by Michael Dare
with apologies to Charles Dickens
Stave 1: Hillary's Ghost
Hillary was dead to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of her burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the mourner in chief, her husband, William Jefferson Clinton.
If I have so little credibility with the reader that they cannot even accept the simple fact that Hillary is dead, then I might as well just pack it in right now, give up this last ditch attempt at a first novel, reformat my hard drive, move to Africa, buy a jeep, drive it into the deepest jungle till it runs out of gas, and wait to be discovered by a ravenous gang of cannibals with a hankerin’ for some white meat.
So, at the very least, can we agree that, as of today, February 13, 2010, the aforementioned Hillary is deader than the use of the phrase “dead as a door-nail?” To be exact, it will be five years tomorrow, on Valentines Day, 2010, that Hillary has been underground, bereft of even the slightest sign of cognizance. (How and why Hillary met her maker on Valentines Day, 2005 is really of no particular concern to the story about to unfold, so I maintain the right to reveal it at my leisure, if at all.) Let’s just say that if one were searching for the perfect analogy for how dead Hillary is, you couldn’t do any better than a door-nail, The History of Living Door-Nails being one of the slimmest volumes on the Pulitzer non-fiction submission list. I don’t mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail or a betamax as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country’s done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Hillary was as dead as a door-nail.
Mind! Pay attention. Allow the brain not to wander, for the wonders about to unfold, if wonders they are, are of such consequence that one would have to doubt one’s own sanity were one to exit it’s chambers undisturbed.
Clinton knew she was dead? Of course he did. Just because YOU doubt my words doesn’t mean he does. How could it be otherwise? Clinton and she were married for I don’t know how many years. Clinton was her sole executor, her sole administrator, his sole residuary legatee, and genuine, permanent, everlasting soul mate. They were meant for each other. They got it down. After untold years of public scrutiny and humiliation, they knew how to keep each other happy, and the five years they spent together out of the presidential office were replete with comfort. Clinton was so dreadfully depressed by the sad event of Hillary’s demise that his heartfelt speech on the very day of the funeral was known to have brought tears to the eyes of even the most heinous of Republicans. Or so it is said.
The mention of Hillary’s funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Hillary is dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Simba’s father died during that incredible stampede of high-tech wildebeests in The Lion King, there would be nothing remarkable whatsoever in his later reappearances. Accepting the death of a character is one of the mainstays of fiction and for good reason. If I am not capable of convincing you of the fact that Hillary is dead, then the rest of this tale will make absolutely no sense, particularly the upcoming appearance of an apparition. If you don’t believe me about the current state of Hillary’s health, then the apparition of which I speak ceases to be an apparition, becoming a much more mundane item, Hillary herself. So she’s dead. Got it? If you think otherwise, you’re wrong, at least as far as A Valentine Carol is concerned.
And if you think I’m going on and on like this as a trick, a ruse, a blatant attempt by a common journalist, paid by the word, out to wring the last drops of filthy lucre from that most treacherous of animals, the narrow-minded editor, you’re wrong too. Though my pockets are as empty as a Mormon’s brain, nobody is paying me a cent for the fiction about to unfold before your glazed eyes. I can get to the point, be succinct, keep it brief, or I can meander to my heart’s delight, waxing poetic on the state of the moon, describing clouds, and so forth, ad infinitum, till the cows come home. Ahh, the power of the novelist. Pacing and clarity, humor and pathos, politics and religion, they’re all clearly up to me.
And if you don’t believe THAT, dear reader, then there really is something wrong with you, for without the reader’s faith in the author’s words, all tales are meaningless, including this one. You’re not gullible enough to have purposely devoted a valuable portion of your time to a reading experience deliberately devoid of meaning, are you? I think not. You want meaning, lots of it, and if you just pay attention, you’ll discover that A Valentine Carol has it up the literal and figurative wazoo, but only insofar as you believe the simple fact that Hillary is dead. Can you trust me on this one? If a special prosecutor with an unlimited budget wanted to dig up some dirt about me, would they ever uncover an incident in which I let you down before?Clinton never painted out Hillary’s name. There it stood, years afterwards, above the door of their Century City offices: William and Hillary Clinton - Attorneys at Law. The practice had lasted five remarkable years, with William and Hillary arguing dozens of landmark cases that changed the face of America, though the vast majority of the framers of the constitution might have been quite surprised at the way “Pursuit of Happiness” became defined in the second millennium.
The couple, William and Hillary, whose most intimate relationship was publicly exposed during what was undoubtedly the quintessential privacy violation in history, became the world’s foremost crusaders for personal and human rights in the private sector. They helped refugees sue entire countries in massive class action suits. They sued the IRS, ending up completely restructuring the tax system by forcing the Federal government to abolish income tax entirely, subsequently deriving all revenues from sales. By focusing upon what people spent, while completely ignoring what they made, people ended up making more, and spending more, making the government, you guessed it...more. Everyone had more of everything. Everyone was happy.
Clinton’s final act in office, the presidential pardon of all Federal prisoners held for simple possession of an illegal substance, did not create the crime wave predicted by pundits, leading instead to a massive restructuring of the nation’s drug laws, including government regulation of the industry. Using simple, already existing truth in labeling laws, forcing drugs to be sold in bottles with accurate measurements and dosage recommendations rather than the traditional baggies, they were able to reduce the accidental death rate and AIDS transmission rates due to drugs by 90%, while putting the Colombian drug lords and urban street gangs out of business by simply driving the prices down. After the price of drugs plummeted, felony robberies were down 75% since junkies no longer needed to hock stolen stereos to get their cheap fix. This simultaneously reduced the prison population while reducing the courtload enormously, freeing the courts to put away more people who were an actual danger to society, like Ken Starr, who spent seven years in a maximum security federal penitentiary for fraud. The U.S. was a safer place.
But most importantly, they passed the Clinton amendment to the constitution of the U.S., stating specifically that what consenting adults did in the privacy of their own home was nobody’s goddam business, even if the aforementioned consenting adults were getting high and fucking their brains out with unmarried partners. But not in those exact words. No one would argue that William and Hillary didn’t accomplish as much out of office as they did in.
After Hillary’s death, Clinton found himself with nothing to hold him back from his true sexual nature, which became his primary focus. As a single man, he reveled in his bachelorhood as no other ex-president before him. The single life had hardened his heart, making his post-presidency a marvel of modern marketing, raising the bar on acceptable exploitation to levels that will remain unsurpassed for centuries. Hefner, Guccione, Flynt, Nicholson, Beatty, Polanski, all pikers to Clinton, the Bill Gates of sex.
Oh! But he was a fast grab-ass in the workplace. Clinton! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Accommodating and smooth as the finest single malt from the highlands, the insatiable satyr in a satin suit; secretive and ingratiating, the perfect party animal. Horny as Mike Tyson fresh out of the slammer, he could not get enough. The fire within him stoked his old genitals into a fury, melted his old features, smoothing him out, flattering his bulbous nose, coloring his cheek, stiffened his groin; made his eyes wander and glow with lust, curled his sensual lips into a perpetually salivating smile; as he spoke out passionately in his most southernly liquid and agreeable voice, reeking of condescension and malice. He carried his own high temperature always about with him; keeping the thermostat of his law offices in the low Lettermans.
Not that he was ever in the Century City offices. His Dreamworks deal yielded little productive fruit other than affording him the opportunity to purchase the entire chain of Hooters nightclubs and restaurants. They were the main focus of his life, especially since he had the final say as to the hiring and firing of all waitresses. Just let anyone TRY to sue him for sexual harassment. These women were begging for it and he was happy to oblige. Of course any woman who wanted to blow him had to sign a piece of paper admitting that she was committing the act of her own free will, and the stack of conjugal contracts was high as an elephant’s genitalia. He also made secret videotapes of each oral encounter, just in case he had to prove to a jury that he didn’t have a gun to her head, that she was a willing and able felatrix, residue or not, case dismissed. (At least that’s what he told himself while watching the tapes later.)
Women flocked from around the world to get a mouthful of the ex-presidential wiener. Not that he didn’t have normal sex once in a while. The discovery of the AIDS vaccine, coupled with his vasectomy, wiped out fear of death by sex or fear of accidental impregnation, so he was more than willing to penetrate the proper female organ of all female conquests. In fact, the more orifices, the merrier. Profits were up, the clubs selling buffalo wings, ribs, chili, and other male food by the bushel, all charts in the black, sex with a brand new babe every day, sometimes two or three. Life was good.
External heat and cold had little influence on Clinton. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was more self-satisfied than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn’t know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet, the hottest desert heat from the Santa Anas, could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They were the only items on earth that got blown more than Clinton.
No woman would dare stop him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, “My dear Clinton, how are you? When will you come to see me?” without knowing that she was about to be hit upon. No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, for fear that they would be hit upon. No children asked him what it was o’clock, for fear that he would mis-hear and take the occasion to bestow upon them a glimpse of his prowess. No man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Clinton, without finding themselves invited to a party. Even the blind men’s dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up elevators; tucking their tails between their legs, for fear that they would be hit upon.
But what did Clinton care! It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, his legendary carnality preceding him, warning all non-believers to keep their distance.Once upon a time - of all the good days in the year, on the evening before Valentines Day - Clinton was preparing the club. It was hot, muggy California weather: sweaty and sticky withal: and from his office, he could hear the people in the restaurant buzzing about, making ready for the great Valentine celebration. Hooters was the hottest pick-up place in America, and the atmosphere must be conducive to love, or at least Clinton’s version of it.
Valentines Day was traditionally the busiest day of the year at Hooters. The establishment was a Disneyland of decadence. One section was a natural wonderland full of waterfalls, hidden grottos, and fake wildlife. One must press a nipple shaped button in order to avail oneself of the elevators. There was a fishbowl of condoms next to a refreshing fishbowl of mints. It was a celebration of one man’s taste in eroticism, a man whose taste was formulated when he was but a child of nine, getting his first surreptitious glimpse of a Playboy magazine hidden in the magazine rack of the local Piggly-Wiggly while his mom was waiting in line for groceries. Cautiously, he slipped the unseemly object up into his sweater, committing his first and only act of shoplifting, in order to give the magazine the later perusal it so obviously deserved.
Needless to say, he had his imaginative way with the women bared in the not so secret centerfold, but afterwards, he was one to actually read the articles through and through, agreeing most splendidly with the philosophies offered therein, not to mention the decor, the smoking jackets and pipes, the wallpaper, the lingerie, the round revolving beds with mirrors on the ceiling, the incense, the tie dye, the never getting out of your pajamas all day. But I get ahead of myself. This is a scene visited later, under much more ghostly circumstance.
For Clinton, Hooters was a 60s time warp sex loop. All the waitresses (What? You were expecting waiters?) were scantily clad and often embossed with the finest oils, balms, and mud. Would that there was as much care given to the culinary delights offered up in greasy or crumbly stacks, but the patrons did not seem to mind if their pasta was dry as long as their waitresses T-shirts were wet.
Were one to wander into Hooters on any given day, without any preconceptions as to the management, one would invariably come to the conclusion that William Jefferson Clinton was the man in charge. As the owner and sole proprietor, he exuded an image of rugged, handsome, and self-centered authority, hiring and firing at will, ready to fill in for the bartender at a moment’s notice. He was a model of ruthless efficiency towards the men and oily charm towards the women. The old ex-pres had a marvelous way of somehow getting people to do precisely what he asked of them.
Today he is overseeing the instillation of a giant phallic ice sculpture in a bowl of pre-mixed Pina Colada. He is concerned that the object d’art will melt too much before the guests arrive, but the sculptor assures him that it will take six hours for his masterpiece to shrink to human size.
“Hah. Your size maybe,” declared Clinton. “Put it back in the freezer. I’ll tell you when to bring it out.”
With a hearty “You’re the boss,” the sculptor picked up his work and headed for the freezer as Clinton moved on about the room. He spied a new busboy, Paco, arriving with a giant platter of shrimp. After tasting one, declaring it iced to his satisfaction, he asked of Paco if he knew the right way to eat a shrimp. Ignoring Paco’s answer that yes, he’d heard it before, Clinton proceeded to tell him that “if you eat a shrimp in front of a woman the right way, you can let her know that you are capable of giving her the deepest pleasure.” Paco stowed away this bit of information, one Clinton had gleaned from an ancient Playboy advisor, sure in the knowledge that it would never be of any use, and that his wife would surely think he had lost his mind were he to devour a shrimp in such a manner.
After slapping the hand of a security guard about to spear a piece of melon from a fruitplate with a toothpick, chiding him that such delights were for the guests only, Clinton moved on again, picking a young assistant manager to berate.
“What are these doing here?”
Uh-oh, thought the assistant manager, as he said “Beats me.”
“Condoms go in the grotto, not next to the melon balls.”
The assistant manager nodded, picked up the condoms, and returned them to their rightful place next to the mints.
Once in the kitchen, Clinton checked on the progress of a giant hollow cake, asking of the baker “Are you sure there’s going to be room enough in there for six naked women?”
“They’ll be cozy,” said the baker.
“Hot and sweaty?”
“I imagine so.”
“That’s how I like ‘em.”
The kitchen seen to his satisfaction, Clinton quickly moved to the playroom, a cornucopia of pool tables, Ping-Pong tables, pinball, and video games, with plenty of his favorite, Ms. Pac-man, whose pleasures he indulged in forthwith. Clinton looked at his watch, snapped his fingers, an annoying habit, and, running to the bar, demanding the zapper of the bartender, clicked on the video system, whereupon he changed the channel until he found what he was looking for.
It was himself, Clinton, speaking from the television set in a commercial for Hooters airing nationally for the first time; a fast paced, hard sell, intercut with suggestive shots of the waitresses.
Clinton, standing before the neon sign above the entrance. “Hi, I’m Bill Clinton. You may remember me from such things as ‘the economy’ and ‘oral sex in the White House.’ Today, I’d like to invite you to Hooters, because you haven’t been to Hooters until you’ve been there on Valentines Day.”
The doors behind him opened and dozens of drunk college students stumbled forward to be interviewed.
Idiot number one: “I love this place.”
Idiot number two: “I come here all the time. It’s great.”
Idiot number three: “Yeah, it’s true, like what HE said...”
All three idiots: “So come to Hooters.”
Neon graphics flash by saying “Valentine Special! Free cigars for the men! Free kneepads for the ladies!”
An announcer who cut his teeth on demolition derbies pipes in, the video image changing on every word. “Friday! Hooters! Food! Women! Drink! Women! Cigars! Women! Mud! Women! Be there!”
And, faster than anyone on earth can possibly read, the following disclaimer: “All the women shown in this ad will not necessarily be working at Hooters on any given night, so please don’t get belligerent and demand your money back just because you don’t see your dream gal on the night you happen to attend.”
The occupants of the playroom, knowing their duty, burst into applause as Clinton turned down the sound and took a bow, obviously proud of his work.
Up stepped Bob Crotchet, Clinton’s right hand man, a fashionably dressed, mild mannered young man who dealt with the help. Clinton was never sure whether he had hired Crotchet because of his mastery of tact (he was, after all, somewhat of a pimp for Clinton), his implied but never overt homosexuality, or simply because he found his name amusing. Crotchet had gone through this routine a million times and knew precisely what was expected of him. Leading Clinton towards the stage area where there was a line-up of women in short skirts and tube tops, Crotchet handed Clinton a clipboard and began his daily shpiel.
“We’ve got 12 girls auditioning today, only the four on the right have any waitressing experience whatsoever, but the ones on the left have the biggest tits. The black girl says she can do something with a snake, and the redhead next to her says she can do something with a garden hose. The brunette on the far right doesn’t seem to speak much English, but she does by far have the biggest tits, so her assets sort of cancel out her flaw.”
Clinton walked up and down the line-up of women, like a marine drill instructor admiring the troops, until he spotted one deemed worthy of personal attention.
“You look nice, sweets,” said Clinton. “What’s your name?”
“Patricia” came the demure response.
“Why do you want to work at Hooters?” asked Clinton.
“Well, I got some friends that work here. Didn’t seem to do them any harm.”
“You’ve served food before?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“But you’ve danced?”
This was her shot and she took it, doing a quick bump and grind that sharpened Clinton’s pencil, causing him to exclaim “Good, I like that,” before blowing her a kiss and walking along, stopping at the next brunette and inquiring “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Sadie.”
“Sadie, haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”
“I’m afraid I’ve already heard that one.”
“You have? You mean guys have tried to pick you up with that line? Not in here, I hope?”
“So that WAS a pickup line? God, it was Paleolithic.”
Clinton’s ears perked up. “Did you hear that, Crotchet? She’s polysyllabic.”
“Aren’t we all,” came Crotchet’s droll response.
“I like that in a waitress,” said Clinton.
“I do my best,” said Sadie.
“I bet you do,” said Clinton before walking along, stopping at Elena, whose breasts were so large she hadn’t seen her feet in years. “My, my, what’s your name?”
“Elena.”
Clinton snapped his fingers, causing Crotchet to bring him a tray loaded with drinks, which he handed to Elena. “Serve these drinks to that table,” ordered Clinton.
Elena had done this before. She swished over to the table, serving the drinks with a special backward bend that seemed to defy gravity. For her efforts, she got applause from Clinton, and several of the other girls in line. “Bravo Elena,” exclaimed Clinton. “Very good. Oh, and you don’t mind getting your shirt wet once in a while, do you?”
Elena shrugged, not because she didn’t mind getting her shirt wet, but because she didn’t understand the question.
“Good,” said Clinton, walking away with Crotchet in tow taking notes. “Put one, three, and four on the main floor, seven and twelve on the balcony.” Then he pushed the nearest available mechanical nipple and took the elevator upstairs.
Stepping out of the elevator, he walked past several tables till he reached the back room. He tidied up the place as he passed ashtrays out of place and flowerpots decorated with pantyhose.
The door of Clinton’s office was open that he might keep his eye upon his secretary, a Miss Valerie Porter, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was going through ledgers. She was handsome and brainier than any other female in the place, and having been with Clinton for years, knew him better than the rest.
“Glad to see someone’s working around here,” Clinton said with a sarcastic glint in his eye.
“I don’t think you have anything to complain about,” replied Valerie. “This crew’s been here since four in the morning.”
“You always take me so seriously. Mail on the desk?”
“As always.”
“Any surprises underneath?
“Not that I’m aware of.”
Sitting at his desk, Clinton started looking through the morning deliveries. Lots of bills and lots of pictures and resumes, most of which he tossed in the trash, until spotting one good enough to set aside.
Spotting an inconsistency, Valerie entered, bringing a report to Clinton’s attention. Clinton inspected the paperwork with much interest. “Is this true?” he asked. Getting an answer in the affirmative, along with the added information that the apparent transgression had been going on for years, Clinton threw down the report in disgust and ordered of his secretary to bring forward the accused.
Upon her exit from the office, Clinton picked up the telephone and punched a number on the speed dial. “Hey, baby, what’s up?” he intoned. “Tonight? Great. Bring that thing? Right.”
At that point, Ms. Porter arrived with Crotchet behind. Clinton handed Crotchet the paperwork, causing Crotchet a moment of hesitation. He looked at Ms. Porter for some form of solace but found none.
“Well?” asked Clinton.
“It was necessary,” replied Crotchet.
“Misappropriating $500 a month from me was necessary? How long has this been going on?”
“Since I’ve worked here.”
“Five years?”
“I suppose so.”
“Five years! You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s insane. And you admit it’s been going on that long?”
“Yes, it was necessary.”
“Stop saying that, it’s redundant. You’re not going to tell me why it was necessary?”
“It was for family reasons.”
“And that’s it?
“That’s it. I guess I’m just a thief.
“Are you going to tell me how you intend on paying it back?”
“I don’t know how I can.”
“Well I can understand family pressures. They can be enormous. Tell me about them.”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t? Your job is at stake here. I’d like a little bit more of an explanation.”
“I can’t give it.”
“Well then I can tell you one thing. You’re fired.”
Crotchet breathed a sigh that spoke of years of humiliation, of toadying, of countless attempts to come to terms with the realities of his job. It was, in the end, a sigh of relief. He almost said something, but finally, just turned and left the room.
“You want to handle the floor tonight?” Clinton asked of Ms. Porter, who clearly did.
That night, the party was in full swing: gorgeous men in tuxedos and tennis clothes, gorgeous women in practically nothing, Champaign flowing freely, the grotto full of writhing people, the condom box now half empty. Clinton made his way through the crowd, who treated him royally.
“A happy Valentines Day, uncle! Great party!” cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Clinton’s nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach.
“Bah!” said Clinton, “it’s all Humbug!”
He had so heated himself with rapid drinking in the grotto, this nephew of Clinton’s, that he was all in a glow; his face was ruddy and handsome; his eyes sparkled, his speech slurred, and his breath heavy with stale cigar.
“Valentines Day a humbug, uncle!” said Clinton’s nephew. “You don’t mean that, I am sure?”
“I do,” said Clinton. “Happy Valentines Day! What right have you to be happy? What reason have you to be happy? When is the last time you got laid?”
“Less often than you, but more often than some,” returned the nephew gaily. “What right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose? Come, uncle, liven up. After all, you get laid more than all the eggs in every Tyson poultry farm.”
Clinton having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said “Bah!” again; and followed it up with “Humbug.”
“Don’t be cross, uncle!” said the nephew.
“What else can I be,” returned the uncle, “when I live in such a world of fools as this? Happy Valentines Day! What’s Valentines Day but a holiday invented by the card manufacturers and floral delivery companies to increase profits. It’s a $10 billion a year business, at least according to the Wall Street Journal. If I could work my will,” said Clinton indignantly, “every idiot who goes about with ‘happy Valentines Day’ on his lips, should be boiled with his own box of chocolates, and buried with Cupid’s arrow crammed through his rectum!”
“Uncle!” pleaded the nephew.
“Nephew!” returned the uncle sternly, “keep Valentines Day in your own way, and let me keep it in mine. Just because I’m making money off it doesn’t mean I have to believe in the damn thing.”
“There are many things from which I might have derived good, that I have not necessarily believed in, I dare say,” returned the nephew. “But I am sure I have always thought of Valentines Day time, when it has come round -- apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that -- as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant and loving time: the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people dear to them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a notch in my phallic pistol, I believe that Valentines Day has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!”
The secretary, Ms. Porter, now the floor manager, chanced by and involuntarily applauded the nephew’s words.
“Let me hear another sound from you,” said Clinton, “and you’ll keep your Valentines Day by losing your job too! You’re quite a powerful speaker, sir,” he added, turning to his nephew. “I wonder you don’t run for congress.”
“You taught me enough about politics, uncle, to warn me forever from that line of work. Don’t be angry, uncle. Come! Celebrate my wedding with us tomorrow. Yonder is my new bride, too shy to be introduced.” The nephew pointed to a lovely young lady across the room, who, upon finding the eyes of Clinton upon her, lowered her eyes demurely.
“Why did you get married?” said Clinton.
“Because I fell in love.”
“Because you fell in love!” laughed Clinton, as if that were the only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a happy Valentines Day. Taking a good look at his new niece, remembering her audition tape, forgetting the name, he patted his nephew on the back and whispered in his ear “Well, congratulations, nephew, I know she’ll be good to you...”
His nephew left the room without an angry word, notwithstanding. He stopped at the outer door to bestow the greetings of the season on the stiff maitre de, who cold as he was, was warmer than Clinton; for he returned them cordially.
Clinton made his way to the centerpiece, the giant cake. One half of a dozen beautiful if sweaty women popped out of the cake dressed like cherubs. Cherubs reminded Clinton of cherubs, and he hated cherubs, so despite the charms of the inhabitants of the cake, Clinton retired towards the mezzanine.
This lunatic, the maitre de, in letting Clinton’s nephew out, had let two other people in. They were portly gentlemen, pleasant to behold, and having caught up with him, now stood, with their hats off, alone with Clinton in his elevator. They had books and papers in their hands, and bowed to him.
“William Clinton, I believe,” said one of the gentlemen, referring to his list. “Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Clinton, of the law firm of William and Hillary?”
“Hillary has been dead these five years,” Clinton replied. “She died five years ago, this very night.”
“We have no doubt her liberal nature is well represented by her surviving partner,” said the gentleman, presenting his credentials.
It certainly was; for they had been two kindred spirits. At the ominous word “liberal,” Clinton frowned, and shook his head, and handed the credentials back.
“At this festive season of the year, Mr. Clinton,” said the gentleman, taking up a pen, “it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the Single but Ugly, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common relationships; not knowing the simple comforts of sex, sir. Many have not known carnal pleasure in years.”
“Are there no brothels?” asked Clinton.
“Plenty of brothels,” said the gentleman, laying down the pen again.
“And the walkers of the street?” demanded Clinton. “Are they still in operation?”
“They are. Still,” returned the gentleman, “I wish I could say they were not.”
“Masturbation and the Rape Law are in full vigor, then?” said Clinton.
“Both very busy, sir.”
“Viagra and cocaine still on shelves?”
“To the shame of us all.”
“Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course,” said Clinton. “I’m very glad to hear it.”
“Under the impression that they scarcely furnish physical cheer of mind or body to the multitude,” returned the gentleman, “a few of us are endeavoring to raise a fund to buy some poontang for the Single but Ugly. We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when horniness is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for?”
“Nothing!” Clinton replied.
“You wish to be anonymous?”
“I wish to be left alone,” said Clinton. “Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don’t make happy myself at Valentines Day, it is after all, the anniversary of the death of my wife, and I can’t afford to make ugly people happy who cannot get laid of their own accord. I support the establishments and products I have mentioned -- they cost enough; and those who are badly off must go there and use them.”
“Many can’t go there; and many would rather die.”
“If these Single but Ugly men would rather die than pay for sex,” said Clinton, “they had better do it, and decrease the competition. Besides, getting people laid is my business,” Clinton returned. “It’s enough for a man to understand his own business and profit by it, and not to give it away out of some misplaced sense of philanthropy on a cheesy holiday. My own sex life occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen!”
Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue their point, the gentlemen stayed in the elevator as Clinton withdrew to his office, where he found himself alone. Making several calls and finding no one home, he declined to leave messages and stretched back in his chair.
Suddenly, Patricia, the latest employee from the lineup, came bursting through the door wearing her brand new costume, which wasn’t much. “Oops,” she innocently declared, “am I disturbing you?”
“Not at all,” said Clinton, getting an eyeful.
“What do you think?” said Patricia, spinning around, taking the moment.
“You look great, babe.”
“Good. I wanted to thank you for the job.”
“You’re very welcome. Say, how would you like to get off early tonight?”
“Depends on what you mean by getting off.”
And we draw this conversation to a close, sure in the knowledge that it will lead to something that is none of our business.
Outside, the heat and mugginess thickened so, that people ran about in little more than underwear. The ancient clock tower of a nearby mall, whose tacky old facade was always peeping slyly down from above a Hallmark Card shop, struck the hours and quarters with ancient Beach Boys tunes, as if demanding prayer that, holy father, they should all be California Girls. The heat became intense. In the main street at the corner of the parking lot, some laborers were repairing the water mains, and had opened a great hydrant, round which a party of half naked people were gathered: cooling their bodies and winking their eyes before the fountain in rapture. The brightness of the shops where cards and flowers and chincy hearts and valentines and boxes of chocolates were displayed, made tan faces pale as they passed. The whole town had turned pink and frilly. Supermarkets and drug stores were a splendid joke; a glorious pageant of salesmanship. The front of a florist shop was spray-painted with hearts. The sign was changed to read “Nothing goes better with Hearts than Flowers.” How could one not believe that this was Valentines Day, with reminders in every corner of the eye, all adhering to such dull principles as bargain and sale. Perfume saleswomen in department stores prepared to spray people against their will as January issues of all the major magazines have been taken off the newsstand racks and replaced by the special February Valentines Day issues.
The Mayor of the city, in the stronghold of the mighty Mansion House, gave orders to his fifty cooks and butlers to keep Valentines Day as a Mayor’s household should; and even the little tailor, whom he had fined five dollars on the previous Monday for being drunk and bloodthirsty in the streets, offered free love in his garret, while his hearty wife and the baby sallied out to buy the beef.
Muggier yet, and hotter! Feverish, punishing, endless heat.
At length the hour of shutting up Hooters arrived. With an ill-will, Clinton got into his perfectly restored make-out mobile from the fifties, a convertible Ford Galaxy, and headed for home.
Clinton took his dinner in his usual manor, driving through a 24-hour McDonalds for the McRib special, supersized, with an apple pie. Eating while driving, he listened to the radio news, then went home to bed. He lived in a townhouse near the marina which had once belonged to his deceased partner. They were a sprightly suite of rooms, smaller than the neighboring condos, where it had so little business to be, that one could scarcely help fancying it must have run there when it was a young house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses, and forgotten the way out again. It was old enough now, and cheery enough, a bachelor pad for nobody but Clinton.
Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about the automatic garage door opener, except that it was very small and also turned on the lights, adjusted the thermostat, and checked his e-mail. It is also a fact, that Clinton had seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence in that place. Let it also be borne in mind that Clinton had not bestowed one thought on Hillary, since his last mention of his five years’ dead partner that afternoon. And then let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened that Clinton, having pressed the appropriate button on the remote control, without its undergoing any intermediate process of change - showed not a readout of e-mail, but Hillary’s face.
Hillary’s face. It was not in impenetrable shadow, reflecting the nearby streetlight quite well, but had a dismal green light about it, like all LED displays. It was not angry or ferocious, but looked at Clinton as Hillary used to look: with ghostly spectacles turned up on her ghostly forehead. The hair was curiously stirred, as if by breath or hot air; and, though the eyes were wide open, they were perfectly motionless. That, and the livid color, made it horrible; but its horror seemed to be in spite of the face and beyond its control, rather than a part of its own expression.
As Clinton looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was but a remote control again.
To say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it had been a stranger from infancy, would be untrue. But he put his hand upon the remote, pressed the button sturdily, and this time watched the garage door open in all its splendor. He pulled in, locked the car, and entered the house, the lights already on by virtue of the remote.
He did pause, with a moment’s irresolution, before he shut the door; and he did look cautiously behind it first, as if he half-expected to be terrified with the sight of Hillary’s hairdo sticking out into the hall. But there was nothing on the back of the door, so he said “Aw nuts!” and closed it with a bang.
The sound resounded through the house like thunder. Every room appeared to have a separate peal of echoes of its own. Clinton was not a man to be frightened by echoes. He fastened the door, and walked across the hall, and up the stairs; slowly too: undressing as he went.
Up Clinton went, pondering his day, but before he shut his heavy door, he walked through his rooms to see that all was right. He had just enough recollection of the ghostly face to desire to do that.
Bathrooms, bedrooms, kitchen and dining area, all as they should be. Nobody under the table, nobody under the sofa; the air conditioner pumping; and the little shot of Cognac (Clinton had a cold in his head) upon the bedside. Nobody under the bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in his dressing-gown, which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude against the wall.
Quite satisfied, he closed his door, and turned on the security cameras, watching the outside of the house, which was not his custom. Thus secured against surprise, he took off the rest of his garments, put a fresh tape in the VCR, and settled into the enormous oval-shaped Jacuzzi in his private bathroom.
“Humbug!’ said Clinton; as he soaked in the hot water and luxurious bubbles, watching the secretly secured audition videotapes of young lovelies.
As he threw his head back in the bath, almost passing out, he was awakened by the sound of chains. It was with great astonishment, and with a strange, inexplicable dread, that as he looked, he saw no explanation for this rattle. It clanged so softly in the outset that it scarcely made a sound; but soon it rang out loudly, again, along with the sound of a hairdryer, then a blender, and numerous bags rustling.
This might have lasted half a minute, or a minute, but it seemed an hour. The sounds ceased as they had begun, together. They were succeeded by a clanking noise, deep down below; as if some person were dragging a heavy chain through the plumbing. Clinton then remembered to have heard that ghosts in haunted houses were described as dragging chains.
Suddenly, up from the bubbling water, rose Hillary’s ghost, her hair in curlers, her face covered with a ghastly white cold cream, body in an advanced state of decomposition.
“What the fuck!” said Clinton. “I don’t believe this.”
The same face: the very same. Hillary in her coif, usual pantsuit, pantyhose and boots. The chain she drew was clasped about her middle. It was long, and wound about her like a tail; and it was made (for Clinton observed it closely) of many mysterious items, including various appliances, books, shopping bags from Bonwit Teller, hairspray, and nail polish. Her body was transparent; so that Clinton, observing her, could see the towel rack on the wall behind.
Clinton had often heard it said that Hillary had no substance, but he had never believed it until now.
No, nor did he believe it even now. Though he looked the phantom through and through, and saw it standing before him; though he felt the chilling influence of its death-cold eyes; and marked the very texture of the decrepit kerchief bound about her head and chin, which wrapper he had not observed before; he was still incredulous, and fought against his senses.
“Hillary!” said Clinton, gentle and smooth as ever. “Is that you?”
A fair question. “That’s right” came the deathly reply, echoing throughout the bath, giving Clinton such a start that he bounded from the Jacuzzi, put on a robe, and ran to hide in the nearby sauna. For a moment, he believed himself safe, until he heard a horrible screeching voice: “First floor: cosmetics, perfumes, and accessories.” An elevator tone got louder and louder. He tried to escape from the sauna but found the door stuck. Hillary walked through the door like it wasn’t there and sat down next to him.
“What do you want with me?” he asked
“Much!” Hillary’s voice, no doubt about it.
“Who are you?”
“Come on, sweetheart, it’s me, your little wifey-poo, Hillary.”
“I hate it when you call yourself that.”
“Too bad toots. Come on, honey, let’s get it on like the old days,” she said before taking a snorkel dive towards his crotch, causing Clinton to stand in a hurry. “What’s the matter? Do I look that bad?”
“Not for a woman who’s been dead five years,” said Clinton, trying to be as flattering as possible.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” said Hillary.
“This is a nightmare. It can’t be happening,” shouted Clinton, in what would prove to be one of many non sequiturs uttered during the course of the evening.
Hillary sulked. “You don’t believe in me. You never believed in me. That was the problem with our marriage. Let me ask you. Can you see me?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m real. Why do you doubt your senses?”
“Because look, anything can affect them. You’re a hallucination, just an undigested bit of acid from my hippie days.”
At this, Hillary raised a frightful cry and shook her chain with such a dismal and appalling noise, that Clinton screamed in terror, pushed the Sauna door open, ran to his bed and ducked under the covers.
Hillary popped up again between his legs. “Does this bring back memories,” she said before opening her mouth to receive his manhood, an unfortunate maneuver that caused her lower jaw to drop down upon her breast as though it were too warm to wear indoors.
“Mercy,” Clinton exclaimed. “Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me. Get out of here! Get out of my bed!”
“Aw, come on,” replied Hillary’s ghost. “What’s a little necrophilia between friends? I haven’t had any in five years.” Her bloated corpse moved in for a smooch. Clinton retched over the side of the bed. She floated to the other side of the room in disgust. “Beautiful. The first guy I’m in bed with in years and I make him barf. So. Big boy. That’s real barf, right?”
“Right.”
“So do you admit I’m real?
“Let’s say I do.” He stared at her, contemplating the horrible fact of her reality. “Why do spirits walk the earth,” said Clinton, “and why do they come to me?”
“It is required of every man and woman,” the Ghost returned, “that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellowmen, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through the world -- oh, woe is me! -- and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!”
Again the specter raised a cry, and shook its chain and wrung its clearly unmanicured hands.
“Cut that out!” said Clinton, “or I promise you...” He paused, having no idea what he could possibly promise his dead wife.
“Yeah,” she said, “I’m glad you stopped right there, considering what your promises mean.”
“I kept every promise I made you.”
“What about that little bargain we made, huh?” asked Hillary in a voice out of a Saturday morning cartoon frightfest.
“Now you know as well as I do that I kept that bargain. When I got caught doing precisely what you had just given me permission to do, did I go crying ‘Hey, it’s okay, you should see how Hillary gets her rocks off?’ No, I did not. I kept my mouth shut, took my punishment, and apologized.”
“You sure changed your tune after I died, you sexy scumbag you.”
“Geez, back off honey, because when I tell you that you smell bad, that is the God’s honest truth. And come on. After you die, all bets are off, you know that. Your dying wasn’t part of our bargain, babe, I’m sorry.”
“You promised me that you wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“I believe my exact words were that nobody needed to know.”
“Yeah, right. It all depends upon what the word ‘nobody’ means. Goddam lawyer.”
“Goddam right. Who ‘nobody’ was changed after you died in, shall we say, a beguiling situation? How was I going to explain THAT without going into the other thing?”
“The other thing being the pain?”
“Of course the pain, what else? You told me yourself that you used to get the female equivalent of blue balls, and that sex was the only way to make it go away. We struck a blow for sexual freedom, honey, I am SO proud of our accomplishments.”
Their laughter rang throughout the house.
“We sure did, sweetcakes, we sure did. You made quite a martyr. They nailed your dick to the cross and, low and behold, it arose seven days later.”
More laughter.
“We did it. We actually did it. We put oral sex in the history books.”
He gave her a high five, an unfortunate choice that separated her hand from her arm, sending the bones and gristle flying.
“Euggh, stop that, you’re coming off on me.” She gathered herself together and they lay back on the bed. It was a moment of relaxation that brought him back to the old days. Still, he looked at her and wondered “Honey, what the hell is attached to your leg?”
“Everything I ever bought with your credit card, plus my health bill. Wait’ll you see yours. For all eternity, politicians have to carry around every piece of legislation they introduced. This one’s a mother. Do you remember how big it was?”
“No, I don’t. But thank you for reminding me how big it was.”
“Everything is sex with you. Only Bill Clinton could take my well-intentioned attempt to change health care in this country forever, and go down in history as a first lady who saved lives, into a pathetic metaphor for his own penis.”
“Go down is right.”
“You’re pathetic.”
“Eat me.”
“Gladly.”
“Whoa, I didn’t mean that in a physical way, it was more of a metaphoric eat me, more of a fuck you sort of eat me.”
“I’ll take either one.”
Hillary managed to wrap her putrescent flesh around his robe and started to undo the knot when he broke away one more time.
“You have simply got to understand that I am not going to have sex with you. How about if someone walked in? Can you imagine the headlines? ‘Clinton caught skull fucking Hillary’s dead body on the anniversary of her death’ Nice. The press would love it.”
“You’d figure a way out of it. That’s what you’re best at. As disgusting as it sounds, your approval ratings would go up, I promise.”
“I suppose I could claim I didn’t know it was you. That’s slightly less disgusting.”
“Yeah, right. Who could I be? Strom Thurman?”
“That’s the Hillary I love. You always make me laugh. Strom Thurman. That’s great. Give me a hug.”
Cautiously, Bill wrapped his arms around Hillary’s rotting flesh, then tenderly pulled away, saying “This isn’t very comforting.”
“I have no comfort to give, William my sweet. Only a warning. You’ve got a chance, just a chance, of avoiding my fate. Listen up, hon, my time is nearly gone.”
“Too bad.”
“Pay attention. You will soon be haunted by three spirits.”
“Aww, not tonight, hon, please, I’ve got to get some rest. I’ve got court tomorrow.”
“It’s not like we’ve got any choice in the matter. Everything is prearranged.”
“All right, so assuming that this is actually happening and not just a bad dream, you’re telling me that three more dead bodies are going to visit me?”
“Not dead bodies. Just spirits. They will take many forms. Without their visits, you’re going to end up like me. Walking the earth, horny as hell, unable to touch anyone. You want that?
“I should say not!”
“I didn’t think so. Anyway, the first will be here in about an hour.”
“Can’t I take them all at once and get it over with?”
“Still like ‘em three at a time, huh sweet cheeks? Sorry, you’re going to have to do these one at a time. Catch you later.”
When it had said these words, the specter took its wrapper from the table, and bound it round its head, as before. Clinton knew this, by the smart sound its teeth made, when the jaws were brought together by the bandage. He ventured to raise his eyes again, and found his supernatural visitor confronting him in an erect attitude, with its chain, health care package and all, wound over and about its arm.
The apparition walked backward from him; and at every step it took, the window raised itself a little, so that when the specter reached it, it was wide open.
It beckoned Clinton to approach, which he did. When they were within two paces of each other, Hillary’s Ghost held up its hand, warning him to come no nearer. Clinton stopped.
Not so much in obedience, as in surprise and fear: for on the raising of the hand, he became sensible of confused noises in the air; incoherent sounds of lamentation and regret; wailings inexpressibly sorrowful and self-accusatory. The specter, after listening for a moment, joined in the mournful dirge; and floated out upon the bleak, dark night.
Clinton followed to the window: desperate in his curiosity. He looked out.
The air was filled with phantoms, wandering hither and thither in restless haste, and moaning as they went. Every one of them wore chains like Hillary’s Ghost; some humped streetlights, few (they might be government conspiracy theorists) were linked together; none were free. Many had been personally known to Clinton in their lives. He had been quite familiar with one old ghost, in a pinstripe suit, with what appeared to be a scale model of the Watergate Hotel attached to its ankle, who cried piteously at being unable to assist a wretched woman with an infant, whom it saw below, upon a door-step. The misery with them all was, clearly, that they sought to interfere, for good, in human matters, and had lost the power forever.
Whether these creatures faded into mist, or mist enshrouded them, he could not tell. But they and their spirit voices faded together; and the night became as it had been when he drove home.
Clinton closed the window. He tried to say “Humbug!” but stopped at the first syllable. And being, from the emotion he had undergone, or the fatigues of the day, or his glimpse of the Invisible World, or the dull conversation of the Ghost, or the lateness of the hour, much in need of rational conversation; he ran to pick up the bedside phone, desperately dialing and calling “Hello.”
But the only voice he could reach was Hillary’s. “What, you think anyone will believe you when you tell them you’ve seen my ghost?” she told him through the receiver. Clinton pushed another button on the phone, only to hear Hillary again saying “Still here, hon. Just wanted to mention that you’ll be seeing the second spirit about two tomorrow, and the last, well, it’s hard to say. I know how you don’t like to see people without appointments.”
Clinton slammed down the phone and paced the floor talking to himself. “This is ridiculous,” he said, “if the first spirit is going to be here in an hour, I’m going to be somewhere else.” And with that, he got dressed, jumped in his car, and headed out into the night.
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Stave 2: The First of the Three Spirits
