Molly Ivins July 16

AUSTIN, Texas — Victor Morales, the guy in the little white pickup truck. What can you say? He's for real, he's as advertised, there he is. Senor Smith goes to Washington, the Hispanic Boy Scout, Don Quixote in a pickup — just the nicest, sweetest, most open, most naive, most honest guy you could ever hope to meet. It's almost ridiculous. It's almost painful.

Good grief, Candide goes into politics. Against Sen. Phil Gramm. Call the emergency room! And yet here he is, he's got the Democratic nomination, a no-name high school teacher from Crandall with no money, but he beat two incumbent congressmen. And there's something happening out there. The kids are starting to flock into the campaign headquarters, little old ladies melt when they see the smile (pure sunshine), Bubba likes the truck, everyone likes an underdog.

And there's something about Morales — he's like some solvent for cynicism. You listen to him, and you think: This guy will never make it, the big money will get him, Gramm will hack him into pieces, he'll be mutilated, he'll be shredded — and suddenly, you're thinking, "You gotta believe!" It's really embarrassing.

And even if you don't believe, you gotta admit that Morales already has Gramm giving the funniest performance in the history of Texas politics. Gramm is whining about not having enough money.

This is Phil Gramm, the Senate's heavyweight PAC champion, the special-interest king of the political universe, the lobbyists' darling. Gramm has $3.58 million in cash-on-hand right now; Morales has $122,000. Gramm made $4.15 million at a single fund-raiser in Dallas in February 1995, shattering the previous U.S. record (which also happened to be held by Gramm). Morales put $8,000 of his $10,000 life savings into his own campaign.

As Gramm said when he announced for president, "I have the most reliable friend you can have in American politics, and that is ready money."

Even more improbably, Gramm wants to be the underdog in the race. "I am David," he assured the Republican state convention several times, rejecting the mantle of Goliath. Gramm's astonishing claim was based on an esoteric textual analysis of the Good Book — he claims that Goliath was a Philistine and the Philistines were famous for supporting Big Government, so he can't be Goliath.

Phil Gramm: Biblical Exegesis At No Extra Cost.

Victor Morales may look like a no-hoper on paper; he asks his audiences for gas money — it takes 16 bucks to fill up the little white pickup, which Lou DuBose of The Texas Observer dubbed "Rocinante." Morales has gotten to where he can ask big contributors for $1,000, but he always tells them that he won't owe anyone. But you look a little closer, and you start seeing some familiar traits — traits that remind you of everyone you ever heard of who was successful in politics.

Morales listens to everyone and remembers what they say (a Bill Clinton trait). He talks about his campaign in a thousand small snippets of remembered conversations he's had with people about their problems and their lack of faith in government. He'd just as soon talk to a janitor as a CEO, and he's clearly more interested in the average guy than in the big wigs. (Bobby Kennedy). He genuinely likes and thrives on people. His energy and endurance are astonishing, and you can almost seem him charge up like a battery from his interactions with people (Hubert Humphrey and Ralph Yarborough). "Hey, Victor, I like what you're doing — go, man," says some guy he meets on the street, and Morales starts going twice as hard.

He enjoys politics (FDR, Al Smith and Fiorello LaGuardia). If retail politics — shaking individual hands and making individual contact — could win elections in this day, Morales would be a shoo-in. A young woman tells him that her mother is just crazy about him: He gets the mom's number and calls her to say thanks.

He has an impressive ability to connect with people — all kinds of people. Perhaps it comes from his 18 years of teaching government in everything from ghetto schools to flossy suburbs. He loves to talk about politics and government; he's never in a hurry to get to the next stop or see someone more important. His staff has to pry him away from people. He relishes his run-ins with what he calls "KKK's," happily trying to convert the misguided.

If he doesn't know the answer to a political question, he says so, but he frets about not having enough time to study issues in depth. He also asks questions: "What's pesto?" he inquired, studying the menu at a chic Austin sandwichery.

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Molly Ivins is a columnist for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram.

COPYRIGHT 1996 CREATORS SYNDICATE, INC.