BLACK PRESIDENT, Chapter 56. A Little is in the WHITE HOUSE! (New book––Part 2 of trilogy, "Kennedy's Twins"–– begins here: Taking place 2012-2015.

https://www.amazon.com/KENNEDYS-TWINS-Rick-Schmidt/dp/1366192842/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1509391742&sr=8-1&keywords=kennedy%27s+twins+rick+schmidt

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Within hours of the announcement that Jackson Little, a black man, would assume the Presidency of the United States, the American stock market plunged 400 points. At the same time, numerous celebrations in the black ghettos of major US cities got under way. For the first time in US history a Black had become the leader of the free world. For the second time, all people of color – both male and female – could see themselves becoming such an honored person. For Whites, though, especially those in corporate America, the world was now a somewhat more solemn place.

While the world hadn’t exactly come to an end in 2012 as predicted by everyone from soothsayers to mystics and Nostradamus, CEOs had to wonder how someone named LITTLE would deal with BIG business. Even with the advances made in race relations since the 1960s, the white elite couldn’t be sure what their economic future held, with a man of color running things. The members of exclusive men’s clubs throughout the world didn’t fully trust that a black man would look after their best interests. TV commentators scrambled to analyze the fallout, focusing on world markets in London, Tokyo, and elsewhere, as six billion dollars in stocks simply evaporated.

The three big networks hashed out the particulars, commentators discussing how giants like Chrysler, Toyota, AT&T, Google, Microsoft, Disney, and other blue chip stocks had been thoroughly rattled, while damage to the smaller corporations had been catastrophic.

On Monday morning, November 12th, the stock brokerage community held its collective breath as Lisa Marie Presley, Governor of Tennessee, rang the opening bell. She had been chosen as bell ringer based on her soaring popularity as a public figure. Surprisingly, her Scientology affiliation had done little to affect her receiving the largest popular vote of any political figure in Tennessee’s history. Even recent controversy hadn’t affected her standing in the polls. Back at the Los Angeles inauguration of the Citizen’s Commission on Human Rights/CCHR’s “Psychiatry: An Industry of Death” museum in 2014 she had stated her advocacy for the removal of psychiatry from all state- wide programs. She supported the long-held Scientologist belief that the mental health field was somehow linked to Hitler’s plan for world domination, through Nazi brainwashing techniques inflicted on patients under the guise of “treatment” and pills. Ironically, since President Little’s election, the pharmaceutical stocks had maintained their value, the only bright spot in a declining stock market.

In any case, executives had hoped that some Elvis energy would infuse the traders with enough faith and gusto to head off a full-fledged crash. Soon after Lisa Marie Presley rang the Wall Street bell she took the opportunity to meet with her downtown New York financial advisors, all, of course, Scientologists. They informed her that even with the drop in the market she was still worth over ten billion dollars. At the home of President-Elect Jackson Little’s parents there was little to feel safe or secure about. While his mother, Sarah, sat glued to the television coverage, his step-father Rudy tried to offer some calming words.

“Just new-kid-on-the-block jitters,” said Rudy, hoping to defuse the growing apprehension. “Remember that this nation is a country of people of color, and as such, it might take us Whites a few days to realize that – Hey, now we’re the minority!”

The President responded with just the shake of his head and rolling of eyes, as if to say, “When will people ever grow up and realize this ‘color’ shit doesn’t matter, especially in 2012.”

When the President’s brother, John, arrived, he hugged his mother, brother, then Rudy, plopped himself down on the plush couch and immediately offered an antidote for the day’s difficulties.

“Jack, you shudda seen the homeless guy I passed this morning along Pennsylvania Avenue. He was wrapped in thick rags, a coat if you could call it that, to keep out the cold and swirling snowflakes. And get this. In front of him he held up a cardboard sign which said, WILL ACCEPT VERBAL ABUSE FOR SPARE CHANGE. God, I thought of all the things I could have dumped on him today!”

“Amen!” said Jackson, shaking his head. It was hard not to suddenly be thinking of swear words and some recipient for receiving them.

“Whoever he is,” the new President continued, “he's for sure got it harder than a bunch of rich people watching all their fat money dip a little in value.” With a turn toward his mother and step-father, he added, “I wouldn’t mind spending a couple bucks venting about how reactionary this country has become.”

As the room fell back to silence, each person present there silently envisioned ranting to the homeless man, using him as a punching bag to dispel anger about people, places, and things from their present and past. John imagined himself standing on the sidewalk, looking down at one of the many white racists he and his brother had encountered throughout their lives. He had a good deal to unload, and mentally handed out a ten-dollar bill before starting in.

“Listen sucka, you white folks have been on our ass for over three hundred years and things ain’t so different now in this so-called ‘New Millennium.’ You just cloak it differently. Remembered how you used to beat up on my brother when I wasn’t around, calling him nigger and such? Remember how I came running over and I punched you in the nose? Are things really so different now that he’s going to be the President? I’ll still slam you in the face if you hurt him or call him names. Just remember that! And I’ll see you coming from a ways off. Don’t think I won’t, added John, mentally.

“I gotta wonder why the human species always seems to need a scapegoat, someone to beat on, to make himself feel better? That huge, secret reservoir of hatred just sits there in your gut, like a volcano ready to erupt. Maybe your father beat you up – is that it? Or your White mother was abusive? Or just uncaring? Bad things happen in households of all colors. But that still ain’t no excuse for your bad behavior. You see a person with a different colored complexion – in places like Bosnia you can hardly tell the difference – and you hate them too. Then people die. What in the hell is wrong with you?

“Nowadays, my brother’s got the protection of the Secret Service and all those official government agencies. And yeah, I know, they aren’t all on our side either. So I’ll have to watch them penty too. You may have your secret mistresses and off-shore bank accounts to keep you warm at night, but we got a beacon of hope. Your day of blowing up churches and water-hosing poor Black folks is over. My brother’s gonna clean up the scum and drop it...and you...into the Potomac. We’re here to kick some butt!”

John then imagined the white guy grabbing his sign off the pavement, crumpling it up and running away, still clutching the ten-spot in his hand. A hard way to earn a living, fo’ sure!

To the left of John, as his mother sat comfortably on the sofa, she also envisioned a conversation, in her case between herself and ex- husband Leon – not exactly verbal abuse, but something more like resigned sadness. Sadness for the family she once had, and their breaking up during the rough times. She could see herself handing over $5 for a session.

“Leon, honey,” she’d say, addressing the man on the pavement. “Just sorry we couldn’t have stayed together longer. But you bringing that new girlfriend in was just too much to bear. I knew there were temptations all around our black neighborhoods; sex, drugs, gambling. But I always thought we could steer clear of that. You know...have a straightforward life.

“Now you could certainly say that I failed, since the sons I gave birth to were from another man, but please believe me that that situation was forced on me. I was just an unsuspecting young woman, in awe of the President like everyone else. I couldn’t seem to come out of shock fast enough to stop him from taking advantage of me. And believe it, I’ve carried the guilt all through the years. We’ve all heard the stories by now – JFK seduced wives of friends, even their daughters, and had busloads of prostitutes. Other women have probably had secret children by the man. But that’s not for me. I don’t think it would help our kids if I went public and told everything. But the moment I do believe it can make a difference I’ll shout it to the world: MY SON, JACKSON LITTLE, YOUR PRESIDENT, IS A KENNEDY, AND SO IS HIS BROTHER JOHN! You can bet you’ll hear my confession on every channel!

“I’m proud of the fine men I gave birth to, and figure that it was ultimately a service to my country, and God, that our diverse bloodlines came together for the cause of making this world a better place. My boys have grown into fine men, now on the verge of making history, so don’t think for an instant that I have any real regrets in this regard.

“So Lee…we had some laughs around the old station didn’t we? Even though no gas was ever pumped, it was still the heart and soul of that ol’ community. You had a good heart – sometimes too big – giving all that free service to folks at our family’s expense. I do miss Woofy and Charles, though. And Sam. Especially him, whose name I printed into my journal on April 17 , 1961, when I hoped he’d comment on President Kennedy. I have to laugh now, realizing he never did have anything to say on that day. Anyway, I remember those short trips to the station, the happiness I felt strolling along the street, being your woman and later becoming a mother. I’ll never forget that.

“I just wish we could have kept our young love alive. But you fell for someone else. And she was a sweet young girl, toward whom I couldn’t really feel anger. Hell, if I’d been a man and smelled her perfume I might have fallen for her myself!

“So, this is farewell again, in a larger sense than when you actually died. I’m releasing all the emotions of anger now, from our separation and betrayal, including what I expressed when you left with Mary. I now forgive you, honey, and her too. I’m just letting it all go. Your spirit can now sail off into the planets, go wherever it is we all end up after this. Goodbye, dearest.”

Slipping back out of her imagined state into the present, Sarah tried to blink away the tears. The TV was still blaring away with news reports about her Presidential son. As she dried her eyes with a hanky a funny image suddenly came to mind. The bum had a tear too.

Next came Rudy, somehow on an equal wavelength with the others in the room, using the homeless man to clear out old emotions. What if the man holding the sign was President Nixon during the Vietnam War, the Commander in Chief who was indirectly responsible for getting his leg blown off? Rudy saw himself dropping a big bill – twenty bucks – after asking if the guy could handle being President Nixon. In Rudy’s mind, it wouldn’t have been a problem:

“Shit yes, soldier!”

“OK, muthafucker. You sent me and my buds into the firefight for nothing except producing statistics for the ever-expanding war. I slipped my hands into guts of dead Cong and smeared that bloody war paint all over. I became as fierce as death itself. And that felt good. Death felt good. You – Uncle Sam muthafucker – took us American kids, and because of war we regressed back to caveman. You kicked the shit out of all the civilized manners we knew, slammed us down in the muck and brought us firestorms from hell. And for what? I’ll ask you again, fucker! FOR WHAT?

“Really? Tell me! For selling hundreds of thousands of boots, shirts, belts, socks, underpants, grenades, guns, bullets, booze, bread and blankets? For factories somewhere in Nebraska, Indiana, Mississippi, Alabama, New York, New Jersey, California, pumping out all that clothing and guns shit to get richer? Our bodies were just convenient catch-alls for their products. That’s it! You tricked us all, then, but you’ll never trick us again. We finally wised up to your fancy schemes.

“How about we make up a new rule. For the next war, we’ll just send you and your children to do the fighting, and see how long it lasts! Your kind – politicians, arms dealers, munitions factory owners and army uniforms manufacturers – can do the fighting next time. How will you make the money off us then, sucka?”

Rudy fantasized the sign-maker paying rapt attention to his war rant, then wondered if maybe the guy was a vet too. Maybe that’s why he’d become so screwed up and homeless. Rudy imagined the guy rising, walking over, and the two men embracing into a long hug, possibly even crying together. The country owed people like us an apology, and during the forthcoming Little Presidency we were damn well going to get it!

The President-Elect Jackson Little himself also imagined taking up the hobo’s offer, wondering what a $100 bill would buy. He certainly had some bones to pick, ready to talk a blue streak about growing up Black. Did anyone in White America really know the price for that?

“You’re better than this, sir,” Jackson imagined himself starting out. “You’ve undersold your own worth, like so many others who grew up with real problems like starvation, getting evicted for non-payment, fear of failure or whatever else. Well, it’s now time to rise up to your full potential. As of this moment, I appoint you my new Secretary of Health, Welfare, and Education. God knows, you've researched these topics better than anyone from Harvard or Yale! Yes, together with your wit and my political power, we’ll make sure that not even one more family has to suffer sidewalk living. The twelve billion a month we’ve spent occupying foreign countries will now be re-circulated to the have-nots, following your and my directives.

Come on. Let’s go buy you a new suit for your new Cabinet post. I know just the tailor. And while we’re at it, we’ll get you a haircut too. Plus a manicure. With all that, and your well-earned tan, no one will dare mistake you for anything but a certified public servant!”

(Maybe I should actually send John out to pick up that guy, bring him back to the White House! mused Jackson. He certainly knows how to tap the psyche of an average American!) With a dismissive laugh to clear himself of crazy thoughts, President-Elect Little was able to release some of the tension that had been brewing since early morning.

Sarah glanced over at her husband, then back towards her sons. Each member of her entourage had big grins on their faces. The token homeless-White-man had hit the nail right on the head. The times they were a changing. Laughs suddenly burst out simultaneously all around the room, dampening out the TV commentators who were busily arguing about the esoteric ramifications of the stock market meltdown. A good laugh was had by all, each realizing the spell they’d been under.

As family members re-settled, got up for sodas or beers and such, Sarah let her mind drift back to the extra scrutiny the Little family was suddenly under. ‘Who were the Littles?’ the TV news shows wanted to know, ‘and where do they come from?’ The more coverage Sarah experienced, the more nervous she became. What about her journals, especially Volume No.1 that son Jackson still had in his possession? She remembered her and Rudy’s discussion about the possible fallout if their Kennedy secret was ever revealed. With Jackson soon to be a four-year resident at the White House, there was no bigger secret than his actual heritage. The President-elect of the United States was a son of John F. Kennedy. If that fact ever got revealed it would be the equivalent of a 10.0 earthquake, capable of shattering the political, economic, and cultural landscapes throughout the world.

As Sarah strained to remember the Journal’s contents, trying to remember what she wrote, she also added up the people in her life who were privy to the secret. Many, like sweet Bela and her late husband, Leon, were now deceased. Had Leon ever really believed her? Had he told his second wife, Mary? Did Bela ever tell a friend? Anyone? Sarah had never shared the information with any of her friends. Only her mother, Dee, and husband Rudy, knew the truth. That was it. But it was becoming a constant battle to bridle in her paranoia.

Fearing the high-stakes intrusion of American politics, Sarah placed Rudy in the Dustin Hoffman role of the movie Marathon Man, his teeth drilled until he finally yelled out the Kennedy connection. Could something like that really happen? Kidnapping and torture were commonplace headlines. She would remind Rudy that they needed to be extremely careful about where they traveled, when, and with who. And they needed to be mindful of eavesdropping. Could White House rooms might be bugged like she saw on TV shows? How about her and Rudy’s living quarters? Did her President son suspect anything? Her worries were getting the best of her. She couldn’t help bringing up the journal again.

“Jackson, honey,” she began, trying to conceal the depth of her anxiety. “Do you think you could bring my journal back here with you, next time you visit? Just want to reminisce a little bit about old family times, now that things are getting so public...”

“Of course, Mom,” answered Jackson, casually, his eyes still glued to the TV set. “I’ll take another look around the house. I’m sure I can find it. We didn’t have time to unpack before all this slammed in.”

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