Clinton entered the red-carpeted sanctuary stage left, wearing a black coat with a blue blouse and matching sweater draped country club-style around her neck. As the rabble rose to its feet, the Secret Service directed a couple of women back behind the theater-style ropes. From the rear arose a frat-house chant: "Hillary. Hillary. Hillary." Clinton calmly took her place at a table.
From where we stood, the buzzing crowd had more to say about her glamour quotient than her role as a political leader.
"She's just so pretty," one woman said.
"She has such white teeth," said another.
And onstage, Kansas Citians gave Clinton a good ol' dose of Midwestern charm.
Two women turned toward the audience and grinned. Flash. "That's a good one, I'll mail it to you," yelled a woman from the audience. "Thanks, I'll see you later," a woman called back from onstage. A guy in a black suit got into the action; when his photographer had trouble, he jumped back to the table for another try.
Excuses were abundant: "Sorry, my mom wants a picture," said one girl onstage.
"That's the way moms are," Clinton said.
Twice, an usher beside the table sneaked a camera from his pocket to get a point-blank close-up. Soon the locals were reaching across the table for some skin-to-skin contact. Handshakes came in the classic short version or an extended variation in which the suitor wouldn't let go until a picture was snapped.
Most of the crowd had cleared before the signing ended. The crying of babies faded. The white noise of damn-she's-fine compliments petered out. Those who stayed witnessed an extra twenty minutes of intimate Clinton.
"Give her some Ben-Gay for her arm!" someone yelled, casting an echo throughout the auditorium.
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