Politicians are suckers for the Schwab's drugstore myth. So when George Bush plucked Dan Quayle from obscurity and made him his running mate, he no doubt thought he had discovered a raw young talent who could be molded into a Lana Turner sensation, a blue-eyed Everyboy who could appeal to conservatives, baby boomers and women alike. But Quayle may turn out to be the Marion Davies of the 1988 campaign; like the young, little-known comedienne William Randolph Hearst tried to impose on the public as a Hollywood glamour queen, Quayle does not fit the grandiose role that has been foisted upon him.
Generational themes are becoming as rare for Quayle as impromptu public remarks. Nowadays Quayle mainly echoes Bush's assaults on Dukakis, playing to the hard-core conservatives who make up the Republicans' base. Bush aides claim that rallying the party faithful is all they ever expected out of the Indiana Senator. "When you judge him," Bush adviser Rich Bond told reporters, "all I ask for is some perspective on what is the traditional role of a vice-presidential nominee."
Quayle's role has been anything but "traditional." Protest signs reading VERY PRETTY, BUT CAN HE TYPE? are almost as common along the Quayle trail as those reading CHICKEN HAWK. His wife Marilyn, a lifelong Quayle handler, told reporters her husband tries to reread Plato's Republic once a year. She sounded like one of the oldtime MGM publicity men who, whenever a starlet got into trouble, churned out a press release announcing her enrollment in correspondence courses at the Sorbonne. Ridicule is as contagious in politics as it is in show business: even a few Bush aides privately call Quayle the blond bombshell. He needs a chance to show some gravitas. Quayle is not exaggerating when he describes his debate with Bentsen as "the most important event in my political life."
The public loves an underdog, but Quayle does not quite fit that description. He gained sympathy from the remorseless media hazing he underwent immediately after it was revealed that he pulled family strings when seeking a spot in the Indiana National Guard during the Viet Nam War. That fact, coupled with his shoddy college record and shortcut into Indiana University law school, underscored his image as a coddled son of privilege. Even after eight years on the Armed Services Committee, he still mainly comes across as an avid golfer and fun-loving Deke. The large enthusiastic crowds that show up at his ; rallies are not rooting for Quayle so much as showing loyalty for Bush.
But Quayle is not as vacuous as his critics and some of his odder statements ("I'm not a yuppie, I'm a Senator") suggest. He is knowledgeable about weapons systems and deserves praise for his work on the Job Training Partnership Act. His problem is that he has not figured out his limitations or how to overcome them, a process he is now conducting in the glare of the campaign. He is sunnily self-confident and accustomed to the leeway accorded good-looking, engaging men. At the G.O.P. convention, when Republicans were debating whether to dump him from the ticket, Quayle wanted to wing his acceptance speech without a text or TelePrompTer. "Good Senators," he explained, "don't speak from prepared texts." He was overruled.