BLACK PRESIDENT, CHAPTER 3. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08NWCN6XG
Introducing Birdie, the WHITE HOUSE nursemaid to Caroline and John John, & Sarah's husband, Leon, who runs a gas station where no gas is ever pumped. 1st of 3 books from THE KENNEDY'S TWINS TRILOGY.
“This novel [Black President] took several years to come to fruition. The author says he wrote the first draft pre-9/11 and he has now published it at a significantly opportune moment in the history of the US Presidency. Schmidtʼs novel is in the finest tradition of faction, blending historical figures and events with those of his imagination. He uses as his vehicle for the plot JFKʼs well-known promiscuity, and the novel opens with the Presidentʼs seduction of a devout, married, African-American woman. Within two and a half years of the couple's only tryst, JFK is assassinated. The son born of their union rises from poverty to attain Americaʼs highest political office. The novel is quite cleverly written and Schmidt skillfully blends fact and fiction with guest appearances from Marilyn Monroe, J. Edgar Hoover and Martin Luther King.”
—Keith Simpson, MP
————-
B. Smyth. 4.0 out of 5 stars Good read.
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on September 23, 2010. Vine Customer Review of Free Product. <https://www.amazon.com/vine/about?ie=UTF8>
“This has taken me a while to read but it has been well worth it. This book I found really interesting from start to finish and gives a very unique insight into this subject.”
————-
FYI: Birdie and Leon are characters who were based on real people from my life. Leon lived in Oakland, CA, had a garage/service station (that pumped no gas…but repaired cars for his neighborhood, including my 1939 Dodge pickup). And Birdie worked for my parents in Chicago, IL, cleaned house, and put up with little white children like me, for a living).
—————
CHAPTER THREE
Birdie kept on fuming about that little Caroline Kennedy – the girl refused to eat scrambled eggs when she could see any white in them – but her husband Jolly wasn’t offering much comfort. In fact, his dull eyes barely acknowledged her presence in the small apartment. The Johnson Memorial Home for the elderly was one of the better- run facilities in D.C., but who was kidding who? The only reason her Jolly was there was because she was a “White House nigger.” Her position on the Kennedy staff, as kitchen help and nursemaid to the President’s children, had gained Jolly, a severe stroke victim, admittance to the nearly all-white facility. A mere phone call at the First Lady’s request had done the trick. But as much as she appreciated Mrs. Kennedy’s help, Birdie’s life was still far from perfect.
“She said she wouldn’t eat her eggs with all those “little white things in ’em,” Birdie continued, a haze of perspiration forming above her lip. In contrast to the frigid weather outside, the warmth in her husband’s room was oppressive.
“I tole the girl it’s all natural, that the egg’s got the yoke and the clear – the white later when I cooks it – but the little gal kept insistin’. She’s a talker for a two-and-a-halfer, a real terror. But I’s got ta laugh. She done knows her own Kennedy mind, al’righty. Maybe she’ll be a President someday an’ll remember ol’ Birdie, who fussed and fit her clothes, beat ‘er eggs until dat white done disappeared!”
Jolly’s eyes didn’t make contact with his wife of fifty-three years, just frozenly stared in the direction his head was pointed, aimed down the line of the pillow toward the thin white drapes and the brick building through the glass.
Arriving next at her Aunt Massy’s house, Birdie continued on with the egg story still determined to get it out of her system.
“So that girl couldn’t find no white in Birdie’s eggs. How about dat? If you ever try an’ scramble eggs that hard...you’ll get a might’ sore arm!”
Massy shook her head as she laughed at Birdie’s little problem. No one else she had it so easy. No other Negro friend had a husband in a free private hospital.
“Birdie, honey, you have it real rough, don’tcha?” said Aunt Massy, patting her friend’s hand softly for the effect. Instantly, they both broke into laughter, Birdie almost to the point of tears. The long-time friends, who’d shared some real pain and sorrow over the years, knew the egg problem amounted to less than nothing.
“What’s happened to Luke,” asked Birdie, changing the subject to more serious matters. “Any word about his condition?”
Now it was Aunt Massy’s turn to have teary eyes. Birdie didn’t really need an update on his health. She knew, like everyone else, that he was going to die soon. But it would have been impolite not to ask. While Birdie waited for her friend to get composed enough to answer, she poured coffee into the two cups and cut herself a second slice of cake.
************
Back home from her visit to Washington, D.C., Sarah’s daily life in Seattle revolved around Leon’s duties as owner and head mechanic at Ron’s Garage. She visited at lunchtime whenever she could, and hung out for awhile with his friends. Although her husband was in his early thirties, about ten years older than she was, it surprised her that he seemed to have no friends his own age. The men who hung around the garage and gas pumps while he repaired broken cars were older black men, ex-servicemen, retired postal workers, seemingly with little spark left for mischief. They had somehow survived the white man’s system, had kept jobs of some sort and had been able to provide for themselves in retirement. So they kept Leon company, told their stories about growing up in various cities (Chicago, New York, Memphis, Atlanta...), remarked on the state of the world, told stories of their youth, managed to keep the conversation lively for hours on end. It was on a quiet Thursday morning that Leon decided to tell his story of driving his Cadillac across country.
Smiling with the memory of early days, Leon waited for his friends to settle in. William Dirkson, a distinguished-looking black man in his late seventies, sat in the cushioned, metal-frame chair near the front door, just as another old buddy, Tommy Sinclair, a post office retiree, showed up at the door.
“Hey Tommy,” Leon called out. “Just getting ready to talk about my ole Caddie.”
Leon nodded in the direction of the vehicle, which they could see clearly through the office windows. It still appeared new, the sunlight glinting off chrome and other recently polished surfaces.
“It was the best thing I owned in the world back then,” Leon continued as Tommy pushed a clean oil rag aside and took a seat on the wooden desk nearest the wall.
“I was near on twenty-four years old... and figured I was doing purty good!”
Leon stared off toward the wall, doing some serious recollecting. The old men nodded their heads in encouragement.
“So when it cum time t’move here for this job, in this here shop, I meant to thoroughly enjoy that drive across the country in mah Cad...” Dirkson and Sinclair mumbled their affirmatives; “Oh yeah,” and “Un huh.”
“But a friend a mine, ol Charles, set me straight. Yes he did,. Leon glanced back at his friends, falling comfortably into his storyteller’s cadence.
“He done reached over the fence and handed me that thar chauffeur’s hat...on the hook.” Leon pointed a greasy finger toward the wall. The black cap with shiny visor had always been a curiosity to the visitors of the garage, and now Leon would clear up the mystery .
“Another old guy, Foster, showed up to say goodbye t’me. And both those ol’ timers tol me the same thing. Wear the Chauffeur’s hat, they said. Yes they did. They said I must wear dat hat EVERY day, EVERY SECOND in fact...whether I was driving, eating, sleeping or...shitting.”
A small chuckle manifest itself from someone in the group while Leon finished off his Bud and grabbed another from the cooler. He looked over at his friends while he chugged the first swallow and knew he still had their attention.
“They said I wouldn’t never make it to Seattle if I didn’t. So after a bit of arguing – you know me, thick-headed me an all – I agreed t’wear the stupid hat!”
Dirkson sucked in some air and exhaled quietly, saying “Oh yeah” mostly to himself.
“Felt like an idiot, I did...but after while that ol’ chauffeur’s hat done felt pretty snug on ma head. I’ll admit that. And the miles were flying by...”
It was Sinclair’s turn to utter a sound, something like “rollin’ long...”
“Somewhere in Arizona it was, maybe Flagstaff or thereabouts, when it happened,” said Leon, punctuating his words. No one had to say “what?” because they mostly suspected what was coming.
“I done got pulled over by cops...the mean kind...if thar’s any other .”
“Oh man...,” said the old men, almost in unison.
“They questioned me, hassled me for near an hour, I’d say.” Leon shook his head and took another swallow of beer.
“Yeah those cops put on the third degree pressure cooker.
Who’s car is it? they asked. Where you going, boy? You better be driving the man’s car careful, you hear? No dents! No drinking, Boy! YOU HEAR ME BOY?”
“Yassah...I says.” A quick chug of beer and Leon continued.
“No sahhh and yassah, I said, back and forth. I done gave’em ma best southern-style manners, yes I did.”
“This int ma cah, but ma mastur be might mad if’n ah’s late to de-leever. Ah is a good chauffeur. Yes ah is. And never bin late befo. No saaaahhh. Ah’s be careful...you betcha.” Leon laid on the accent extra heavy to make his point.
“That old chauffeur’s hat was the only thing that kept me from being dragged otta that car and horsewhipped to death,” said Leon, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, then grabbing another sip. “HOOOO MAN!”
“OH YAH!,” exclaimed Dirksen, while Sinclair cried out, “PRAISE DA LORD!”
————
Such a wakeup to imagine the time, not long ago, when a chauffeur's cap would be needed as a life-saver.