Material Girl and The Candidate: Fiction based on True Bill Clinton Episode w/ Single Women

Material Girl and The Candidate: Fiction based on True Bill Clinton Episode w/ Single Women

Prologue:

[Twenty-two years ago, on January 20, 1993; William Jefferson Clinton took the oath as 42nd President of the United States--first of his vaunted “baby-boomer” generation. This fictional account of a true story revolves around a charismatic candidate, unknown to a sexy single girl returning to Dallas on the final leg of her journey; occurring in November 1991, fifteen months before the inaugural]

More than any other airline, or business for that matter, Southwest Airlines® lives the bromide: “it’s all about relationships,” by ensuring both passengers and employees have fun during a flight. With no assigned seating, cheap drinks and plane tickets; they value the atmosphere created by happy employees, and the goodwill created in customers by always being on-time and treating them with respect. Focusing on people creates a competitive advantage in a difficult industry. So, this flight provided the perfect place for Tina and Bill to meet; both of them experts at building relationships: selling, communicating, networking, and having fun ran in their blood!

Tina Dobbs was a tall Longview girl; a little country, not from Tyler—in her 30s but casually beautiful. Wearing comfortable Madonna-leggings and an oversized sweater on the flight, Clinton loved the view from the aisle as she stretched upward to shove a carry-on bag into the overhead bin.

“I think I can see through those tights, Carville,” he whispered to his bald friend. “Doesn’t she just want you to reach through the opening of that sweater,” Carville replied, “two scoops of sweet cream, Billy.” Carville’s cackle caused people think he was drunk; but he was just from Louisiana.

Tina was a cross between a young Diane Keaton of the Annie Hall era and an athletic Cameron Diaz from There’s something about Mary. A stunning beauty with long, sinewy legs, but ample bosom; the two young politicos admired her tantalizingly sheer black bra. Her retro, horn-rimmed glasses and stylishly cut, feathery blonde-hair gave a studious air to a fiery sex appeal. Carville thought she could pass for a LSU co-ed, but his saavy client knew better; hoping she was as experienced in bed as he was.

The 46-year old Clinton maneuvered gracefully so he sat across from Tina near the bulkhead in the open area on a Southwest® jet considered neither cattle-car nor pick-up bar. So adept at conversing; the forced “facetime” of a flight, buckled into opposite chairs gave him the tactical advantage. It didn’t take long before the sizzle between them passed across the small space like electric current, their animated dialogue covering multiple topics.

After partnering with his political wife Hilary Rodham 11 years in a backwater state; during the previous month, the obscure if colorful outsider announced as a presidential candidate on the capitol steps. Nonetheless, here was Bill the cad, always playing the fulcrum between risk and reward; flirting with an eligible woman not his wife. Hurtling toward Texas like fledgling lovers, their personalities ran a mile wide and an inch deep: some priorities intersected, but not in a serious way.

,

“I love that song,” said Clinton, referring to Madonna’s pop hit Material Girl coming from nearby Walkman® earphones, “I’m not going to get that out of my mind,” she demurred. It didn't take long for her to warm up to Clinton’s charm, but in a peculiar way she was playing with him like the material girl in the song. He pursued her subtly; serious about politics but relating to Tina intimately in a small space, intensely looking into her pale eyes as he meandered through his story.

“I’m not liberal or conservative: I’m both--it's different,” feebly explaining his politics, his upbringing, his passion; she was captivated by his eyes, close cropped hair, slightly graying, and the southern twang that made her comfortable: he sounded like he was from East Texas. Their opposite seating seemed like both a bridge and a wall; Tina felt both connected and protected.

Offering no real political insight to the conversation, she agreed amicably with the young candidate that the economy was tanking, and President Bush’s popularity was sliding, even in Texas. Entrepreneurial art dealers in Dallas rarely feel economic effects either way; because their clients come from wealth and sophistication--the exact demographic Clinton was coming to Dallas to tap. Since that dark November in '63, Dallas filled the chasm in its soul with the flickering light borne of a beacon; reflected off shiny buildings, cars, and people. That beacon guided this flight home.

Her politics mattered much less than her ability to sell rich people expensive pieces of art. Clinton relentlessly talked about himself like anyone running for office, but Tina pictured him more likely the president of his fraternity a few years ago; away now in Texas, trying to close a big real estate deal.

Even though he launched the campaign earlier in 1991, she previously knew nothing about his background whatsoever--except that he was cute. Hardly effusive, this divorced mother of two talked little about her personal life on planes; mostly they discussed popular culture and how the country needed to change course:

“My hero was John Kennedy. I want to finish what he started when he asked every American to take personal responsibility for the future of our country.” 

God, she thought; this inexperienced politician seemed a little mischievous to want to save America from the Republicans. He desired immense power, that she could tell; and yet he wanted to help—by force of his charm and the twinkle in his eye he slowly convinced her of his candidacy. She was unconsciously falling under the Clinton spell.

He confided in his wispy/raspy voice, “we’re hosting some liberal Jewish attorneys over at Fred Baron’s house, and then it’ll probably end up over at the Stoneleigh P.” This neighborhood contained art galleries and bars; she knew it well. "Say, do you know Truman Arnold? He's from East Texas;" Clinton pried, always networking or fundraising. The material girl scratched and clawed but never cracked the upper echelon of rich Democrats like the Barons or the Bransons; and in the age before smartphones or Google® how could she know that these two men ironically, also were married to overbearing, bitchy, attorneys?

“My gallery is up the street on Cedar Springs,” Tina confided, “I’ll be working late tonight for sure.”

Not uncoupling from the invisible line of electricity connecting them, and hoping they might run into each other again; she eagerly pondered the alpha-Male in her mind, fascinated, curious, and attracted to him even in the short time they had been together. President Clinton the micro-manager, obsessed over details of economic policy or healthcare; was able to discuss eloquently yet technically almost any subject in politics. As a regular observant guy on this flight, however; he noticed Tina’s Razorback-red toenails, the little dimples in her back that peeked out just above the hips, and her bleach blonde hair; a bit more natural than Gennifer Flowers.

Southwest Airlines® flights provided a casual workplace for the young powerbrokers of Texas; a small boardroom where they could loosen their ties and socialize while airborne. Its nutty, comedic advertising promoted the image of “love,” engendered the stock ticker symbol of LUV, and its home base was Love Field. “I’ve got so many of these tickets, let me get you a drink?” Clinton ordered a beer and Tina a very expensive brand of Vodka, again the contrast of Bubba and the fancy girl from Big D. The optimist politician was sure she’d meet them later if he pitched this right.

As they drank more, Clinton got sanguine and Carville got loud; men focused like assassins on the issues of the upcoming election in 1992. Tina’s initial assessment fell far short of the election results just one year later; in fact, as impressed as she was that afternoon, she didn’t think of him again until after the Democratic nomination. He appeared on the Arsenio Hall late-night TV show, playing that damned saxophone on her TV screen! By then, the Clinton contagion was going viral, and Tina couldn't believe her eyes. She had brushed so close to a high-voltage power line, smoldering and exciting; even without regret, the memory burned deeply into her psyche as much as any historical fact of her life.

The dating Gods protected her from the maelstrom and sexual mayhem of the Clinton presidency. Like a ghost of a gathering storm; in reality the relationship never had a chance. When they met, his candidacy and future wealth wasn’t apparent; and frankly the material girl was mainly impressed by free-flowing cash men of Dallas. Maybe she was ahead of her time, because looking back on Bill's exploits today, he seems creepy. Despite the physical spark, he just didn’t show enough immediate financial attractiveness at the time, even with the allure of a wildly charming nature. But Tina’s dalliance sure made a good story for the rest of the Nineties.##

Music video:  http://youtu.be/DNSUOFgj97M

 "Some boys try, and some boys lie but

That's alright with me;

If they can't raise my int-rest, then-I

Have to let them be-ee.” (Madonna) ©Warner Bros. 1985

Fiction©Mark H. Pillsbury (2015)

(Fair use of copyrighted work shown herein is not an infringement of copyright law, see 17 USC §107) 

Open Letter to the Class of 1983

See you in September

I can’t decide whether I'm more excited about college football starting again, or the few weeks until my 30^th high school reunion. Thoughts go back to those years when your age seemed frozen and the future appeared far off in the distance; the way you feel when you have plenty of time before a flight, checked-in and ready—no pressure, no hurry.  We were comfortable back in the 70s & 80s.

My class graduated in late May 1983, and although we had no idea about Madonna when her album debuted that summer, we launched out from there; lives moving rapidly from one stage to the next, unevenly aligned with decades, but furiously reaching one road sign after the next. Most of us went off to college, many stayed in Texas, some even settled in Big D to raise their families. Won't a few of you from faraway lands come to this reunion?! It would be fun to guess who comes from farthest away. London, Hawaii, Australia?

How can we be at the third reunion? Each celebration so far has been unique in its theme:

• 10^th was just another big party like many of the weddings I attended; pretty nervous walking up to Winfrey Point clubhouse, I pondered why I hadn't given the concept much thought?
• 20^th was the “Vice-President Reunion,” as everyone climbed the ladder of success rapidly and came ready to show off their progress. (How could everyone in the room be a Vice-President?). I thought it a fairly insincere bridge from the early reunion to the upcoming milestone of 2013.

My impression is that with this class reunion, all who attend will feel lucky to be there, and everyone by this time has taken some lumps:  suffered through some bout of death, divorce, disease, disaster, and/or depression. It will be something from which we did not overcome with the same pride and fervor thought to have come so easily at our 20^th anniversary.

"That which tears open our souls, those holes that splatter our sight, may actually become the thin, open places to see through the mess of this place to the heart-aching beauty beyond." From Ann Voskamp’s quote there is encouragement to seek conversations and renew relationships in a sincere, transparent way; allowing friends to see through the thin, torn patches in one's personal tapestry, for they are the passages by which one sees the real insides of my being, and hopefully the beautiful light of God beaming through them.

I believe this time the grace of a group approaching their 50s outstrips our natural tendency to fudge, judge, or peacock in front of our classmates. This platform of life takes time and skill to climb onto; and so we welcome our friends to a wonderful point in which the pretense of success, status, and class, pale in comparison to the love and joy we will experience as we share each other’s foibles, struggles, and humility.

At first it will be difficult to peel the layers of the onion back; we’ll fall back to the natural, “I’m great, the kids are super; Yes, I do have it all put together just as it seems.” However, as we break through to authenticity, it's fortunate that we really made it here at all, considering what has happened; at this point there is hope for a renewed camaraderie among humble old friends. This reunion presents a rare opportunity to re-connect, review, and even de-construct some of the "archetypes" manifested in previous meetings. But how many of the graduates have the courage to show up and tell their (real) story?

My story certainly has some twists and turns too strange for fiction, and I know that your story will take my breath away at some point during its telling. It’s been such a long time since we thought of each other, but thankfully there’s still so much we have in common. There are strong mysterious links which enchain the heart to the regions where the morn of life was spent.

With all due respect to the writing of Gail Godwin in her novel The Finishing School, I am expecting to meet two kinds of people at my 30^th high school reunion:

“One kind, you can tell just by looking at them at what point they congealed into their final selves.

It might be a very nice self, but you know you can expect no more surprises from it.” These people are doing just fine with themselves and I say, “more power to ‘ya,” or to be perfectly frank, and to use the phrase so enthusiastically used in the South when we just don’t quite know what to think: “well, bless your heart?!”

Godwin’s character Ursula continues, “Whereas, the other kind keeps moving, changing. With these people, you can never say, “X stops here,” or “Now I know all there is to know about Y.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re unstable. Ah, no, far from it. They are fluid. They keep moving forward and making new trysts with life, and the motion of it keeps them young.”

“In my opinion,” Ursula says, “They are the only people who are still alive.”

One unambiguous characteristic of this second group of people will surely be that they seize life with gusto. Contrary to the self-doubt that creeps into my mind sometimes when I think of the ups and downs of my career path; at least I had the courage to change, when the time to change was apparent. I will likely gravitate to and appreciate those who took on life’s challenges with passion, and I look forward to reliving some of my friends’ most perilous moments. 

To quote Jack London’s credo as told by a reporter named Ernest Hopkins:

“I would rather be ashes than dust!

 I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot.

 I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.

 The function of man is to live, not to exist.

 I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them.

 I shall use my time.”

For those of us who make it back to HP in September, may that credo be the cry of the class of 1983.

©Mark H. Pillsbury