Essay: Primary? What Primary?

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To his credit as a Cal Coolidge conservative, President Bush does not interfere with the internal affairs of a sovereign nation, the United States. Since all agree that the country's internal affairs are in woeful shape, this should give the Democrats a fine opportunity to pelt him with rotten fruit and dead cats in the most important political yard sale of the quadrennium, next February's New Hampshire primary. Here in New Hampshire, however, we are looking at our watches and asking, "What Democrats? What primary?"

The only announced candidate to show up so far is Paul Tsongas, a decent fellow who needs career counseling. This is serious, because New Hampshire's economy is based largely on primary filing fees and the political media's bar bills.

"Dunno," said Mildred, my neighbor. "Seems like Mario Cuomo should be here by now." We met at the town recycling center. She was trying to slip an elderly single-bed mattress past the vigilant fellow who runs the garbage hopper.

"No mattresses," said the hopper commandant.

"The lady before me dumped a television."

"Yup. But no mattresses," the environment's guardian told her. I helped Mildred stuff the mattress back into her old Pinto, the one with the REGISTER LIBERALS, NOT GUNS bumper sticker just below the LIVE FREE OR DIE license plate. A Democrat with a solution to New Hampshire's mattress problem could win it all. I know one man who had to bury two old mattresses in his pasture, like dead cows. Anyway, in all primary seasons up to now, you would have found Gary Hart or some other left-winger with good teeth staked out at the town dump, ready to shake your hand.

That noon at the Peter Rabbit diner I met Brisket, who owns the big motel by the interstate, and Graftwell, the paving contractor. They were having lunch with the Town Fool, one of our town's two registered Democrats. It was the Fool who in 1988 urged that the Democrats nominate Franklin Delano Roosevelt, on the theory that F.D.R. at room temperature was smarter than Bob Dole or George Bush at 98.6. The Constitution, he had pointed out, requires that a President be native born and at least 35 years old, but does not insist that he be alive. After the ritualistic denunciation of the Red Sox, which is required of New England males, our conversation turned to the missing candidates. "Don't sweat it. They're just a little late, is all," said Graftwell. He looked sweaty as he said this.

"They've got to come," said Brisket, a Sununu monarchist.

"Heigh-ho, primary woe," sang the Fool, jingling the little bells on his cap.

"What in tarnation does that mean?" Brisket demanded. Folks in New Hampshire practice saying "tarnation" and "ay-yuh" every four years for the network news.

"Rumble dee, rumble dum, Democrats aren't going to come," sang the Fool, doing a little dance step.

"That's foolish," said Brisket, out of patience. Then he added, "Sorry. No offense intended. I just meant . . . "

"Quite all right," said the Fool, pulling a red, white and blue streamer out of his right ear.