chap. 18...without millisa  

sparkee58 59M
606 posts
4/16/2006 2:19 am

Last Read:
8/23/2006 8:19 am

chap. 18...without millisa

I once shook hands with Bobby Kennedy. I was a ten year old crew-cut boy suddenly plucked down, as fate would have it, onto the windblown panhandle of Nebraska when he came through campaigning for the presidency in 1968. The famous younger brother of a slain president spoke briefly from the rear car of the train that carried him across the nation that fall, hurtling toward his doom, emphasizing points with those elegant hands like exclaimation points. When he finished there were cheers and light applause from the small crowd of bib overalled corn farmers and their barrel shaped wives.
Nixon signs loomed in the background and his dark shadowed photgraph, scattered here and there as a prearranged tactic, fluttered in the cold wind that gusted and ebbed, gusted and ebbed. Sometimes it roared through with a vengence, building up power and rage from crossing hundreds of miles of desolate plains, empty of trees as the ocean.
A gust blew through with a sudden fury and a picture of Nixon tore off the small board held up by a suited man who eagerly waved it. He hurredly reached out but the wind skittered it away from his fingers. He tried again, stumbled and almost fell over. He waved it away as lost.
Years later as I watched Nixon maneuver through the trecherous seas of Watergate, I remembered the man chasing the fluttering photograph. I saw him as Nixon, waving away the presidency with one last salute.
Kennedy had leaned over the rail of the caboose to shake hands. He smiled wide and brilliant, raw charisma making his eyes sparkle with a blue-flamed liquid fire. At first, I stood away, feeling awkward and alone among these hearty descendants of indian fighters and sod house dwellers. The men used to plow the hard ground with teams of oxen. Somehow over the years, it seemed to a young boy, the steady concentration of the farmers to the rear ends of the slow brutes affected their personalities in the same way that tv might be said to affect the personalities of constant viewers.
I watched Mr. and Mrs. Kohl, sturdy stock of German immigrants. He wore new blue striped bib overalls with the buckles glistening silver in the sun. The straps were let out fully to accept the owner's pauch, courtesy of strudle and chicken and dumplings and rich recipes from the old country. His wife, bonneted as in the old west, was covered below the calves in what my granny back in Carolina would have called a 'frock'. Their faces, pressed together as they listened intently, resembled two fat pumpkins side by side on the vine. I imagined them as two oxen, forever yoked together, going down that journey that the tobacco croppers from home would call the 'long rows' of life.
I was immediately drawn to Kennedy's smile, with it's innocent, boyish charm and my ears rung with the fiery words that were flung forth like arrows from the democratic frontrunner and possible president. Johnson was out. Even then Nixon looked like a crook. Only fate could keep him from winning.
An impulse, sudden as the tap of a teacher's rule, exploded in my mind. I stood there beside the railroad tracks in the panhandle of dusty Nebraska on a cool fall day in 1967, a skinny boy with blue jeans that had been patched at the knee. Nationalism was being invoked. My heart swelled with pride and my mind whirled with visions of sacrifice and honor; tears of patriotic joy and pride sprang to my eyes. His words were like steel that went right to my spine.
Even among these people, these westerners with their cowboy boots and big ranches with cattle and hogs and chickens and fields of golden hay and overreaching green corn and alfalfa stretching to the horizon. Even here with towns named after Indian chiefs like Red Cloud, even here I felt love for anything and everything American. Swell after swell of patriotism pushed me forward through the small crowd. I lifted my small hand upwards where the great man stood waving and smiling. We looked into each other's eyes and, to me, it felt like Prometheus stealing fire. And then the train started and he went inside, heading toward his tragic destiny in LA.
Two months later all there was to show of the man's existence were old film clips and photographs and the memory of his terrific energy as he squeezed my small palm.

"Well?" Millisa asked. I turned on the bar stool. Her inquisitive blue eyes were looking at me expectantly. There was a big smile on her long face.
The ghost of Bobby Kennedy fled out the windows of my mind.
Returning from the bathroom, she sat back down beside me on the stool at the bar of the Silver Dollar Saloon. It was early afternoon and the sun slanted hot through the open doors. A salt tinged breeze flowed through and ruffled the newspaper I had been reading.
Newly separated, Millisa had moved to the beach a month ago from Fuquay-Varina, a small town near Raleigh, and she was here, she said, reinventing her life. A few years older than me, she was wiser and full of hell and she would liberally serve up her cynicism unsolicited. Her being what she called a compassionate conservative, I loved to push her buttons. She was one of those rare people that are passionate and articulate about politics and can argue without losing their head. We drank together a couple of times a week here, always by chance. She could hoist a prodigious amount of grog and some nights I would watch her as she held court like a female Falstaff over the drunken painters and roofers.
"They only listen to that nonsense because they want to get in your pants," I told her one night. She looked at me like I was crazy.
"There's got to be a point there somewhere," she said, searching my eyes.
The same way she searched them now, waiting for an answer.
"When are we leaving?" I asked.
"Leave Thursday morning. Come back Sunday," she said. Her face, framed with long blonde hair was lit up in a brilliant smile. Her blue eyes looked at me with exaggerated longing. Her face was long and had delicate, well defined cheekbones. Her small hands had pink tipped nails, and she playfully clawed at my shirt.
"Please...please...please," she said and pouted.
"Ohhhhhhh! Ohhhhhh! You're going to love DC. We'll go to the Smithsonian. The Capitol. Arlington," she said excitedly. She trembled with joy. I caught her stool as it almost turned over and steadied her. Her eyes were suddenly wide with surprise, but she recovered in a second.
"Arlington. I think I'd like to go there," I said. Chains rattled in my mind.
Millisa sensed a sudden sadness eminating from me, a feeling not unlike melancholy, and she calmed down from her frantic excitement. She looked into my eyes, searching for a clue. I smiled a crooked smile and sighed.
"Just a ghost," I said.
We were silent, Millisa nodding her head happily on her long, slim neck. She had a large mouth with thick pink lips. Her tongue peeked out and wet them and for the briefest second our faces started towards each other. But then the phone rang behind the bar and broke the spell. Sally answered it. She looked over at me with her hand over the receiver.
"Kami," she mouthed. I shook my head vigorously.
She talked into the phone and then hung up.
Millisa looked at me and was silent.
"Friend," I said.
She shook her head knowingly.
"I have to go call my sister," she finally said and drained her beer. We stood up and hugged and then she walked out the open door into the bright sunshine and the ever present soft crash of surf and the excited squeals of hungry gulls.

"I don't think you should go," Kami said.
She sat on my bed watching me pack and sadly shook her head. "You're going to get herpes. Or some worse disease. You're going to get Aids. You better use a rubber."
"We're not sleeping together, Kami," I said. I rolled up a pair of jeans and placed them in my old blue beat up American Tourister.
"Do I look stupid to you?" she asked. "You're going all the way to DC with this, this...".
"Millisa," I said.
"Millisa. You're staying there with her. But you're not going to have sex?"
"Well. I've known her for a month and we haven't even kissed."
I thought about this afternoon and Kami noticed as my mind drifted like a wind blown cloud.
She got up from the bed and walked towards me. She took the shirt I was folding and lay it to the side. Then she put her arms around my neck and we kissed, mouths opening and wet tongues swirling slowly. Her full breasts pushed against my chest and I felt the soft buttons of her nipples through my t shirt. She sensualy ground her hips into me and I felt an erection wiping it's sleepy eye and rising.
"Pablov's dog," she said and laughed. She moved her hand to it and gripped me. She fumbled with my zipper and took it out.
"Why don't you stay with us," she said softly, squeezing me, kissing my neck where the short hairs stood up as if electrified. "I know I was hateful last weekend, but I promise I'll be good this time."
She slowly stroked me and I became rigid. A tear of clear fluid leaked from the end. She wiped it off with her thumb and brought it to her mouth.
"Hateful is a kind word for you last weekend," I said. Why the hell did you say that, I thought immediately.
She released me and stood there shaking her head with disgust.
"Just go then," she spat out, hissing like a mad cat. Then, sudden as a squall, she left, slamming the front door and then her car door.

"You steal that suitcase from a refugee?" Millisa asked. It lay flat in the trunk of her car, sad as a cheap coffin. I slammed the lid and we got in the car, her in the driver's seat.
"That is the suitcase they dropped out of the plane. Then a gorilla found it. And he was locked up where they poked him with sticks. Then they ran over it with a train and then Butch and Sundance tried to blow it up. Then they..."
"Okay. Okay. I get the idea," she said.
It was still dark, the sky just nudging the horizon with it's pinkish fingertips. We drove over the high rise bridge and I looked out and could just make out the boats nestled in their berths, gently bobbing, the red and green lights of the channel buoys and the barely perceptable white foam of the crashing surf on the beach.
We were soon out of town and cruising down I40 headed west to I95. I slept and near Wilson we stopped for gas and I started driving.
Millisa curled up in the seat with a pillow. It was now late morning and the sun was high in the sky. She watched me with her gentle blue eyes. There was a satisfied smile on her face. I heard her take a deep breath and sigh.
"You know why we never got together?" she asked me.
"No. I figured you just weren't interested."
"Ha. Oh, I'm interested, alright."
I turned so she could see my skeptical expression. She shook her head as it lay on the white pillow. The Carolina landscape rushed by; thick pine woods with splashes of white dogwood flowers and softly rolling meadows with placid cows and billboards rising to the sky like an offering to the heavens.
"You know...," she started and then hesitated.
"A woman gets...," she started again.
I was silent.
"Damn it! I could fall in love with you very easy," she finally said and closed her eyes. "There, I said it."
My hand found hers and she soon fell asleep. I didn't let go until we crossed over into Virginia.

We made love that night, sharing a small bed at her sister's apartment in Alexandria, after a big reunion dinner at a nearby favorite restaurant with bottles of the house red. Her body was just as I imagined, tall and lean and her large breasts hung down from her delicate shoulders and as I took them in my hands they felt heavy and the pink nipples came to life under my tongue. Moans came from her, soft as a cat's purr, a sensuous, breathless acknowledgement of the pleasure she took from my caresses.
I ran the tips of my fingers along her sides and she turned over and lay on her stomach and I lightly scratched the smooth white skin with my fingernails and gently messaged her back. I lingered at the swell where it curved and ran a finger lightly down the crack and tickled the thin hairs of her pubis. I felt a warm, moist slickness and my finger easily slid inside her. She gasped and turned over and then I was on top of her. She took me in her hand and guided it in. It felt like I was sliding into hot, loose folds of liquid velvet. I only felt a slight pressure. She positioned herself so that my shaft rubbed on her clitoris as we slowly moved. After a few minutes she was wimpering in my ear and then I heard her gasp as she had her orgasm. She ground her hips into me and then she stopped and we lay still with me as deep in her as I could get.
"Come in me. Come in me," she pleaded as she began again to move beneath me. She pulled me down into a wet kiss and wrapped her long legs around my back and, tired from the trip and excited at the newness, it wasn't long before I did just that.
A bittersweet picture of Kami formed in my head as I felt the throbbing release. We fell asleep in each oher's arms.
The next morning I woke and Millisa was awake in the semi darkness stareing at me. Her long blond hair was disarrayed as the bedsheets. A sleepy smile came to my face.
"Good morning," I said. I stretched and yawned.
"What happened to you last night? You seemed to leave me," she asked.
I shook my head and gave her a bewildered look.
"I want to suck your dick," she said, pulling the covers off.
Then she grasped it and, without preliminaries, she took it in her mouth. She wasted no time with teasing, but went straight to it like it was a race to the finish. Her head bobbed earnestly and she sucked so hard it was almost painful. When I came she swallowed it all and even searched the shaft with her long pink tongue for more. The next day I discovered a purple hickey on the head from the pressure.

We took the Metro train that runs around DC and, as time was getting short, decided to go to Arlington first, to make sure we wouldn't miss it.
Row upon row upon row of white crosses filled me with a majestic sadness. There were men and their stories buried beneath the ground we would never know. It silently screamed with bloody murder. This all belonged to the Custis-Lee family before the Civil War, when they made it into a cemetary so they could bury Union soldiers on General Lee's confiscated land.
People were walking slowly, talking softly and, for the most part, solemnly, down the immaculate pathways as if they too felt the history weighing down on them like a poignant fog. We stood still and watched the precise movements of the soldiers, members of the Third United States Infantry, immaculate in their blue dress uniforms at the Changing of the Guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Their faces were as expressionless as brave men headed to battle. Millisa gripped my arm, entranced with the ritual, the precise, almost robotic steps they made in a quartertime beat, solemn as a funeral dirge, that seemed to slow the human heart to a state of mourning. The young soldiers wore stoic faces as they artfully handled their gleaming rifles and exchanged places before the tomb.
Enscribed on the side of the marble was:

Here Rests
In Honored Glory
An American Soldier
Known But To God

Millisa sighed and gripped my arm tighter. After this pomp and circumstance we wandered down a path, hand in hand, under the leafy awnings of the flowering cherries and dogwoods, into and out of the shade. I looked up and saw the sun's dappled light as it filtered through the lush branches. We stopped and sat on a bench looking out upon the Custis-Lee mansion.
"So, what do you think?" Millisa asked. She drank from a bottle of water. Her long fingers screwed the cap back on. We both sat back on the bench under a majestic old oak tree.
"It's magnificent," I said.
"Not this. Us. What do you think about"
"That's magnificent, too."
"It was good last night."
"This morning, too."
A mischievious smile came to her face and her blue eyes lit up in amusement. She looked around.
"Not here," I said.
She shrugged. We were silent.
"You know, my sister asked me to move in with her," she said.
We watched the pigeons and squirrels at work. A large tour group walked by in the distance and we watched as they rounded a corner on the path and disappeared.
"Are you going to do it?"
"I'm thinking about it."
"You don't like Carolina Beach?"
"I love it. I'll always love that place."
"Then why are you going to move away?"
She leaned forward on the bench and looked into my eyes.
"Can I ask you something?" she said.
"Do you love me? Do you feel anything at all for me?"
"Ahhh... Well...I don't know. This is all new."
"No it's not. It's not new. I've felt it for weeks."
"You never said anything."
A smirk formed on her lovely face. She leaned back and looked into the distance.
"Sometimes a man can be so dense. I was practically up your ass every time I saw you. And you never made a move on me. Not so much as a kiss."
"I'm a gentleman."
"Well even a gentleman gets horny once in a while. And in a month I never saw you with a woman."
I shrugged. She again leaned up and took a swallow of water.
"Do you want to know what I really think? I think you're fucking this Kami woman. That's what I think. Jeff's wife. Does he know about it? Or are y'all doing the threesome thing?"
"Maybe the last," I said finally. I studied the ground.
"Sonofabitch," she said and stood up. She walked down the hill and I followed at a distance. We soon came up on John Kennedy's gravesite with its grass around the edges of the stones and the eternal flame. There was a small crowd gathered, reading his quotes carved in in rock. Millisa stopped and stared at the flickering flame as it danced in the light warm breeze. I stood a few feet behind her.
A young girl flittered like a nymph across the steps and suddenly froze like a Vogue model. Sure enough, I soon saw the photographer, cameras slung like bandaliers of ammo, holding an old Nikormat in one hand, twisting the wide lens with the other. She moved again and he changed cameras.
I read the inscriptions, quotes from his speeches and then the happy model moved yet again and I was distracted.
Here is America coming, I thought, as I watched her frolic playfully around the solemn site. Here is a country and a people doomed to repeat history because they do not know it. As I watched it seemed to me to be a desecration.
The blond model, tall and thin as a wisp of straw scampered away. I walked up to Millisa and stood beside her and we stared silently at the Eternal Flame. I thought of his thousand days in office and his tragic death. Millisa looked at me. Her blue eyes were red and a single tear slowly slid down her delicate cheekbones. She wiped it away.
She walked a little farther and soon we were standing before a grassy hill with a brilliant white cross. Here was Bobby Kennedy's gravesite, simple and direct; as was the man. I remembered reading how when he was waiting in DC at the airport for them to bring his brother's body back from Dallas he went into a closet and grieved alone. How he crept along the dark tarmac, avoiding reporters, coming aboard as soon as the plane landed. A complex yet simple man. He would have made a good president. I read:

"Some men see things as they are and ask 'Why?'
I dream things that never were and ask, 'Why not?'"

I sighed. A feeling of peace was in the air.
I heard the gentle splash of water. We walked to a small, rectangular reflecting pool. The clear running water made slow ripples and produced a soothing, melodious sound. Millisa took my hand. She squeezed it tight. I stared and was soon hypnotized by the coolness and the ever changing texture. The way the soft afternoon light was dappled through the leafy oaks and danced like golden fairies on the surface of the water.
I felt a lightening in my heart. It was a feeling not unlike those I felt on the mornings when I had the beach to myself and out there, alone like a hermit, I would gaze out in wonder. I would look out on the magnificence of the ocean and walk along on thin, delicate shells that crunched underfoot in the warm sand. My heart would soar with compassion. The sheer, sense filling wonder of nature. Now it's sold by the square foot. The first man to ever put up a fence should have been banished and that would have been the end of it.
I felt that wonder here at this small pool of water; a serenity and a final peace. We stood there, mesmerized. It was getting late, the sun was dropping down and it was starting to cool. We were soon alone as the last tourists walked away.
"It's so soothing," said Millisa.
I squeezed her hand in response.
"It's like this is what he was trying to achieve," she said.
I looked at her curiously. And then I nodded. A strange feeling crept over me like a sudden chill, but it was warm. It was a feeling I had heard described by fundamentalists as 'feelin' the holy spirit'. A deep emotional shudder is the best way to describe it. I felt that now as I stared into the moving, splashing water like into a living mirror. Suddenly I wanted to be with Millisa forever. We would marry. Have kids.
This sense of love that it produced was exactly what he had been trying to achieve. It was palpable here. Bobby Kennedy was in every drop of water. What a perfect and apt memorial, I thought.
Millisa dropped my hand and started walking away.
"I hope you have enough for a plane home," she said over her shoulder.
I nodded and thought over my finances, which didn't take long.
"Maybe a train," I said.
I put my hands in my pockets and felt my thin money clip as I started walking behind her.
"Maybe a bus", I said sadly. I heard her laugh.
She stopped to let me catch up, took my hand and smiled seductively.
"You can stay one more night, though," she said.
I nodded.

rm_mm0206 70F
7767 posts
4/16/2006 11:23 am

It still hurts...

Goodatpoetry asked me why I didnt comment on his JohnJohn post..

"I was in my 10th grade 3rd period PE class, half the school had gone Downtown to watch as the motorcade carrying JFK and Jackie to the Apparel Mart."

being from Dallas and living through real history is life changing.I actually thought I would faint that morning the principal came on the intercom and said the President had been shot in Dallas.
There are those of us that will never forget the promise they tried to bring to fruition.


sparkee58 replies on 4/16/2006 2:59 pm:
The Johnson staff tried to get Jackie to change out of the blood splattered dress and she absolutely refused.
"Let them see what they have done," she said.

rm_1hotwahine 64F
21091 posts
4/16/2006 11:59 am

"His words were like steel that went right to my spine."

You have so many phrases like this, phrases that absolutely pinpoint concepts that I didn't even realize existed, but recognize immediately. I'm going to take ONE brief moment away from my usual smartass self to say that your writing style is absolutely mesmerizing. I generally find it hard to comment, because there is nothing left to be said.

(Wahine now returns to her side of the gauntlet)

Yeah, I'm still [blog 1hotwahine]

sparkee58 replies on 4/16/2006 3:02 pm:
Thank you for your kind remarks.
I do work hard at it.

clevergirl4U 59F

4/16/2006 5:13 pm

A beautiful rendering of an incredible moment in your life. I thoroughly enjoyed reading this. Thank you....

sparkee58 replies on 4/17/2006 2:26 am:
I'm glad you enjoyed it.
Please, visit me again.

HBowt2 60F

4/17/2006 11:26 am

I remember sitting on my dad's shoulders when Kennedy visited Ireland...Your post brought back the excitement in the air that day...the feeling that we were seeing someone special passing through our streets.....thanks for the reminder....

sparkee58 replies on 4/17/2006 11:38 am:
The Bushes have the oil money but they can't buy that sense of royalty the Kennedys brought to the White House.
And don't you know it irks them.

clevergirl4U 59F

4/18/2006 2:58 pm haunting, I had to come BACK

When JFK was shot, I was a first grader in Canada. The Catholics in our little town went to a separate schools, and I kept passing all of these crying children on my walk home from school. I had no idea that the American President had been shot. When I got home, I found my Mum transfixed to the black and white extremely unusual event in our house. The only day since that compares, in its international stunned silence, is 9-11.

The Kennedy family has had SUCH an impact on the lives of those living at the time. I wonder if that kind of influence will ever be possible again...or was it just a moment of time in Camelot since lost?

sparkee58 replies on 4/19/2006 2:23 am:
That was a brief and shining moment in American history. Always a sickly child, John devoured books like oxygen. He was a war hero, a Pulitzer prize winning author and a first rate politician.

Compare this with what we have now.

This story is more about Bobby, though. I wrote the beginning about fifteen years ago after a visit to Arlington, which I will describe later.

rm_1hotwahine 64F
21091 posts
4/19/2006 2:48 am

You planning on posting anytime soon? I've got a couple hours to kill.

Yeah, I'm still [blog 1hotwahine]

sparkee58 replies on 4/20/2006 2:55 am:
I'm having to bring two posts up now, so it's slow work.
Something new every morning, though.
I am glad you are interested in my little story.

rm_1hotwahine 64F
21091 posts
4/19/2006 2:51 am

I really love the comments in relation to the ENTIRE post, LMAO

Yeah, I'm still [blog 1hotwahine]

sparkee58 replies on 4/19/2006 3:07 am:
i know

catseyes23 62F

4/20/2006 4:49 am

I simply had to come over and say hello. Thanks for your visit.

Wonderful post! I enjoyed the read.


sparkee58 replies on 4/20/2006 9:53 am:
please visit again
we're always open.

BirdV 69M

4/20/2006 10:17 am

Great, thank you.

Bird ^v^

sparkee58 replies on 4/20/2006 3:44 pm:
come back
the tale continues

catseyes23 62F

4/20/2006 10:20 am

"thanks.please visit again we're always open."

Likewise, please feel free to visit me again. I'm always open, too"


sparkee58 replies on 4/20/2006 3:45 pm:
oh, i will

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