An e-mail correspondent reminds me that a couple of days ago was the 32d anniversary of the Watergate break-in. Maybe that's why Nixon's always-restless soul has been especially restless lately. Anyway, he dropped by again last night. Wearing golf shoes, suit pants with cuffs, and a windbreaker bearing a Presidential seal the size of a dinner plate. He didn't waste any time on preliminaries.
N: [Waving a nine-iron in the air excitedly] I can't believe this goddam so-called Presidential campaign.
N: [continues] I don't know which of these two assholes is deader. No, I do know. It's Kerry, of course. Now Clinton- a eunuch, politically, like all the Democrats- I made goddam sure of that- but at least he had a pulse. Bush junior doesn't have any more of a pulse than Kerry does, naturally, but he's got all the cards. Again, thanks to me. Not that I get any fucking thanks.
Me: [A little worried about the golf club] Yeah, what is it with the Democrats? How does it work? You sure did a job on them, but I don't quite get it, why they're so helpless.
N: I changed who the swwwwiiing voter is [he swings the club a la Johnny Carson]. Before me, the Democrats had all the Southern white guys sewn up, and they could count on the rednecks to come and pull the jackass lever on Election Day. But they saw we were pickin' up all those new suburban voters in the sunbelt -- places the fucking Democrats created, with all that real-estate welfare and pork-barrel road-building -- so they decided they'd try to pick up the nig-- uh, the African-Americans. To compensate, y'know? And that got the rednecks mad, and along comes good old Dick, and the rest is history. The Southern Strategy. [He smiles reminiscently and puts down the golf club, which conveniently vanishes]
Me: So who was the swing voter before?
N: Kind of a mixed bag. Upper-midwestern farmers. Oddballs in Vermont.
Me: And now it's pissed-off rednecks.
N: Yep. The Democrats keep thinking they're gonna get 'em back. See, ole Blowjob Bill Clinton appealed to the rednecks, they thought he was one of them--
Me: [interrupting rudely] And they were right.
N: [Pulls back his upper lip in his strange snarling substitute for a smile] They're smarter than the Harvard and Yale crowd think. Anyway, Bill could reach 'em, but Kerry? No way, Jose. But it's their own fault, y'know. The Democrats, I mean.
Me: I thought it was your... uh, not fault exactly. It was you that whammied 'em.
N: Oh yeah, I whammied 'em all right, but it's just their own lack of imagination that they haven't gotten over it. Shit. The '68 whammy should have lasted for two electoral cycles, three at the outside. But those Democrats ? once you whammy 'em, they stay whammied. Pussies. Here it is thirty-five years later --
Me: Thirty-six.
N: [Glowers] Don't bother me with figures. A third of a century later, OK? And they're still pining for their lost rednecks. When a Democrat does get elected, he's so scared of us and the Southern Strategy that he acts just like a Republican. That's why my ol' buddy Bill Safire and all that crowd hated Clinton so much, y'know. Democrats like Clinton, who needs Republicans?
Me: You took the words out of my mouth.
N: [Ignores me] Meanwhile, only half the people in the country bother to vote at all. And why the hell should they? Old George Wallace said it, way back when -- [drops into a very bad imitation of a generic Southern accent] Theah's not a daahme's worth o' difference between the Republicans and the Democrats. Why don't the candy-ass Democrats go out and find some new voters? Young people, the voter percentage is even less than half. Find something to get these kids excited, generation X or Y or Z or whatever... I keep an eye on 'em, y'know. Fucking kids. Always a problem. I thought they were gonna storm the White House and pull me right outa there and hang me from a lamppost back in '70. Kent State, all that shit.
Me: [sotto voce] Some of us wanted to.
N: I heard that. I'm a supernatural being, remember. But hey, I don't hold a grudge. I'm beyond all that now. [His chin lifts into a Noble Roman pose.]
Me: Speaking of supernatural beings... I can't help wondering: Did Reagan ever show up?
N: Not here on Olympus. Needless to say. He'd be bored stiff, the old ham. No, he's in Hollywood Heaven.
Me: Golly. What's that like?
N: Everybody spends eternity giving an Oscar speech, and nobody ever hears anybody else's. [The outlines of an ectoplasmic golf cart form around the President's shade, and then cart and passenger do a rapid recede-to-infinity special effect, as Nixon's hollow voice intones, diminuendo] Fucking Hollywood...
He spared me the spooky apparition-in-mist schtick this time, and just popped into visibility in his usual spot above the dresser. He was wearing a dark Brooks Brothers suit, a heavily starched white shirt, and those big clunky Presidential-seal cufflinks he always liked. The bottle of Haig & Haig is already in place, not as full as last time, and something in the former President's manner suggests that he's already had a hit or two.
Me: Uh, hello, Mr. President. [feeling a little bold] What happened to the Caesar outfit?
N: Ahh, shit, y'know, it wasn't really me. Always loved that stuff, but I could never carry it off. You remember my palace guard, don't you? With the marching band outfits?
Me: Sure do.
N: Now if it had been Mattress Jack Kennedy... they'da loved it. All the media types. Trendies. But old Dick Nixon, from Yorba Linda... no way was Dick Nixon gonna get away with a Camelot thing. Nossirree. [He takes a thoughtful pull from his glass of Scotch, and broods.]
Me: So what did you think of the 9/11 report? No Iraq link? Is that going to be a problem for your, uh, successor?
N: [Shakes his head with an air of what-fools-these-mortals-be wonderment] Fucking liberal media. Can't see what's right in front of their noses. Gotta have a police report before they can connect the dots.
Me: Sir?
N: It's the oil, goddammit.
Me: Well, sir, that has been suggested from time to time.
N: No, no, that's not what I mean. It's not just oil in general. You know the oil is running out, right? I mean, shit, that's been in the papers, even. I can tell you the boys in the know are aware of it. Believe you me, brother.
Me: [Curious] Are you omniscient? I mean, in your present, uh, condition of existence?
N: [Eyes dart around nervously] Omniscient? Hell no. Don't even say that. But we do have a, uh, limited capacity to follow Earthly events in which we have an interest. [He sounds like he's quoting]
Me: I see. [I don't really, but I want to hear more about this oil business] So anyway, the oil is running out...
N: Yeah. Well, not exactly running out. But the end is in sight. Those fuckin' Saudis have been claiming more than they've really got for years, decades even. Now it's close enough that the Great Powers are gonna start grabbing what they can. This Iraq thing, you might call it Oil War One. There'll be more. Wait'll the Japs start feeling the pinch. Oil was one of their war aims last time, remember? And the Chink-- uh, the Chinese don't have much of their own, and you know they all wanna drive cars now. [He smiles smugly] Boy, I did a number on them too, didn't I? So you put China and Japan together on the consumer side, and then the Russkis have got it but their state structure and armed forces are a joke and -- well, you fill in the blanks.
Me: Wow. Scary. And so the Iraq war --
N: Grab while it's still there to grab. I mean, think about it. Does any other explanation make sense? Terrorism ? Don't make me laugh. [He smiles that scary upper-teeth-only smile of his, and I really DON'T want to make him laugh.] A Bush family vendetta against that punk Hussein? Great powers don't fight wars over mickey-mouse shit like that. Besides, the Bushes don't really amount to much. All that Junior League bullshit, sure -- stuffed shirt assholes from Yale -- but they don't really swing any weight. And as for promoting democracy in the Middle East -- [Now he does laugh, and it's a terrible thing to see. As if on cue, a rooster crows. ]
Me: [Annoyed] What's with the rooster?
N: Tradition. Gotta go. Ask me about the so-called Presidential campaign next time. [He vanishes in a puff of Scotch-smelling smoke.]
Maybe it was the roast pork with mango sauce. But I've eaten too well on other occasions, and I never ever had a dream - if it was a dream - like this one.
I was lying in my bed, suddenly awake, or so I thought, and a dimly glowing nimbus of swirling mist hung in the air just above the dresser. As I watched, it grew brighter, and a shape slowly took form: A man, wearing a toga, sitting in one of those cool Roman curule chairs. A long face - hair thin on top - a large, oddly shaped nose - blue-shadowed jowls - Great God, I realized, with a shiver of primitive fear and a rush of cold sweat, it's Nixon. The figure spoke:
N: O mortal! Awake and hearken!
Me: You're Richard Nixon!
N: Yea, verily.
Me: [a little snappish; I don't like being awakened] What's with the King James English?
N: [glowers, says nothing, but the mist turns red and swirls angrily]
Me: [penitent] ... uh, Mr. President?
N: [complacent smile] That's better.
Me: [cautious] To what do I owe the honor of this... visit? Uh, sir?
N: Thou has writ somewhat of me, uh, Us, the other day, uh, not long agone.[The old self-pitying pained smile] Everybody else has forgotten me, of course.[Recovers the Shakespearean manner] So methought, Usthought, to discover what manner of man thou wert. Or do I mean wast?
Me: [Distracted, resentful, not unlike my interlocutor] Nobody would publish the thing. Had to put it on a damn blog.
N: Of course nobody would publish it. But here we read everything. [Peers closely at me] Thou art not... oh screw it. You're not a fag, are you? I mean, I know you're a Commie. But some of my best friends are Commies. Chou, Brezhnev - - I've gotten to know old Joe Stalin pretty well here, too. But fags, never liked 'em. So? Are you? I mean, no offense, but --
Me: Well, uh, Mr President, you're in my bedroom. I mean, take a look. Sir.
N: [Peers at bedmate] Oh. Sorry, fella.
Me: "Fella?" You been hanging around with Nelson Rockefeller?
N: [snorts] Fat fuckin' chance. He's over in the Episcopal heaven. Him and that con-man Roosevelt. Where Nancy's trying to get that dumbass Ronnie in. Lotsa luck, Nance. Even if you did give the best blow jobs in Hollywood. [Face falls again into a self-pitying pout] Not that I would know.
Me: There's more than one Heaven?
N: Oh, sure. [Smugly] I'm on Mount Olympus now. Tried the Quaker heaven, but... [lowers head, wags jowls in an uncannily familiar gesture] booorrring. Olympus, though, it's great. Some top notch people here. We got Karl Marx, and Gibbon, Caesar of course - he lent me this chair - and the Gods are OK too. Something funny with Zeus and that kid Ganymede, but Hephaistos and I play golf a lot, and Prometheus is a very smart guy. But anyway, that's not what I wanted to tell you about.
Me: I'm all ears. Sir.
N: It's about that bonehead Reagan. Y'know he's been dead for a year?
Me: [boggles visibly] What?!?
N: [pleased] I thought you'd be surprised. They held off telling anybody until they thought it would do the party some good.
Me: [thinking furiously] Wow. Uh - I suppose you don't want me to tell anybody about this?
N: Who'd believe you if you did?
Me: [crestfallen] Good point.
N: Not that I give a shit. Fucking Republican Party, after all I did for them, goddam bunch of car salesmen and real-estate swindlers, do I get a fucking state funeral? The Jack Kennedy horse and the backwards boots? Do I get the motherfucking National Cathedral? [His face is very red now and he's shouting] Goddam liberal fag Episcopal pinko hypocrites. No, I get shithead Billy Cornpone Graham and a catafalque that looks like Homer Simpson's pool table --
Me: [curious, and trying to distract him] Do you get TV there?
N: [snaps] We get everything we want here. It's fucking Heaven, asshole.
Me: [aggrieved] Sor-reee.
[A rooster crows, which is odd because we're on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, and Nixon looks apprehensive]
N: Gotta go. Rules, y'know. But I'll be back. [His image begins to blur and dim, and his voice grows faint and distant] I'll... always... beee.... baaaack.....
-------------- To Be Continued ---------------------------------------------------
Quite apart from the smarminess of it all, the national Week Of Dribble for Reagan makes me mad because the guy is getting credit that should go elsewhere.
Reagan didn't invent the contemporary American political landscape; they just put his face on the outside of it. The real inventor, of course, was Dick Nixon, with his 1968 Southern Strategy.
The triumph of Nixon, of course, was to make the old Dixiecrat peckerwoods into Republican voters -- an achievement right up there, in terms of scope and historic significance, with anything Andrew Jackson could boast. The peckerwoods all live in the suburbs now and drive leased SUVs, but the mentality hasn't changed that much. They're still debtors -- more than ever, in fact -- and the great task is to make them mad at anybody BUT their creditors.
For some reason we don't want to give Nixon, that weird tortured genius, his due; we'd rather snivel over a papier-mache nonentity like Reagan. Perhaps
this is partly because we don't really want to look too closely at what the modern Republican hegemony is really all about. Nixon and his bilious rapport
with resentment and fear are the product; the robotically grinning Gipper, with his cereal-box twinkle, the packaging.
Poor old Dick was always filled with hate and fear for something he called the Eastern Establishment, which was, at least in its Nixonian lineaments, largely a product of Dick's own overheated California imagination. How piquant the irony that his achievement has been appropriated, not by some white-shoe scion of privilege, but by the most essentially Californian of constructs, a third-rate Hollywood actor.
I saw with a sinking heart the news that Ronald Reagan's brain had finally ceased to... what? "Think" is too strong a word, and always was, even before Alzheimer's took hold.
My regret has nothing to do with Reagan himself being gone, of course - he was gone even when he was here, and should have been even more gone than he was, and again, this held true as far back as Death Valley Days. No, I won't miss him. But I could do without the deluge of maudlin drool that every media outlet in the country will be drenching us with for God knows how long.
There's something about our national sense of the "appropriate" that makes me think of embalming fluid. We'll be hearing, from NPR and the like, all kinds of solemn pieties about "paying respects" and so on. This from people who hated the guy when he was alive -- and for excellent reason -- but who can't bring themselves, now that he's dead, to speak from the heart and say "about time." This idea of rising above partisanship, or reaching down to what unites us as a people, or getting off the actual surface of the contentious earth one way or the other -- this fatuous notion is like formaldehyde in our veins, and turns every national occasion into a dusty parade of poorly-articulated mummies, arranged in stiff and conventional poses, shedding a musty funk of postponed decomposition.
Naturally, my favorite guy, John Kerry, led the conga-line of living dead: he wants us to "bow [our] heads in prayer and gratitude....Even when [Reagan] was breaking Democrats' hearts, he did so with a smile." Kerry might have added, but of course didn't, that the old fool wore the same smile while he was slaughtering children in Nicaragua. But I guess all that matters now is that he made us feel good. Or some of us, anyway.