BLACK PRESIDENT, Chapter 27. G.W. Bush is initiated into Skull & Bones at Yale, and is surprised by the rigmarole of the odd process.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

November 17, 1967

G. W Bush, class of ‘68 – barring any unforeseen events – was trying to unravel the mysteries of his Junior class Algebra assignment, but the solution was resisting his half-hearted focus. At least his roommate, Jim Reynolds, didn’t protest hearing the acid rock songs he was so fond of, Strawberry Alarm clock, Jefferson Airplane and the like. The song White Rabbit was droning on just as a very loud knock on the door made the two college kids jump, almost literally, out of their chairs.

BAM, BAM, BAM. It came again before either could reach the doorknob. G.W. had already heard about a certain legendary loud knock and thought to himself that maybe this was actually it. He turned the handle and found himself staring into the faces of three senior men, all somehow crowded and crammed into the narrow hallway of Hilton House. The one closest to him immediately reached out and tapped him on the left shoulder.

“Skull and Bones. Do you accept?” yelled Tom Payne, a handsome 21-year-old who G.W. had seen around the Yale campus and talked to a few times in the three years since he himself first arrived in New Haven.

“Yes, I do,” said G.W., spoken in an accent that betrayed his Texas roots. From behind Payne another Bonesman took a step forward and formally presented G.W. with a rolled up scroll, sealed with black wax over a black ribbon. As G.W. grabbed hold of the diploma-like paper he could see the skull emblem with the number 322 inscribed below it. Before he could think of a response, the three Bonesmen did a military about-face and marched away in step, their mission accomplished. With the door closed again, G.W. cracked open the seal and read the short proclamation.

George W. Bush. You have been chosen Skull and Bones, 1967. Your date of death is: Thursday, November 27, 8PM. You are expected at the TOMB, without clothes, without weapons, without shame. Wer war der Thor, wer Weiser, Better oder Kaiser? Ob Arm,ob Reich, im Tode gleich”

It was common knowledge that the old vine-covered, crypt-like, brownstone building near the center of campus just off the administration building was the headquarters of Skull and Bones, a secret society rumored to deal in the occult and Germanic initiation rites. Few knew anything more. But George Bush, son of George Herbert Walker Bush and grandson of Prescott Bush, both Bonesmen before him, had known that he would one day be initiated into the organization. His father told him so when they had talked on the telephone right after Halloween, that “an honor” might soon come his way.

“Hi, son,” said the senior Bush from his desk at Zapata Oil in Houston. With the news that his company had been bailed out again with a three million dollar infusion from a fellow Bonesman, he was relaxed enough to take a break, chat a little and prepare his son for what lay in store for him.

“How’re your studies going? ” he began.

“Fine,” said G.W., unable to add much more. His studies were always hard, and often boring. “How’s mom?” he asked in turn.

“She’s doing just peachy, son,” said George Senior. “Out visiting the O’Donnells in Austin, catching up on Christmas shopping, I figure. You know she likes to buy to beat the band.”

“That I know,” said G.W. His mother, Barbara Bush, was the most disciplined person he had ever met, including anyone he’d come in contact with at Yale. She would have all her Christmas presents bought and wrapped in brightly-colored specialty paper long before the Thanksgiving rush.

“And you, Dad? How’s the oil flowing?”

“Oh...purty good. Just now getting caught up on business... before it gets me in a hammerlock,” said his father. Then, adjusting his tone to no-nonsense, he got right to the point.

“Son. There’s going to be a loud knock at your door soon. Do you know what that will mean?”

“No,” said G.W.

“It will mean that you have been invited to join a...an honor society there at Yale, one that my father and I are proud members of. I know you’ve seen the skull emblem on that framed document I have on my wall. That’s what you’ll be getting. Just do exactly what they tell you to do.”

“And don’t be afraid,” George Bush Senior added. “You’ll see some pretty weird stuff. Pretty weird indeed.”

Ten days later, G.W. Bush stripped down to his birthday suit, wrapped a robe around himself, pulled on his gym shoes without socks and headed over to the Skull and Bones brownstone, reaching the door at 8PM exactly. He could hear the distant chiming of Yale’s Wentworth clock counting out the hour as he stood near the door, the vines hanging in the entrance alcove pretty much blocking him from view of any other students wandering the campus.

The door suddenly swung open. Before G.W. there stood what looked like a German officer from World War I. The young man wore a vintage helmet with a pointed metal spike jutting out from the top. On the front of the helmet was a shiny coat-of-arms depicting a lion rearing up on its hind legs on the left side, a crown stuck on its wild-maned head, and an elk on the right, also up on its hind legs, topped with four-pointed horns. Both quadrupeds were facing the center where a larger crown rested above a central crest, upon which were embossed three separate repetitions of both “four elk points,” and “running lions,” representing Germany’s emblem of the Imperial Family. The rest of the young officer’s uniform consisted of a black pants and shirt, also vintage, shiny metal buttons up the front with a bold SS insignia on the lapel. G.W. had to suppress a laugh at the theatrics, but was duly impressed that the fellow held to the script.

“Enter. Your death is expected,” said John Yeoman, another second generation Bonesman.

“All righty,” said G.W. But as he stepped forward, Yeoman, eyes still straight ahead military-style, issued his next command.

“No filth shall enter here, no unsacred garments. That robe, (a tiny nod toward the floor), those shoes...stay outside the door!”

If G.W. thought of questioning Yeoman, it was only for a second. The Connecticut November chill had been discomforting even wearing the thick terrycloth robe. Now the cold hit him hard as he shed the garment and kicked off his shoes. Completely exposed now, he was relieved to step into the welcoming warmth of the inner Tomb building.

As anyone would, G.W. felt awkward and vulnerable as he walked naked into the darkened space. Only a few candles illuminated the room, whose corners disappeared into blackness. As soon as Yeoman secured and locked the heavy front door, G.W. saw movement in the dark recesses of the far back walls, and discerned the shapes of fourteen people emerging from the darkness. These Bonesmen, dressed in long black robes, moved forward into the room. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, G.W. noticed that the walls were covered with a black velvety material, which had made the figures so invisible. Fortunately, the whole performance looked like something he’d seen in a horror movie at the drive-in back home, some kind of costume period-piece – a thought that made it a whole lot easier to deal with the helplessness of his present condition.

“George W. Bush...” began one of the men, spoken in a deep Shakespearian voice from the rear of the room. “You have been sentenced to death.”

The Bonesman allowed his decree to sink in, then asked, “A fool’s death, or a hero’s death? How say you?” Without hesitation, G.W. said, “A hero’s death.”
The speaker instantly rejoined, “Then a fool’s death it is!”

With precision, the large group of men quickly encircled G.W. , took hold of him roughly, and began walking him up the stairs. G.W. tried to fight the feeling of panic and succeeded in containing it by reminding himself that his father had gone through the same initiation. And yes, indeed, it was weird, just as Dad had warned.

On reaching the second floor, G.W. spotted the number “322” above one of several doorways. As the men escorted him into that room, he noticed the large, five-feet-wide pentagon shape etched into the back wall, neatly rendered in thick black lines. The other walls were covered in red velvet and in the center of the room was a casket, the sides painted black, the interior a hot-red like the walls.

“To die and be buried is our fate, one and all. But here we bind ourselves to the order of Skull and Bones. It’s one for all and all for one,” said his tour guide. G.W. thought he recognized the man, an upperclassman named Conneley.

“Only through death can you, George W. Bush, join us, for we are already skulls...” Then Conneley gave the cue, “Gentleman,” and the other Bonesmen grabbed G.W. and lifted him up and into the crypt. More surprising to G.W. than anything else at that moment was the fact that he went along with it, without putting up the normal, Texas-style fight. G.W. knew himself as a pretty good scrapper; puncher, wrestler, kicker, scratcher, biter, gouger. But here he was, docile as a newborn baby, going along with it all. The velvet lining, he gratefully noted, did seem to provide some warmth. He wrapped his arms across his chest and enjoyed the momentary comfort.

Suddenly, without warning, a bucket of cold water was thrown on him from somewhere behind his head. It happened so quickly that all he saw was a glimpse of metal before the deluge hit, wetting his body from head to toe. He gave out an automatic scream and jolted up, shaking his head and using his hands to frantically squeegie off the water. As he pushed his hair out of his eyes the Bonesmen quickly repeated a phrase three times, in unison:

“Who was the fool, who the wise man, beggar or king? Whether poor or rich, all’s the same in death.

“Who was the fool, who the wise man, beggar or king? Whether poor or rich, all’s the same in death.

“Who was the fool, who the wise man, beggar or king? Whether poor or rich, all’s the same in death.”

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(Chapter 28 next)