Opposing any or all of these things is intellectually defensible--since Kyl opposes almost anything that would cost the federal government money. But to vote that way, and then claim to be a knight in shining armor for women, waving a proactive legislative sword in their defense . . . well, it just doesn't add up.
A close associate of Kyl laughs and shakes his head when discussing the "woman thing."
"Let's be honest," he says. "Kyl doesn't really care all that much about these issues. Jon cares about the military, the economy, big-picture things. Not women's issues. That's squishy, lefty stuff.
"You've got to remember, he comes from the tail end of a generation that believed the man worked and made money while the woman stayed home and made babies.
"Put it this way: He reads Tom Clancy, not Gloria Steinem."
Such comments strike a nerve with Kyl, as does very public criticism of his record on women from Coppersmith, a former director of Arizona Planned Parenthood who seems to be structuring his entire campaign around the issue.
"[Coppersmith] tries to portray me as insincere on these issues," Kyl says, "and it really ticks me off. I know what is in my heart, and I know I care. No one else knows those things.
"You can criticize my positions, but when you start criticizing my motivations, well, that is the one thing that really makes me angry.
"God, it does make me angry."
It seems Kyl has been angry quite a bit lately. Staffers tell of a candidate uncomfortable with the gritty requirements of a statewide race--the constant ideological tempering, the need to endlessly press the flesh in Arizona backwaters. His lone-wolf, aloof psychological makeup makes him more suited to a coronation than an election, they say.
"He's never had to campaign like this before," says one campaign insider, "and he despises it. He does it because he has to, but Kyl is a guy who feels like he's paid his dues, and should be given the Senate seat by divine right. The whole campaign is making him testy."
Plus, there hasn't been any time for a hiking getaway this summer. The only mountain that matters these days sits in Washington, D.C., topped by a big, white dome.
"I feel like I'm trapped sometimes," he complains. "There's never enough time to do what I want to do."
Although he says that, overall, he is "feeling good and working hard," Kyl exudes the signs of a deeply unhappy man.
@rule:
@body:The morning after the Lincoln Day Dinner, Kyl is making last-minute rounds of Yuma businesses, meeting and greeting, stumping for votes. One of the last stops is a machine shop, with dozens of Mexican workers toiling in the yard out back.
Kyl and his entourage move toward the men, smiling and gesturing for them to come meet the "next senator from Arizona."
But the workers, many of whom are probably illegals, see only tall, white men in suits--who clearly, they believe, have come to check their green cards. They move away quickly, some bolting over the fence and into a field next door.
Kyl stands bewildered, his arm extended forlornly. Finally, his eyes fix on one worker who has remained behind, fiddling with a tractor motor. Kyl approaches, and the man eyes him suspiciously. He lowers his wrench and offers a greasy hand to the candidate.
"Hi, I'm Jon Kyl, and I would like you to hire me."
The worker smiles awkwardly and nods, returning to his work. Kyl looks around for someone else to meet, but the yard is empty. He quickly returns to the car.
As the door slams shut, the frozen smile that is Kyl's constant companion on the campaign trail melts away, and for a brief moment, he reveals a little bit of real, unguarded self.
"Oh, God," he says, sighing and rubbing his temples. "I do wish this would be over." He slumps against the headrest and closes his eyes.
You can see him thinking. How many more times will I have to shake hands with poor schleps who don't even know my name? How many more times will I have to bite my tongue, to keep from saying what I really think?
How high is this hill, anyway?
You're Jon Kyl on the campaign trail. You're not what you seem to be, not what you want to be. But in the time-honored tradition of dedicated hikers everywhere, you just keep putting one foot in front of the other.
