Dialing for Santorum

As it happens, I met Santorum almost immediately upon showing up to volunteer at his headquarters. He looked tired and dazed, like a man who had just fallen on the ice in a hockey game. His eyes were darting toward the exit, but his body was pulling him methodically around the row of supporters lining the edge of the room. I got in position and waited. Weirdly, the senator was not shaking hands but rapping fists in Stringer Bell/Avon Barksdale ghetto fashion. I wondered if he was afraid of germs.

He held out his fist. "Thanks for coming," he said.

I rapped knuckles with him, thinking, "Us, nigga!"

"Good luck, sir," I said.

He wandered out the door.

A few hours later, Santorum was out of work, slain, as it were, on the electoral cross. And he didn't just lose -- he was stomped, defeated by more than seventeen points. Across the country, Democrats were raising their fists in triumph and pimping the dawn of a "new direction," but there was nothing left for Rick Santorum to do but thank the Lord for his blessings and console his weeping daughter onstage in a surprisingly tactful and moving concession speech at the Omni Hotel in downtown Pittsburgh.

It was a weird performance. Santorum -- just days removed from the "terrorism and genocide" bit -- wearily called Casey a "fine man." When his supporters tried to boo at the mention of Casey's name, Santorum chided them almost angrily.

In the Rush Limbaugh era, it has never been the habit of Republican politicians to suppress the hatreds of their followers or admit to any unpleasant intrusions of reality. Never give credit, never admit mistakes, never stop lying about the other guy -- this is what the Republican base, thanks to people like Santorum, has come to expect of its leaders in the Bush years. But here was Santorum himself, in his final moments on the public stage, refusing to indulge the old-time urge. During his concession speech, at the mention of Casey, catcalls shot through the crowd.

"Please give him a round of applause . . . please," Santorum said. "I congratulate him, and I mean that wholeheartedly."

The crowd, creeped out and depressed by this uncharacteristic display of civility, fell silent. They weren't sure how to react. It was like watching Old Yeller die.

Not long after, Santorum stepped off the stage, a look of something like relief on his face. The man who had ushered in the era of divisive politics was being swept out by the same tide, but he wasn't resisting its judgment. Ironically, it looked like a profoundly Christian moment.

Who knows if it really was. Let's hope we never find out.

>> Talk back to Taibbi in our National Affairs blog.