Ben Barnes is Still Running
The heir to LBJ was groomed to be governor, then president. He’s still kissing babies, pressing the flesh, and barnstorming—but not for votes, for bucks.
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No one has meant more in Ben Barnes’ life than Herman Bennett, a quiet, self-made millionaire from Cowboy (a hamlet in McCulloch County), who started building houses 34 years ago in Brownwood. He met Barnes in 1960 as the young candidate stood in front of the Brownwood post office before sunup handing out campaign cards. Bennett was impressed, not only because of Barnes’ predawn energy but also because he seemed to have that kind of self-possession and ease about him that comes so naturally to born politicians. Bennett offered him a job if he lost. Barnes won, but he went to work for Bennett a few years later anyway, getting an option to acquire up to an 11 1/2 per cent interest in the firm under extremely beneficial terms. Barnes was named president of the Herman Bennett company in 1974.
In 1960 Bennett built his first Holiday Inn, appropriately in Brownwood. Apartments, shopping centers, banks, radio stations, a shipyard, land, housing developments, condominiums, and an advertising agency have followed. The 1200-employee, 31-entity company grossed $25 million last fiscal year, up 24 per cent over 1977. Barnes estimates his wealth at “a couple of million,” which is a couple million too low, according to other opinions. Either way, he and Bennett haven’t done badly for two good old boys from Cowboy and Comyn.
Barnes finished his telephone calls and, with three aides, raced to the Brownwood airport to begin his aerial blitz. Once airborne, the King Air pointed southeast toward Harker Heights, a small, mostly military settlement near Killeen, for the first shopping center site announcement. Barnes settled back in the cabin and asked Edgar Allen Scott, who once worked for U.S. senators Spessard Holland and George Smathers before becoming one of the best shopping center lease salesmen in the country, for the freshly typed press release. Barnes scanned the page, his eyes bulged, and when he spoke, it was in a soprano.
“By God, Scotty, what are we saying here? ‘Construction of the new center, which will serve a trade area population of 450,000 residents’? Don’t you mean 45,000? I know you’re new to Texas but this isn’t Austin or San Antonio. It’s tough to be made fools of by the Harker Heights press but we’re going to do it.” His bungle radar was working perfectly.
Exactly at high noon, Barnes bounded into the Heights Bank—the personification of the clarion of trumpets, the thunder of artillery, and the thwacking of drums. He shook hands with the local TV man, then moved over to a few gaped-mouthed soldiers in green fatigues, and then on to their wives—a bevy of Oriental women. The soldiers and spouses were mildly panicked, trying to decide if this man was going to rob the place or was the bank’s new owner.
“By God, bidness is good down here in Harker Heights,” Barnes boomed, fingering a young banker’s three-piece suit. “I’ll tell you what …” He trailed off and moved to greet a woman city council member. Later, he stood apart from the semicircle of local leaders and reporters, rolling the press release between huge, freckled hands.
“I’m delighted to have the opportunity to be in the great city of Harker Heights. I’ll say this, Harker Heights shows great vision electing these good-looking women to the city council. They’ll be a lot easier to work with on zoning and planning problems than those ugly old men,” Barnes said to laughter and applause.
He was uttering ridiculous political twaddle and nobody cared. Barnes learned years ago that it wasn’t what you said but how you said it.
Barnes continued: “I’m proud of this bank’s leadership and in the next three months—not that it isn’t already—we’re going to help put Harker Heights on the map.” He finished to more applause and invited everyone to eat lunch at the Killeen Holiday Inn (built by the Herman Bennett Company), which is next to the 440 Shopping Center (once owned by the Herman Bennett Company).
Barnes had been met earlier at the Killeen airport by Ted Connell, a longtime friend and business partner and the area’s most prominent businessman. A former Killeen mayor, owner of Connell Chevrolet, and a shopping center builder and land man himself, Connell also is one of the best political-campaign advance men in the country, having earned his spurs with Lyndon Johnson during the 1960 presidential race, and later, on the late president’s worldwide trip in 1967. He, along with other Johnson-Connally-Barnes friends, has volunteered his time this year and next to help John Connally become president.
Connell is among a handful of men—George Christian, Julian Read, Frank Erwin, Larry Temple, and Bob Stauss are others—who have served Johnson, Connally, and Barnes, the last three great politicians in the Texas conservative Democratic dynasty founded by Sam Rayburn. All three came from rural poor beginnings. All three worked hard for their college degrees. Johnson sold socks, Barnes peddled vacuum cleaners, Connally waited tables. All had a terror of poverty coupled with an almost superhuman drive to get rich. All possessed extraordinary presence—wherever they appeared, all eyes were drawn to them. Beside the megawatt auras of Johnson, Connally, and Barnes, Lloyd Bentsen is a dim light bulb, John Tower a weak candle.
All three men were born politicians, but there were important differences. Lyndon Johnson and Ben Barnes were soul mates. Both had an abundant, promiscuous affection for people. They were unhappiest when alone. Both learned from warm bodies rather than books. Once, on a cold winter morning during the 1948 Senate race, Johnson ordered a heavily clothed aide, Warren Woodward, into bed with him to warm him up. It is impossible imagining the same of Connally. Barnes and Johnson were master legislative leaders. Unlike Connally, who has a long memory for political enemies, and even more than LBJ, Barnes forgave and forgot the double crosses, lies, and broken promises—until it was time to cash in the chips. LBJ and Barnes both had such supreme self-confidence that they couldn’t imagine not being able to overcome and reconcile even the most bitter enemies.
John Connally, who looks like he belongs on a Roman coin, is a different sort. He is not a legislative tactician but a professional man, a lawyer used to running elbows with the big rich, an aristocrat who is well-read, world-traveled, and introspective, all traits that are alien to Johnson and Barnes.
Connally has a self-pollinating nature that doesn’t require constant contact with other beings.
The Barnes bungle radar zeroed in on the Heights Tribune’s lead story on his proposed shopping center. “Now, dammit, look here, Scotty. The only paragraph in the whole story I’m quoted in and it says, ‘The Harker Heights Plaza will employ approximately six hundred people when fully operational.’ Now that’s only four hundred more than planned, and I’m going to have all four hundred come to your office and you’re going to find these good Texans jobs, by God.” In his excitement, Barnes swallowed almost audibly between phrases, jutted his chin out aggressively, tugged at his shirt collar, and beat the offending quote with his four-inch-long finger—all suggesting that he was ready to get physical.
“Pull over, Keener. We have twenty miles to go and fifteen minutes to do it in.” Bill Keener, former aide to John Tower and Bill Clements and new Bennett-Barnes employee, gave Barnes the driver’s seat. None of the passengers drew an easy breath until the fifteen-minute flight down State Highway 95 was over.
The water truck, scraper, front-end loader, and dirt carriers were all crawling over the rich, black, cotton-growing dirt as Barnes addressed the small crowd. Mercifully, the bitter cold and gusting wind shortened the speech (although Barnes himself—dressed only in a suit—seemed impervious to the elements), and he invited the crowd to a reception at the Taylor Country Club. Barnes pointed out the absence of any television cameras to Keener and Edgar Allen Scott.
Five hours later, the Quorum in Austin was smoky, noisy, and crowded, the subterranean bar full of an electric energy. Coincidentally, Connally and Barnes were both there sharing the spotlight, the Roman Coin and the Orange Pumpkin. They were surrounded by old warriors: Erwin, Temple, Read, Connell, Christian, Wales Madden from Amarillo, Jim Wilson from Austin, Mike Myers from Dallas. Connally and Barnes worked the crowd, never missing a wife’s name, replying to gibes, slapping backs, politicking as naturally as a hawk flies. Together, they looked like a political scientist’s version of a dream political ticket. Is Barnes still gnawed by the political worm that never dies in ex-pols? Will he follow Lloyd Bentsen’s script and triumphantly reenter the city? Perhaps. In twenty years Barnes will be the same age Connally and Bill Clements are now. Meanwhile, there are a few calls to make, a meeting with the bank in the morning, and time’s a-wasting.
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