Bernie Sanders wants to make a joke. Pretty good joke, he thinks. He has about an hour in transit to get the joke into his next speech. Before deplaning, he pulls his hair forward, but only on the left, the side one may call Bernie, as opposed to the more combed right hemisphereβSenator Sanders. Off the plane. The selfie requests start. Ooh, was that a Macaroni Grill? Anyone want to go in on a pizza with him? Sausage pizza, O. Then selfies with the kitchen staff.
Good people. Hardworking people. His people. His speech for tonight is ready, but Sanders wants to scrap the planned opening for his pretty good joke. Of course. Last-minute checks about tonight. Good shapeβbetter than early , when barely anyone knew him. A woman at the gate wants a selfie, but Sanders is fixated on the printout of the joke.
He loves The People. People can be trickier. The junior Senator from Vermont flies over the country he aspires to govern, with its crop circles and caterpillar-shaped suburbs and community pools and rail yards full of shipping containers. Soon his silver SUV is rolling through Davenport, Iowa, past a brick building with a sign for German mustard and a soon-to-open hookah bar. The election is a year and a half out, but the crowd at the venue is feverish.
Men in boots just off shifts. Young people who may or may not work in the gig economy and listen to the podcast Chapo Trap House. He takes the stage and tosses off his blazer. He is taller in real life than on television, though he shrinks by stooping.
Running for President is like doing stand-up. You try bits, see what sticks. The room liked it, so the next morning the joke resurfaces in Muscatine, again with a warning, because Sanders, who can be funny unintentionally, is making an effort at some of the performative aspects of politics he has long sneered at. It takes another day for Sanders to offer the joke without advance notice. On the way out of Oskaloosa, wind turbines appear. A viral video opportunity.
