It was 1965. August 23rd, 1965 to be exact. DC was its usual sweaty, swampy, suffocating self. It felt oddly normal for me, if even slightly comfortable.
I had just returned from two years in Viet Nam. I was used to the heat and the sweat. Thirty days leave in DC would do me good, I thought. Get my mind off of the war, meet some chicks, drink cheap beer, be a tourist, a normal person for a while before shipping back to Nam.
On August 23rd 1965 I woke up in BOQ at the Army base in DC. It was a Saturday. I showered, dressed and hit the chow hall for breakfast. My plan was to visit the White House; take the tour with hundreds of other Americans, blend in for a few hours.
There were protests in DC that summer. The base commander waived uniform rules, and encouraged off-duty personnel to travel around the city in civilian clothes. I dressed in civvies, plain khakis, a short-sleeved madras shirt, socks and penny loafers. Blend in, I thought.
After a short cab ride and I was queued up for the White House tour. We were told that the first family was in the WH that day, so our tour wouldn’t include any private, family areas of the WH. Jaded as I was, I hoped to catch a glimpse of the old man, or maybe one of his daughters. They had big hair, and big, ratted hair was sexy back then. I wanted and needed sexy.
The tour was okay, interesting even. The WH was smaller than I thought it would be. The history was fascinating, though. And the art was beautiful.
Part way through the tour we heard a ruckus of footsteps and saw a small crowd of Secret Service agents hustling the President from one area to another. He saw us. LBJ saw the tour group. Not one who could keep away from potential voters, President Johnson turned and bolted toward our group, his big paw of a hand extended in greeting.
“Haw’re y’all tudday? Ah’m Predident Johnson. Kin Ah shake all y’alls hands?” he barreled.
He went down the line, shaking hands, pounding backs, kissing children. He got to me and looked at my head. My haircut was Army short in a world where non-Army hair was hippie-long. “Boy, you inna Army, ain’t cha?” he asked me.
“Yessir”, I said, “Lieutenant Second Class Hasenstab, sir, just home from a tour of duty in Viet Nam” I replied.
Son, Ah’m a militerry man myself” he barked. “Was a pilot in WW Two, flew for MacArthur. Got my ass shot out of a B-26. MacArthur hisself awarded me a Silver Star.”
“That’s very courageous, sir.”
LBJ turned to someone behind him and said “Luci, tell Mama we’re havin’ a guest for supper, an’ take this gennelman with you to the family room. Y’all can talk about college or Texas or dancin’ that damn frug or whutever y’all want ‘til supper. Lieutenant, welcome to the Johnson’s house. Yer gonna stay and have barbecue with us for supper.”
I was shocked when two Secret Service guys grabbed me, and pushed me toward a woman my age who had big ratted dark hair. She was wearing a sweater to cover her pointy breasts, even though it was August. August 23, 1965 to be exact.
TO BE CONTINUED
2 comments:
TY - Thanks for the frontpage. You've got the first parts last and the last parts first. Makes no sense. Like putting on a fur coat then a bra.
Plus, a couple of paragraphs were copied twice.
No one understands how I suffer for my art!
Fixed.
Hey I have to post it the way you wrote it. That's how people will read it.
You have to respect the intelligence of your audience.
This isn't the evil blogger lady's place. I know they can figure it out.
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