Arnold Schwarzenegger - Total Recall - My Unbelievably True Life Story

Serious candidates who had political capital and financial backing faced a tough choice about whether to risk getting lost in the circus atmosphere. US senator Dianne Feinstein, a hugely popular Democrat, said she didn’t like the whole idea of recalls—she’d faced a recall attempt at an earlier point in her career when she was mayor of San Francisco. Congressman Issa, who had been a real visionary in bankrolling the signature gathering, stepped away too, saying tearfully at a press conference that he could go back to his job in Washington now that others were prepared to lead.

As soon as the election was confirmed, I knew I had to run. I saw myself in Sacramento, solving problems. I was not the least bit intimidated by the thought of a campaign. It was like every other major decision I’d ever faced. I thought about winning. I knew it would happen. I was locked in automatic pilot.

It was time to talk to Maria.

AS EVERY SPOUSE KNOWS, you have to pick the right moment to bring up a loaded subject. The recall of Gray Davis was just a maybe when I flew off to promote Terminator 3 at the beginning of July, and Maria and I hadn’t talked about it or what it might mean for me during the three weeks I’d been away. At home, after the kids were in bed, we often took a Jacuzzi to relax, and that was the moment I chose.

“This recall election is coming up,” I said.

“Yeah, people are saying that you are running, and I tell them they’re crazy,” she said. “You would never do that.”

“Well, actually, I want to talk to you about that idea. What would you think about me jumping in?” Maria gave me a look, but before she could say anything, I said, “Look what’s happening to the state! We’re becoming a laughingstock. When I came here, California was a beacon. I know I could go there and straighten it out.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I’m serious.”

And she said, “No, no, come on, please tell me that you’re not serious.”

Then she added, “Don’t do this to me.”

I said, “Look, I was just … I haven’t made a commitment. I’m just thinking about it. Obviously if you say no, I’m not going to run. But I was just thinking it’s a perfect opportunity. It’s a recall, and there is only a two-month campaign; it wouldn’t be that much. I think we can work our way through these two months. And then I’m governor! And, Maria, I can see it. I can feel it. This can really be done!” I felt a surge of enthusiasm just talking about it.

“I’m tired of this acting stuff,” I went on. “I need a new challenge. I’ve had that urge to do something different for some time. This is a chance to do the kind of public service your father talks about. And I think I could do a much, much better job than Gray Davis.”

As I rattled on, I was astonished to see my wife start to tremble and cry. I just couldn’t believe it. I guess instead I expected a Eunice to emerge and say, “All right, now, if that’s what you want to do, let’s sit down right away and make some decisions. Let’s get the experts and start the briefings.” I expected that kind of Kennedy-esque response. I wanted her to say, “This is unbelievable. We inspired you, and now you’re joining the family business. You’ve grown so much since I’ve known you. Here you’re willing to give up millions to become a public servant. I’m so proud of you!”

But I was dreaming.

“Why are you crying?” I asked. Maria began to talk about the pain of growing up in a political family. I knew that she hated being dragged around to events, always being part of the photo op, and then on Sunday nights having the house invaded by advisors and operatives, and having to get dressed up for that. She’d hated her father’s campaigns, having to be out there at five in the morning in front of the factory, telling people, “Vote for my daddy, vote for my daddy.”

But the part that never registered with me was the trauma she’d felt as a kid. We had been together twenty-six years and married for seventeen, and it was a shock to me that her childhood as a Kennedy—with its intrusions, its humiliations, and its two assassinations—had shaken her to the core. Sure, her father lost his campaigns for vice president and president. I put those in the category of experiences that make you stronger. I didn’t understand the public embarrassment she felt. In politics, everybody knows everything. You’re totally exposed. All your girlfriends in school talk about your stuff. Maria had suffered tremendously: not only her father’s losing two campaigns but also the tragic deaths of her uncles Jack and Bobby. Then there was her uncle Teddy’s accident at Chappaquiddick, with horrible stories in the press. And then tauntings in school and on the sports field and anywhere she went in public. Kids would make cruel remarks: “Your dad lost. What does it feel like to be a loser?” Every time it was like being stabbed.

Given all that, my telling her that I wanted to be governor was like an accident where she saw her whole life flashing before her. All of those upsets and fears came flooding back, which was why she was trembling and crying.

I held her and tried to calm her down. All kinds of thoughts were racing through my mind. Total shock, first of all, to see her in such pain. I knew she had been through a lot of drama, but I thought it was in the past. When I met Maria, she was full of life, excitement, and hunger for the world. She wanted to be a rebel, not have a job on Capitol Hill. That was why she wanted to be a news producer and be in front of the camera and be really good at it. She didn’t want to be lumped in with the Kennedys; she wanted to be Maria Shriver—the woman who interviewed Castro, Gorbachev, Ted Turner, Richard Branson. At the time, I thought, “That’s just the way I am; we really have this in common! We both want to be really good and unique and stand out.” Later on, as we got more serious, I felt like whatever I wanted to do, whatever the goal was, she was a woman who could help me achieve it. And I felt like whatever she wanted to do, I would help her get there.

But, to be fair, politics had never been part of the deal. Just the opposite. When Maria met me, she was twenty-one years old and she felt very strongly that she wanted a man who had absolutely nothing to do with politics. There I was, this Austrian country boy with big muscles who was a bodybuilding champion and wanted to go to Hollywood and be a movie star and get rich in real estate. She thought, “Great! That will take us as far away from politics and Washington as possible.” But now, almost thirty years later, the whole thing was coming full circle, and I was saying, “What do you think about the idea of me running for governor?” No wonder she was upset. I realized she’d shared some of this with me before, but it had gone right over my head.

Later that night, I lay in bed thinking, “Man, this is not going to work. If Maria doesn’t buy into the idea, then it is impossible to go out and campaign.” I never intended to cause her that kind of pain.

What I hadn’t told Maria was that I’d already committed to appear on Jay Leno. The day the recall election was confirmed, I’d bumped into The Tonight Show ’s producer at the hairstylist. “Whether you’re running or not running, I’d like to be the first show where you talk about it,” he said. I thought, “If I really run, this would be a cool way to announce it.” So I’d said yes, and we’d agreed on a date of Wednesday, August 6, three days before the filing deadline.

It was not a pretty night. All the tears, all the questions, very little sleep. “If she doesn’t want me to do it, then we just don’t do it,” I thought. This meant I would have to unwind my vision, which would be very difficult because it was now fixed in my mind. I’d have to turn off the automatic pilot and manually fly the plane back to the airport.