A History of the African-American People (Proposed) by Strom Thurmond (26 page)

I mention this in a friendly way, just to lighten a letter that might seem to be veering into the heavy. I expect we all have our little hobbies and harmful happinesses. You do too, I am sure. They make life so much fuller, I feel. In my case, they also provide me with a certain aura and a reputation. Both the aura and the reputation I can back up, not that I mean any part of that as a threat.

Do send me your impressions of the lunch with the Senator and any notes or memorabilia you compiled or carried away with you.

What do you hear from Juniper?

I have reason to believe that one or both of you is (or maybe are) dating Reba. You know very well who Reba is, so don’t waste our time by saying, “Who is Reba?” Two (or more) can play at that game.

I am considering taking up archery.

Devotedly,

Barton

O
FFICE OF
S
ENATOR
S
TROM
T
HURMOND
217 R
USSELL
S
ENATE
B
UILDING
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C. 20515

January 10, 2003

Martin,

What are that Kincaid and Everett doing? What do they mean by it?

Did you put them up to this?

I tried to call McCloud (my Juney) but he doesn’t like phones, so I hung up after a few rings (and several calls), honoring his little whims. We all owe it to one another to do a lot more respecting of whims than usually gets done.

So, you tell me. There’s an interesting phrase, agree? I mean, depending on how it’s inflected, it can mean so many things. “YOU tell me” or “you TELL me” or (my own favorite) “you tell ME.” The last is friendliest, unless it’s snide.

In any case, I feel I should get information on this point. Surely I deserve it—who is more deserving, I’d like to know?

Do you date much, Martin? I can tell from your letters that you are currently unattached. I picture you as having an oblique sort of restless attractiveness to you. Oh sure, you have a complexion nobody’d bid on, and that slouch, and hair you’ve always despaired of. Still………Am I right?

Barton

January 14, 2003

Dearest Reba,

There is some good news. I haven’t heard from Barton Wilkes in several days, maybe weeks. I don’t know.

Hope you are equally blessed, and not just in that negative way, for sure. I hope your life is filled with wonderful times and lovely people. Whatever happened to Fred—I can’t remember his last name—you went with for so long? He seemed to have a lot to offer and certainly was fine looking.

I guess I have more good news. I’m out from under Martin Snell—no pun there. He got me reassigned or maybe was forced to reassign me. I still have a job, but it’s with this Mafia type, Ralph Vendetti. Only he’s not really a Mafia type, Reba, at least not the movie Mafia type, quiet and ominous. That might not be so bad. It’s more like he’s a male Sicilian version of Leona Helmsley. That’s bad. Vendetti does about 60% of the company’s business, I expect, seeing as how he’s in charge of trash: cookbooks, self-help books, true crime, and unauthorized biographies.

And let’s not forget diet books. That’s what he put me on. Diet books, Reba, can he believe it? The one I’m assigned to “work into shape” is called The Butter Bliss Diet. I want to change it to the Yogurt-Plus Diet, but Vendetti, when I mentioned it, said, in his bull-bellow tenor, that the first title was better. What he said was, “Go suck your hemorrhoids, Julep! Don’t you know any fucking thing?” Then he smiled and said, “That’s OK, kid.” I was slinking out of his office, when he stopped me with this real soft, mocking, girlie voice: “Oh and Julep. Don’t hesitate to stop by any time you have an idea I’ll like. Kissy-kissy.” Then he smiled again and gave me a friendly wave. I can’t tell about him, really.

Anyhow, this diet book I’m supposed to work into shape, as I say, is—get this—based on the old-wifey premise that we are all healthiest as babies (not true) and that such health is given us by cows (not true) and that we can all regain the vigor, the fitness, the sylph-like figure, and the creamy complexion of babies, if we return to our cow home. Thus the butter bliss. The diet is based on cream and ice cream, milk and yogurt, butter and cheese. It also features a lot of beef, for the simple reason that cows are…. Well, you know the rest. Since nobody’s going to buy a diet book that doesn’t proscribe something, this one sets strict rules on the amount of water one can drink, on yellow vegetables (disallowed altogether, I think), on all green vegetables that are not leafy (such as the sort cows might fancy), on Chinese food generally and anything soy based (tofu especially). Anything fried in butter is excellent, as are sweets (a staple of any cow’s diet), breads (especially in the form of doughnuts and muffins), and most alcoholic beverages, rum excluded. I think I can steal a copy for you when it’s out. You can give it to an enemy.

But Vendetti at least doesn’t seem to want to undress me or pat my butt. That’s a step up. And he hasn’t started marking each holiday and festival by having me to a party. I think I’m safe there. So far as I can tell, he detests me, or maybe just includes me in his all-round contempt for the world and its creatures. I don’t think it’s anything personal, as he doesn’t know my name even. Thinks I’m Julep, though possibly he regards that name as an amusing attack on my manhood. Well, attack away, I say. I’m not defending. And he did stop by my desk to ask if everything was OK. Now and then he smiles.

Still, dear Reba, it’s an impossible situation: doing substupid books for publishing’s own Mike Tyson. I’m lonely and useless and feel more lost than I ever have. Strom’s book wasn’t much and neither was Martin; but both sure beat this. I haven’t got so I miss Wilkes, but that’ll be next.

And then, my sister, I think of what Mother would say: “Remember there are people in the world much worse off.” I do think of that. But I don’t find it cheering. It simply adds shame to my list of woes.

All in all, I am going to think of what I might do next and then quit—or vice versa. Please tell me if I whining. I always seem to be coming to you for help. Just being able to tell the truth and know you listen to it means that I can think. During the course of writing this letter, it came to me that being bounced back and forth here between King Kong and Godzilla didn’t make any sense. So I’m quitting. Thanks, dear Reba.

Much love,

Juniper

Memo: Snell to McCloud

January 15, 2003

Juniper, my Juney,

Miss you.

Keep an eye on Wilkes. Just between us. Keep an eye on him. He’s not a person I feel safe about. Do you? Anyway, I look to you to have your feelers out.

We still work for the same company, remember. And there’s so much else we share.

Wilkes said he was thinking of taking up archery. Everett told me that over the phone. What do you suppose that means? I know what archery is, of course. I don’t want you to explain to me what archery is. I want to know whether anyone can kill someone or cause them great pain with a bow and arrow. Can they? I suppose so but would like to be sure.

I think Wilkes must feel threatened by Everett and Kincaid going straight to Strom. Feed that. Sic Wilkes on them. Don’t you agree?

Miss you.

Marry-warry

p.s. Less than a month until Lover’s Day

Interoffice Memo

January 17, 2003

Dear Percival,

I figured you’d want me to respond to Barton Wilkes, as I am much better than you at sizing up a difficult personality and dealing with it tactfully as it flows. I don’t mean that I understand Wilkes. It’s not a matter of understanding, you see. That’s where you make your mistake. You try to understand difficult people and then deal with them according to that understanding. That’s a mistake.

Like with Strom. I was adjusting to the flow, making little alterations in my manner and speech, trying to make him hum to our tune. I was playing him like a violin. It’s not that you didn’t raise good points, all through our lunch. You did. It’s just that you didn’t make those adjustments.

It’s simply a people skill, Percival, and probably not one that can be learned. Knowing you, I expect you wouldn’t want to learn it were that possible, which it isn’t.

So here’s a letter to Barton. I send it to you as a courtesy, seeing that your name is attached. But I knew you’d like this letter; so, in the interests of time, I sent it on to madman Wilkes. (Who in hell is Reba?)

January 17, 2003

Dear Barton,

I want you to know how very much Percival and I enjoyed receiving your letter and how appreciative we are of your energy and courtesy. Both are alike impressive and gallant, just like you.

You are a very busy man. You are an important man. You are a man with much on his plate. Many demands. Decisions. Staff (none too competent) to supervise. The Senator to manage and to act, as you say, as paladin to. (I confess: you had me there. I didn’t know what paladin meant—needless to say, neither did Everett—but it was the perfect word.) Busy, busy, busy.

We knew that and know that.

And so we didn’t bother you ahead of time about our little visit to the Senator. We intended to get in touch with you afterwards should anything come up worthy of your attention.