Sweet Dreams Are Made of This: Manfred Schmidt, #2

By Karl G. Trautman

Manny's always got something to prove. Whether it's to the world or himself, he never stops trying to validate his identity.

 

Follow our hero as he:

 

Returns to New Hampshire and throws himself back into college

 

Travels out west, in search of adventure and himself

 

Enters manhood fitfully, determined to balance his desire with his ambition

 

Rekindles his romance with Democratic Party

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Flawed Hero Press
• Release date: Dec 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201802592

Karl G. Trautman

Karl G. Trautman is the author of the Manfred Schmidt series of fiction books. The first three volumes, Deacon Blues, Sweet Dreams Are Made of This and Road To Nowhere have been published. He is also the editor of the non-fiction book, The New Populist Reader and the author of the non-fiction book, The Underdog in American Politics The Democratic Party and Liberal Values. He received his doctorate in political science from The University of Hawaii and has taught in Denmark and Japan as a Fulbright Visiting Lecturer. He has been a college teacher in Michigan and Kansas and been a research assistant for Meet The Press. He currently teaches in the Public Service and Social Sciences Department at Central Maine Community College.

Book preview

-1-

I arrived in Keene in late August, eager to start the next phase of my life. I was hungry and felt I had never gotten the chance to show people how smart I was. This time around I was determined to take full advantage of the intellectual side of college by reading deeply and debating ideas. My liberal instincts would be buttressed by history and theory. I knew my ideas were right, they just needed confirmation.

As women were never very far from my mind, I hoped that in my pursuit of recognition, carnal opportunities would naturally present themselves. College girls would marvel at my brilliance, and their defenses would crumble. As I spoke up in class, I imagined they would follow every word coming out of my mouth. My brilliant elucidations would attract them like flies to honey. I wouldn’t have to separate my body’s hunger from my mind’s curiosity. At least that’s what I wished for.

A part of me wanted to go into a classroom and consciously filter any political ideas I was exposed to from the perspective of whether they reinforced my ideology. Or, more specifically, if they justified my passion for Jimmy Carter. Yet I knew it was inevitable that I would be exposed to ideas that didn’t conform to my view of what was right. So I needed to try to stay intellectually open, at least just a little, no matter how frightening that was. I couldn’t be supremely arrogant.

In most of my classes that first semester, there wasn’t much danger of my fear being triggered. Statistics invoked fear in me, but not of that nature. English composition was not explicitly political. U.S. History was far removed from the present, and tight ideological connections to current events were far-fetched.

The wild card was my Intro to Political Science class. It met Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at two o’clock. The instructor was a dynamic woman named Betty Ann Howser, a Midwesterner in her mid-forties who had worked as a staffer for Democratic Senator Phil Hart of Michigan in the 1960s. She had long blonde hair that she always kept in a ponytail. Bubbling with enthusiasm, she didn’t hide her liberalism from the class. Ideologically, I felt safe.

Civil rights had drawn her to politics. She recounted times where she had personally witnessed racial discrimination growing up in Michigan and how it had horrified her. She told passionate stories about her time on Capitol Hill, particularly that time in the spring of 1965 when she helped Hart count votes for the Voting Rights Act.

I felt right at home when she showed taped episodes of Washington Week in Review in our Monday classes. I had watched that show religiously during the Watergate era. The playful banter between journalists made politics seem entertaining as well as important. Immediately before she started the tape, she would never fail to make a self-deprecating comment, something like, Now these people are the really smart ones. It’s a treat to watch them.

But I knew better. It was false modesty, a character trait that Midwesterners don’t seem to be capable of recognizing in themselves. She was every bit as smart as the journalists on the show, and she had real-life experience.

I always wanted to talk in her class. The problem was how to restrain myself; I didn’t want to hog the discussion. So I used a strategy that had worked for me in high school: I scribbled down my reactions as they came into my head. Repressing my urge to blurt out what I was thinking, my pen went into action; frantically writing down all my urgent insights, with the silent promise that they could be shared out loud later, if time permitted. At the end of many classes, the first page of my notebook was full of a half-dozen scribbled sentences, ending in exclamation points and question marks. That made using my notes for studying more of a chore, as I would frustratingly waste time trying to decipher them.

I tended to linger when class was over. A part of me wanted to chat with her, to talk shop and bemoan the frustrations and beauties of politics. However, another part of me fought back against that impulse. I realized, dimly at first, that I wasn’t in college to discuss political war stories with my teacher. Sure, it felt good, but I was here to learn principles, ideas, and theories. I already had passion and at least a little experience. Now I needed good grades and a degree.

Along with a few traditional texts, we read Sir Thomas More’s Utopia. That book drove my mind to start making connections between ideas and institutions. Some of the deepest political instincts I had were expressed in Utopia, which More had written in the sixteenth century. When he wrote about deterrence, crime, and punishment, I thought of the debate on capital punishment. When he wrote about prices, the wool trade, and oligopolies, I thought about the power of OPEC and the oil companies.

When I read, Don’t arrogantly force strange ideas on people who you know have set their minds on a different course than yours, I immediately thought about the position Carter was in now. I was sure that’s what a lot of people thought he had been trying to do for the last four years. Energy independence, peace in the Middle East, human rights—it was all the same.

Carter’s ideas weren’t strange; it’s just that most of the American people had grown accustomed to not thinking about the hard and uncomfortable answers he proposed. They wanted to go back to the way things had been before the energy crisis. In that way, they were looking backwards, not toward the future. Yet it felt like there was nothing I could do to change that now, having frustratingly tried for so long. 

But those were not the most powerful words I found in Utopia. When he wrote how Plato advised the wise man not to get involved in public life, I viscerally felt his warning: They see the people swarming through the streets and getting soaked with rain, and they cannot persuade them to go indoors and get out of the wet. They know if they go out themselves, they can do no good but only get drenched with the rest.

I had gotten out of the electoral arena and was at a safe distance from the conflicts. But I was convinced college was just a temporary home; as soon as I got my degree, I would be back in the arena. I was not afraid of public life. I was an Aries, by God.

There was still unfinished business left with Carter because I believed he still had a chance. I hoped, but didn’t honestly expect, that enough people would come to their senses and reelect him. While I felt an urge to volunteer, it wasn’t a very strong one. It was like an old, familiar muscle spasm, an involuntary contraction that I sensed but could now safely ignore. I was in Keene now. I had done all that in Concord.

•

Politically, September and October were awful. The constant anxiety over the fate of the hostages made it just about impossible to focus on the fundamental differences between Carter and Reagan. I prayed that they would be released in enough time before Election Day so that Carter would get the political bump he desperately needed.

Then there was John Anderson. It burned me up that he was running as an independent. I felt it was deeply irresponsible. Didn’t he see that he was taking votes away from Carter and helping that warmonger Reagan? However, the way Carter reacted to Anderson also bothered me. By not agreeing to a three-way debate, Carter was dissing a core element of the democratic process: fairness. Anderson was not just some clown; he was a respected congressman who had demonstrable support. Yet I understood why Carter wouldn’t agree to a three-way debate; he wanted to win.

When Carter and Reagan finally debated one-on-one, it was late October. They met on a Tuesday night in Cleveland. I knew that this would be his last chance. On the Monday before the debate, Professor Howser suggested that our class watch it together. There was a TV lounge on the second floor of the student union, and anybody who wanted to come would get extra credit.

I didn’t need the carrot of extra credit to show up.

At about quarter to nine, I walked into the student union, determined to witness Carter’s last stand. He would need to fundamentally change the nature of the race in these ninety minutes. I was trying to will my mind into the possibility that this could happen, but my gut felt sick.

I saw a few people sitting at tables on the first floor of the  student union. The students looked tired yet relaxed, as they seemed to be winding down their day. The muffled sound of rock music suddenly became louder and clearer, as the door to the pub swung open. A giggling girl and a smiling guy came bouncing out, both obviously inebriated.

I felt jealous because they looked like they had been having a lot of fun. Instantly, I wondered if the guy was going to get any action tonight. But then I snapped back to the moment. I really did want to see the debate. I could always go to the pub some other night.

I quickly climbed the stairs to the second floor and opened the door to the lounge. Inside was a TV hanging overhead, a few old couches, an overstuffed chair, and about a dozen folding plastic chairs. No one was there yet, so I went back to the door, opened it and stuffed a rubber wedge between it and the floor. After turning around, I flipped on the TV, settled into the overstuffed chair, and waited.

After a few minutes, Professor Howser came into the room.

Hey, Manny, first one here?

Yep.

Well, there should be some more coming. I think—

Suddenly, a student appeared in the doorway. He was grinning.

Hey, Manny, Professor Howser, where’s everyone else?

Duncan, another freshman, had arrived. He was from the Boston area, and we had studied for tests together. He was on the swim team and loved reggae music. We had spent many nights in his dorm room with a towel wedged underneath the door, listening to Bob Marley, doing bong hits and, at least ostensibly studying. Although we discussed a lot of political theory, he didn’t seem to have many strong convictions himself. Just like me, he was not fresh out of high school, having come to Keene State from another college. He didn’t think he was better than anyone else, and that’s what I liked about him.

I don’t know. Do you know if anyone else is coming?

Well, I think I heard Betsy Taylor say she’d be here.

The sound of footsteps heralded Betsy’s arrival.

Hey, Professor Howser.

Hi, Betsy. Glad you could make it.

Betsy had short black hair and a distinctly Massachusetts accent. Mildly attractive, when she spoke in class, an eager mediocrity seemed to regularly come rattling out of her mouth. She always wanted to know if she had understood something correctly. That bothered me because it slowed down the flow of discussion, if not outright stopped it. Yet I didn’t mind her because she was nice to me and seemed like a traditional liberal.

Professor Howser turned off the overhead light, and we all sat down and waited. The room was dark except for the flickering light of the TV. It was almost time. At just past nine, I heard the soothing voice of moderator Howard K. Smith. I stared at the screen and tried to forget where I was in order to absorb the whole debate when the battle began.

I winced as I heard the first question, which asked about the use of military force. He brought up the Soviet Union, Iran, and Afghanistan. Reagan, with his humble, wise uncle persona, cleverly criticized Carter’s stewardship. Things had simply gotten out of hand in the world, and we only needed better management. His answer came across as typical paternalistic wisdom, which made me seethe. I thought, what right does the United States have to control what happens in the world? That was arrogance, which was how we ended up with Vietnam.

Carter’s answer felt unsatisfying. He started off trying to humanize what he had done as president, quoting H. L. Mencken and saying he was wiser now. But then he bragged how he had increased defense spending, only to pivot to peace. I wasn’t upset, but worried that his answer would come across as too much explanation for most people.

I looked around and saw everyone gazing at the screen.

The candidates talked a little more on defense until Carter was asked about economic issues. The premise of the question, just like the first one, was that something had gone wrong. With inflation and unemployment, Carter was trying to enlighten the electorate as to why things were not as bad as they seemed. He then pounced on Reaganomics.

Reagan countered by painting Carter as someone who was always blaming other forces for the nation’s problems. Whether it was the American people, OPEC, or the Federal Reserve, somehow it wasn’t Carter’s fault. They each criticized the other for high taxes, and Carter implied Reagan was heartless for saying that the minimum wage caused unemployment.

While Carter was confident as ever, Reagan was smooth. The Californian was coming across as a disappointed yet reassuring father figure. Carter used all the right words, but the words didn’t fit the reality most Americans were experiencing at the time.

Then Barbara Walters asked about terrorism and Iran. I was confident that Carter would answer strongly, and he did. It was Reagan’s answer I dreaded; fearing he would softly remind everyone of the ongoing hostage ordeal. If he was clever, he would imply that Carter’s idealism in abandoning the Shah had allowed a far worse regime to take hold in Iran. He did just that, and it felt like a knife had been stuck in my gut.

I was enraged. Were human rights bullshit? Was the world simply too dangerous to act to defend them?

Carter countered with a strong defense of his record against terrorism.

Reagan didn’t disagree with Carter’s statements, but still asserted, It is high time that the civilized countries of the world made it plain that there is no room worldwide for terrorism; there will be no negotiation with terrorists of any kind.

Suddenly, I felt my stomach muscles tighten up. Then a cold shiver came over me, and I quickly exhaled. I sensed something secret, or forbidden, was about to be conveyed to me. Although scared, for some reason I didn’t fight it. I closed my eyes and gently covered my ears with my palms, applying a slight pressure on my eardrums. I was determined to allow myself to fully experience what was coming up within me.

Then I saw it; an image of maybe a dozen men sitting around a long, brown table. They were mostly middle-aged white guys with suit and ties, except one who was old and fat with short, white hair and full rim glasses. Then there was one guy who looked different; he had a tight-fitting grey suit, no tie, and looked like he might be from the Middle East. And then there was someone who looked just like George Bush. Everyone looked serious.

What the hell was I seeing? I didn’t recognize any of the people, except Bush.

I kept my eyes closed and ears covered, trying to concentrate on what I was seeing in my mind. What else was in the picture? After I squeezed my eyes tight, I saw huge mirrors on the walls and paintings of what looked like fields of flowers. But nothing else.

I got worried that someone would look over and ask what the hell was going on with me. Opening my eyes, I took my hands away from my ears and heard Carter talking about the dangers of a nuclear arms race. I was back in the present.

As I continued to watch the debate, it was difficult to get the vision out of my head. I didn’t understand it, but it worried me. I had a strange feeling it was somehow connected to the hostages in Iran.

The last half of the debate was unsatisfying. Carter was everywhere; he went from portraying himself as a stalwart liberal in defending Social Security, to a visionary, technocratic leader of a smart energy mix for a future America, and ultimately as a humanist who used his young daughter to emphasize the vital importance of nuclear arms control.

I didn’t like how Carter used fear. He painted Reagan as dangerous, someone to be afraid of. This was the same guy who, just four years previously, had so appealed to my civic idealism.  Now he was just like any other politician trying to demonize his opponent. I hated his tactics, but still desperately wanted him to win. When the debate was over, I knew he wouldn’t.

Duncan bolted up from his lounge chair and switched on the overhead light.

Professor Howser stood up and looked at us. "Well, what did you think?’

I quickly glanced at Duncan and Betsy. They didn’t seem like they were about to talk, so I jumped in.

Unfortunately, I think Reagan won. He came across as simple, folksy, and reasonable. Carter’s positions were complex. Although I understood them, or most of them, I think most of the viewers just didn’t want to hear them.

Professor Howser asked me why I felt that way.

I didn’t want to answer her question because I was fixated on one of the last lines Reagan used. So I evaded it and talked about what was on my mind.

Well, I really don’t know. But what struck me was Reagan looking in the camera and earnestly asking the viewers if they were better off than they had been four years earlier. God, that burned me up. It was like he was glorifying simplicity, maybe even stupidity, but also selfishness. It was so selfish and materialistic. In that one line, he tried to make all of Carter’s talk of sacrifice over the last four years seem like it was unnecessary.

Betsy then spoke up. I thought Carter won. I think he brought out how dangerous and extreme Reagan really is. And he was clearly smarter than Reagan.

She seemed so sincere. Maybe she was right. Was I over-analyzing?

No, Betsy was wrong. She was being rational, and that wasn’t his appeal. Reagan connected to people emotionally; he was an actor, after all.

The professor turned to Duncan and said, What about you?

I don’t know. To be honest, this is my first class in political science, and I’m not up to speed on a lot of what they said. But I liked Reagan better. He seemed nicer. Carter seemed stiff, and I wasn’t sure exactly what he was trying to say. He jumped around a lot.

The professor put in her two cents. "I think Reagan won the debate simply because he didn’t screw up. He didn’t come across as scary. Whenever you want to change a president, that’s the bar to clear. In my view, he did. Now, that doesn’t mean he will win, but he set himself up for it tonight."

After she asked a few more questions, everyone began to leave the lounge.

As I walked down the stairs with Duncan, I started to notice the music coming from the pub downstairs. Duncan said, So, that was easy extra credit, huh?

Before I could answer, he added, Hey, wanna get a beer?

Having a cold one and listening to some loud music was appealing. But I turned him down.

I’d love to, but I got up wicked early today. I just need to go home and crash.

Sure, Manny. Well, see you tomorrow in class.

After reaching the bottom of the stairs, I stopped and watched Duncan, Betsy, and Professor Howser go out the front door. A part of me wanted to ignore my exhaustion, walk into the pub and get some quick liquid relief. A break from the intense intellectual gymnastics going on in my head would feel good. Maybe after a beer, I would spot some attractive girl in there. Who knew?

I resisted the impulse and headed out into the autumn chill. Walking home, I tried to clear my mind of the debate and think about who I could ask to help me with the statistics homework that was due in a few days. My U.S. History course then came into my mind, and I thought about where we were, which was the time period right before the revolution. I was learning new facts about why we rebelled, and it was mildly interesting. Then I thought about the vision I’d seen in the middle of the debate.

I had a sudden urge to scan some old newspapers to see if I could figure out what my vision meant. Although it would be time consuming, it wouldn’t be difficult; the college library had the last three months of The New York Times. Maybe if I looked through some tomorrow, I might recognize some of the people. But that seemed unlikely, as all of them except Bush were unfamiliar to me.

Maybe I could look for articles about Bush. I didn’t know much about him except that he had the guts to call Reagan’s economic policies voodoo economics and had been a CIA director. But what exactly was I looking for?

I knew I had a vivid imagination, and I wasn’t scared of it. But for some reason, this felt different. It was like I’d seen something during the debate that had actually happened. Something clandestine. And immoral.

-2-

The night of the election, I went alone to a Democratic victory party at a local hotel. I wanted to experience the outcome free of any emotional distractions from people I already knew. If Carter was going down, I selfishly wanted to take in the tragedy alone. I wasn’t just some local Democratic hack, or even an inexperienced college student who was only mildly interested in politics. I had devoted half of 1979 to his cause.

In many ways, Jimmy Carter’s cause had become my cause. He had the courage to tell the American people difficult truths. That had inspired me to discover some of my own uncomfortable truths. I wanted to pay respect to him and what he tried to do. I would stand with him until the very end and, I suspected, witness the catastrophe as it unfolded.

Just before nine o’clock, I entered the function room of the hotel to find a dark and half-empty gathering of sadness. As I scanned the room, I saw men in suit and ties, professionally-dressed women in blouse and skirts, and a few people who, like me, were dressed more casually. They were huddled in small groups and talking softly. No one was smiling. I noticed the men, all older than me, were slightly hunched over, like their spirit had been broken.

I knew then we were going to lose. The people in the room must have already gotten some bad news, I thought. Still it was early, the race couldn’t be over yet, could it?

Four televisions hung from the ceiling, one in each corner of the room. I walked over to one where a few people had gathered and watched as John Chancellor recapped the results so far. He quickly pivoted to the big story; they had already called the race for Reagan because of exit polls. Carter would not only lose but lose badly. It was going to be a rout. I immediately headed for the bar in the corner and ordered a beer.

I was dumbfounded because it was all so sudden. Instead of being gradually eased into the loss by seeing the individual state tallies roll in, it was all gone in an instant.

For the next hour, I nursed a beer and made small talk with a few disappointed, local Democrats. After a while, I thought about leaving. Since it was over, why should I keep commiserating with people I didn’t even know? I had two classes the next day and wanted to at least try and get a good night’s sleep.

But I needed to watch Carter’s concession speech for closure. Soon enough he appeared, and the room went silent. For the next seven minutes, I watched my hero eloquently speak about his hurt, his appreciation for our system, and his love of country and its people. I struggled to control the tears that were welling up within me. As he spoke, I knew I had made the right decision in devoting so much of my energy to his reelection. He was genuine, or at least as close as one could be in politics. He had been worth fighting for.

After he finished, a man who had been standing near me caught my eye. He had a notebook in his left hand and looked like he could be a reporter.

Well, I guess the only thing to wait for now is Reagan’s speech.

Without emotion, I replied, Yea, I suppose so.

"My name is Walter Smith, and I’m a reporter for The Keene Sentinel. I noticed you are the youngest person in the room, and I wanted to get your perspective on the night. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

Feeling my heart pounding, I quickly tightened my jaw. Did I mind? God no, I didn’t mind. I craved to tell the world my perspective. I wanted my thoughts to be recorded.

I tried to be cool. Sure, that’s fine with me.

He opened his notebook and pulled a pen from his pocket.

Great. What’s your name?

Manfred Schmidt.

Are you a Keene State student?

Yeah, I started this fall.

Did you help out on Carter’s campaign?

I did, but not here. When I was in Concord, I volunteered in the primary.

What did you do?

A little bit of everything. Made phone calls, went door-to-door, helped set up campaign events.

How long did you do that?

About eight months.

Wow, that’s quite a commitment. So, I gotta ask you, why were you attracted to Carter?

I didn’t have to think about how to answer that question. Because he was being treated unfairly by the press and the people. He was a man whose intentions were inherently good, who was getting kicked around.

So, how do you feel about tonight?

I’m sad but not bitter. He came in an honest man and went out the same way.

After a few more questions, he thanked me and walked away. I was done