A Life Adapted to a New Script

The narrow figure walking in a night rain seemed to fade into the gloom, his black mackintosh and umbrella blending with the darkness. He paused with his wife at a street corner in Santa Monica. They would have to wade through ankle-deep puddles and trudge down an alley to a parking garage, where their Toyota Prius waited.

They stepped slowly; they have little reason to rush these days.

“I told Arnold that a governor needs three things to succeed -- a good economy, a lot of luck and lot of rain,” said Gray Davis, the man under the umbrella. “He’s getting the rain.... The state’s farmers need the rain.”

This is post-recall life for former Gov. Davis -- slogging anonymously through a storm, with time on his hands, driving his own car and trying to move past the searing experience of being booted from power in favor of Arnold Schwarzenegger.

“I don’t like to look backwards,” Davis had said before venturing into the rain. “I don’t like to dwell on it.”

He was sitting in the Santa Monica offices of the Natural Resources Defense Council, which had just honored him at a small dinner. His wife, Sharon, sat to his left, maintaining a soft smile. The rain pounded outside.

“I have a sense of contentment,” said Davis, 61, who phones Schwarzenegger now and then to wish him well.

His voice grew quiet when asked whether the recall election still stung after four months, whether reflection had shaken him beneath his robotic, vote-seeking public persona.

“When you’re stoic like that, people think you’re not human, you’re not normal,” he said. “We’re all human beings. The recall was far from my finest hour, but I’m philosophical about politics.”

He has no plans to jump back in, he said, despite rumors that he is already contemplating a bid for Los Angeles mayor or the U.S. Senate seat held by Dianne Feinstein, if she decides to retire.

He said the speculation was understandable, given his 30 years in the arena, and his signature obsession with electioneering.

“People expect you want to gravitate back to politics,” Davis said. “I think that chapter of my life is closed.”

Closed, but perhaps not padlocked. “Does some bolt of lightning strike three or four years from now?” Davis said. “Who knows? I don’t expect it to happen.”

Not much appears to be happening at the moment. The Davis schedule is fairly open. He is unemployed, casting around for gigs with a law firm, a university or an investment bank.

So far, there have been no offers that he felt compelled to pounce on. Davis is reticent about the particulars.

Law is the likeliest route to a permanent job, he says. The Stanford- and Columbia-educated attorney envisions a position as a big-picture strategist rather than as a litigator.

“A governor of California has learned to deal with multifaceted problems,” Davis said.

He also talks about volunteering as a teacher in poor-performing schools, launching an education foundation and writing a book about his career. The latter would highlight battles such as California’s electricity crisis.

“I have read all these so-called experts tell me what happened in the energy crisis,” Davis said. “I don’t think anyone had a better perspective on it than mine. I’d like to share my view.... I made my share of mistakes, and I’ll be honest about that.”

Davis receives a $105,000-a-year pension, but intends to earn enough to buy roomier digs than the shoebox West Hollywood condominium he and his wife have owned for 20 years. They hope to take more frequent golfing trips to Palm Springs and Pebble Beach, and go on an Alaskan cruise.

“First of all, I want to enjoy life,” Davis said. “While I very much enjoyed public service, and feel it’s a noble profession, and believe we made a difference over the years, I think I can say without fear of contradiction, I haven’t had a lot of fun.”

He’s showing signs of shedding his trademark stiffness. Tonight, Davis makes his Hollywood debut, guest starring as himself on the CBS sitcom “Yes, Dear.”

In the episode, a character played by comedian Tim Conway meets Davis in a Staples Center luxury box at a Lakers game. The two bicker about Davis’ stewardship of the state, and Conway tosses a drink at him. Davis comes unglued and chases the actor down to the basketball court, a scene filmed during the half-time of a real contest.

The fans didn’t know the scene was staged. Davis learned later that a fellow former governor, George Deukmejian, had been in the stands.

“He said, ‘You know, I was at the game, and I thought you just lost it.... I thought you’d just gone bonkers,’ ” Davis recounted with a smile.

“I think he’s gotten a lot looser,” said Art Torres, the state Democratic Party chairman, who hosted Davis at a party convention in January. “I think that’s the result of suffering a devastating loss.... I do see a change in his ability to relate to people.”

Geoffrey Cowan, dean of the USC Annenberg School for Communication and a Davis friend, agreed. “I’ve never seen him better,” said Cowan, whose wife, Aileen Adams, served in Davis’ cabinet as head of consumer affairs. “He’s more relaxed. His sense of humor is back.”

Davis’ new working quarters are a steep drop from the Capitol. Supermarket tycoon and investor Ron Burkle, a Davis political supporter, has lent him space in a Sunset Boulevard building.

There are two aides in the office: Jeff Kiernan, who is paid by Davis’ campaign committee, now in the process of shutting down; and Anne Chang, on loan from Burkle’s company. The location is a plus -- it’s around the corner from Davis’ home.

“I walk to work,” he said, pointing out the window of his office on the afternoon of the Natural Resources Defense Council salute.

Davis had spent the day returning phone calls and doing a CNN interview. The big event on the calendar was the dinner.

The two dozen environmentalists at the soiree praised Davis’ efforts in pursuit of cleaner water and clearer skies.

“They’re a wonderful group,” Davis said afterward. “It’s such a joy to be reminded of the good things that happened these past five years.”

He reiterated that he was not bitter about the years cleaved off his second term. Sharon Davis nodded.

“Gray doesn’t have a self-pitying bone in his body,” she said. “Our life is very good.”

She told of how nice it is to wake up and not see her husband savaged in morning news reports. “The amount of aggravation has been dramatically reduced,” she said.

The Davises consider themselves victims of a freight train named Schwarzenegger, who flattened them under the tonnage of his celebrity.

“I don’t think anyone could have gotten reelected under those circumstances,” Sharon Davis said. “Gray was a mere mortal running against someone who was larger than life.”

As the hour grew late, the couple started home. Riding the garage elevator, Davis rhapsodized about the Prius’ hybrid technology. The car belongs to his wife; Davis said he is shopping for his own. “Maybe a hybrid SUV,” he said.

They climbed in and idled in line to pay the parking charge.

The sun broke through the next day, and the Davises conducted a tour of their eighth-floor condo, 1,000 square feet decorated in yellows and browns and furnished with English antiques. A side table displayed photos of the Davises with former President Clinton and actor-director Clint Eastwood.

The place had been a weekend retreat for much of their time in Sacramento. “It’s too small,” Davis said. “We can’t entertain here. I think the most we’ve ever had is seven at Thanksgiving.”

Last Thanksgiving, just after he left office, they put on a spread for Sharon Davis’ brother, two nuns from a local Catholic parish and Davis’ longtime barber, Joe Gonzales.

They dine occasionally at Spago in Beverly Hills and the Hotel Bel-Air. Davis said his favorite eatery is Koo-Koo-Roo, where he grabs takeout. “I’m sure I carried the Koo-Koo-Roo vote,” he joked. “I worked it hard.”

He showed off the view from their balcony. The Hollywood Hills rose straight ahead; off in the distance, the Getty Center crowned a clouded ridge above Brentwood.

Davis said the couple will look for a residence nearby. “We’d like to live in a condo,” he added. “We don’t have children, and it’s nice to close the door and not worry about things.”

The Davises had to get ready to attend that evening’s Democratic presidential debate at USC. Davis said he would offer his support to the nominee, but was otherwise keeping a low profile. “It’s too soon,” he said.

So his routine is breakfast at home, a morning workout in the building’s gym, then the quick stroll to the office, where the discipline is to stay focused on what might be, instead of what might have been.

“Would I rather be sitting in the Capitol than sitting here? Yes,” Davis said. “Did I try hard to do it? Yes. But do I recognize that there are forces at work, over which I have no control, that determine my destiny? Yes.”