Evergreen: Dick and Ted
October 10
Dick
October 10
“I admit that I did receive payments during the year 1967 which were not expended for political purposes and that, therefore, these payments were income taxable to me in that year and that I so knew.” —Vice President Spiro Agnew to United States District Judge Walter E. Hoffman in a Baltimore courtroom, October 10, 1973.
Dear Mr. President,
As you are aware, the accusations against me cannot be resolved without a long, divisive, and debilitating struggle in Congress and in the Courts. I have concluded that, painful as it is to me and my family, it is in the best interests of the Nation that I relinquish the Vice Presidency.
Accordingly, I have today resigned the Office of Vice President of the United States. A copy of the instrument of resignation is enclosed.
It has been a privilege to serve with you. May I express to the American people, through you, my deep gratitude for their confidence in twice electing me Vice President.
Sincerely,
Spiro F. Agnew
Dear Ted:
The most difficult decisions are often those that are the most personal, and I know your decision to resign as Vice President has been as difficult as any facing a man in public life could be. Your departure from the Administration leaves me with a great sense of personal loss. You have been a valued associate throughout these nearly five years that we have served together. However, I respect your decision, and I also respect the concern for the national interest that led you to conclude that a resolution of the matter in this way, rather than through an extended battle in the Courts and the Congress, was advisable in order to prevent a protracted period of national division and uncertainty.
As Vice President, you have addressed the great issues of our times with courage and candor. Your strong patriotism, and your profound dedication to the welfare of the Nation, have been an inspiration to all who have served with you as well as to millions of others throughout the country.
I have been deeply saddened by this whole course of events, and I hope that you and your family will be sustained in the days ahead by a well-justified pride in all that you have contributed to the Nation by your years of service as Vice President.
Sincerely,
Richard Nixon
Now that goddamn crap is out of the way, we need to look at those tapes. Rose Mary has been working on some transcripts quite diligently, I’m told. But I need to hear them myself. If the courts uphold that son of a bitch Sirica’s subpoena, we’ll need to know what we’re in for, and I don’t have a clue. How the Christ could I be expected to remember what we discussed, when and where, what I said to Bob, what Bob insinuated or said outright, how blatant I was? But I’m guessing there are things on those tapes that people won’t understand, people who don’t know how this country is really run, people who think they can sleep safely at night because of “freedom and democracy” and not because we know how to keep things under control. If they only knew. And, of course, they can’t. That’s not how it works.
I’ll have to figure out which tapes to listen to first. Probably the days soon after the break-in, the two weeks after should do it. Bob and I talked about the CIA, I’m sure, probably something about that idiot Gray, but I can’t remember what we said. It’s probably too vague to be consequential. And who knows how clear the tapes are. Rose Mary says she often has trouble deciphering what we’re saying or even who’s talking. But if we have to turn them over to Sirica? The FBI may have some way to make them more intelligible. They’re always telling me about some new surveillance gizmo they’ve got; I should pay more attention at those briefings.
Bull will have to remind me how to operate the machines, and I’ll have to listen to the tapes by myself. I can trust Rose Mary. She won’t know what she’s listening to anyway. And Bull? He’s a good soldier. But anyone else? I don’t know. Rose Mary said she had trouble with the machine and damaged one of the tapes. She seems reluctant to do much more, but I assured her it’s OK, that most of what’s on those tapes is insignificant to the historical record, which is the only reason they exist.
I should have realized that someone would let the cat out of the bag. My mistake. Nobody was supposed to listen to those tapes until years from now—some stenographer at the Nixon Library, or a sympathetic, vetted biographer. Definitely not a goddamn Democrat, or a fucking reporter. But now? We may be able to keep the courts from getting the actual tapes, but if so, we’ll have to release transcripts, to keep the public happy and the press off my back. We can control the transcripts, but the tapes?
Rose Mary says she “erased” one of the tapes. I don’t know how that works, but surely Bull can show me, if only to show me what not to do. And maybe there’s some other way to distort or damage them. Magnetic tape? What is that made of? Certainly nothing indestructible. This isn’t NASA. Lives don’t depend on them. Well, I suppose they do, now, but heaven forbid it ever comes to that. Maybe I should make a few more “mistakes.” Not too many, of course. Don’t want to arouse any more suspicions.
I’ll need to do it quickly, and soon. If I spend too much time with them, Buzhardt and the other lawyers will get worried. They probably don’t want me listening to them at all. Which is bullshit. They’re mine, for God’s sake. But this Watergate bullshit is all about perception. We’ve done nothing wrong. Certainly nothing that Johnson and his goddamn cronies would have done—and have done, I’m sure. But these fucking radicals think everything should be out in the open now. You want to know how the sausage is made? No you don’t! How the hell the press has kept this goddamn thing afloat I’ll never know. McCord is to blame, I suppose, that little ratfucker. One of Hunt’s people, or Colson’s. Why did we ever get in bed with those guys? Bob assured me we’d be fine. Just little pranks, nothing any different than what goes on in every little podunk precinct in this goddamn country.
How did it get this far? When did the press start caring about this shit? Maybe I should have tried sleeping with movie stars, like that faggot Kennedy. Keep the press busy chasing after starlets and bespangled whores. They like that. When did they decide to start running down canceled checks and campaign contributions? Who does that? The Jews no doubt, and the little twerps at the Post. Put a woman in charge and that’s what you get. Poor Spiro, he didn’t deserve that. For ten thousand bucks? They’ll take a guy down for that kind of chump change? Well, this life didn’t suit him. I know how to deal with this commie rabble and those goddamn Harvard intellectuals. They just pissed him off, and he couldn’t hide it. You need to be more subtle with those traitorous creeps.
But the American people know what’s what. They know what I’ve done for them, what kind of country they live in, because we’ve kept them safe and prosperous. Kept the rabble—the commies, the radicals, the coloreds—in their place. Sure, give ’em a little rope, just enough so they know we live in a democracy, the land of the free, but not enough so they have any real power. And when they forget their place, we shut ’em the fuck down and convince everyone they’re criminals, like we did with the Panthers. That was easy, maybe too easy. That could come back to haunt us, we could get royally screwed on that one. That was outright murder for Christ’s sake. But Hoover knew how to handle that, always did. Imagine if anyone ever really looked into that, or what we did in Chile, instead of this penny ante Keystone Cops crap.
I’ll get Bull on this. He’ll know what to do with the tapes. I’ll talk to him tonight.
Ted
“Ted, we need those copies delivered to Room 247 by six.”
“Yes sir, that won’t be a problem.”
“And how is the report coming? Will you have time to finish it up tonight? Or do you have another class? I can’t remember your schedule.”
“Yes sir, I do have class . . . at eight . . . but I can work on it after. I’ll be home by midnight. I like working at night. It’s quiet and . . .”
“And be back here first thing tomorrow morning? That’s a hell of a lot of driving without much rest. Make sure you eat something.”
“Will do, sir. Thank you for the advice, sir. I eat breakfast every morning, before I get on the road. There’s a diner, just down the street from my place . . . the Little Friendly Café, great breakfast and . . .”
“I’m sure it is. Good night, Ted.”
“Yes sir, good night. Have a pleasant evening, sir. Say hello to the missus for me, won’t you?”
That’s it then. Won’t have time to do much else tonight. And he’s right, I should get some sleep. These late nights, too much, too many, gotta cut it out. But after a drink or two, I can’t sleep, and I can’t just go home, Liz will . . .
I need to get this report right, make a good impression, even if I don’t care about this damn job anymore. It’ll look good on the resumé, though, and Diane will start wondering if I suddenly up and quit.
But for how long? Until when? What am I doing, really? Diane is too smart. Not like Liz. She’ll figure it out. I need a plan, though. I can’t wait much longer. Sex with Diane is nice but . . . well, it’s not like the other, is it?
But I need to keep stringing her along. Make her think I still want her. If she gets wind of my intentions she’ll pull back, like last time. Can’t let that happen. But how long can I keep pretending before she sees through me? Sees me for what I am, what I . . . but she couldn’t possibly imagine.
She’ll be back in December. Maybe then. Yes, I’ll have to do it then.
I should get out of here, get to class. My heart isn’t in it anymore, and my grades . . . Who knew that law school would be so difficult? But really, I don’t have the time. Too many other things, too many people, desires, needs, begging to be fulfilled, longing to be . . . controlled.
This office: too bright, oppressive. I’ll stop in at the Yacht Club, have a sandwich and a beer before I head north. Rob will let me in.
As the day departs, the darkness releases
the weary living from their incessant toil,
their earthbound travails, their perverse mundanities.
And I prepare myself to go alone into battle,
the journey from pity to sorrow, the cleft
known only in memory, mistaken, true, or futile,
what I saw and what I know, what I have left
and what was revealed to me. Let memory take me now,
if indeed I have the strength to face the cursed path.
Memory will first appraise my merit, then show me how
to enter the underworld, where death, decay, and perversion
reign in the incorruptible empire, deep, exalted, and low.
The enemy of every evil, courteous and considerate, unwanton,
still uncomprehending what she knows and is, destined
to sit in the sacred place, to be welcomed by the highest one.
When I consent to this journey, will her guidance be shunned
by me as I undertake the wilding venture, seeking the vast darkness,
assailed by cowardice and the pale phantoms that dwell in the shadow land?
As I am a soul suspended, the blessed lady to me calls
with her soft, angelic voice. Shall I serve her, bow to her?
Her imploring eyes surpass the splendor of the stars.
“My friend, though you have not been privy to fortune or honor,
do not be hindered in your path, though it be lonely.
I have come to help you so that you are not turned aside by terror.
Though perhaps it be too late. But go now, stealthily,
with all that you require, all that you need to escape your bond.
I have come from where you long to return. Let me
know your will and so it shall be, though it be tardily done.
For I know that you long to fathom things so deep, so vast,
so terrible, that you should not fear to enter, to descend
to that spacious place from which you ache to return at last.
For I can withstand the fires of your misery. You have no
power to do me harm. Your heat cannot touch me, your bloody fist
cannot reach me. And know that I hear your quiet cry of sorrow,
the ruthless river of your madness as it rushes for the sea.
No one else in this world has ever seen what I see in you.”
As she ends her entreaty, her gleaming eyes bid me hurry,
and as she has foreshown, I start to shed my cowardice,
like night flowers, bent and huddled, that grow newly
nourished as the black sun strikes. As my exhaustion wanes,
a warmth and daring rush into my heart, as though
I have been released and the journey bid to commence.
“Oh compassionate, courteous one, as you have helped me so,
so shall I obey you. As you have disposed my heart to the way,
you will be my master, my guide, my light, on this deep and savage road.”
I shouldn’t have had that third beer. Chatting with that girl was nice, I thought I was getting somewhere. Wish she’d told me she was waiting for her boyfriend to get done with his shift. I’ll definitely be late for class now.
Who is that? Walking, alone . . . in the rain. Headed for the bridge? Perhaps parked nearby? Long legs, long hair . . . nice. Though I hate it when they wear those baggy army pants. I’ll pull into the Thriftway parking lot, maybe she’s parked there.
No, there she goes, heading over the bridge. I’ve never been up to the Westside, let’s see where this goes. She looks young, a college student? That hippie school, Evergreen, is out here somewhere. Maybe I could use that. But how far out of town is it? I should know. It’s not raining too hard, but still, maybe she’ll want a ride. Look at that, her head thrown back, tongue extended, drinking in the rain. I like that. I would have that.
I’ll pull off up here, just past the traffic circle. I could offer her a ride, or walk back toward her on the bridge. No, stay with the car. Safer. There’s a spot next to that old building. Behind those trees, dark, she won’t see me.
Ok, she’s headed out Harrison. I’ll drive up a couple of blocks, park, then walk up a side street and, as she approaches, walk back to the car, meet her face to face, offer a ride, out of the rain, give her what she wants: heat, warmth, shelter, something to drink. But what if she lives nearby, in the next couple of blocks? That’s OK, that’s fine. I’ll go on my way if that’s the case. Can’t take a chance, too risky, too close.
I’ll just run up this, what is this, Rogers Street? Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood? “All the little girls and boys now. Let’s go to the Magic Kingdom, baby. Do you like that? I knew you would.” I don’t see her. But if she’s still coming, it won’t be long.
“Hey there, aren’t you cold? You’re absolutely soaked. Do you need a ride somewhere? My car’s right here, I was just heading out to, uh . . . the, uh . . . you know.”
“The Westside Mall? No, I’m going farther than that, out to Evergreen. But thanks.”
“Evergreen? That’s a long ways, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, four or five miles, something like that.”
“You’re going to walk that whole way in the rain?”
“No, not tonight. There’s a shuttle stop on Division, and I can wait in the bowling alley. But thank you anyway, sir.”
Sir? What the fuck? I’m not that much older than her.
“Here now, why don’t you let me take you out to Evergreen? You’re going to catch your death of cold in this.”
“But you don’t even know where it is.”
“You can show me.”
“I am cold, and I don’t really know when the next shuttle is due. OK, yeah, I guess, sure. Thanks.”
“Here, let me get the door. So, you go to school out there, at Evergreen? You like it? What are you studying?”
“I’m in a Coordinated Studies program called Democracy and Tyranny: the Paradox of Freedom.”
“Huh, not your usual major, but it sounds, er . . . interesting. What’s it all about?”
“We’re comparing Ancient Greece and contemporary America, freedom and slavery, peace and war, good and evil, that kind of thing. We’ve just started the semester. Right now we’re reading the Odyssey and On the Road. I thought the reading would be a little more contemporary. Next we’re reading Oresteia and Lord of the Flies. Of course, with the situation in Washington, I have a feeling we’ll be getting into more contemporary politics sooner than expected.”
“What do you mean? What situation?”
“You know, the resignation of the Vice President? All those bribery allegations? Watergate?”
“Oh, yes, of course, sad state of affairs. I work in politics, actually, for the chairman of the state Republican Party here in Olympia.”
“You work for the Republicans? Must be disheartening working for a bunch of crooks.”
“Crooks? What are you talking about? Agnew? Just some tax stuff, income he forgot to report, a stupid mistake. But now he’s paying for it. I guess that’s to be expected. But nobody would have cared if the liberal press hadn’t been hounding him. This Watergate crap has turned them into bloodthirsty savages. But nobody pays any attention to Watergate anymore—just a few political pranks that got out of hand. Agnew’s resignation should be the end of it, I’d think. The press got what they wanted.”
“The end of it? You’re kidding, right? That’s what you think? Did you watch any of the hearings? They’ve got all of Nixon’s Oval Office meetings on tape. You do realize that, don’t you? The guy is an asshole and a criminal, and we’re going to hear all about what he’s done. You know what? I’m kind of hungry. I think I’ll get out here and grab a slice of pizza. I can catch the shuttle from here.”
“What? No, no, I’ll take you out to Evergreen. It’s not that far, really.”
“I said I want to get out. I’m hungry.”
“Can’t you get something to eat on campus? They must have a cafeteria or something.”
“What the fuck? I said I wanted to get out, so let me out! Now! I’ve got mace in my bag and I’ll fucking use it. Don’t think I won’t.”
“OK, OK. Take it easy. You don’t have to go all bonkers on me. Here you are.”
“Thanks. Sorry to go off on you, but, uh, you never know what kind of creeps you’ll run into out here. Anyway, thanks for the ride.”
Bitch! What a waste of time. Fuckin’ hippie chicks. She probably doesn’t shave—hairy armpits, legs. All that feminist lesbo crap. Shoulda known these Evergreen broads wouldn’t go for a Republican. Shouldn’t have said anything about politics, should have kept quiet. Better not to say anything about myself, keep it anonymous.
Maybe I should take a drive out to Evergreen, poke around a bit. See what it’s like. Out in the woods? Dark and secluded? All those nubile college girls? Probably don’t even lock their doors.