Political fiction is more than bitches slapping bitches inside the White House, suitcase nukes, dirty foreigners, and spies. Sometimes you have to take the whole shebang and turn it on its head. Most times killing off a politician or two is just part of the process.
“Everything that is contradictory creates life.” — Salvador Dali
CHAPTER 1
Buddy Scarborough hated to hear the same spiel every time the secret society’s leaders met. “If the Blue Eyes Club is successful, it will be because the right leaders rise to its Murder Board. We are here today because we are the best this club has to offer; there are two hundred members across the South, and we’re the best at this game. Now we have to show our position on the Murder Board is deserved, and that means competing and rising on this Board. Rise and all you have to do is wait for patrons to step up and pay. There will always be the younger ones out there willing to do the dirty work, like us, and there will always be fat cats willing to pay for our services. And I don’t care if the money’s clean or dirty. Even if the biggest crooks in the country are paying us, I don’t care. It’s what we do and if you’re in this club…you better enjoy doing all of it. If you don’t, you’re in with the wrong people.”
Buddy could barely stomach such talk. He wasn’t doing this for the fun. For him, it was all about the money, and he reasoned others were in the same boat. He came from money, but it didn’t last. His family’s privilege dried up some time between the Reconstruction and the Depression. They still carried around the old trophies—some land, big white house, private schools, and the country club—but all old money southerners were good at keeping face after the money runs out, even if their drive to thrive had dried up too. Buddy wasn’t one of those types; he was hungry to get the money back and also to be in charge. So he had no choice but to listen to the leader, and the leader had a lot more to say. “Right now, it’s our time to do the dirty work for those willing to pay, and if we do it right…and dirty enough…we’ll be the ones paying the next generation. This is the way it worked in the past; this is the way it will work in the future. So forget about where the money is coming from; just get out there and destroy some politicians.”
Buddy was the needy wannabe type, but he hid that well too. He’d been quiet during most of the other Murder Board meetings, and when he threw out some ideas, nothing much stuck. But his passion to rise seemed to be hardwired in his head, and that can sometimes attract the wrong attention and that wrong attention—Buddy’s roommate from Tampa—had caused quite a stir when he voiced his hatred of politics to Buddy. They were both drunk at a fraternity party, and specifics were never spoken. But Buddy knew exactly what his roommate was offering and the plan had money written all over it.
Buddy was the newest member on the Murder Board, coming on nine months earlier and taking the lower right position on the board. This was his third meeting with the other eight and he was still on the bottom row. But he put the idea of plotting with the mafia to assassinate the President of the United States on the table and quickly had all of them talking. Their communications were cryptic, carefully coded, rarely written down, and if the idea were sinister enough, the Murder Board would meet.
In all honesty, this was Buddy’s meeting, but that still didn’t mean any shortcuts would be entertained. He had that careless, aloof look, that led mostly everyone to overlook his ability to deliver, even when his nervous eagerness was spilling out of him. But he also knew there were more rules from the Murder Board playbook that had to be stated before the real talk could begin. He always hated this part the most; he never knew whether to run or just sit there and wait. “If anyone in the Blue Eyes Club rises to the Murder Board, there will be no room to pull back when push comes to shove. The nine of us decide what actions the club takes, and when that decision is made…there is no turning back.”
After this last bit of torture, the club president paused for a few seconds to ensure he’d captured all attention, and by this time, the anticipation was killing Buddy; he knew the unleashing of political dirt and grit was only minutes away, and he could barely contain himself. There was no paper and pencil allowed at these meetings, so there was nothing in hand to release nervous energy, just nine college coeds sitting around a circular table. There was plenty of ice-cold beer, but nothing else; hard liquor and food would come later. Buddy had peeled the labels off three beer bottles and hadn’t finished one of them. When a bottle was around, he’d fidget in his seat, pull up his socks, and tap his shoes on the hardwood floor. But still he’d never take his eyes off the Blue Eyes Club president, John Kelley Davis.
John Kelley Davis held the middle seat on the Murder Board, which meant he decided everything about the day-to-day political world that every Blue Eyes Club member was living in. For this group, being in college in 1963 and choosing to be political anarchists in hiding, their world had to have that focal enemy that threatened their society above all others—Communism.
“Good grief, can we get started so we can get this over with?” Buddy pressed the group. Speaking out of place was risky, but he didn’t care. The meeting had to be over by six, in time for drinking and dinner with a group of former club “elders” from Nashville.
“Hold your horses, Buddy Boy,” John Kelley shot back. “You think we came all the way to Nashville just to talk nonsense? You’re the reason we’re here…just don’t forget your place.”
When conversing with fellow club members, John Kelley was as good as anyone. All the Davis men had been club presidents, and the given family name—John Kelley Davis III—was all he needed to bring to the table; old money came with such pretentiousness. And being a rich snob who threw money around as if he were stuffed with hundred dollar bills, drank like a fish, and loved the women, made John Kelley no different from any past club president. He was a control freak when it was time to be a control freak, and he had a firm grip on the Murder Board, the brains behind everything the Blue Eyes Club did.
Above all the privilege talk, when John Kelley spoke, the others listened, obeyed, and stayed quiet until asked to speak. “So tell me, Buddy Boy…are you seriously proposing what I think you’re proposing. You want to take this show of ours to Dallas, Texas? You want to cut the head off the snake? Why not just cut the rattler off? We don’t have to kill the snake, do we?”
Those around the table, except for Buddy, laughed at John Kelley’s question. It was meant to be funny and nothing to take seriously. Then John Kelley repeated the question. “Are you seriously proposing that we cut the head off this snake?”
But when John Kelley raised the President’s visit to Dallas, the others sitting around the table knew doing something in Dallas was more than just talk. This time, no one laughed and some of the members’ faces showed everything; even thinking any of this talk was real was sickening.
“We have to deal with what’s been dealt to us, and that dealt to us is a poisonous snake that needs to be killed,” Buddy answered. “Those pigs up north and out in Hollywood call themselves Americans, but how they push their Socialism crap all over the place is bullshit. This insanity has got to end, and if certain people are willing to pay, this insanity can end with us.”
“So let’s just throw something out there, just for discussion purposes…because none of this is serious…right?” John Kelley attempted to laugh as he eyed each one sitting around the table, but he failed miserably. The air inside the pub was thick now, especially in the back, away from the open door and windows up front, and serious looks were on all of their faces. The place was starting to get hot, and not even the ceiling fan helped cool the place off. The smell of spilt beer permeated the place, and it was getting noisy, just the way John Kelley liked such meetings. But he didn’t feel right; understanding the concept of control more than anyone, he saw the control moving away from him, and he didn’t see it coming back. He also knew something big was going to happen for the Blue Eyes Club, and to ensure their safety, he and all the others would have no control over it.
“We’re all too serious about this; none of us should want to know the details about this….” John Kelley didn’t even want to put a name on this discussion. “It’s better for all of us just to decide yes or no.” He then looked at Buddy directly for the rest. “Just tell me about the fallout, Buddy Boy.”
Buddy didn’t answer, probably unsure about whose fallout was being asked about. But the look on Buddy’s face was clear to John Kelley. He recognized the smirk and what it silently said: Oh yes, there will be fallout; we’re going to shit on Washington, D.C., but it won’t fall on any of us. John Kelley pressed harder. “I’m talking about the fallout for the nine of us and the members we represent. Who would the Feds blame if something were to happen while the President is in Dallas?”
“Those fools in Texas,” another of the club members answered before Buddy had a chance to answer. “They are causing a lot of trouble. That’s why he’s thinking of going there…to shut them down and show the rest of the country who’s still in charge. This is why all this talk is insane. It’s too close to home.”
“And pretty soon he will be pushing the rest of the South around too,” John Kelley shot back quickly; he didn’t need more time to think this visual through. “Texas might be west of the Mississippi River, but those north of Delaware saw the entire Southern Belt as one big pot of trouble. But we’re not the only ones who hate this snake. Ain’t that right, Buddy Boy?” John Kelley asked.
“I’m not saying the Yankees hate him enough to kill him,” Buddy answered. “But choosing not to go after those responsible is another story. Who cares what those bastards think? They wouldn’t give a rat’s ass to help any of us.”
“And neither would those mob-rats in Tampa,” another club member spoke out. “We can’t seriously be talking about this kind of stuff…just because your roommate’s daddy works for the mob. We’ll all be dead.”
“Not if we do it right…and keep our mouths shut,” Buddy responded. “Just look at how much money we’ll earn.”
“But, we’ll be dead,” the same member spoke.
“Not if we keep our mouths shut,” Buddy repeated. “I’ve heard of worse.”
“How can anything be worse than this,” the same club member replied.
“It can’t,” Buddy answered quickly and then added, “And that’s my point. We need to do this because it will be the greatest thing this club has ever done. Mark my words. We want to be the best. This will make us the best.”
Intrigued by the response, John Kelley gave Buddy the “keep-talking” sign. At the start, he had no intention of approving such a crazy plan, but now his mind was spinning. The Murder Board had discussed the need to up the ante; the appeal for political anarchy was fading and so was the money. To keep the Blue Eyes Club running effectively across the southern belt, the group needed new donors. But more than anything, the club needed the big one to separate it from all the other secret political clubs that seemed to be growing like weeds inside universities and colleges. John Kelley was hearing the same from club elders who expected the sitting club president always to deliver. Make it happen and make it big…or step aside and let someone else give it a go.
Now it appeared that this “someone else” was sitting right in front of him. “If something were to happen in Dallas during the President’s visit, how do you know they wouldn’t go after those in Tampa?” John Kelley asked Buddy and then gave the others around the table the zip it signal. “And how do we know that if they go after those in Tampa, they won’t come after us too?”
“Go after the Tropicana Family,” Buddy replied. “Are you kidding me? Why would they go after the mob when the whole world will end up blaming it on everyone else…starting with Castro, Khrushchev, the Communist party in New York and Hollywood, the Baathist-hater refugees in Detroit…Washington insiders. They’re all the same, and right now none of them are happy. And….”
“And what?”
“And if we don’t do it, someone else will. We’ve got first dibs, but those in Tampa won’t wait too much longer. Tampa will go to someone else if we say no.”
“Someone else? Who?” the questions echoed from around the table.
“People in Texas…with a lot of money. Do I have to name them all?” Buddy replied. He knew he didn’t have to list the usual suspects, but he did. “L.H. Hunt, Ed Walker, Criswell, Dealey…all of them hate Kennedy and would spend every penny they have getting rid of him. They’re at the top of the list, but they’re not the only ones and these others are not all Republicans. His stinking support is falling fast. Give him one more year in the White House and no side will support his policies. No one!” Buddy raised his voice to ensure his final point was clear.
“Then why do it?” John Kelley asked.
“Because we can and it will make us famous.”
“Forget fame. I just want some part of this to make sense: How can any Yankee hate Kennedy more than we do? This can’t be right.” This time it was the representative from Baton Rouge who spoke up. He was from Louisiana State University and this talk of Dallas was getting a little too close to home for him. “With or without the mob, Buddy Boy over there wants to make it seem that the Feds will go after others, up north, if something were to happen to the President, but they won’t. The Feds will end up grouping a bunch of lawless Texans in as a southern problem, where do you think they’ll look first? The schools, and mine will be one of the first they go after. I can’t let that happen. This is serious, John Kelley. You are responsible for the future of this club and its members. This could really backfire.”
The member’s tone demanded a serious answer; it was time to move this discussion off the table or on to John Kelley for a final decision. He abandoned his stare down of Buddy and looked around the table for others to chime in.
The next to speak was a senior at Ole Miss. “Just because Kennedy won’t spend money like all the liberals up north want and he likes flaming overseas conflicts and orchestrating an assassination in South Vietnam doesn’t mean they’ll turn on him and neither will the mob. And neither does plotting to kill Castro. He’s a blue-blood Democrat; they never turn on their own kind. A stinking liberal will never turn on another liberal. It’s just the way they think.”
“But he’s not that socialist, and he’s not the liberal all those northerners thought he was,” Buddy spoke up again. “Look at what he did to Turkey, just to save Cuba. He pushed Nikita Khrushchev out of Cuba and Nikita Khrushchev pushed him out of Turkey. He’d take Cuba’s money any day over Turkey’s…and cheap Havana whores. Trust me…it’s little Joe they wanted at first; John F. Kennedy’s not the socialist they thought he’d be and he ain’t letting the mob run loose. They’re pissed and now they want to kill the snake.”
“John...please,” the member from Baton Rouge shot back. “This talk will get us nowhere, and neither will silly recommendations at a Murder Board meeting.” Such stuff should have already been eliminated. Buddy Scarborough is just wasting our time.”
“Do the rest of you think this is just wasted time…trying to plan something that will raise us higher than this club has ever been?” John Kelley spoke with firm intent and then eyed each of the others around the table. He hated when a fellow member called him “John,” and he really hated when there was a split at the table. He knew how to control what was real and what wasn’t real, especially politics. It was as if some link of red and blue realism literally flowed in his veins. He didn’t like wasting time either, but their next act of anarchy had to be big and perfectly timed. “What if…something were to happen to the President during one of his other trips…somewhere further away…like Miami, Chicago, Los Angeles?”
“No!” John Kelley was cut off by several other club members, who had been quiet to this point but now reacted sharply. “We don’t go after sitting Presidents…either in Texas or in Cape Cod. Hell, we don’t go after any of them. We can’t go there and you know it.”
The official rule—Nothing was off the Murder Board table—stood firm most of the time, with the all-consuming conditions fully understood: proposals had to be ugly and mean; they had to shake up the political world; and last, they couldn’t pick sides. Partisanship was never a defining moment when the Murder Board debated proposals; it was always about the ugliness, fallout, and payoff.
With these rules understood, the proposal to work with the Tropicana crime family in Tampa to assassinate U.S. President John F. Kennedy during his visit to Dallas was officially on the table and had to be debated. The debate had to begin and finish with the club president’s stated decision, or else it would be moved off the table. The timing made Buddy Scarborough nervous; he’d promised his roommate back in Columbia, South Carolina, that he’d have an answer and it would make both of them happy…and rich. But time seemed to be running out. It was four-thirty, and by now, the traffic coming in and out of the pub was picking up. The pub would be full of rowdy Vanderbilt summer school co-eds and West Nashville workers who were getting an early start on the weekend within the hour. And the club president’s sense of urgency seemed to be missing, a delay tactic that moved things off the table without an official decision. Time is up…everyone not approved is officially turned down.
All the heads focused on John Kelley to move the discussion along, but his mind shifted fast when a tall and blond young waitress walked up to take more beer orders. She wore glasses and her hair was pulled up, but she carefully showed her assets. J.K. took a closer look at her long legs when she bent over the table to clean up beer spills. The slit of her skirt went high up on her leg. The members sitting around the table saw the smile she made when J.K.’s hand pulled the slit further apart and then patted her on the backside. And then, used to getting what he wanted whenever he wanted it, he went too far.
When the girl jumped and moved to another part of the table, J.K. and the others around the table laughed, except for Buddy. When Buddy stayed quiet and stared John Kelley down, the table got quiet.
“Here, Sweet Cheeks; get us another round of beers and whisky shots,” John Kelley said to the waitress, handing her a handful of bills. “Keep the change.”
She counted the money, smiled, and walked away. As soon as the waitress was out of hearing range, John Kelley began his attack on Buddy. You want to come in and take over the Murder Board with some crazy plan to kill the President of the United States…just because you know somebody who knows somebody who knows somebody. Well, Buddy Boy, it’s time to show me what you’re made of.
“What’s wrong, little Buddy Boy? Miss Four Eyes not your type? You don’t like girls?”
“I just don’t think we should be talking about club business with girls around. You know how much they talk. We just need to be careful.”
The group was seated in a back room, more than twenty feet from the growing mad of partiers in the front of the pub. John Kelley was ready to pick some more. “You think? Look at this place? We’re separated for a reason. Do you really think that bar girl could get us in trouble? Or Maybe—”
“Maybe what?” Buddy shot back.
“Maybe she just not your type, Buddy Boy.”
Buddy was wearing jeans and a wrinkled white shirt. He was clean, but he didn’t fit in with the others. The whole time, as Buddy stayed quiet and didn’t take the bait, John Kelley was sizing him up. “If you ain’t got balls for this kind of stuff, how the hell are you going to rise to the center of the Murder Board?”
When Buddy stayed quiet, John Kelley pressed for more. “You got something down there, Buddy…between your legs? You’ve got two balls right?”
“I’ve got balls,” Buddy finally replied, but that wasn’t enough for John Kelley. This time his tone was slower and precise. “We are here to throw things out of balance, throw wrenches into the political machine, shock people into seeing the corruption of politics. You know what we do here, right? Anarchy? You’ve heard of chaos right? Do any of y’all have the balls to do this?”
“I know what anarchy is, and yes, we can do this, but….” another Murder Board member spoke out but didn’t finish.
“But what?” John Kelley asked. This was a fellow Georgian speaking, an Emory student, who might as well be from Hawaii. But Kelley still let him speak.
“We all understand the Blue Eyes concept…we understand anarchy. But we cannot destroy an entire political system…just to out some corrupt politicians.”
A short pause kept everyone sitting around the table on edge. “We cannot go after U.S. presidents, J.K.,” another member spoke out. “This whole discussion is insane.”
“Yes, we can.” Another member, who had been quiet so far, spoke up this time. He was a close friend with John Kelley, who was also at the University of Georgia and a fellow fraternity brother. Hearing this insanity come from someone inside his inner circle not only surprised him; John Kelley was startled. Now all this crazy talk was real and it, the reply said with confidence and seriousness, left little wiggle room. The friend eyed the other eight members sitting around the table, finishing with John Kelley. “If we don’t do it, someone else will, and the two things I know about the mob are they will pay up and they will keep this quiet. I agree with Buddy…the Feds will never go after the Tropicana family.”
This was enough for John Kelley as he sat up in his seat and eyed Buddy. “You’re sure he’ll actually go to Dallas?” John Kelley asked. “Going to El Paso to meet with the Gov’na is one thing; going to Dallas is another.”
“He’s going to Dallas,” Buddy answered confidently. “The folks in Tampa know people in Austin. He’s going; they just aren’t going to make it public until just before the trip.” After a short pause, Buddy closed the deal, dismissing the members still rolling their eyes with mouths agape. “We have plenty of time to plan something that will forever change our lives. This is too good to pass up. The time is right to do something bigger than life.”
“Plan something. Please, John, put an end to this nonsense now,” the member from Baton Rouge, Teddy Smith, made one last plea. “Trouble in Texas will spillover in Louisiana faster than you can say crocodile. I don’t like the President either, but hating him is one thing; killing him is another. And…if we just want to go after the President, there are other things we can do.”
“Like what?” Buddy shot back. “More protests? Outing more of his hateful bigot friends in Washington. What can possibly be better than going after the President of the United States of America directly? It can’t get better than this.”
“It can’t get better than this.” Teddy mimicked Buddy as he looked for support around the table. “We’re talking about John Fitzgerald Kennedy, the President of the United States of America. Have you lost your minds? Have all of y’all lost your minds?”
“The Blue Eyes Club has no limits,” Buddy answered as he looked to John Kelley to back him. “No, I have not lost my mind; I am serious about this.” He paused before continuing, wanting to make sure everyone understood his next point. “That’s what we were all told when we joined and what we pledged to when we were placed on the Murder Board. Anything we can do to shake up a politician, disturb the status quo, and create political chaos and anarchy we do…if the club president agrees. The president sits in the middle for a reason. It’s John Kelley’s call.”
Again, all eyes turned back to John Kelley. He waited a few minutes to answer, one thought going in and out of his head. How badly can this end? For crying out loud, we are only a bunch of college kids in a secret society that our daddies pushed on us just because their daddies pushed this shit on them.
“First of all,” John Kelley began speaking, “Teddy, my name is not John. It is John Kelley…so as long as I am President of the Blue Eyes Club, I want to be called John Kelley. Second…” He paused and looked squarely at Buddy to finish, “if I say yes to this, Buddy, the entire undertaking will be yours. Are you up for it?”
Buddy shook his head up and down, a sliver of a smile showing on his face. “This country is headed straight to hell. Sometimes we have to do more than just trip people up. Ruining a precious reputation is okay; some people don’t deserve reputations. But others…just need to be erased.”
“Erased!” One last plea came from across the table. “We don’t erase people, John…John Kelley. Please. That’s just not what we do.”
But it was too late. Seconds later, the President of the Blue Eyes Club spoke his final decision to the Murder Board. “Let’s do it, but keep all of this to yourselves and as few people as possible. I don’t want to know anything tied to this proposal. Is that clear, Buddy Boy?”
“Yes,” Buddy answered, a big grin on this face.
“You can handle this, right?”
“I got balls. I can handle anything you throw at me.”
“I don’t have to remind you how this club operates. You do this right, and you’ll be in charge of the Murder Board. You ready for that?”
“I’ve never been more ready for anything in my entire life.”
“Very well,” John Kelley said. “This meeting is over. We meet the elders in thirty minutes. Be at the hotel lobby waiting and don’t be late. I’ll let them know my decision.”
The others walked out of the pub, not sure what to think, heads down and worried looking. But John Kelley wasn’t; he looked like he’d won a gold metal as he walked over to pull Buddy back. He had one last thing to discuss privately.
“You’ve got some more clothes to wear?”
“Of course I do.”
“You sure?” John Kelley asked, this time pulling out his wallet, fat with big bills. He pulled out a hundred dollar bill and held it for Buddy to take. “The first impression with the elders is very important. It’s worth the extra effort.”
“I got nice clothes,” Buddy answered.
“Well, go back to the hotel and change. The elders will want to get to know you.”
November 22, 1963—Dallas
Buddy Scarborough waited patiently at Love Field with four female coeds. He’d been in Dallas just months before to observe the U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations, Adlai Ewing Stevenson II. Buddy mused, remembering how Stevenson was the elitist, Ivy League educator liberal who pushed the liberal agenda even when Kennedy wouldn’t. He had that intellectual demeanor, eloquent oratory, and the I-know-what’s-best-for-you confidence that sickened most southerners. He didn’t have a chance in hell to change minds in Dallas, during the fall of 1963, leading up to the President’s visit. But he tried…and was yelled at, spit on, and hit by a protestor, and all he had to say in response was, “You people need to go back to school.”
Buddy now tried to envision how this day would go. It was sunny and warmer than forecasted. A lot of people were out and about, but the crowd was quiet and under control. Compared to the earlier spectacle, when Stevenson came to town, it seemed like a different day. It’s not the lack of schooling that’s the problem. It’s the lack of leadership. And you, my friends, will learn the hard way that education and blue blood do not make you the wiser person.
Buddy Scarborough’s call was made to Lewis Adams at 11:30 a.m.; Buddy and four female coeds secured their space outside at Love Field’s main terminal exit. The motorcade was already lined up just twenty or so feet from where they stood, front row just feet from where the President would exit to enter his car.
Lewis Adams was in a country store located on the opposite side of Fort Worth, at Carswell Air Force Base’s Landing Field A; the exact phone had been selected three weeks before, and Lewis knew the quickest route to get there, approximately ten minutes after the plane’s departure.
Buddy had left the four women and made the call from the closest phone he could find…inside a dirty diner located inside the Love Field terminal. He’d listened intently and didn’t speak after he said his name. That was the sign for Lewis to give the coded status information. When Buddy returned to the four women, he held on to one of the girls, kissed her, and passed on the details. She then turned and told the other three. Around them, the group was to appear as an innocent young couple accompanied by her three closest girlfriends. The five were an innocent-looking group—clean-cut and attractive well-to-do young Americans eager to shake hands with the President.
The pretty girls were positioned to capture the President’s attention; he loved the tall cute blond types, and all three fit the bill. Buddy Scarborough, the one in charge, just wanted to face his victim eye-to-eye…a must-do ritual for all approved Murder Board activities. That rule was by design, so those doing the dirty work could come back and share details of the feat to those paying for it. The rich donors would gloat as other club members would scribe details in a club ledger, everything down to the finest detail.
“The President’s plane just left Carswell Field.” Buddy stood beside his make-believe girlfriend. They looked good together; he was tall and dark; she was the pretty blond every boy down south expected to have and marry one day. They held hands to make it seem real, but her hands were cold and his sweaty. They hated touching each other, but the charade was part of the plan.
“He’ll be landing in twenty minutes,” Buddy whispered in her ear, like he was love-biting the tip. “Do not let anyone push you out of the way, and make sure the others keep their positions.”
“Then what happens?” the girl asked, jerking her head from his open mouth.
“Nothing happens,” Buddy answered. “You just need to smile at the President. I want him standing in front of us. Make sure the others smile too.”
That was all Buddy Scarborough said to the four women. Two of the females were recruited from Rice and two from the university in Austin. None of the four knew anything beyond the meet-and-greet responsibility, but they looked like typical groupies waiting for their two seconds of face time with the nation’s lover-boy leader. Makeup was perfect, lipstick applied, blond hair flowing down their endowed backsides, tops of their blouses left unbuttoned. After the general instructions were laid out to them, they all just stood there and waited.
Buddy was standing up in the front and smiling when President Kennedy made his way down the short line of spectators. Hands were sticking out from all directions, but Buddy extended his just a little farther.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. President. Keep up the good fight. Stay safe,” Buddy said as the President took his hand and gave him a hearty handshake.
After the handshake, Buddy let it all sink in: holding the President’s hand; the eye-to-eye contact; and the lies. It was so surreal, and gloomy; for one second, Buddy felt as if it were his life on the line, and then the next second, his belly churned with excitement. I’m building my legacy, for my future boy and his boy. Buddy wanted to yell it out, but he couldn’t. So he spoke it out quietly as the motorcade began moving. It was a quiet afterthought, a reflection of things to come, so private even the four females surrounding him couldn’t hear.
“What an amazingly insane world we live in. He has no idea what’s coming his way.”