Audience Member (51:27)
A Very Nixon Halloween. Pat worried about Dick. As he sat brooding in his ratty gray bathrobe. She wondered if moving to the New Jersey suburbs had been a mistake. On paper, Saddle river seemed like a perfect landing spot for the ex president. Leafy, woodsy and 80% Republican. But once they moved in, their house, a rambling contemporary on four acres, became Dick's newest enemy. Every cracked shingle was a betrayal, every repairman a bandit. Worse, it was far from the people he considered important. He had tried summoning guests from Manhattan to all male dinner parties, inviting luminaries in politics, business and the media. The evenings began with Dick pouring lethal daiquiris into outsized tumblers. But the most powerful anesthesia on offer was Dick himself. He delivered soliloquies about his decades in the arena, a favorite phrase since that made him a gladiator. Brezhnev was 100% behind Dick Nixon during Watergate, he'd say. He told me he knew I wouldn't crack under pressure. When you're in the arena, you have to be tough or you'll be impaled. Once word of such performances spread, attendance at these soirees thinned. Now Dick was mostly alone, except for Pat and a Secret Service agent named Dougie, who, guarding A client, in little danger of human interaction had taken up needlepoint. Sitting at the kitchen table, Dick ate the lunch he had every day. A ring of pineapple with cottage cheese in the center. The gutters are clogged to the gills, he'd say. I'm sure that Bandit Armando will charge a king's ransom to clean them. Pat could have repeated what the gardener had told her, that he was giving Dick a discount because he felt kind of bad for him. But she changed the subject. Halloween is coming up. We should buy some candy. A curd of cottage cheese stuck to Dick's right jowl. Unless the U.S. census is wildly inaccurate, this is the most affluent town in New Jersey. Parents here are perfectly capable of providing their children with candy. They don't need handouts from Dick Nixon. Well, actually, I was thinking we could throw a party and meet some of our neighbors. Dick silently stabbed his pineapple. I loved our Halloween at the White House. She went on the staff, built that giant pumpkin for the children. I wore that wild fortune teller dress. We had that actor. Oh, what was his name? The one who played the vampire on Dark Shadows. He wore his cape and he pretended to bite Trisha on the neck. As I recall, he was Jewish. Was he? Well, he spoke in a Jewish accent. No, no. He was being a vampire. That was a vampire accent. Well, dear, I'm glad you have such fond memories of an actor biting your daughter, but Dick Nixon's too busy for Halloween. It's 12:30 and you're still in your bathrobe. I may not look busy to you, but I'm in the throes of preparation. Pat Buchanan wants to interview me on cnn. I'm sure he'll be nice. Well, that's what you said about David Frost. He pushed away from the table. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get my hair cut. Dick's bodyguard, Dougie, sat in the corner of Tom Beriska's barbershop, needle pointing. A Winnie the Pooh pillow for his nephew in San Diego. Tom was shaving the back of Dick's neck. Lyndon Johnson was one mean sob. Dick said he was an animal, really, but he had to be. When you're in the arena, if you're not an animal, another animal will feast on your entrails. Tom, who cut Dick's hair every two weeks, never weighed in on these monologues. He considered it his patriotic duty to listen to the former president talk. He only spoke when Dick took a clearly identifiable pause. How are your daughters, Mr. President? He asked. Wonderful, wonderful. They both read my new book, and they each had very intelligent things to say about it. I'm damn proud of those girls. And Mrs. Nixon. Oh, well, she read it before it was published, of course. No, no. I mean, how is she? Dick sighed. Are you married, Tom? 47 years. Sometimes I think marriage is like international relations. The best you can hope for in certain scenarios is detente. Seeing Tom's puzzled look, Dick explained. You know, Pat has some strange ideas about Halloween. She wants to throw some sort of haunted hullabaloo. I told her that's not my bag. I hear you, sir. Just get a pumpkin and some candy. No, no, no, no, no. No pumpkin, no candy. If I say yes to a pumpkin and candy soon, I'll be saying yes to a party. It's the domino theory, Tom. The barber proceeded with caution. I'm sure you're right, sir. But what? Well, if kids come to your house and no one answers the door. Well, I mean, what are they gonna think declared it here? Unless these children are brain dead, I assume they'll think that I'm out. It's not as if I have nowhere to go. I'm respected around the world. I could be having dinner with Henry Kissinger. I could be in China, meeting with Deng Xiaoping. Oh, forget I. No, Tom, by all means, please educate me. I didn't realize you were such an expert on these matters. If I don't answer the door on Halloween, what do you imagine these people will think? Well, they might think. He took a deep breath. I don't know, but that you're hiding or something. Had this man forgotten whose neck he was shaving? Perhaps it was time to explore other barbers in Saddle River. Dougie, Dick growled. The Secret Service man stopped, needle pointing. This haircut is over. Returning home, Dick put on his battered blue windbreaker bearing a presidential seal. He patrolled his property, dead leaves crackling underfoot. A ladder leaned against the house. Looking up, he saw the gardener cleaning the gutters. He briefly pondered his next move. Armando. He called out, giving him an awkward semaphore like wave. The gardener looked startled. The president had never spoken to him before. Yes? Yes, Mr. President. Is something wrong? Oh, no, Armando. I just wanted to say hello. Dick struggled for what to say next. How is your wife? Oh, I'm not married, sir. Oh, I used to be. I'm divorced. Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. No, well, it was 20 years ago. I see. Well, life is full of setbacks. But we move on, Armando. We move on. Yes, sir. It's been good Talking to you, Armando. Goodbye. Goodbye, sir. Dick resumed walking, a hint of defiance in his gait. Well, that went well, he thought. Very well. He'd show them. He'd show them all. Dick peered out the living room window. The porches across the street glowed with jack O lanterns. He checked his watch. Where is everyone? Our invitation said 6:30, Pat said, twirling in her fortune teller dress. It was as beautiful as she remembered. She looked over at Dick, wearing a blue suit, a white shirt, and a striped tie. He was swigging from a massive daiquiri. How many of those have you had? This is my first, he lied. He scanned the living room. Against his better judgment, he had let Pat go to town with decorations. The room looked like the workshop of a lunatic. A string of tiny electric pumpkins blinked atop the baby grand. A a skeleton sat in the wing chair. Plastic bats hung from the ceiling. I wonder who decided that bats were evil, he mused. Someone had it in for them. Dick, why are those there? Copies of his latest book, the Real War, were stacked on the entry table. Well, I mean, I thought we'd give them out to the trick or treaters. Well, the older ones might enjoy it. It's gotten excellent reviews. That's not your first drink. Your face is flushed. Is not. Well, look at yourself. She led him to the entry mirror and then gasped. Dick, you're wearing makeup. Just a touch. Gives me a healthy glow. Well, you look like a fire hydrant. He ignored her. He refused make up for that first debate with Jack Kennedy, and everyone thought he looked like hell. Those who fail to learn from history. The doorbell rang. Startled, he almost spilled his drink. They're here. Dougie. Dougie put down his needle point and stood at attention. He was dressed in his regulation Secret Service suit and tie, plus a furry Chewbacca mask. Dick strode purposely to the door as if to greet Mao. He opened it, revealing a 10 year old boy in a football uniform and a 4 year old girl in a powder blue dress carrying a stuffed dog in a basket. Trick or treat. They shouted. Uh huh. Who do we have here? Dick asked. A New York giant, I see. I played football in college. We played rough back then. Not with all the padding you see the fellows wearing today. We weren't afraid of getting hurt, you see. He turned to the girl. And who are you, my dear? I'm Dorothy from the wizard of Oz. Uh huh. Very good. Who are you? I'm President of the United States. No, you're not. Yes, I am. You don't look like the President you're all red. Are you Satan? Dick, momentarily taken aback, regained composure. He knelt down, his face inches from hers. She recoiled, hugging her stuffed dog close. Now I'm not really red. See? This is just makeup. Daddies don't wear makeup. I have to wear it when I go on tv. You never know when one of the networks might call. I'm in a lot of demand. He nodded toward her dog. And who might we have here, Toto? Well, let me tell you a story about a dog we used to have. He was a little cocker spaniel puppy named Checkers. My daughters, they couldn't have been much older than you at the time. Why, they loved that little dog. Then one day some mean men tried to take him away. But I wasn't about to let that happen. Because when you're in the arena Come on in, kids, pat cut in. Happy Halloween. By 8, the living room was packed with trick or treaters and their parents. Dick, guzzling another daiquiri, had cornered a little boy dressed as a mummy. And that's the real reason Teddy Kennedy will never be president, dick said, slurring his words. Oh, the American people. They'll forgive him for driving that girl off the bridge. They'll forgive a Kennedy for doing anything depraved. But the one thing they won't forgive you for is for being soft. And that poor bastard is as squishy as a marshmallow. I have to use the bathroom, the boy said, edging away. Pat approached, carrying some sheet music. Dear, there's been a request for you to tickle the ivories. He squinted at the music. Well, what is this? A song I picked out for Halloween. The children will love it. Before Dick could object, Pat stood on the ottoman of the wing chair and clapped her hands. Everybody, President Nixon is gonna play the piano. A cheer rose up as Pat led her husband, slightly weaving to the baby grand. The partygoers quieted, and Dick cleared his throat. I'm a little rusty, folks, so I hope you weren't expecting Liberace. He smoothed the sheet music on the piano, and he started to play in his impaired state. He hit a few wrong notes, but the guests could still recognize the opening bars. They began to sing, and Dick, reading the lyrics, croaked along. They're creepy and they're kooky, Mysterious and spooky. They're all together. Okie. The Addams Family after the last guest left, Dick surveyed the living room. Styrofoam cups and Butterfinger wrappers littered the coffee table. The skeleton had slipped off the ring chair and was spread eagle on the floor. The stack of his books on the entry table went undisturbed. Pat picked up the candy corn from the carpet. Oh, that was so much fun. Well, this place looks like Saigon after the Tet Offensive. Was it really such an ordeal? You looked like you were enjoying yourself. Well, that was my intention, to look like I was enjoying myself. I thought it was important that the children think that their president was having a good time, and I believe I acquitted myself very well in that regard. Pat knew there was no point in arguing with him in this condition. At the White House, no one obeyed any command he issued after the cocktail hour. We can get the rest of this in the morning, she said. I'm gonna go up to bed. Well, I'll be up in a minute. He staggered to the bar, fixed himself another daiquiri. It would be easy to admit to her that he'd had a good time, but it would be wrong. When you're in the arena, even the slightest concession is a sign of weakness, and before you know it, you're poleaxed in the face. Nope. It was better for Pat to go to bed, little miffed at him than to think she'd won. He raised his glass to the plastic bats hanging from the ceiling. To us. Tom Boruska answered the phone at his barbershop. Mrs. Nixon. I was kind of hoping you'd call. How did it go last night? Wonderful. Better than I could have hoped, really. Did the President have a good time? Oh, little too good. He's lying on the sofa with an ice pack on his head. He's listening to My Fair lady on the stereo. Well, I hope he feels better soon. Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks for talking to him about Halloween. I knew he would listen if it came from you. He didn't figure out you told me to say all that. Not a clue, Tom. Not a clue. Pat roared with laughter, unsure if it would be disrespectful to laugh along. Tom just kept quiet. I don't want to keep you, pat said, but could I trouble you for just one more favor? Anything for you, Mrs. Nixon. If the subject of Halloween comes up, do you think that you could convince him to be a vampire next year? Tom paused. What a strange turn his life had taken since the Nixons had come to town. He'd cut hair in Saddle river for over 40 years, and no one more important than a school board member had ever sat in his chair. Now the former first lady of the United States was asking him to persuade the former president to be a vampire. Tom hadn't sought his role in the Nixon's marriage, but as a patriot, he accepted it. Mrs. Nixon, he said, I think we can make that happen.
