Exit Signs
Fragment 2:33
The Supreme Court has just ordered President Nixon to hand over the tapes, not heavily edited transcripts. “Got him now,” I tell the car radio. Since Kennedy’s Camelot and his conspiracy-soaked assassination in Dallas, I’ve been fascinated by the hoopla, cigar smoke-filled backrooms and tragedies of American politics. So much more vibrant than the English slide from salience. I stay in mum’s car, borrowed for the week, to hear analysts analyse.
I’m also reluctant to get out and take the next step into an affair with the estranged wife of an ex-colleague. Judy is smart, adoring, sexy, with two kids, living in Essex, ninety minutes from Gipsy Hill. I’m parked just out of sight from her front door, waiting for the anonymity of night.
“Can Nixon climb out of the hole he’s dug for himself?” the talk-host asks. Judy’s kids don’t like me much; they’re wise. “He’s too far down, he’ll keep digging” replies one analyst. I’ll wait until they’re in bed. Then leave early for work tomorrow morning.
They’ll never know I was there for the night. “The cover-up is worse than the crime” a second analyst says. “Ab-so-lutely” I tell the car radio. I’ll wait a little longer; it’s a good discussion.
pale shades of green
morning a little later
first jersey day
Parallel universes all the way.
A jewel-like memory with the quality of good fiction.