Opening Doors

FOUR YEARS ago, ineligible to vote in the Presidential election, I spent a week in November working in a hospital. The day before the election, few people there said they knew how they would vote. The next day, after Ronald Reagan's surprising landslide victory over Jimmy Carter, one of the heretofore faciturn doctors offered an explanation something like this, "I voted for Reagan," he said, with his head turned down a bit. "I guess I was one of the few million closet Reaganires people too embarrassed to admit before the election that we were going to vote for an old actor, someone the IV news portrayed as a non-intellectual with a perpetual "gee whiz, ain't life grand' grin."

Closet voters help decide elections. And after Walter L. Mondale's clear victory in his first debate with Reagan and Geraldine Ferraro's competent, strong display against George Bush--it's not unlikely that a lot of closet Mondale supporters may just open the door and step out. As ever, television news--and the subtle images networks project are crucial to swaying this important chunk of the electorate. Even the slightest misstep or misstatement can smash candidacies today; commentators seized upon Reagan's "there you go again" line in 1980 to help destroy Carter's credibility. This time the talking heads are at it again, though this time the joke may be on Reagan.

If TV portrayed the Reagan of 1980 as something of a good-natured, perhaps not altogether innocuous former actor, the early TV in 1984 has made him seem nothing less than Liberty Leading the People. Yes, television duly noted, Reagan answered questions about as often as the heroine in Delacroix's painting. But such observations usually surfaced well into the evening broadcasts, and always after a somewhat breathless account of how the Reagan juggernaut continued to roll on, propelled by the president's charm and grace. As Mike Royko, a columnist for the Chicago Tribune, wrote in July; to win reelection, all Reagan need do is step on and off helicopters and offer his marine aides a Hollywood-honed salute.

Meanwhile, Fritz whined. He spoke in the rain--that is, whenever his microphones worked. He walked in a New York City Labor Day Parade, accompanied by more secret service agents than supporters. The indicators on TV were clear: Mondale was headed for disaster, and Americans, especially the crucial closet vote, don't like losers. Harold Washington, the Mayor of Chicago, closed his door even further. When Mondale arrived at Chicago's O'Hare airport, he could have hailed a cab for all Washington cared. The Mayor was too busy to drive out to meet him.

POLITICIANS, to be sure, aren't the most courageous bunch. But the American public--at least those polled--was following suit. And judging from the responses from friends and co-workers over the summer in Chicago, no one was either contentedly or confidently voicing support for Mondale. At best, the impression given even by would-be Mondale supporters was, "He's going to lose, so what's the use?" And more than that, they deemed Mondale himself a loser--a rebel without a cause. Supporting the Cubs is one thing, supporting Mondale something else altogether. The Cubs may have lost the pennant, but they at least overwhelmed five other teams to get there. It was as if Mondale had made it to the World Series without even winning the Pennant. He was destined for disaster long before San Francisco.

The possibility existed, though, that these apathetic Democrats--and even some who voted for Reagan in 1980--would support Mondale if he only appeared a valiant campaigner, a champion of the common man, of the decent man, of civil rights, or trivial pursuits. It didn't matter which--just for him be the champion of something.

In Louisville, he at last proved himself a champion of one debate. And again images were decisive. He won handily, but he wasn't so brilliant. He spoke clearly, confidently, with some wit--hardly, it seems, too much to expect from a man who would be President. But pre-debate pieces on each evening newscast prepared audiences for a struggling Mondale, and a television-wise president. Instead, the President came across not too wise in television and not too wise in much else, for that matter, and so Mondale was declared the victor. Democrats finally had something to cheer about.

And one felt more than a few closet doors opening in response, oiled in part by television. It was a new, resurgent Mondale; a new, optimistic group of Democratic leaders, Dan Rather assured us. Of course, after the New Hampshire primary, Rather said to Gary Hart something to the effect of, "Isn't it safe to say now that you will be the Democratic nominee?" No, it wasn't too safe to say that, and it may well be even less safe to say that Mondale will prevail.

Lillian Hellman once wrote, in an attempt to explain Richard Nixon's reemergence in 1968, that Americans don't like to remember too much, that the images of today obscure the truths of the past. Some commentators insist that Mondale's surge comes too late, that it follows too disjointed a campaign; and that the memory of the Reagan of September will overwhelm those of Mr. October. But for the past week, each of the evening newscasts has begun with pictures of Mondale as a self-assured, confident man acting like a winner and, the reporters tell us, with some reason. Mondale, thanks to these images, is well on his way to recapturing the closet vote.

Of course no candidate can win just because people no longer are embarrassed to support him. But what worked for Reagan in 1980--at least with a group of Chicago doctors--could do wonders to reinvigorate the Mondale candidacy and the spirits of Democrats around the country. Already Democratic congressional candidates report renewed enthusiasm in their struggle to keep their seats against Republican upstarts. They are no longer embarrassed to support the ticket.

ON THE morning after the presidential debate, I tried, and failed, to catch a glimpse of Mondale and Ferraro during the Columbus Day Parade in New-York City, along the same route they walked during the Labor Day disaster. Police estimated the crowd at over 300,000. Closets, apparently, had opened all over town.