Crossing The Rubicon: The Last Exit Before Crazy

“I just don’t get it Ann, nothing about this book adds up,”

“And that’s your expert opinion after flipping through the pages?”

“I can’t read in a car, I get motion sickness,”

“Yanno, if Belushi had possessed your delicate makeup, he would’ve lived to make a dozen Blues Brothers movies before he became governor of California,”

“I’m gonna call Jimmy and see what he thinks,”

“Jimmy?”

“Carville,”

“You call him Jimmy?”

“I don’t see why not . . ”

I dial up Carville’s number, fully expecting to get his voicemail. I’ve no idea how I’m going to explain this trip to nowhere, but if anyone will understand, it’s Carville.

“You better be calling me with news of the apocalypse and directions to a speakeasy within walking distance . . .”

“Jimmy, I’m sorry to be calling you in the middle of the day but I’ve got a quick question,”

“Who’s Jimmy?” Carville asks.

“Told ya!” Ann whispers, sticking out her tongue.

“Do you want to hear my question or not?”

“Oh by all means, I just reloaded my adult beverage . . .”

“I bought a book at auction, the author’s name is Porter Newhouse. He self-published this book back in 1980 and it’s supposedly his autobiography. Thing is, I received a tip about this book and my source told me it’s not so much an autobiography as it is a map, without pictures . . .”

“Marco, I gotta be honest with ya buddy. This ain’t quick and it sure as hell doesn’t sound like a question . .”

“Oh Jimmy? He forgot to mention the part about how he spent two grand on this . . map without pictures,” Ann chimes in.

“Annie! How’d he wrangle you into this Cracker Jack crossword puzzle?”

“I guess I miss those dysfunctional morning show days after all,”

“She gets to call you Jimmy?”

“Oh simmer down. Where are you guys?”

“New Fucking Mexico!” Ann replies.

“Marco, you have officially taken the last exit before crazy, you know that? Now if you’re asking me who Porter Newhouse is, I have no earthly idea. What’s the title of this masterpiece?”

“Sundown in Camlann,”

“King Arthur . . .”

“What?”

“King Arthur’s final battle was in Camlann. How up to speed are you on your Camelot?”

“I’m in park,”

“Well, this King Arthur fellow was such an exceptional personality that he inspired a completely fictional universe. Depending on who you talk to, he’s real or he’s not. But the idea of Camelot struck a chord, it resonated . . . this idea that a man could prove to be so transcendent that the end of his story was really just the beginning,”

“I want whatever you’re having,” I say.

“So this is an autobiography?” Carville asks.

“Supposedly but no,”

“That’s a lot of Ben Franklins you forked over to shack up with shit if I know,” He laughs.

“So you have no idea who Porter Newhouse is?”

“Should I?”

“Hey, I gotta go. I’ll call you when we get back to civilization . .”

“Arrivederci!”

“That was rude,” Ann says as she munches on a Kind bar.

“I don’t believe him. Carville is the master of the arcane, and he doesn’t know Judith Exner’s old squeeze?”

“You’ve got a bad case of buyer’s remorse, amigo. Don’t blame it on Jimmy,”

“Yeah well, enjoy the view from I Told You So Mountain while you can, because now I know there’s something to all this and I’m gonna find out what it is,”

“Good for you. I’m gonna fill this puppy up before we get on the interstate. Want anything?”

As we pull into a Phillips 66 station, Ann is being indifferent, which really pisses me off. It’s one thing to be callous and mean about this whole episode because at least there’s an emotional investment to that kind of shit. Emotions are always onto something, but indifference is a cold case.

“I’ll take a regular Coke, but only if they have it in glass bottles,”

“Okay Marty McFly,”

I begin rifling through the pages in search of something but it’s damn near impossible since I don’t even know where to begin. How hard would it have been for my anonymous source to just tell me what to look for? Why the cloak and dagger act?

“You called it,” Ann says as she climbs aboard with two Coke bottles. She hands me one and clinks before taking a big gulp.

“Thank you,”

“Hey listen Marco, I’m sorry for being a dick. I don’t know if you’re onto something or not, but you’re just doing what any journalist worth his salt would do,”

“Get the fuck out of here,” I say.

“I’m trying to be nice!”

“No Ann . . . check out what Newhouse writes, dated November 2nd 1963,”

“I was still climbing the ladder when fate tapped me on the shoulder. Up until that point in my advertising career, I’d been a creative vagabond; moving from one town to the next in search of the job that would set me up for life. And to think it fell in my lap when the guy who was supposed to do the presentation was canned! I got to Chicago on a Friday and had less than twenty four hours to game plan for the opportunity of a lifetime. I was ready by that evening . . .”

” . . . I didn’t sleep a wink. That morning, I dined on coffee and nicotine as I plotted every step, all the while praying to a God I didn’t really believe in to deliver me to a Saturday evening Martini with nary a scratch. The phone rang, breaking me from my thoughts. It was my boss calling to tell me the whole thing had been called off. I hung up the phone and cried into my pillow for a good half hour. I was ashamed to admit as much at the time, but now I can tell you exactly what I was feeling. Relief.” 

“Umm, wasn’t Newhouse an assassin?”

“That was his day job, yeah. But I guess Uncle Sam ain’t down with a W-4 that lists assassin as your occupation. He describes himself as a retired advertising executive in his bio,”

“So? . . . What are you saying?”

“That job Porter Newhouse was supposed to do in Chicago? It was JFK. He was supposed to take out JFK!”

“Not to nitpick, but wasn’t that Dallas?”

“Dallas happened after Chicago didn’t. Three weeks earlier, Kennedy was scheduled to attend the Army-Air Force game at Soldier Field and ride in a parade. The papers had even printed his travel plans from O’Hare to the Loop. Everything that a creative vagabond like Porter Newhouse would need in order to cash out to a tropical paradise,”

“Just so long as his boss didn’t decide to tie up loose ends later on,”

“Hence his relief when the job was called off,”

“So what happened to Kennedy’s visit to Chicago?”

“It was scrapped when the Secret Service uncovered two separate plots against the president. One was a right-wing radical and expert marksman  and the other involved a couple of Cuban nationals who were never apprehended,”

“Lemme guess, Newhouse was the third plot . .” Ann says, taking another huge gulp of her soda.

“The plot that never made it into the history books. The job that would’ve killed Kennedy,”

“What was it Jimmy said to you? The idea that a man could prove to be so transcendent that the end of his story was really only the beginning?”

“As a matter of fact . . .”

Paper Lace- The Night Chicago Died