Speaking in measured, mournful tones, the G.O.P. vice-presidential nominee drew his audience in slowly. "You are going to be the first to know these very personal, intimate things about Dan Quayle," he said, pausing for dramatic effect. "I did in fact eat graham crackers, drink milk and take naps in kindergarten." The candidate grinned broadly as 1,300 members of the National Guard Enlisted Association exploded with laughter and applause. Quayle joked his way through other "confessions" before getting to his punch line: "Nearly 20 years ago, I had no reason to be ashamed of my service ((in the Indiana National Guard)). And you know what? I'm sure as hell not ashamed of it now."
In his first full week as George Bush's running mate, the young Senator from Indiana attempted, with a mixture of indignation and forced humor, to exorcise a tag-team of ghosts haunting the Republican ticket. Did his family wealth and connections get him into the Guard while other young men went to war? Did he proposition Party Girl and Lobbyist Paula Parkinson? As Quayle swatted away one spook, another replaced it. When he declared an end to the discussion about his past and sought to go on the offense, he tripped over his exaggerated resume. The Cleveland Plain Dealer disclosed on Friday that Quayle spent just a few months, not two years as he claimed, as chief investigator of Indiana's Consumer Protection Office.
Beyond the questions about which corners Quayle cut as a young man lurked a far more relevant issue: whether he has the qualifications to be a heartbeat from the presidency. Placards at one appearance were succinctly cruel: SISSY RICH BOY and INTENSELY MEDIOCRE. Conservative Columnist George Will argued that Quayle desperately needed a "stature transfusion" and even set a deadline: by Labor Day the candidate should "be good or be gone" from the ticket. The Des Moines Register, a prominent editorial voice in the usually Republican heartland, called on Bush to drop Quayle. The New York Times said, "If Mr. Bush wanted someone against whom he could brightly shine, he could hardly have made a better choice." David Hill, a Houston-based G.O.P. ! pollster, called Quayle's standing "a source of enormous frustration to Republicans. There's a feeling that we're trapped, held hostage." Bush, said Hill, had an obligation to the party to consider replacing his Veep choice.
Bush would have none of that. "I'm not going to let insidious rumormongers drive me into changing my mind," he declared. By week's end Quayle was making tactical progress. Tenacious digging by reporters had turned up no conclusive evidence that rules were broken by his quick admission to the National Guard. The managing editor of his grandfather's newspaper, Wendell Phillippi, had indeed called an old acquaintance, the Guard planning officer, on Quayle's behalf. This old-brass network clearly expedited Quayle's access to a relatively safe haven, but such transactions were common throughout the country during the Viet Nam War. Thousands of other Americans, including Senators Bill Bradley of New Jersey and Don Nickles of Oklahoma, sat out the war in the National Guard or military reserves (though they were not, like Quayle, outspoken advocates of the Viet Nam War).