Stupid White Men-- and Other Sorry Excuses for the State of the Nation! - Michael Moore [106]
“Stop him!” I shouted—without thinking, really. (Perhaps it was a reflex—whether I’m in Texas or Florida, when I hear the words Governor Bush, I instinctively respond with a “STOP HIM!”) The kid opened the door and called out, “Governor Bush, there’s someone who would like to meet you!” By that time I was already out the door. There, on this deserted pedestrian mall, which looked like a dark alley in the final minutes before dawn, were Governor Jeb Bush and his bodyguard, walking to work. A black SUV carrying more security was creeping along the car-free street, about 40 feet behind the Governor.
Bush turned to see who was asking for him, and then saw me standing there, He gave that Bush smirk, and began walking back toward me. I moved toward him, and the bodyguard went into stand-by-to-beat-the-punk-to-a-pulp mode.
“Mr. Moore,” Bush said, shaking his head like he’d just been fed the same plate of SloppyJoes for the third day in a row. I held out my hand and Bush took it.
“Just wanted to shake your hand and say hi, Governor,” I said politely. He squeezed tightly, not wanting to let go until he had said what he had to say. His eyes were like needles that locked right on mine. The bodyguard moved closer.
“So—did they pay you enough to come down here?” he snapped at me pointedly, and the translation was clear: “You suck, Moore.” My mouth went dry; my heart was beating so hard I was worried he could hear it.
“1t’s never enough, Governor, you know that,” I replied with the first words I could muster. Why did he care who paid me or how much? Then it dawned on me—HE paid for it! Florida State University! No wonder he was pissed: he’d picked up the tab for my visit to tell thousands of Floridians—especially Nader voters—that beating Bush was the important thing. This was NOT what the Bush camp wanted Naderites to be thinking.
Had he seen the news from the night before? Bush glared at me and withdrew his hand.
“Kevin with you?” he asked me suddenly. Hub? Kevin? Was this some secret codeword to alert the bodyguard that it was time to Linda Blair my neck? Then it hit me—he was asking about his cousin, Kevin Rafferty, the filmmaker who’d helped me out with Roger & Me. I hadn’t worked with Kevin in twelve years—why was he asking me this? I didn’t know what to say.
“Uh, no, he’s not here,” I mumbled.
“Well, give him my best,” he said.
“Sure,” I responded.
“Leaving, are you?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “Right now.”
“Good.”
He gave me that famous Bush smirk again, nodded his head as if to say good riddance, and then turned and left. As he walked down the deserted alley I tried to think of some witty comeback, but he was already twenty paces ahead of me. The black SUV rolled down its window; the state trooper inside sized me up, then slowly drove past my feet. The first light of day was making its way over the capitol dome. I would not see this place again until I saw it on nonstop television two weeks later.
Every time I’ve run into one of the Bush kids it’s been a defeating, debilitating experience. For some reason they always seem to get the upper hand. When I came across George W in Iowa and tried to ask him a question for my TV show, he shouted at me to “go find real work.” The entire crowd in the place roared with laughter. I didn’t know what to say—he was right, this isn’t real work! I had no comeback.
The day I ran into Neil Bush, the unindicted co-conspirator in the Silverado Savings & Loan scandal, I was in the lobby of General Motors in Detroit doing a radio interview. He walked through the door with these four Asian guys—“bankers from Taiwan,” he later told me. When he spotted me, he freaked out. I was the last person he expected to see at General Motors.
“Where’s your camera?” he demanded, his eyes darting all over the place.
“Oh, uh, I don’t have a camera with me today,” I said sheepishly and regretfully. A big smile beamed across his face.
“Aw, Mikey didn’t bring his