Dan Quayle may not be dumped, but he’s almost certainly doomed. For all of the advice about how to transform himself, he’s trapped in a box with no way out (short of the death or incapacitation of George Bush). Some vice presidents, like Richard Nixon in the 1950s, were clever enough politicians to wriggle free of the chains that bound them. But if Quayle is no John Kennedy, he’s no Richard Nixon either.
What ails Quayle isn’t quite as simple as it looks. If it were just a matter of refurbishing his image, then he would be the favorite for 1996. After all, image make-overs are relatively common in politics. When Harry Truman was vice president, he was seen as a failed haberdasher. By 1948, he was “Give-“em-hell” Harry. When Nixon had the job, he was depicted as a shady character needing a shave. By 1968, he got one. Vice President Bush was derided as a “Lap dog.” By 1988, he was a pit bull.
In each case, the transformation was at least plausible. this is one of the few refreshing truths about the media age. Images can be manipulated in disturbing ways, but the new look must be based on something real. In other words, Truman wasn’t really a hack, but a shrewd student of people and American history. Nixon wasn’t really a mere hatchet man, but a man of world-class political instincts (for better or worse). Looking back, refuting the “wimp factor” was an easy political task for Bush, requiring only reminders of his World War II service, a few pork rinds and Ronald Reagan’s departure.
Why can’t Quayle eventually make the same breakthrough? The answer is that unlike those men, Quayle’s problem isn’t about image, it’s about substance. Substance doesn’t just mean being able to talk knowledgeably about arms control and other issues, as some people say he can. It’s about weight–some intangible combination of experience and underlying seriousness. At the margins, an impression of greater substance can be created through good staff work and proper public presentations. And a few politicians (like Jack Kemp) actually become more substantive over time. But Quayle’s gravitas problem does not lie at the margins. It’s unlikely that in 20 years historians will discover that he was actually a heavyweight all along.
If Quayle had the opportunity to run something–like a cabinet department–he might prove that he has more substance. Dwight Eisenhower had this idea for Nixon in 1955, when he unsuccessfully tried to get him to step down as vice president and take a cabinet post. But Quayle, like Nixon, knows he can’t do that. It would look as if he had been ousted. The irony is that the one step that might address his basic problem would also be political suicide.
Obviously, it’s not necessary to be a rocket scientist in order to be president. Still, if you are not especially IQ-smart–and you aspire to the very top, as Quayle presumably does–you must be extremely smart in some other way. Reagan, for instance, was a brilliant charmer–a high achiever when it came to articulating vision and getting other people to like him. Quayle might possibly neutralize the “dim bulb” charge if he showed himself to be truly gifted in some other area of politics. But the limitations of the office of vice president will prevent him from doing that.
Isn’t it conceivable that a more impressive Dan Quayle will emerge? Yes. Impressiveness is a relative trait, and the low expectations of Quayle may help him. For nearly three years, though, he has shown no signs of beating his rap. Remember, Quayle’s performance as vice president has been about as good as could be expected of anyone in that miserable office. Great staff, strong issues, more support from the president than most vice presidents enjoy. It hasn’t helped. Verbal gaffes that wouldn’t even be noticed if someone else made them stick to him like putty. The more he tries to create a serious new political persona, the easier it is for even one mistake to start the Jay Leno jokes rolling again. The gives may be unfair, but they work because people see truth in them.
The truth they see is that Dan Quayle just doesn’t have it, even if they don’t know exactly what that “it” might be. Perhaps it’s our collective sense that we can still hope for more than mediocre when it comes to running the country. It’s this instinct that lies at odds with recent political history, which favors Quayle in 1996 and beyond. After all, four of the last six U.S. presidents were once vice president. The difference is that Americans have taken a bead on this vice president, and unless grim history intervenes, they have no particular reason for changing their minds.
