John McCain leaned far back in a tan first-class seat aboard the blue, white, and gold campaign plane with his name emblazoned on the side. His right foot–in a black loafer with a silver buckle–was resting on the armrest of the seat in front of his, and, though his body was slouched, the crease on his gray flannel pants was crisp and his starched blue and white checked shirt kept its on-the-hanger form. In the seat pocket in front of him was a folded copy of USA Today and an old Sports Illustrated magazine with an NFL cover. A two-inch rubberized Gumby straddled the seat pocket in front of him, peering back in McCain’s direction, as Gumby’s horse Pokey took in the scene perched next to his rider.
McCain didn’t look up from his book as I took the seat next to him. And when I greeted him, I received the same spare acknowledgement of my presence that I sometimes get from my wife when I interrupt her reading. “Steve.”
