JESSE VENTURA STROLLS THE marble halls of Minnesota’s capitol in a business suit, guzzling Coke from a can. Down every corridor, visitors nudge each other. ““Hey, Governor!’’ they call out. ““Do a good job, Jesse!’’ ““Isn’t it nice to see the governor just walking around?’’ whispers one state employee. A moment later, Ventura pops his bald head into the balcony overlooking the legislature and peers down. One by one, lawmakers begin to notice him, craning their necks toward the gallery. The governor isn’t supposed to be here–but then, he’s not supposed to be governor, either. Ventura listens for a few minutes as the legislators debate a bond issue he wants, then leads his small entourage back into the hallway. ““I can’t stand all the rigmarole and posturing,’’ he says disgustedly. ““I just had to leave. You know why? Every one of them just wants to be governor.''
Who can blame them? If Ventura’s first month is any indication, it’s good to be governor. Three out of four voters approve of the job he’s doing–a new state record. Editorial writers can’t stop raving about his budget. The Jesse action figure will soon be in stores, and even the Rolling Stones are asking to see the man himself. (Ventura’s invited them to lunch at the governor’s mansion.) While the rest of the nation recoils from politics, Minnesotans are actually having fun. ““Here we are doing the state’s business, with a smile on our faces and laughter in our hearts,’’ Ventura likes to tell audiences. It may sound hokey–but it’s drawing thunderous applause.
Can Jesse (The Body) Ventura–onetime pro wrestler and Navy SEAL–be the man to revive the body politic? Or is he head- ed hard for the canvas? Ventura’s temper has already led to some embarrassing moments, and it’s only been a few weeks. And the more he wears a suit instead of a feather boa, the more voters may start to see him as an ordinary politician, not some superhero. But for now, steadied by a hot economy and smart advisers, Ventura is on a surprising roll. Even those who once cringed at the thought of ““Governor Ventura’’ are warming to him. ““He came up with a budget that cuts taxes and raises money for education,’’ says Ted Mondale, son of the former vice president and a Ventura appointee. ““So he shaves his head. So what?''
Nobody knew quite what to expect last November after Reform Party candidate Ventura ““stunned the establishment,’’ as he put it, by edging out two formidable insiders: St. Paul Mayor Norm Coleman and Attorney General Hubert H. Humphrey III. ““Oh my God, you’re the governor!’’ Terry Ventura shouted at her husband. ““Oh my God, you’re the First Lady!’’ he laughed. With no staff, no party and no real experience, Ventura wasted no time in reaching out to respected insiders he’d never met: centrists like former congressman Tim Penny and former Colorado governor Dick Lamm.
His new advisers soon saw that Ventura was serious about learning. Some nights at the family ranch, Terry Ventura would find him awake in the middle of the night, working through the next day in his mind. In the state spirit of pulling together, the city of St. Paul and the University of Minnesota dispatched experts to help the novice governor draft a budget. True to his word, Ventura didn’t hire a speechwriter or commission a poll, and he submitted his centrist budget without meeting with a single interest group. ““They didn’t help elect me, so what the heck?’’ he shrugs. For his cabinet, his new advisers compiled candidates from both parties who shared Ventura’s moderate view of smaller, common-sense government, and Ventura made the final choices. Normally, when a governor takes office, there are legions of party loyalists waiting at the door. Ventura was free to hire whomever he wanted, and thousands of resumes poured in from people who wanted to be part of Jesse’s big adventure. Ventura’s top aides say they hired the smartest, most proven people they could find, from the accountants down to the switchboard. Most hadn’t even voted for Ventura, and many took pay cuts to join him.
If you’re going to be called into a meeting with Governor Ventura, it’s best to know what you’re talking about–even if he doesn’t. ““There are no dumb questions,’’ Ventura likes to say, and he’ll ask plenty of them. Rocking nervously in his leather-backed chair, glasses balanced on the end of his nose, Ventura ““soaks up information like a sponge, and he retains it,’’ says Steve Bosacker, his chief of staff. Bosacker, a shrewd political organizer who once worked for Penny, sometimes seems bemused by his new boss. He did a double take one day last month when he found the hulking governor relaxing on a couch in the public reception area outside his office swigging a soda. ““Why does everyone do that?’’ Ventura demanded. ““I’m just drinking a can of pop.''
Ventura clearly cherishes his role as ““the people’s governor.’’ He took it upon himself to visit every department personally. ““What I’ve found is that past governors haven’t gotten around much, you know?’’ Ventura says. ““I’ve got 30-year employees who say they’ve never seen a governor set foot in the building.’’ He relishes the small perks of the job, like signing his first order to set the state’s flags at half mast for a veteran who died. ““Oh, outstanding,’’ he remarked. ““My first one!’’ Then he paused, looking troubled. ““Except usually it’s a tragedy. He died of natural causes, right?’’ ““I believe so,’’ Bosacker replied. ““Well, good, OK,’’ Ventura sighed, signing the paper with a flourish.
For Ventura, who grew up in a dingy section of Minneapolis and later worked as a bodyguard, it sometimes feels as if he won the lottery. He never drives himself or goes out without security anymore. Most nights he stays at the mansion, where cooks prepare his food and servants wash the dishes. ““It’s kind of nice,’’ he says. ““I plop myself down in the chair, the food comes, and then I can go plop myself down in front of the TV. I don’t have to stack the dishwasher. They do it.’’ He likes to smoke a stogie in the solarium–that’s right next to the ““drawing room,’’ by the way–but spends most of his time in the upstairs living quarters, where he works out on a treadmill, accompanied by his bulldog Franklin.
Terry Ventura has been busy acquainting herself with the pictures of all the First Ladies that hang in the basement. Not half as brash as her husband, she worried at first that the servants would laugh at her because she wasn’t college-educated or used to public life. ““I was really afraid that I’d come here and make lots of mistakes,’’ she says. ““But I feel like they’re part of the family now.’’ In fact, the help has been so taken with Terry that when she takes daughter Jade, 15, and son Tyrel, 19, to her horse ranch some 45 minutes away, security guards sometimes arrive carrying plates of food from the mansion chef.
The governor’s new aides are finding that he keeps his work and his private life separate; they’re not encouraged to drop by the mansion. Still, one of Ventura’s bodyguards privately describes him as a ““dream boss’’ who acts like ““a regular guy.’’ Security is a serious concern for Ventura, not just because of his fame, but because his 6-foot-4 frame makes for a huge target. That’s why, Ventura says, he’s been granted a license to carry a concealed handgun–a disclosure that caused quite a flap in a state where gun control is hotly debated. ““I’m the real-life Dirty Harry,’’ growls Ventura, who concedes he won’t come to work packing heat.
When local reporters asked about the gun, however, Ventura angrily insisted that it was none of their business. That wasn’t his only flash of anger lately. The governor does not take criticism well, and aides privately worry that his frequent and often trivial skirmishes could get out of control. There is, for example, the case of his Inauguration party, where Ventura, sporting two earrings and a bandanna, tried to croon ““Werewolves of London’’ with rock star Warren Zevon. When a reporter jokingly asked, after a testy news conference, if Ventura would seek singing lessons, The Body lost his head. ““That was cute,’’ he sneered. ““If you’re going to criticize my singing, feel free. You criticize everything else I do.''
In fact, Ventura has taken to demeaning the press every chance he gets–a tactic they do not teach at governor school. He refers to the press room in the capitol as the ““rat- infested basement.’’ He says he’s having his new official car, a Lincoln Navigator, outfitted with special shock absorbers so it can run over reporters. And he asked one reporter to accompany him on a hunting trip–and promised to give him a 100-pace head start. ““If he thinks the questions are tough now, this is only the beginning,’’ says a capitol reporter.
There are signs that some legislators may be checking out of Ventura’s honeymoon suite, too. House Republicans balked at his budget because the tax cuts weren’t deep enough. They made their point by poking fun at the governor. ““We’re not getting the Crusher of tax cuts, but Sodbuster Kenny Jay,’’ said Republican leader Tim Pawlenty, referring to a couple of pro wrestlers. ““I’m surprised that the Republicans spend so much time watching wrestling,’’ a miffed Ventura shot back. Last week Ventura arrogantly referred lawmakers to his poll numbers and suggested they might just be tired of getting re-elected. Legislators admit they’re scared to take on a governor who’s so wildly popular for the moment, but they may already be sharpening their daggers.
In the end, though, Ventura’s fortunes will rise and fall–as they always have–on his considerable personal appeal. Right now it can’t get any higher. His speeches, laced with what Penny calls a ““Reaganesque’’ wit, inevitably end in standing ovations. People young and old parade through the governor’s office hoping for a glimpse of The Body. (““Oooh, I got his e-mail address!’’ squealed a high-school student after leaving the reception room.) And Minnesota is surely the only state in the nation where residents are wearing sweat shirts that say OUR GOVERNOR CAN KICK YOUR GOVERNOR’S ASS!
Meanwhile, speaking offers from around the country are pouring in, and some centrists are already talking about building a national movement around the man who once accused Hulk Hogan of stealing his act. Ventura insists he’s concerned about only Minnesota, and there are moments when he worries that with all the hype surrounding him, people will come to expect too much. ““I hope they don’t get their sights set too high sometimes,’’ he says during a quiet moment. ““It’s a huge piece of bureaucracy, this government. You can’t be a dictator.’’ Maybe not. But if Jesse Ventura ran for dictator these days, he might very well win.
