The Presidency

By Hugh Sidey

Scene 1. A spring morning, 1937, small office of Screen Agent George Ward, Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles.

Secretary announces arrival of Sportscaster "Dutch" Reagan, movie hopeful from Des Moines. Ward, who works for the William Meiklejohn Agency, is braced to administer a classic brush-off. Send in Reagan, he tells his secretary.

Ward has to tilt back in his chair to see all 6 ft. 1 in. of this guy who strides in under a 150-watt smile. Built-up shoulder pads in the suit. Wide lapels. Close-cut hair. All standard for the year. But there is something different. Ward decides to try to get him in the movies. History changes, though Ward hasn't an inkling -- or does he?

"I was looking all the time for new talent," Ward said just a few days ago, joyfully gathering memories of a half-century ago and trying to put them in proper place. "I didn't care if he had a broken nose or floppy ears. There was something about him. I saw in front of me a man who could communicate."

Right off there is a problem. Reagan has to leave in several days to go back to Des Moines. So Ward right there calls up his friend Max Arnow, who agrees to give Reagan a quick test. Ward takes his new friend out to the studio in his green Chrysler, and after one glance Arnow puts Reagan to work on a script.

A few days later, Ward picks up Reagan and drives him to the train station. "How'd the test go?" he asks. "I guess it went all right," answers Reagan, not all that sure. Ward cautions about getting hopes too high and packs Reagan off for Iowa.

The phone rings in the little office on Sunset Strip. Arnow says that Jack Warner has seen Reagan's test and wants to sign him. Normal starting contract is for a few months. Ward asks for a year's deal, since Reagan is probably making $75 a week and can't give that kind of good money up to run back to California on short terms. O.K., agrees Arnow, a year at $200 a week. Ward wires the news to Des Moines. Reagan is near ecstasy. He pours out his heart in a two-page longhand letter to Ward. "Sometimes those last few days seem like something I read in a book, but with your wire to cling to I get back to realization (sic) with a very satisfactory bump. Wheaties . . . has a high- pressure man here working on me with some wild idea about sticking around for another baseball season. Overwhelming as is this reluctance to let me depart, nevertheless I remain California-bound . . . I've got the telegram worn to a frazzle, and my only reply to their arguments is to wave it in a 'death before dishonor' way and show 'California here I come.' "

For some reason he still cannot explain, Ward keeps this letter and another one Reagan writes a couple of weeks later. Though Ward throws away dozens of letters from bigger stars over the years, he continues to cling to these two.

Scene 2. A Thursday afternoon, spring 1985, the Oval Office of the President of the United States, Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington.

George Ward and his wife Vera arrive outside the White House. They are escorted through three different holding rooms until they are standing at the President's door. Ward, now a peppy Portland grandfather, has never seen anything like this, even in his Hollywood years. The doors open. Some set. Across the room is Dutch Reagan under his undimmed 150-watt smile. He strides up to the Wards, puts his arms around Vera, looks at George and says, "Can you believe it has been 48 years since I walked into your office? It's a little different now. See what happened when you stopped being my agent."