BLACK PRESIDENT, Chapter 22. Rudy's big ride turns strange when driver Jamie disappears in the Oregon surf. New President Johnson interacts with Jackie. Hoover continues to spread his evil.

PART TWO 1963-1974

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Rudy wondered if he was the only hitchhiker in Oregon, since the highway patrol had the No Hitchhiking signs posted every ten miles or so. Luckily he’d caught the big ride in the old, beat up Dodge pickup driven by a young man in his early twenties. Then Rudy had the luxury of watching the signs whisk by for miles and miles as they traveled north, finally turning off toward the coast. The kid, named Jamie, said he just wanted some company for his tour of Oregon beaches, and Rudy had been standing on the road near Grant’s Pass at the right moment. Right place at the right time. That’s what it took, thought Rudy. That’s how he had heard Sarah’s story on the plane. If he’d been assigned any other seat he wouldn’t have ever know about Kennedy’s dalliance. At any rate, now he was riding instead of waiting, sitting shotgun with a nice breeze circulating through the oval windows of the small cab. In the sudden comfort he let his mind wander back to Kennedy, how the President had definitely been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Boom. Brain’s gone. No more head. Definitely wrong place. He wondered how Sarah had reacted, knowing Kennedy so intimately as she had. Did she cry? Probably. People all over the county and the world had cried, and they hadn’t ever even met the man, much less had sex with him

Before the truck reached the Oregon coast it passed some funky little gas stations and old wood-frame houses, clumped together in small settlements. When they stopped at an ancient gas station for directions to the coastal highway, the old duffer out front, speaking from his folding chair on the porch, talked in an odd slang Jamie and Rudy could barely understand.

“Eeah, to yah rode yuh want the lefter lane, two mi along and cut-er up. Thas the one. Just cut’er up tha hill,” said the old man, a long-visored hat covering his eyes from the sun. “Thas your best betting.”

Rudy and Jamie had mimicked the old man’s words for the next twenty miles, laughing uproariously as the ever-increasing humidity in the air assured them they were indeed on a direct path to the Oregon shore.

The air got cooler too as they rounded each bend in the narrow road, the elevation dropping considerably over the final two miles. As the downhill curves and cutbacks became more frequent, Rudy wondered if the brakes of the old truck would hold up. Suddenly the road took its last big turn and leveled out, revealing a full panorama of Pacific Ocean, waves crashing against a deserted and windswept beach. What a welcome sight, thought Rudy, after all the bouncing around. The kid had handled the truck pretty well, kept it on the pavement, guided it perfectly down the mountain, so Rudy made mention of the accomplishment.

“Nice driving, Jamie. A real fine job of getting us to paradise.” Jamie was smiling broadly.
“Thanks yourself. It would have been a kinda lonely last ride

without you.” Looking back at the broad ocean panorama to their left, Jamie added, “Let’s pull over and get our toes wet, OK?”

Jamie pulled the truck into the rest stop area and let the engine idle for a bit. He listened to the motor intently, checked the gauges, watched the water temperature for almost a minute before turning the ignition key to OFF. The motor rattled and sputtered a bit before dropping its revs and becoming still. The two men got out and walked together to the public restrooms, taking turns relieving themselves. Rudy stood by as Jamie went first, a courtesy to the driver. Then came Rudy’s turn. As he entered he was surprised to find the words Jamie’s a dirty coward! written with black marker pen in big cursive scrawl on the wall near the mirrors.

Rudy exited the bathroom in time to see Jamie tearing across the beach toward the water line, dry sand flying up behind his fast- moving feet. When Jamie reached the water he kept on going, charging right into a large wave and disappeared beneath the foam. God, thought Rudy, that kid really is serious about swimming, diving in without even removing his wallet or sandals. From the wind-chill it was obvious to Rudy that the ocean must be very cold. That graffiti in the bathroom wall certainly hadn’t referred to his Jamie, thought Rudy. That kid had balls of steel.

Rudy waited for the kid to pop up out of the next wave, spit salt water from his mouth, emit a loud, teeth-chattering scream. But no Jamie appeared. By the time Rudy had made it to the surf’s edge and felt the icy water that rushed up onto the sand, five more big waves had crashed against the shore. The kid was holding his breath for a hell of a long time. That’s it. A big joke on Rudy.

Crash. Another big wave hit and Rudy had to suddenly run backwards about twenty feet to avoid getting his shoes and pant cuffs completely wet. The sky was getting darker, as if in league with the ocean, conspiring to dress the scene in foreboding. Still no Jamie. Rudy took off his shoes, rolled up his pants to the knees and waded a few steps into the surf. The water was so cold it felt like his bare skin was being stripped off. With the wind and roar of the water folding over itself, spraying in all directions, he quickly became dissuaded from venturing any farther out.

What had happened to the kid? Rudy scanned the white tips of waves and could see nothing except shifting currents, swirls of white foam, waves curling and falling into themselves, endlessly. Damn, thought Rudy. The kid just ran in and disappeared. How could that be?

Rudy hung around the beach until it got too dark to make out any details of the seascape in front of him. Windblown and chilled to the bone, he returned to the old truck and spotted the ignition keys right on the seat. He realized anyone could have stolen the truck during the past several hours. He got in on the driver’s side, leaned over and checked the glove compartment. There was no registration, no official document of any kind. The kid had no proof of ownership, no insurance, nothing. Now what? Call the police? File a “missing person” report? On who? Rudy didn’t even know the kid’s last name.

Rudy turned the ignition key and the gauges sprang forward to their “on” positions. The gas gauge showed more than half a tank of gas, easily enough to get back to Highway 101, thought Rudy, maybe make it all the way up to the Washington border. But leaving the kid behind without knowing what happened to him seemed wrong. Of course, if he didn’t take the truck the cops would just tow it away, impound it, then buy it themselves for a couple of bucks at a repossession auction. The old Dodge deserved better. Rudy pressed his foot on the starter button on the floorboard next to the gas pedal, and the engine roared to life.

Looking back toward the beach one last time made him face facts. The kid was completely gone. Most likely dead and gone. But he’d certainly been no coward. It had taken considerable bravery to submerge in that frigid water and kill himself.

Within minutes the old truck rolled past the ocean frontage and, with Rudy’s quick downshift to second gear, ascended the grade toward the summit.

***

November 23, 1963

JFK’s body, accompanied by Jackie Kennedy, now-President Lyndon Baines Johnson and his wife Lady Bird, was flown back to Washington on Airforce One. It wasn’t so much that Jackie hated Lyndon or even his wife, but that their old, down-home ways just got under her skin. Her bullshit detector seemed to always be on alert, sounding a silent alarm whenever she heard their long, drawled-out, southern-accented phrases. She couldn’t help detecting the forced nature of the words, the utter fraudulence of their sympathy. Yes, she would later write Lyndon a letter about all the events of the last few days, thanking him for all his considerations, but the sight of him sitting there on the Kennedy bed minutes after the swearing in had seemed a major violation. Less than 24 hours before that it had been her bed, hers and Jack’s, and now LBJ was using it as an easy chair for his oversized body. The world had shifted so quickly that Jackie could find pain and effrontery just about anywhere she looked. But she had to admit Lyndon had been helpful when she made the unsuccessful attempt to reach her kids

“Lyndon?” Jackie had asked in her usual soft, but now stressed voice, “Is there anyway I can speak to John and Caroline by phone from the plane?”

“Why sure, honey,” he answered, taking no exception that she hadn’t used the word “President” before his name. He hopped up immediately from the bed.

“Charlie!”

When he didn’t receive an immediate response, he called out again, louder, “HEY CHARLIE! COME HERE PLEASE,” his voice now imbued with a new Presidential authority.

The Secret Service agent got up from his seat and quickly headed over.

“Listen, Charlie. Mrs. Kennedy needs to speak with her kids. Right now!”

“In the White House?” Lyndon’s questioning glance at Jackie brought a nod. “Can you talk to Jim...up front...and get this taken care of immediately?” Lyndon enjoyed testing the new channels of command. (Anything he wanted he should get, pronto, right?) Charlie was off in a flash, down the aisle and in through the cockpit door .

“Thank you Lyndon. I haven’t had to think about them...with Birdie there...until now.” Jackie looked ready to cry.

“Please, no need to explain yourself, honey. Have a seat until we get you connected,” said Lyndon, playing the part of both humble servant and host. It turned out that Jackie would soon be reunited with her children, but no phone contact was possible beforehand. Something about “National Security.”

Lyndon Johnson had always admired Jackie, liked her, and couldn’t for the life of him understand why JFK had chased all the trashy bimbos when he had such a classy bit of tail. Less than a two weeks before, Jack Kennedy had visited the ranch with some young woman hanging all over him. He certainly didn’t suffer impotency, thought Johnson, as he held Jackie’s arm to help her get seated. Returning to the airborne “Kennedy suite,” Lyndon had to laugh to himself. A man like Jack Kennedy would have surely been caught and gutted in Texas by some furious husband if he had tried any of his womanizing shenanigans there. Yes sir, that Kennedy had lived a charmed life – until now.

***

J. Edgar Hoover sat in a Washington, D.C. hotel room, wearing a yellow dress. A knock with two short taps and two hard pounds meant that Paul had arrived. Moving his heavy body around to the back of the door, Hoover unlatched the bolt and eased the door open a crack, just enough to let the slim man into the room. Paul had rouge on, and a blond wig. Both men were smiling. They kissed, lipstick intermingling. Hoover felt Paul’s tongue against his and reciprocated. Hoover offered Paul a premixed drink, whiskey sour on the rocks. They placed the glasses to their lips. Hoover clicked on the tape recorder and the sounds of Jack Kennedy and Marilyn laughing and having sex could be heard coming out of the small speaker. Paul began to speak, but Hoover hushed him. The two men danced to the rhythm of the humping.———-

(CHAPTER 23 NEXT)