The scene was a curious mixture of high drama and slapstick satire. Michael Dukakis, only hours away from the climactic triumph of his primary season, tries to hold a private midnight meeting with Jesse Jackson. His Secret Service limousine takes him to a back door of the Hyatt Wilshire in Los Angeles, where Jackson is staying. Reporters, alerted to the rendezvous, race through the hotel, but Dukakis evades them. Jackson's suite is a mess. As aides dispose of the remains of a chicken-and-greens dinner, Secret Service agents sweep swarming journalists from the corridor.
The Greek American comes bearing a gift: a Dukakis-for-President button with blinking lights. Then the two candidates sit down alone -- no aides, no translators -- for a 90-minute session, the longest of their three meetings in as many weeks. Jackson complains about the inequities of the delegate- selection system and argues for a tougher stand against South Africa's racial policies. Dukakis listens sympathetically. Looming over the meeting is a too- hot topic that remains pretty much unspoken: whether Dukakis should offer Jackson the second spot on the ticket (which he won't) and what will happen when he doesn't. Down in the lobby, Mark Gearan, a Dukakis spokesman, entertains drowsy reporters with a piano rendition of Getting to Know You from The King and I.
The Massachusetts Governor's resounding finale last week -- victories with more than 60% of the vote in California, New Jersey, Montana and New Mexico -- gave him more than enough delegates to win the nomination in Atlanta. It also prompted three of his vanquished adversaries -- Richard Gephardt, Bruce Babbitt and Paul Simon -- to endorse him with all the rhetorical goo expected on such occasions. But Jackson refused to play along. Instead, he took the role of the iron-whimmed King of Siam.
After losing the final round last week, Jackson praised the nature of Dukakis' surprisingly successful campaign -- but said he would remain in the race and fight for delegates not formally bound to other candidates. That tactic had some precedent, but Jackson's demand for first-refusal rights to the vice-presidential nomination did not. It was a noticeable hardening of his responses on the subject. Earlier in the campaign, he dismissed the second slot as irrelevant. More recently, he argued that his strong showing had earned him "consideration."
Last week Jackson redefined his terms. "Well," he told an interviewer, "consideration does mean offered. It does not mean just in passing." To a CNN correspondent, he indicated that he would press Dukakis hard: "I'm going to push him until I get a response." He contended that the 6.7 million people who voted for him (vs. 9.7 million for Dukakis) had earned representation on the Democratic ticket. When asked why he was now pushing for a job he once spurned, Jackson proved yet again how eloquently he can cloak his own ambition in historic significance. "For some people who have come by way of the stars and have had silver spoons in their mouths and many job options -- Shall they run their father's ranch, shall they run his plantation, shall they run the family corporation? . . . maybe Vice President is a step down for them. But do you understand my background? The vice presidency is not quite the top. But it's a long way from where I started."