Oh Christ. The long night of the bar captain, on that last night before the feasting holiday.
I don't know what's better, if the twitch in the muscle and nerves under the eye feels soothed by the old habit of three good glass of Ventoux and a good loud playing of several Pogues songs in the night bar after all are gone, including the musicians, including the last few people who could have made you nervous, or if it would feel better if, as instructions might say, you didn't drink at all. I chose the music, I chose listening to myself recorded reading the Gettysburg Address, thank god, something creative after a lot of jee-ing and haw-ing, dodging and ducking…
For I could see how it might be calming, to finally release your own singing voice after enduring a singer who, yeah, it happens to all of us, ain't always quite on key.
Tuesday was full of light, despite the heavy pouring cold rain outside. The sweet lady, when asked if anyone had made note of what happened fifty years ago, quietly, calmly, says, well, no I didn't watch any of the History Channel. I was there, in the White House. I remember what the clock looked like, she finally says, in her quiet voice.
It was an open White House, she remembers. He'd come out and stand against a desk, and the young women, there were many, were very capable and competent and working in many significant positions.
She helped out with all the letters to Jackie. That they loved his hair, one theme, in the letters of women to Jackie, or to themselves, after the great sick Mafia hit tragedy or whatever it was.