up this whole Elvis mess, then don’t vote for me. It that’s simple.”

“But sir, hasn’t the FBI looked into all this and found nothing?”

“Boy, the feds wouldn’t know a Bentley from a cotton gin. First thing is, if they were any good at providing security for folks, do you think the Secret Service would have let Bob Dornan into the Oval Office when George Bush was there? Shoot, they’re supposed to protect the President from dangerous people. It’s as simple as that.”

It was, I had to admit, a point.

Our interview was concluded, and I climbed back through the rabbit hole.

As I emerged, I noticed a cat sitting on a bough of a tree a few yards off. The cat only grinned when it saw me. It looked good-natured, I thought, though it had a great many teeth.

“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?”

“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” the cat said in what seemed to me an Arkansas drawl, as it grinned a little wider.