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The Quayle storm is, in fact, about more than a 19-year-old military record. The young Senator's stumbling attempts to defuse the issue showed how inexperienced he is on a national stage. In addition, the charges resonated because they reflected a deeper qualm about Quayle: that he is somewhat of a lightweight. Too junior to be a committee chairman when the Republicans ruled the Senate, and not regarded as a legislative craftsman, Quayle seems emblematic of the type of Senator who performs better in campaign ads than in committee rooms. The press made a concerted effort to communicate its view -- and that of some of Quayle's colleagues -- that the Republicans were about to nominate a man without the heft to handle the job. There were anonymous gibes: "Quayle is Bush Lite." His academic record became an issue; as even Quayle admits, "I was not a very good student." The Wall Street Journal quoted one of his college professors as saying, "He was as vapid a student as I can ever recall."
The selection of Quayle also resurrected stories about Paula Parkinson, the shapely Washington lobbyist known for her legislative affairs. On a golfing vacation in 1980, Quayle stayed in a Florida house with two other Congressmen and Parkinson. He left the next day and was never accused of intimacy with her; no evidence has emerged to dispute his claim that he did nothing more exciting than play golf. But in the November issue of Playboy, due on newsstands Oct. 1, Parkinson (who is pictured posing nude) will make some new allegations about Quayle's activities that weekend. Her charges are unsubstantiated and, in fact, contradict some of her previous accounts. But they are likely to provoke another unwanted flurry of publicity.
Bush trumpeted his vice-presidential selection process as a model by which his fitness for the White House should be judged. But the behind-the-scenes portrait of the troubled Bush campaign last week was one of repeated misjudgments and miscalculations. Bush should shoulder most of the adverse political consequences, stemming from both faulty staff work and his deep concern with secrecy, which kept politically experienced aides from participating in and learning much about Quayle's background check.
From the outset, Bush viewed the choice of his running mate as a case study in the loneliness of power. "I want to do this one myself," the Vice President frequently told longtime political counselors who offered to help. Bush solicited names and advice but rarely revealed his own feelings, and in the end relied almost defiantly on himself alone. "He had a preoccupation with leaks," recalls a senior staffer. Concern with maintaining firm control of the theatrics of the convention contributed to this security mania, but the primary cause was Bush's memories of the rumors that swept Detroit in 1980 as Reagan was pondering Bush's fate. As a top aide put it, "He was determined that no one be hurt."