Editor’s Note: This article was originally published in Playboy Magazine in November, 1976, accompanying Robert Scheer’s famous interview with President Jimmy Carter, and has been pulled from Robert Scheer’s book, ‘Playing President’ and posted here at ScheerPost in light of Carter’s death on December 29, 2024. The book was published by Akashic Books, Ltd. You can buy the book on Amazon.
The man himself is sitting, smile in place, in his studiously plain living room in front of a life-size portrait of his daughter, Amy, as though he were waiting for Norman Rockwell to appear. He is dressed in rumpled, down-home Levi’s shirt and pants and is telling me and my Playboy editor that it would be a good thing to have a Southern Baptist as President, because it would be good for the young, the poor, blacks, women, and even those citizens who might be inclined to fornicate without the blessings of marriage. And once again, one wonders if Jimmy Carter is not too good to be true.
On one level, the man is simply preposterous. On another, he seems reasonable, sincere, and eminently sensible. It is difficult for me to believe that after four months of following him around the country, listening to the same speech five or six times a day, and after many hours of one-on-one conversation, I still nod in smiling agreement, like some kind of spaced-out Moonie, as another human being tells me he would never lie, would never be egotistical, doesn’t fear death, would make federal government simple, workable, responsive to the average citizen, and that, in addition to doing away with the fear of death, he would do away with the fear of taxes.
As we stumble out into the muggy heat of Plains, Georgia, a movie-set hamlet of about eight buildings and what seem like two hundred photographers, all taking pictures of Jimmy’s Central Casting mother, Miss Lillian, my editor tells me, “Hey, I really like the guy.†Then, not thirty seconds later, he wonders aloud if we’ve been had. Which is how it always is with a James Earl Carter performance.
The ambiguity that one feels about Carter can be maddening. Is he one of the most packaged and manipulative candidates in our time or a Lincolnesque barefoot boy who swooped out of nowhere at a time when we needed him? Is he a rigid proselytizer who wants to convert the country to his own vision of small-town, Sunday-school values or just a guy who believes in his personal God and will let the rest of us believe whatever the hell we want? Is he a true populist from something called the New South or yet another creature of the Eastern Establishment?
Hanging Out with Carter’s Act
When Carter is a winner—and he seems to be as I write this in the fall of 1976—all these doubts emerge: his puritanism, his waffling on key questions, the sense that he and his campaign are an inexorable machine that have made us all cave in without really testing him. There is also at times an insufferable arrogance that seems almost patrician. But despite all that, when defeat threatened, back in the primary days, I was drawn to the man.
One night during the Oregon primary, the press people traveling with Carter were put up at a third-rate hotel and that fact seemed symbolic of what was then thought to be the coming disintegration of his campaign. The other candidates, Frank Church and Jerry Brown, were staying at better hotels. We were staying where we were because Carter had made a last-minute desperation switch in his schedule to spend an extra weekend in Oregon. He was running scared.
Brown had won handily in Maryland and Church seemed well ahead in Oregon. It looked as if Carter was facing a third-place finish in this Western primary. All of which seemed to portend the resuscitation of Hubert Humphrey’s political corpse. Sam Donaldson, the ABC television correspondent, sat slumped in a sofa in the seedy hotel lobby and announced to anyone who would listen, “I smell blood in the water.†We asked him to elaborate. “I smell a loser,†he said. “I have a very sensitive nose and James Earl Carter is a loser.â€
Donaldson is a good reporter and the judgment was so definitively stated that I mulled it over and was surprised to find myself suddenly depressed by the prospect of Carter’s defeat. I say this with some objectivity, because, on the surface, the man was further from my own political beliefs than some of his more liberal opponents; but I didn’t want him to leave the political stage. It was a sense that he did, in fact, represent some new, needed force that I couldn’t yet define—but that somehow ought to have its day.
The feeling grew as I spent time with Carter, his family, and his aides in the months leading up to his nomination. To start with his aides, I found it increasingly difficult to think of them as possessing that cold-blooded uniformity of the Nixon gendarmes. Press secretary Jody Powell, campaign manager Hamilton Jordan, speechwriter Pat Anderson, and pollster Pat Caddell just don’t fit the Haldeman, Ehrlichman, and Mitchell stereotypes. They are effective packagers, but worries about the palace guard throwing up the gates around the White House seem to fade as one stays up all night drinking with them in some redneck bar.
Maybe I’m just being suckered in by too much rural Southern exotica, but there is something raw, spontaneous, and physical about the people around Carter that puts a limit on their malleability and opportunism. It causes them to fuck up in ways I find reassuring. On one such occasion, I was riding with Jody and his wife, Nan, from Plains to nearby Americus. A car behind crowded us too closely and then passed, narrowly missing us. Jody shouted, “That fucking ass-hole!†and took off after the car. It would have made a fine wire-service story: Carter’s press secretary, a former football player, wipes up the street with some local toughs. Nan managed to cool him down, but it was clear to me that in that moment, Jody had stopped being a politician’s aide. On another occasion, Jody and Pat Anderson got into a hassle with some locals over a rented car. Again, shouts and anger while the next President of the United States cooled his heels, waiting for Pat to show up with a draft of his acceptance speech.
One of Jody’s more useful functions on the campaign is to serve as proof that one can have been born in a small Southern town, be a Baptist, serve for six years as Carter’s closest aide, and still not be tight-assed. Add to that, Anderson, who has written a novel called The President’s Mistress; Caddell, hip and fresh out of Cambridge; Gerald Rafshoon, his media adviser and something of a carouser; Greg Schneiders, a one-time Washington restaurateur who is Carter’s administrative assistant—and it becomes clear that Carter has not applied his concern with the Ten Commandments to the behavior of his staff. They are, at least some of them, as hard-drinking, fornicating, pot-smoking, freethinking a group as has been seen in higher politics.
Here’s an exchange I taped with Hamilton Jordan:
SCHEER Given the purity this campaign has projected, I find it odd that few of you guys go to church, that you all drink and mess around, and some of you even smoke dope. Isn’t there a contradiction?