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Reagan has some other problems that could become serious in future primaries. One is his campaign staff—or what is left of it. This staff is by far the biggest working for any candidate in either party this year. In some ways it is superbly organized. Advancemen carry a check list of 106 items for every Reagan stop: staffers' hotel rooms must be at least one floor away from those occupied by reporters; the hotel's full restaurant menu, not just an abbreviated room-service version, must be available to Reagan and Nancy; the lectern from which the 6-ft. 1-in. Reagan is to give any formal speech must be precisely 43 in. high. But there was angry infighting that led to last week's shake-up (see box), and there are odd gaps. Strangely enough for a candidate with Reagan's acting experience, there is no one in overall charge of preparing TV commercials; the first two taped for the New Hampshire campaign had to be discarded because they dealt exclusively with domestic policy at a time when the attention of the voters had swung to foreign affairs, and they were dull besides. Nor is there any full-time speechwriter. Reagan reserves that job for himself, endlessly scribbling passages on 4-in. by 6-in. index cards, which he shuffles into new arrangements to vary the standard speech that he delivers at every town hall and country club: he blames some of his fluffs on difficulty in reading his own shorthand.
Far more important, Reagan has somehow managed already to spend $12 million of the $18 million he is allowed under federal election laws to pay out for all the rest of the pre-convention campaign. Part of the reason is that his managers figured they could spend lavishly in the early stages, on the theory that after the Illinois primary, Reagan would have the nomination locked up. That might happen, but if his rivals manage to prolong a close contest past Illinois, Reagan could be severely crimped in the decisive late primaries. His difficulties, however, pale alongside those faced by his competitors after New Hampshire.
George Bush has undeniable assets. His recitation of the top Government jobs he has held—in his words, his "fantastic credentials" for the presidency—sometimes bring oohs and ahs from the voters. As a New England aristocrat who moved to Texas and made a fortune in the oil business, he endlessly boasts that he is one candidate who has actually met a payroll. He preaches a bubbly optimism ("I just know we can solve all our problems"). He is a demon campaigner, who started so early that he often tells audiences, accurately, that his race is already two-thirds over, and he has proved himself an expert at putting together an extensive political organization.