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THE GOOD NEW DAYS 
 
Books by Merriman Smith 
 
 THE GOOD NEW DAYS 
 A president's ODYSSEY 
 MEET MISTER EISENHOWER 
 A PRESIDENT IS MANY MEN 
 THANK YOU, MR. PRESIDENT 
 
 Mr. Smith since 1941 has been the White House 
 Correspondent for United Press International. 
 
Merriman Smith 
 
 THE GOOD 
 NEW DAYS 
 
 A not entirely reverent 
 study of native habits 
 and customs in modern 
 Washington 
 
 JAN 31973 
 
 csu 
 
 a 
 
 THE BOBBS-MERRHiL company, inc. 
 
 A SUBSIDIART OF HOWARD Vf. BAMS <k CO., INC. 
 
 Publishers • Indianapolis . new york 
 
F 
 2.66 
 
 Library of Congress Catalog Card No. 62-19315 
 
 Copyright © 1962 by Meniman Smith 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
 First Edition, 1962 
 
Dedicated to 
 
 JULIET MERRIMAN ROZIER 
 
 without whose earlier role this book 
 would have been most unlikely. 
 
Contents 
 
 A Preliminary Understanding 9 
 
 1. Like No Other City 15 
 "Everybody thinks he can run this place better than 
 anybody" 
 
 2. The Strangest, Most Incongruous Elements 27 
 
 In which the theory of the Flexible Sin is explained 
 
 3. Hair by Sealyham, Shoulders by God 39 
 Bubbles and squeaks of polyglot ritual 
 
 4. A Living Curiosity 51 CD 
 Why people persist in being President LO 
 
 LO 
 An olio on society 65 CD 
 
 OJ 
 
 5. Juniority, Georgetown and Chevy Chase 69 
 Narrow waists and broad minds 
 
 6. How to Tell a Truly Important Person (TIP) 83 
 // you can't, they will 
 
 7. The Wonderful Washington Point System 93 
 Pool jumping and the proper use of initials 
 
 8. Is Culture Decent? 105 
 
 Whether it is or not, Washington now has it 
 
 A second olio on meaning of certain words 117 
 
 9. Dialogue Can Be Dirty Fun 121 
 
 // there's one thing the New People do well, it's talk 
 
Contents 
 
 10. How to Use an Ethnic Estoppel 131 
 Or, how to survive in a New Frontier conversation 
 
 11. O Little Town of Middleburg 143 
 
 The New People and their Meccas 
 
 12. The Curious Case of the Ladies' Auxiliary 161 
 The often sad residue of any national political campaign 
 
 A third olio on taking credit for the achievement of 
 others 1 73 
 
 13. BacktoG.O.D.? 177 
 Does the Right have a right to exist? 
 
 14. A City of Toadies 185 
 Our slippery citizens, the angle-shooters 
 
 15. How to Be Dual and Rich 195 
 
 A do-it-yourself system for lobbying 
 
 16. Instant History 209 
 The hazards of journalism in the Good New Days 
 
 A fourth olio which may discourage a few tourists 223 
 
 17. One Vast Boarding House 227 
 The slow, steady torture of Washington banquets 
 
 18. A Great Town for Drunks 243 
 
 How to stay hammered at almost no expense 
 
 19. Sights and Sounds Unavailable on the $3 Tour 255 
 There's more to Washington than girls shouting from 
 Porsche to Porsche 
 
 20. Eventide on the Potomac 263 
 A peek beneath an utterly amazing, yet entirely human 
 canopy 
 
 Postlude 283 
 
 Acknowledgments 285 
 
A Preliminary 
 Understanding 
 
 Washington once was a town you could count on, but no more. 
 Normally significant social and economic signposts, known among 
 eager eclectics as status symbols, have become about as mixed up 
 as District of Columbia traffic lights. 
 
 This shifty situation is owing largely to the advent of the New 
 People, a more satisfactory label for the New Frontier, which is 
 faulty political bannerism because it sounds so much as if John 
 Wayne had something to do with it. 
 
 The New People who swarmed into town with President John 
 F. Kennedy brought with them a self-heralded era of change and 
 ferment. But it was only part of an era because the aforementioned 
 signposts were coming down even before Ike and Mamie moved 
 to the farm. 
 
 Like many lighthouses now dark, Perle Mesta and Gwen Cafritz 
 have twinkled out. For the lobbyist, a secluded suite at the Carlton 
 has lost some of its magic, and salons of influence and inspiration 
 are now in the genteelly ratty traps of Georgetown. Just when 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 chi-chi Washingtonians thought they had established chablis and 
 soda as a sensible drink, in roared the New People drinking beer 
 from a bottle. 
 
 It may be easier to get tee time at Burning Tree, harder to get a 
 tennis court at Chevy Chase. Youth and sweatshirt vigor threat- 
 ened for a time to be rather important as symbols, but Kennedy 
 came down with back trouble again and the New People spoke 
 decreasingly of touch football and long, hatless walks in the rain. 
 
 The In People, who frequently are New People, too, began to 
 be a bit less stoic about their own ailments and it was permissible 
 again to be frail occasionally. 
 
 Other signposts and indicators of amounting to something are 
 not only confused, but many of these meters have vanished alto- 
 gether. In fact, ever since World War II, the mores and habits of 
 Washington have been shifting, and this book is an effort to chart 
 some of the changes. 
 
 Once the shiniest possible accolade was found in dinner with 
 Mrs. Alice Roosevelt Longworth, a golf date with Senator Robert 
 A. Taft or scrambled eggs Sunday nights at the White House with 
 the Franklin D. Roosevelts. 
 
 Then we ran off the track. The very, very In People played 
 poker on the Yacht Williamsburg with Harry Truman and 
 learned that Scotch was for sissies. The next set of standards came 
 in with the Eisenhowers, who pumped considerable life back into 
 Augusta, Georgia, and Newport, Rhode Island. This also was the 
 era of farms and highly bred cattle. Georgetown was left pretty 
 much to old New Deal lawyers nursing their wounds and getting 
 rich; proponents of at least split-the-expenses, if not free love, and 
 the Harvard underground. 
 
 Now, however, we have reached a point in history where just 
 about the best sign of being In is to have been shoved fully clothed 
 into a swimming pool at Bobby Kennedy's during a native fiesta 
 for New People. And if one's wife emerges from the pool with 
 throaty laughter as the heavily chlorinated water designs new pat- 
 terns across her $500 Givenchy original, there, friends, is status. 
 
 10 
 
A Preliminary Understanding 
 
 The pool, however, is slipping as a sign. Too many have leaped, 
 almost as lovesick Indian maids into blue Minnetonka. 
 
 This is the sort of thing historians bobble terribly. To be sure, 
 such history men as McGeorge Bundy and Arthur Schlesinger, Jr., 
 are in the midst of the New People, but because their minds are so 
 often fueled up with buzzing ideas for bettering us, they and fellow 
 historians overlook much of the significance of their times, the 
 Good New Times. 
 
 Bundy probably doesn't realize it, but he walks at somewhat of 
 a forward slant and Schlesinger walks with something of a rear 
 leaning. At the precise moment when they pass each other, they 
 make an X. But you'd never find this sort of thing in their books. 
 
 Now, to improve modern history; a bit peevishly and possibly 
 annoyed at times, but over-all, in jolly fellowship of two Volks- 
 wagen owners blinking their lights in fraternal salute as they pull 
 out of the State Department parking lot at night. 
 
 And please don't take everything as so darned light and super- 
 ficial. That man in the buttoned-down, striped shirt drinking beer 
 and creme de menthe over ice in a sticky brick-floored closet known 
 as a garden in Georgetown — he may be in charge of the new death 
 ray. Assuming, of course, that we have one. 
 
 M.S. 
 
 11 
 
THE GOOD NEW DAYS 
 
 Washington is like no other city in the world. It is a 
 living curiosity, made up o£ the strangest and most 
 incongruous elements. There is a fairy-tale sense a£ 
 instability about it . . . one vast boardinghouse ... a 
 city of toadies, always cheering for the party on top. 
 
 Frank G. Carpenter in the Cleveland Leader, 1883 
 
CHAPTER ONE 
 
 Like No Other City 
 
 An unnoted philosopher, possibly a night floor scrubber at Agri- 
 culture or perhaps a Secretary of State, once said of Washington, 
 "Everybody thinks he can run this place better than anybody." 
 
 This is not only true but possible because Washington is the 
 biggest amateur game ever invented. With the entire American 
 population as spectators, side-line coaches and voluble critics, 
 players are assigned largely without training for specific positions. 
 About the time they begin to learn the game, there's an election 
 and seasoned players are thrown out for a new bunch. 
 
 This may seem to ignore the Civil Service, which is what many 
 players would like to do, but career people are a class apart and 
 so seldom do they rise to policy-making prominence without polit- 
 ical muscle that, when it happens, there's much talk about it. 
 
 Washington is a town where thousands of people never unpack 
 entirely. Home is another town for those who arrive expecting to 
 stay four years for sure, and eight at most. 
 
 It is a seat of the theoretically mighty; where almost everybody 
 
 15 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 talks incessantly; where status is marked by symbols so odd that 
 they escape such packagers as Vance Packard and Cleveland 
 Amory; where, as Kenneth Crawford once put it, the cocktail 
 glass is one of the more powerful instruments of government. 
 
 Probably in no other city of the world do people of taste, means 
 and even a modicum of intelligence demean themselves for free 
 whisky and cold boiled shrimp as do countless Washingtonians 
 several nights a week. This is a folkway and absurd, not for con- 
 sumption of alcoholic beverages but senseless in the discomfort 
 and effort involved. 
 
 It is a glorious town for targets. Congress, of course, is a prime 
 national target for criticism. And the White House, too. But few 
 cities of the world can boast such a supply of ready punching bags. 
 
 Lowly employees of the Internal Revenue Service are careful 
 about saying where they work, because even among strangers mere 
 mention of the letters I.R.S. can produce conversational sparks. 
 Take a casual conversation on the bus, for example: 
 
 "Look at that in the paper — those fools down at Internal Reve- 
 nue let some gangster in New York deduct his mistress. How do 
 you like that?" 
 
 "I'm sure it must have been an oversight." 
 
 "What are you taking up for those bastards for?" 
 
 "I work there." 
 
 "Oh, you're one of those guys. . . ." 
 
 Once it was a capital of style and grace, a semi-Southern city 
 where those of standing decently quit work from July to October. 
 During the remaining months, they conducted business of govern- 
 ment with relative civility and calm. 
 
 This, of course, was before television, air conditioning and jet 
 flights to comfort, for Washington was and continues to be a 
 rather miserable place in summer. In this era of unhurried ele- 
 gance, one could sit in the Mayflower Hotel lobby and know, 
 without having seen him before, when a Senator passed by, uni- 
 formed in a white linen suit and authentically floppy panama hat. 
 
 16 
 
Like No Other City 
 
 In fact, sessions of the Senate sometimes resembled meetings of 
 hospital interns as lawmakers assembled in their white suits. Sen- 
 ators looked like Senators, whereas today a Senator may look like 
 a Congressman or a bank teller or Tony Perkins, and this repre- 
 sents no capital improvement from the spectator's point of view. 
 Marquis Childs will disagree, but Washington was a more stable 
 place when Senators looked like Senators. 
 
 It is true, this Golden Age was tarnished somewhat by thousands 
 of Negroes living in some of the nation's worst slums a few blocks 
 from the Capitol itself; some of the more distinguished citizens 
 could, and did, find surcease in whore houses on Connecticut 
 Avenue; on occasion, national leaders were caught pilfering our 
 natural resources. But the town was fun for those with money, 
 tenacity and self-obsession. 
 
 So-called Golden Ages or Eras exist largely in minds of nostalgic 
 writers or elderly orators, and if Washington ever enjoyed one it 
 must have consisted loosely of the period beginning shortly after 
 the Spanish-American War and extending until the early thirties 
 when the first New People in many years arrived with Franklin D. 
 Roosevelt. This arbitrary time grouping must, however, skip over 
 World War I, because no war is ever particularly golden except 
 for certain manufacturers. 
 
 Washingtonians in the first third of this century, and people of 
 the country to a great extent, wanted, above all, no problems with 
 the federal establishment. There was prestige of sorts to be had in 
 the capital, but even that did not appeal particularly to better 
 families. There was almost an obsessive public concern lest one 
 man attempt to seize or exercise inordinate power. 
 
 Admiral George Dewey, still riding high on his Spanish-Amer- 
 ican war record, told the nation soothingly in 1900, "I am con- 
 vinced that the office of the President is not such a very difficult 
 one to fill, his duties being mainly to execute the laws of Congress." 
 
 Henry Brooks Adams wrote darkly: 
 
 "Power is poison. Its effect on Presidents has always been tragic, 
 
 17 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 chiefly as an almost insane excitement at first, and a worse reaction 
 afterwards; but also because no mind is so well balanced as to 
 bear the strain of seizing unlimited force without habit or knowl- 
 edge of it; and finding it disputed with him by hungry packs of 
 wolves and hounds whose lives depend on snatching the carrion." 
 
 Many political leaders, if not most, were regarded by the public 
 as amiable liars and public till-tappers. Most respectable business- 
 men would not have considered entering government below cab- 
 inet or ambassadorial levels. Politician was a dirty word and long 
 before there were such things as civil rights, the taunt, "How 
 would you like your sister married to one?" applied much differ- 
 ently than it does today. 
 
 There always have been periods of crisis in Washington, but 
 earlier in this century people of the capital could endure sweaty 
 excitement that gripped the city for days because they knew these 
 things had a way of subsiding. District of Columbia inhabitants, 
 for example, could count on October. The general weather picture 
 has not changed, but other factors have come to bear. 
 
 It still is warm during October daytime, but nights bring in 
 faint traces of forest smoke from Maryland and Virginia, and 
 capital residents may sleep again in something approaching com- 
 fort. 
 
 October once was a blessed time of year with the town quieter 
 and essentially ours, people who live and labor here. No hordes of 
 West Ashton school children gibbering before the White House 
 gates in garish carnival hats with Betty or Buddy stitched on the 
 brims; few if any bewildered out-of-state drivers athwart motor 
 lanes trying to decipher Washington's schizoid traffic signs. 
 
 There was a season when even halls of Congress were silent 
 while members talked taxes and tariff to Rotary Clubs back home. 
 And it was a time when society leaders rushed back to the capital 
 from Europe to lay party lines for the season ahead. In short, this 
 once was an uncomplicated and peaceful part of the year for 
 Washington. 
 
 18 
 
Like No Other City 
 
 But no more. No such seasons exist. Surcease and relaxation 
 have departed the banks of the Potomac for what may be an inter- 
 minable period. Or for as long as men and nations speak of wars 
 and weapons that cannot bring victory, but only endless valleys and 
 plains of cindery stillness, twisted and broken places where people 
 once dwelled, and greasy seas where fish float with white bellies 
 upward. 
 
 It would be inaccurate, however, to charge the changes in Wash- 
 ington to Russia and atomic scientists. They're only part of the 
 Good New Days. Chiefly responsible for a vastly new capital way 
 of life are the New People. They're like the Golden Age, a rough 
 classification. 
 
 The New People, hot-eyed, curious but unconcerned with pro- 
 tocol, and yeasty with shocking ideas, began swarming into town 
 with F.D.R. when he first was elected President. Some came in 
 shirt-sleeves with tweedy, straight-haired wives who leaped at prob- 
 lems of the nation beside their husbands with time out for such 
 sidelines as progressive education and social acceptance of reform- 
 school hoydens. 
 
 Others came from campuses, pipe-sucking and a bit bewildered 
 at first, but later strong-voiced, activists, and organizers of long 
 walks beside the smelly old Potomac barge canal. 
 
 Given enough time, and this they had with Roosevelt's four 
 terms, even New People will stabilize as their mores and customs 
 cease to stir up amazement. This happened with F.D.R.'s people. 
 As stabilization set in, Southern Senators and senior ambassadors 
 resumed positions of importance, proper young men from the 
 State Department began swimming again in Miss Anne Archbold's 
 ancient pool, and one heard less of Corcoran and Cohen. 
 
 Then came World War II when Washington, like other world 
 capitals, was unsettled by the presence of thousands of strangers 
 who came with khaki credentials instead of political license. 
 
 Customary values and behavior patterns became hopelessly con- 
 fused, altered or forgotten. Second lieutenants roomed in base- 
 
 19 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 ments of good families. Diana Hopkins wanly attempted to grow 
 radishes in the South grounds of the White House and Roosevelt 
 spent long hours motoring the upper Hudson Valley searching out 
 respectable housing for refugee royalty. 
 
 From 1940 to 1945, capital habits and customs lost their distinc- 
 tive pattern except for the talking and drinking. The same sort of 
 jumble took place in London, Paris and elsewhere. People who 
 had counted were hard to count. 
 
 With Roosevelt's death and then war's end, the high tide of New 
 People resumed as Harry S. Truman and his followers continued 
 alterations to Washington begun by the New Dealers. 
 
 Professional Washingtonians and permanent residents who re- 
 mained in town regardless of political climate began to see and 
 hear of such people as Bull Canfield, the federal marshal in Kansas 
 City; of Major General Harry Vaughan, who, in spite of his close- 
 ness to the new President, spurned invitations to the Right Places 
 and went instead to hot-dog suppers of a men's Bible class at a 
 small Presbyterian church in Alexandria. 
 
 To the undying appreciation of those who are uncomfortable 
 with less than three forks at dinner, the arrival of President Dwight 
 D. Eisenhower and his followers in 1953 quickly dislodged most of 
 the New People who had come to town under Truman. 
 
 Ike and Mamie, although they were definitely Army, brought a 
 great degree of social satisfaction to the permanent colony on the 
 Potomac. For one thing, people in their government tended to be 
 more like the Old People of the pre-Roosevelt era. 
 
 Many Eisenhower people were of first generation wealth, but 
 they had been in funds for sufficient time to develop a sheen of 
 financial and social security with taste by Abercrombie and Fitch. 
 Their people were New Newport, but still Newport. They played 
 golf and shot quail and watered in Southern California more than 
 in Florida. They had private planes and new $2,500 shotguns by 
 Purdy. Money did not matter as long as one had it. The frayed- 
 
 20 
 
Like No Other City 
 
 collar idealists went underground or worked with belligerent 
 futility for Adlai Stevenson and Planned Parenthood. 
 
 It became fashionable and indicated to read Nation's Business 
 instead of the New Republic. Walter Lippmann was a respected 
 island, but David Lawrence a better indicator of what the govern- 
 ment would do. Wednesday afternoon at the Burning Tree Club 
 became about as reliable a mark of standing in the community as 
 having a Cabinet member to dinner. Mamie was a cute dresser 
 for some of the older, conservative ladies who had stuck it out in 
 their Massachusetts and Connecticut Avenue cliffs after the twen- 
 ties, but she did entertain people who could be found in Dun and 
 Bradstreet instead of some of the Grant Wood types favored by the 
 Trumans. 
 
 There were a few nonconformists within the Eisenhower perim- 
 eter, but they were individuals of particular or peculiar talent and 
 their presence derived from political and professional origins. 
 Their influence did not extend into the drawing rooms, although 
 effect of their actions did bob up occasionally in board rooms of 
 corporate America. 
 
 While Mrs. Eisenhower may have had a penchant for pink and 
 her husband preferred friends of the golf course, bridge table and 
 hunting fields, they were undisputed society leaders. Any President 
 is society; he is status and a cultural guidepost by the mere count- 
 ing of votes every fourth November. 
 
 And each new President, with thousands of followers he brings 
 or attracts to Washington, expectedly produces noticeable changes 
 in the life, and even appearance, of the capital. 
 
 Untold man- and woman-hours go into taking down old pictures 
 and putting up new ones. This sometimes leads to removing name 
 plates from certain post offices, even changing names of dams, as 
 happened when the Eisenhowers relieved the Trumans. 
 
 When Truman took over for the late F.D.R., people who fancied 
 the lavish display of photographs of those in power were up 
 
 21 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 against it. There's so much wall space in an office of a lawyer or 
 lobbyist. The question was how to fit pictures of the New People 
 in with those of New Dealers. 
 
 Some were reluctant to take down pictures of F.D.R. and Henry 
 Wallace right away lest it seem blatantly fickle. The war was still 
 on and patriotism also had to be considered. 
 
 But after a few months of getting acquainted, lawyers and lobby- 
 ists began shifting New Deal pictures to less prominent locations 
 and putting up fresh portraits of Harry Vaughan, John Snyder 
 and Howard McGrath. 
 
 After the 1952 elections, the problem was easier. There was no 
 reason to pick and choose. Down came Truman photographs and 
 up went impressive new pictures of Eisenhower and his crowd. 
 
 Easy at the start, the problem of pictures became complicated 
 when it turned out that Eisenhower was a painter. At Christmas, 
 1953, he and Mamie gave out hundreds of lithographs of his por- 
 trait of Lincoln. Picture framers worked far into the night catch- 
 ing up with a flood of new orders, and Eisenhower art work — a 
 bit short, say, of Gainsborough in portrait technique — shone from 
 virtually every respectable wall in Washington, save that of the 
 Americans for Democratic Action. 
 
 With exception of one holiday when they distributed photo- 
 graphs of themselves, Ike and Mamie gave a D.D.E. color litho- 
 graph each Christmas. One recipient of the entire series com- 
 plained just after Christmas, 1960, "My den now looks like the 
 courthouse sidewalk during Art Fair week at Stroudsburg, Pa." 
 
 The next great picture-pulling came with arrival of President 
 Kennedy, Jacqueline, Caroline, and platoons of their kinfolk in 
 1961. Nothing since Harry Hopkins and Hugh Johnson did as 
 much to upset and change Washington as New People of the 
 Kennedy Administration. 
 
 Towering figures of old Washington simply did not tower any 
 more. A couple known to relatively few Washingtonians enter- 
 tained the President-elect on the eve of his inauguration. And after 
 
 22 
 
Like No Other City 
 
 taking office, the new President darted around at night to homes 
 of friends for dinner, something almost unheard of in a town 
 where frumpy old dowagers liked to believe they had entertained 
 for virtually everyone of any importance except, of course, a Presi- 
 dent who was supposed to stay put in the White House. 
 
 It was true that John F. Kennedy had been around Washington 
 for fourteen years as a Congressman and Senator before moving 
 into the White House, but his impact on the town was not partic- 
 ularly noticeable. This is no reflection on Kennedy, because all 
 rules of the game change quickly when one is elevated to the Presi- 
 dency. Prior to the White House, his force and personality were 
 felt largely on Capitol Hill and in certain union circles due to his 
 Senate curiosity about labor racketeering. 
 
 But because he and his family were new, attractive and interest- 
 ing, they became a national fad after the votes were counted. 
 Georgetown real estate prices zoomed upward even though the 
 Kennedys were moving to Pennsylvania Avenue. The town filled 
 with energetic men and women slavering to set the country free 
 after what they regarded as eight years of Eisenhower bondage. 
 
 As might have been anticipated, the New People approached 
 Washington virtually as something of their own creation. This is 
 far-fetched, but truly, they wanted little contact with or reference 
 to the past, even Democratic past. 
 
 Learning from experience with its necessary transferral of wis- 
 dom had been one of man's problems even before Jim Farley. 
 It is a matter of no less vitality today than it was when Archimedes 
 was trying to tell people about the lever. 
 
 The New People, circa Truman as well as J.F.K., came to Wash- 
 ington with a certain inbred distrust and often vocal dislike of the 
 past. Roosevelt had not been overly consultative with Truman 
 even when the remarkable gentleman from Missouri was Vice 
 President. Consequently, when F.D.R. died suddenly and Truman 
 was propelled into the driver's seat, people riding with H.S.T. 
 looked almost with suspicion on some of the Roosevelt followers. 
 
 23 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 General Vaughan, for example, worried for days about when 
 Mrs. Roosevelt would move out of the White House and what she 
 would take with her. 
 
 When the New People of 1961 arrived over the prostrate forms 
 of the Old People, their chief rallying point or nearly common 
 denominator was youth or a reasonable facsimile thereof. 
 
 This banner of tennis shoes with small sailing craft rampant 
 produced not only social problems, but some fairly knotty involve- 
 ments of government. 
 
 Young men have an aversion to advice, particularly after titanic 
 accomplishment of the magnitude of national political victory, 
 when so many had said it couldn't be done. They will accept 
 knowledge and teaching of a much older man, but not from one 
 just a bit older. 
 
 A thirty-year-old will listen with respect to sage rumblings of a 
 seventy-year-old, but God deliver him from advice of a forty-year- 
 old. This goes beyond acceptance of advice and into basic human 
 emotions. 
 
 The New People literally hated Richard M. Nixon, who was not 
 much older than Kennedy; but they merely disliked Eisenhower, 
 who could well have cost them the election if he'd come out swing- 
 ing for the Republicans a bit earlier in the fall of 1960. Former 
 President Hoover became kindly old Herb to New People and they 
 accepted the stainless reputation of Bernard M. Baruch, whose 
 brilliant economic consistency was matched only by his pro- 
 nounced preference for virtually all American Presidents since 
 Taft. 
 
 Suddenly, it didn't matter what most hitherto and slightly mossy 
 oracles thought. The New People had their own habits, customs 
 and oracles. No longer did crowds shove to the steps of National 
 Presbyterian Church on Sunday mornings for a glimpse of Ike and 
 Mamie. They shifted to Holy Trinity in Georgetown, sometimes 
 standing outside through several Masses before the Kennedys 
 arrived. 
 
 24 
 
Like No Other City 
 
 Hair became quite popular. Great masses of it. Crew-cut boule- 
 vardiers began to let it grow. Government secretaries spent long 
 hours in beauty parlors where twitchy little men studied photo- 
 graphs of the First Lady and tried to puff up the locks of their 
 customers to a state of luxuriant top-heaviness. 
 
 The Kennedy New People, in more ways than hair styles and 
 church preference, wrought vast changes. In their dithering push 
 forward, by hurling themselves at future history and rushing in 
 their brown loafers over sputtering sachems of the past. New 
 People of 1961 mashed into the very skin of the town ways of life 
 first imported in smaller volume by New People of 1933. 
 
 Washington continues to be a pleasant place in which to live — 
 no industries to soot the air, wide streets and pleasant parks, good 
 shops and restaurants, advanced public schools. All of which is 
 amazing when one considers that much of the population is rela- 
 tively transient. There is, of course, a basic population which feeds 
 to a large extent off the floaters. There also are some oddballs with 
 enough money to permit their looking without participating. 
 These are fortunate if sometimes annoying people, for there is no 
 better spectator sport in America than watching Washington. 
 
 25 
 
CHAPTER TWO 
 
 The Strangest, 
 Most Incongruous 
 Elements 
 
 Washington defies ordinary processes of capsulization because of 
 its diverse human content. Conventional, respectable history cer- 
 tainly does not and cannot tell the whole story. Every schoolboy is 
 told, when his attention can be directed from Cape Canaveral, 
 that the government consists of three basic branches: executive, 
 legislative, and judicial. This is unrealistic and incomplete. 
 
 Such classic division ignores some of the more important if un- 
 official elements of government. The press, for one example. No- 
 where in the world are officials as sensitive to what is written and 
 broadcast about them as they are in Washington. And certainly 
 nowhere in the world do columnists and commentators influence 
 destiny as much as they do in Washington, or at least think they do. 
 
 And the diplomatic corps. Quite obviously not a part of 
 domestic government but a notable part of government life. Am- 
 bassadors entertain about as much as lobbyists, perhaps more. 
 Diplomats seem to receive extra points for the number of canapes 
 they consume in a season. They shrink from conducting diplomacy 
 
 27 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 without something to eat or drink on apparent theory that, should 
 diplomatic agreement be impossible, the time spent in negotiation 
 will not have been a total loss. 
 
 In fact, during the Good Old Days, Washington aristocracy 
 consisted largely of diplomats and officers of the armed services. 
 Today, however, generals and admirals are too plentiful for their 
 own social good, thanks to unification and creation of a new youth 
 corps known as the Air Force. 
 
 As for diplomats, they suffer, too, these days from oversupply. 
 With new countries seeming to spring into being every few days 
 and the New People determinedly recognizing groups of a hun- 
 dred or more colored people if gathered in orderly assembly on a 
 piece of old French or British territory, the title of ambassador 
 has lost some of its zip. 
 
 Frankly, ambassadors have been known on recent occasion to 
 purchase used cars and drive themselves to the drug store, a 
 practice utterly nouveau and lamentable to the Old People. 
 
 There are other economic, cultural and social divisions of 
 Washington which we will examine in due time, but for the 
 present it might be best to report that the town is more interest- 
 ingly viewed by performance than from formal tables of organiza- 
 tion. 
 
 An eminent viewer of the country as a whole, Russell Lynes, 
 has said, "What we are headed for is a sort of social structure in 
 which the highbrows are the elite, the middlebrows are the 
 bourgeoisie and the lowbrows are hoi polloi." 
 
 By using elastic tape, Lynes measures his Americans largely by 
 cultural tastes. His highbrows are for the most part withdrawn, 
 snobbish and even effete critics of work done by others. Middle- 
 brows supply the money and join lowbrows in doing the work. 
 
 While Washington has all these people, the cultural and social 
 groupings discussed so profitably by Lynes won't work out, be- 
 cause in the Good New Days, what may be highbrow in New 
 York or Philadelphia might be odd as hell in D.C. 
 
 28 
 
The Strangest, Most Incongruous Elements 
 
 Kenneth Galbraith might be highbrow to the point of thin air 
 when he's lording it over the economy, but what happens if he's 
 caught listening to Guy Lombardo records? Jack Kennedy was 
 borne into office on the thin, reedy shoulders of highbrows who 
 derived cultural comfort from four-track, full stereophonic re- 
 cordings of contrapuntal clatter by new masters of dissonance. 
 
 But what do they think of Kennedy when they hear that his 
 favorite music is the boopy-doop of Lester Lanin? What then 
 happens to their lip-curled spittle at Ike and Mamie for present- 
 ing Lawrence Welk in the East Room? The only recourse for 
 highbrows in this crisis is to regard JT.K.'s taste for tappy-toe 
 tunes as a dirty Republican lie. 
 
 The same sort of thing happened with golf. Because Eisenhower 
 devoted himself so frequently to a losing battle with par, golf and 
 the country club became trademarks of political and govern- 
 mental deficiency in the eyes of the Democrats. In the heat of the 
 1960 campaign, Kennedy, himself, began to drop little cracks 
 about how in time of crisis he certainly would not be found on 
 the links. 
 
 After election, even Secret Service men began to say guardedly 
 how nice it would be to get away from golf after eight years of 
 fairway and green. Then to their sadness, they discovered that 
 Kennedy had been a hot golfer at Harvard. Furthermore, he 
 played constantly at Palm Beach during the weeks before Inaug- 
 uration. The Democratic faithful shut up immediately with their 
 jokes about Ike and the golf course, and prayed for rain. 
 
 Then in the spring of his first year in office, Kennedy's back 
 began to bother him again and golf was out of the question for a 
 time. Party stalwarts were sad about the back, but happy about 
 the golf. 
 
 One of the more striking incongruities of Washington is the 
 relationship between national leaders and what might be called 
 the townies. This is even more pronounced with the New People, 
 and this particular division was wide enough some years back. 
 
 29 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 There is a reason for the vast chasm with Lyndon Johnson going 
 about his national business on one side and a department-store 
 executive on the other side trying to drum up contributions for 
 the United Givers' Fund. 
 
 The capital city consists essentially of those in government or 
 attached to it, and those outside the sphere of governmental 
 activity. It is much like a large combat army with its support or 
 supply forces. 
 
 National leaders resident in the capital and so-called civic 
 leaders of the capital have little resemblance, connection or, for 
 that matter, little to do with each other. 
 
 A case in point might be a ranking Senator, one of three or four 
 leaders of his party on Capitol Hill. The Senator is much too busy 
 with national and international affairs to want any part of Wash- 
 ington's purely local social or cultural life. 
 
 He lives in a world consisting largely of his home, frequently a 
 well-appointed apartment fairly close to town and sometimes a 
 handsome house in the suburbs, and the Capitol with its surround- 
 ing compound of office buildings, cocktail lounges, clubs and 
 restaurants. He would be utterly puzzled by a request to address 
 the Washington Rotary Club, but he would not hesitate to walk 
 out on the Capitol lawn to pose for pictures with a group of Girl 
 Scouts from his state. 
 
 His wife probably knows a great deal more about life in the 
 city than he does. She may belong to a Wednesday-morning book 
 review or Spanish club with a number of other Senate wives. They 
 also meet each other at the Congressional wives' club, but since 
 there are no drinks served in this handsome building, many of 
 the social affairs there are regarded more or less as necessity. 
 
 It is the Senator's wife who must handle most contacts with the 
 nongovernment world, particularly if they have children. She 
 may be a respected amateur artist or musician, and in rare in- 
 stances she may be a writer of some substance and recognition. 
 
 30 
 
The Strangest, Most Incongruous Elements 
 
 But her husband seldom enters this world. Her contacts with 
 culture frequently are outside the home. 
 
 When the Senate leader arrives at his home it usually is late — 
 eight or nine o'clock in the evening; he wants dinner; and until 
 bedtime, he reads the newspapers and takes incessant telephone 
 calls. If he plays golf, he may make it to Burning Tree or Chevy 
 Chase on Saturday afternoon or Sunday morning. Sunday after- 
 noons he devotes to television interview shows — if he's not on one, 
 himself — and Sunday newspapers. 
 
 A Cabinet officer leads an even more dedicated-to-job existence. 
 If he pulls much weight in the Cabinet, it takes virtually all of 
 his time. Family, cultural interests, life of the city, hobbies, sports 
 — all are heavily subordinated or swept aside before his official 
 duties. 
 
 A Secretary of Defense, for example, probably is on duty from 
 about eight in the morning when he rides to work in the back of 
 an air-cooled limousine, scanning the morning papers with a 
 radio-telephone perched beside him, until between eight and ten 
 o'clock at night when he goes home to a large apartment in one 
 of the luxury hotels such as the Sheraton Park. 
 
 On the way home, he may have stopped at two or three cocktail 
 parties and never touched a drink, only the hand of his host. His 
 wife learns rapidly to stand clear of as many of these functions as 
 possible, save some of the more important and interesting embassy 
 affairs. 
 
 They go out to dinner a good bit together, but largely to stiff, 
 formal affairs. He usually changes clothes at the office and she 
 picks him up there in the limousine. 
 
 She may take several guests, usually other women, to a symphony 
 concert where she and her husband are box-holding patrons. But 
 he rarely can make it and when he does, it may be intermission 
 time before he slips into the straight-backed gilt chair held for him. 
 
 Wherever he goes, the Cabinet officer must be available con- 
 
 31 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 stantly and instantly for telephone calls. When the President 
 wants to talk with the Secretary of Defense in the evening, he 
 doesn't say, "Could you see if the Secretary is available for a tele- 
 phone call?" The President merely picks up his own telephone 
 and says to the White House operator, "Get me the Secretary of 
 Defense, will you?" 
 
 The Secretary may be at the Indonesian embassy, in the bath, 
 swimming at Southampton, presiding over a meeting in Bangkok, 
 or at the theater. In any event, within a few minutes after the 
 President makes his request and unless the Cabinet member is 
 exceedingly ill, he picks up a telephone somewhere and says, 
 wondering how the third act turned out, "Yes, Mr. President?" 
 
 Sometimes a President, after stating his business, will say, "Did 
 I get you at home?" 
 
 And the Cabinet member answers, "No, Mr. President, I'm in 
 Greenland." 
 
 Nowadays, a President thinks little of this, knowing that he'll 
 see his man back in Washington next afternoon. 
 
 This small aspect of Cabinet service alone would make it 
 difficult to recruit a moderately young bachelor for this sort of 
 work. His courtship of any lady would be relatively circumscribed 
 or she would have to be most tolerant of telephonic interruptions. 
 
 (Can't you hear it now: "Mercedes, the reason I've asked you 
 to come with me out to the end of the jetty in this storm — watch 
 that next rock, Mercedes — the reason I've asked you out is to say I 
 love you and I want you to — what flashing light, Mercedes? — oh 
 there, thank heavens I can read code — let's see t-h-e w-h-i-t-e 
 H-o-u-s-E i-s c-A-i^L-i-N-G — oh damn, Mercedes, here, hold 
 our engagement ring while I cut in on my walkie-talkie . . .") 
 
 Even with small children, a Cabinet officer might get to the 
 annual Boy Scout father-son banquet; never to a meeting of the 
 troop. He might be able to see his son play prep school football 
 once a year, but he wouldn't be able to stay after the game. He'd 
 have to rush back to the office. 
 
 32 
 
The Strangest, Most Incongruous Elements 
 
 He seldom vacations. His wife and children go away and he 
 may join them for a few weekends during the summer, provided, 
 of course, the cottage can be equipped with a straight-line tele- 
 phone to Washington.^ 
 
 I once knew a relatively minor administration official in Wash- 
 ington who worked for a highly dedicated superior. The top man 
 worked seven days a week; but my friend, being a highly inde- 
 pendent soul for official Washington, tried whenever possible to 
 spend part of Saturday and Sunday on his small farm in southern 
 Maryland. 
 
 To snatch about twenty-four hours a week away from an in- 
 credibly demanding job, my friend was forced to install several 
 extension telephones in all-weather boxes outside various farm 
 buildings, plus an enormous and frightening Klaxon horn which 
 blared in the manner of a fogbound ship every time the phone 
 rang. 
 
 Furthermore, these telephone calls went on day and night. My 
 friend fortunately had the temperament for this sort of thing 
 and could awaken at three in the morning, answer the telephone 
 with the bubbly good nature of a used car dealer, carry on an out- 
 wardly intelligent conversation, all the while making legible 
 notes, conclude with a towering lie, "Oh, no, sir, I was just sitting 
 here reading and I'm glad you called," and flop back on his pil- 
 low, sound asleep as he hit. 
 
 If this examination of the incongruities of Washington has 
 become sidetracked by attention to telephones, this is only be- 
 cause it happens in real life. Aside from the toilet, water carafe 
 and occasional tidbits of food, the telephone must rank next as 
 an essential to life of a ranking Washington figure. Slee:p is not 
 necessary except at removed intervals. Food if necessary can be 
 nothing more than malted milk tablets or vitamin pills for days 
 on end. 
 
 Due to various circumstances — early life, what he regards as 
 pressures of his job, a nagging wife or allergy to certain phases 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 of the moon — occasionally Washington beholds a Cabinet officer 
 who likes to drink. Unfortunately, however, this does not cut his 
 working hours appreciably, nor does it broaden his cultural 
 horizons. He merely has to take telephone calls in some rather 
 interesting places, sometimes shouting at the piano player to 
 tone it down a little. 
 
 He may hit a few more cocktail gatherings than some of his 
 colleagues, but not with satisfying freedom, and always at the 
 mercy of a butler or waiter beckoning from the edge of a room 
 and pointing discreetly to a small enclosure where he may answer 
 the telephone. 
 
 These government leaders, before coming to Washington, may 
 have been university presidents, corporation executives, labor 
 leaders, and sociologists. Whatever their cultural tastes and status 
 of the past, they are swept beneath the carpet of official duties. 
 
 It would be unthinkable for a businessman, the head of a 
 company employing several hundred thousands of men and 
 women in Pittsburgh, to move there and live there for eight years 
 without ever participating in the civic or cultural life of the 
 community. This, however, is quite common in Washington. 
 Sad, but common. A Secretary of Labor might promise and sin- 
 cerely intend to listen to readings by Archibald MacLeish at 
 Coolidge Auditorium, but what choice does he have if long- 
 shoremen pull a wildcat strike tying up the New York harbor 
 two hours before? After this happens to government leaders a 
 few times, they give up planning, or at least setting their hearts 
 on, certain outside activities. 
 
 This is a highly erosive process, and while eight years in the 
 Cabinet may leave a man wiser and better known, he's lived in an 
 emotional tunnel for so long that his eyes and ears have difficulty 
 readjusting to the spectrum of a varied existence on the outside. 
 
 The absence of participation in Washington community life 
 by top federal officials is relieved somewhat by the frequently 
 fervid interest and involvement of lower ranking civil servants. 
 
 34 
 
The Strangest, Most Incongruous Elements 
 
 They're forever yelhng for home rule, better schools, an end to 
 pollution of the Potomac, and similar windmills which are superb 
 for tilting at, but not much for accomplishment because life in the 
 capital is controlled essentially by transients. 
 
 A Cabinet officer has truly little interest in municipal life be- 
 cause Washington is a municipality where he'll be resident and/or 
 prominent for a maximum of eight years — unless he tries to run 
 for President, in which case he plops out of sight like spit in a 
 waterfall because Cabinet members usually do not make good 
 presidential timber. 
 
 Only the lower echelons of civil service know with any cer- 
 tainty that they'll be on hand longer than eight years. The lower 
 the station, the longer the tenure, and more dependable. A minor 
 clerk at Justice knows that if he doesn't write dirty words on the 
 wall of the bosses' private dining room he's good for thirty years. 
 But the civil service worker in the 1 15,000 to $18,000 class always 
 has nervous moments during a change in administrations be- 
 cause, career service or not, his job is attractively high and a new 
 winner may want it. The career man can't be put out on relief 
 without cause, but his job can be abolished; he can be bumped 
 downward into a lower job classification; he can be made miser- 
 able, or when such competitive interest in his post is displayed, 
 he smartly shifts to another agency where the new crowd isn't 
 looking at the moment. 
 
 Therefore, the permanent cultural and civic life of Washing- 
 ton (Russell Lynes's highbrows would shudder to think there's 
 any connection) truly resides with nonleaders — castaways on 
 cultural islands of Washington's colleges, a few esthetes caught in 
 town because their families are there, visiting scholars, artists, 
 writers and musicians, but principally, bottom-crust civil servants 
 who have the time and dependable, if small, incomes to pursue 
 cultural interests, or attend meetings aimed at community bet- 
 terment. 
 
 One rarely finds a Cabinet member, an ambassador or a Senator 
 
 35 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 sitting on tlie stone steps of the Watergate beside the Lincoln 
 Memorial listening to the National Symphony. While this is not 
 meant as calumny, the same officials will seldom, if ever, be found 
 in an art gallery, of which Washington has several splendid ones; 
 about the only time this type of official visits a college campus is 
 to make a commencement address. 
 
 But they're seen, not en masse but with some frequency, at 
 baseball or pro football games; at the National Theater when big 
 musicals are romping over its old stage, but less noticeably at 
 something by Tennessee Williams or Morris West. 
 
 They read, God knows they read, but largely about themselves 
 or their orbits. Government officials, regardless of party, can skim 
 through a 110-page Sunday Times in thirty seconds and suddenly 
 halt on page 96 at one hidden paragraph concerning them. They 
 read nonfiction concerning Washington and the world, but one 
 seldom hears them discuss a novel or advanced criticism. 
 
 They talk more than they read. Or more than they listen. This 
 is why Washington cocktail parties are the noisiest in the world. 
 Everybody talks at once. This goes on for about an hour or two, 
 the guests leave utterly exhausted and speaking of whom they 
 saw, but seldom of what they heard unless it was particularly 
 juicy. 
 
 It may be unfair to the New People to say that they talk much 
 more than they listen, but it does seem that way. This may be a 
 symptom of zeal. When New People exchange ideas, assuming the 
 individuals are of about equal rank, they hurl theories at each 
 other with little catching involved. 
 
 If a New People man does not have an idea on a subject sud- 
 denly tossed without warning into a conversation, he begins talk- 
 ing immediately while searching his mind for a reference point 
 (more on this later). He may hold the floor at length, veering from 
 currency control in Indonesia, which was the ball lobbed to him 
 in the first place, to what's wrong with the transit system in Kabul. 
 But the important thing is that he kept talking. 
 
 36 
 
The Strangest, Most Incongruous Elements 
 
 New People will listen on occasion to higher-ranking New 
 People, but they hawk and look fiercely at their watches when 
 trapped into Hstening to one of the Old People, unless the O.P. 
 happens to be someone like Bernie Baruch or Joseph P. Kennedy, 
 the President's father. 
 
 The elder Kennedy, by the way, is quite accepted by many New 
 People, and even admired — not for his millions or for having 
 sired Jack, but for the way in which he studiously avoided 
 crabbing Jack's act. Many New People embarked on what they 
 regard as political and social revolution largely because of domi- 
 neering rich fathers, and it gives them new hope and a sense of 
 rightness to see J.F.K. whaling into labor, management, Khru- 
 shchev, the N.A.M. and the A.M.A. without Dad breathing down 
 his neck. 
 
 To approach understanding of Washington, it helps to be a 
 mite prejudiced, because nothing clears one's political vision like 
 bias. This makes it easier to determine right from wrong, because 
 objectivity often equates with weakness in the Good New Days. 
 
 This leads us in this particular sermon on incongruities of 
 Washington to what might best be labeled Flexible Sin. 
 
 It works this way. A Democrat says on Sunday television that 
 if the Republican President would only stay in Washington in- 
 stead of traipsing off to Gettysburg, we would not be in a mess 
 with Castro. The Republicans dutifully scream "dirty politics." 
 
 Allow a brief interval for changing the cast. Then a Republican 
 says on Sunday television that if the Democratic President would 
 only stay in Washington instead of traipsing off to Cape Cod, we 
 would not be in a mess with Castro. Democrats know their duty, 
 too, and cry "dirty politics." 
 
 None of this has to do with malfeasance or neglect, but it does 
 involve Flexible Sin. This is a sin which depends largely on where 
 the witness stands and not particularly on what the sinner does. 
 
 Examine the Flexible Sin in helicopters. The Democrats howled 
 waste, budget tipping, and unfairness to our boys in uniform 
 
 37 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 when Ike began using Marine Corps choppers for the Gettys- 
 burg run. Now it is the Republicans who speak darkly of expense 
 to taxpayers when J-F.K. goes whirling to Middleburg. 
 
 If it's your Senator who puts his wife on the public payroll, 
 this is togetherness, the smart utilization of a talented woman. If 
 their Senator does the same thing, the rule of Flexible Sin applies 
 and he's a no-good nepotist, not content with looting the Treasury 
 for his own pay but enriching a woman who spends most of her 
 time right in their own home. Eating candy. 
 
 Even the most seasoned Washingtonian finds it hard to keep 
 track of sin when one political party controls the Congress and 
 the other party has the White House. In such confusing periods. 
 Flexible Sin becomes Interlocking Sin. This may lead, for ex- 
 ample, .to a Republican Senator's issuing a statement from his 
 vacation headquarters at Swampscott, Mass., about the un- 
 conscionable absence of the Democratic President in Newport. 
 
 Even with control of Congress and Executive in the same po- 
 litical hands, vacations always have been sins to those of the other 
 party. Early in the Eisenhower Administration, Walter Reuther, 
 president of the United Automobile Workers and a bristling 
 Democrat, announced that he intended to keep day-by-day tabs 
 on Ike's absences from the White House, even if he only went to 
 the corner for a newspaper which Democrats maintained he did 
 not read anyway. 
 
 Reuther, however, did not offer similar statistical services for 
 President Kennedy, but over at the Republican National Com- 
 mittee they happily made little black marks every time Kennedy 
 left the neighborhood. It may be no more than rumor, but under- 
 standable if true — the Republicans are said to have given up 
 counting the number of times J-F.K. went to dinner at private 
 homes, because he has been known to sup with Republicans. And 
 the GOP National Committee could score only half an absence 
 against Kennedy on one of his quick trips to New York because 
 he devoted his afternoon to visiting former President Hoover and 
 General Douglas MacArthur. 
 
 38 
 
CHAPTER THREE 
 
 Hair by Sealyham, 
 Shoulders by God 
 
 The sight of human affairs deserves admiration and pity. They are 
 worthy of respect, too. And he is not insensible who pays them the 
 undemonstrative tribute of a sigh which is not a sob, and of a smile 
 which is not a grin. 
 
 Joseph Conrad in A Personal Record 
 
 Unsobbing: with sighs due only to quasi-enormity, and with an 
 approved if somewhat crooked smile, there should be at this 
 point an undemonstrative stipulation that Washington consists 
 of much more than Presidents, Cabinet members and Senators, 
 although there must be times out in the country when it cer- 
 tainly seems that way. 
 
 The capital bubbles and squeaks in polyglot ritual. It abounds, 
 particularly in these breathless days, with breeds and personal- 
 ities of such high octane performance that their contrails must 
 be observed closely and quickly for proper recognition. 
 
 Perhaps this era was spied a-coming by one of the nation's 
 
 39 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 pioneer psychiatrists shortly after World War I. This New 
 Frontiersman of his day had a spare moment, in fact he had many 
 spare moments in those early hours of psyc)iiatry, in which he 
 spoke to his son. This was significant in itself because the son 
 didn't understand too clearly what his father did for a living. 
 The kid was a little backward about telling playmates that Dad 
 was the only doctor in town with no tongue blades or pills, not 
 even oatmeal tablets for old women with autointoxication. 
 
 This may be irrelevant to the narrative, but there is such a 
 demand in Washington today for true meaning and reporting 
 /?! depth, even omnijociis, that snippets of history are included 
 primarily as defensive measures. 
 
 At any rate, this perceptive doctor said to his boy, who has told 
 the story many times since from the reclining leather comfort of 
 his Jaguar, "Son, I want to open my own mental hospital and I 
 want to pick an area where I know some day there'll be a lot of 
 sick people. And son, that place is Washington." 
 
 Were it not for certain obscure medical ethics, this man would 
 be memorialized for vision ranking with that of Alexander 
 Graham Bell, the Wright brothers, and the Heeps who figured 
 out installment credit. 
 
 This is not to say that Washington has more than another big 
 city's share of square wheels, but there has been in recent years a 
 noticeable influx of those whose behavior, if not hard to under- 
 stand, certainly is more interesting than that of some of the 
 dreary folk who used to take up space in our town. 
 
 Take, for instance, the government official who works fifteen 
 hours a day at the genuinely needed and onerous chore of com- 
 bating racial discrimination. As government salaries go, he's 
 paid well but the money doesn't cover as much as it might, be- 
 cause he and his wife are strapped by tuition bills for their chil- 
 dren at a private, segregated school. 
 
 Not all Washingtonians regarded their station so gravely. 
 
 Young men with natural shoulders and Wally Cox haircuts 
 
 40 
 
Hair by Sealyham, Shoulders by God 
 
 walk briskly to their Hillmans and Volvos at night, speaking 
 earnestly and vibrantly across the nearly empty parking lot about 
 the bully fun of running a government as though it were a spring 
 semester project for Poli Sci 23. 
 
 Or, in some of the federal corridors, indelibly stamped products 
 of Radcliffe or Smith in beige loafers, overblouses that tend to 
 blur distracting endowments and Sealyham hair effects which they 
 like to believe are mildly suggestive of Jacqueline. These fre- 
 quently join forces with the young fellows in Volvos, returning 
 to either his or her castle for marriage, thence back to Georgetown 
 to dismay the disciples of Margaret Sanger. They blessedly thus 
 create openings in government for other Radcliffe and Smith 
 girls. Also, eventually ending up as customers for Rambler sta- 
 tion wagons. 
 
 The random picture is not entirely frivolous. 
 
 Lisping men from new African countries, trying desperately to 
 sound sure of themselves in their new world of still shaky ac- 
 ceptance as they try to build stature and even tradition almost 
 overnight; as they try to state aims and goals without its sound- 
 ing like wheedling parochialism. 
 
 Or the deeply concerned scholars, gray heads and crusted briar 
 pipes together at the Cosmos Club taproom around a communal 
 pyre of knowledge and smoke. The fifty-year-old men who can be 
 seen sometimes in good little restaurants at night, wearing maroon 
 blazers with college crests and trying to read the Economist or 
 Le Monde by wavering candlelight. The over-age blazer fellows 
 are would-be participants, but actually sad spectators. Eventually 
 and with sufficiently nurtured connections, they may help, but 
 never decide. 
 
 These people have their gods and demigods with seldom little 
 doubt about their devils. Not always toweringly intelligent, 
 they're often cunning. They soak up incidental intelligence 
 thirstily and once absorbed, it is forever theirs and only theirs. 
 Two men may read the same anecdote by George Dixon, but if 
 
 41 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 they lunch separately, the story is an individual matter of inside 
 knowledge with amazing disregard for circulation of the Wash- 
 ington Post in which Mr. Dixon's essays appear. 
 
 Probably as much read as the Yellow Pages are society sections 
 of Washington newspapers, which have a language of their own; 
 a language for which there is no Berlitz save experience; a lan- 
 guage which the New People know and thereby base their de- 
 cisions to feel fortunate or left out of things. 
 
 An N.P. knows with experience that if a project, a process or 
 even a meeting is described as supersecret or hush-hush, in the 
 patois of Washington, it means the writer knew something was 
 going on, but not entirely. 
 
 If a woman is attractive, vivacious or charming, chances are 
 that she's a wee bit plain, fiftyish but important. To mention her 
 attractive silvery locks means that she has one foot in the grave. 
 To say that she has prematurely gray hair can be quite catty. 
 
 Should a woman be said in print to be ravishing or beautifully 
 tanned, her dress showed everything. She was half-naked if the 
 gown was stunningly cut. Should she have an athletic figure, this 
 is a sure Washington sign that she's disgustingly young but built 
 like a Percheron. 
 
 If a man is described as courtly or having charming Old World 
 ways and a still-erect figure, watch for an obituary soon. He's on 
 his last legs and with what breath left to him, he's a frightful old 
 bore, he talks endlessly about Senator Borah and how they quit 
 making good cars when they quit making the Reo. Because of 
 Washington's greatest common determinator, seniority, which we 
 will deal with shortly, the man with charming Old World ways 
 must be tolerated even though young ladies shudder at the mem- 
 ory of his scraggly hands on their thighs the last time they sat 
 beside him at dinner. 
 
 When a social affair is described as lavish, sumptuous, glittering, 
 or breathtaking, put it down that the food was tasty and plentiful, 
 and the liquor lasted. If the account contains such clues as un- 
 
 42 
 
Hair by Sealyham, Shoulders by God 
 
 fortunately rainy, mob scene, loud clatter, or wedged in, the 
 canapes were soggy and the whisky was blended, plus the fact 
 that the guests for the most part were second-rate except one 
 former Supreme Court Justice who went there by mistake. 
 
 Where there is reference to guests being a select few or only old 
 friends, the host and hostess were either out of the current swim 
 entirely, suffering a dollar gap, or merely sore at the society 
 writer. 
 
 The experienced Washingtonian, N.P. or O.P., also pays atten- 
 tion to descriptive detail. If the affair was gay, it was the sort of 
 thing to which you could take the rector. There was only punch, 
 weak punch. Bananas sliced and floating on top. Imitation cut- 
 glass cups. When the gathering was tres gai, things are looking up 
 — a few got looped, others went on to finish the job at a quaint gin 
 mill. The hosts were a bit above par. 
 
 Occasionally the morning and evening social stock lists display 
 other indices which might be overlooked by any but true students. 
 Bubbling gaiety is a dead giveaway. The writer may have been a 
 shade socked-in. It was fun, though; particularly the handsome 
 military attache whom the hostess discovered going to the bath- 
 room right beside her boxwood hedge. You can't put this sort of 
 event in the paper, but Barbara did the cutest thing. She ran and 
 got the can of Scat which she uses to protect the hedge from her 
 dog and sprayed it all over Tony. 
 
 Should an affair be referred to as daringly different, this may 
 require inquiry. Either the decorations were shockingly bad or the 
 historian dropped in on so many affairs the same day that he or 
 she isn't too clear on detail. Or possibly, the hostess lived up to 
 her not-so-public reputation. 
 
 Survival, acceptance, or at least understanding in the Good 
 New Days involves not only social terminology, but knowledge of 
 strangely differing persons, places and conditions which must be 
 worshiped — or denounced automatically, without question and 
 at all times. 
 
 43 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 Some of the adorations are nationwide in scope, some peculiar 
 to Washington and the era of New People. 
 
 The Irish, for instance. These are the pets of American politics. 
 One may damn the daylights out of the British, the Portuguese 
 or the Brazilians, but to imply that the Irish or those of Irish 
 extraction are even fractionally short of being mankind's best — 
 past, present and future — is to invite lumps, large ones. This was 
 true in Washington long before the Kennedys. Their arrival only 
 intensified the cultism. 
 
 One may say in the course of friendly conversation that a po- 
 litical leader of Irish lineage is a dirty bastard, but better not call 
 him a dirty Irish bastard lest the John Birch Society meet in 
 special session and rains descend upon the city for forty days and 
 forty nights. 
 
 Saint Patrick's Day is much more of a fete in Washington than 
 in Dublin. Zionists come to work in bright green ties and little 
 white clay pipes in their jacket lapels. It would, however, never 
 occur to an O'Grady to wear a Star of David in his lapel on some 
 selected Jewish holiday, just as a matter of squaring up. 
 
 The Proper Washingtonian also must bear awed reverence for 
 Indians. Not American Indians, but Indian Indians. They must 
 be regarded and hailed as invariable examples of gentle, honor- 
 able, peaceful and wise people, despite Goa. This law of wonder- 
 ful Indian Indians probably dates back to Mahatma Gandhi, but 
 derives its continuing virility from Washington's generally guilty 
 conscience about the years of American neglect of Asia. 
 
 Except for the Bureau of Indian Affairs in the Interior De- 
 partment and certain geographically involved Congressmen, 
 Washington today shows no particular interest in American 
 Indians on the possible theory that if they don't have oil and send 
 their daughters to Vassar in air-conditioned Thunderbirds, they're 
 a bunch of mangy mendicants. 
 
 If an onyx-eyed Indian Indian comes to town seeking five mil- 
 lion dollars for a birth-control clinic in Lower Rastrapati, he and 
 
 44 
 
Hair by Sealyham, Shoulders by God 
 
 his cause are worthy without question. He's entertained at benefit 
 movies and cocktail parties, although he doesn't drink, himself. 
 But just let an impecunious American Indian creep into town 
 asking for water for his reservation or that his twelve-year-old son 
 with one bad eye be exempt from the draft. He's denounced as a 
 dreadful by-product of the welfare state and drummed back to 
 his boondocks without even a Congressional Record to read on 
 the return trip. 
 
 It once was de rigueur to preconize the poor and humbly begun 
 in national politics and equally pro forma to belabor the rich 
 and regard their desire for public office as a forerunner of large- 
 scale larceny. This era apparently is behind us forever. The log- 
 cabin types no longer seem to grow in our forests of presidential 
 timber. 
 
 The popular acceptance of such multimillionaires as Presi- 
 dent Kennedy and New York's Governor Rockefeller has, however, 
 produced some curious changes in public attitude which is re- 
 flected to great extent in Washington. 
 
 Many Americans now seem to want rich men in high public 
 office, but they want these fellows to act like poor men. This may 
 be called, for purposes of particular study, the riches-to-rags po- 
 litical posture or school of conduct. 
 
 Leading up to the 1960 campaigns, Kennedy and Rockefeller 
 competed in raggedness. It was not until after the conventions 
 that we often saw them decently clothed. Prior to that time, they 
 posed for endless pictures in raveling blue jeans and frayed deck 
 sneakers. Rockefeller took to eating in delicatessens. Some polit- 
 ical scientists believe Rockefeller disposed of Averell Harriman 
 rather effectively in New York City by being jovially more messy 
 in the pizzerias. 
 
 Those few votes by which Kennedy defeated Dick Nixon may 
 have come from the hamburger joints and malt shoppes he fre- 
 quented during his bid for office. Nixon simply was not much of a 
 drive-in man, yet Kennedy successfully dribbled chocolate shakes 
 
 45 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 from coast to coast. Enough voters to put him in the White 
 House must have reacted like indulgent grandparents: 
 
 "There goes a kid who could eat at the best places with his 
 money, but bless his down-to-earth soul, for all his millions, he 
 picked our place, the Tastee Toastee." 
 
 On the other hand, Nixon, with comparatively few dimes to his 
 name, could have gone the entire route eating exclusively at 
 acrid little diners with chalked menus, windowsill hamburger 
 establishments, and squirting mustard on his suit for extra effect. 
 He would not have added a vote to his cause because many voters 
 would expect a man in modest circumstances to eat that way. 
 
 Possibly this will convince Poll Sci scholars that rags-to-riches 
 no longer is effective or necessary as a prerequisite for service to 
 the nation. Rags-to-rags might be evocative of votes in years to 
 come, but it's hardly worth a sell-off now. 
 
 Success-through-contrast has other aspects. The rich candidate, 
 in addition to old clothes, should savor old things. (This is in no 
 way meant to insinuate anything about the wives of our more 
 successful politicians. Insinuations about women in politics will 
 be contained in a separate and easily identified chapter.) 
 
 Although it may seem dissociable to the losers, today's win- 
 ners are great for old automobiles — until they win, at which time 
 they switch to government limousines. 
 
 The greatest vote getter of them all, F.D.R., rattled around in 
 a horrible old trap at Hyde Park and Warm Springs, and had his 
 picture made thus ensconced, at intervals which increased in 
 frequency as Election Day neared. 
 
 Rockefeller (we continue referring to him in a Washington 
 book because of his continuing interest in getting there) was well 
 aware of the automobile factor in politics when he moved into 
 the shabby neighborhood of the governor's mansion at Albany. 
 
 It is true that Rockefeller took his own 1 12,000 Chrysler-Gia 
 with him to Albany, but he promptly gave it to the state. Then 
 he was widely photographed batting over rock and rill in an 
 
 46 
 
Hair by Sealyham, Shoulders by God 
 
 ancient Chevrolet roadster with hair tousled convincingly above 
 a simple sweat shirt. This again gave the voter an opportunity to 
 drumble contentedly in the knowledge that "he could afford any- 
 thing, but he really prefers a car like ours." 
 
 Those in the audience who would dispute our riches-to-rags 
 theory by bringing up Stevenson and Eisenhower are dismissed 
 right now as pot-valiant malcontents. Any truly sound political 
 theory must have certain flexibilities. 
 
 Adlai was licked by the 24-hour, 24-karat gleam of a war hero. 
 Taking the long view, these fellows are frightfully hard to beat. 
 Ike not only was clad in the shining armor of a winning leader 
 against the foe; he was a calmly confident protector, a highly 
 successful author — and he had the damnedest smile ever uncorked 
 on an opponent. 
 
 Stevenson countered as well as he could. Accepting that he 
 couldn't outsmile or outstretch Ike, Adlai turned up with a hole 
 in his shoe, and while the A.D.A. may ask to extend their remarks 
 in the record, that was the high point of the Illinois governor's 
 1952 campaign. 
 
 Adlai was a millionaire (and Ike wasn't far from it then, either), 
 but the hole-in-shoe picture said to the voter, "We all have our 
 problems." The response was so electric that Stevenson smartly 
 followed up the lead. He appeared in shirts with slightly peeling 
 collars. He let his Libertyville, Illinois, farmhouse run down to 
 where the dismally gray clapboards resembled his peeling shirts. 
 However, he stopped short. He would not remove his coat. This 
 would have stated the raveling collars with more conviction. Some- 
 how Adlai clung to the incomplete idea that people should choose 
 between candidates on a basis of their beliefs and past per- 
 formances. Which is no way to win elections. 
 
 The shoe was not a total loss, however. He had it half-soled and 
 went on to the United Nations where he now may dress as spiffily 
 as he wants with new shoes every day, without a voter to worry 
 about. 
 
 47 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 Even a skimming review of studied inversities of the Good 
 New Days should take into consideration some of the demigods. 
 Their standing in the national community is intrinsic and as 
 worthy of understanding as the acceptables, the de rigueurous 
 and the pro formants. 
 
 In the current climate, one should, without waiting to hear the 
 facts, take a guarded view of any crusader. A crusader is quite 
 different from an idealist or one of Kennedy's professors. A cru- 
 sader is a nut. He may come to Washington with a cause so 
 clearly just that we stand back from the glare of its simplicity. This 
 in itself warrants quick rejection of the crusader, because if it's 
 simple, it can't be good. 
 
 Anything easily understandable should be suspect. If any clod 
 can understand it, why did we waste all those years at the uni- 
 versity? 
 
 Women's organizations. The cowardly way might be to say 
 quickly, "Not yours, madam." It is true, however. New People 
 seem less impressed by clubwomen than Washington of other 
 years. Mrs. Roosevelt may have started this trend, because she 
 was forever tangling with such outfits as the Daughters of the 
 American Revolution. 
 
 The D.A.R. has been against much of what administrations 
 have proposed and much of what government has done since the 
 end of World War II. Even Mamie Eisenhower began to have her 
 doubts about the good times to be had with the D.A.R. This 
 could be a rather serious indictment, because Mamie, when she 
 put her mind to it, could be about the most affable hostess ever 
 to entertain in Quarters 1600. 
 
 Women singly and in small groups are ever so well regarded by 
 the New People. But when the ladies begin to shape up in lots of 
 several thousand, drape themselves in officious ribbons and medals 
 which denote little more than tenancy on the local level, and then 
 for certain periods each year tie up Washington cabs and hotel 
 space with their national conventions — if the truth were known, 
 
 48 
 
Hair by Sealyham, Shoulders by God 
 
 not even the Old People liked it, and national gatherings have 
 grown since those days to terrifying proportions. 
 
 It is unfair to blame the D.A.R. for all disfavor which women's 
 organizations may incur with the New People. Some societies 
 make even a greater impact. Frankly, some of them live it up in a 
 manner suggestive of The American Legion before their con- 
 ventioneers mellowed. 
 
 It is an alarming male experience to be trapped in a hotel 
 elevator during a national convention of a more active girls' club 
 and, in bosom-to-back cordiality, be evaluated openly, accurately 
 and depressingly. The late John Foster Dulles once burst from a 
 Washington hotel elevator with a look of hunted terror after a 
 free-wheeling lady delegate piped up, "I think he's cute." The 
 late' Secretary of State may have been many things, but not cute. 
 
 A state of demigodliness also applies in the Good New Days 
 to certain largely male organizations; not for their conventions, 
 which seem to run much smaller than the female assemblies, but 
 for their innate dullness. Doctors and bankers have fun at their 
 conventions, but there are so many of them that they usually 
 gather away from Washington. What we get are the dull ones^ — 
 all kinds of engineers, educators, electrical contractors, computer 
 makers. These birds come to Washington wanting something 
 done. Their groups are so small that they're in a Senator's office 
 before he knows it. 
 
 Election years naturally cause some shifting in attitudes. The 
 Senator may hide from a delegation this year, but race into the 
 capitol grounds to greet them the next. Congressmen, having to 
 run every two years, cannot afford a slack season, as the Senators 
 can. House members should remain constantly polite, even to 
 ladies with badges and large ribbons. 
 
 49 
 
CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 A Living Curiosity 
 
 There are blessed intervals when I forget by one means or another 
 that I am President of the United States. 
 
 Woodrow Wilson 
 
 The curiosities of Washington go far beyond incongruities recently 
 touched upon, but before getting into such things as lobbyists 
 and fairly normal housewives who become political hoboes, it 
 may be advisable to take up a more intriguing question: Why 
 do sensible people, well-fixed, outwardly successful and with time 
 for enjoyment of the advertised pleasures of life, suddenly chuck 
 everything for a place in the unkind, burning political sun? 
 
 Power? Few of them ever have it. Prominence? Yes, but of a 
 perishable sort. Money? It is better to have it before coming to 
 Washington, particularly in a position of importance. If there's 
 anything a Congressman, and apparently a voter, hates, it is a well- 
 paid federal employee. Dedication to public service? Thank God, 
 some. Glamor? Particularly for ambitious state capital wives who 
 
 51 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 envision themselves in Washington as forever hobnobbing with 
 royalty, movie stars and David Brinkley. 
 
 American mothers, since that ship was off-loaded on Plymouth 
 Rock, have cherished the idea of a son eventually making it to 
 the side of the Chief Justice on Inauguration Day. Today some 
 mothers take Mrs. Roosevelt and Clare Booth Luce seriously and 
 think of little Marjorie as presidential material a few years hence. 
 
 This is properly part of the American dream, but so is Elizabeth 
 Taylor, and most of us don't do anything about getting rid of 
 her latest man except think while walking home from the neigh- 
 borhood movie. 
 
 Many Americans do more than dream of the Presidency. Hav- 
 ing only superficial knowledge of what realizing the dream entails, 
 they break themselves, their families and frequently their fortunes 
 seeking the American pinnacle. 
 
 For thirty-five men who've climbed the road to the White 
 House successfully, there are in history thousands of hopefuls who 
 went to their graves completely but miserably confident that 
 except for mysterious thievery and occult circumstances, they, 
 too, could have made it. 
 
 Thus the lure of the Presidency is more than a dream; it is a 
 virus for which there is no known drug except victory. And fre- 
 quently the victors, although never disparaging the office, rebel 
 and lurch against its confines once it is theirs. 
 
 Shortly after ten o'clock one July morning a distinguished- 
 looking man eased out of the White House front door. Clad in a 
 linen suit, white shirt and dark tie and carrying a small bundle 
 of papers under one arm, he paused on the portico and looked 
 about furtively. 
 
 Then he started down a long walk leading to the northeast 
 gate on Pennsylvania Avenue. His pace quickened and he sailed 
 through the gate as passers-by stared at him. 
 
 He reached the sidewalk and cast a worried look over his 
 
 52 
 
A Living Curiosity 
 
 shoulder before heading toward the Treasury building and nearby 
 shopping district. At that moment, the White House doors flew 
 open. Two husky men raced across the portico and down the 
 steps, their coattails flapping as they ran with urgent, ponderous 
 muscularity. 
 
 Sizing up his predicament, the man on the sidewalk began to 
 run. Clutching his bundle of papers, he darted around sightseers, 
 murmured soft apologies and sped across the street to the Treas- 
 ury sidewalk. There the two burly pursuers pulled up beside him, 
 puffing and looking stern, but saying nothing. Their quarry gave 
 up the race and slowed with dropped-shoulder dejection. 
 
 "I came very near getting away that time," said President Wood- 
 row Wilson to the two Secret Service agents. His fun spoiled, 
 Wilson then walked to his bank and on to a haberdashery before 
 treading glumly back to the White House. 
 
 On another and later occasion, the setting was the north shore 
 of Massachusetts, just outside of Swampscott. The house was a 
 large frame structure on a fairly isolated point beside the beach. 
 
 It was early morning. The sun scattered diamonds on the sea 
 and the beach was empty. Even the hardiest New Englanders had 
 better sense than to try swimming on the north shore before noon. 
 
 Two men were in the kitchen having coffee and heard a side 
 door slam. They leaped from the table and looked out a window. 
 A man, dressed in a summer wash suit with high stiff-collared 
 shirt, was racing away from the house. Although he ran hard, his 
 progress was slow because of the heavy sand. His primly pointed 
 dress shoes sent up little geysers of sand with each labored step. 
 
 One of the men in the kitchen cautioned his companion. "Let 
 him get a start, then we'll run down the hard part of the beach 
 and catch him before he gets to the New Ocean House," he said. 
 
 They put down their coffee cups and set out, running easily 
 along the harder sand at the water's edge. They closed the gap 
 handily in less than two hundred yards. Their quarry tried putting 
 
 53 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 on a burst of speed, but the sand was too much for him and he 
 stopped. He coldly surveyed the two agents and turned back 
 toward the house. Sadly retracing his steps across the sand, Presi- 
 dent Calvin Coolidge turned to one of the Secret Service men and 
 said tartly, "I almost did it." 
 
 Once, on the golf course of the majestic old Ponce de Leon 
 Hotel at St. Augustine, Florida, President Warren G. Harding 
 tried to play without Secret Service men following him. 
 
 The federal protectors persisted, however, and the next day 
 when Harding played, he insisted that they caddy for his four- 
 some. For the next several holes, he deliberately hit as many shots 
 as possible into the rough so that they spent most of the afternoon 
 clumping over palmetto roots and damning the mosquitoes. 
 
 F.D.R. had a small Ford phaeton equipped with special con- 
 trols so his infantile paralysis would not prevent his driving. He 
 took particular delight in trying to race away from his staff at 
 Hyde Park and in Warm Springs, on occasion driving at break- 
 neck speed up lonely, dead-end country roads and sitting in silence 
 until discovered. 
 
 After this happened a few times, his staff and Secret Service 
 men learned virtually all of the possible secret routes and let him 
 have his fun, within limits. After twenty minutes or so, the Secret 
 Service agents would decide to go get him, and then stumble 
 across his hidden car with loud cries of mock surprise. On at least 
 one occasion, the agents were downright nasty and didn't discover 
 him at all, leaving him to emerge somewhat crestfallen from his 
 well-known hiding place. He was as miffed as a child who stayed 
 out after bedtime and returned to find that no one had missed 
 him. 
 
 With enlargement of the Secret Service, refinement of short- 
 wave radio and realization of the futility of it all, Truman pon- 
 dered but never really tried escape, although he did mutter about 
 the White House being a prison. Eisenhower was too well trained 
 
 54 
 
A Living Curiosity 
 
 as a military man to think of fleeing. He was not the type to start 
 running down a beach (he didn't like beaches anyway), and for 
 most of his adult life, he'd been accustomed to having function- 
 aries around him twenty-four hours a day. 
 
 As this was written, President Kennedy had not been on the 
 scene long enough to determine whether he would attempt a 
 break-out, but the emotional climate was there. Kennedy has one 
 strange presidential trait, however. He would not object if an 
 amateur photographer, a complete stranger, took his picture 
 while balancing a kumquat on his nose, but just let a professional 
 photographer get within five hundred yards and the President 
 begins to feel like a hunted animal. He seems to ignore completely 
 the fact that the friendly, harmless amateur, armed with one of 
 the finest lenses available, may trot right to Life Magazine with 
 his stuff if it's any good. 
 
 These examples of presidential behavior raise a highly difficult 
 question: Why do they seek the job in the first place? 
 
 Men who bull and claw their way into 1600 Pennsylvania 
 Avenue have a common quality. During an election campaign, 
 they are so sugary that diabetics would be advised to stand at 
 least five feet away. Repeatedly, they say during campaigns, "When 
 we get down to Washington, you better not come to town without 
 letting Martha and me know — come see us, that's what the place 
 is for." 
 
 But the hour after he takes the oath of office, the new President 
 moans to Martha, "Why won't they leave us alone?" 
 
 During a President's first term, there is talk by his associates 
 about burdens of the office, how we're slowly killing our elected 
 leader and how the poor man needs all the rest, relaxation and 
 freedom from the White House he possibly can get. Having be- 
 lieved this for many years, this writer is now willing to argue the 
 point with ammunition picked from the battlefield. 
 
 In electing a President, we tend to fashion him along super- 
 
 55 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 human lines in our minds. We forget, unless we're attacking him 
 politically, that he's still human and quite open to suggestion. 
 And here's where his friends enter and add to his misery. 
 
 All Presidents seem to have at least one essentially dumb friend, 
 a pleasant fellow with money who can afford to hang around in 
 volunteer service as personal errand boy, punching bag, laugher- 
 at, confidant and companion. If they're smart, these dumb fellows 
 never argue. They are emotional chameleons. If the President 
 feels fine, the friend does push-ups. If the President feels low, the 
 friend comes down with acute yips. If the President says, "It looks 
 like rain," the friend says, "We're in for a helluva storm." 
 
 These men really make the Presidency worse than it is. A Presi- 
 dent says he has a bad pain in his foot and there's invariably a 
 chum at close range who foams about pressures of the job. You 
 tell a President, or for that matter, a school principal, that he's 
 being ground to bits by his job and if you tell him often enough, 
 some of it is bound to sink in. 
 
 There also are around every President, in addition to the 
 dumb one who usually comes out of it richer than when he went 
 in, a small cadre of friends who devote most of their time to seeing 
 that the cadre is not enlarged. It's like owning a Cadillac. If they 
 were as cheap as Fords, who would want one? It's the same at the 
 White House. Being in the inner circle isn't worth it if there are 
 too many members. 
 
 Thus the cadre members spend a great deal of time discouraging 
 recruitment. They do this by drumming at the President with 
 the suggestion that virtually all outside their immediate circle 
 are dedicated to his ultimate or eventual destruction. Cabinet 
 members frequently have to step around these protective bodies 
 to carry on vital business of government. 
 
 In three different administrations, I heard three different 
 friends of three different Presidents say almost identically, "I do 
 wish the Secretary of Interior would leave him alone." And this 
 from men without the slightest official status or responsibility. 
 
 56 
 
A Living Curiosity 
 
 Another frequent word from the inside of any administration, 
 "They'll kill the President if they don't stop asking him to make 
 speeches." This is nonsense. A President is a politician and poli- 
 ticians love to talk. A top-flight politician starts talking even be- 
 fore he gets out of bed in the morning and he keeps it up, even 
 while eating and drinking, for about eighteen hours. The strong- 
 est part of any President's body are his vocal cords. One reason 
 a President may appear a bit glum when he walks into church is 
 he knows that he'll have to be quiet for nearly an hour. Some 
 Presidents relieve the strain by singing hymns loudly. 
 
 A President also has company for virtually every meal he con- 
 sumes in the White House, and this includes breakfast. Friends 
 say this is another example of the killing nature of the job. A 
 better guess might be that he doesn't want to eat alone, and his 
 wife by this time has turned into a rather unresponsive audience 
 primarily because she's been listening to her beloved day and 
 night for years. 
 
 Possibly because of F.D.R.'s death and Eisenhower's illnesses, 
 it became popular to dwell on the killing nature of the Presi- 
 dency. Without attempting to encompass all of history, facts 
 would seem to dispute the theory that the White House is a well- 
 upholstered death cell. 
 
 For one thing, those who maintain that burdens of the Presi- 
 dency become more pressing and increasingly complex with each 
 passing year seem to forget that with these passing years Presi- 
 dents seem to survive more successfully. Heaven forbid circum- 
 stances require later editing, but as this was written there were 
 three living ex-Presidents — Hoover, Truman, and Eisenhower — 
 and this for the first time in history. 
 
 It also is highly debatable whether Franklin Roosevelt's death 
 was hastened by the Presidency. Considering his background of 
 polio and arteriosclerosis, the carefully supervised life he led in 
 the White House may well have prolonged, and not shortened, 
 his life. 
 
 57 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 A President who cannot detach himself from his job, or on 
 occasion let some of the air out of his own importance, may be in 
 for trouble. They still tell a story around the White House of 
 Coolidge dropping off to sleep in his office one afternoon. He 
 awoke to see a Cabinet officer squinting at him through a crack 
 in the door. 
 
 "Is the country still here?" Cal inquired. 
 
 William Hard, writing in Atlantic Monthly in 1936, hooted at 
 what he called the "crushingness" of the Presidency. He pointed 
 out that Teddy Roosevelt emerged from the White House saying 
 he had "a bully time," and departed soon thereafter on expedi- 
 tions to Africa and South America; William Howard Taft went 
 from the Presidency to a long career as law teacher and jurist. 
 
 Hard thought in 1936 that other Presidents might have a bully 
 time in the White House, too, if they would "dispense with a 
 little of the mixture of sentimentalism and megalomania which 
 afflicts a good many of them." Hard argued that many of the 
 Chief Executive's burdens stemmed from his aggressive busy- 
 bodiness and arrogant determination to be all things to as many 
 men and women as possible. 
 
 A bit overdrawn perhaps, but close to the truth. 
 
 Busybodiness and arrogance are fueled largely by those closest 
 to a President. Theoretically, he is well informed on major mat- 
 ters. Therefore, friends and closer staff members compete with 
 each other to be the first with choice morsels of gossip which they 
 justify as internal intelligence. 
 
 There's also a completely nonpartisan organism which seems to 
 infect most occupants of the White House. Call it simply the 
 "right" bug. Because we elect a man President, we expect him to 
 be eternally "right." He begins to believe it, himself, and so do the 
 people around him. 
 
 Considering the multitude of problems and decisions that flow 
 across a President's desk daily, how could he possibly be right all 
 of the time? Conduct of the Presidency is anything but a precise 
 
 58 
 
A Living Curiosity 
 
 science since it deals largely with conduct of humans. To pretend 
 that a former Senator from Massachusetts, Missouri, California 
 or Arizona acquired foot-sure omnipotence and flawless judgment 
 through the magic of national election is time-wasting sham. But 
 we practice it. And we add strain on the Presidency with such an 
 attitude, particularly if the object of our affections happens to 
 believe it himself. 
 
 Quite aside from the "right" bug, a President can work up a 
 quick sweat about his privacy, and here again friends are ready 
 to help, as long as he keeps them in the golden corral. 
 
 There is virtually no limit on the extent to which a presidential 
 candidate will invade his own privacy. His wife is paraded at air- 
 port rallies, railroad station gatherings, and across stages of count- 
 less auditoria as a carnival attraction. There are those who main- 
 tain to this day that Stevenson would have done much better 
 against Eisenhower if he'd had a wife along to exchange little 
 homekeeper hints and jelly recipes with the lady voters. This 
 probably is not a good example, however, because the first Mrs. 
 Stevenson (at this writing, there is no second Mrs. Stevenson, but 
 Adlai still is quite attractive to many women) was an arty type 
 who supported an avant-garde poetry movement in Chicago and 
 this might not have played well at all with ladies who purr ap- 
 preciatively over a good jam recipe. 
 
 If the Presidency takes some years off the life of a man, it is 
 done during a campaign. By some American mystique, a man is 
 better equipped for the job by having shaken hands with us. 
 While we're planning colonies in space, this is a most unscientific 
 method of appraising presidential potential. A man may go a 
 lifetime with little or no attendance at church, but we forgive the 
 past if he starts showing up at any church with regularity while 
 he's running for office. And he must love animals. Two or three 
 lovable mutts in his family will produce more votes than an M.I.T. 
 degree. This is about as sensible as the handshake, but just try to 
 think of a successful presidential candidate who ran sans dog. 
 
 59 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 Russia shoots her dogs into space and sends us the leftovers (wit- 
 ness the space dog Khrushchev sent J.F.K.) whereas we tie dogs to 
 our candidates. 
 
 A presidential aspirant without children also is dead on the 
 launching pad. Not only must he have children, but like them and 
 all other children as well. He must like them filthy, quarrelsome, 
 kicking, screaming and biting ("spirited little fellow, isn't he, but 
 what's a boy without spirit?"). His own kids must be models of 
 deportment, each daughter an exceptional little homemaker who 
 stitches her own bibs on the tiny sewing machine made for her by 
 her brother, known to his many friends as Scout Bob. 
 
 A photogenic grandson is political money, banked and paying 
 interest. David Eisenhower was far better known than his own 
 father, a fine upstanding Army officer who sank quickly from 
 view in the comely appeal of his children. 
 
 Anyone with children knows that in the normal course of 
 family life. Goodness Itself, reincarnated in the form of son or 
 daughter, is bound to raise a little hell at times, with the result 
 that Mother and Father bark, rage, throw punches and send the 
 offender away in temporary banishment. 
 
 During a political campaign, however, a would-be President 
 who spanked one of his children would be regarded as an arch- 
 fiend. He could do no more harm to his cause by kicking his wife 
 in the mouth. 
 
 And eat? This comes just behind handshaking, liking children, 
 and going to church. We want our Presidents to eat, every hour if 
 necessary, to prove there's nothing on this world to beat Ameri- 
 can home cooking. Which, of course, is one of the great sadnesses 
 of our time. Some Americans are good cooks just as some French 
 are dandy in the kitchen. But the minute a man declares for Presi- 
 dent, he declares himself on the side of all native cookery. The 
 food may be so bad the host won't touch it, but the candidate 
 had better go for seconds if he wants votes in that neighborhood. 
 
 A President may be utterly allergic to shellfish and break out 
 in zebra stripes when confronted by lobster, but he'd better not 
 
 60 
 
A Living Curiosity 
 
 say anything about it in New England. Just eat and get to bed 
 early, after sending for the doctor. A President who lets it leak 
 out that he dislikes fried chicken would be President without the 
 votes of countless Southerners. 
 
 A potential President also is in trouble when he likes a particu- 
 lar food. If he is so witless as to say in public that he can't get 
 enough coconut cake, he'll find it every time he sits down to a 
 meal for the next twenty years. Long after he's out of office, old 
 ladies will be throwing together soggy confections and shipping 
 them to him because somehow they get the idea that it is their 
 special cake he likes above all others. 
 
 When the votes are counted and the loser climbs the heights 
 of insincerity with his cheery, sporting farewell, the winner sleeps 
 for a few hours and arises to don the girdle of exceptionality. 
 
 One of the first symptoms of victory is to kick reporters and 
 photographers into the street. For months, they've lived with the 
 candidate, called him by his first name and listened to his every 
 thought, repeatedly. These deathless friends go first — out. A 
 spokesman roars after them, "Can't a man have any privacy?" 
 Forty-eight hours before, the last thing he wanted was privacy, 
 but things can change rather rapidly when the big board shows 
 more than 266 electoral votes. 
 
 Then the winner roars to his staff, "The next person who shoves 
 a piece of coconut cake at me gets it right back in the kisser — and 
 get that goddamned dog out of here." 
 
 His wife tries to have a moment with him, but a man she never 
 saw before says, "Could you come back in an hour, perhaps? The 
 President is tied up right now." 
 
 Then when she does get to see him she merely wants plane fare 
 home to enjoy a rest on her own, far from the sound of his voice. 
 Besides, four picture magazines want to do new layouts on the 
 kids and interior of the house. 
 
 "I will not have our children raised in a goldfish bowl," is a 
 favorite saying of new Presidents. After the election. 
 
 Thus we have what has become a fairly classic situation. A man 
 
 61 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 expends so much energy and suffers so many indignities in seek- 
 ing the Presidency that he arrives at the White House bushed 
 and irritable. His trailing band of sycophants are so distressed by 
 his attitude that they set up a wail about crushing burdens of the 
 job, invasion of his privacy, cruelty of the public. And this before 
 his first paycheck. 
 
 To meet this dreadful situation and stand up under burdens 
 which seem to take on more weight with each sympathetic tear, 
 the President then has to begin running away from the White 
 House, from his staff, from the Secret Service and the public. In 
 the job he had before winning the Presidency, he worked longer 
 hours with less staff, rarely more than one day off a week and 
 frequently not that much; he had to do his own shopping at times 
 and pay his own bills, and if he got as much as a month away from 
 the office in the summer, he spent it politicking. 
 
 But now, because people tell him constantly that he's working 
 himself to death, his burdens are unbearable, the cruel public 
 will never be satisfied until they can own and examine every shred 
 of him; that he ought to get away as much as possible — because 
 people tell him these things constantly, some of it absorbs. He 
 may even brood about it, at least until time to run for a second 
 term. And after his second term, he spends the rest of his life 
 reliving the Good Old Days. 
 
 In departing the White House at the end of his second term, a 
 leaving which is now constitutionally required because Franklin 
 Roosevelt won four times, the outgoing President participates in 
 one of the sadder dramas of our political theater. 
 
 Restive Europeans once beheaded their rulers to get rid of 
 them. In a sense, we're less considerate. We simply throw our old 
 ones away. At noon on Inauguration Day, the Presidency becomes 
 a bus at the last stop for the incumbent. It may be high noon to 
 the new crowd, but it's black midnight to him. 
 
 Even if succeeded by a member of his own party — which is 
 rather rare, because we have a tendency to switch from side to 
 
 62 
 
A Living Curiosity 
 
 side in boredom with one administration after eight years — the 
 outgoing President is not treated with the courtesy shown Joe 
 DiMaggio on Old Timers' Day. The White House may give him 
 a car to get to the airport, but little more. 
 
 One minute, he can command the services of thousands; the 
 next minute, he may command only a cab driver. 
 
 Knowing these things, Alf Landon, Tom Dewey, Adlai Steven- 
 son, Jimmy Byrnes and many others still wish and believe. And, 
 waiting in the wings, still more.* 
 
 * A situation also discussed by the author in 1948 in A President Is Many 
 Men (Harper) . 
 
 63 
 
An Olio 
 
 Many years ago, during tent shows and chautauquas the proceed- 
 ings haked periodically to give the principals a rest, permit the 
 sale of candy, or provide lesser members of the company a chance 
 to display their talents, which were not up to inclusion in feature 
 presentations. This break in the show was called the olio. 
 
 Sometimes the purpose of the olio was to lend credibility to or 
 explain the rest of the show. It is within this rough frame of refer- 
 ence that the following is presented. There are times in this book 
 when the hypothesis may seem hypoed. But here we have an un- 
 varnished account of life among the N.P. in Georgetown, with 
 parenthetic remarks by this author in italics. 
 
 From the Washington Post of August 25, 1961: 
 
 bachelors' ball lacks one JFK 
 
 By Dorothy McCardle 
 
 Three lonely bachelors gave a round-robin party Wednes- 
 day in Georgetown. They were only sorry that a fourth lonely 
 
 65 
 
An Olio 
 
 bachelor, President Kennedy, couldn't come, too. [The Post 
 front page the same day told hoio the President was deeply 
 concerned about the Russian threat to Berlin.] But a fifth 
 lonely bachelor. Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy, did 
 come. 
 
 The three hosts, whose wives are all away, were Stephen 
 Smith, Special Assistant to the Director of Special Opera- 
 tions [SADSOf] in State Department and brother-in-law of 
 President Kennedy; Donald Wilson, Deputy Director of the 
 U.S. Information Agency, and Rowland Evans, New York 
 Herald Tribune correspondent. 
 
 Smith, whose wife, Jean Kennedy Smith, is the sister of the 
 President, [still with us?] had a "lonely bachelor dinner" to- 
 gether with Wilson and Evans on Tuesday night. They de- 
 cided to toss a dinner dance the next night. [That's fighting 
 back, fellows.] They wrote out crazy telegrams about wives 
 being off in Yugoslavia (Jean Kennedy Smith and Eunice 
 Kennedy Shriver are there). They had the Robert Kennedys' 
 social secretary put in calls to Parties Unlimited and to Ira 
 Sabin to send round his orchestra. 
 
 [Try to imagine the scene Tuesday night. They're in Steve's 
 kitchen eating cold beans out of a can and one of the fellows 
 cries, "Say, I know what let's do — let's write some crazy tele- 
 grams about our wives being in Yugoslavia, hire a caterer and 
 an orchestra, and have some fun."] ». 
 
 The party began with dinner at the home of Evans on O 
 St. [But not until after a voice on the White House end of a 
 telephone said nothing doing, not with Berlin in such a 
 mess.] Some 20 young people [see what we were talking about, 
 Perlef], including Sargent Shriver, Under Secretary of the 
 Navy, and Mrs. Paul Burgess Fay, Jr., and Senator Claiborne 
 Pell of Rhode Island and Mrs. Pell turned up. [Were they 
 invited or weren't they?] Funny speeches about the overnight 
 telegraphed invitations were made by three hosts. 
 
 66 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 [Sarge, Paul and Claiborne didn't get their telegrams be- 
 cause they refused to pay the collect charges, but what the 
 hell, they turned up, didn't they?] 
 
 Then everybody adjourned across the street to the Smith 
 house for dancing, coffee, and a nightcap. In the back garden, 
 a dance platform fiad been set up under the stars and a few 
 threatening clouds. Had the wives been home, they could 
 not have turned out any prettier setting. Butterfly lights had 
 been strung through the trees like Christmas lights. And 
 Japanese lanterns were hanging from the many trees. 
 
 ["/ feel sorta funny, standing here stringing butterfly lights 
 through the trees like Christmas lights, with my wife in 
 Yugoslavia," Steve said. "I'm doing the Japanese lanterns 
 and my wife's only on Cape Cod," Don shot back. Rollie 
 didn't have much to say because he was rather busy at the 
 time nailing the dance platform together.] 
 
 Everyone took a fast turn to the strains of Sabin's four- 
 piece dance band. 
 
 [Then they all went over to Allen Dulles' house and rang 
 his doorbell and ran like crazy to their own houses which all 
 are very close. Upstairs, Dulles, in flannelette pajamas with 
 natural shoulders, snapped off his C.I. A. code machine, 
 listened to the doorbell and then to the patter of young peo- 
 ple scattering to their homes. With an understanding smile, 
 he murmured, "Ah, youth!"] 
 
 67 
 
CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 Juniority, 
 Georgetown and 
 Chevy Chase 
 
 Juniority, sometimes referred to as seniority, is one of the more 
 reliable keys to Washington status, sometimes referred to as rank. 
 Under the accepted arrangement of life-giving properties within 
 the District of Columbia and its environs, first there is blood, 
 then air, and then rank. Determination of status and/or rank in- 
 volves an impure science of relativity, the theorem for which not 
 even the celebrated Einstein could have mastered. The way our 
 system works, only one man in town has all he needs — the Presi- 
 dent. From then on, progression is downward. 
 
 Status and seniority frequently equate. When there is a differ- 
 ence, it relates to durability. A lobbyist may have status but no 
 seniority except among other lobbyists. Seniority for many in 
 and around government is difficult to determine. One cannot be 
 completely secure as an old-timer because there's invariably an 
 older-timer who never lets a younger-timer forget it through such 
 devices as "I'll admit Coolidge was interesting, but you should 
 have been here a bit earlier when we . . ." 
 
 69 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 Washington is a great town for deans. The diplomatic corps 
 has its dean, as do the House, Senate, private clubs, the Ameri- 
 can Automobile Association, and bookmakers. Officers of the 
 armed forces rank each other by date in grade. So do government 
 elevator operators. 
 
 Dean of the diplomatic corps is an ambassador with longest 
 continuous service in Washington. This is custom in most world 
 capitals. Other ambassadors rank behind the dean according to 
 day and date, and in some tight cases, even time of day when they 
 presented their letters of credence to the President. Diplomatic 
 seniority gives the possessors better seats at banquets, the right to 
 go through receiving lines first, and access to numerous cocktail 
 parties. 
 
 Other deanships also are determined by starting time of con- 
 tinuous service. But there are deans along the fringe of govern- 
 ment who are under almost constant attack or challenge. To refer 
 to anyone as dean of the Washington press corps, for example, is 
 inviting trouble, because to determine this accurately would in- 
 volve a mass meeting of several thousand men and women who 
 are not particularly fond of each other to begin with. The meet- 
 ing would be utterly without progress, because there could never 
 be agreement on definition of the press. Therefore, the field in 
 Washington journalism is cut up into various deanships — White 
 House, State Department, Congressional, Radio, Television, base- 
 ball, football, and even such things as dean of Washington food 
 editors. 
 
 To say that a man in Washington is a dean is to cloak him with 
 a certain amount of reverence, knowledge and standing in his 
 particular part of the community. He may be a genius, but if it is 
 said of him that "he's rather junior," he is destined for additional 
 duty below the salt. His opinions and bright sayings may be 
 copied, stolen or borrowed with little or no credit unless it is for 
 someone senior. To complicate matters further, a forty-year-old 
 woman may be senior to a sixty-year-old man, which makes neither 
 
 70 
 
Juniority, Georgetown and Chevy Chase 
 
 of them feel entirely right about the situation except on paydays. 
 Then she feels more right than he does. 
 
 In no other sector of Washington and possibly the world does 
 juniority depress, and seniority uplift, as in Congress. Length of 
 service is the one and only commandment. A man who survives 
 election after election moves upward into positions of amazing 
 authority and distinction. Elderly pragmatists become powerful 
 committee chairmen due to superior prostates and rugged livers 
 more than for their knowledge or legislative ability. 
 
 Older members of the House and Senate undoubtedly will reject 
 this theory, just as they automatically reject, then study, proposals 
 of their political opponents. The truth is, however, that a man 
 regardless of ability must be blessed with a good prostate and 
 liver to last it out long enough to accede to a top chairmanship. 
 With wisdom of a Disraeli and legislative acumen of a Tom Wat- 
 son, the same man would never make it without highly durable 
 inner equipment, for the chase is unbelievably long. To the 
 elderly goes the chairmanship; to the rheumy-eyed and palsied, 
 credit for vision and vigor. 
 
 Juniority reaches its most humbling state in a freshman House 
 member. In the Washington scheme of things, he's about the 
 lowest form of political and official life, with the prestige of a 
 second lieutenant at the Pentagon. This in fact may be a poor 
 analogy, because there are said to be colonels at the Pentagon 
 who've never seen a second lieutenant. 
 
 Junior Senators also have a difficult time. Suppose, for example. 
 New Jersey elects a forty-year-old man to the Senate and, two or 
 four years later, elects another Senator, this time a man of sixty. 
 Assume that they continue to win elections. Twenty years pass. 
 The eighty-year-old man still is the junior Senator from New 
 Jersey. If his colleague's innards stand up under tests of time, 
 politics and Washington food, our old youngster from New Jersey 
 will be saluted on his hundredth birthday as junior Senator while 
 his eighty-year-old senior bobs and spittles in brotherly approval. 
 
 71 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 New People see the iniquities of the seniority system, but they 
 know better than to tangle with them. There's always a chance 
 an N.P. will be senior some day. Therefore, New People in their 
 quest for status have concentrated more on areas where their 
 position is determined largely by political achievement and cus- 
 toms of the achievers. 
 
 In this situation, status requires certain coloration — -housing, 
 clothing, automobiles. Properly housed, clothed and motored, 
 virtually any mildly pecunious product of a good Eastern college 
 can blend into the better people of modern Washington and be- 
 come one of them with little else on his dossier. 
 
 For fuller appreciation of this social osmosis, we return to 
 Georgetown, a residential area referred to earlier in what might 
 be regarded as salacity by some rickety pewholders. Unblinded 
 by the flame of belonging, however, a new viewer would see 
 Georgetown as a strange hodepodge of slum and elegance. Ratty 
 or regal, it is a modern Capital must — a neighborhood detached 
 from which New People tend to be nervous, uncomfortable or dis- 
 dainful. 
 
 Georgetown is for narrow bodies and broad minds. Because the 
 residents are so deucedly proper and acceptably blooded, there's 
 no finer setting for an ugly wife who's a bit on the horsey side and 
 resembles a tweedy woman watching her husband shoot skeet in a 
 Town and Country ad. Georgetown also is fine for ugly wives be- 
 cause even pretty ones affect a fashionable ugliness, flitting about 
 shabby stalls and overpriced groceries with no makeup except 
 beige lipstick and a slight scent of Crisco, with full-bodied manes 
 of carefully uncombed hair caught up in pipe cleaners. And shoes 
 from under a spreading chestnut tree. 
 
 Streets are narrow, houses are narrow and, necessarily, occu- 
 pants thereof. In other American neighborhoods, householders 
 proudly display living rooms thirty feet in width. The same pride 
 is shown in Georgetown for a salon eight or ten feet wide. Fifty 
 
 72 
 
Juniority, Georgetown and Chevy Chase 
 
 feet long would be chic, but the width must be restricted lest the 
 home smack of something later than early nineteenth century. 
 Some entire houses are less than twenty feet wide which makes for 
 interesting dinner parties and bed arrangements. With such 
 dimensions in style, hallways must be little more than slits. This 
 makes it almost impossible for fat people to blend into the com- 
 munity with any measure of comfort. 
 
 Better known and higher ranking New People circa 1962 live 
 in Georgetown with the controlled sense of liberie, egalite and 
 good breeding to say as little as possible about noisy neighbors if 
 theirs is the good noise of Bartok, Jelly Roll Morton, or a potted 
 young diplomat above the rank of third secretary. 
 
 President Kennedy is without question the currently oustand- 
 ing alumnus of Georgetown. During the period between his first 
 election and inauguration, he used his powdery old red brick 
 house on N Street as a base for intermittent operations between 
 visits to New York and Palm Beach. Neighbors looked from their 
 ancient windows with disapproval at the commotion in front of 
 Kennedy's house, but this changed to approbation and even mild 
 exhibitionism when the same neighbors began turning up in 
 background shots for the Douglas Edwards show. 
 
 One or two Republicans in the President's block were sore 
 losers and sent maids to shoo sightseers from their stoops, but 
 real estate dealers were bravely nonpartisan and shot house prices 
 skyward. As N Street became increasingly hallowed and well- 
 publicized, the Kennedys made room for newcomers by moving 
 to a house on Pennsylvania Avenue. 
 
 After deciding that government quarters would do for a few 
 years, J-F.K. off-loaded the sanctuary on N Street at a good profit, 
 and his tiny hallways then creaked to the proud tread of New 
 People whose position was thus assured. 
 
 There must be moments when a cold draft slips beneath the 
 sash windows of Georgetown, even beneath windows of houses 
 
 73 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 rented as youth hostels and salons of influence or comfort by dis- 
 tillers and aircraft manufacturers. These errant breezes carry a 
 disturbing message — Bobby Kennedy doesn't live there. 
 
 This can be most unsettling for New People if thrown, for in- 
 stance, into a conversation among people from Milwaukee who 
 find it hard to understand why Thermopane shrines of the build- 
 ing industry are not preferable to period pieces of Georgetown. 
 But among themselves, Georgetowners know that the case of the 
 Attorney General is unusual and defensible. Bobby and Ethel 
 have, at this writing, seven children. God knows. Doctor Spock 
 himself couldn't raise seven kids in one of those Georgetown 
 houses even with the advice and consent of Doctor Gesell. 
 
 Because of high population density practiced by the President's 
 brother, Robert and Ethel are forgiven for living in the Virginia 
 suburbs, as long as they visit the neighborhood periodically for 
 friendly little reunions in the Seventh Precinct. 
 
 The reasons for Georgetown's desirability as a neighborhood 
 for New People are not entirely capricious. Living there is rejec- 
 tion of the ordinary. Georgetown antedates most of the capital. 
 Many of the houses may lean somewhat, but they were built in the 
 late eighteenth century. Also, the center of the community is pro- 
 tected against commercial inroads. Zealous civic organizations see 
 to it that commerce remains on the outer edges of Georgetown, 
 and in character. Consequently, the bars and stores are little 
 wider than the houses. 
 
 There are other status areas of housing in Washington, but not 
 matching the undisputed symbolism of historic Georgetown. 
 Foxhall Road, which begins on the blurred northwest border of 
 Georgetown, is fine for middle-aged, well-heeled fashionables; for 
 those who entertain by the gross, and thereby at times entertain 
 rather grossly. Dinner for a dozen or cocktails for thirty would be 
 tops for most of the N.P. Georgetowners. On Foxhall Road, the 
 parking lots are larger than the best homes of Georgetown. 
 
 Spring Valley, another part of the northwest section of Wash- 
 
 74 
 
Juniority, Georgetown and Chevy Chase 
 
 ington, was excellent under the Republicans. Nixon lived there 
 (he also sold his house at a good profit when Whittier, California, 
 beckoned after 1960). Architecturally, Spring Valley is centuries 
 later than Georgetown, but not many of the residents. Their 
 political ikons may bear the sayings of a Garfield rather than a 
 Roosevelt. There are admirals and Senators in Spring Valley who 
 fought vigorously against construction of a hospital near, not in, 
 their section because a medical facility would attract undesir- 
 ables — the sick and wounded who never have helped any neigh- 
 borhood. 
 
 Today Spring Valley might be acceptable to New People as 
 the home site for a rather square Cabinet officer who was brought 
 to town because Jack thought he might be good for government. 
 But no real activist of the N.P. would live there for at least two 
 reasons — his wife would feel odd about running across a hundred- 
 foot lawn to borrow a bottle of Vermouth; and also, he would be 
 far removed from Action Central, which is the area of govern- 
 ment buildings and embassies — and Georgetown. 
 
 Chevy Chase, at the far end of Connecticut Avenue on the 
 northwest side of the District but east of Georgetown, Foxhall 
 Road and Spring Valley, once was good in the accepted sense of 
 officialdom, but no more. Not for the best, at any rate. Chevy 
 Chase is an outright suburb, just on the Maryland border, and 
 New People avoid suburbs when possible. Lawns must be mowed. 
 Scouts must be trooped, parents and teachers must be associated. 
 This is all respectable and necessary, but dreadfully time- 
 consuming. 
 
 Consequently, on most N.P. maps Chevy Chase would be 
 marked only as the location of the Chevy Chase Country Club. 
 The C.C.C.C. is the oldest such establishment hereabouts, and 
 has an adequate golf course but better tennis courts, which are 
 more attractive to many N.P. than golf facilities (again, that old 
 business about Ike). But quite seriously, there are N.P. who give 
 C.C.C.C. a wide berth because of such O.P. era hangovers as dis- 
 
 75 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 couraging the inviting of Jewish dinner guests. This is an un- 
 attractive fact, but still fact without an unlikely and sudden 
 change of club directoral heart before this is published. 
 
 Eisenhower was about to accept an invitation to play Chevy 
 Chase early in his White House stay when his press secretary, 
 Jim Hagerty, received not one, but at least two copies of a letter 
 sent by club officials to a C.C.C.C. member suggesting that he not 
 bring Jewish luncheon guests to the sacred precincts again. So 
 informed, Ike continued to concentrate on Burning Tree. 
 
 Chevy Chase Club, however, does continue to be a high status 
 symbol for many Washingtonians on the conservative side, even if 
 involved with a current administration. And so does Burning 
 Tree, which has only one severe standard of membership — that 
 the member be male, demented on the subject of golf, relatively 
 important and possessed of about $1,500 with which to pay the 
 entrance fee. The membership is much more informal than that 
 of Chevy Chase, imbued by a gusty locker-room comradeship 
 which hit its peak when members were introduced to the Presi- 
 dent of the United States — in the shower. 
 
 All private clubs are discriminatory. They differ in this quality 
 only as to how much. Washington has some predominantly Jew- 
 ish country clubs where Lutheran ministers, to stab at an out- 
 landish example, would not be regarded as prime membership 
 material. 
 
 Acceptance of private clubs is another of the more curious in- 
 congruities of Washington and the New People. There are gentile 
 N.P.'s who delight in the tennis courts of C.C.C.C. But they don't 
 like some of the customs. We have no desire to make Chevy Chase 
 a lonely target for solo invidiousness. A somewhat similarly in- 
 congruous situation exists downtown with the Metropolitan 
 Club, which many N.P. regard with awe and acceptance often 
 reserved for temples. 
 
 The Metropolitan Club is a midday status symbol, a luncheon 
 haven for thought-makers. White Division. Some of our town's 
 
 76 
 
Juniority, Georgetown and Chevy Chase 
 
 most ardent liberals were disturbed early in the current wave of 
 New People to have it brought out rudely that Metropolitan had 
 not, up to that point, admitted Negro members. Bobby Kennedy 
 wrote a rather mean letter to the club about this; then Secretary of 
 Labor Arthur J. Goldberg quit cold, and other N.P. began to find 
 the delightful luncheon menu something less than complete. 
 
 (If the author appears to be burning his bridges to clubland, it 
 is only because he is neither O.P. nor N.P., and his memberships 
 are limited economically to such things as the All-State Policy- 
 holders' Club and Blue Cross. For somewhat different reasons, 
 President Kennedy at the time of his election had not a club 
 membership to his distinguished name, much to dismay of the 
 clubs. He plays golf in Palm Beach at a predominantly Jewish 
 country club on his father's membership. Burning Tree has made 
 him an honorary member and he played there several times. He 
 also played at least once at Chevy Chase as a guest and very early 
 in his White House tenure.) 
 
 Having touched briefly on status aspects of juniority, seniority 
 and housing, domestic and recreational, we move on to other 
 colorations of belonging or amounting, whichever, as the tax 
 forms say, is larger. 
 
 Cut away from the strange protocol of diplomacy, Congress and 
 the armed services, probably one of the more critical status sym- 
 bols of modern Washington is largely overlooked by non-Wash- 
 ingtonians — parking space. 
 
 An assigned parking place on public property, a narrow little 
 white-lined slot that remains inviolately empty on days when the 
 occupant doesn't come to work — there is a mark unmatched even 
 by having been shoved into Bobby Kennedy's pool. 
 
 Not even Mrs. Mesta in her heyday had her own parking place 
 downtown unless she paid for it or was permitted to have her 
 limousine ease into the space of another. But the important thing 
 is that she had no space to call her very own. This may not seem 
 much, just at random, to a wealthy author like Merla Zellerbach 
 
 77 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 of San Francisco, whose chauffeur could buy a parking lot if 
 necessary; to Jack Paar, who can park in the basement of NBC; 
 or to an actress like June Lockhart, who has Lassie to rely on for 
 transportation. But an assigned space is shoutingly important in 
 Washington. This is where the little man cuts the big man down. 
 Or at least, has his moments of superiority. 
 
 Dreadful feuds develop within government departments over 
 assignment of spaces, and then the loose system of seniority oper- 
 ates. A new administration naturally doles out prime spaces to its 
 own crowd, but not even the new New People can dislodge veter- 
 an civil servants who've been occupying the same parking spaces 
 for years. These more or less permanent federalists hang on to 
 what is theirs simply by not telling the New People where all the 
 spaces are. Furthermore, parking spaces are so highly treasured 
 that outgoing federal workers have been known to delay their 
 departures from Washington merely to cling to their parking 
 places, until discovered quite late in a new administration. 
 
 In fact, office space and stenographers have been held over in 
 the same manner. When the Eisenhower battalions arrived, an 
 official of the Truman Administration lasted for six months in a 
 small, well-hidden office of the old State Department building 
 with his equally Democratic secretary. 
 
 They managed well, drew their pay twice a month and supplies 
 as needed, until one day an Eisenhower official blundered into 
 the office while seeking the men's room. The Ike man thought he 
 knew just about everybody on the White House staff and inquired 
 almost humbly, "What do you do?" 
 
 "Winding up the affairs of this office," was the straightforward, 
 almost indignant reply. It took another three weeks to root him 
 out. He then went on about three months' accumulated leave 
 while his secretary found a spot in General Services, until the 
 Democrats came in behind Kennedy and fired her for having been 
 an unnecessary fixture of the Republican administration. Having 
 no tattooed serial number to prove her Democratic origin, she 
 
 78 
 
Juniority, Georgetown and Chevy Chase 
 
 took her dismissal bravely and went to work at Commerce for 
 better pay. 
 
 Discussions of status can veer sharply as we've done, which 
 makes it necessary to procrastinate on definitive development and 
 return to essential signposts. 
 
 (The literary technique of mentioning a situation, then saying 
 it will be developed more fully in a later chapter, is time-saving 
 but must be watched lest the author forget himself and make such 
 promises in his final chapter.) 
 
 Concomitant with assigned parking space as a status signal is 
 the automobile, another point at which little men may at least 
 take on colorings of big or important men. Due to a certain 
 amount of commendable utility, the little car, preferably Euro- 
 pean, is In, in Washington, possibly more so than in other Ameri- 
 can cities. Partly, this stems from what the Economist of London 
 spotted developing in America as long ago as 1958 — the coming 
 of "a certain inverted snobbery." 
 
 The Economist observed on May 31, 1958: 
 
 There are few American families today, at least in the 
 upper income groups with money to spend, who cannot man- 
 age with what they have in the way of durable goods; more- 
 over a certain inverted snobbery seems to have developed — 
 keeping down with the Joneses — so that it is now smart to go 
 on driving a 1955 car or washing with an outdated machine. 
 
 Current capital cultism follows this theory in a general direc- 
 tion, but not the specific. Sophisticated New People don't wash 
 in any kind of machine, new, outdated or moderately old. Their 
 work is done by laundresses who do not starch shirts as those 
 detestable laundries do. But the cars, yes. 
 
 An able practitioner of Washington status would not be caught 
 dead, dismembered or drunk in a 1955 Pontiac, but he'd go to his 
 great reward happily in an M.G. of any vintage. A 1930 Pontiac 
 
 79 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 might be smart, but nothing good came out of 1955. Nothing, do 
 you hear, nothing. Possibly a book or two by men now running 
 State, but little else. 
 
 Keeping down with the Joneses is part of the previously men- 
 tioned campaign behavior of our millionaire office-seekers. New 
 People may be dense in many ways, but they can spot trends. 
 Hence, a man may drive to C.I. A. in a slightly scabby Renault, 
 knowing or hoping that his appearance smacks of wise and well- 
 behaved humility, but still a clearly understood potential of being 
 able to do better. The man who is forced to drive a dented Volks- 
 wagen in Washington may be bothered by realizing that he looks 
 rich but isn't. In such cases, Pontiacs are advised from time to 
 time. 
 
 We are avoiding purposely any discussion at this point of 
 limousines and chauffeurs as Washington status indicators because 
 there is untruth in much livery. There may be guidance, but not 
 basic meaning, because limousines are more easily rented than 
 Volvos. One must know the specific limousine to reach what Ken- 
 nedy calls a judgment. If one possesses his own limousine and hires 
 his own chauffeur, he's deadly rich, usually not in government, 
 and is to be generally disregarded by New People as a crass ex- 
 ample of what Washington would have been if the Old People 
 had been allowed to continue. 
 
 For one more guide to updated status in the Good New Days, 
 we turn to schools. Probably no class in relatively recent history 
 has fought more for improved public schools than the New People. 
 And from observation rather than tightly statistical study, no 
 group patronizes private schools for their children more than 
 New People. 
 
 The established private schools such as Sidwell Friends, St. 
 Albans, Maret, Madeira and others have expanded their plants, 
 raised tuition and still face the longest waiting lists of their his- 
 tories. New People, it must be said, favor private education pri- 
 marily because they believe it to be vastly better than public 
 
 80 
 
Juniority, Georgetown and Chevy Chase 
 
 schooling, because the better colleges have the same idea — and 
 because the kids are picked up and delivered. 
 
 Parent-teacher associations are on a clubby level of social and 
 intellectual equality with group meetings only once or twice a 
 year, and then with no dreadful reading of the last minutes and 
 incomprehensible treasurer's reports. The parent-principal rela- 
 tionship is on a first-name basis, and who would ever dream of 
 calling a public school principal by her first name, much less 
 running into her on the Cape during the summer? 
 
 81 
 
CHAPTER SIX 
 
 How to Tell a 
 Truly Important 
 Person (TIP 
 
 It is one thing to know what Washington status is, another to 
 spot it. Being able to walk into a restaurant and point out Sena- 
 tor Wayne Morse or Jack Logan (once referred to as the town's 
 most eligible bachelor, although he's a white-haired old man) is 
 difficult for the beginner, because so many people in Washington 
 try to look like Senators or eligible bachelors. 
 
 The patina, the shapes and sounds of importance, are decidedly 
 vital amongst the New People. Underplaying, as we've mentioned, 
 has its moments of current popularity, but much more is involved. 
 
 We have a problem of proper labeling in the District of Colum- 
 bia which is mildly similar to the difficulties of C. Northcote 
 Parkinson in nailing down just what constitutes the governing 
 class of his native Britain. 
 
 The eminent author of "Parkinson's Law" says that the British 
 Establishment, the governing class and its tributaries which we 
 are probing from the Washington end, may consist of "the most 
 influential members of the most influential families." 
 
 83 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 Writing in the Sunday New York Times, historian Parkinson 
 adds: "In the wider sense, it can mean all who speak with an 
 upper-class accent — 'they' as opposed to 'us.' But has the expres- 
 sion any meaning? Do the privileged few constitute so defined a 
 class? Is there, in short, a citadel to be attacked?" 
 
 There most certainly is, Mr. Parkinson, a citadel to be attacked 
 in Washington. Perhaps attack is not the proper word. Balloon- 
 pricking is better, if hyphenated. 
 
 The problem of exploring the Washington Establishment is 
 that so many people try to act and appear as shareholders when 
 they're really not. 
 
 Upper-class accent is important in Washington as it is to Park- 
 inson in London. To pattern one's accent on President Kennedy 
 is not advised, however, because the result would be to sound 
 like an Oxford don playing the part of a New England lobster- 
 man in an amateur theatrical. 
 
 Aside from Kennedy, the identifying accent of the Washington 
 TIP is theoretically Ivy League. It involves great opening of the 
 mouth in the manner of a gulping goldfish, with volume adjusted 
 a shade above that of your luncheon companion. The broad A is 
 suggested rather than hit hard, the R is relatively soft, and the G 
 is dropped at times. The annoying thing is, however, that none of 
 these are done consistently. The broad A might be used in "can't," 
 but not in "pass." This appears to be largely a device to throw off 
 imitators. Only the real insiders know when to sharpen the 
 "can't" and broaden the "pass." 
 
 To a Missourian or Texan, best description of the N.P. accent 
 would be simply this — sissy. This has nothing to do with mascu- 
 linity or virility. They talk so much more gently, with more refine- 
 ment than we've been accustomed to for some years in the political 
 arena. This sometimes makes the men sound prissy, if not sissy. 
 
 The dials, however, must be shifted for tuning to the voice of 
 the N.P. women. No high trilling ultra-girl voices for them. A 
 lady TIP is deep and throaty, and sometimes in the dark she 
 
 84 
 
How to Tell a Truly Important Person (TIP) 
 
 might run a good octave below a male TIP, unless she's dating 
 beneath her class, in which case it is advised to await better light 
 or location for our survey. A genuine Wellesley, Radcliffe or 
 Bennington TIP had pounded into her somewhere along life's 
 chalked path that a woman's voice should be full-bodied and 
 direct. In another era, it might have been described as a culti- 
 vated gin husk. 
 
 Choice of vocabulary also can be the straight-off tip on a TIP 
 or N.P. Men and women of the Washington Establishment have 
 glitteringly broad vocabularies. Their use of profanity is utterly 
 delightful and should be taught in some of our greater academies 
 where cursing is rather rudderless quantity instead of quality. 
 Nothing spices a conversation better than well-placed profanity, 
 but only dullards curse profusely. 
 
 Listen to a lady N.P. telling of a recent parents' meeting at her 
 child's progressive, private school: 
 
 'The wife of the Swiss charge — you all know Ratsy, I'm shuah 
 — I love her mahdly, but I cannot abide her squinchy little ideas 
 about getting the children to clawss on time. So, ahfter our simply 
 precious clambake, I went to Ratsy and said one word: bawls." 
 
 This sort of thing keeps a conversation toned up and is much 
 to be preferred to idly dropped damns and hells. 
 
 We might add another note on the audio aspects of the TIP. 
 Their voices may be otherwise gentle, until they laugh. They 
 roar, they spray, they blast when the situation calls for indica- 
 tions of humor. Their laughter tends to the gutsy, diaphragmatic 
 HO-HO rather than the laryngeal HA-HA. Bared teeth also are 
 expected as a matter of free emphasis, involving a certain amount 
 of careful dental care frequently available only to the better 
 families. 
 
 It is helpful to be familiar with plumage of the TIP of the N.P.; 
 drab-in-the-day, don't-give-a-hoot-at-night for men; essentially the 
 same for women unless the girls are on display at luncheon, tea 
 or cocktails. 
 
 85 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 A flat-chested N.P. woman is a rarity but their pattern is to try 
 appearing that way. During the day, that is. At night, they're 
 quite proud. And outwardly, a true N.P. tries to be untouched 
 by the nocturnal emergence, accepting it as he would any other 
 appurtenance of well-bred family life. 
 
 The N.P. man during working or daytime hours, if they coin- 
 cide, goes in for dark single-breasted suits, cut with undertaker 
 conservatism. Medium grays and browns are acceptable if suffi- 
 ciently medium. Scratchy herringbone tweeds are fine for winter, 
 seersucker for summer. Casual jackets almost never, except on an 
 occasional economist who still rebels against his New England 
 parents. In short, the N.P. man could go right from the White 
 House or the State Department to a funeral without changing 
 his suit. 
 
 Their shirts uniformly have button-down or tab collars. With 
 a shirt, the N.P. trick is to look choked. Narrow, straight, dark 
 ties. Shirts with fine stripes on a white background are much pre- 
 ferred over plain white or blue oxford. The President can wear a 
 plain white shirt because he's President, and Pierre Salinger may 
 come to work forgivably in a yellow shirt because this is the sort 
 of thing one might expect from a Californian. In fact, a Califor- 
 nian could come to work in a breechclout and not surprise the 
 Eastern N.P, whose travel has not broadened him to accepting 
 Westerners entirely as "us." 
 
 Away from government compounds and/or at night, the TIP 
 male plumage flashes to the point of gold cummerbunds, tasseled 
 slippers, double-breasted black dinner jackets with white buttons 
 and worn with white duck trousers, and bow ties at will. Mrs. 
 Mesta in her book so simply titled Perle derived all manner of 
 fluttering mileage by telling how Jack Kennedy as a young Con- 
 gressman showed up for one of her cookouts in a dinner jacket 
 and — will you ever — brown loafers. 
 
 This could have happened to any of us, and Perle probably has 
 thanked her social stars many times that it happened to her, be- 
 
 86 
 
How to Tell a Truly Important Person (TIP) 
 
 cause this undoubtedly was one of her solid contacts with JF.K. 
 Madame Mesta once was a redoubtable status symbol of Wash- 
 ington, particularly during the Truman days. To dine with Perle 
 was mildly akin to knighthood, but to the N.P. of today she's a 
 virtual stranger except to the Lyndon Johnsons, to whom she 
 sold her house. 
 
 Female TIP plumage at night shows something of the pack- 
 following exhibited by TIP males in their daytime clothing. The 
 well-endowed ladies have never been too keen about Jacqueline's 
 preference for high-necked overblouses, but they respect the 
 quality of leadership and follow it accordingly at more formal 
 affairs. It is at the smaller, intimate after-dark gatherings that 
 their charms become evident. 
 
 Except for a diplomatic ball, the TIP women currently favor 
 loose, casual and above all, plentiful hair styles. Hair, in fact, 
 seems almost more important than bosom. The First Lady's Mr. 
 Kenneth or Alexandre of Paris may try to swoop styles up and 
 down from year to year, but the N.P. women seem to have gone to 
 such trouble cultivating their amazingly luxuriant mops that 
 they may end up influencing Mr. Kenneth. 
 
 Except on formal evenings, a TIP lady frankly looks better in 
 the wind. Loose-fitting and pronounced manes seem more in 
 setting at the peak of a windy hill, standing long-armed and long- 
 legged at the mast of a racing sloop or running across Wisconsin 
 Avenue in Georgetown. 
 
 Sadly for the occasional spectator, the outward trappings dis- 
 cussed here occur in more than the N.P. or TIP circles. This 
 makes TIP-watching unsure because of government clerks and 
 stenographers who affect similar grooming. To be certain, it's 
 necessary to listen closely to their voices. No matter how plenti- 
 fully touseled and overbloused, any girl overheard exclaiming 
 over Fabian's newest album is very un-TIP or N.P. and if her 
 date talks of the wax job on his Chevrolet, move on. 
 
 We must not be carried away at this point by idle expectation 
 
 87 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 that virtually all N.P. deserved of the designation also qualify 
 for TIP. They may think they qualify. Only at times do they 
 coincide. 
 
 Of obvious mathematical necessity, comparatively few N.P. 
 can have TIP license tags. These are numbers under 1,000 and 
 not preceded by serial letters. The District of Columbia once 
 limited its tags for TIP to 500, but with the 1961 change in ad- 
 ministrations, it was hard to tell how much low-tag pressure there 
 would be, so the limit was advanced. 
 
 In unkind practicality, the people who want to resemble the 
 TIP have spoiled the license-tag business for just about every- 
 body. Restaurateurs, doctors, lawyers, liquor-store owners and 
 others have wedged themselves into the low-number lists, most of 
 them left over from the Eisenhower Administration. Thus it will 
 take a year or two for the N.P. to weed out these hangovers and 
 get low numbers for their restaurateurs, doctors, lawyers and 
 liquor-store owners, because even the N.P. have occasional need 
 for their services. 
 
 With sufficient background, one may detect a TIP by license 
 tag and car considered together. A limousine carrying dark blue 
 plates with white numerals and a number 100 and 125 is a Cab- 
 inet member's official car, or that of someone with Cabinet rank. 
 A limousine with DPL on the license plates is hauling an am- 
 bassador, his wife, or one of their guests who could not make his 
 way independently. Less than a limousine and with diplomatic 
 tags, pay no attention. These are the vehicles of embassy em- 
 ployees, many of whom are quite nasty about parking astride en- 
 trances to supermarkets. When their motoring individualism is 
 pointed out by police or irate shoppers, the drivers merely mutter 
 "Deeplomateek" and go on with their shopping. 
 
 Not all limousines are those of Cabinet and diplomatic corps. 
 Some belong to lobbyists; lawyers, when there is a difference; 
 doctors, when they're sure no patients will see them. 
 
 A black Cadillac or Lincoln limousine with a telephone in the 
 
 88 
 
How to Tell a Truly Important Person (TIP) 
 
 back window and a silver-gray imitation fur laprobe invariably 
 is a Cabinet member. If after checking the license number this 
 proves to be untrue, you know it is a lawyer trying to look like a 
 Cabinet member. If the limousine is gray or blue, probably a 
 diplomat or people from out of town. 
 
 Incidentally, I have several friends in show business who rented 
 liveried Rolls Royces in New York and brought them to Wash- 
 ington for Kennedy's first inauguration, thinking it was a class 
 affair and that they would blend in with the N.P., TIP grade. But 
 poor things, they looked like so many British ambassadors. 
 
 A black four-door Mercury with two men in the front seat, 
 driver uniformed and other man in civvies, plus three children 
 in the rear seat: Caroline Kennedy on her way to tambourine 
 school with two friends. 
 
 Same car, same load minus the man in civvies: children of an 
 assistant secretary (who're called members of the "Little Cab- 
 inet") on their way to a birthday party at the home of friends 
 who're outranked by their father. He'd use the family car if they 
 were going to a party at the home of someone who outranked 
 Papa. 
 
 One sure sign of belonging or at least knowing how to belong 
 is the grocer. A TIP really doesn't care as long as it is good and 
 expensive. But many N.P. are prudent. They want TIP groceries 
 without paying the same freight. So, the smart ones patronize the 
 virtually hidden little traps which cater to embassies. This can 
 be wildly valuable on Sunday when liquor sales over conventional 
 counters are forbidden. A grocery store with a liquor license can, 
 however, sell whisky to an embassy on Sunday with some degree 
 of safety. Thus the clever N.P. trades at the same place, his wife 
 having made considerable distance with the old crone who runs 
 the store by buying her outrageously high-priced broccoli without 
 complaint. Then, when crisis comes to call on the Sabbath and 
 the cellar is bare, off to the grocery stall for diplomats where the 
 owner graciously credits the Sunday disbursal to the Rumanian 
 
 89 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 Embassy and charges the actual customer no more than fifty cents 
 or a dollar extra. 
 
 The N.P. cannot stand the impartiality of most supermarkets. 
 They must know the grocer; he must be their very own. Being 
 thus owned jointly by many N.P. holds promise to the proprietor 
 of a small interest in Fort Knox. 
 
 The TIP has global food and beverage tastes and the N.P. try 
 to. They bake their own bread at home (pretending not to have 
 bought those half-baked loaves at Ancient Charlie's with the Sun- 
 day hooch) and slice it on a small board at the table, spilling bits 
 of crust in the vin rose (for which they paid Ancient Charlie 
 $1.19, "ridiculously low," and for which Charlie paid forty cents). 
 
 What separates the N.P. from the TIP in the matter of food is 
 shopping. The TIP sends a houseman in a panel truck or station 
 wagon to Magruder's or Larimer's where they occasionally have 
 off-season sales on Beluga caviar or quart containers of Austrian 
 pate de foie gras at |27 the flagon, again "ridiculously low" when 
 you think what we paid for it last Christmas at Maison Money in 
 New York. 
 
 The N.P. woman, if her husband's rank possibly permits it, 
 does her own shopping at the neighborhood independent where 
 the prices are higher than in supermarkets, but where Tony saves 
 those special butterfly chops just for us. Tony, it might be pointed 
 out, has a delicate time keeping his "just for us" patrons rotating 
 with sufficient rapidity to preserve the aura of exclusivity. 
 
 This may happen in many parts of America. Indeed, it un- 
 doubtedly does, but it has added interest in Washington because 
 these same N.P. patrons of the slightly higher-priced mercantile 
 outlets are the noble federal officials slaving day and night at far 
 less than they could make back home in father's bank; slaving 
 to protect us from further increases in the cost of living. 
 
 Is this what C. Northcote Parkinson had in mind when he re- 
 ferred to "they" as opposed to "us"? 
 
 Ours, however, is not to quarrel but to observe with detach- 
 ment and avoidance of personalities wherever possible. 
 
 90 
 
How to Tell a Truly Important Person (TIP) 
 
 Which brings us to drinking habits of the TIP and N.P., dis- 
 cussed at this point purely in the "how to tell" sense rather than a 
 definitive exploration of Washington cocktail parties which will 
 entail a separate and frightening chapter. 
 
 Taken as a class, the N.P. seem to be more moderate than the 
 O.P. The new ones drink a lot of beer and wine. In fact, some of 
 them drink one or the other much of the time when they're not 
 burdened with the often onerous chore of saving us from either 
 Wall Street or the Russians. 
 
 A genuine TIP drinks as cautiously as a boxing champion be- 
 tween rounds. He got to be a TIP by having every brain cell 
 bleeping and blooping every waking hour. He drinks primarily as 
 an excuse to talk. Our visitors will never see a verified TIP getting 
 loaded at a public bar or even in the semiprivacy of a party. (What 
 he does in the back of that limousine under his silver-gray imita- 
 tion fur laprobe between traffic lights is something else again. The 
 car may jingle with old pints, but we never see him smashed. And 
 I doubt he ever is.) 
 
 The N.P. may become exuberant and sing the Whiffenpoof 
 song to a point of hoarseness, but he really doesn't get tanked. 
 A friend of mine observed a party at the Robert Kennedys' where 
 the traditional shoving-into-pool-fully-clothed rite was observed 
 more than usual. 
 
 "I felt perfectly horrible," he told me, "when I saw before my 
 own eyes these people bouncing in and out of that pool entirely 
 sober." 
 
 The N.P. on such occasions can be very much like Indians in 
 India where they congregate by hundreds of thousands to welcome 
 a leader and behave for all the world like a mob of drunks in 
 their eye-rolling, lip-dripping fervor. This involves a form of 
 intoxication or exuberance derived purely from human contact, 
 and a certain amount of trying to outshout each other. 
 
 Invariably, books have a circular tendency and here we are 
 again at Bobby Kennedy's swimming pool in Virginia, dangling 
 our shoes and dinner trousers in the shimmering cool water and 
 
 91 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 chatting with a N.P. about Kafka or the Boston Red Sox (it is 
 exceedingly gauche to back the Yankees in N.P. -land). 
 
 There on the diving board stands a handsome young man in a 
 soaked dinner jacket, night vapor rising from him in eerie, wispy 
 trickles that bespeak the healthy American heat and vigor churn- 
 ing beneath his prudent wash-and-dry pleated dinner shirt. It is 
 Ted Kennedy, and a cultured, throaty N.P. lady says with a 
 warmly appreciative chuckle to a puzzled man from Mali, 'That's 
 five times for Teddy." 
 
 Even if Perle Mesta had formed a coalition government with 
 Gwen Cafritz when each was dealing a hot social hand around 
 town and rented the entire Potomac River for a party to end all 
 parties, they could not have approached the status of having 
 been splashed by Ted as he made Dive Five. 
 
 92 
 
CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 The Wonderful 
 Washington Point 
 System 
 
 There was a fanciful story some years ago of an enterprising lady 
 journalist who tracked down John Quincy Adams while the old 
 fellow was floating in the Potomac having delightful little con- 
 stitutional thoughts. 
 
 Since J.Q. had been choleric about granting interviews on land, 
 the lady spied his clothes on a grassy bank and squatted thereon, 
 while Adams treaded muddy water and sputtered answers to her 
 questions. 
 
 This well could have been the start of the so-called Washing- 
 ton point system. Although history omits the precise dialogue, it 
 is reasonable to assume the lady made for the nearest tavern in 
 Georgetown and, over a mead bought by some lecherous Senator, 
 said slyly, "J.Q. looks so cute with his clothes off." And across the 
 table, a lobbyist for the candle trust whistled softly and said, 
 "Two points for her." 
 
 In the early days of railroad sleeping accommodations. President 
 Grant strolled unannounced into a washroom, pulled off his shirt 
 
 93 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 and shaved beside a disconsolate drum drummer (sales were poor 
 because the drum market was pretty well shot after the Civil 
 War). Making conversation, the salesman blamed the recession 
 on that idiot in the White House. 
 
 Being well-equipped with whiskers, Grant wanted no more 
 than a touch-up, particularly on a bumpy road bed, but he did 
 take the time to identify himself and tell the drum drummer he 
 didn't know his snarehead from a tomtom. 
 
 At the next stop, Ellicott City, Maryland, so the story goes, the 
 drummer leaped from the train to tell the platform loafers, "I just 
 got chewed out by President Grant." 
 
 Being near Washington, loafers of Ellicott City were influenced 
 by jargon which they picked up on rare trips to the capital. And 
 one of them is supposed to have said to the salesman, "Bully and 
 a point for you, Clarence." 
 
 See how it works? Flexible as hell, but a durable system still in 
 daily use. 
 
 Essentially, the point system is a conversational method of 
 determining Washington status. Points are not necessarily cumu- 
 lative. Perhaps the system is better described as a method of meas- 
 urement or immediate appraisal. Something like a reviewer 
 giving a movie two, three or four stars. More than establishing 
 rank or status, the point system is a way of expressing one's atti- 
 tude toward a specific behaviorism or performance. Also, it may 
 cover one's automobile, home, family or personal activities. 
 
 We mentioned earlier the advantages of being shoved into 
 Bobby Kennedy's swimming pool. Virtually every columnist ca- 
 pable of putting pen to foolscap also has commented on this status- 
 establishing drippery. 
 
 There was a time when immersion at the Attorney General's 
 was good for at least four points. It should be mentioned, by the 
 way, that a seasoned Washingtonian seldom confers more than 
 four points except when exclaiming over amplitude of bosom or 
 cuddlesome qualities of a rear end. 
 
 94 
 
The Wonderful Washington Point System 
 
 One of Washington's more revered journalists, weary of riding 
 in buses over thousands of political campaign miles, worked out 
 a system of self-entertainment. Passing through a town with 
 thousands cheering the candidate, this fellow would sit at the bus 
 window, mumbling to himself, "I'll give that one 75 . . . golly, 
 there's a 90 . . . the one in yellow, poor thing, a 50." 
 
 But back to total immersion as a system of social measurement. 
 Publicity and the gregarious nature of Bobby and Ethel ruined 
 the swimming-pool dunk as a point-getter. The Kennedys reached 
 the point of having to watch for utter strangers racing uninvited 
 over their suburban Virginia meadows to the pool and social 
 salvation. 
 
 Because the water-streaked evening gown became such a sym- 
 bol, some N.P. women actually selected their party clothes — just 
 in case. One woman, bound for an R.F.K. fiesta in the McLean 
 woods, confided that she had copied one of her Balmain originals 
 in a cheaper material so she could join the fun with little fear of 
 ruining a truly fine dress. 
 
 In the summer of 1962, ugly stories began to circulate. A dry 
 cleaner in Spring Valley offered his most trusted clients, including 
 some Republicans, a completely confidential dress-streaking serv- 
 ice for the uninvited. 
 
 A dusty traveler from Middleburg arrived at the Georgetown 
 Inn with a horrible tale — during the previous weekend, at least 
 two guests were pushed into the pool at Glen Ora. 
 
 Down crashed the point-standing of the Bobby baptismees. 
 
 Then came more shattering tidings. The President swam daily 
 in the White House pool as a matter of therapy for his occasion- 
 ally nagging back. Since his swim sessions were entirely stag, he 
 frequently paddled about without the encumbrance of trunks in 
 Y.M.C.A. democracy. 
 
 Improving on the manner of John Quincy Adams, J F.K. was 
 known to have invited an occasional journalist to chat with him 
 as he paddled therapeutically through the 90-degree water. Male 
 
 95 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 journalists, of course. Since J-F.K. bade them enter, there was no 
 need for such foolish derring-do as sitting on his clothes. Besides, 
 the clothes were hung neatly in a locker nearby. 
 
 Also, there was word in certain circles that some men, high 
 of station in or out of government, had been invited to swim with 
 the President. 
 
 Clearly four points were justified for a visit with the leader of 
 the New Frontier in or around the White House pool. And with 
 equal clarity, a necessary downgrading of Bobby's pool. 
 
 It is difficult to forecast new point-makers, because they have a 
 way of developing rapidly and from an impromptu start. Also, it 
 should be borne in mind that the point system is not always ori- 
 ented to the White House. Points often are scored among the New 
 People with little or no thought of the Kennedys, unlikely as such 
 a dangerous mental condition may seem. 
 
 Having one's home on the Georgetown Garden Tour is a good 
 two points, although it does mean sending the children away for 
 a few days to forestall their opening a closet and unleashing a cas- 
 cade of overshoes, tennis rackets and ping-pong balls at the feet of 
 visitors. 
 
 Having the Schlesingers at a small dinner dance is good, pro- 
 vided there is an upstairs sitting room where brains of government 
 may adjourn periodically to take telephone calls and talk about 
 Adenauer or Vietnam. Since the Schlesingers do get around, how- 
 ever, this would not rate more than a point. If the Bundys were 
 there, too, you might force it to two points, but not a whit more. 
 
 Walking with a Supreme Court Justice once made points, but 
 today very little. As they get older, the Justices seem to walk more. 
 Mr. Justice Douglas, for example, walks all over the world; keep- 
 ing up with him would be too time-consuming to exact advantage 
 at home from the points thereby derived. 
 
 Being photographed by Mercedes, the wife of Mr. Justice Doug- 
 las, is another matter, perhaps a two-point matter, depending on 
 how mciny pictures she makes and how well they turn out. Mrs. 
 
 96 
 
The Wonderful Washington Point System 
 
 Douglas not only walks, but she is an excellent photographer. If 
 she comes to your party with several cameras, photographs your 
 guests dancing the Hully Gully and sends you a batch of deli- 
 ciously private prints, this would have to be scored indisputably as 
 a two. 
 
 A hike with Mr. Justice Douglas along the old Potomac Canal 
 for ten or fifteen miles was once a source of points, but not today. 
 He sometimes is accompanied by as many as a dozen or more 
 walkers. If a heavy rainstorm forced the group to call for limou- 
 sines and a happy, humid ride back home, a half-point. 
 
 Another source of points is being able to do something unex- 
 pected and entertaining. This was not often noticeable during the 
 Truman and Eisenhower eras, but New Frontiersmen brought to 
 town a custom of self-entertainment — charades, games, group 
 singing, unusual dancing, imitations. 
 
 It has long been held in Washington that a man's professional 
 progress or standing can depend to a great extent on the social 
 charm and ability of his wife. The N.P. wives, about whom we 
 gossip at greater length elsewhere, are an active and entertaining 
 bunch. 
 
 As could be expected in most communities, there tends to de- 
 velop what might be described as social incest. Same guests, same 
 hosts, same houses, on a round-robin basis. Partly because Wash- 
 ington has few attractive night clubs, these folks entertain at home 
 more than going out. After dinner comes a cry for Gladys to do 
 her imitation of Jackie addressing the Girl Scouts. The hostess 
 knows from good experience that Gladys, particularly after her 
 second Stinger, is a walloping good warm-up for the otherwise 
 stodgy postprandial period. 
 
 Being rather frequent in her performances and seldom chang- 
 ing her material, Gladys no longer receives points. Just chuckles. 
 
 But should an Assistant Secretary of State who never before 
 opened his mouth at such affairs suddenly bounce into a passably 
 good Russian squat dance, he most certainly should have a point. 
 
 97 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 Congressman William Green of Philadelphia gets an occasional 
 point from first-time listeners when he sings ancient parodies abput 
 the leadership on the Hill. 
 
 Currently, the key to the point system seems to be action. The 
 N.P. are intensely active in a physical way. This stems from youth. 
 The only defense against it without seeming unduly O.P. is to be 
 professorial, hellishly long-haired or semi-invalid. Being unable 
 to dance because of phlebitis, or being violently opposed to it as 
 an outdated culture form, might be acceptable. But simply sitting 
 vacantly and watching others Twist has been known to result in 
 minus points. 
 
 Take water-skiing. A genuine N.P. activist upon first exposure 
 to the sport would say, "Here, I want to try that." If he immedi- 
 ately shucked down to his skivvies and subjected himself to semi- 
 drowning in the wake of an outboard, his two points would be 
 unquestioned. 
 
 Horseback riding? No. This is a form sport. After considerable 
 training in private, the N.P. might get a point or two for a broken 
 collarbone, but nothing for the sport itself. 
 
 Card-playing, even with higher New Frontiersmen, has little 
 point value. Most of them are so busy with fate that they're not 
 much for pure escapism. After all, one can discuss Medicare and 
 birth control for India while water-skiing or dancing, admittedly 
 with difficulty but still within some framework of communication. 
 Chances for communication while playing bridge are negligible 
 and, in any case, ill-advised. 
 
 There might be a point to be claimed for playing poker with 
 Peter Lawford, who loves the game, but gaining a point in this 
 manner is scarcely worth it. Lawford, being an accomplished actor, 
 easily can cast himself as Ravanel, a Mississippi river boat gam- 
 bler, and win a ghastly number of pots while other players sit 
 there, dumbly themselves. Only the most point-hungry N.P. would 
 resort to this sort of scoring. 
 
 Lawford brings to mind a bit of N.P. whimsy which, under 
 proper conditions, might be worth a point on a dull day. Many of 
 
 98 
 
The Wonderful Washington Point System 
 
 them go barefooted. And not always at the beach or pool. They 
 pad around barefooted because it betokens freedom and a lack of 
 pretense. Also, their feet may hurt but this should be regarded as 
 carping. Lawford plays golf barefooted, which may have led some 
 of the N.P. to their taste for shoelessness. 
 
 There are no points for being barefooted, however, if one walks 
 with any indication of tender sensitivity. A clean, firm barefooted 
 stride over hot asphalt or coarse gravel should be worth a half 
 point because it indicates frequent presence at the shore or one's 
 country place. 
 
 We may only imagine what might have happened had one of 
 the Crusaders shown up shoeless for a golf date with Eisenhower. 
 George Allen went about as far as individualism could go by play- 
 ing in sneakers. And only five-star indulgence made this possible. 
 
 Lest the Washington point system seem confined to the N.P., it 
 should be noted that the O.P. have their ratings, too. Regardless 
 of administration, membership at Burning Tree is a source of 
 points for men. 
 
 Probably more points accrue to a lobbyist than most other 
 Washington males for playing at Burning Tree, one of the tonier 
 fresh-air camps for adults. 
 
 Tennis at Chevy Chase is a point; membership, two; but only 
 among more conservative Washingtonians. Lunch at the Metro- 
 politan Club was an entry on many point cards until that public 
 airing of Metropolitan's negative attitude toward Negroes. Chevy 
 Chase does not seem to have faced this particular problem of color. 
 Not even Roy Wilkins of the N.A.A.C.P. would raise a fuss over 
 Chevy Chase; not out of fear or awe, but because it would be a 
 foolish waste of time and invective. 
 
 When leading New Frontiersmen curtly quit the Metropolitan, 
 the place went down on the N.P. point scale, but up on the O.P. 
 chart. The O.P. position was not anti-Negro. It seemed instead to 
 be happiness over departure of any N.P. from any scene. 
 
 To dine with Mrs. Robert Low Bacon or the brilliantly cogni- 
 zant widow of the late Colonel Robert McCormick — very strong 
 
 99 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 O.P. points. Dinner with Fulton Lewis, Jr., with Dean Clarence 
 Mannion among the guests, can be extremely inteiesting and un- 
 questionably good as a grabber among conservatives. 
 
 I know one man who got points all over town for being seated 
 at a dinner next to Robert Welch of the John Birch Welches. The 
 man had several luncheon invitations, even from N.P., to tell his 
 dramatic I-was-there story. Whether this man should have been 
 allowed permanent points turned out to be debatable. Mr. Welch, 
 it seems, had very little to say except that he was impressed by the 
 energetic handsomeness of two men at the same dinner — George 
 Romney and Secretary Ribicoff — before he returned to vote-hunt- 
 ing in Connecticut. 
 
 There are scores which few outside of Washington would think 
 of as important. A smacking three points can be given easily for a 
 parking place set aside at the District of Columbia stadium for 
 the District commissioners, members of the Cabinet, and baseball- 
 or football-club majority stockholders. Three points may seem in- 
 ordinately high, but not when one considers how this is quickly 
 translatable status in front of an audience of thousands. It might 
 rate four points on a dreadfully rainy day when the Redskins have 
 managed one of their rare pro football victories. 
 
 A dive into Bobby Kennedy's pool in Roman toga while read- 
 ing a first edition of his latest book could not match walking from 
 the crowded stadium at a rainy dusk across a narrow driveway to 
 a carefully attended island of privilege and one's own snug Citroen. 
 
 Going to private film showings at the Motion Picture Associa- 
 tion of America, a swank residence two blocks from the White 
 House, is a point — and a comfortable one at that. Government 
 officials, members of Congress and correspondents — N.P. or O.P. 
 — are about as attracted to free motion pictures as they are to 
 country places and supper dancing. 
 
 To see a major film months before release to the ticket-buying 
 commoners is worth a point when exploited properly. This some- 
 times is mishandled badly by the new. They volunteer without 
 being asked that they've just seen a private screening of Lolita. 
 
 100 
 
The Wonderful Washington Point System 
 
 It is much better to wait, for weeks and months if necessary, until 
 a vapid neighbor or a lackluster fellow worker asks, "Seen any 
 good movies lately?" 
 
 Persons of this nature may be crushed at once by saying wearily, 
 "I've been so busy translating Proust into Arabic recently that I 
 haven't had the time, but Eloise and I did see the rushes of Lolita 
 at MPA the other night with the Rusks and the McNamaras." 
 
 The seasoned Washingtonian backs away fast from a sentence 
 dropped in this manner, confining himself to nothing more than 
 an equally weary, "How was it?" To be so gauche as to inquire 
 what in God's name is the MPA is to suffer another crushing blow. 
 In fact, it is a good rule in our town never to ask about a set of 
 initials thrown into a conversation. Nod knowingly and move on. 
 
 Letter combinations may apply to humans, as well as agencies. 
 I saw a point-system expert bomb a pushy Pentagon figure unmer- 
 cifully during a bocci game in Newport. 
 
 The Pentagon man had come to Newport purely to deliver 
 papers from McNamara and was trying to build it into a mysteri- 
 ous mission for the President. He was throwing initials all over 
 the bocci box and implied that he heard J F.K. say something that 
 afternoon about running over to see J.PK. (the President's father 
 spending the summer in Hyannis). 
 
 Our hero let him have it. 
 
 "I wonder how that will strike J.B.K.?" he mused. 
 
 The poor, poor fool from the Pentagon fell completely asplash 
 into the gruesome well. 
 
 "I'm sorry, I thought you knew these people," said our hero. 
 "Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy, wife of J. F.K. and mother of C.K. 
 and JT.K.J." 
 
 Not drubbed enough, the hapless visitor smiled weakly. 
 
 "Oh sure, J.B.K. But J.F.K.J.? You're making these up." 
 
 "I don't think John, Jr., would agree," said our man haughtily, 
 in definite possession of three quickly scored points. 
 
 There are points to be gleaned in many other little ways, recog- 
 nized in both O.P. and N.P. circles. 
 
 101 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 One system requires experience, good memory and curiosity. 
 This is the ability to identify the True Autocrats of Government, 
 hence known as T.A.G. 
 
 These are the quiet people, truly permanent residents of the 
 city who manage to keep the machinery of government going in 
 spite of changing politicians. They are the housekeepers and 
 paperwork experts of the federal system; civil servants who talk 
 constantly of being able to make more money "on the outside," 
 but who seldom leave the security of working for Uncle Sam. 
 
 They are not N.P. They wear plastic raincoats and travel in car 
 pools. They live far from Georgetown, Cleveland Park, and Spring 
 Valley in massive complexes of relatively low-cost housing. They 
 make up the bowling teams and blood-bank campaigns. They, far 
 more than the N.P., fill the symphony hall and crowd the Water- 
 gate for summer concerts. They picnic on Sundays at the zoo and 
 jam the Monument grounds on the Fourth of July to hear speeches 
 and gasp at the fireworks. 
 
 At times they seem to speak a foreign language when discussing 
 their work with each other. This isn't the famed gobbledegook of 
 O.P.A. days, but a bloodless sort of argot made up of numbers and 
 letter combinations which identify the inner workings of govern- 
 ment. 
 
 They may appear scummy dull to the avant garde of the N.P., 
 but these are the squares who protect us. We farm to their for- 
 mulas and quake at their audits. We pay when they say pay and 
 we rely on them for everything from tide information to insect 
 control. 
 
 After they have seen several administrations come and go, they 
 develop tolerance and sympathy frequently not shared by their 
 overlords of the moment. They do, however, contribute more to 
 basic life of the community than many of their more attractive 
 and better-known policy-makers. 
 
 It is a point, indeed, for the N.P. who knows and understands 
 the T.A.G. 
 
 In every department and agency, including the White House, 
 
 102 
 
The Wonderful Washington Point System 
 
 there are career administrators, personnel men, and clerks, with- 
 out whom even the most enlightened new administration could 
 not function. Occasionally there are efforts to displace the T.A.G. 
 and turn over their posts to new political appointees. Not in every 
 case, but certainly in most, such efforts collapse quickly, particu- 
 larly when it is discovered that the T.A.G. about to be displaced 
 will be snatched up by some other agency of government. 
 
 Not that there was any thought of removing him, but there was 
 deep curiosity along the New Frontier shortly after the 1960 elec- 
 tion about William Hopkins, executive chief clerk at the White 
 House. Bill Hopkins has been on the job since the early days of 
 F.D.R. as the control point or coordinator of official papers — bills 
 to be signed, executive orders, proclamations and the like. If any- 
 one runs the White House, he does. 
 
 Probably no one in Washington knows the intricacies of gov- 
 ernment better than Hopkins. Probably no one keeps track of 
 more details that would seem piddling to the uninitiated, but 
 which are basic to smooth operation of the Executive branch. 
 
 It may be disputable to say that Hopkins is powerful, but there 
 can be no argument about his essentiality. As he was trained for 
 years by such similar experts as Rudolph Forster and Joseph Latta, 
 who dated back to the McKinley administration, Hopkins has a 
 veteran staff in training under him. The new President who tries 
 to divest the White House of these experienced men would be 
 inviting deep confusion. 
 
 For all his importance, however, Hopkins would not be recog- 
 nized on the street or in the White House lobby by any but a 
 handful of N.P. He probably has been to fewer social functions in 
 Washington than many of his rank. Bill also is paid better than 
 many of those widely known to the public. 
 
 Thus, to the New Frontiersman who could spot and identify 
 Bill Hopkins on a street corner or waiting patiently for his 1958 
 sedan at the car wash, a full four points. Assuming, of course, that 
 the Frontiersman patronizes the same place. 
 
 103 
 
CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 Is Culture Decent? 
 
 "All my worst moments have been cultural rather than political," 
 said Antrobus, the hard-to-ruffle British diplomat of Lawrence 
 Durrell's hilarious Esprit de Corps. 
 
 "You see," Antrobus confessed, "we are all supposed to be rather 
 pro than anti in the Old Firm — but as for me, frankly I hate the 
 stuff. It rattles me. It gives me the plain untitivated pip, I don't 
 mind confessing." 
 
 Bully for Antrobus, wherever he may be serving today. For his 
 sake, may it not be Washington, for culture has captured the city. 
 
 Chamber music flutists without a decent week's work in years 
 are now in demand. The hottest night-club act in town is Charlie 
 Byrd, a fabulous guitarist who plays more Segovia than modern 
 jazz. 
 
 Quotations from Shakespeare once again may be heard in places 
 other than classrooms and stages. The Bard sometimes has several 
 units performing his works on the same night. Authors, although 
 
 105 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 this one can think rather rapidly of a few exceptions, are sought 
 socially, even by Mrs. Kennedy. Playwrights and composers are In, 
 for the first time since the late Robert Sherwood moved back to 
 New York after F.D.R.'s death. 
 
 It may annoy Frontier people, but they cannot claim full credit 
 for the cultural revival in Washington. Whether N.F. culturists 
 like it or not, the Trumans certainly did more to popularize mass 
 consumption of classical music than the Roosevelts. 
 
 Harry Truman's piano tinkling was enough to make a Knabe 
 gnash; the lyric qualities of Margaret's concert soprano did not, 
 in the minds of some peevish critics, come up to the endowments 
 of a Pons or Callas. 
 
 With no apparent thought of anything but enjoying good 
 music, however, the Trumans were unusually faithful, for a First 
 Family, in attending the symphony. Truman also was the first 
 President to be made a member of the American Federation of 
 Musicians and to play a duet with a cornettist named James C. 
 Petrillo. 
 
 And at state dinners, the Trumans presented some of the finest 
 musical artists of the opera and the classical concert stage. 
 
 For these interests, however, Harry, Bess, and Margaret receive 
 virtually no points from the N.P., many of whom have difficulty 
 for reasons of age in recalling the Truman era. Culture, for many 
 younger N.P., lay in chains for years while Ike and Mamie played 
 cards, thumbed westerns, and stared at TV. This is less than a 
 complete picture. 
 
 The Eisenhowers were not cultural in the sense that they sur- 
 rounded themselves with artists, writers, composers, and profes- 
 sors. Some, but not in mobs. The N.P. tremble at the mere thought 
 of an Ike painting. Also, they fail to consider that, for all of Eisen- 
 hower's amateur brush work, more Americans began painting 
 while he was President than at any other time in history. Admit- 
 tedly, this finding is based on sale of art materials, particularly the 
 carefully engineered kits with which one copied an old master or 
 
 106 
 
Is Culture Decent? 
 
 chintzy illustration by applying color to numbered sections of 
 canvas. 
 
 The Eisenhowers also presented fine classicists in the East Room 
 after dinners, but by today's standards, they cast culture aside 
 when they invited Fred Waring and Lawrence Welk to sing and 
 play. By N.P. measurements, only Spade Cooley could have been 
 worse. 
 
 References to Truman and Eisenhower are not cited in their 
 defense, but largely to start an argument. Ike painted poor pic- 
 tures, but thousands of Americans were encouraged to believe 
 they might do nearly as well. Truman played choppy piano, but 
 he also encouraged the careers of a number of young piano artists. 
 
 Again, these references are no effort to defend or equate. Only 
 a Right Pole Republican would think of challenging the assertion 
 that certainly not in modern history has a First Family done more 
 than the Kennedys to encourage the arts. 
 
 The Kennedys — and in truth, this means largely Mrs. Kennedy 
 — have pushed musicians, singers, actors, authors and painters up 
 front in the political community. Whether this produces any sort 
 of political benefit for the N.F. is debatable, if not doubtful. De- 
 spite the persuasive leadership of Jacqueline Kennedy, a great 
 many of her countrymen stubbornly prefer Tennessee Ernie Ford 
 to Pablo Casals. 
 
 The show-business section of Time magazine once examined 
 the ancient ABC network show, "Breakfast Club" and its corn- 
 dripping star, Don McNeill. 
 
 "The show," Time said, "is perhaps of limited appeal to the 
 average Vassar graduate who worked at The New Yorker for three 
 years before marrying an advertising account-executive and set- 
 tling in Greenwich, Conn. But there are other kinds of people in 
 the U.S. and they have made Don McNeill the most enduringly 
 successful broadcaster in the country." 
 
 It would be amazing happenstance if the more cultural N.F. 
 pewholders had ever heard of Don McNeill. Whether this amounts 
 
 107 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 to a cultural blind side is debatable, and a square-proof existence 
 might be ideal for certain levels of government personnel. Whether 
 high cultural taste is good politics is an entirely different matter. 
 
 This is not to argue that government officials of cultural levels 
 equal to or above those of recognized Society should rush to the 
 nearest newsstand for an armload of comics or tune their tran- 
 sistors to Don McNeill. There merely is a possibly presumptuous 
 reminder that, as Time said, "there are other kinds of people in the 
 U.S." — those who in the final analysis elect their leaders. Their 
 levels of cultural taste undoubtedly could do with considerable 
 improvement, but it is impolitic, ill-mannered, and stupidly ar- 
 rogant for some of the N.P. to deride the blueberry slice of Amer- 
 ican society with its decidedly little s. 
 
 The cultural lift in Washington may be linked in part to de- 
 velopment of what Time identified as New Society as differenti- 
 ated from the so-called Old Guard. Time says of New Society: 
 
 A different and more stimulating social stream of people 
 with more education (than the Old Guard) and more to talk 
 about, who want their friends to be intelligent, active, and 
 amusing (one of their favorite words). 
 
 It is a Society to which the Kennedys have given consider- 
 able impetus, although it was in the making well before Jack 
 went to the White House. Rockbound in their huge old 
 houses behind iron gates, the Old Guard seldom went any- 
 where, never saw anybody but one another, and hardly ever 
 worked except as trust officers for the family estate. In the 
 New Society, the term self-made man is not a slur but an ac- 
 colade, and the New Society is willing to accept anyone with 
 the requisite qualifications. 
 
 Time offered some of the qualifications: for men — money, man- 
 ners, and taste. In women — beauty "and not too cool," intelli- 
 gence, and "a sure sense of fashion." 
 
 108 
 
Is Culture Decent? 
 
 The New Society of which Time spoke is centered largely in the 
 East, primarily New York City and environs. But there is a Wash- 
 ington overlap in which qualifications other than those catalogued 
 by Time come to bear. These would include influence and/or 
 power born of background, talent, or political acumen. Good ex- 
 amples might be the C. Douglas Dillons and the Robert McNa- 
 maras. 
 
 Unfortunately, appraisals of current Washington too often con- 
 fuse society with culture. They may overlap without equating. 
 The editors of Diplomat or Town and Country may disagree. To 
 them. Society is Culture. 
 
 Richard Rovere is cultured and social, but not Society. Yet, Mrs. 
 Nicholas Longworth would have to be judged as both cultured 
 and Society. She's well-bred, possessed of 22-karat seniority, has 
 money, and is avidly interested in the world around her. She does 
 not write or paint, but she knows those who do. 
 
 We've attempted to point out the N.P. and O.P. levels of Wash- 
 ington Society. There are others. The military, for example, and 
 the diplomats. Each corps is a class distinct with tight structural 
 lines of protocol, rank, and performance. These lines are never 
 crossed except to the detriment of the trespasser. 
 
 The cultural divisions of Washington are much less pro- 
 nounced. A government clerk, listless for having missed dinner, 
 may have the concert seat next to a well-sherried dowager. One of 
 the town's most sought-after economists may be unable to identify 
 a single Cave Dweller (as some second- and third-generation Wash- 
 ingtonians refer to themselves). 
 
 Being cultural on the New Frontier is more than having status, 
 knowledge and taste. It is being convincingly and sincerely active. 
 It is being a patron without patronizing. 
 
 Culture is more than a spectator sport with the N.P. For one 
 thing, it is ability — and enjoyment therefrom — of being able to 
 speak and read one or more foreign languages. It means an inti- 
 
 109 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 mate working knowledge of other countries, their people, customs, 
 and problems. Many N.P. came to town thus equipped, giving 
 them time to tackle even other languages. 
 
 The linguistic ability noticeable in Washington these days was 
 reflected visibly not long ago by the wife of a starchily conserva- 
 tive O.P. The woman, in her late forties, apologized for being un- 
 able to accept invitations on certain nights. 
 
 "Those are my Russian classes," she said. 
 
 Quietly, for more than a year, she had been studying Russian 
 three hours a week in class, and several times that at home poring 
 over Russian magazines and newspapers. 
 
 "I began to wonder about meeting Russians who spoke excel- 
 lent English," she explained. 
 
 Inability to speak understandable French and Spanish is now a 
 source of embarrassment in much of our town. The wife of the 
 President who succeeds Kennedy will appear declassee if her 
 French and Spanish vocabularies are limited to merci and gracias. 
 Jacqueline has spoiled it for all future First Ladies. 
 
 The previously mentioned O.P. woman with rapidly increasing 
 ability to speak Russian is planning to undertake lessons in Japa- 
 nese in another year. The fact that she manages a residence of 
 more than twenty rooms, entertains frequently and dabbles in 
 numerous community activities would seem to make it difficult 
 for other less-involved Washington wives to offer shortage of time 
 or advanced age as excuses for not attempting to learn another 
 language. 
 
 The current D.C. culture also means reading more than news- 
 papers and periodicals. New novels are not nearly as important to 
 N.F. men and women as new book-length nonfiction. The N.P. 
 find it almost incomprehensible when they hear other Washing- 
 tonians confess to not having read the latest work on labor-man- 
 agement relations. Southeast Asia, or space. 
 
 If some N.P. do not care particularly for art, they at least try to 
 know about it. Better yet, a great many of them budget for a paint- 
 
 110 
 
Is Culture Decent? 
 
 ing as many of their countrymen would buy a new clothes washer. 
 
 They're buttoned down and natural-shouldered, to be sure. 
 But don't try arguing art, music, geography, or literature with 
 these babies unless your cultural qualifications go beyond maga- 
 zine subscriptions and book-club memberships. 
 
 Mrs. Kennedy has been responsible for much of the cultural 
 revival, both in personal participation and by creating an at- 
 mosphere in which cultural interests are regarded as acceptable. 
 
 Use of the word "acceptable" may seem strange, even washed- 
 out and inordinately mild to scholars and artists far removed from 
 the capital. The usage, however, is valid. 
 
 There was a time, and not very long ago, when political leaders 
 felt it necessary to conform or identify with the lower denomi- 
 nators of their constituency. It was politically popular and some- 
 times necessary to appear as homespun and unaffected as possible. 
 Some well-educated politicians actually affected ungrammatical 
 speech to enhance their image of being one of the boys. 
 
 With the remotest rural areas now opened up to many new cul- 
 tural influences, political figures of recent years have found it pos- 
 sible to put aside their bumpkin roles and enjoy some of the finer 
 things of life. Out in the open, too. 
 
 Mrs. Kennedy brought to the White House such cultural con- 
 tributions as a French chef, after-dinner Shakespearean readings 
 and modern ballet performances, and a few Cezannes hanging 
 among the dreadfully stiff portraits of Presidents and famous bat- 
 tles. 
 
 It remains to be seen, probably in 1964, whether Jacqueline's 
 Francophile tendencies are thrown back at the White House by 
 political enemies. 
 
 You can hear it now: "And if I get to the White House, I'll 
 promise you folks one thing — good old American cooking." 
 
 Mrs. Kennedy, however, has history on her side, plus the Com- 
 mon Market, which may lead us to exchanging many items with 
 the French, including recipes. Even such a hard-bitten growler as 
 
 111 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 Nietzsche once said, "I believe only in French culture, and regard 
 everything else in Europe which calls itself 'culture' as a misun- 
 derstanding." 
 
 Cultural advances under the N.P. are regarded questioningly in 
 some quarters, bitterly in others. Outwardly not intending any 
 political allusion, Eisenhower spoke of over-all American moral 
 standards in 1962. Ike, it turns out, had a lot more time in which 
 to worry after he left office and thus was able to extend his active 
 concern into fields which seldom attracted his attention while 
 bossing the Crusade. He said, to an audience in Abilene, Kansas: 
 
 "Now I wonder if some of those people [old pioneers of the 
 West] could come back today and see us doing the Twist instead 
 of the minuet — whether they would be particularly struck by the 
 beauty of that dance?" 
 
 (Hold it a minute. General Ike. What do you think the same 
 bunch of horny-handed old sodbusters and Indian fighters would 
 say if they could see you chasing a little white ball in an electric 
 cart?) 
 
 "When we see movies and the stage, and books and periodicals 
 using vulgarity, sensuality, indeed, downright filth, to sell their 
 wares, you think that our spirit — do you say America has advanced 
 as we have materially when we see our very art forms so changed 
 that the works of Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci are scarcely 
 spoken of in terms of a piece of canvas that looks like a broken- 
 down tin lizzie loaded with paint [that] has been broken over it? 
 What has happened to our concept of beauty and decency and 
 morality?" 
 
 Before tackling your question. General Ike, let's rest here in the 
 shade of the clubhouse for a moment. Now there: Your remarks 
 quite obviously were not aimed at anyone in particular, but surely 
 you must have read about McNamara and other Cabinet members 
 doing the Twist in the East Room at a private party given by the 
 Kennedys? 
 
 You're right. The Twist did represent "some kind of change in 
 
 112 
 
Is Culture Decent? 
 
 our standards." Culturally, but not morally. They still tell a story 
 out in Denver about your performance, General Ike, at parties. 
 You were a young lieutenant then, just married to Mamie. You 
 had a great party trick. You'd clasp your arms to your sides, freeze 
 into a rigid stance, then like a falling tree, topple a-smash to the 
 floor. The trick was to break the fall with your hands at the last 
 split second. The Denver folks say there were a few times when 
 your hands weren't quite quick enough and boy, howdy, the whole 
 house quivered when you hit. 
 
 Just imagine. General Ike, the sort of talk there'd be today if 
 Teddy Kennedy tried your same floor-fall in the East Room. 
 
 Vulgarity, sensuality, and downright filth are not necessarily 
 the same. One may lead to the other, but the vulgarity of one gen- 
 eration is the propriety of the next. Sport shirts and casual jackets 
 which you wear in public view today would have been regarded 
 as utterly vulgar by my grandfather, who felt a gentleman should 
 wear stiff collar and tie at all times except when bathing or sleep- 
 ing. 
 
 As for comparing the art masters of several hundred years ago 
 with today's moderns, isn't this more a matter of preference? Who 
 is to say what beauty of the future should be? Think back to the 
 outraged cries which first greeted our early ultramodern architec- 
 ture. How would Michelangelo feel about the superbly modern 
 design of your library at Abilene, General Ike? 
 
 You ask what has happened to our concept of beauty and de- 
 cency and morality. Nothing, really. Our standards seem to be 
 more functional and realistic with time. We know now it is not 
 necessary to put gargoyles at the corners of our buildings to 
 frighten away evil spirits. As for filth in literature, it has been with 
 us always. Today, the distribution system is better. Sadly, but 
 better. 
 
 And before we part. General Ike. One thing about your Abilene 
 statement worries me intensely. Do you mean to say that beauty 
 must be accompanied by decency and morality? Here's where we 
 
 113 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 do part. I'll go along with you on modern art, simply because I've 
 fallen behind. But beauty is another matter. If a truly beautiful 
 girl strolled through Lafayette Square buck naked, she could be 
 the most indecent and immoral creature on earth — ^but she'd still 
 be beautiful. 
 
 Meanwhile, back at the Frontier, the culture boom shows prom- 
 ise of putting across a long-needed project, construction of a na- 
 tional cultural center. The capital is well-endowed with art gal- 
 leries, but for years there has been a shameful lack of facilities for 
 proper mounting of fine drama and music. The only concert hall 
 worthy of such designation has been the uncomfortable audito- 
 rium owned by the Daughters of the American Revolution. 
 
 Along with enthusiasm generated by N.P. for the cultural cen- 
 ter have been excited suggestions of forming so-called state ballet 
 and opera companies, a magnificently subsidized symphony, and 
 scholarship grants for aspiring writers, artists, composers, and per- 
 formers. 
 
 Inspiring? Exciting? Badly needed encouragement and recogni- 
 tion of the performing arts? Yes, yes, yes. ° 
 
 But. 
 
 Again, to borrow a phrase from Edward R. Murrow, see it now. 
 See it clearly, patrons of the arts, and try to remember what Wash- 
 ington was like before the battle. 
 
 Conjure, if you will, a vision of a state ballet company director 
 testifying before the House appropriations subcommittee on cul- 
 ture. He is being questioned by Rep. John Rooney, Democrat of 
 New York, a noted anti-frill man. 
 
 rooney: You say your name is Sergei Deftoe? 
 DEFTOE:Yes, Mr. Rooney. I am director of the State Ballet 
 Company. 
 
 r: American citizen? 
 
 d: Of course, sir. 
 
 r: That name Sergei threw me. 
 
 114 
 
Is Culture Decent? 
 
 d: My name originally was Charles Mump, which I found 
 unsuitable for a career in the dahnce. 
 
 r: In the what? 
 
 d: In the dahnce. {Swaying sinuously at the witness table.) 
 
 r: Never mind, Charlie. 
 
 d: I was just showing — 
 
 r: I'd like to ask you about this item — 1 17,000 for ballet 
 slippers. Seems like a lot of slippers to me. 
 
 d: a prima ballerina might wear out as many as two or 
 three pairs of dancing slippers in a single performance. 
 
 r: What do these slippers cost us. Uncle Sam (his voice ris- 
 ing), the American taxpayer? (shouting by this time and a 
 little red-faced). What do these slippers cost the American 
 
 GOVERNMENT EVERY TIME A BALLERINA SCUFFS THEM? 
 
 d: I can hear quite well, Mr. Rooney. By buying them in 
 bulk, we get the slippers at a reduced rate — twenty-eight dol- 
 lars a pair, which i? dirt cheap. 
 
 R (shakes his head in what seems to be sorrow): Mr. Chair- 
 man, last week it was make-up kits for the state drama com- 
 pany. The week before, fifty thousand dollars' worth of new 
 violins for the state orchestra. And today, satin slippers for 
 toe-dancers. Surely Mr. Chairman, with people on relief, 
 school children in overcrowded classrooms and a shortage of 
 the latest rifles for some of our Army and Marine units over- 
 seas, I'll need a lot more convincing before voting seventeen 
 thousand dollars for ballet slippers. 
 
 Since the foregoing is entirely imaginary, the figures might be 
 off. But not the reaction of a seasoned money-watcher. In fact, if 
 confronted by a genuine request for ballet funds, Rooney's reac- 
 tion as approximated here would turn out to be quite an under- 
 statement. 
 
 And imagine what a West Virginia Senator would do with an 
 appropriation for violins. One does not have to think of the 
 
 115 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 entire speech; just his closing words: ". . . Not while thousands of 
 my people line up each week for unemployment compensation 
 and those miserable bags of surplus government foods." 
 
 A West Virginia Senator is not necessarily anti-culture, but in 
 addition to responsibility he may have for betterment of American 
 taste and knowledge, he also has to do something about bread 
 and potatoes for unemployed victims of automation in his own 
 state. 
 
 The prospect of a Solomon-like decision on bread or ballet does 
 not have to reach such a definitive point. Washington truly needs 
 a national cultural center; if for no other reason, to help correct 
 the impression in other world areas that we are a people entirely 
 interested in chrome-plated superficialities. 
 
 And were it not for possible impairment of the cultural center, 
 the N.P. excitement over helping art forms with tangible federal 
 encouragement would be commendable and do little harm on 
 Capitol Hill. This is a case where practicality must leaven vision. 
 The step-at-a-time approach is by far the better. A rural Congress- 
 man might be able to live with legislation to give creative artists, 
 performers, and athletes the right to spread their earnings from 
 peak years over some of the lean periods for tax purposes, or to 
 give composers a better cut of record royalties. 
 
 The rural lawmaker, and quite a few city fellers, too, would 
 have some frightful explaining to do back home if they voted 
 bucks for ballet. 
 
 116 
 
The Second Olio 
 
 The jargon of Washington is rather interesting at times, and 
 members of Congress are forever putting together little lexicons 
 which they mail to their constituents with "Ha-ha!" added in 
 italics after some of the nifties. 
 
 The Congressmen invariably shock their home readers by saying 
 SOB has two meanings, the customary one and the Washington 
 version, Senate Office Building. 
 
 They point out that "downtown" means any government de- 
 partment or agency, including the White House, where good Rep- 
 resentatives and Senators run frequent errands for their voters. 
 
 Washington does have a downtown, but Capitol Hill is not up- 
 town. It is merely "the Hill." People never say Capitol Hill in 
 conversation, only when they're writing about it. If Washington 
 has an uptown, people never refer to it that way although there 
 is an Uptown Theater on Connecticut Avenue. Instead of saying 
 we live uptown, we say northwest. And if you live in southeast, 
 it's just southeast and nothing can be done about it except move. 
 
 117 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 In print, members of Congress frequently are referred to as leg- 
 islators, lawmakers or solons. But these terms are never used con- 
 versationally around town except for sarcastic reasons. Members 
 of the House are simply members, Congressmen, or Representa- 
 tives. A Senator is a Senator. 
 
 Bureaucrat is another term that often turns up in print. Sen- 
 ator Stephen M. Young of Ohio, for example, says this means any 
 appointive official who makes more than $10,000 a year. A bureau- 
 crat, however, to the National Association of Manufacturers is 
 anyone eating at the public trough, I believe the phrase is. To the 
 American Medical Association, a bureaucrat is anybody in Wash- 
 ington who does not regularly and loudly denounce socialized 
 medicine. 
 
 Without trying to be particularly witty, although some bitter- 
 ness may creep in now and then, here are other rather conven- 
 tional words that have peculiar application in Washington. 
 
 Hardware: When used by military men, it means guns, tanks, 
 even missiles. 
 
 Aide-memoire: This is a diplomatic term taken from the 
 French, meaning memorandum. Most aides-memoire are essen- 
 tially snotty in that they politely accuse the other side of not know- 
 ing or forgetting the facts. 
 
 Agreement: In Washington it is pronounced "ah-gray-mon," 
 largely because the French seem to have started the entire busi- 
 ness of diplomacy. It means what it means to all Americans — agree- 
 ment. But in the Washington sense, between nations. 
 
 Boat: Something the President uses for cruising on the Potomac. 
 His boat by standards of any marina in the world would be classed 
 as a yacht. Ever since Eisenhower called Truman's yacht "a sym- 
 bol of needless luxury," Presidents have been calling their yachts 
 boats. 
 
 News conference: Same as press conference. News conference, 
 for some reason, is a colorless term, but used at the insistence of 
 radio and television people who boggle at the idea of giving the 
 
 118 
 
The Second Olio 
 
 printed word what they regard as free publicity. Thus we have 
 press secretaries announcing that government leaders will hold 
 news conferences. But just to keep the record confused, at NBC 
 they insist on calling it "the presidential news conference," but 
 they're mighty proud of a Sunday show called "Meet the Press." 
 
 Contribution: Slush fund. 
 
 Slush fund: Contribution (the difference being whether you're 
 talking about yours or theirs). 
 
 One million dollars: A minor item in your appropriation bill, 
 a mere pittance for those who deserve much more. 
 
 One million dollars: In their bill, another raid on the Treasury, 
 a flagrant example of squandering public funds. 
 
 Consultation: A sign of trouble for somebody. If an ambassador 
 is called home for consultation, he's either been kicking over the 
 traces or there is new international difficulty. An ambassador is 
 never called home for consultation if things are going well with 
 the country where he's stationed. 
 
 The Fed: Federal Reserve Board of Governors. 
 
 The Feds: U.S. government law enforcement officers. In pain- 
 ful instances, tax collectors. Sometimes known in more colloquial 
 circles by the singular term. The Man. 
 
 Farm: Yours. 
 
 Country estate: Theirs. 
 
 Luxurious country estate: Theirs, in an election year. 
 
 Lavish country estate: Gettysburg or Middleburg. 
 
 119 
 
CHAPTER NINE 
 
 Dialogue Can Be 
 Dirty Fun 
 
 As noted earlier, if there's one thing the N.P. do well and con- 
 stantly, it's talk. 
 
 And it seems only natural that one of their favorite words 
 would be "dialogue." Not something actors say to each other, but 
 an all-covering state of communication. 
 
 When J.F.K. and Big Business exchange snarls, he regrets the 
 tone of their dialogue. An economist speaks of the unsatisfactory 
 dialogue between labor and management. When a true N.P. takes 
 his boy to the baseball game, a ball-or-strike argument at the plate 
 between umpire and batter may lead to uneasiness in the child's 
 mind. 
 
 "The dialogue between those two men," says the youngster, 
 "seems less than friendly." 
 
 "They're attempting to reach a viable agreement within their 
 ethical framework," replies the father absently as he studies a 
 draft aide-memoire to Rawalpindi which he tucked into the base- 
 ball program. 
 
 121 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 Dialogue, in the New Frontier sense, does not always have to 
 be a spoken exchange. It may be merely exposition of stated posi- 
 tions or patterns of conduct. Salvoes in Pravda may constitute the 
 latest dialogue from the Kremlin, despite what the dictionary 
 says. Dialogue, in the N.P. reference, is dialectic, but as in many 
 other aspects of new zeal seeming to sweep Washington these days, 
 logic thereby contributed to the fund of public knowledge had 
 damned well better turn out pro-N.P. if it is to be at all acceptable. 
 
 Max Lincoln Schuster, the distinguished book publisher, said 
 in 1954 during the McCarthy era, "We are living in a time when 
 you can't collect your thoughts without being accused of unlawful 
 assembly." 
 
 The keenly perceptive and often-indignant journalist, Inez 
 Robb, in July, 1962, wrote of an apparently decent and concerned 
 young matron who came to see her with this complaint: 
 
 "Peace is a dirty word. Just say you are working for 'peace' and 
 everyone immediately assumes that you are a communist or a mem- 
 ber of some crumby communist-front organization . . . it's the 
 semantics that make it so difficult." 
 
 Schuster's cogent appraisal of 1954 would not apply to the N.F. 
 sixties, but there is somewhat of a link between the thought-guilt 
 ascribed to many by the late Senator from Wisconsin and the 
 semantic difficulty cited by Miss Robb's visitor in 1962. Any con- 
 nection between 1954 and 1962 may relate to zest displayed by the 
 N.P. in prosecuting their beliefs and those of their leaders; their 
 totality of dedication. 
 
 With engulfing dedication often comes abhorrence and rejection 
 of anything else. To suggest possible moderation of a tenet casts a 
 chill over the faithful. 
 
 There is, however, a great difference between the turgid dia- 
 logue of 1954 with its dreadful tones of frequently blind hate and 
 the yeasty semantics of the New People. If one can achieve spec- 
 tator detachment, some current dialogue is downright good fun. 
 
 122 
 
Dialogue Can Be Dirty Fun 
 
 There were few smiles in the situation to which Schuster referred, 
 but if one is not too umbilical about it today, there is refreshment, 
 as well as disquisition, to be found among the native hogans of 
 the N.P. 
 
 Also, occasional jarring and unsettlement. 
 
 For example, it was most disturbing one candle-lit evening to 
 hear a well-oriented charmer, her new Marienbad hair arrange- 
 ment gleaming sleekly in the well-bred light, say to her gentleman, 
 "If you utter one word more about Goldwater, you'll damned 
 well sleep in your tops and bottoms tonight." 
 
 A Frontiersman of recorded enthusiasm unsurpassed by most 
 save Kennedy blood relatives, swears to the authenticity of another 
 terrifying snippet of N.P. dialogue. His sample shows there are, 
 thankfully, sensible limits which he took with limited grace. 
 
 For weeks, this Frontiersman had squired a 36-25-34 member of 
 the N.F. Ladies Auxiliary, Unattached Division, from salon to 
 salon. With mind by Bennington and body by Debby Drake, she 
 aroused in him what he thought was the very best — literate lust. 
 
 One night at a highly acceptable In-party, they stood together 
 before a massive Georgetown breakfront gazing at rows of Gal- 
 braith, Schlesinger, and Kennedy bindings. The Frontiersman 
 arched his magnificently curried head toward hers and poured out 
 what he thought was the soft sibilance of an attentive swain. 
 
 Possibly emboldened by her fourth Castro Curse, a restorative 
 compounded of 151-proof rum, papaya juice, and a dash of Rose's 
 Lime, the young haughty tossed her four pounds of tawny hair 
 angrily. 
 
 "For God's sake, Harold," she said, "let's drop the dollar gap." 
 
 "Charlie, what's wrong?" he gasped, using the masculine dimin- 
 utive so popular that season. 
 
 "I'm sick of discourse, that's what," she replied. "Doesn't anyone 
 ever talk about intercourse any more?" 
 
 This passing night-sound could be twisted into a grossly unfair 
 
 123 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 generalization, which it is not intended to be. It was relayed to me 
 some days later by the shaken Frontiersman as he sat shuffling 
 cables from Saigon. 
 
 "Damn her," he cried, "and her intellectual emasculation." 
 
 He derived no comfort whatever from my suggestion that she 
 might be a sexually maladjusted traitor to the European Economic 
 Community. 
 
 The N.P. on occasion can be less than intellectual about the 
 dialogue of others. As we have mentioned, they seem to have a 
 high degree of sensitivity to criticism. Furthermore, they are as a 
 class exceedingly tender about jokes aimed at their class. Or, for 
 that matter, omnidirectional satire. 
 
 This is true to an extent of any political grouping. The barbs 
 are so gay when pointed the other direction. The N.P., however, 
 seem to bleed with unusual ease, which may be due in part to so 
 many of them having come to Washington from other than the 
 ward level of politics. 
 
 The Frontier and its leading figures inspired so many night-club 
 and television one-liners, gag bumper stickers, cartoon books, and 
 luncheon-table wisecracks that Newsweek in 1962 felt the situa- 
 tion justified a compendium of nasties aimed particularly at the 
 Kennedys. 
 
 J.F.K., according to the magazine, was being "subjected to a 
 torrent of adverse comment, quips, scorn and ridicule, much of it 
 witheringly personal. Not since the days of F.D.R. and the New 
 Deal had the level of attack on a President, his family, and his 
 policies seemed quite so heated; and like those days of the thirties, 
 much of the rancor was being generated in Wall Street." 
 
 The rancor of this dialogue depends, as all political measure- 
 ments must, largely on beliefs and dedication of the recipient. 
 
 Governor David Lawrence of Pennsylvania, a Democrat and a 
 veteran of such phases of political life, seemed to sum up the sit- 
 uation sensibly. He said, "The jokes are the price a President pays 
 for living in a democracy." 
 
 124 
 
Dialogue Can Be Dirty Fun 
 
 Governor Mark Hatfield of Oregon, a Republican, took an un- 
 expectedly dark attitude. "There is real concern about the swim- 
 ming pool stories, sipping champagne, and all that." 
 
 What were the two governors appraising? Such things as Mort 
 Sahl's theory that Caroline Kennedy may have masterminded the 
 Cuban invasion; traveling salesmen who hand out cards saying 
 "i MISS ike! Hell, I even miss Harry," and the profusion of Big 
 Brother-Little Brother cracks about the President and the Attor- 
 ney General. 
 
 The frequently liberal Reporter magazine observed: "There is 
 something quite engaging about these New Frontiersmen; they 
 are overactive and playful; they are dogmatic but their dogmatism 
 is relieved by the absence of dogmas. One must still have confi- 
 dence that someday they will learn how to move about more se- 
 dately, how to stop running around all the time, and how to talk 
 a little less. But when?" 
 
 The Wall Street Journal worried editorially about a current 
 "propensity to confuse words with action. President Eisenhower 
 could give the country eight years of peace if not tranquillity, and 
 of prosperity if not a millennium, yet seem a failure to men in aca- 
 demic halls and to public commentators because what he did was 
 difficult to articulate," said the Journal. "President Kennedy, on 
 the other hand, is suffering from too much articulation by his 
 friends and supporters." 
 
 Excessive articulation, if surplus there be, referred to by the 
 Wall Street Journal, relates back to what Newsweek felt was the 
 most severe ridicule directed at the White House since the New 
 Deal. The more the N.P. talk, the more they let themselves in for 
 shafting. 
 
 Political ridicule and comic satire consist chiefly of paraphrase 
 and exaggeration. The native habits of the Frontier people are 
 sufficient to attract much raucous comment quite aside from that 
 of purely political origin. Weren't they the very ones who called 
 Eisenhower "the best President since Truman"? Why, then, should 
 
 125 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 Frontiersmen bridle surprisedly when their man is tagged as the 
 best since Ike? 
 
 Partisan involvement has a way of beclouding history and this 
 may be part of the Frontier problem. Many N.P. may be too young 
 or too preoccupied with the present to have the comforting aware- 
 ness of history before January 20, 1961. 
 
 The previously mentioned totality of dedication makes for poor 
 winners, as well as poor losers. It may be oversimplification, but 
 the pain of a setback in Congress, for example, intensifies with 
 totality of belief or pureness of thought. The reality of roll-call 
 defeat rudely upsets the golden prospectus which shone so bril- 
 liantly from the pages of a State of the Union message. 
 
 Riding back from Mount Vernon aboard a torpedo boat, on 
 that soft spring night when Jacqueline had entertained on the 
 lawn for President Ayub Khan of Pakistan, a concerned Frontier 
 woman clutched my arm in charming alarm. 
 
 "I do hope," she said, "you won't say anything in your story 
 about the strolling violinists during dinner." 
 
 Why? 
 
 "Because it might seem a little too much on the lawn of Mount 
 Vernon." 
 
 While I attempted to assimilate this wisdom, my eyes wandered 
 over the procession of yachts and naval craft bearing the hand- 
 some and beautiful guests back upriver while small ensembles 
 played dance tunes on each boat. 
 
 Personally, I thought Mrs. Kennedy's idea of having a state din- 
 ner against the beautiful, historic setting of George Washington's 
 home was outstandingly good. Why one of her more devoted sup- 
 porters would fear publicity about strolling violinists escaped me. 
 After all, the same musicians had been in well-reported evidence 
 at similar affairs within the White House. 
 
 "Outdoors," she reasoned, "it might seem too opulent." 
 
 Possibly to my detriment in certain sections of the Frontier, the 
 
 126 
 
Dialogue Can Be Dirty Fun 
 
 violins were reported and somehow the Administration remained 
 relatively unshaken. 
 
 It was, however, only a few nights later that a comedian on tele- 
 vision suggested Jacqueline's next party would be held at the top 
 of the Washington Monument with Lester Lanin circling in a 
 blimp. 
 
 On another occasion, I heard a robust Frontiersman denounce 
 what I had thought was a notably fair critique of a J-F.K. speech. 
 The article was written by a columnist usually well disposed to 
 the N.F., but the Frontiersman objected strenuously to the writer's 
 inclusion of "on the other hand" material outlining the position 
 of leading opposition Senators. 
 
 "There are times," said the Frontiersman, "when I don't think 
 that man [the columnist] is really for us." 
 
 I thought back to an earlier experience with practicing poli- 
 ticians. 
 
 It was in 1937 and the brilliantly colorful governor of Georgia, 
 the late Gene Talmadge, set out from Atlanta on a speaking tour 
 of the northern counties where the countrymen, known as "wool 
 hat boys" were as totally dedicated as any Frontiersman of today. 
 
 At the time, I was a most junior reporter for United Press and 
 went along excitedly to cover the great Gene's woodsy campaign- 
 ing. I was given a seat in an automobile driven by a state trooper, 
 and seated beside him was the spreading wife of a leading Tal- 
 madge official. 
 
 Considerately, the lady engaged in polite conversation and asked 
 where I was from. She nodded approvingly when I said I hailed 
 from Savannah, but she was unclear as to the status of my em- 
 ployers. I tried to explain that I worked for a press association 
 which served a great many newspapers. She wanted to know the 
 U.P. editorial policy and I explained that, serving clients of highly 
 varied political convictions, we attempted to stand clear of any- 
 thing resembling political opinion. 
 
 127 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 "Tell me, son," she asked, "are you for us or against us?" 
 
 "Neither one," I replied. "Professionally, it is no concern of 
 mine who occupies the state house." 
 
 "Then you must be against us," she said sternly. "Trooper, stop 
 the car. We're not hauling any enemy of Gene Talmadge." 
 
 Whereupon, with some encouragement, I alighted from the car 
 to a deserted rural highway, but managed a few hours later to 
 thumb my way to the governor's rally. 
 
 A few months before this book was completed, the wife of a 
 Cabinet officer said, "This summer, I hope you correspondents 
 won't make so much over the President spending his weekends in 
 Hyannis — you make it sound so much like Eisenhower." 
 
 Unable to define "so much," I asked for further guidance. 
 
 "You know what I mean," she said, "making it appear that he's 
 never in Washington." 
 
 Here is a classic example of supersensitivity. For five days a 
 week, the newspapers and networks pour out hundreds of thou- 
 sands of words about J.F.K. activities in the White House. But the 
 Frontier faithful become apprehensive about a few paragraphs 
 over the weekend. To keep this part of the record straight, how- 
 ever, J.F.K. is not nearly as apprehensive about this type of thing 
 as some of his followers. 
 
 What struck me as utterly strange about the fear of the Cabinet 
 wife was that her protective emotion was so limited. I mentioned 
 that a recent Saturday Evening Post article about New Frontier 
 women had contained dialogue by the good ladies concerning the 
 delightful pleasure of riding to Cape Cod each weekend on the 
 so-called "back-up" Air Force jet which accompanies most presi- 
 dential movements. This is a plane sent along to haul heavier 
 baggage and overflow personnel, but primarily to provide a dupli- 
 cate ship in event of mechanical trouble aboard Air Force One. 
 
 The article quoted the wife of one White House official about 
 the convenience of reaching her own Cape Cod house, thanks to 
 J.F.K., and the joshing that went on among the girls about whose 
 
 128 
 
Dialogue Can Be Dirty Fun 
 
 turn it was to sit in the President's chair (the one he would use if 
 he found occasion to fly aboard the spare plane). 
 
 The Cabinet wife saw no analogy or connection. 
 
 "The plane is going up there anyway," she said. "Why shouldn't 
 people ride on it?" 
 
 "You were speaking, however, of possible adverse publicity." 
 
 "The girls, however, are doing nothing to make it appear that 
 the President is away too much," she maintained steadily. "The 
 newspapers do that." 
 
 Perhaps the quotations in the Saturday Evening Post came 
 more closely to the point of Reporter's recommendation that the 
 Frontier people learn "how to stop running around all the time 
 and how to talk a little less." 
 
 To jest about the N.F. dialogue should not be taken as across- 
 the-board disapproval or generalized negation. Washington today 
 is a far more interesting, exciting community because of the dia- 
 logue. 
 
 The articulation which causes trouble for the N.F. is largely 
 idealistic and thus, easy to shoot at. Brave goals are big targets. 
 
 Frontiersmen might be advised to regard some of the satire and 
 sarcasm aimed in their direction as plus marks. Intensity of public 
 reaction to policies and practices of national leaders is more than 
 an indication of political adherence, but of badly needed interest 
 in current events. Lampooning, as well as imitation, is a form of 
 flattery. Hatred can be as much a barometer of political success 
 as adulation. 
 
 129 
 
CHAPTER TEN 
 
 How to Use an 
 Ethnic Estoppel 
 
 After examining some of the seriocomic aspects of N.P. dialogue, 
 it is only appropriate that several companionate points be made. 
 
 The O.P. have their dialogue, too. These days, as one might 
 expect, it is largely defensive. It is possible to guard against inside 
 cultural and political nuances of N.P. conversation, and still 
 emerge socially intact, politically inviolate and, with any acuity, 
 an occasional victor. We'll offer handy hints for survival as we go 
 along. 
 
 Mrs. Mesta, I thought, handled the problem exceedingly well in 
 a recent interview with a Philadelphia society columnist. Such 
 people tend to be a bit scratchy at times. Although it was 1962, 
 this Philadelphia person expectedly dredged up the fact that Mrs. 
 Mesta had supported Nixon in 1960, the implication being that 
 Perle perforce now stood Outside in spite of having sold her house 
 to L.B.J. 
 
 Mrs. Mesta regarded the snide aside magnificently, as though 
 she'd never heard of 1960. 
 
 131 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 "I hope to fly to French Equatorial Africa for Albert Schweit- 
 zer's birthday," she said with stunning simplicity. 
 
 While the conversation did take place in Philadelphia, it showed 
 Mrs. Mesta was not about to be put down. That, friends, is de- 
 fense. 
 
 Examination of N.P. dialogue also should take into considera- 
 tion a conversational phenomenon which is truly a product of the 
 Good New Days, beginning under Truman. It is the television 
 panel show. For the networks, this sort of program is gratifyingly 
 economical to produce. It also serves somewhat as an antidote for 
 Newton Minow. More importantly, it gives leading government, 
 political, and diplomatic figures a chance to talk, though labored 
 at times, nervous at others. 
 
 Conversational conduct on a Washington TV panel can be of 
 crucial importance for a public figure, and later we will attempt 
 to point out certain pitfalls and how to avoid them. 
 
 But first, let us concern ourselves with a program of intellectual 
 muscle building which might be useful in any N.P. forum. 
 
 New People have an identifying symptom in their dialogue, 
 particularly when O.P. or outlanders in general are within ear- 
 shot. You can hear them at dinner, at cocktail parties and at their 
 little dances, complaining about the lack of true meaning in life 
 — -the lives of others. Particularly, they deplore the proper or de- 
 sired depth of meaning in virtually all forms of communication — 
 face-to-face, printed, or broadcast. 
 
 In essence, this is a form of intellectual hostility more than 
 snobbery. An N.P. dinner companion will shell hell out of an Out 
 or O.P. with volleys of obscure references to strange authorities, 
 little-known dialects, out-of-the-way places, and writings so cur- 
 rent that they've not yet gone to press (the N.P. may be working 
 from page proof). 
 
 In such an N.P. ploy, the object of the ployer is to put the ployed 
 in his place, namely, Stupidville. Or, perhaps, Oldtown. 
 
 But don't go, O.P. Refuse to be pushed. Ploy right back. The 
 
 132 
 
How to Use an Ethnic Estoppel 
 
 defense at this point may be varied. The ethnic estoppel can be 
 grand fun and destructive, too. Witness: 
 
 N.P.: It seems a shame, sir, that a firm as large as yours has 
 not seen fit to liberalize employment policies and get away 
 from a wasteful attitude toward certain nationalities and 
 racial groups. 
 
 O.P.: No firm in America employs more Scandinavians than 
 we do. Your attitude, quite frankly, is shocking — what have 
 you got against Swedes? 
 
 (The idea is to counterattack when employing the ethnic 
 estoppel. If counterattack is impossible, change directions. 
 This is known to some as the social swivel.) 
 
 N.P.: Will we be seeing you at the Clark Cliffords' next 
 week? 
 
 O.P.: Oh, drat Clark and Marny. They insist on having their 
 summer tent party at a time when they know perfectly well 
 Evan and I are in Rhodesia with the dogs. They're Ridge- 
 backs, you know, and we try to see that they get back to Rho- 
 desia at least once a summer. 
 
 The swivel has many variations, commendable when employed 
 with thought and verve — and always with a crushing topper, or 
 abject underplay. Two examples: 
 
 The hard-to-disprove topper: 
 
 N.P.: You and Denise going to the Cape this summer? 
 O.P.: Not on your life — not while Robert Frost is in town. 
 
 The N.P. doesn't follow through because he can't possibly tell 
 whether "in town" means Washington or elsewhere. He's not going 
 to be so naive as to ask, either. 
 
 The abject underplay: 
 
 N.P.: ... at least, that's what I told the Secretary the other 
 day. Bob McNamara. You know him, of course?" 
 
 133 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 O.P.: No, I couldn't say I really know him — he's only been 
 at our house a couple of times. . . . 
 
 The abject underplay is helped no end by the tactical trail-off 
 which leaves much unsaid, but clearly understood. 
 
 We examine next the literary whipping. This is a most common 
 form of N.P. tyranny, used against not only O.P., but N.P. of lesser 
 station, particularly when they display disturbing symptoms of 
 equality. The N.P. technique is to make the subject appear to be 
 hopelessly ignorant of current literature. 
 
 A conversation may go like this: 
 
 N.P.: Did you read the text of Nehru's speech at Lahore? 
 
 O.P.: No, I'm afraid I've been too busy lately — when was it? 
 
 N.P.: Two years ago, and I don't see how anyone can discuss 
 Asia intelligently today without having virtually committed 
 the Lahore speech to memory. 
 
 Clearly, the O.P. deserved to be crushed in this manner. It was 
 unforgivably fumble-foot on three points: admitting not having 
 read the speech, professing to have been "too busy"; and worst of 
 all, asking when it was delivered. 
 
 A thinking O.P. could have handled it several ways — "I'll be a 
 bit more sympathetic to Nehru when he stands up to Krishna 
 Menon," or "I prefer to read Nehru in Hindi, which an uncle in 
 Bombay posts to me every so often." 
 
 The N.P. are forever asking if one has read something. Since 
 it is impossible to avoid this trait in Washington without moving 
 almost entirely with Ev and Charlie, it is better to face up to at- 
 tempted literary whipping — and whip back. 
 
 N.P.: Did you read Lippmann this morning? 
 
 O.P.: Oh, is Walter back? 
 
 N.P.: Where's he been? 
 
 o.p.:I shouldn't have mentioned it, I suppose. He may not 
 want it known. I'll give him a call tomorrow. Gladys is so 
 sweet, isn't she? 
 
 134 
 
How to Use an Ethnic Estoppel 
 
 No N.P. worth his hfetime subscription to Lampoon is going to 
 bite for that. Gladys Lippmann? Gladys who? The wise N.P. will 
 say something about thinking the world of both of them and pass 
 on to another area of empiricality. 
 
 The best anti-N.P. weapon is N.P. dialogue itself, when shifted 
 deftly into reverse. 
 
 N.P.: Did you read Lippmann this morning? 
 O.P.: You know something? I've been a little disturbed by 
 Walter recently. At times, he's seemed so superficial. 
 
 If it develops, as it sometimes does, that the N.P. roars back ii. 
 outrage, one must pick and choose the next defensive move rather 
 carefully. 
 
 N.P.: Lippmann superficial? You're certainly in a minority. 
 
 Here, one uses all known techniques at once, including the 
 abject underplay, ethnic estoppel, social swivel and crushing 
 topper, if possible. In simpler terms, change directions and leap 
 from your hole while scattering dust and rocks in all directions. 
 
 O.P.: Oh, I'm in a minority, all right, but I am a little sur- 
 prised to hear a self-styled liberal use the word epithetically. 
 Yes (sadly) I'm in a minority — I think Walter hasn't done his 
 homework on the Billie Sol Estes case and I told him so just 
 before he went away. 
 
 The switch in directions should be remembered at all times. 
 Nothing seems to annoy an N.P. more, possibly because he uses the 
 same technique when sorely pressed. This can be regarded for 
 labeling purposes as the power-packed negative. For example: 
 
 N.P.: I assume you saw Claiborne Pell's statement on gold? 
 O.P.: No, but did you read Steinbloch's fascinating letter to 
 the Post Dispatch* on the same subject? 
 
 This is rather cruel since the N.P. must confess ignorance or 
 ignore the entire matter. He has no more clue than the O.P. to 
 
 * The St. Louis Post Dispatch. 
 
 135 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 the identity of Steinbloch, but a name of this sort sounds as though 
 it should be known. A proper N.P., faced with a possible contre- 
 temps, will do one of two things: paraphrase the Pell statement 
 sufficiently for the O.P. to grab, as they say in Georgetown, a-hold; 
 or cite another obscure letter to an editor, preferably one of foreign 
 imprimatur. 
 
 There are innumerable conversation base-changing sentences 
 which may be employed defensively by O.P. without regard for 
 specific subject of the dialogue in progress. These may be used as 
 grabbers, interrupters, or confusers when the hour and condition 
 of the opposition are favorable. The base-changing sentence 
 should be leaden, falling as a heavy weight on the dialogue under- 
 way and leaving little, if any, excuse or opportunity for rejoinder. 
 The following examples are in no way related to each other, 
 having been speared independently from recent nocturnal jousts 
 about the city: 
 
 "Poor thing." (This can be mumbled at any time.) 
 
 "The one I feel sorry for is her." (Also good for disconnected 
 mumbling. Emphasis is so important in a sentence of this nature. 
 Should the N.P. press for details or clarification, the O.P. has but 
 to say softly, "No, no, I'll 7iot add to her troubles.") 
 
 "Isn't it wonderful about Barry Goldwater's daughter and the 
 Peace Corps? He's so happy." (This is a grabber rather than a con- 
 fuser. The O.P. should beware of being urged to extend his re- 
 marks. Keep shifting subjects until the other side hits on one 
 which the O.P. can handle easily.) 
 
 N.P. (Somewhat angrily): I'd like to know what he's got to 
 be happy about. His own children .... 
 
 O.P.: I hear several Jews have been playing tennis at Chevy 
 Chase. Have you seen any there? 
 
 The foregoing, of course, is a wildly thrown ethnic estoppel, 
 but in certain N.P. settings it has a fairish chance of hitting home. 
 After all, some of them do play tennis and at Chevy Chase. The 
 N.P. we mean. 
 
 136 
 
How to Use an Ethnic Estoppel 
 
 Other handy O.P. shafts currently apt might include: 
 
 "Tell me, Mr. Secretary, how many Negro ambassadors do we 
 have?" 
 
 "Why is it the President seems so dead set against having a 
 woman in his Cabinet?" 
 
 "I'm surprised so many people at the Labor Department drive 
 foreign automobiles." 
 
 Handy hints for O.P. in conversing socially with N.P. may seem 
 a bit churlish, but no more than called for in disquisitive times. 
 The dialogue of Washington today, however, need not be regarded 
 entirely as a matter of jabs and counterthrusts. Eclecticism can be 
 fun. 
 
 Or so it would seem on Sunday afternoons when members of 
 the Cabinet, Congress and the diplomatic corps fight to be inter- 
 viewed on television by panels ranging from seasoned correspon- 
 dents to squeak-voiced teen-agers whose knowledge of internal 
 politics in the Republic of Chad or highly technical aspects of the 
 Upper Volta Dam can be discouraging. 
 
 Some less-than-nimble officials are fools to appear on these 
 shows, particularly at times when their departments or areas of 
 influence have been under attack. They have no way of controlling 
 the questions and as a consequence, sometimes leave the air egg- 
 on-face. 
 
 Broadcast interviewees unfortunately at times, and usually in 
 partisan energy, try to control or shape the questioning. Then 
 they're in for real trouble. 
 
 Ray Scherer of NBC and I once joined Ned Brooks in a weekly 
 radio network confection called "Report from the White House." 
 The three of us divided fifteen minutes in viewing the local situa- 
 tion, then devoted the last half of the program to a theoretically ad 
 lib interview with a prominent government figure. 
 
 The program had jogged along rather well for several weeks 
 until we encountered Ezra Taft Benson, Secretary of Agricul- 
 ture under Eisenhower. 
 
 Benson arrived only a few minutes before air time with wife, 
 
 137 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 daughter, and administrative assistant. As the Secretary seated 
 himself at our broadcast table, the assistant distributed to Scherer, 
 Brooks, and me mimeographed copies of our questions plus Ben- 
 son's answers. Furthermore, the Benson script ran far longer than 
 the ten minutes we had allotted that night. 
 
 The producer bordered on collapse as Benson's assistant whis- 
 pered something to the effect of "No script, no interview." During 
 a commercial before we came to the Secretary, we were able to dis- 
 cuss the situation. Benson was adamant, but willing to accept a 
 few changes in actual language to make the show seem more 
 chatty. 
 
 I went to the water cooler with Brooks and we decided to use 
 the first question, then forget the script. Scherer was advised some- 
 how. The first question opened swimmingly with Benson pro- 
 fessing surprised gratitude at being offered such a fine inquiry, and 
 proceeded to answer. 
 
 Brooks had the next question, and when it failed to follow 
 script there was a gasp from the assistant. The Secretary leafed 
 madly through his script and, not finding the item, proceeded to 
 answer in halting fashion. The rest of the interview hobbled along 
 in this manner and when we left the air, Benson seemed to require 
 all of his powers of charity to depart the premises with civility. 
 
 This would not happen today on television — or radio — mainly 
 because Washington air interviews have become more often than 
 not a seller's market. There are, to be sure, some officials hard to 
 sign for broadcast inquisition. The major interview shows such as 
 "Meet the Press" have no trouble, however, in attracting subjects 
 — or interviewers. 
 
 Several bits of advice are offered to the N.P. official new to this 
 sort of public exposure. 
 
 One, don't drink at Sunday lunch. A few nips of sherry before 
 being thrown to Lawrence Spivak, Jack Bell, May Craig and simi- 
 larly jolly citizens may be nerve-settling, but in no case should 
 it be overdone. The make-up has yet to be invented to disguise 
 
 138 
 
How to Use an Ethnic Estoppel 
 
 separately focused eyes. The author speaks with a small measure of 
 sad experience. 
 
 Two, arm to the teeth with figures. The panel will have figures, 
 too, which its members will have to read. Yours should be com- 
 mitted to memory and need not bear too accurately on the point 
 under discussion. This is base-changing and is regarded as entirely 
 fair on Sunday afternoon, although it may leave the panelists 
 grumbly. 
 
 If, for example, Stewart Hensley mentions in a question that 
 A.I.D. figures for Vietnam show only "a million two" — capitalese 
 for $1,200,000 — in the last quarter, the harried official should hurl 
 back as "far more to the point" A.I.D. figures for all of Southeast 
 Asia for the preceding fiscal year, referring to "FY 62," which 
 won't impress the panel, but will give the home viewer a feeling 
 of comfortable confusion. 
 
 Sunday afternoon TV victims also should practice Old World 
 courtesy (or abject underplay), which will be needed when con- 
 fronted by some of the ladies — Mrs. Craig, Doris Fleeson, Mari- 
 anne Means, to name a few. Kindly, attentive, lovely — off-camera. 
 But the subject should remember, these ladies invented the jour- 
 nalistic blowgun. 
 
 In the alleys and rest homes of politics and diplomacy lie mis- 
 shapen hulks of men, quivering from effects of curare darts admin- 
 istered by ladies on Sunday afternoon television. They are the 
 high priestesses of a cult, members of which start the questioning 
 with, "Do you seriously expect us to believe . . ." 
 
 Mrs. Craig is notably adept at slings which begin, "With mil- 
 lions starving, you still believe an expenditure of this sort . . ." 
 
 Their needles are sharp, slender, and expertly administered. So 
 expertly, in fact, that target victims sometimes make it home be- 
 fore slumping flush-faced beside the telephone to hear a colleague 
 inquiring solicitously, "Have you lost your mind, going for a 
 question like that thirty seconds before you left the air?" 
 
 Each network has its own version. On ABC, two men do the 
 
 139 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 questioning; on CBS, one. The mano a mano format is better for 
 the interviewed since he has a chance, however slim, to state his 
 case without being interrupted or called to account by four in- 
 quisitors. On the other hand, the head-to-head show lacks audience 
 appeal of the larger slaughter. Seated before our silver screens, 
 there's a goodly bit of the old Roman left in many of us. 
 
 An interesting aspect of Sunday afternoon dialogue is that it 
 offers O.P. personalities, when invited to appear, a more free- 
 wheeling opportunity than a Frontiersman can afford under the 
 weight of his responsibilities. 
 
 An Out may make all sorts of outrageous charges against the Ins 
 and demand that opposite numbers face him in mortal combat 
 before the same cameras. An Out may say to the panel, "I realize 
 many of you ladies and gentlemen are pro-Administration, 
 but . . ." 
 
 If Miss Fleeson then fires harpoon No. One, assume whatever 
 courtliness possible; never reply in kind, and shift immediately 
 into excessive blandishment, such as, "I didn't say all, Miss Flee- 
 son, but many . . ." 
 
 The F.C.C. has yet to lump them with objectionable murder 
 shows, but the Sunday youth question-and-answer periods provide 
 the real blood baths of sociopolitical television. Those innocent 
 little girls in starched cotton and well-scrubbed lads with cowlicks 
 — -they're the real monsters. On such outings as "College Press 
 Conference" and "Youth Wants to Know," panelists come by the 
 dozen, each bursting to know such things as why the Senator took 
 his secretary to Africa. 
 
 Depending on politics and position of the interview subject, 
 these youth-monsters apparently are recruited from schools for 
 anarchy. They tend to be pro-Frontier when confronted by Re- 
 publicans, and Nixon relatives when assembled before a Demo- 
 crat. 
 
 The only sound advice here is avoidance. Cabinet-level N.P. 
 cannot escape youth shows entirely, but when shackled and led 
 
 140 
 
How to Use an Ethnic Estoppel 
 
 before their scowhng faces, a small vial of chloroform concealed in 
 the handkerchief is recommended. 
 
 Meantime, patience. Conceivably there may come a time in 
 Washington, a pleasant Sunday afternoon, when a towering figure 
 of either In or Out connections stares glumly at the television 
 panel and rises slowly from his chair. 
 
 "Bums, the whole lot of you," he'll shout. "Ignorant bums." 
 
 And walk slowly off-camera ten minutes before the closing com- 
 mercial. 
 
 Of course, he will have ruined himself on that particular show. 
 But he'll be big in the morning papers, a hero at home, and a 
 tragic figure at the office. Also, he will have contributed something 
 new to the dialogue of our city. 
 
 141 
 
CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 
 O Little Town of 
 Middleburg 
 
 The New People, as they move worshipfully behind their political 
 and/or intellectual leaders (sometimes there is a difference), tend 
 to identify with more than political theories, literary preferences, 
 dress fashions and hair-styling. They have their Meccas — places 
 where the Leader sleeps or slept, bathes or bathed, golfs or golfed. 
 
 A Mecca may be so situated that followers camp in the country- 
 side to breathe the same heavenly air. It may have a shoreline 
 sufficiently long to accommodate vast assemblies of baptismees. 
 And at times, a Mecca may be nothing more than a way of life to 
 be emulated, imitated, or at least approximated. 
 
 This is the lemming outlook of many political disciples and in 
 truth, not confined to N.P. The O.P. had their Meccas, too. 
 
 Hyde Park, New York, was a Mecca. So, of a sort, was Independ- 
 ence, Missouri, and Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. The common de- 
 nominator was home location of the reigning President. 
 
 To have been invited inside one of the three aforementioned 
 shrines while the Leader was in residence was a source of wild 
 
 143 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 happiness to the devoted. To spend a night beneath the same roof, 
 wild, wild happiness. To say nothing of acceptance beyond dis- 
 pute. 
 
 The Roosevelt house at Hyde Park, by Mecca standards, was 
 spacious, graciously but not ornately furnished, and occupied by 
 a family that liked company. The Truman home at Independence 
 was small, the family somewhat more self-contained than the 
 Roosevelts and, as a consequence, few overnight guests outside of 
 blood relatives. 
 
 The Eisenhower house at Gettysburg also was no adult hostel 
 for passing Republican Crusaders. Maybe a cookout, but not a 
 sleep-over. Mrs. Eisenhower detested having the place cluttered 
 with the unanointed. She was perfectly agreeable to having all 
 sorts of folks in the yard, but not in the house, which is under- 
 standable if one has a highly developed sense of order. 
 
 The interior of the Gettysburg house was and presumably still 
 is well-ordered. It's the sort of house in which silver ash trays still 
 gleam in their original shellac. The living room is best described 
 as an intimate museum. An errant bobby pin on the light wall-to- 
 wall rug would cry out for immediate retrieval on, at the very 
 least, a brightly burnished copper dustpan bearing a small medal- 
 lion proclaiming its origin, "presented by the grateful Young Re- 
 publicans of Indiana." In fact, there are similar small medallions 
 or silver plates attached to much of the furniture and furnishings. 
 The living room derives its museum quality from these and several 
 large glass-front cabinets in which repose tastefully lighted bric-a- 
 brac and odd-lot treasures (rare china birds from the Queen of 
 England) acquired from social equals and fellow leaders such as 
 Churchill, de Gaulle, and those boys. 
 
 Mamie Eisenhower felt strongly against having her spotless 
 home tracked and soiled by political shoes. And her feelings 
 should be understandable, considering the years she spent in Army 
 quarters, borrowed palaces and their limited privacy. She opened 
 
 144 
 
O Little Town of Middleburg 
 
 the grounds periodically to lavish picnics for the White House 
 staff (at least every staffer including the maids and messengers got 
 at least one visit to the grounds during the Eisenhower Adminis- 
 tration, along with a conducted tour of the lower floors of the 
 house where little plastic runners saved the carpets from footmarks 
 in the living and dining rooms). There were several larger affairs 
 for party workers, but these were confined for the most part to a 
 convenient pasture where tents were pitched. 
 
 In short, Mrs. Eisenhower wanted the Gettysburg house kept as 
 nongovernmental and nonpolitical as possible. This, of course, ap- 
 plied only to guests. She delighted in federally supplied domestic 
 help when she and her husband were White House occupants, as 
 any housewife would under the same circumstances. There was 
 nothing shrewish about her downhold on guests at Gettysburg. 
 It resembled separation of church and state. When D.D.E. wanted 
 to have official or business guests, there was Camp David, com- 
 pletely owned and operated by the government in the Maryland 
 mountains, easily available by helicopter or car and a constant 
 clutch of Filipino Navy mess stewards and U.S. Marines to keep 
 the place tidy. Camp David also can handle thirty or forty guests 
 at a clip, although they do have to sleep around in little low-roofed 
 bungalows scattered through the heavily guarded woods. 
 
 The Mecca aspect of Gettysburg was at first difficult to differ- 
 entiate from outright tourism. Gettysburg and its hallowed battle- 
 field always attracted visitors. Location of the Eisenhower estab- 
 lishment at the edge of Seminary Ridge brought even larger 
 crowds; but more important from the standpoint of this particu- 
 lar study, it made country living The Thing among those Repub- 
 licans who could afford it. 
 
 As a man of influence with D.D.E., the position of George Allen 
 was towering. Quite aside from George's brilliant job of com- 
 panionship with other Presidents, he was, after all, the man who 
 more or less founded Gettysburg for the Eisenhowers. George had 
 
 145 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 his property there first. He sold Mamie on the locale and she in 
 turn assured her husband it was the ideal spot for their long- 
 awaited home. 
 
 This left George in an understandably enviable position. Not a 
 soul could accuse him of trailing to Gettysburg behind Ike. It was 
 the other way around, and by every current standard of Washing- 
 ton status this was the highest. Other D.D.E. Crusaders couldn't go 
 dashing around Ike's acreage trying to snap up similar places. This 
 would have been obvious, and perhaps more telling; his arrival 
 shot up land prices terribly. 
 
 But there were other sections of nearby Maryland and Virginia 
 open to Republican colonization and as this took place on the 
 Cabinet and agency-head level, quiet cattle raising became about 
 as In as golf. It became incumbent on Mecca travelers to be as 
 knowledgeable about desired straightness of a Black Angus back- 
 bone as whether the 16th at Burning Tree was dogleg to the right 
 or left. 
 
 It may be roundabout narration to discuss Gettysburg at such 
 length before coming to Middleburg, Virginia, but this sort of 
 sketching may be helpful in appreciating the successor Mecca. 
 
 Although they had several other homes between them, the Ken- 
 nedys selected Middleburg as their personal redoubt for several 
 reasons. One: Middleburg is the epicenter of the horse world, well- 
 bred jumper section. And Mrs. Kennedy from early childhood has 
 been as devoted to riding as Eisenhower was to golf. 
 
 The N.P. who thought so poorly of the Eisenhowers for con- 
 stantly escaping to Gettysburg see nothing wrong when Jackie 
 borrows the helicopter several times a week to ride to the hounds 
 in Middleburg. 
 
 For all of their One Worldism, the N.P. relate more comfortably 
 to practices and pursuits of transatlantic origin, particularly Brit- 
 ish and Irish. This may account for their complete acceptance of 
 the Virginia hunt country as a location for the weekend White 
 House. 
 
 146 
 
O Little Town of Middleburg 
 
 A second reason for Middleburg: nearness to Washington. 
 
 Then there is the factor of seclusion. This apparently meant 
 much more to J.F.K. than riding, which he doesn't do. 
 
 To appreciate the almost total dedication of Middleburg and 
 the surrounding counties of rolling Virginia countryside to horse 
 and horsemanship requires study and time. The people are en- 
 tirely too polite to make much over the President's not being a 
 rider, just as they speak only under most guarded conditions about 
 his renting his estate. Glen Ora, instead of owning property there- 
 abouts. This tolerance, of course, is largely a matter of recognizing 
 presidential license.* The people of Middleburg would be much 
 happier, however, if Mr. Kennedy had acquired his bum back in 
 a riding accident instead of the Solomon Islands. 
 
 Mr. Kennedy is accepted in Middleburg not only because of his 
 line of work, but because his wife is a superb rider. She rides in 
 fox hunts with such slashing verve that she falls occasionally at 
 the jumps. Now and then, her spills get into the newspapers. This 
 offends the country hunters as much or more than the First Lady, 
 because her antipathy for counter-image publicity is far surpassed 
 by their morbidity on the same subject. 
 
 The hunt country people regard themselves as above the clammy 
 clasp of public prints. They accept primly written horse-show 
 notices, but when it comes to what they regard as popular exploi- 
 tation, they speak darkly of "doing things" to those responsible. 
 "Doing things" may consist, for example, of refusing to read a 
 certain newspaper and in this they have the heartfelt support of 
 N.P. everywhere; or it may be nothing more than cocktail party 
 castigation of one of their fellows seen in the presence of a scriv- 
 ener. 
 
 The President's custom for several of the more agreeable months 
 of the year is to journey by helicopter to Middleburg Saturday, 
 buzzing back to the south grounds of the White House bright 
 
 * As this was written, the Kennedys had subleased Glen Ora for a few 
 months during which to scout for another place nearby. 
 
 147 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 and early Monday. During the fall and spring hunting seasons, 
 Mrs. Kennedy may stay down in Middleburg all week unless her 
 presence is required at the White House by a state dinner or the 
 discovery of John Quincy Adams' wig stand. 
 
 Mrs. Kennedy rides a great deal and hauls Caroline around to 
 various pony shows in which the younger Kennedy is entered. At 
 this writing, John, Jr., not yet having reached the age of two, still 
 was unsteady in the saddle. At this point in his career, he seemed 
 relatively happy about being led around a small enclosure on a 
 docile pony. He was able to say "horsie," but still was having 
 trouble with "Dean Rusk." 
 
 When the Kennedys first established Glen Ora as a primary out- 
 post on the New Frontier, the locals gathered beside their mud- 
 spattered Landrovers parked in front of the Red Fox Tavern and 
 shook their leather-patched elbows in fine F.F.V.* indignation. 
 
 With the Kennedys were bound to come "the press" and all 
 manner of tourists, vendors selling Jack and Jackie dinner plates 
 on which the portraits appear to be done by the same men who 
 paint carnival sideshow banners, and miserable little stands of 
 souvenirs — foxtails from Japan, tiny plastic hunting horns, and 
 probably those awful postcards providing spaces in which to check 
 one's sobriety, state of sexual happiness and number of states 
 visited. 
 
 Vows that this would not happen proved unnecessary. Save for 
 the first Kennedy weekend, the only press who showed up on fol- 
 lowing presidential visits were duty-bound servants of the two 
 press associations who disappeared quietly among the early Amer- 
 ican pine furniture, canopied beds and pewter plates of the Red 
 Fox. 
 
 Middleburg wanted so much to remain Middleburg, a sleepy 
 little trade center of about 600 population. The thought of new 
 arrivals was most distasteful at first. Then, when there were no 
 
 * F.F.V.: First Families of Virginia, or reasonable facsimile thereof. 
 
 148 
 
O Little Town of Middleburg 
 
 new arrivals to speak of, the country hunters returned uneasily to 
 their only other subject of conversation — horses. 
 
 The dominance of the horse in this section of Virginia is diffi- 
 cult to exaggerate. The village has two drug stores, one primarily 
 for humans. The other features remedies and sundries for horses 
 at a large counter just inside the door. There is an entire shelf of 
 stuff for tired fetlocks, the sight of which can be unnerving to the 
 outlander shopping for a tin of aspirins. 
 
 The horsier drug store carries vitamin pills the size of ping-pong 
 balls for ponies. It is said, perhaps with slight distortion so com- 
 mon when these tales are bandied carelessly, that a Secret Service 
 agent assigned to Mrs. Kennedy swallowed one of Caroline's pony 
 pills by mistake and a few hours later was seen jumping fences 
 back of the house. Had he been on a horse it would have attracted 
 little attention. 
 
 Life in the area can be droll and uninhibited; it can be stern 
 and competitive. The estates have an air of protective seclusion, 
 and government greats frequent some of the boxwood and pewter 
 establishments for reasons similar to those of the President. 
 
 Secretary of State Rusk, for example, visits the farm of one of 
 his associates. Seldom has the Secretary seemed more fun-loving 
 than one Sunday when he was fishing in a small pond. Landing a 
 trout, he raced across a grassy field and threw the wriggling fish 
 into his host's swimming pool then occupied by a group of dog- 
 paddling ladies, who whooped and splashed in mock panic to 
 escape the darting monster of the deep. 
 
 Then there was the day Pushinka was lost. Pushinka, a white, 
 furry dog sent to the Kennedys by Khrushchev, is the offspring of 
 the first Russian dog to be launched into space. Pushinka is frisky 
 and wandering; so much so that at the White House it was neces- 
 sary to string several hundred yards of chicken wire around the 
 base of the cast-iron fence enclosing the south grounds. The wire 
 was necessary to prevent Pushinka from bounding through the 
 iron rods into beckoning arms of tourists or potential dog-stealers. 
 
 149 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 The Kennedys have another dog, Charlie, a likable little brown 
 wire-haired tramp who knows a good thing and doesn't wander. 
 Pushinka, being inclined to chase capitalists, is a responsibility. 
 To admit her loss for any reason would be to confirm Pravda's 
 worst fears of Yankee hooliganism. 
 
 Thus, it was with more than ordinary concern one day that a 
 Secret Service agent called the Virginia State Police and reported 
 gravely that Pushinka had departed the fences of Glen Ora. 
 
 Patrol cars were alerted by shortwave radio and before long, 
 upwards of twenty troopers were on the lookout for the small 
 animal. And an efEective search it was. Within a few hours, a troop- 
 er reported finding Pushinka on an estate several miles away. The 
 dog was rushed back to Glen Ora under police protection because 
 it would have been a frightful tragedy had the Russian pup be- 
 come involved in a fox hunt. The Master of Hounds would have 
 been mortified to discover a wisp of Russian fur amongst his bay- 
 ing pack. 
 
 Some neighbors were huffy and aloof, some even antagonistic, 
 when the Kennedys first moved in shortly after the inauguration — 
 the first inauguration. They felt security devices installed to pro- 
 tect the President were an insult to the community. Who, in God's 
 name, in Middleburg would pillage or plunder except outsiders 
 who could always be detected when they turned at the traffic light 
 in front of the Red Fox? 
 
 A few neighbors thought the installation of microwave towers, 
 helicopter landing pads and the like might add an undesirably 
 modern tone to the pastorale. Others said electronic devices were 
 certain, somehow, to frighten the foxes or make stud horses im- 
 potent. 
 
 Nothing of this sort developed, but some of the more funda- 
 mental farmers still regard with less than complete trust the loud- 
 hailer installed at the Kennedy gate. This is a remotely controlled 
 public-address system for use when the President is not present 
 and the perimeter of security is withdrawn from the gate to the 
 
 150 
 
O Little Town of Middleburg 
 
 house itself. The front gate is electronically operated and tucked 
 away is a hidden microphone and loudspeaker. 
 
 Push a button and someone several hundred yards away at the 
 house inquires the name and purpose of the caller. Once identity 
 and validity of purpose are established, the gate swings wide and 
 the caller may make his way to the nerve center of the estate. 
 
 Farmers, trainers and tradesmen having business at Glen Ora 
 have seen similar arrangements at other country places, but the 
 President's set-up was more impressive in being operated by White 
 House police or Secret Service men. 
 
 A farmer-horseman was admitted one day and, as he departed, 
 the loudspeaker at the gate asked him to please hold it open for 
 a procession of limousines just arriving loaded with important 
 personages from Washington. True to security teachings which 
 had been drummed into him, the old fellow slammed the gate 
 shut and roared in the box, "Not on your life — you come out here 
 and take the damned responsibility." 
 
 What the President sees in this particular Mecca-in-the-woods 
 remains something of a mystery. Neither riding nor caring much 
 for the unremitting horse-country dialogue, Mr. Kennedy is said 
 to derive most of his Middleburg pleasure from being able to play 
 with the kids without tourists staring through the fence, lolling 
 around the pool in tattered comfort, and the opportunity to read 
 without interruption. He talks on the telephone a great deal from 
 Virginia, frequently placing his own calls rather than asking the 
 White House operator to do it for him. 
 
 The Kennedys often have personal friends as weekend guests, 
 but when this was written in the late summer of 1962, they had 
 maintained the separation of office and home even more rigidly 
 than did Ike and Mamie. There hadn't been the first picnic for 
 messengers and maids, nor had there been a political rally, even 
 under a tent far removed from the house. Of course, the summer of 
 1964 could make a difference. 
 
 On occasion, the Kennedys have had house guests who were 
 
 151 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 N.P., as well as personal friends, but nonriders and not particu- 
 larly privy to state secrets. When Jackie was out chasing a fox and 
 the President busy on the telephone to Ruanda or Middle Impala, 
 there was little in the way of guest action or entertainment. This 
 has led some of these guests to drive several miles into town. 
 
 Even this pastime has its limits. Outside of three filling stations, 
 two drug stores, a news and candy establishment, the area for 
 browsing is pretty much limited to the Red Fox, a rather unin- 
 spired restaurant called the Coach Stop, one supermarket and a 
 half dozen or so antique shops, proprietors of which regard Mrs. 
 Kennedy highly for what she did to renew interest in their trade. 
 
 With any orientation at all, the visitor gravitates to the Red 
 Fox, a delightful eighteenth-century hostel boasting seven rooms 
 for rent, a delightful grotto, and basement dining room where the 
 food is prepared by a talented French chef, Gabriel, whose cordon 
 is amazingly bleu. 
 
 The Red Fox catches most of the Mecca travelers. It has become 
 about as In as an inn can be to swoop down from Washington for 
 the evening and sigh over Gabriel's duck and black cherries topped 
 off by crusty-creamy chocolate souffle. 
 
 The Red Fox has no bar as such because of a rather insensitive 
 Virginia law which holds against purchase of strong spirits by the 
 dram. Since conventional bars are illegal, the Red Fox is limited 
 to serving beer and wine, although the pilgrim may go to an up- 
 stairs lounge called the J. E. B. Stewart room and get swacked out 
 of his own bottle. 
 
 Travelers familiar with Virginia expect to find at any self-re- 
 specting colonial inn a menu heavy with spoon bread, tearfully 
 salty Virginia ham which the native-born choke down as a matter 
 of regional pride or utter disregard for cholesterol. Thus it comes 
 as a shock to grope for one's seat beneath gleaming old coach horns 
 in the Red Fox basement and under guttering candlelight, behold 
 a long, handwritten menu listing haute cuisine, Provencal and 
 Upper Pavilion delicacies. 
 
 152 
 
O Little Town of Middleburg 
 
 More eye-popping than the menu is the manageress of the Red 
 Fox who could well be lost to some greater area of influence by 
 the time this volume reaches Middleburg. This refers to Mrs. 
 Nettie Michaelis, who looks as N.P. as any lady of Georgetown, as 
 high-fashion as her menu is haut, as well-groomed as Jacqueline 
 at Versailles. Well, almost. 
 
 Mrs. Michaelis, in addition to looking recently removed from 
 a Vogue cover, can speak Common Market, drop little bon mots 
 from Saturday Review, ride well enough to speak fluent horse and 
 keep her hi-fi loaded with Bach. N.P.s have been known to lose 
 interest even in road directions to Glen Ora after a one-two punch 
 of Gabriel's cooking and Mrs. Michaelis' glamour. 
 
 There seldom seems much mingling between visiting N.P. and 
 the strictly horse people in Mrs. Michaelis' softly candled base- 
 ment. The horse people, in fact, seem more comfortable when just 
 their crowd is sitting around over champagne or beer and talking 
 the good talk of withers, saddles and stupid bitches who wear rat 
 catcher (a tweedy type of riding costume) to the wrong party. 
 
 The N.P. pilgrims, grateful for simple proximity, care little for 
 the indigenous dialogue and adjourn to the upstairs living room 
 to make daiquiris eight-to-one ("to 'one' what, Charlotte? Light 
 to dark?") and bellyflop on the rug before the fireplace on a 
 scrumptious autumn afternoon when leaves fill the bucket seats 
 and Metcalfe's scarf stretched out a yard behind him when he 
 went down that hill on Route 50 between Lenah and Aldie, the 
 settlement immediately east of Middleburg. 
 
 The President has not availed himself of the Red Fox at this 
 point, but it could be only a matter of time. There may come a 
 point at which he wonders where his guests go when he's on the 
 telephone. Mrs. Kennedy has dropped in on occasion, but never 
 while he was in town, because his presence at Glen Ora would 
 mean that up somewhere in the Red Fox attic lurked two press 
 association reporters from the White House press room, ready to 
 pounce on any news that moved. The First Lady has dropped in 
 
 153 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 at the Red Fox in midweek for tea or a snack. In fact, she lives 
 rather freely when her husband is not on hand with his necessary 
 entourage. 
 
 In casual trousers and shirt and hairdo arranged by the wind, 
 she visits the few stores and trade establishments with no apparent 
 inhibition — in midweek. Oleg Cassini and Mr. Kennedy might 
 object, but there are those who maintain that Jacqueline Kennedy 
 is an entirely different and much more charming person when 
 she's ambling about the Middleburg countryside informally and 
 without being on. Even her voice is different when her hair is 
 touseled — none of the semibreathless, pinafore girlishness that 
 sometimes marks her public manner of speech, but the direct, clear 
 conversational tones of a well-educated young woman. 
 
 The hunt country seldom sees the President or Mrs. Kennedy in 
 public except on Sundays when they go to the Community Center, 
 a philanthropy of the Paul Mellons, for mass celebrated before an 
 improvised altar by Father Peira. The priest is a Roman Catholic 
 version of a circuit rider whose parish includes at least three differ- 
 ent towns on Sunday. During the early summer as many as fifty 
 or a hundred tourists gather outside the yellow-walled hall to 
 watch the Kennedys come and go. No N.P. of standing would be 
 caught in such an assembly beside a church door. It would be en- 
 tirely too plebeian to watch anything from a crowd, save J.F.K.'s 
 inaugurations, and even this would depend largely on the location 
 of one's seats. 
 
 The Kennedys leased Glen Ora by the year, at least through 
 1962. At the time of first renewal, there was talk that they planned 
 to give up the place and purchase one of their own. Then the pas- 
 sage of painter and carpenter trucks along the muddy road to the 
 front gate during the late winter produced word of extensive re- 
 furbishing and the lease was renewed. Mrs. Kennedy has been 
 looking at some nearby places which could become available for 
 sale. (There is an interesting divorce rate among some hunt-coun- 
 try circles which naturally produces a certain real estate turnover, 
 to say nothing of fascinating reunions at hunt breakfasts.) 
 
 154 
 
O Little Town of Middleburg 
 
 An observer of the Middleburg scene, and incidentally a pas- 
 sionately enamored resident of the area still in possession of his 
 first wife, once told a friend from the outside, "Some of these won- 
 derful people spend so much time breeding horses that they tend 
 to confuse themselves with their animals and this is not always 
 conducive to marital stability as many of us know it." (It is hoped 
 that attribution of this wisdom to one durably married does not 
 result in his quick identification, or attempts thereat. There's 
 more than one, folks. A lot more.) 
 
 Evening at the Red Fox is matched by morning at the Coach 
 Stop. The N.P. pilgrims to the hunt country seldom are on hand 
 for this side of Middleburg, having made it back to Georgetown 
 before dawn, or at least in time to unhinge the first coffee break 
 at the C.I.A. or the State Department with a carefully dropped 
 reference to "last night in Middleburg." 
 
 The Coach Stop is known affectionately to some of the locals 
 as "the Greek's," obviously because the owner is of Greek origin 
 as are many Southern restaurateurs. The cuisine is a mixture of 
 Old South and Good Greyhound, with emphasis on the latter. 
 This doesn't mean the food lacks quality and charm. It's simply 
 without steak vivre or anything flambe. But it is a grand place to 
 talk in the morning. 
 
 Along with landed gentry, sleepy parents come to visit their 
 daughters at Foxcroft which is outside the village, and mind-your- 
 own-business strangers in dark suits (Signal Corps men come to 
 fix the electric eye at Glen Ora), one may encounter happy trade 
 folk and servitors whose lorries and Thunderbirds service the 
 countryside. 
 
 These are the in-area travelers who innocently and interestingly 
 exchange news of the community; not gossip in the destructive 
 sense, but casual items of minor interest were it not for the fact 
 that the subject sometimes is a Mellon or a Kennedy. 
 
 In one way or another, news does get out of Middleburg. But 
 strangely, much of it does not concern the Kennedys. Most items 
 relayed beyond the county line have to do with horses and their 
 
 155 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 owners. If Mrs. Kennedy is selling or buying a steed, that gets 
 around in a hurry. A leg broken in a hunt, a separated shoulder or 
 torn muscle; all injuries of a Band-aid magnitude to a true horse- 
 man — these might be items of exchange at the Coach Stop. 
 
 But little of substance, for the chief reason that genuine presi- 
 dential business would not filter beyond the room in which it was 
 conducted at Glen Ora, much less beyond the fence. Glen Ora, it 
 should be pointed out for the prospective pilgrim, is rather un- 
 satisfactory as a tourist target. 
 
 For one thing, it is not marked. Taking the road to the left at 
 the main intersection in Middleburg when going west on Route 
 50, one travels to the second recognizable road to the right. The 
 entrance to Glen Ora is down that road, but cruising state police 
 cars see to it that no one stops along the rutty clay strip for very 
 long. Even if you were permitted to stop for hours, the sights 
 would be uninspiring unless you had a passion for high grass and 
 bushes which make a view of the main house impossible. 
 
 And for the fortunate who have viewed the place up close, they 
 saw only a rambling old, pale yellow stucco dwelling of spacious 
 and handsome lines, but little to warrant visions of a villa, an 
 estate house or a presidential dwelling. Comfortable, but hardly 
 grand. 
 
 When the Kennedys first occupied Glen Ora, it was winter and 
 a blanket of snow and ice covered the grounds and added equip- 
 ment, including a swimming pool. With spring and the drippy 
 thaw which turned dirt roads into sucking auto traps, the tenants 
 beheld a black wagon submerged in the winter run-off that filled 
 the pool. The cast-off vehicle was removed, the pool cleaned, and 
 the family now enjoys an occasional dip; but the word at the 
 Coach Stop is that the thing leaks and it would cost a fortune to 
 fix the cracks. 
 
 Foolish little gleanings these may be, but if they're not recorded 
 now, some future historian might present Glen Ora as another 
 Mount Vernon or Monticello, thus leading to erroneous 10th- 
 grade themes for generations to come. 
 
 156 
 
O Little Town of Middleburg 
 
 On the other hand, it is not superficial to explore Middleburg 
 and its suburb of Glen Ora as a pilot or demonstration unit for 
 the N.P. Were it not for late summer visits to Cape Cod and the 
 Christmas and Easter holidays in Palm Beach, the Kennedys could 
 well hurt the seashore resort business, at least among the wine, 
 cheese and Stravinsky set. 
 
 The Kennedys spread their recreational tastes broadly except 
 for one aspect — they're not much for mountains. In fact, it could 
 be that mountains are Out for a few years. There has been a 
 nervous feeling to this effect among the soft ice cream and Happy 
 Hour Lodge people in the Poconos ever since the fall of 1960. 
 Republicans and O.P., of course, still go to the mountains, but 
 they've also been spending on pools at home and motorboats. This 
 sometimes necessitates recreational belt-cinching — even for Re- 
 publicans. 
 
 As a quiet little Mecca, Middleburg is unchallenged. Large 
 enough to be visited, but too small and limited in facilities for 
 vacations, it will grow as a tourist attraction. This will cause dread- 
 ful moments for the gentry trying to wheel their horse vans 
 through town, but it will delight the druggists, the Greek's, and 
 the candy store. It probably will delight the management of the 
 Red Fox, too, but Mrs. Michaelis would be far too chic to admit it. 
 
 Palm Beach as a Mecca is another matter. There is an outward 
 show of exclusivity, but the merchants love every flower-shirted 
 tourist who shows up — with money. Palm Beach blessedly has 
 withstood the wall-to-wall commercialization of her neighbor 
 spas to the south, but its hotel and motel room count is sufficient 
 to stand considerable paid-up pressure. 
 
 Some Meccas can use more publicity than others. Palm Beach 
 had not been exposed so heavily to the golden light of inter- 
 national awareness since the Florida land boom as in late 1960 
 and during the President's post-election visits. A truly large en- 
 tourage now swarms into town with the President and sets up shop 
 at the Palm Beach Towers, a slightly confused Taj Mahal which 
 started out to be a cooperative apartment, but changed into a 
 
 157 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 hotel due to pressing economic circumstances such as insufficient 
 long-term lease or purchase argeements. 
 
 With each presidential visit to Palm Beach, there are more 
 Miami- and Fort Lauderdale-bound visitors who turn off the Sun- 
 shine Parkway for a look at the place where J-F.K. dwells. This is 
 hard on the tourist because he dwells at various places, including 
 the fine old Mizener-designed beachfront home of his father and 
 during larger family assemblies, borrowed estates of friends. 
 
 Thus, Palm Beach becomes more of a tourist magnet than a 
 real Mecca. Its status as a Mecca derives only from the fact that 
 more and more N.P. seem to have discovered the desirability of 
 that section as a healthful, workingman's resort — a fine place to 
 take the wife and kids at Christmas or Easter. 
 
 (See references elsewhere in this volume to the Flexible Sin 
 and Newport, Rhode Island.) 
 
 Naturally, when the Republicans win the White House again, 
 the N.P. will shift base and Palm Beach again will become the 
 capital of idle wealth. Unless, of course, enough N.P. buy coopera- 
 tive apartments in the meantime. Advertisements for co-ops in 
 Palm Beach and its larger sister. West Palm Beach, are fascinating 
 economic indicators. One ad not long ago listed one-bedroom 
 units starting at something over $30,000, with this single added 
 inducement, "Unlimited hot water." For more than |30,000, this 
 would seem only hospitable. 
 
 The real people of Palm Beach are much like the real people 
 of Middleburg — they're rich but go to some effort to appear other- 
 wise. Spanking new clothes grate. Except on women at better 
 parties. And the better the party, the less flashy the clothes. This 
 probably is true wherever those of security gather, and in Palm 
 Beach it is underscored by the President as he drives about town 
 in a faded blue cotton pullover, khaki pants, and sunglasses bor- 
 rowed from the nearest Secret Service man. 
 
 Before his unfortunate illness, Joseph P. Kennedy, the Presi- 
 dent's father, was no faded-khaki wearer. He delighted in scarlet 
 
 158 
 
O Little Town of Middleburg 
 
 slacks and sky blue shirts with yellow ascots. But the important 
 point with J. P. — his ascot was old. And no thready evidence of 
 recent price tags on his crimson trousers. 
 
 In Palm Beach, as in Middleburg, there are prigs and would-be 
 prigs (for God's sake, printer, watch it) who regard or pretend to 
 regard the Kennedys as outlanders or, in charitable moments, as 
 temporary. This attitude, however, is particularly susceptible to 
 invitations aboard the Honey Fitz where priggishness quickly 
 shifts to Jack-ism, which is annoying to the recipient of new- 
 found joviality. 
 
 As a consequence, the President imports many of his leisure 
 hour companions to Palm Beach. The same goes for Middleburg, 
 although in Virginia Mrs. Kennedy has a number of close horse- 
 set friends who drop by the house on occasion to exchange neigh- 
 borhood notes. 
 
 The Kennedy effect on Palm Beach after his first several presi- 
 dential visits was interesting. N.P. down to office secretarial level 
 began to show up. Others with no government connections at all 
 checked into motels south of the city and kiddies made sand piles 
 "very near" the excavations of Caroline and John, Jr. 
 
 The diamond-encrusted reputation of Palm Beach began to 
 change slightly and Henry Flagler's old social fortress entered 
 what possibly could develop into a second phase of popularity as 
 a combination N.P. Mecca and good workingman's beach. 
 
 For the foreseeable future, however, bring money. 
 
 159 
 
CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 The Curious Case 
 of the Ladies' 
 Auxiliary 
 
 Outside the halls of Congress, bustling departmental offices and 
 other operating units of Washington there exists a frequently sad 
 shadow world of women hopelessly addicted to politics. They are 
 not entirely endemic to the New People, but their number seems 
 to increase as each change of political fortune leaves a few more 
 castaways in the capital. 
 
 If reasons for wanting the Presidency are hard to understand 
 and the life of a Congressman or Senator seems harsh and com- 
 plicated, consider the women who are lured from outwardly 
 normal settings and security into political swamps and hobo 
 jungles; lured by the wild, unchained melody of a politician's 
 mimeograph machine. 
 
 Women play an increasingly important part in government and 
 it is only a matter of years before Cabinet status is the rule rather 
 than exception. Their numbers also are increasing in Congress 
 where such Senators as Margaret Chase Smith of Maine and 
 
 161 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 Maurine Neuberger of Oregon more than pull their weight in a 
 heavily masculine world. 
 
 We are not concerned at the moment, however, with women of 
 such clear-cut accomplishment. Our immediate study is directed 
 at what might be called the Ladies' Auxiliary which gathers 
 loosely around any major political organization. 
 
 This unusual category may include wives, daughters and girl 
 friends of political participants and participant-contributors, plus 
 assorted sutlers, camp followers, buffs and broads. There are 
 magnetic elements in national politics that on regrettable occasion 
 draw ordinarily level-headed women from homes, husbands and 
 children to the dizzy excitement of licking envelopes in a can- 
 didate's office or dutifully carting his campaign literature around 
 the country. 
 
 There seems to be a gravely powerful narcotic blended in 
 mucilage on campaign envelopes, because, after each national 
 election, a carbon-smeared residue of willing women workers is 
 left over in Washington, never to return to their own precincts 
 except for funerals or to get their winter clothes. 
 
 This is not to discourage women from participating in national 
 politics. But they don't have to be nutty about it. Reference here 
 is to the apparently intelligent, well-read and educated woman 
 who begins to feel she is Not Doing Enough. Her husband, of 
 course, is busily grubbing for more and more money so that she 
 doesn't have to Do Enough, but the more he provides, the added 
 time she has to brood about her inaction. She becomes too activist 
 for her local League of Women Voters and wants to move into 
 guttier areas. 
 
 Whereupon she taps Chester for operating capital and heads 
 for state headquarters, while he hires two more maids and ex- 
 plains to the children that Mother has gone to war. Not in all 
 cases, but with frequency sufficient to make it noticeable, this 
 may be the last time Mother is home for many months and, rame- 
 times, years. 
 
 162 
 
The Curious Case of the Ladies' Auxiliary 
 
 Not all of the Ladies' Auxiliary departs husband and kids. 
 Some of them are single, grassly widowed, or generally on the 
 prowl for action. 
 
 But however softly spoken, well-groomed and ladylike they may 
 have been back at the country club, they change. They begin to 
 feel at home in rumpled hotel rooms; they learn to exist on awful 
 coffee and pickles which are the last items to disappear at any 
 political buffet; the cultivated tones of Vassar and Wellesley be- 
 gin to take on harsh qualities of a carnival dressing tent. 
 
 Their general migratory pattern is from home to state head- 
 quarters to the national nerve center, usually New York or Wash- 
 ington during a presidential campaign. Some of them are politi- 
 cally effective and go into sensible careers with national party 
 organizations. Some, emboldened by the campaigns, return home 
 to run for office. Smarter husbands in such cases contribute to 
 the opponent, heavily. 
 
 But many of these ladies never reach a recognizable goal. They 
 brought with them more desire for excitement and escape than 
 deep commitment to improving the political breed. It might be 
 entertaining to think of their hopping in and out of bed periodi- 
 cally to help lift party morale, but in truth, it doesn't work that 
 way. While this is the sort of thing that not even Dr. Gallup would 
 touch, lady zealots seem to derive more sensual pleasure from 
 campaign music and the sound of strident voices through a loud- 
 speaker than the opportunity for casual romping. 
 
 What these ladies seem not to sense in advance is that in victory 
 lies deep disappointment for many. A political organization in- 
 variably trims the staff harshly after a campaign, even a win; and 
 countless members of the Ladies' Auxiliary find their services no 
 longer needed, even on a volunteer basis. If they're lucky, they 
 may wangle tickets to the inauguration, but they find that after 
 an election, the business of politics becomes almost the private 
 province of the professionals. 
 
 It is not unlike cut-time at a major league baseball training 
 
 163 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 camp when the hopefuls are cast adrift without so much as a bus 
 ticket back to Waycross. Ever so nice and mildly talented, but not 
 worth the dismissal of some unspectacular old-timer who can re- 
 member the names of county chairmen east of the Mississippi, the 
 detached ladies, clutching their lithographed picture of the new 
 President, must quickly decamp, set up residence with their own 
 money or find work in the bowels of government. 
 
 The smart ones go home, politically sated until the off-year 
 congressional elections begin to shape up. But the sad cases try 
 to stick it out. They can become dreadful pests to the organiza- 
 tion, popping up at cocktail parties. Senate offices and even in 
 some of the departments, doing their best to lie about being busy 
 on not altogether clearly defined projects. If they have money, 
 they can and do continue in this political shadow world until 
 two or four years hence when they're needed again to lick enve- 
 lopes. Without money but with the political itch, they hang 
 around Washington, sometimes sinking into minor civil service 
 jobs from which they never emerge again, or picking up scraps of 
 income by working for obscure causist groups dedicated to such 
 things as abolishing the House Rules Committee or attempting 
 to get King Zog's third cousin out of jail in Mississippi. 
 
 I don't wish to arouse unduly the defensive spirit of such tal- 
 ented, honorable and attractive professionals as India Edwards 
 or Clare Williams, yet the problems of women in peripheral 
 politics do exist and the results will continue to be distasteful in 
 some instances as long as certain female types intrude themselves 
 unrealistically. 
 
 Some Auxiliary members become addicted because of party 
 allegiance or what they take to be political beliefs. They can be- 
 come distressingly bellicose in their partisanship. In the 1956 
 campaign, there was an actual exchange of flying fists in the lobby 
 of an Oregon hotel between two ladies, not Democrat and Re- 
 publican, but two Democrats notably divergent at the moment 
 on how best to elect Stevenson. 
 
 164 
 
The Curious Case of the Ladies' Auxiliary 
 
 Then there are the girls and women who are, to be crude about 
 it, queer for politics. Otherwise well-adjusted men get their kicks 
 chasing fire engines. In this subdivision of the Auxiliary, how- 
 ever, the ladies do not seem to care as much for party principle or 
 label as they do for the circus aspects of political activity in gen- 
 eral. As the veteran marksman says of beginners, they can't 
 shoot worth a damn but they like to hear the guns go off. 
 
 During Eisenhower's second campaign, members of the staff 
 began to notice at rally after rally, from coast to coast, the friendly 
 face of the same woman, bustling about with Ike buttons and 
 pamphlets. She was not attached to the organization, but she was 
 willing and bursting with energy. 
 
 After the election, as Eisenhower made occasional speaking 
 trips outside Washington, the woman was spotted frequently in 
 crowds. She turned up when there was unusual activity at Gettys- 
 burg and began hauling her children around the country to watch 
 not only the President, but his staff and accompanying press party 
 in action. 
 
 Most of the time she was a silent spectator, but in occasional 
 conversations with the travel party, it was determined that she 
 had a loving husband in her home town who sympathized with 
 and was willing to finance her hobby of watching a certain kind 
 of history unfold. 
 
 Showing her political flexibility, the same woman, to the amaze- 
 ment of many of us, showed up smiling, active and energetic dur- 
 ing the 1960 campaign in both the Nixon and Kennedy entour- 
 ages; getting coffee for those who needed it, directing visitors to 
 proper offices, and being generally helpful. She had the children 
 with her at times. It was interesting to see how well they grew 
 from tothood to teens and seemed well-nourished on their diet of 
 campaign buttons. 
 
 This woman was more fortunate than most of her breed, with 
 an indulgent and apparently well-employed husband. As far as I 
 ever heard, she never asked for a job or for help with her expenses. 
 
 165 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 She frankly liked the smoke and fury, and her kids could turn out 
 to be irritatingly knowledgeable civics students for some high 
 school teacher. 
 
 Her story is wildly happy compared with case histories of other 
 women who became involved in politics and stormed into Wash- 
 ington with the victors only to find all the jobs taken by Inaugura- 
 tion Day. I know of two amazingly similar and tragic cases. 
 
 In her home setting, each girl was the pride of a well-fixed fam- 
 ily. Each was popular in and after college where they had respect- 
 able, if not spectacular, scholastic records. One of the girls was a 
 stunning beauty and young men swarmed her theoretically happy 
 home in respectable swainship of dances at the country club, 
 dinner and theater dates. The other girl was sufficiently striking 
 to attract second looks on the streets of her metropolitan home 
 city where she moved in an orbit more sophisticated than that of 
 her counterpart. 
 
 Neither girl had exhibited any deep interest in politics, or, for 
 that matter, in anything but enjoying life and scanning the field 
 for an attractive husband, until the 1952 campaigns. From widely 
 separated sections of the country, they went first to regional, then 
 national headquarters of the parties as volunteer helpers. They 
 worked eighteen and twenty hours a day, doing the grubbiest sort 
 of work because neither was trained for secretarial duties. 
 
 After the election, they both headed for Washington. They 
 were great at cocktail parties, but short on talent; they were smart 
 enough to realize that sleeping out had a dubious future, not 
 smart enough to warrant jobs once the campaign carnival van- 
 ished before the reality of operating a government. The prettier 
 one got intermittent employment outside government but in 
 politically connected jobs which required little if any experience. 
 Eventually she ran out of friends with stop-gap jobs and she went 
 home to await the next campaign. The other girl found no berth, 
 whatever. The party no longer needed volunteers and she left 
 Washington with dejected reluctance. 
 
 166 
 
The Curious Case of the Ladies' Auxiliary 
 
 They were back in the next campaign and, unbehevably, again 
 in the next; still unmarried, without a start on genuine careers; 
 still working the gin and anchovy circuits; not quite as youthfully 
 radiant, but a bit more handy with four-letter words; each still 
 based in her home town, but Hving apart from family. Each, in 
 short, up a dead end, no longer ingenue, but smarter and harder. 
 What have they done between seasons for ten years? Learned to 
 handle their whisky, even to drink less, except on mournful eve- 
 nings when looking inwardly. They've worked around local cam- 
 paigns. Each tried charity drives but found them tasteless. Even a 
 stinking congressional campaign was better than the best United 
 Givers drive with those church people and social workers. 
 
 Their future? They're hooked. Various family deaths or con- 
 tinuing family indulgence provide funds for necessities and barely 
 enough luxuries to prevent their being forced into nonpolitical 
 and salaried work. They'll be around in 1964, working in New 
 York or Washington. Which party? They'll take anything. They 
 know the language of both sides and, more, they know that the 
 language of one side is essentially that of the other. The labels' 
 are different, but the charges and countercharges sound pretty 
 much alike. 
 
 Their identity is clouded for reasons of mercy if not legality, 
 but their parallel experiences are cited as examples of the sad 
 shadow people. There are many like them, plus some weird politi- 
 cal wanderers who are truly tragic: mousy little women who con- 
 fused love with a certain degree of irresponsible fervor that 
 accompanies any sort of war; sad, drab worshipers who trailed 
 their knights and idols to Washington where they learned that 
 knights and idols frequently do not require assistance unless they 
 are attempting to arise; misdirected zealots with sufficient ability 
 to operate office machines while they save money for dancing 
 lessons and contributions to their dead or impossible causes. 
 
 To say the more pitiable members of the Auxiliary are repre- 
 sentative of Washington or the Establishment would be distor- 
 
 167 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 tion, but this does not diminish their interesting quahties as tatters 
 on the political canopy. There are, in fact, many more productive 
 females on the job in Washington, but most of these entered gov- 
 ernment as a professional career or a marital market rather than 
 being drawn to it by shimmering political mesmerism. 
 
 There also are a number of women on the Washington scene 
 who are highly successful outside the formal structure of govern- 
 ment, but prominent along its periphery. One might expect a dis- 
 cussion at this point of Mrs. Mesta and Mrs. Cafritz, but those 
 dear ladies have been so profiled, extolled and magnified in print 
 and picture that there's scarcely little more to be said about them 
 except, as we hinted earlier, they no longer occupy their once 
 gleaming pinnacles of Command Performance society. The N.P. 
 have their own goddesses. 
 
 One recognized goddess doesn't live in Washington, but she 
 packs more punch and commands more attention than the O.P. 
 hostesses where the TIP are concerned. After devoting possibly 
 too much time in morbid curiosity to sad political travelers, it is 
 refreshing to contemplate the elegant blonde beauty, result-pro- 
 ducing political elan, intelligent charm and distinctively high 
 pile of money of Mrs. Marietta P. Tree. 
 
 When Mrs. Tree, who runs a notable New York salon for visit- 
 ing nobility of the Democratic party and Great Britain, was 
 named by President Kennedy to membership on the Human 
 Rights Commission of the United Nations, it naturally was an 
 event to be hailed from the Pump Room to El Morocco. 
 
 The Diplomat, a journal intensely aware of such developments 
 in world affairs, responded almost immediately with a lengthy 
 profile on Marietta. The message was that the attractively leggy 
 N.P. figure was more than qualified for her diplomatic post. An 
 excerpt said: 
 
 Mrs. Tree's household at 123 East 79th Street in New York 
 centers around an English butler whom she described as 
 
 168 
 
The Curious Case of the Ladies' Auxiliary 
 
 "just about perfect." He receives Democratic ward poHticians 
 and visitors of varying races and colors without batting an 
 eyelash. 
 
 [Which is damned big of the butler and yet, not too un- 
 usual, considering that Mr. Tree was a Tory member of the 
 British Parliament for some years before marrying Marietta 
 and becoming an investment banker in New York. The 
 article carefully says nothing about how Mr. Tree receives 
 Democratic ward politicians and visitors of varying races and 
 colors. In fact, the implication might be that Mr. Tree bats 
 his eyelashes, but the butler doesn't.] 
 
 Although her home is reputed to be one of the best-run in 
 New York, she herself protests that her English husband's 
 liking for "a certain amount of shabbiness" gives her a 
 little leeway. "Where charm leaves off and Tobacco Road 
 begins — that's hard to judge," she adds. 
 
 An ability to remember names, faces and even telephone 
 numbers is another of Marietta Tree's qualifications for her 
 new job in diplomacy. One thing she enjoyed about political 
 canvassing for the Democrats was the opportunity it gave 
 her to see inside so many New York apartments and to observe 
 how they were decorated. 
 
 Having never intruded on Mrs. Tree's salon and given the 
 butler a chance to stand there staring winklessly, one does have 
 a certain amount of freedom to envision. 
 
 Mr. Tree comes home, possibly weary after a hard day of money- 
 shuffling. He takes one look at the perfect drawing-room decor 
 and bawls at the butler, "I thought I asked for a certain amount 
 of shabbiness in this house." 
 
 Marietta enters with a seedy fellow in a spotty double-breasted 
 cocoa-brown suit with silver pin-stripe. He's a ward heeler, one of 
 the shabbiest Marietta could find on the way home from the U.N. 
 The butler surveys the trampy-looking politician and remarks 
 
 169 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 rather coolly to Mr. Tree, "Do you still feel the need of shabbi- 
 ness, Guv'nor?" 
 
 As Diplomat points out, with Marietta's very own words in 
 support, she may not know where charm leaves off and Tobacco 
 Road begins (surely she could call Erskine Caldwell and ask), but 
 she knows her telephone numbers. Diplomat regards this as one of 
 the more important qualifications for diplomacy. 
 
 It could have happened during an executive session of the 
 Senate Foreign Relations Committee while they were passing on 
 Marietta's nomination. Maybe one of the Republican members 
 has been giving the appointment hell because she's married to a 
 man who persisted in remaining a British subject. Then Chairman 
 J. William Fulbright takes over in soothingly authoritative tones 
 from Arkansas: 
 
 "Come now, Senator," Chairman Fulbright says, "married to a 
 Britisher can't be all that bad. Let me tell you one thing about 
 Marietta — she has a terrific head for telephone numbers. She re- 
 members numbers from year to year, all kinds of numbers — 
 delicatessens, race tracks, hair dressers, Democratic ward clubs, 
 the White House. Telling Marietta a telephone number is like 
 feeding it into one of those computing machines. Punch the 
 button and out comes the number." 
 
 The protesting Senator calms down appreciably. 
 
 "Gosh, Mr. Chairman, I had no idea she was so well qualified 
 to represent us at the U.N. Please vote me aye." 
 
 Diplomat pointed up another interesting aspect of Mrs. Tree's 
 career by telling how much she enjoyed political canvassing for 
 the Democrats because it gave her the chance to see how New York 
 apartments were decorated. 
 
 This could have led to interesting developments back at Demo- 
 cratic headquarters during the 1960 campaign. 
 
 Suppose a group of campaign workers were reporting after a 
 busy day of doorbell ringing. The precinct captain turns to Mrs. 
 Tree. 
 
 170 
 
The Curious Case of the Ladies' Auxiliary 
 
 "And now Marietta?" 
 
 "I saw four moderns, two semi-oriental, one French provincial 
 and a simply lovely slum — so American." 
 
 "But how are the people going to vote. Marietta?" 
 
 "Oh, I was afraid you'd ask that. The truth is that I became so 
 interested in seeing how the apartments were decorated that I 
 forgot to ask. I'll try to do better tomorrow, but let me tell you 
 about one place I saw. In the foyer, there was the most divine . . ." 
 
 (Should, by some literary accident, Mr. or Mrs. Tree encounter 
 this fanciful passage, before saying anything to me, I'd think they 
 might want a word with Diplomat.) 
 
 171 
 
The Third Olio 
 
 Dorothy Parker, whose great writing ability recently has graced 
 Esquire for which she reviews books, was disturbed some time 
 back about the cultism surrounding Derfilthenmeister Henry 
 Miller. Miss Parker said she had no disrespect for the artistry of 
 the man who wrote Tropic of Cancer, but she was "badly put off 
 by the airs put on by its worshipers." She added, however, "in 
 possible extenuation, that it has never been given me to compre- 
 hend why people should take so much credit for admiring some- 
 thing." 
 
 She was talking about literary buffs; wan, no-talent bums whose 
 only widely circulated writing has been on the backs of checks 
 from home. Without intending it, however, Miss Parker stabbed 
 a nerve that runs throughout Washington; a nerve which seems 
 to lie near the skins of many N.P. 
 
 Political fidelity is one thing, but nuttily claiming some sort of 
 glorious self-achievement for having backed a winner is quite 
 different. 
 
 173 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 It is as though burning extra candles of admiration lifts the 
 idolater upward. 
 
 The New People, Republicans and Democrats as well, can be 
 utterly gaseous in self-claimed credit for creation of a new leader. 
 This leads to an incredible amount of outright lying after an 
 election. 
 
 "I predicted it in October," is the sort of thing you hear the day 
 after election from those who strangely would not profit one way 
 or another from the election results. Normally honest men drag 
 sealed envelopes from their desks and vow they wrote the actual 
 electoral-vote count back in September. 
 
 Dorothy Parker's puzzlement over people who want and take 
 so much credit for admiring something finds other Washington 
 application. 
 
 It is not so much the degree of admiration, but when it began. 
 Heated arguments break out when someone says, "I was for Barry 
 before — " or "I said in 1919 that Jack was sure to be — ." Of course, 
 J.F.K. was just two years old at the time, but in the admiration 
 derby, bets must be placed early. 
 
 During the 1948 campaign, I never heard one soul outside of 
 Harry Truman and a precious few of his staff members say with 
 any conviction that H.S.T. would beat Governor Dewey. Yet when 
 the November smoke cleared and Truman was re-elected (in- 
 cidentally, by much more of a margin than Kennedy managed 
 in 1960, Washington was alive with canny gentlemen who had 
 called the outcome in September. There were some cases of men 
 who lied so extravagantly about winning huge sums on Truman 
 that Internal Revenue looked into their bank accounts and found 
 nothing unusual. I.R.S. was decent about it, however, and said 
 nothing. 
 
 Feverish political admiration is understandable when the ad- 
 mirer is trying to blandish his way into a job, or when he has 
 taken a truly active part in creation of his leader. But in the words 
 
 174 
 
The Third Olio 
 
 of Miss Parker, it has never been given me to comprehend why 
 some of us feel that by shouting loud enough and wearing enough 
 buttons, we take on some of the greatness of the man whose name 
 we honor. 
 
 175 
 
CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 Back to G.O.D.? 
 
 A problem peculiar to the Good New Days has been an increase 
 in the number of people who would like to go back to the Good 
 Old Days (G.O.D.), an indistinct era before income taxes, Henry 
 Wallace, and that chemical radicals have been putting in the 
 drinking water to reduce dental cavities. 
 
 We have come, temporarily at least, to a system of polar poli- 
 tics — the south pole, naturally, for the right wing and the north 
 pole for everyone else, including the New People. The N.P. 
 frequently live south of the north pole, but failing to move all 
 the way, the right wing rejects them. 
 
 Perhaps it might be better to term the new centers of political 
 thought and activity as Right Pole and Left Pole. 
 
 The right wing, sometimes referred to as the radical or extremist 
 right, seems to prosper on adversity. These Right thinkers in- 
 variably are greater in number when a Democrat is in the White 
 House. This is because the target is better. Prominent Republi- 
 cans frequently are disliked by the Right, but almost any Republi- 
 
 177 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 can holds more promise for the Right than most Democrats. The 
 foregoing italics are necessary because of figures such as Harry F. 
 Byrd of Virginia, a highly respected, highly conservative Democrat 
 who frequently is far to the right of many Republicans. 
 
 The left wing, to pursue this theory of inverse political adher- 
 ence, seems infinitely better off when the Republicans have the 
 White House. We seemed to hear, for example, much more of 
 Walter Reuther and Americans for Democratic Action (A.D.A.) 
 when the Eisenhowers were in town. A genuine liberal swinger 
 such as Philleo Nash of Wisconsin was twanging his guitar all 
 over the upper Midwest and razoring the Republicans nightly 
 during the D.D.E. era. But when Kennedy was elected with con- 
 siderable encouragement from Philleo in Wisconsin, Nash moved 
 back to Washington. He was mad€ head of the Bureau of Indian 
 Affairs and seldom is heard from except when he goes before a 
 congressional committee in behalf of his appropriation. 
 
 The so-called Far Right has been with us for years, but only in 
 the last few has it stepped from the obscurity into which many of 
 its leaders faded during World War II and the subsequent era of 
 Joe McCarthy. 
 
 Today, the Far Right is a rather elastic label for a new and/or 
 revived group of social revolutionaries who fear, among other 
 things, engulfment of their native land by a wave of alien treach- 
 ery. Everything from fluoridation to Earl Warren traces back, in 
 their frame of reference, to Marx and Lenin, neither of whom 
 many of these unsmiling activists have read. 
 
 These are unusually comfortable revolutionaries as attempted 
 political upheavals go. They seldom picket in the cold rain before 
 the White House, but meet in moderately comfortable halls and 
 listen to well-dressed speakers. They do not seem to be overly 
 choosy about the origin of their speakers as long as the oratory is 
 a few steps ahead of the listeners' antagonisms. Consequently, the 
 oratory is fearful and denunciatory. Their pamphlets are printed 
 clearly and neatly, not the smudged stuff of the lower class revolu- 
 
 178 
 
Back to G.O.D.? 
 
 fionary who doesn't know where his next soapbox is coming from. 
 
 Their coloration is intensely red, white and blue as they equate 
 their brand of fierce patriotism with policies and power needed 
 to solve virtually all problems, national and international. 
 
 Their fervor is evangelical. They're the holy rollers of politics. 
 They're also hell at the collection plate, rolling up large treasuries 
 for their faith healers to be used in spreading the gospel. 
 
 To question their sincerity is pointless, as far as the rank and 
 file are concerned. Sincerely worried, but not necessarily well in- 
 formed, about the Soviet challenge to world position and well- 
 being of the United States, the Right Pole people attract uneasy 
 conservatives who feel somehow a way could be found to move us 
 all back in time to a point when Russia was not so menacing. 
 
 For a time, these people were regarded by politicians and busi- 
 nessmen of both parties with an air of pained patience normally 
 reserved for vegetarians, single taxers and prohibitionists. As the 
 Far Right folks began to bunch up in regions, however, some 
 politicians began to have second thoughts. And some business 
 executives, particularly on the West Coast where the bunching-up 
 became particularly noticeable, realized these people had money. 
 Whereupon these executives undertook to spend a buck and make 
 a buck from the trend by sponsoring right-wing volcanoes on 
 radio and television and helping out with lecture appearances. 
 For some, it was good business. 
 
 At times, the New People have been about as sloppy in their 
 target selection as the Far Righters. The N.P. have been known 
 to attack ridiculous targets and thus move the target into a new 
 position of reality, if not respect. This came close to happening in 
 connection with the American Nazi party operating out of Wash- 
 ington, usually toward the South. 
 
 To look at these woebegone weak-chins with their rumpled 
 swastikas, any reasonably detached person would have been 
 moved to some degree of pity. But by kicking them around in 
 several towns and denouncing them far beyond any realistic point 
 
 179 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 of importance, these poor slobs became news-picture personalities 
 and inevitably drew to their forlorn banners a few more nuts. 
 
 Scurvy little outcroppings as the American Nazi confuses the 
 picture of the Far Right which, indeed, is a proliferous and splin- 
 tery faction with divisions and segments intensely competitive in 
 the business of saving the nation. They are allied only against a 
 common foe — the enemy within. Only one basic operating rule 
 seems common to all divisions — if you disagree with them, you're 
 Communist. Witting or unwitting, you're still a Red if you 
 disagree. 
 
 Aside from the issue of Communism, the Right Pole has 
 attracted a number of bitter old people who have been relatively 
 dormant since Roosevelt's death. For them, Truman was a politi- 
 cal accident to be suffered and endured. Eisenhower, at least, did 
 not increase their taxes and he was a Republican, although he 
 persisted foolishly in foreign aid — milk for every Hottentot, that's 
 what it was. The fact that Hottentots had been out of business for 
 some years did nothing to depreciate the allegory. 
 
 Then came that damned Kennedy and a lot of crazy schemes 
 for having the provident and thrifty pay medical bills for the 
 slovenly and slothful. Dick Nixon and Barry Goldwater were 
 better than nothing, but barely. Thus, the bitter old people began 
 searching and rumbling and rasping, almost as if brought back to 
 life from the mid-thirties by Peter Arno. 
 
 They found voices and causes from the John Birch Society, 
 Robert Welch, William Buckley, Fred Schwartz, and Harry 
 Ward. The good and the nutty were joined together. There was 
 a brief flash of hope from Major General Edwin Walker, a clearly 
 visible and audible Far Righter who had trouble with the Army 
 over the manner in which he sought to indoctrinate his troops 
 against Communism. 
 
 Walker tried to run for governor of Texas. Before he was 
 ignominiously defeated, he offered this simple philosophy: "Every 
 
 180 
 
Back to G.O.D.? 
 
 American should draw a line — and I mean actually draw a line. 
 You're either on the right side of that line, what is right, or you're 
 on the wrong side." 
 
 In his Second Inaugural Address, Abraham Lincoln also dis- 
 cussed the right, but in a somewhat different vein. Lincoln said, 
 "With firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let 
 us strive to finish the work we are in." Old Abe also said some- 
 thing in the same passage about malice, but this is not included 
 here so that we might view the political horizon without the 
 smog of emotional involvement. 
 
 Goldwater, the Arizona Republican described in Look Maga- 
 zine as an "apostle of jet-age conservatism," would be regarded by 
 the A.D.A. as Far Right, and if possible, beyond that. On the 
 other hand, the Walker- Welch Right regarded Goldwater as much 
 too close to center for comfort. In fact, there is no center for the 
 Walker-Welch crowd. Only the poles. 
 
 Goldwater was highly opposed to Kennedy Administration 
 policies, particularly in the area of social welfare and economics. 
 The Senator also felt much the same about many Eisenhower 
 policies. Goldwater's complaints are based largely on government 
 interference with individual rights. In a proposed statement of 
 Republican principles, he said: 
 
 "No nation in all history has achieved the degree of economic 
 security for the overwhelming majority of its citizens which has 
 been reached by the United States in the 20th Century. Unfor- 
 tunately, during this development, little thought has been given, 
 and less action has been taken, to help the individual to secure, 
 in his individual capacity, the greatest possible scope for effective 
 personal activity." 
 
 Despite an occasional unsettlingly kind remark about the Peace 
 Corps which appeals to younger members of his family, Gold- 
 water is regarded by the N.P. as The Enemy, but they have much 
 more respect for him than for some of the lesser Republicans. In 
 
 181 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 fact, it was right out of the J.F.K. book the way Goldwater moved 
 around the college campuses preaching his brand of outwardly 
 simple, but inwardly complicated conservatism. 
 
 The steadiness of Goldwater's philosophy attracts wide con- 
 servative support. He has had extensive impact on certain types 
 of young people who because of their background— and quite 
 possibly, the lack of it — identify with bondholders, stock owners, 
 and other participants in the world of investment. 
 
 The Arizona Senator, however, is pallid when put up against 
 Far Right demands for abandonment of the U.N. and NATO; 
 impeachment of Warren and the fuzzy idea that the mantle of 
 Communist duplicity in this country stretches from Eisenhower 
 to Rockefeller. Furthermore, the entire federal establishment, 
 when viewed from the Right Pole, is a sorry mess of spongy sub- 
 version, with spies and infiltrators virtually running, or at least 
 controlling, the show from behind false fronts of intellectuality. 
 
 This undoubtedly shocks Nikita S. Khrushchev, who must 
 wonder, if the U.S. spy cries are on the level, why he has to con- 
 tinue spending so many rubles on espionage. This may have been 
 why he was willing to trade U-2 pilot Gary Powers for the Russian 
 professional spy, Colonel Rudolph Abel. 
 
 Khrushchev may have wanted to know why, with such reputed 
 Communist influence inside the U.S. government, Abel had to 
 spend such large sums before he was caught. Also, if Ike was a 
 Communist tool, who let him send those U-2 flights over Russia 
 for four years? And if Kennedy is so soft on Communism, what 
 happened to the Red influence when he ordered resumption of 
 atmospheric testing? 
 
 Except for the hopelessly emotional and largely idle followers 
 who delight in large meetings and baths of anger, the Far Right- 
 ers must realize that many of their accusations are, at best, allegori- 
 cal. This does not reduce the degree of their conviction, nor 
 should it militate against their privilege to feel as they do. 
 
 And here we come to the sticky part of the Right vs. Left situa- 
 
 182 
 
Back to G.O.D.? 
 
 tion. Should these oddballs be allowed to trumpet as wildly as 
 they do? The oddballs around the Left Pole think not. 
 
 Some of the more hoary survivors of Washington politics real- 
 ize there is a useful, valid place in the national political spectrum 
 for the blazing lights of political extremism. Rants and chants of 
 Far Left and Far Right serve as warnings of thin ice for the larger 
 body of Republicans and Democrats. 
 
 The by-God-and-the-Flag omnipotence of the Far Right points 
 up similar ideological blindness on the Far Left. Perhaps nowhere 
 in our national life is there more virulent bigotry and downright 
 intolerance than among extreme liberals in their disdain for the 
 split-level, supermarket, station-wagon squares who make up the 
 great center of America. To disagree with this crowd is to affiliate 
 with the Birch Society or certainly head in that direction. 
 
 Professor Irving Howe of the English Department at Stanford 
 examined the detrimental aspects of the Far Right at some length 
 in Contact, the San Francisco literary and art monthly. Howe 
 advanced the interesting thought that among conservative ex- 
 tremists, "the very thought of moderation becomes a source of 
 treason." 
 
 Amen, Professor. But a comparable situation prevails in the 
 Far Left. There, too, moderation is a dirty word. It means in- 
 action, middle-of-the-road; it means Ike and Mamie and Lawrence 
 Welk. All members of the N.A.M. are bastards per se. Same for 
 the U.S. Chamber of Commerce, American Legion, and the A.M. A. 
 Every single one of them — no good. 
 
 This is the same black-and-white world of the Right Pole. The 
 very vigor with which the Far Left may inveigh against a particu- 
 lar social or economic evil too often has the side effect of creating 
 an added area of distortion or bias. 
 
 Witness, or recall if possible, the trumpeting manner in politi- 
 cal experts of labor announced during the first Eisenhower term 
 that they intended to keep books on the President's absences 
 from town, his weekends away from his work. The same labor 
 
 183 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 leaders, however, have been strangely silent about J.F.K.'s almost 
 solid record of every weekend away. (See earlier reference to the 
 Flexible Sin.) 
 
 Although liberals are exceedingly jealous of their radical label, 
 it can in all justice be applied also to the Right. Both extremes 
 want vast, quick changes. The Far Right refuses to see the world 
 as it is. The Far Left refuses to see the future as it probably will 
 have to be. Both sides are impatient. The long view becomes 
 moderation and that, of course, becomes terrible. 
 
 They may seem uncomfortable about it, but for all their liber- 
 alism or pretense thereto, a great many of the N.P. are caught in 
 the middle. They identify with possessions, as well as ideas. If 
 there is anything a Far Lefter hates, it is a man who possesses 
 proudly. Creature comfort is disgustingly soft or an example of 
 decadence. Ideas are the only thing. This disturbs the N.P. and 
 they must turn to a higher power for guidance, notably the near- 
 est sensible intellectual. 
 
 And perhaps the loneliest, most perturbed N.P. of all is Ken- 
 nedy himself. 
 
 H. L. Mencken wrote in 1933, in the early foaming days of 
 F.D.R. and Harry Hopkins (and Jesse Jones), of "that right to be 
 wrong which Liberals demand for all men." When Lincoln spoke 
 of "the right, as God gives us to see the right," he spoke obviously 
 of justice and good, and not, as the dictionary says, political opin- 
 ion approaching the reactionary position. 
 
 Kennedy in the foreseeable future faces having to ignore the 
 right referred to by Mencken, as well as that of General Walker 
 and Bill Buckley. In the 1960's and for some years thereafter, a 
 President must be right in a thermonuclear world where the 
 ordinary privilege of being wrong, if exercised, might dispose of 
 our problems quite permanently. The President's right must be 
 that of Lincoln and the Lord. His left can be little more than a 
 border. 
 
 184 
 
CHAPTER FOURTEEN 
 
 A City of Toadies 
 
 A sampling of contemporary accounts of Washington life in the 
 past century reveals an amazing similarity of concern by pro- 
 fessional observers over the number of slippery citizens attracted 
 to the capital. 
 
 This possibly could be true of any world capital, but Washing- 
 ton is such that some of these men and women rise to stations of 
 eminent notice and with few, if any, legitimate qualifications for 
 the eminence they enjoy. 
 
 Frank Carpenter* in the late nineteenth century was most dis- 
 turbed by the situation and wrote apparently without guile, 
 "Washington is a paradise for curious characters." Carpenter also 
 felt that, more often than not, persons involved in or having 
 business with the government tended to be rather apple-polishing 
 about it. Hence his "city of toadies" label. 
 
 The situation doesn't seem to change appreciably. If not toadies, 
 many of us are imitators, name-droppers and victims of a cling-to- 
 
 * Carp's Washington, edited by Frances Carpenter (McGraw-Hill) . 
 
 185 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 glory syndrome. We have a singularly high ratio of ex-heroes — 
 war, sports, politics, science, education. Ralph Waldo Emerson 
 once said, "Every hero becomes a bore at last." What Emerson did 
 not realize was that most of them seem to gravitate toward where 
 they trade heavily thereafter on what may have been only a fleet- 
 ing moment of achievement or outright luck. 
 
 The unceasing effort to grab a free ride on greatness, or what 
 passes for the moment as greatness, inevitably leads to frequent 
 incidence of poseurs. Those fellows we mentioned earlier — the 
 fifty-year-olds wearing their college blazers to restaurants. They're 
 pitiful, but rarely cause trouble except for their classmates. Some 
 of the fakes or semi-fakes, however, can be so persistent that they 
 worm themselves into the federal structure with expected weaken- 
 ing effects if allowed to gnaw at supporting timbers for any length 
 of time. 
 
 The late Elmer Davis, long before his close exposure to govern- 
 ment as a participant, wrote in 1924 (Harper's), "Anybody who 
 cares enough about politics to give it the greater part of his atten- 
 tion can achieve a considerable participation in the business of 
 government, even if he attains only a nuisance value." 
 
 Clinton W. Gilbert wrote in 1933 (Collier's), ". . . . do not 
 imagine that our democratic court in Washington is any freer of 
 jealousies than were the royal courts of Europe a century or two 
 ago." 
 
 Carlisle Bargeron, the veteran political mechanic, public rela- 
 tions expert and lobbyist, observed in 1947 (Nation's Business): 
 
 "There is one hobby that will make the person who adopts it a 
 man of distinction, sought after, fawned upon, qualified to hold 
 flattering attention on any subject, or to remain knowingly silent 
 with no risk of being regarded as uninformed. One has only to join 
 that rather indefinite group known as 'men close to the Presi- 
 dent.' " 
 
 The hobby described by Bargeron goes far beyond the White 
 House, but, of course, any contact with a President always offers 
 
 186 
 
A City of Toadies 
 
 a fine starting point for a career of trying to belong without being. 
 
 Here's the way it works at times. Bargeron tells of a case shortly 
 after the New Deal swept into power. James A. Farley, then the 
 Democratic national chairman, asked some of his friends in the 
 corps of correspondents to advance the possibility of F.D.R.'s 
 naming a well-known publisher to one of the major ambassadorial 
 posts. 
 
 Bargeron points out that the man in question did not want the 
 post, did not get it and, as far as anybody knew, was never con- 
 sidered seriously for the job. Furthermore, Farley never said any- 
 thing to this effect, either. The publisher, however, had supported 
 Roosevelt and, with depressing candor, wanted his name bandied 
 about as one of the inner circle who could have an appointive 
 plum if he so desired, in recognition of his sterling character. 
 
 Change the dates and names. The same sort of vainglorious 
 twaddle was spread about the land when the current crop of New 
 People came in. Small political debts were paid off in economical 
 vanity as frequently faceless "men close to . . ." slipped into the 
 pot of public speculation over new government leaders the names 
 of contributors, party hacks and even some completely uncon- 
 nected oddballs given to delicious quivers at the mere sight of 
 their names in print. 
 
 This sort of thing does no lasting harm, but it does contribute 
 to a climate in which counterfeit prominence can flourish. Let 
 us not, however, attempt to destroy the blossoms without first a 
 look at them. 
 
 William S. White, the distinguished columnist and Washington 
 observer for Harper's, obligingly put together a catalogue in 
 1958 of what he called Washington Phonies. White felt that in 
 the fifties began the Washington era of "the phony rampant." 
 
 White had three basic classifications which he described in 
 detail. Briefly, they were: 
 
 The Phony Intellectual: ". . . who becomes an intellectual by 
 more or less constantly saying he is one . . ." with unblacked shoes 
 
 187 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 to show that he's interested in more important things . . . asks for 
 sherry but will drink vodka . . . speaks pragmatically until some- 
 one else does, then shifts disdainfully to far-out futurism . . . 
 darkly drops the names of opposition leaders in countries formed 
 only yesterday. 
 
 The Social Phony: Takes off his unblacked shoes for "bowed 
 evening pumps" . . . regards as completely unlivable "all of Wash- 
 ington except Georgetown" ... is utterly shaken when he dis- 
 covers that one of his idols is Presbyterian and not Episcopalian. 
 
 The Phony Liberal: ". . . always and automatically right, upon 
 every issue and every conceivable convolution of that issue" and 
 ". . . . distinguished by the most profound illiberalism toward all 
 dissent or opposition . . . nearly always a member of the Demo- 
 cratic party, he is the best possible human argument for the con- 
 tinuation of Republicanism." 
 
 Bill White is an old and good friend. I know he won't mind my 
 stealing his catalogue and updating it; but first, in the era of New 
 People, I'd like to say: What's new. Bill? 
 
 White is relatively liberal in some leanings, but being liberal is 
 something like being an old-timer in Washington. There's always 
 someone more liberal, phony or otherwise. This is particularly 
 true in the N.P. era. But it is not to say, however, that the N.P. 
 have attracted any more phonies to Washington than any other 
 political pack. Our point is only that political faith has little to 
 do with the ratio of sharpies to the Washington population. In 
 fact, the sharpie birth rate may be a bit higher because no one has 
 paid much attention to developing a specific contraceptive to con- 
 trol their multiplication. 
 
 Before attempting to codify the shamsters who grow so well 
 beside the Potomac, there may be sincere beginners who need 
 help in starting their careers as Washington phonies. For these 
 we might offer a home course in name-dropping. This can be 
 awfully important. A name hurled is suspect. The ring of true 
 
 188 
 
A City of Toadies 
 
 authority comes from the softly plopped name, and, vastly better, 
 the underhand nickname. The latter takes time and practice. 
 
 The underhand nickname never should be wasted on inferiors, 
 but used only in the presence of equals or slightly above. This 
 technique is underhand because the nickname chosen for ploy- 
 ment should be absolutely unknown to anyone, even members of 
 the family. 
 
 Say you're waiting in line at a cafeteria and a fellow who has 
 the next desk to yours at Justice says something lobal about con- 
 stitutional law. Slip it to him. 
 
 "What you say may be interesting, but I think I'll stick with 
 Curt's judgment on that." 
 
 "Curt? Curt who?" 
 
 "Oh, I'm sorry — Senator Curtis of Nebraska. We bowl to- 
 gether." 
 
 That exchange between two government workers was cited 
 only to show how the game should be played. Consider now the 
 genuine phony, the angle-shooter who lives in the rear of a board- 
 inghouse which he refers to as "my place just off Mass." Through 
 the happy circumstance of a wide-open trade association party 
 the night before, he's conned two out-of-town canners into having 
 him for lunch at the Mayflower where he may suffer himself to be 
 retained as their Washington man for a Big Deal. The conversa- 
 tion all takes place between the time they're shown from the 
 dining room entrance to a rear table. And incidentally, all the 
 conversation is that of our genuine phony: 
 
 "Hiya, Gordie, how about my favorite table? (The head waiter, 
 Robert, vaguely wonders if this might be the cheeky chap who 
 ankled a stiff tab something like eight years before.) 
 
 "By golly, there's Shep." (Great wave to a puzzled tourist from 
 Iowa). . . . "Mr. Ambassador, how's Dorothy?" (The Surinam 
 envoy wonders about his English.) . , . "Hey, Senator, great party, 
 wasn't it?" (The Senator makes a mental note: find out who that 
 
 189 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 pest is.). . . . "Hiya, Eric, old boy. Hold it, fellows, I want you to 
 meet a great pal of mine, you see him on TV back home all the 
 time; fellows, shake hands with Eric Sevareid." (And after shaking 
 hands with three total strangers, Edward P. Morgan resumes his 
 conversation with a visiting finance minister.). . . . "Ah, here's my 
 table. Gentlemen, as Jack says to the Cabinet, be seated." 
 
 Think this may be exaggerated? Ask any Washington public 
 figure about the dimly recalled faces that bob up before him, 
 calling him by his first name, introducing him to smiling strangers. 
 These are the foxies going about their daily trade. What is more 
 amazing, they do indeed have a trade. 
 
 I know one of these chaps who shall be unidentified, not from 
 fear of libel, but not wanting to advance his sufficiently sleazy 
 career. His nom de con shall be Charles Helper. 
 
 Charlie has been around town for roughly thirty years. In that 
 time, he has not held a regular job. He was fired from his first job 
 with a bank in Newark, hooked up with a small advertising outfit 
 and somehow got to Washington as a promotion man for a quick 
 charity drive. He liked the fertile fields which he beheld and de- 
 cided to stay. His office since has been his hip pocket, various 
 men's rooms, club lobbies and departmental press rooms. 
 
 He derives an uncertain existence in several ways. One, he nabs 
 quick, cheap clients in the manner of our friend at the Mayflower 
 dining room. He also digs up business by mail and telephone 
 (collect) in a manner which can be viewed only as an insult to 
 certain American businessmen. 
 
 What does Charlie offer? Chiefly, the mildly larcenous hope of 
 an inside chance or special treatment. Charlie has little intellect 
 but unlimited cunning and surprising shrewdness. He reads, far 
 more carefully than most of his so-called clients. He reads, probably 
 in the Congressional Record which is his Gideon, that a Congress- 
 man is trying to get business for a small metal-fabricating plant in 
 his district. Through research in departmental libraries and public 
 information facilities which are open to Charlie as they are to 
 
 190 
 
A City of Toadies 
 
 the public, he gets the name of the plant and its officials. He may 
 dig up similar information on other businesses in the same area. 
 
 Borrowing a typewriter and frequently a government letter- 
 head if available, Charlie fires off a brief cryptic letter to one or 
 more prospects, saying he's in a position to give them valuable 
 guidance on landing a government contract. He gives as a return 
 mail address of Helper & Associates the street number of his 
 roominghouse, but suggests that matters might be expedited if the 
 prospect telephones him at the Commerce Department where he'll 
 be in conference. He gives a specific time to be called and the 
 specific extension which is any one of a number of telephones 
 available in or near one of the more or less public areas — a press 
 room, library or information office. 
 
 It should be pointed out that Charlie misses far more than he 
 hits, but he does score on occasion. For a retainer plus expenses, 
 he then furnishes the gullible businessman with information he 
 could get from his own local newspaper, but Charlie makes it more 
 romantic and easily understood by whispering over the telephone 
 and making veiled references to his good friend, the Secretary. 
 
 Of necessity, Charlie must keep a number of irons in the fire. 
 He must be utterly untouched by insult and shame. He accepts 
 periodic exposure as part of the game and merely shifts his base 
 of operations. 
 
 Charlie is not a lobbyist because he influences no one in Wash- 
 ington. This sketch of him is no cartoon. Charlie might have made 
 a reasonably good actor. Sometimes, to get information, he'll call 
 an official of the Interior Department (not a terribly high official, 
 mind you, because he might tangle with a protective secretary) 
 from a pay booth in the Treasury building and announce himself 
 as "Charlie Helper, over at Treasury; when are you going to let 
 the contracts for that dock project in Shreveport?" And on occa- 
 sion, he gets the answer. This would seem to violate some law, but 
 after all, Charlie only said "over at Treasury." 
 
 This particular Charlie managed to stay out of jail for thirty 
 
 191 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 years, but he made a serious mistake that had nothing to do with 
 government. He had several big scores a few years back, bought 
 some new clothes and looked fairly presentable. Thus armed and 
 heeled, he spotted a girl who appealed to him. Figuring her for 
 a few fast sleeps, Charlie snowed her with names and she snowed 
 him right back with an estate somewhere down South. 
 
 This was too good to sleep away and, against every rule in his 
 greasy book, Charlie married her. Then followed a horrible year 
 in an airless efficiency apartment with roll-out bed. She got tired 
 of living off of fingerling sandwiches and bad whisky of the lesser 
 mezzanines and dumped Charlie good — with alimony. Charlie dug 
 his own grave, however. He was so accustomed to bloating every- 
 thing that he boosted his income to the divorce court judge for 
 fear that an accurate statement might lower his standing in the 
 community. 
 
 Charlie shortly thereafter was hit from two directions — non- 
 payment of alimony and income tax evasion. He'll be in prison for 
 quite a while yet, but if I know Charlie, he's promised to get the 
 warden a promotion. Furthermore, the warden knows perfectly 
 well that Charlie is a liar and a crook, but still he must have 
 known at least some of those people he's forever talking about. 
 
 There'll always be Charlies in Washington, so our friend does 
 not relate particularly to the New People. In fact, the phonies to 
 which Bill White referred are that way more for fun and status 
 than cash profit. 
 
 In his 1958 catalogue. White could not have been expected to 
 foresee the development of a counterpart for his Phony Liberal. 
 Today we have the Phony Conservative. The N.P. era supposedly 
 brought to town a multitude of liberals, and a great many of them 
 genuine. This was rather hard on the Phony Liberals who had the 
 field of dissent pretty much to themselves during the Ike years. 
 In such circumstances, there's only one thing for the Thinking 
 Phony to do — switch sides. 
 
 We are confronted with a situation in which the man ostenta- 
 
 192 
 
A City of Toadies 
 
 tiously carrying Barry Goldwater's book through the Metropoli- 
 tan Club lobby might have /. F. Stone's Weekly hidden away in 
 his jacket. 
 
 This man in cruder company might be called A.C.-D.C, or 
 political transvestite. His economic status is not affected, but it 
 helps him socially and maybe professionally, if he has any par- 
 ticular calling, to take the other side. The N.P. may argue im- 
 pressively that this cad never was theirs. But with their rising 
 tide did come a growth in conservatism. Why they should think 
 conservatism is not going to expand is beyond me, since liberal- 
 ism certainly gained popularity the last time the conservatives 
 were in power. In short, this is the American way. If you like some- 
 thing, I'd better say I don't — until I can find out more about it. 
 
 The same sort of criss-cross has led to development of the Phony 
 Anti-Social as opposed to White's Social Phony. It long has been 
 tricky business to separate ersatz socialites from the intellectual 
 pretenders. Funny thing, Bill White's Social Phony seemed to 
 come from "somewhere in New England." Today's Phony Anti- 
 Social is willing to claim almost any geography of origin except 
 the South. (No one comes from there any more except some cute 
 girls, providing they don't lay it on too thickly.) 
 
 The Phony Anti-Social, oddly enough, sometimes has a fairly 
 substantial background, but he has never quite hit it off in Wash- 
 ington. Rather than admit he's not invited to the better places, 
 he spends a great deal of time during the day vilifying Washing- 
 ton's social activities of the previous twenty-four hours as reported 
 in the Post, which he reads only because of Herblock. At night 
 he goes to art movies or gallery lectures, smokes where he's not 
 supposed to, and talks at length about Washington culture being 
 in the hands of idiot hostesses and government dolts. 
 
 The reason this fellow is Phony is that he's not really anti- 
 social. He's just plain lonely. Possibly he would feel better if he 
 fell in with some of the Phony Intellectuals who are with us still 
 but not as happy as they might be. 
 
 193 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 The intellectual pretenders today in Washington are frustrated 
 and concerned, due largely to the presence of genuine intellectuals 
 too numerous for comfort. The poseurs had a grand time under 
 Eisenhower. They could attack the military. Big Business and the 
 ridiculous way Mamie spent money on clothes. When they tired 
 of these games, they could tone up their intellectual muscles by 
 pummeling one of their favorite punching bags — Catholicism. 
 
 It takes no deep study to appreciate how these stripped-gear 
 brains must be suffering today. Given a choice between Nixon 
 and Kennedy, they could move only in one direction or risk loss 
 of their Intellectual permits. Today, they must stand mute while 
 Oleg Cassini whips up a new wardrobe for Jacqueline. With Gen- 
 eral Maxwell Taylor at the President's side, they no longer may 
 blast the entire military establishment, merely parts of it. And to 
 say that all Big Business is bad certainly isn't the way Jack would 
 say it. Under the circumstances, the best guide for criticizing is to 
 concentrate only on corporations currently under antitrust prose- 
 cution. 
 
 As for Catholicism, the Phony Liberal has made a rather easy 
 adjustment. He now is against the narrow-minded Protestants. 
 He never did like them. Now he can be open about it without 
 seeming to be bigoted. God knows, it can't be a crime to be frank 
 about the Baptists, not in his rubbery world, at any rate. And did 
 you see that Billy Graham on the Jack Paar show? You'd never 
 see a Catholic priest — oh, Bishop Sheen was a long time ago. 
 Television is bad enough, but can you imagine anyone watching 
 the Paar show? You say Jack and Bobby both appeared and Joe 
 Kennedy is an old friend of Paar? 
 
 At this point, our Phony Intellectual may be forgiven and ex- 
 cused from our study group. As we've maintained from the start, 
 Washington once was a town you could count on. But no more. 
 
 194 
 
CHAPTER FIFTEEN 
 
 How to Be Dual 
 and Rich 
 
 One key to successful living in Washington is duality. 
 
 This has been true for years, and it continues no less in the 
 Good New Days. 
 
 This may seem senselessly cynical, but there are those who will 
 understand, particularly men and women engaged professionally 
 and avocationally in creating and preserving an image for others. 
 
 In government departments, one may hear special assistants ex- 
 plaining over the telephone, "We've looked it over and we're 
 afraid this isn't the sort of thing the boss would do — it's not like 
 him." 
 
 A Senator tells a colleague, "There may be merit in the bill, but 
 I have to think of how it will look." 
 
 A Congressman may urge his wife to attend a threateningly dull 
 women's meeting, saying, "I know you hate some of them, dear, 
 but this sort of thing is good for us." 
 
 The masters of Washington duality, however, are the lobbyists, 
 the men paid by industry, unions, trade and professional associa- 
 
 195 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 tions, and foreign governments to see to it, as far as possible, tfiat 
 tlie U.S. government operates in tfieir favor. And conversely, the 
 lobbyist also must endeavor to prevent government from working 
 to the detriment of his client. To tackle both chores at the same 
 time often requires tactics which border, to be polite, on the 
 amoral. 
 
 Washington morals, and we're speaking here on the conduct of 
 government and not in a personal sense, are flexible at best. As 
 Frederich A. J. Bernhardi wrote many years ago, "Political moral- 
 ity differs from individual morality because there is no power 
 above the State." 
 
 And what at times may seem to be a lack of consistent principle 
 may be nothing more than partisan zeal. Socrates said, "The 
 partisan, when he is engaged in a dispute, cares nothing about 
 the rights of the question, but is anxious only to convince his 
 hearers of his own assertions." 
 
 Sir Compton Mackenzie, in his Certain Aspects of Moral 
 Courage (Doubleday), offered a rather tight definition of moral 
 courage: "When a man acts or speaks without regard to the con- 
 sequences for his career, his position, or his good name." 
 
 Sir Compton, meet Socrates and Bernhardi. You three fellows 
 would have an absolutely grand time together in Washington 
 these days, particularly if you could visit with some of the lobby- 
 ists during business hours. Or for that matter, with some of those 
 on the receiving end of lobby pressures. 
 
 Morals aside for the moment, it may be helpful to examine the 
 manner in which a lobbyist performs before condemning him, 
 unduly. Lobbyists are accustomed to condemnation; but too often 
 the criticism is as one-sided as the interests of those who employ 
 lobbyists. 
 
 As in any form of human endeavor, there are good and bad 
 lobbyists. Determination of category has more to do with effective- 
 ness than morals. The American Medical Association (A.M. A.) 
 maintains a lobby in Washington. Its job in 1962, and apparently 
 
 196 
 
How to Be Dual and Rich 
 
 for some years to come, was to kill the administration plan for 
 medical care of the elderly financed through Social Security. The 
 bill died in the Senate, and the role of the A.M. A. in its burial was 
 substantial but not total. 
 
 There are millions of Americans who agreed with A.M. A. 
 opposition to the Medicare bill. They were ably represented by 
 the lobby which is supported by doctors of the nations. 
 
 There were millions of other Americans who thought the bill 
 should pass. The pro-Medicare people wrote letters, some visited 
 Capitol Hill, and others fumed locally. Their feelings, however, 
 were not as well organized as those of the opposition and as a 
 people's lobby, they ended up being ineffectual. 
 
 Thus we see a generalized picture of results of lobbying. The 
 professionals were able to get across their story in much more 
 telling fashion than the amateurs. To say that the A.M.A. con- 
 trolled the fate of Medicare in 1962 is giving the doctors' lobby 
 too much credit. But it is not too much to say that the A.M.A. 
 position was better and more constantly stated within the Congress 
 than even that of the President himself. 
 
 Public concept of a lobbyist seems, from recent articles and 
 references in books, to be somewhat outmoded. One of the better 
 and more recent studies of the Washington lobbyist was written 
 by A. L. Todd for Holiday, which devoted an entire issue to the 
 nation's capital. 
 
 Todd pointed out that the lobbyist not only operates in the 
 halls of Congress, but he represents his clients in dealings with 
 government departments and agencies, serves as the client's Wash- 
 ington-based public relations man and keeps the employer posted 
 on Washington moves which might require even more lobbying. 
 
 Then Todd ran over a lobbyist's typical working day, which 
 included the lunchtime hours at the National Press Club to plant 
 stories and see to the distribution of press releases for his client. 
 
 This may be typical of some lobbyists, but not the major ones. 
 Charles Patrick Clark, who receives a vast annual retainer from 
 
 197 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 the Spanish government of Generalissimo Francisco Franco, is 
 one of the town's better known lobbyists and his visits to the Press 
 Club are few and far between. 
 
 The public for years has been told of lobbyists swarming over 
 Capitol Hill, buttonholing members of House and Senate, dan- 
 gling persuasion in many forms and, in general, behaving like so 
 many friendly wet dogs. 
 
 This is a satirical distortion rather than a true picture. Lobby- 
 ists, indeed, do visit Congress. Some even testify before com- 
 mittees. But in addition to exercising or attempting influence, a 
 good lobbyist earns his pay as much by reporting — by keeping his 
 client informed on what will happen next. 
 
 Not to quarrel particularly with Mr. Todd, but my typical 
 lobbyist operates a bit differently from his man. Maybe mine is 
 better paid or lazier. 
 
 In any case, my man is a master of timing. He does not wear 
 himself or his client's expense account by racing from Congress 
 to club to cocktail party. 
 
 He arises when he feels like it, usually mid-morning, in a spa- 
 cious, comfortable but definitely unflashy home in the northwest 
 residential section of town. Over breakfast, he reads four or five 
 major morning newspapers. If interested, he skims through the 
 Congressional Record for the day before. 
 
 These are the golden hours of his day. He may earn his keep 
 more from intelligent reading than from any other single activity. 
 Years of experience have taught him to read between lines and 
 to search for indicative but seemingly small details. His client is 
 a major oil company and his politics are decidedly Republican, 
 but he also has enough close Democratic friends to keep him 
 posted. 
 
 Once "read" for the day, he may make it to town for luncheon 
 with one or two key men in government at the Carlton or the 
 Mayflower. Mostly, they talk about golf or fishing. Possibly in 
 parting, he may ask casually, "You fellows heard anything new 
 
 198 
 
How to Be Dual and Rich 
 
 on depreciation allowances?" Their replies may be as cryptic, but 
 the lobbyist knows from experience that this is no time to press 
 for details. All he needs is a hint, and should he pick up a mere 
 straw pointing to new action on the oil industry's prize tax allow- 
 ance, there will be enough time to run it down later. 
 
 Our man will then drop by his office briefly, look at the mail, 
 sift through messages, and then motor leisurely to Burning Tree 
 for an afternoon round of golf. 
 
 He may tarry in the clubhouse for a rubber of bridge, then 
 arrive home for dinner by seven o'clock and retire well before 
 midnight. 
 
 He may follow this same sort of half-time schedule day after 
 day, reading carefully, making an occasional offhand inquiry and, 
 above all, listening. He has not been in the office of a Senator or 
 Representative in years. Aside from a rare appearance at a White 
 House social affair, he's not been in a government building. 
 Furthermore, he's not registered, as the law requires, as a lobby- 
 ist, because he prosecutes no claims before agencies; he does not 
 seek, outwardly, to influence legislation. He is a retired executive 
 intensely interested in affairs of government. 
 
 This man is more effective for his employer than a dozen more 
 energetic fellows patrolling the halls of Senate and House office 
 buildings or attempting to be a lunchtime confidant at the Press 
 Club. 
 
 By being highly selective in his friendships, he manages to keep 
 in touch with virtually any government move that might help or 
 hinder his company. He also keeps his executives closely in touch 
 with inside political developments, frequently long before they 
 flame into public domain. His fine grasp of economics also is en- 
 hanced by a fishing acquaintance with career specialists at Treas- 
 ury or a golfing friendship with one of the Federal Reserve board 
 of governors. 
 
 Our man's effectiveness would be destroyed if he had to play 
 the lobbyist's conventional role in attempting to push or halt 
 
 199 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 specific bills before Congress. He would never try overtly to get a 
 government contract for his company. 
 
 He would, however, supply highly valuable, authentic informa- 
 tion which his company could translate into open action by pro- 
 ceeding through a number of channels including trade associa- 
 tions or a company attorney based in Washington. 
 
 It would be a mistake to call our man typical in the numerical 
 sense. There are others like him in town, but their number is 
 relatively small when compared with large staffs maintained by 
 such associations as the A.M. A., the National Association of Manu- 
 facturers, and the larger labor organizations. The organizational 
 lobbyist is concerned largely with Congress; the men employed by 
 specific corporations often concentrate more on government de- 
 partments with their regulatory powers, as well as lucrative con- 
 tracts to be let. 
 
 For years, Washingtonians have heard one lobbyist or another 
 justify his existence. God knows, they seem to earn their money. 
 Take the sugar lobbyist, for example. Most of them are retained 
 by foreign countries which are permitted by congressionally 
 approved quotas to sell specific amounts of sugar to this country 
 at above the world market price. 
 
 Many sugar lobbyists are paid annual retainers plus a bonus 
 of so much per ton for the quota finally approved by the House 
 and Senate. Sugar nations employ former Cabinet members and 
 one-time departmental officials who usually operate out of well- 
 respected Washington law firms. Their connections are open and 
 above board, a matter of public record. A man who brings in 
 $75,000 a year pushing for his particular sugar interest is doing 
 nothing illegal or, by Washington standards, unethical. 
 
 To lean on a tired phrase, some of my best friends in the politi- 
 cal world are lobbyists. Of worldly goods and standing in the 
 community, they have far more than I. Furthermore, they need 
 nothing of defense, pity, or charity from me. 
 
 Without doubt, the lobbyist performs a specialized service above 
 
 200 
 
How to Be Dual and Rich 
 
 and beyond the capability of his client. We are not speaking of 
 the miserably ne'er-do-well angle-shooters of a previous chapter. 
 We refer here to the established lobbyist, well-known to political 
 society and in some areas thereof well-respected. 
 
 Major lobbies can put before Congress or agencies of govern- 
 ment concentrated information which otherwise might be lost or 
 difficult to present in easily assimilated or understood form. Also, 
 any special interest, be it doctor, sugar-producing country, oil 
 company, or labor union, has an ethical right to present its own 
 case. 
 
 But for some Washingtonians, including this one, there is a 
 greasy aspect to the modus operandi, if not the modus vivendi of 
 the big-time lobbyist. 
 
 We may forget for sake of this discussion the little eavesdropper 
 and two-bit sutler, their assorted courtesans and courtiers. They 
 work the fringes of all humanity, be it carnival lot or Capitol Hill. 
 
 The big Washington lobbyist, however, packs punch. He has a 
 lot to do with laws by which we are governed. Theoretically, the 
 public packs a more potent punch, but only in theory. Former 
 President Truman liked to say in his running battle with the 
 major representatives of what he denounced repeatedly as special 
 interests that one highly important faction lacked a lobby in 
 Washington — the people. He therefore spoke with some frequency 
 of his duty to serve as their protagonist. 
 
 Kennedy feels much the same way, although to date, he has not 
 expressed his thoughts quite as bluntly as his Democratic pred- 
 ecessor, once removed. 
 
 Lobbying is sometimes lumped with influence peddling which 
 is another favorite Washington phrase of denigration. Influence 
 peddling, however, has more to do with swinging government 
 contracts where they would not be swung ordinarily than it has 
 to do with legislation. 
 
 The Truman Administration was plagued by such peddling. 
 There was some of it under Eisenhower and it broke out again in 
 
 201 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 virulent form under Kennedy, as demonstrated in the Billie Sol 
 Estes case. The Estes case was influence at its crudest — buying off 
 minor functionaries of the Agriculture Department to facilitate 
 transfer of cotton acreage allotments. 
 
 The Bernard Goldfine case during Eisenhower's time was an 
 example, not of peddling, but a variation on the use of influence. 
 Goldfine, a Boston textile man, was amazingly naive in his atti- 
 tude toward those in authority, particularly officials having to do 
 with taxes and regulatory powers. 
 
 Goldfine came to this country from Latvia as a child. At the 
 knees of his elders, he learned to hate — and bribe — the tax col- 
 lector. The law in the old country was something to be gotten 
 around. And before he was twenty years old, Goldfine was in- 
 volved in rigged bankruptcy cases. He adapted to America 
 handily. 
 
 As business acumen enabled him to start building a fortune, 
 old man Goldfine became obsessed with the idea of holding on 
 to his holdings and increasing them. 
 
 He learned the valor of cultivating those in high places. He 
 started out on the state and local level, and the time came when 
 some of his friends were graduated to Washington. One of them 
 was Sherman Adams, who went from governor of New Hampshire 
 to the tremendous power of The assistant to the President. 
 
 With no intention of rehashing the Adams-Goldfine affair in 
 detail, I mention it here merely to show another aspect of influ- 
 ence and use thereof in Washington. Adams took a jaundiced view 
 of the author, particularly after my coverage of the Goldfine 
 matter. 
 
 It may come as a shock to the former governor, however, that 
 this one moderately detached observer of the Washington scene 
 never thought he did anything crooked or particularly unethical. 
 My feeling was that Adams made a severe mistake in judgment by 
 evidencing White House interest in Goldfine's various involve- 
 
 202 
 
How to Be Dual and Rich 
 
 ments with such regulatory bodies as the Federal Trade Com- 
 mission and the Securities and Exchange Commission. 
 
 Hindsight has wonderfully clarifying powers, but it also seemed 
 to me Adams, with all his insistence on efficiency and drum-tight 
 operations in others, might have checked routinely into Gold- 
 fine's status with the Internal Revenue Commission at the same 
 time he was asking the Trade Commission the status of various 
 mislabeling claims against Goldfine's textile manufacturing 
 firms. It might have saved Adams a great deal of trouble later. 
 
 What truly doused Adams in congressional hot water and 
 turned him into a blazing political potato was penny-ante stuff — 
 a rug, a clock, vicuiia cloth, free food and lodging in elegant hos- 
 telries of New York and Boston. 
 
 Remember the deep-freezes and mink coat of the influence 
 investigations under Truman? And more recently, alligator shoes 
 and |200 suits bought for Agriculture Department flunkies by 
 Billie Sol? 
 
 These are cheapness symbols more than sinister payoffs. A 
 member of Congress may let a lobbyist bankroll his daughter's 
 debut and nothing defamatory will come of it; provided, of 
 course, the lobbyist doesn't write off the party with crude frank- 
 ness as a deductible business expense. A smart lobbyist pays the 
 tax on much of his spent income rather than deduct for business 
 reasons when there is any possible chance of later flareback. 
 
 In the broader sense, what Adams did for Goldfine — telephone 
 calls to regulatory agencies — goes on every day in Washington. 
 Officials of the Executive establishment — or, for that matter, 
 powerful members of Congress — inquire for a friend or constitu- 
 ent the status of a particular case. This is not asking the agency 
 to pass on the case one way or the other. It is a simple request for 
 information. 
 
 Regulatory officials are, among other things, human. They note 
 with more than passing interest a call from the White House or 
 
 203 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 from the chairman of a congressional committee which may hold 
 enormous power over life of the agency. And the official to whom 
 the inquiry is directed would be only human if, without disturb- 
 ing his principles or basic equity of the case, he decided in favor 
 of a friend. Or friend of a friend. 
 
 As benign and human as this may seem, it is influence, Wash- 
 ington style. And punishable as such, not in jail sentences but in 
 the flashy underclothes one seems to be caught in when hauled 
 before a congressional committee and asked either to explain or 
 atone. 
 
 Had Sherman Adams confined himself to friendly telephone 
 calls in quest of information for Goldfine, though this may have 
 amounted to exercise or application of influence, it would have 
 been most difficult to raise tempers in Congress without the 
 provable existence of some unfortunately timed gratuities from 
 Goldfine. Without the vicuiia, the borrowed rug, or room-service 
 charges at the Waldorf, there would have been no political juice 
 in the Adams-Goldfine friendship and the old woolmaker from 
 Boston would have gone on to his inevitable clash with Internal 
 Revenue with, in all probability, no mention of Adams. 
 
 Where the operations of influence and lobbying break down on 
 the sand bars of congressional investigation and subsequent public 
 opinion involves a simple test: without friends in or near the 
 government, would the interests of John Doe be regarded on a 
 par with those of Jake Day who does have friendly access to the 
 government? The answer, in many cases — not all, but many — 
 would have to be No. Assuming other things are relatively equal, 
 Jake gets the break. 
 
 The break, in turn, attracts little attention in Washington until 
 a congressional investigating committee is moved to inquire into 
 agency or departmental operations, usually because of complaints 
 in volume or information slipped quietly to investigators by dis- 
 sidents within government. 
 
 Even then, congressional inquiry may rock along for months 
 
 204 
 
How to Be Dual and Rich 
 
 with no spectacular exposures until someone turns up a question- 
 able quid pro quo — a free case of booze on the expense account of 
 a pressure artist, a free weekend at Ocean City for a career man in 
 government who leaps at any surcease from his battle to squeeze 
 three kids through school on 1 12,000 a year. 
 
 Thus, in our brief glance at influence, there would seem to be 
 several simple but possibly cynical moral lessons. 
 
 1. Influence and pressure seem more safely exercised in the 
 great open spaces of Washington instead of free hotel rooms. 
 
 2. It is far better to give than receive. A federal official who 
 accepts provable minor gratuities is a fool. If he is interested in 
 larger stakes, he should resign from government and become a 
 lobbyist; or, remaining in federal service, hold out for sufficient 
 pelf to tide him over lean days that might result from banish- 
 ment or a tiresome spell in prison. More takers go to jail than 
 givers. 
 
 It would be apple-cheeked and cheery to be able to report any 
 diminution of the forces of influence and lobbying in the N.P. 
 era. The pressures remain, although the techniques may differ 
 from those of the more recent past. 
 
 The day of the coarse, powerhouse vote-buyer circling hawk- 
 like over the Capitol dome seems gone. The crude operator who 
 stocks a hotel suite with hooch and broads for pleasurable semi- 
 blackmailing seems rather passe, too. 
 
 Although a new breed of lobbyist is evident, the results are 
 much the same. The new lobbyist is for or against specific legisla- 
 tion and he works his side of the street energetically. But operat- 
 ing among the New People, he is careful of his coloration, habits, 
 and habitat. 
 
 When the Kennedy Administration took office, there were jokes 
 about more active lobbyists practicing touch football in secret. 
 These were the same jokes, updated, told about the lobbyists in 
 1953 and their sudden desire for golf lessons. 
 
 There seems, under the N.P., to have been an increase in the 
 
 205 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 number and voracity of amateur lobbyists — the idealist pleaders 
 who are regarded in most professional circles as nuisances. A polit- 
 ical figure may be forced on occasion to listen to or reckon with 
 the amateurs, but he does not have to fear acting counter to their 
 wishes, because their emotionalism often prevents the degree of 
 organization required for maximum impact. 
 
 These, in some instances, are lobbyists of the people, some of 
 the people, but their causes frequently are so divergent that 
 smooth, well-ordered presentation of a professional pressure expert 
 may seem almost welcome to a lawmaker or government executive. 
 
 Probably the worst-organized lobbyists in creation are the 
 groups for peace. As if peace of any sort were not almost impossible 
 to achieve, peace pickets, marchers, and pamphleteers quarrel 
 bitterly over the best way to bring about cessation of hostility. 
 Their intramural hostility sometimes matches the emotionalism 
 of South American revolt. They fight to see which group is more 
 against war. 
 
 The countless thousands, if not millions, in this country who 
 are opposed to atomic testing are split into a number of factions, 
 most of which express their feelings to Washington with little 
 unity or coordination. They violate the first ethic of a good lobby 
 by, unwittingly or otherwise, embarrassing the men whose help 
 they seek. 
 
 The peace and bomb people, as they are generally classified by 
 those who man the main gates of the White House, seem far more 
 interested in public demonstration than truly effective in-fight- 
 ing. Twenty-five registered constituents of a New York Congress- 
 man might scare hell out of him with separate letters promising 
 to work unstintingly for his defeat unless he changed his stand 
 on atomic testing, but fifteen hundred pickets chanting "We want 
 peace" would not cause him to break stride on the way to the 
 Carroll Arms bar. 
 
 The men and women who run Washington become interested 
 in pressure in ratio to the distance between cause and effect. They 
 
 206 
 
How to Be Dual and Rich 
 
 understand a lobbyist with a good record of campaign contribu- 
 tions and his professional ability to help them with pet projects 
 in return for a degree of, at least, friendly consideration. But 
 they are not too impressed by public protestations unless organ- 
 ized to the point of controlling or influencing a section of the 
 electorate. 
 
 Does this meandering discussion mean that the single private 
 citizen is without voice in Washington? Singly, yes, unless he hap- 
 pens to be a well-identified contributor. Or a towering, respected 
 authority in his field, capable of swinging public opinion. The 
 individual citizen has power, but it must be organized and applied 
 selectively to be effective. 
 
 And the best place for this, at least for a starter, is the bottom 
 layer of government, the local level. For too many of us govern- 
 ment has become largely a spectator sport. We leave even the pro- 
 ceedings of city council and county commissioners to others. The 
 state legislature is almost as distant as Congress. 
 
 If the base of participation in selection of all levels of govern- 
 ment were broadened considerably, the voice of the citizen would 
 be heard increasingly. After all, the lobbyist and the influence- 
 peddler make it their business to participate. Why not more of us 
 who are at the receiving end of their operations? 
 
 207 
 
CHAPTER SIXTEEN 
 
 Instant History 
 
 It was once observed by a recognizable friend* of the Kennedy Ad- 
 ministration that the President and people around him drank 
 printer's ink for breakfast instead of coffee and thus began each 
 day by consuming a frequently bitter brew. 
 
 This to a great extent applies to most of the N.P. They don't 
 skim- — they devour every available line printed about Washing- 
 ton; and they do it not by the day, but by the hour or whenever 
 new editions of newspapers and late copies of news magazines are 
 available. 
 
 The Washington press corps has long looked down on Broad- 
 way and Hollywood columnists for the manner in which they are 
 sought out servilely by guys and dolls of the theatre and entertain- 
 ment world and for their whip-cracking over those who displease 
 them. 
 
 Walter Winchell at his mightiest, however, never possesssed or 
 
 * James Reston of the New York Times. 
 
 209 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 twirled a club with the smashing quality of Drew Pearson when 
 he zeroes in on an uncooperative news source. Broadway and 
 Hollywood have no counterparts of a Clark Mollenhoff or William 
 McGaffin who can strike terror in a government department 
 merely by walking in and asking if Joe Blow is on the payroll. 
 
 A drama critic may be able to kill a new play with a scathing 
 review, but, at worst, he's cost sixty or seventy people their jobs 
 and caused backers to drop several hundred thousand dollars. 
 
 Bill White, Roscoe Drummond, Reston and dozens of others 
 could, however, be essentially responsible for adding or cutting 
 hundreds of millions of dollars in the federal budget with result- 
 ant ups or downs in employment for thousands of men and women. 
 
 Men go to jail because of the burrowing and probing by Wash- 
 ington reporters into the federal structure, which is so large and 
 well-financed that a few rats always are buried somewhere to be 
 turned up at intervals by tough correspondents. 
 
 As long as the Washington reporter operates within accuracy's 
 armor, he is, in truth, untouchable. If he turns up the fact that a 
 Cabinet officer is making outside money because of his federal job, 
 it is practically certain the Cabinet officer will leave the neighbor- 
 hood long before the reporter. 
 
 Yet, strangely, there are citizens who object to the zeal with 
 which the Washington corps operates. They don't want Marquis 
 Childs, Fulton Lewis, Jr., David Lawrence or Howard K. Smith 
 putting the blast on anybody. Those who feel deep analysis of 
 those in high places borders on the unpatriotic are, fortunately 
 for the rest of the country, in a clearly seen minority. But they're 
 vocal and write numerous complaining letters. 
 
 We are not concerned at this point with fiercely partisan letter- 
 writers who damn you for anything written or broadcast about 
 their side which is not entirely laudatory. The partisan crowd will 
 not accept objectivity, which they regard as either weakness or 
 secret support for the other side. 
 
 Letter-writers who object to criticism of those in high places are 
 a class apart, the status quota of our society. I've long had a hunch 
 
 210 
 
Instant History 
 
 that they dislike reporters more than being protective of high offi- 
 cials. In fact, many Americans seem to derive quiet pleasure and 
 smiling satisfaction from the sight of a reporter or photographer 
 being assailed. 
 
 Seldom, however, is there any prolonged punching of reporters 
 in Washington. Our photographers, on the other hand, seem on 
 occasion to bring out the fistic in witnesses before congressional 
 committees, particularly witnesses attempting to maintain their 
 dignity and the Fifth Amendment at the same time, which can be 
 understandably irritating for such gentlemen of culture and taste 
 as Johnny Dio or Frank Costello. 
 
 Washington correspondents seldom are punched by objects of 
 their disaffection because the offended party realizes that such a 
 procedure would merely add many more thorns to the one already 
 in his side. Washington reporters occasionally punch each other, 
 but this usually has to do with vanity or momentary loss of direc- 
 tion. 
 
 This intense interest also extends increasingly to television. TV, 
 however, produces a certain intellectual conflict in the N.P. To 
 hear them tell it, they spend spare hours listening to Prokofiev on 
 the hi-fi and wouldn't have a television set in the house. If true, 
 there's some TV bootlegging going on in Georgetown because the 
 N.P. seem to know every word uttered about them and Washing- 
 ton by any one of the better known reporters and commentators. 
 
 Thus there has developed in Washington a new class of glean- 
 ers and sweepers; men and women of N.P. journalism; the think- 
 ers; opinionated, deeply concerned, frequently acerb, seldom 
 ascetic; instant historians of the press. 
 
 These are the Washington correspondents and there are several 
 thousand of them, all as susceptible to the bite of the "right" bug 
 as the President.* 
 
 Our city life becomes additionally interesting during the fre- 
 
 * Use of the term "right" in this sense has nothing whatever to do with the 
 Birch Society. We're talking here about the amazing quality of being damned 
 right as opposed to being downright wrong. 
 
 211 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 quent juxtaposition of "right" vs. Right. Nothing illustrates dead- 
 lock more graphically than a Washington reporter insisting his 
 story is correct and a top government official maintaining that his 
 version is correct — and both accounts miles apart. 
 
 Before we sink deeper in this discussion, the author of this per- 
 ishable prose is a Washington correspondent, or was until this 
 book came out. I maintain that the Washington press corps is 
 about the finest in the world when it comes to accuracy, energy 
 and knowledge. But some of us are disturbingly colorful, tempera- 
 mental and nasty, particularly when our superb qualities are over- 
 looked. 
 
 Probably at no point in relatively modern history, and certainly 
 not since the early New Deal days, have ladies and gentlemen of 
 the press and broadcasting industry been intertwined and involved 
 in proceedings of the government as they are today. 
 
 Seldom have there been such passionate crushes, such violent 
 hatreds, not only between public and press, but between govern- 
 ment and press. And between press. 
 
 While the journalistic giants remain rather gigantic, the N.P. 
 have created some of their own oracles — natty, well-combed 
 younger men with terrifyingly extensive scholastic backgrounds; 
 far better-paid in early career than their older colleagues were; 
 academically expert in many tightly specialized fields — except the 
 matter of human relations with some of the grizzled figures in Con- 
 gress. 
 
 Some well-established Washington journalists mutter about the 
 new breed, but in fact, these younger, better-educated, better-back- 
 grounded journalists are good for our town. If not the direct re- 
 sults of the Good New Days, they are the by-products, the badly 
 needed trainees for a bewildering new era of science and technol- 
 ogy, of sophisticated finance and complicated economics. 
 
 Distressingly, however, many of our brighter, more promising 
 young journalists are tuned too finely to signals of approval or dis- 
 approval from the N.P. These signals, of course, begin from the 
 
 212 
 
Instant History 
 
 White House and their intensity tends to build when passed 
 through repeater stations of Georgetown and Cleveland Park. 
 
 A frequent attitude among the N.P. is that a young reporter is 
 as friendly as his last story. Among some N.P., and unfortunately 
 in those often underfoot at the White House, "the press" trans- 
 lates roughly as "those bastards." Particularly, non-Ivy peasants 
 who theoretically report without thinking. And thinking in N.P. 
 terms is difficult at times, since N.P. forever change directions 
 without so much as a hand signal. 
 
 While wishing to avoid distorted generalization, I may say here 
 with minimal bias that some administration functionaries appear 
 to be downwind from a garbage scow when they wrinkle their 
 well-bred noses and say, "the press." 
 
 There is one man rather close to J.F.K. who cannot understand 
 why "the press" must harry the dear fellow on his trips to Palm 
 Beach and Hyannis. This is a man of high responsibility, well-mar- 
 ried and well-educated. Yet, in something like two years at the 
 White House, he has not determined clearly how the Presidency 
 must travel with the President. This sort of independent thinking 
 can make the task of a press secretary doubly difficult. It must 
 make this man wonder, and chafe a bit, when Pierre Salinger 
 establishes working headquarters out of town and holds regular 
 press conferences — even in Hyannis and Palm Beach. 
 
 Another gentleman who frequently has the President's ear is 
 said to have commented to friends following a Kennedy journey 
 abroad, "Jack might have had a good trip if it had not been for 
 those press along." It should be pointed out that "those press" is 
 an even more derogatory reference than "the press." You can't get 
 much lower than "those press." For one thing, it means that 
 neither Joseph Alsop nor Walter Lippmann was along. 
 
 These oddments are cited almost whimsically because their sen- 
 timents, while annoying, are not treated too seriously by the man 
 for whom they are intended — ^J.F.K. He is an intensely political 
 creature; he knows it would accomplish little to make a goodwill 
 
 213 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 trip anonymously; he knows the press is to be used by a President, 
 as well as tolerated. 
 
 There must, however, be a natural rise in resentment of middle- 
 grade administration personnel toward reporters. For one thing, 
 each year sees more news personnel in Washington better paid 
 than many government officials. Also, with the advent of television, 
 correspondents and commentators have risen to positions of new 
 eminence in the national and political community. It may be 
 much easier to lasso a Cabinet member for dinner than some of 
 the top news-bureau chiefs. 
 
 The Kennedys, themselves, also have enhanced the local stand- 
 ing of many correspondents by including a few of them in virtually 
 all social functions at the White House. The President happens to 
 believe that journalists represent a segment of our culture, and 
 as such should be included in affairs where he attempts to bring 
 together a cross-section of America to dine with visiting heads of 
 state. 
 
 Kennedy also maintains frequent, direct contact with certain 
 reporters, columnists and commentators, seeing them off-record, 
 one at a time, in the later afternoons. There are times when he 
 may see as many as eight or ten reporters a week in this fashion, 
 sometimes on his move, but often at their request. These informal 
 meetings beside his office fireplace are largely for background pur- 
 poses and seldom for attribution; almost never for direct quota- 
 tion. It serves Kennedy's purpose admirably, and it gives the re- 
 porter insight and information undiluted by passage through sev- 
 eral echelons of bureaucracy. 
 
 The off-record tete-a-tete has one curious drawback. It makes it 
 risky for a lesser official of government to shoot off his opinions of 
 what The Boss is thinking on a specific subject. The mileage that 
 little people of government can get out of supposedly knowing 
 the President's private thinking can be substantial and it terrifies 
 them to be confronted by direct knowledge. 
 
 The background contact with the President has other draw- 
 
 214 
 
Instant History 
 
 backs. It can have a tendency to place the recipient in a favored 
 position which then begets inhibition. Hearing the President's 
 side of a problem is one thing; becoming so entranced by his per- 
 sonality and savoring the delights of throne-room access to the 
 point of then viewing the problem in a lopsided manner is an en- 
 tirely different matter. 
 
 New Frontier sensitivity to all media of information has, in a 
 larger sense, been beneficial to those media. The Kennedy press 
 conferences on so-called live television irritated many newspaper 
 editors at first. But there is good reason to believe that the public 
 has turned to newspapers in greater number because of the stimu- 
 lation of televised news conferences. While the number remains 
 relatively small, it still is true that more newspapers today print 
 the transcripts of presidential news conferences than ever before. 
 
 There is no example of the Good New Days to match the TV 
 press conference for currency. The effect on public and reporters 
 has been amazing. 
 
 For one thing, the conference has become a widely popular sus- 
 taining daytime show. It attracts larger audiences than anything 
 on afternoon television. And the viewers react pretty much as TV 
 fans, writing denunciatory letters to some reporters, fan letters to 
 others. It has become quite customary to offer questions for the 
 President. These are noted, but seldom asked. 
 
 The conferences, held in a theatre-like auditorium of the new 
 State Department building on 23rd Street, about six blocks from 
 the White House, are barren of the dramatic, close-up banter of 
 the meetings around F.D.R.'s desk. The interplay between Presi- 
 dent and reporter is cooled somewhat by the formality of the set- 
 ting as well as presence of TV cameras. 
 
 Also, the atmosphere has been changed by some of the reporters' 
 turning, or attempting to turn, into television personalities. This 
 can happen easily and without immediate self-perception. For 
 weeks, for example, I was certain May Craig had better lighting 
 than I received. Many of us on the front row became conscious of 
 
 215 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 other things: chewing gum looks bad on camera, crew haircuts 
 make one seem bald. Lip-biting under the tension of scribbling 
 questions and answers when seen on the TV screen becomes an 
 unsightly tic. 
 
 One woman correspondent often wears a white knit dress on 
 apparent theory that it helps attract the President's attention 
 when it is being sought by a dozen or more reporters on their feet 
 at the same time. In all kindness, this seems like overplanning. The 
 lady is sufficiently endowed to attract attention at a Sunday double- 
 header in Yankee Stadium were she to arise, fling out her arms 
 and cry, "Mr. President." And, in a gunny sack. 
 
 Mrs. Craig, a friendly little grandmother whose questions have 
 the kindness of a javelin, was well known to the public, as we 
 pointed out earlier, via "Meet the Press" long before J.F.K. faced 
 his first presidential conference. As a result, May and her appar- 
 ently endless collection of quaint hats, to say nothing of her essay- 
 istic questions, have become more than a reporter-in-action to 
 many TV households. She is personality; the lady who seems ready 
 to stick the President with her hatpin if he doesn't come clean. 
 Or pave her street. 
 
 Reston and Edward P. Morgan of the American Broadcasting 
 Company have become widely familiar as propounders of what 
 might be classified as the broadly intellectual question. Their in- 
 quiries send thousands of people running for the encyclopedia or 
 Sunday's paper. They have a godly, reassuring tone which Ken- 
 nedy seems to enjoy. 
 
 By contrast, Robert Pierpoint of the Columbia Broadcasting 
 System would be classed as a hurler. So would Sander Vanocur and 
 Ray Scherer of the National Broadcasting Company. Their ques- 
 tions seem to have undertones of, "Boy, I bet you wish you didn't 
 have to handle this one." 
 
 Frank Holeman of the New York Daily News is a delightful 
 questioner. Frank, with a soft North Carolina accent, stands about 
 
 216 
 
Instant History 
 
 six feet six. It takes him a little time to uncoil and get to his feet. 
 Consequently, his questions usually come toward the end of a 
 conference. His inquiries are marked by Old South politeness, 
 undertaker solicitude with a hand grenade at the end. 
 
 Attendance at a J.F.K. news conference has become a fairish 
 status symbol for those ordinarily not entitled to be on hand. A 
 Washington hostess is slipped in occasionally on one of the rear 
 rows; visiting student groups are admitted at times. 
 
 One of the more distinctive visitors recently was a bosomy 
 charmer from Hollywood, who presented an authentic request 
 from the editor of a small Midwestern paper that she be admitted 
 as a representative of his daily. She would have attracted only 
 moderate attention from the physical culture students seated near 
 her had it not been for her dog. 
 
 Being an affectionate person, she couldn't think of leaving her 
 toy poodle at the hotel, so she brought the tiny animal along in 
 her ample handbag. The President was holding forth sonorously 
 on the gold outflow when a tiny but clearly audible "arf, arf" 
 came from the woman's purse. The President may have fluttered 
 a mite in mid-sentence, but plowed resolutely ahead. 
 
 Embarrassed White House police officers began thinking up 
 excuses, Russian correspondents seemed deeply puzzled, and re- 
 porters in the vicinity of the dog leaned away in mortification. 
 To be caught on camera with a poodle would not add to their 
 eminence in the journalistic community. 
 
 Needless to say, following the conference and delighted inter- 
 views by the dog woman, there was a new understanding among 
 the security officers — no dogs. 
 
 Aside from new prominence conferred by living-room status of 
 the President's news conferences, the standing of many Washing- 
 ton correspondents has risen with the N.P. 
 
 The Truman brand of N.P. made close, lasting friendships with 
 a number of reporters. Under Eisenhower, the bureau chief, par- 
 
 217 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 ticularly for a Republican newspaper, had a certain social accept- 
 ance, but his staff was another matter. Today, the N.P. interest in 
 writers is sufficiently broad to include many journalists, although 
 the semi-savant does outrank the functional reporter. 
 
 To say J.F.K. has a freer policy on access to information than 
 his predecessor is to start all kinds of arguments. Here again it is 
 a matter of standpoint. 
 
 No administration is ever going to make it easy for the public 
 to have information which tends to show the administration in a 
 poor light. Not as long, as we've pointed out in other cases, as the 
 government is a collection of human beings. 
 
 It seems establishable, however: 
 
 — There is more direct contact between Kennedy and journal- 
 ists, albeit mostly for background purposes, than in recent years. 
 And to avoid becoming enmeshed in new political arguments, no 
 effort will be made here to compare with the Eisenhower era. 
 F.D.R. will serve as a fine point of comparison. J.F.K. is in more' 
 direct, across-the-desk discourse with more reporters, broadcasters 
 and authors than Roosevelt at his friendliest. 
 
 — The N.P. who do look down on the press socially and profes- 
 sionally are, for the most part, rather dumb or — charitably — out 
 of touch. 
 
 — It seems to have become easier to see public officials, and, 
 equally important, to reach them by telephone. Not that they 
 always give the reporter what he's after, but contact can be estab- 
 lished. 
 
 — In return for easier access, New Frontiersmen would like to 
 exact a dividend of friendly treatment and understanding. When 
 such a dividend is not paid, disappointment and even carping 
 may result. Human this may be, but often unrealistic. 
 
 — Frontiersmen dislike very much doing business with their 
 enemies. The degree to which this becomes apparent varies with 
 the dedication of the enemy. Also, it can be poor politics. Truman, 
 
 218 
 
Instant History 
 
 to illustrate a different approach, saw to it on several occasions 
 that some of his more irritating journalistic critics were slipped 
 bell-ringing exclusive stories. This would be most unlikely today. 
 The faithful would be too bowed and might take to hardening 
 sharp sticks in the fires of their discontent. 
 
 — These things are difficult to measure, but seldom has an ad- 
 ministration or its leaders developed so rapidly what has been 
 described as Potomac sunburn — a stinging allergy to printed and 
 broadcast disapproval. All Presidents eventually come to a point 
 of disliking much of what is printed and broadcast about them, 
 but this painful sensitivity usually does not peak until later years 
 of service. Possibly because he reads so much, sunburn came early 
 to J.F.K. 
 
 The only remedies for this sensitivity seem to be swearing off 
 printer's ink for breakfast, or gradually narrowing one's list of 
 selected reading. The latter is the more frequent restorative. 
 
 There was an afternoon not too many months after Kennedy 
 took office when he glowered at an article in one of the leading 
 weekly news magazines, hurled the offending publication across 
 the room and said darkly, "Maybe Eisenhower had the right idea." 
 
 This, of course, was an emotional reference to the belief pop- 
 ular among N.P. that D.D.E. read little more than his Burning 
 Tree scorecard, the Herald Tribune^ and the more uncontrover- 
 sial westerns. Conversely, Pierre Salinger has devoted hours to 
 popularizing the idea that Kennedy reads several hundred news- 
 papers daily, plus Grit and the Economist on weekends. It seems 
 true that the current President does read more, a great deal more, 
 than his predecessor. But if he continues to throw offending ma- 
 terial in the fireplace, he may reach a point of hunting through 
 seldom-used closets of the White House for some of Ike's old 
 westerns. 
 
 Many N.P. are people of Eastern culture and affluence, reared 
 in the daily shadow of the Herald Tribune. Thus, it was a con- 
 
 219 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 fused day in many Georgetown breakfast nooks when the dispatch- 
 case crowd discovered via the Washington Post that the Herald 
 Tribune was Out. J.F.K. canceled twenty-two subscriptions; and 
 the delivery boy, furthermore, was told to keep his mouth shut 
 about the whole business. 
 
 Were it possible to retrieve this decision, there is reason to be- 
 lieve J.F.K. might have done so. True, the Herald Tribune had 
 been needling him. It was at the outset of the Billie Sol Estes case 
 and mere mention of the Texas fertilizer financier seemed then to 
 be an unkindness to Agriculture Secretary Orville L. Freeman. 
 For some months, the Herald Tribune also had treated some of 
 Mrs. Kennedy's divertissements a bit raffishly. 
 
 The Herald Tribune is owned by a prominent Republican, 
 John Hay Whitney, and there could have been little reason inside 
 the Frontier to believe Jock Whitney's paper would fail to exploit 
 frailties in a Democratic administration. 
 
 Those more conditioned to Potomac sunburn felt the President 
 might have handled his displeasure toward the Herald Tribune 
 more effectively by letting daily deliveries continue, then donating 
 them to the Salvation Army. As he was bound to be asked sooner 
 or later, when questioned at a press conference about a Herald 
 Tribune story, J.F.K. could have commented airily that he hadn't 
 read the paper in weeks because of having to devote available 
 reading time to more complete, informative publications. 
 
 But instead, the newspaper was put in an almost favorable light. 
 In Washington, people in and out of government began reading 
 it more closely than ever before, hoping to come across some gem 
 for later conversation — and relay to the nearest Frontiersman. 
 
 With time, there will be other Herald Tribunes removed or 
 dropped from the New Frontier required-reading list. This is in- 
 evitable. By the time J.F.K. leaves office, he will dislike many pub- 
 lications intensely. And if bets this far ahead are worth anything, 
 a worthwhile wager might be that Kennedy and some of his com- 
 pany shortly after departing 1600 Pennsylvania will be writing for 
 
 220 
 
Instant History 
 
 some of the same public prints they now find increasingly un- 
 pleasant. 
 
 Since he has the economic means, it would be somewhat of a 
 poetic first if J.F.K. bought a newspaper and it turned out to be 
 the first to be banned at the White House by the New, New 
 People. 
 
 221 
 
The Fourth Olio 
 
 If there's anything truly loathed and despised in Washington, it 
 is the American tourist. 
 
 If they read this, members of the Board of Trade will deny it 
 quickly and in soothing tones, tell all America that if there's any- 
 thing truly loved and desired in Washington, it is the tourist. 
 But, sadly, this is not true. 
 
 Of course, hotels, restaurants and stores like tourists as long as 
 they put down their money and depart rather quickly. (If the 
 tourists want to be really liked in Washington, they'll mail the 
 money and stay home.) What benefits the merchant, however, pro- 
 duces revulsion in the heart of Washingtonians in and around 
 government. 
 
 Why? Well, for some reason, when people swarm into town 
 from Memphis and Boise, they have some fool idea that this is 
 their capital. It is theirs much more if they stay in Memphis and 
 Boise. Then they can be sentimental about it. But if they come to 
 town and clutter the streets, there's bound to be talk. 
 
 223 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 Frequently Washingtonians, although they may not have lived 
 here more than a month, say cruelly harsh things about the way 
 tourists dress. Women in shorts and slacks walking through the 
 Capitol; men in rumpled pants and sport shirts worn with the 
 tail out, looking up at the beautiful Lincoln Memorial; kids drip- 
 ping ice cream from a stick while waiting to go up the Washing- 
 ton Monument; a youth in a T-shirt on the steps of the amphi- 
 theater at Arlington National Cemetery. 
 
 Furthermore, there are so many of them. Sometimes, more than 
 ten thousand a day marching through the White House, restrained 
 by ropes from touching the furniture, almost as though they had 
 a right to be there. 
 
 The Washington Post carried on quite a campaign a while back 
 to have the tourists dress properly, saying, 'They don't dress prop- 
 erly because no one has told them how ... no one has put it in 
 black and white, 'This is what should be worn while sight- 
 seeing.' " 
 
 Obviously, this is a serious situation that needs, if not imme- 
 diate correction, certainly some helpful hints on clothes and ac- 
 cessories while visiting Washington. 
 
 Portable radar sets: These are helpful to strangers in determin- 
 ing when to cross a street, because the traffic lights will never tell 
 you. Washington probably is the only town in the world with 
 semi-stop lights. The same light may mean stop for one lane; not 
 for the next. Not even lifelong residents can master the traffic light 
 system, because city officials apparently receive some sort of bonus 
 for the frequency with which lights are changed. 
 
 Salt pills, oxygen tanks and portable air conditioners: For sum- 
 mer visitors. July, August and September in Washington have the 
 lovely atmosphere of equatorial jungle. Temperature and humid- 
 ity usually run neck-and-neck. If you have relatives in Washing- 
 ton, they won't be here. 
 
 Oh yes, the clothes: It does look odd, if not downright disre- 
 spectful, going into a famous national shrine in capri pants. 
 
 224 
 
The Fourth Olio 
 
 So, if you ladies are going to wear these pants, be sure to wear a 
 top, too. 
 
 And girls, under no conditions, absolutely none, should you 
 go into the Capitol in shorts and halter. Only an exceedingly reck- 
 less woman would dress in such a manner while passing the halls 
 of Congress. 
 
 For the men, it would look much better when visiting the White 
 House if you dressed completely — coat, trousers, shirt and tie. Of 
 course, you'll be a lot more comfortable in the summer if they're 
 mad.e of Kleenex. And feel free to go barefooted. 
 
 And a final word of advice. Things are bad enough in the sum- 
 mer. But even if you're out of work, don't come in the winter. 
 Probably no city of its size and weather zone knows so little about 
 snow. A slightly chilly white vapor slows traffic; a delicate rime 
 stops it; and a real snow — nobody comes to work but J. Edgar 
 Hoover. Tourists who persist in coming to Washington while 
 snow is on the ground will find no place to stay. Hotels will be 
 filled by Washingtonians who were unable to get home before the 
 snow fell. 
 
 225 
 
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 
 
 One Vast Boarding 
 House 
 
 The relationship of food to business is an odd nicety. It could have 
 originated shortly after men learned to cook and the gesture of two 
 or more of them eating together symbolized tentative, mutual ac- 
 ceptance for at least as long as the food lasted. 
 
 The gesture remains much the same today in the Good New 
 Days which have seen business-eating develop to an almost ridic- 
 ulous extent, possibly reflecting an interestingly growing need for 
 oral satisfaction. The constant mixture of food and business casts 
 other reflections. For one, a shortage of time. Vanity is another. 
 No one seems to simper quite like a Washington banquet host as 
 he leads his already over-gravied honor guest to the center of a 
 head table while guests rammed together in a stadium-like hall 
 applaud. 
 
 Washington business-eating begins shortly after dawn. Con- 
 gressmen meet constituents at 7:30 a.m. in hotel coffee shops, often 
 shooting the visiting farmer voters a sleepy-eyed line about having 
 been "up for hours." 
 
 227 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 The President meets over breakfast with Cabinet officers, con- 
 gressional leaders, ambassadors, stray potentates and, on rare occa- 
 sions, his wife and children. The same process is repeated at lunch 
 and dinner, not only at the White House but all over town. The 
 cocktail hour is a mixture of bitters and business, vermouth and 
 visitors. 
 
 Harry Truman once uttered an immortal line which we have 
 quoted many times to show the sometimes sad side of Washington 
 eating. He commented after some months in the White House, "It 
 seems like there's always somebody for supper." 
 
 Indeed there is, and for all other meals, too. 
 
 Each Cabinet officer has a private dining room and if he were 
 to eat alone, his staff would suspect one of two things: either the 
 Old Man had fallen from favor or become unhinged. 
 
 Higher-rank government officials as a matter of standing in the 
 community would never be caught lunching alone. Faced with a 
 lunch hour for which there are no invitations, a smart official will 
 eat at his desk, thus appearing too bogged down in vital matters 
 to spare a moment from work. 
 
 An assistant secretary who brings lunch from home is regarded 
 either as a health faddist, an ulcer patient, or a shifty one to be 
 watched. 
 
 Some government officials, particularly Cabinet and sub-Cabi- 
 net level, keep dinner jackets, clean shirts, and toilet articles at 
 the office. These reverse supplies enable them to work until the 
 last possible minute, shift uniforms, and dash to an intimate little 
 affair for twenty to two thousand. 
 
 The N.P. should be commended, however, for one social pat- 
 tern. While they're keen for business-eating, they have brought 
 back the relatively small dinner party for eight or ten couples. 
 This may rise from so many N.P. living in Georgetown where nar- 
 row old houses cannot accommodate more than fifteen or twenty 
 people on the same floor. 
 
 Among more active business-eaters are members of the armed 
 
 228 
 
One Vast Boarding House 
 
 services. True or not, many officers seem to feel their chances for 
 promotion depend on ability of the little lady to dish up some- 
 thing toothsome while the officer of the house pushes grog. 
 
 Pentagon neighborhood dinner parties produce ghastly tension, 
 particularly when a colonel's wife has invited several generals and 
 their ladies. A spilled glass of wine on the Paris original of a gen- 
 eral's spouse can give a lower-ranking host instant vision of far- 
 away, muddy stations. It is interesting to watch terror spread 
 through a military household when the mildly smashed wife of a 
 field-grade officer begins to play chuckle-chin, sometimes known 
 as "you dear boy," with a junior officer, preferably the colonel- 
 host. 
 
 The hapless host can't win. If he spurns the old waffle, she'll turn 
 out to be equipped with an elephantine memory which will haunt 
 him until the blessed day of his retirement. If he plays the game 
 and starts snapping her girdle, the general will either lunge for 
 his younger, more attractive wife or retire behind a cloud of cigar 
 smoke to make mental notes on the colonel's future. 
 
 The syndromic business-food relationship reaches its peak, or 
 low point, depending on digestive tract durability of the analyst, 
 in the banquet. 
 
 From early fall until late spring, with closed seasons only at 
 Christmas and Lent, government officers and large groups of often 
 hedonistic simpletons gather in enormous Washington ballrooms, 
 ice palaces and armories to be seen together; to hear speeches but 
 not converse, because this is impossible over usual banquet clatter; 
 and, during the course of such torture, they eat. 
 
 Trade and professional associations meeting in national con- 
 vention, fraternal orders, journalistic clubs and organizations, 
 pressure groups, and even the Boy Scouts — one at a time and in 
 deadly number, they bankroll large assaults on midriffs and minds 
 of men who are having enough trouble as it is running the govern- 
 ment. 
 
 Including the worst of all, the $100- or $200-a-plate gatherings 
 
 229 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 given by his political party to raise new campaign funds or pay off 
 old debts, a President is asked to several hundred banquets a year. 
 He usually ends up having to attend twenty or thirty. And if he 
 has a genuinely enjoyable time at one out of thirty, he's far ahead 
 of the game. 
 
 Roosevelt reached the point of having his own chow shipped to 
 banquets from the White House to avoid some of the creamy slum 
 offered as food. Truman, once a gusty eater, eventually became a 
 banquet dabbler. H.S.T. loved going out more than most Presi- 
 dents, but the caloric intake became too much for him and he took 
 to mashing his baked Alaska instead of eating it. 
 
 Until his 1955 heart attack, Eisenhower did his best to appear 
 pleased by banquet life, but once armed with a clearly defined 
 and well publicized excuse for avoiding high calories and late 
 hours, he began skipping many usual stops along the banquet cir- 
 cuit. Also, he struck a happy compromise of arriving at the few 
 banquets he did attend after the eating was over. 
 
 J.F.K. has had his banquet problems, too. His attendance record 
 continues to be high, but he's turned into an Ike-type "drop-in" 
 banquet guest when he can get away with it without causing polit- 
 ical insurrection or calloused insult to the host organization. 
 
 Kennedy has another factor in his favor. He has let it be known 
 that short of raising a million dollars for the party by eating in 
 Boston, Chicago or Los Angeles, he wants his Saturday nights off. 
 He has established what future Presidents may be wise to follow 
 as a behavior pattern by almost never being in Washington on 
 Saturday evening. This has a decided damping effect on many 
 banquet promoters, the bulk of whose patrons hate to get overly 
 boozed on weekday nights. 
 
 With few exceptions such as the Boy Scouts, although what their 
 adult patrons may do in private is another matter, most big ban- 
 quets are quite boozy. Many members of host organizations regard 
 this their one big night of the year, failing to realize that their 
 
 230 
 
One Vast Boarding House 
 
 more distinguished guests plow through this same ruck night after 
 night. 
 
 A perceptive Cabinet member can take one look at soup and 
 tell what his hosts paid wholesale for an entire dinner. With no 
 aspersion of any hotel intended, but in hard-headed realism, Ken- 
 nedy frequently eats just before leaving the White House. Stoked 
 in advance, he may devote most of the banquet to talking, writing 
 his ad libs on the back of a menu and shaking hands with faithful 
 who press through waiters and Secret Service men to touch the 
 hem of his tablecloth. 
 
 Out-of-town host organization members seem to whoop it up a 
 bit more than in-town counterparts. For one thing, locals who 
 think they derive some advantage from this sort of affair may be- 
 long to several organizations and they spend almost as much time 
 picking over celery and olives as, say, a Supreme Court Justice. 
 
 Freshmen Congressmen go to these dinners with relish, as do 
 lower-executive echelons, particularly in early days of a national 
 administration. At the outset of a new regime, many officials are 
 afraid to stay home nights, Thursday through Saturday. But as 
 time goes along, they become more selective — except Supreme 
 Court Justices who lead such ordinarily lonely lives that they're 
 grateful for the opportunity to be introduced from almost any 
 head table. 
 
 There are in any administration, however, a few square pegs 
 who seem to like Washington's mass eating. Possibly they dislike 
 their wives. Perhaps the old ladies lounge squiffed before TV sets 
 and refuse to cook. A few are bachelors, and some never achieve a 
 degree of job or political security which would permit them to 
 decline an invitation. 
 
 Whatever the reason, such men — these more-than-willing ban- 
 quet guests — could be detrimental to national welfare, particu- 
 larly if occupying federal posts of judgment and trust. To demon- 
 strate a healthy attitude, one almost never sees J. Edgar Hoover 
 
 231 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 at a banquet unless it is to award him another gold medal or en- 
 graved brass plaque for having kept the nation secure from crime 
 and subversion. Hoover is not alone in this sensible attitude, but 
 unfortunately, the number is few. 
 
 In fact, the F.B.I, director might take a discreet look into public 
 servants who show up every time a Florida fruit cup is unveiled. 
 Any man who, of free will and preference, would frequent Wash- 
 ington banquets when given the chance to dine instead at the 
 Golden Rule Bible Mission has, to put it charitably, a quirk. Such 
 a man is afraid of the dark, unable to live with himself and pos- 
 sessed of aberrational lust for gravy. 
 
 Produce a man who genuinely likes Washington banquets and 
 we'll be gazing upon a nut. 
 
 Yet, why do we go? Why do Presidents and those of similarly 
 high station and theoretical devotion to preservation of their fac- 
 ulties suffer such punishment? Aside from aforementioned fears, 
 it shakes down to a matter of professional necessity or what seems 
 to be a business-related need to see and be seen. 
 
 Armed with such philosophic acceptance of a bad but necessary 
 situation, it is possible to banquet and survive. 
 
 Before we seem to stray afield from the Good New Days and the 
 focal point of this book, it should be pointed out that banqueting 
 has increased under the N.P., not because of their taste for such 
 affairs as much as proliferation of host organizations, and also, 
 aggressive hotel sales staffs. 
 
 Our handy guide to Wahington banquet attendance and easy 
 rules for survival are not directed at the one-shot guest. He can 
 sober up, administer any one of various commercial packs of 
 alumna gel the next morning and return to Des Moines nearly 
 intact. Our immediate concern is for the young or middle-aged 
 male who has come to work for the government recently and must 
 show up at a number of these fiestas before feeling sufficiently 
 secure to stay at home occasionally. 
 
 First, get a large bulletin board for the home and pin up invi- 
 
 232 
 
One Vast Boarding House 
 
 tations in chronological order. This helps the family with laun- 
 dry, pressing, and knowing when the subject is liable to have a 
 cranky morning. 
 
 Virtually all invitations are for one of three or four larger 
 hotels. The engraved card will specify two target hours — cocktails 
 and dinner. A wise man gulps a shooter at home while changing 
 clothes. This prepares him for later vicissitudes, the first of which 
 will be finding a parking place if he's fool enough to drive his own 
 car. In most cases, unless one lives in Baltimore or Richmond, it 
 is wiser to leave the car at home and travel by cab. Washington 
 police circle banquet hotels in the manner of Apache scouts at- 
 tempting to pick off the sick and wounded from "Wagon Train." 
 The combination of a slightly grinning driver and evening clothes 
 is almost too much for a normal traffic officer to resist. 
 
 Once on the scene, our new official will find fifteen hundred 
 similarly clad males herded into a room suitable for occupancy 
 by about five hundred. This is the cocktail party. Before entering, 
 however, be sure to ask whose party. At some of the larger hotels, 
 there may be several simultaneous but carbon-copy affairs under 
 different sponsorship. One would not want to spend an entire 
 evening with the National Rifle Association when you accepted 
 for the Mohawk Iron and Steel dinner. This is very important, 
 because once inside the cocktail party, movement of personnel is 
 likely to be e7i bloc. 
 
 Because of this same en bloc peculiarity, be selective as the devil 
 in speaking to anyone immediately upon entering a cocktail party. 
 Cut your closest friend utterly cold if necessary. Why? Because of 
 crowded conditions which make the going-home bus at 5:15 seem 
 airy by comparison, you'll be jammed against the first person to 
 whom you speak and thus joined together until off-duty subway 
 guards push you into dinner. 
 
 Even a dear friend can become a bore, drag or pest under such 
 circumstances. It is distinctly preferable to fall into acquaintance 
 with a stranger because your growing irritability at being unable 
 
 233 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 to move will be focused on a target of little or no lasting impor- 
 tance. If this first voice contact happens to be an official who out- 
 ranks you in your own department, forbearance is the word. 
 
 As for drink, should you be fortunate enough to be pushed 
 against the bar, never under any circumstances ask for a prepared 
 cocktail. Under most opulent sponsorship, you'd only be able to 
 get a Martini or Manhattan. Banquet cocktails are made up in 
 ten-gallon lots— one part whisky or gin; one part vermouth, and 
 then apparently a lacing of kerosene or refrigerator drippings. 
 
 By all means, stick to highballs. Even better, another straight 
 shooter to top off your home fuel. A straight shot avoids spilling, 
 and those jammed against you will be grateful. 
 
 Upon reaching your table by following number cards (it'll take 
 time, because these cards never are in any logical sequence; only 
 Sicilian banquet waiters know the order and only God knows how 
 they count in Sicily), grab a program immediately. Check the seat- 
 ing list. The better banquets include a capsule identification be- 
 hind the name of each guest. Then check the place cards. If you're 
 on the spot first, rearrange the cards as you think best, careful to 
 select your own seat facing the head table and away from a folding 
 stand which will be used later for stacking dirty dishes, if such a 
 selection is geographically possible. 
 
 Often it is more fun to sit between two strangers from out of 
 town, because they're easier to impress and, conversely, easier to 
 shut off should they attempt to fascinate you with tales of life at 
 home. If there is a higher ranking guest at the table, naturally 
 you'll want to switch place cards so that he's seated at your side. 
 
 At Washington affairs where both men and women are present, 
 place-card switching presents a problem. There might be a lus- 
 trous tomato whom you cannot identify as such from the printed 
 list. Don't rely on name alone. Miss Gloria Svelte may look fine in 
 print, but she could be the toastmaster's eighty-two-year-old first- 
 grade teacher. Also, Mrs. Minerva Munch could be the legal name 
 of a ravishing visitor from Poland. These, however, are occupa- 
 
 234 
 
One Vast Boarding House 
 
 tional risks and old banquet hands have been known to race to 
 their table, destroy all place cards, then shift as the table mates 
 arrive. 
 
 The start of a banquet is the busy period. In addition to ma- 
 neuvering for table position, one must keep an eye open for pass- 
 ing dignitaries who should be greeted as fine old friends. Carry a 
 small pencil for noting the numbers of suites where after-dinner 
 cocktail parties are held; start moving the rolls, water pitcher, and 
 dish of celery and olives toward your place. 
 
 At most Washington banquets, individual tables are set for ten 
 or twelve guests. In any case, they're really eight-guest tables, so 
 one must first learn to sit and eat with elbows pressed in closely. 
 For ten guests, the hotel usually provides six stalks of celery, five 
 ripe olives and six green ones. Needless to say, get yours first. Same 
 for seafood cocktail sauce. It apparently comes only in containers 
 for six. 
 
 Before taking your seat or greeting other guests at the table, 
 check your program again. Are you at the right banquet? Check 
 the sign over the head table. If it matches the program, shake 
 hands and be seated. 
 
 Maneuvering for proper guest placement is highly important, 
 because the young official will talk to only two people the entire 
 evening — those to his right and left. A boxing announcer at Madi- 
 son Square Garden could not project sufficiently to reach two 
 seats away. To converse beyond the more immediate dining com- 
 panions requires leaning in another's salad and screaming. 
 
 This occurs at all two hundred tables at once — leaning and 
 screaming. Only society columnists and Senators seem to last 
 beyond the soup course at this forced communication. 
 
 Conversationally, the traps are many. Once your screaming 
 period of getting acquainted is over and you're contemplating the 
 limp salad, you'll be expected to exchange occasional remarks 
 with immediate companions. 
 
 Several rules here: For one, don't attempt a story, anecdote, or 
 
 235 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 statement of position with a telling time of more than a minute. 
 Otherwise you'll be interrupted by a new medley from the Marine 
 Corps Band, members of which seem to reach virtuoso peaks of 
 instrumental volume just as you explain why this is no time to 
 reduce taxes. For a bureaucrat to have such a delicate discussion 
 with the member of the Senate Finance Committee interrupted 
 by a brass choir version of "In a Persian Market" can be hazardous. 
 
 Trying to pick up the conversation at point of interruption is 
 equally risky. 
 
 At the moment you say, "Senator, Fm afraid the band stopped 
 me at a point where I seemed to oppose your bill — " there will 
 come a dreadful gavel-knocking from the head table. 
 
 The room will squabble down to an undertone of discontent 
 while the toastmaster introduces sixty-five VIP's and semi-VIP's 
 at the head table from right to left when he should have started 
 from left to right. A thin, worried clerky-looking individual will 
 sneak up behind the toastmaster, hastily rearrange his note cards, 
 and the instructions will be repeated obversely. 
 
 Meantime, the Senator sits back glaring at you, the young 
 junior official who may end up being responsible for having your 
 departmental appropriation sharply questioned in committee. 
 The fact that you're in trouble becomes moot should the Senator 
 inquire, after the head table introductions, "What was your name 
 again, son?" You may have been a big man in the Bergen County 
 Democratic organization, but you lost several points when he 
 said "son." 
 
 Thus, obvious rules of banquet safety would indicate short, 
 snappy and loud sentences. When the larded tenderloin of beef or 
 seafood thermidor is served, should one of your seatmates be your 
 host or member of the host organization, say something about the 
 food looking fine. 
 
 "My, doesn't that look wonderful," is adequate. The emphasis 
 is protective should you later determine that consumption is 
 above and beyond the call of duty, politics, or sensitive gullet. 
 
 236 
 
One Vast Boarding House 
 
 Never run down the food to an out-of-town guest or a dentist. 
 They're having fun and will regard you as a jaded spoilsport. What 
 is a dentist doing at the annual banquet for the President given 
 by the White House photographers and reporters? Don't be naive. 
 A sensible correspondent, when torn between inviting his dentist 
 or Congressman to dine with the President, is far more inclined 
 toward the dentist. And few Congressmen would blame him. 
 
 If one is seated in a clump of Democrats, it may be advisable to 
 look expertly at the head table and say, "Everett Dirksen is getting 
 older, isn't he?" Should your table be predominantly Republican, 
 "Do you think Kennedy is going downhill?" might be a starter. 
 Don't worry about the replies. You'll not hear them, but those 
 who do respond will feel the better for it. If a guest on the far side 
 of the table grows red-faced as he attempts speaking to you, par- 
 ticularly if he waves his celery, this means either he heard you in- 
 correctly or was quite moved by what you said. Pay him no heed 
 for the moment, but after dinner say something about having 
 enjoyed hearing his opinions. 
 
 Club banquets sometimes serve several wine courses, but at 
 most affairs, the so-called commercial or standard banquets, one 
 wine is par. The waiters usually slap two bottles on the table and 
 go about their business. Banquetmanship comes to play here if 
 one is a bibber. Grab one bottle immediately and, with flowery 
 graciousness, serve your immediate tablemates first. Then your 
 glass. A veteran then will shove the bottle forward into the pro- 
 tective covering of the floral centerpiece, removing it only upon 
 need. It is considered civil to offer refills to your closer two table- 
 mates, but not absolutely requisite. Should others at the table 
 ask, "Any wine left?" remain silent. Your side-by-side beneficiaries 
 will not give you away since this would interfere with their source 
 of supply. 
 
 Following demitasse, there will be from two to five speeches of 
 varying length. It is inadvisable to complain about a five-speech 
 banquet, because an official never knows when he might be invited 
 
 237 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 to speak on some future occasion. It is important, however, par- 
 ticularly when the speakers are of one's political faith, to stay 
 awake. 
 
 Nothing sticks in a Cabinet member's mind more than the 
 vision of a slumbering assistant seated beneath the dais. A drunken 
 assistant would be more forgivable, assuming, of course, he re- 
 mained ambulatory and that he applauded, not independently 
 in mid-sentence, but along with the others. 
 
 This is not meant to be a compleat banqueter, but a set of rudi- 
 mentary warnings. Time, space and sadness prohibit pointing out 
 many pitfalls. For example, the need to eat sparingly. Fill up on 
 hard rolls. They induce sleepiness much less than meat, gravy, or 
 the inevitable potato puffs which have the specific gravity of raw 
 lead when kept long enough in the great warming compartments 
 of a hotel banquet kitchen. 
 
 Nor shall we dwell at any length on after-banquet partying in 
 upstairs suites, except to advise avoidance of any gathering which 
 features a strolling accordionist. While this may be regarded as 
 posh and hospitable by the host, sound of accordion music in a 
 crowded hotel room coming on top of a long evening of high- 
 decibels in the banquet hall has been known to drive otherwise 
 sensible men to over-anesthesia. 
 
 Another warning: after-banquet bartenders get off when all the 
 liquor is consumed. Consequently, they become heavy-handed as 
 evening wears into morning. Too many one-drink-after-dinner 
 men have been stacked like cordwood in strange hotel bedrooms 
 due to stiffness imparted by hospitality suite bartenders trying to 
 get home for the Late, Late Show. 
 
 Forseeable necessity of survival of the writer on the Washington 
 banquet circuit in other seasons moves him to point out that in 
 some of the local hotels, large banquets are about as good as they 
 can be. 
 
 Friends on the staffs of such fine hotels as the Sheraton Park, 
 the Statler and the Mayflower surely will understand that any 
 
 238 
 
One Vast Boarding House 
 
 application of the foregoing to their hospices would be nothing 
 more than witless coincidence. 
 
 Furthermore, any hotel this close to as many willing victims 
 would be foolish not to push the banquet business. The larger 
 establishments employ specialized salesmen for this purpose. They 
 seek not only banquets, but conventions and meetings. 
 
 For some idea of the big-business aspect of a banquet, we asked 
 Barbara Norton of the Sheraton Park to give us a partial break- 
 down of the economics of a typical banquet for two thousand. 
 The President was a guest, as were many higher-ranking admin- 
 istration officials, associate justices and military commanders. The 
 hosts are not being identified, however, to avoid their becoming 
 embroiled in intramural punting over prices. 
 
 The hosts paid $6.75 a plate for a dinner featuring broiled 
 breast of chicken served on a thin slice of ham. The bill for the 
 dinner was $13,500 plus a mandatory tip of about $1,800, which 
 meant a hundred extra waiters and waitresses hired for the eve- 
 ning received each nearly $16 in tips for serving about twenty 
 guests. The balance of the $1,800 in tips was split between two 
 waiter captains, the banquet manager and the maitre d'hotel, 
 giving each of them close to $50. Several banquets during the 
 season make this a lucrative business not only for the hotel, but 
 for the help, too. 
 
 Most of the guests either lived in Washington or stayed at 
 other hotels. The Sheraton Park, however, did rent 125 rooms to 
 out-of-town dinner guests plus thirty-eight hospitality suites. In 
 these thirty-eight suites, the hotel grossed almost as much as it 
 did in the enormous banquet hall — $8,177 in whisky, beer and 
 soft drinks plus $1,327 in food. And $9,504 for hooch and snacks 
 in thirty-eight suites before and after dinner, while it may not 
 be anywhere near a record, shows, at the very least, a willingness 
 to try. 
 
 There were other food and bar sales throughout the hotel in 
 connection with the evening. One bar did $365 over its norm for 
 
 239 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 that night of the week. Of the 125 rooms rented because of the 
 dinner, it may be assumed that each represented at least $25 to 
 the hotel. 
 
 There was entertainment at dinner and this involved an expen- 
 diture of more than $7,000 on music, transportation of perform- 
 ers and other related items. Printing for the affair cost more than 
 $2,000 in tickets and programs. Other outlays for which precise 
 figures are not at hand would include money spent by guests stay- 
 ing at other hotels, transportation to and from Washington, for 
 cabs and meals outside the Sheraton Park, cost of manpower hired 
 by the host organization to handle ticket sales, preparation of 
 programs, hundreds of dollars in long distance calls and tele- 
 grams. 
 
 Traceable money spent within the Sheraton Park comes to 
 around $37,000 for the one night. For a fuller economic picture, 
 the untraceable expenditures would have to be added. This item 
 would amount to several thousand dollars more. It would seem 
 to make the party at least a $40,000 affair, probably a bit more. 
 
 The $40,000-plus represents money that in all probability would 
 not have changed hands or been otherwise pumped into circula- 
 tion had there been no banquet. 
 
 What were the results? What did those who spent about $20 
 per ticket receive in return? Who gained prestige? 
 
 Very little of a tangible nature except for the hotel and those 
 employed in connection with the dinner. For those who paid the 
 bills, fleeting pleasure and prestige, fulfillment of tradition and 
 a sense of having associated agreeably with those of higher station, 
 plus the hard-to-measure advantage of having made or renewed 
 theoretically valuable business contacts. And, too, the payment of 
 social obligations. 
 
 What did the guests get out of it? It varied with individuals. A 
 relative or neighbor outside the normal spectrum of government 
 celebrities, the previously noted dentist — they had the write-home 
 
 240 
 
One Vast Boarding House 
 
 thrill of having dinner in the same room with the Chief Executive 
 of, as some are inclined to say, these United States. 
 
 For the more case-hardened Washingtonians, the entertainment 
 probably was the high spot. The dinner and company? There 
 would be other evenings much like this one, and next week, too. 
 For the lobbyist, an expense account gem, a chance to write the 
 client an eyes-only report on significant conversation with signifi- 
 cant officials while appending thereto the bill for one of those 
 hospitality suites. 
 
 For the President? A duty plus some surcease provided by the 
 show. Cabinet, court, and others of similar status? About the same 
 return as that for the President, but with decidedly more freedom 
 to move around and talk with the others. In addition to the type 
 of banquet described here, the President and his top men also 
 must spend dozens of evenings each year at so-called official or 
 state dinners for visiting foreign dignitaries. These are held at 
 the White House, the State Department, and in embassies of the 
 visitors. 
 
 Put them all together and it would seem that official Washing- 
 ton plus its widening circles of attached or related personnel spend 
 an incredible amount of time in ceremonious eating. Whether the 
 hours so devoted could be more wisely spent might be argued, but 
 never determined. 
 
 In time, we may develop a Washington culture in which the 
 banquet does not figure so prominently, but there are those who 
 hope devoutly that day — or night — never comes. 
 
 There they stand, beside their gleaming kitchens, rolling bar 
 carts, huge warming ovens, freshly made beds and dusted suites, 
 and naturally, their cash registers. And beside them, with check- 
 books cocked, dinner jackets pressed and a new sign to hang over 
 the head table — the ever-ready hosts. 
 
 241 
 
/ 
 
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 
 
 A Great Town for 
 Drunks 
 
 After President Rutherford B. Hayes left the White House, he 
 looked back not so much in anger as in justifiable regret over the 
 waspish criticism he and his wife suffered for not serving whisky 
 while they were in office. 
 
 "When I became President," Hayes said in 1881, "I was fully 
 convinced that whatever might be the case in other countries and 
 with other people, in our climate and with the excitable, nervous 
 temperament of our people, the habitual use of intoxicating drinks 
 was not safe. I regarded the danger of the habit as especially great 
 in political and official life. It seemed to me that to exclude liquors 
 from the White House would be wise and useful as an example, 
 and would be approved by good people everywhere." 
 
 (Hayes, incidentally, took an occasional dram before he became 
 President, but after his election he swore off for good.) 
 
 The climate has not changed appreciably since 1881, nor has 
 the excitable, nervous temperament of the people. But their drink- 
 ing habits . . . Rutherford, you'd be positively amazed. 
 
 243 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 It must be said for the New People, they don't seem to sluice the 
 hard stuff as much as some of their predecessors. As we pointed out 
 earlier, beer is more popular. Knowledge of good little wines is 
 more of a status factor than a cellar of bourbon. And as of this 
 writing, I know of no bona fide tosspot in the present Cabinet, 
 although this was not always the case in years past. 
 
 There always have been, there are now and there always will be 
 several medium to active shellshock cases in Congress, but with- 
 out attempting a statistical survey, I offer my impression that 
 even on Capitol Hill there has been a decline in the incidence 
 of bottle fever in recent years. 
 
 What has not inclined, however, is the cocktail party. Writers 
 from T. S. Eliot to Ann Landers have taken their turns at bat 
 against the cocktail party, but they have not endured Washing- 
 ton's marathon version. It is not uncommon to hear a government 
 official, at the end of a rigorous day, moan to his secretary, "I 
 have to get out of here — three cocktail parties before dinner." 
 
 Earlier, we pointed out Kenneth Crawford's theory that the 
 cocktail glass is one of the more powerful instruments of govern- 
 ment. Actually, many Washington cocktail parties represent the 
 opposite of power — rather, a manifestation of insecurity, not 
 knowing really what to do about meeting new people, an almost 
 meaningless gesture. 
 
 Because of the never-ending drinking parties and large number 
 of out-of-town visitors who avail themselves of some of the coun- 
 try's lowest per bottle prices, Washington year after year has the 
 largest per capita whisky consumption of any major city in the 
 nation — the recent range was between five and seven gallons a year 
 per person, which, if consumed by local residents, would have 
 even the kiddies going to school on the bleary side. 
 
 There's no accurate method of computing the number of cock- 
 tail parties given here every day, but it runs into dozens in the 
 main hotels. Added to these must be several drinking jousts at 
 
 244 
 
A Great Town for Drunks 
 
 lunch or before dinner at various embassies and many more in 
 private clubs and homes. 
 
 Why are they given? To introduce, to do honor, to promote, 
 to publicize — and particularly, to bring together the known and 
 the unknown who wouldn't be caught dead with each other in 
 any other setting. 
 
 A Cabinet member, a leading Senator, a Supreme Court Justice 
 would not think of going to the office of a corporation executive 
 to have a drink with him. But they'll go to his cocktail party 
 largely as a matter of tagging the better bases, leaving no possible 
 stone of friendship unturned. 
 
 Government officials quickly become accustomed to being enter- 
 tained far more than they entertain, with the exception of certain 
 State Department officials who must pour almost nightly, it seems, 
 for the steady stream of foreign dignitaries who must be given 
 cocktail parties, frequently called receptions, even if they don't 
 touch the stuff. 
 
 Embassies give countless cocktail parties, sometimes two a day, 
 to launch new members of the staff or visiting firemen from the 
 old country; to celebrate various national holidays, or simply 
 because the ambassador feels that some of his colleagues are work- 
 ing into the federal structure more intimately than he can claim. 
 
 There are members of Congress mightily opposed to official ex- 
 penditure on hooch, at home or by our embassies abroad. These 
 men can take this attitude rather freely because they're never very 
 far from free hooch themselves, not as long as they open their 
 invitations and can recall the location of varied mezzanines. 
 
 Where the Washington cocktail system reaches its most point- 
 less stage is in the afternoon spreads of industrial, commercial, 
 civic and fraternal groups plus lobbyists, pressure packs and even 
 out-of-town individuals striving for any audience. Major auto- 
 mobile companies give Washington cocktail parties to introduce 
 new models. Motion picture companies pour before advance show- 
 ings for government elite. These parties usually are given in hotel 
 
 245 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 suites, parlors or, for some of the larger affairs, in ballrooms. 
 Sometimes, when business is slow, even the hotels give parties ap- 
 parently for the sheer hell of it. 
 
 The sad thing about this type of party is its waste of time and 
 effort. It may be an overrated instrument of business, but also a 
 terrific bore — a tax-deductible bore, however. The waste results in 
 important part from the fact that most commercial cocktail par- 
 ties are frightfully easy to get into, and this tends to lower the 
 caliber of the guest list. 
 
 A man with a clean shirt and halfway presentable suit, but 
 known only to God and his landlady, can remain well-fed and 
 moderately drunk six nights a week at the better hotels. If he 
 stays on this circuit and doesn't throw up on a host, he's bound 
 to make friends and thus line up some action for Sunday when 
 Washington bars are closed theoretically (oh, they close all right, 
 but it is possible to give a cocktail party in a hotel on Sunday by 
 ordering and paying for the whisky on Saturday). 
 
 There are slumps in late summer when our strange hobbyist 
 would be forced to go dry occasionally, but with any cleverness 
 and the right exposure, he could work onto a few embassy invita- 
 tion lists and get through the dog days with the Indonesians or 
 Malayans, who serve a lot of fruit juice but usually have a jug 
 around for American guests. 
 
 Hard-pressed public relations men, during the busy season, will 
 set up well-stocked bars for mid-morning press conferences where 
 new products are unveiled or corporation executives satisfy 
 strange vanities by reading aloud completely unnewsworthy state- 
 ments to a handful of trade-paper correspondents. 
 
 This has to be a somewhat misguided folkway rather than a 
 hard-headed, cause-and-effect business relationship. The corporate 
 or trade association cocktail party may gratify the hosts by the 
 misty idea that if a Cabinet member makes an appearance, this 
 means the host will be able to get him on the telephone a few 
 days hence. It does not mean that at all. If the host could not get 
 
 246 
 
A Great Town for Drunks 
 
 the Cabinet member on the phone before the party, chances of his 
 ability appreciating in ratio to cocktails served is dim indeed. 
 
 But this does nothing to deter the enthusiasm of the party givers, 
 even though many of their guests may be present entirely due to a 
 mixup in dates, times or places. 
 
 Some few years back, Earl Godwin was one of the nation's most 
 noted radio commentators. The late Godwin was a highly sought- 
 after cocktail party guest, as David Brinkley, Howard K. Smith or 
 William Lawrence would be today in some circles. Earl dropped 
 by the White House press room one afternoon and we discovered 
 that both of us were headed for the same party. It was being given 
 at the Statler for some visiting executives of the National Broad- 
 casting Company for which Earl broadcast. 
 
 Arriving on the mezzanine floor. Earl and I looked into the 
 first private banquet room we passed and saw a number of familiar 
 faces around the bar, including a number of big names at NBC 
 such as Richard Harkness and Morgan Beatty. 
 
 "This must be us," Earl said, and in we barged. 
 
 After about an hour, several of us at the bar started to leave — 
 for another party. A smiling man at the door obviously was the 
 host, because he was shaking hands with the departees. 
 
 Grasping the man's hand, I gushed, "Thanks for having me — 
 NBC always gives such swell parties." 
 
 "They do?" he said rather coolly. "Well, I'm glad you came to 
 our party, too." 
 
 Earl, who knew everybody in creation, was bothered that he 
 didn't know the host's name. So he asked. 
 
 "I'm Earl Godwin and I work for you people," he said. "I 
 thought I knew everybody in the organization." 
 
 "Really, Mr. Godwin?" the man said in obvious confusion. "I 
 didn't know that. I'm Joe Blank of the Cement Manufacturers 
 Association and we're delighted to have you with us today." 
 
 Only then did we discover that the NBC party was two doors 
 down the hall. 
 
 247 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 The cheapest form of Washington cocktail party — and I sup- 
 pose this blight afflicts other cities, too — is the one where only 
 Martinis and Manhattans are served. The Martinis at such affairs 
 are prefabricated from what seems to be a mixture of olive juice 
 and kerosene, possibly left over from a banquet. The Manhattans 
 are equally deadly in their economy — two parts prune juice, one 
 part paregoric. 
 
 The economy party usually is given in desperation by indi- 
 viduals or organizations on spidery financial shoestrings. They 
 arrange with a hotel to serve drinks at the lowest possible price 
 per head. Knowing full well that there are thirsty people who will 
 drink even this prestirred hemlock, the hotels protect their 
 slender profit by closing the bar in exactly two hours. 
 
 This sends the guest away fighting mad. He did not like the 
 drinks to begin with, but after two or three jolts of alcoholic 
 algae offered as cocktails, he dislikes even more being cut off from 
 the source of supply. 
 
 What's more, he pays a quarter to go to the bathroom, another 
 quarter to retrieve his hat and coat. On the way out of the hotel, 
 he stops in the regular bar for a few bourbons to kill the taste of 
 the horrible free stuff, arrives home bright-eyed, aromatic and two 
 hours late for dinner, has a swacking good row with his wife, and 
 next day he must buy dinner and theater tickets to emerge from 
 her doghouse. And forever more, he devotes part of each day to 
 blackening the name of the man or organization responsible foi* 
 that cocktail party. 
 
 Older hands at giving Washington parties seem to have mas- 
 tered the trick of appearing completely generous while actually 
 pinching pennies. This is best accomplished by covering the bar 
 at the start with cocktail glasses filled to the brim with Martinis 
 and Manhattans, but having the bartender secretly armed with 
 Scotch, bourbon and a supply of ice and highball glasses. This 
 smart host never displays his full stock of highball whisky. He 
 permits it to show only a bottle at a time. 
 
 248 
 
A Great Town for Drunks 
 
 And when he wants to end his party, he weans his guests. The 
 bottled goods gradually disappear, leaving only the array of, by 
 now, lukewarm cocktails. Any guest who quaffed several highballs 
 and topped them off with a Martini or two is going to leave 
 shortly, if not entirely under his own power. 
 
 There also is the lavish party, the cost of which can be borne 
 only by ambassadors in quest of increased American aid, the 
 Russian embassy to remember the October Revolution, or by 
 genuine moguls. These fellows watch the gate carefully. Their 
 guests are many, but well-screened. The sharpies don't crash many 
 of these affairs, the portals of which are guarded by experts on 
 the current crop of floaters. 
 
 The economy party has nothing but lousy drinks and potato 
 chips. As the drinks improve, so does the food — and the cost. Any 
 party offering hot and cold canapes plus shrimp and stuffed celery 
 is getting close to the top. Even on the rarefied level, however, a 
 constant guest must be blessed with the insides of a concrete mixer. 
 No lion of the Seregenti plains could make it through the evening 
 without a digestive remedy after stuffing on fried shrimp and 
 oysters which have been slowly ossified in a Washington cocktail 
 party chafing dish. 
 
 The people who inhabit these affairs are frequently as indi- 
 gestible as the food. 
 
 One must expect to encounter certain types at any Washington 
 gathering. Perhaps they exist in other cities, but not with the in- 
 tensity and devotion to duty, nutriment and other forms of self- 
 improvement. 
 
 Join us at a late afternoon affair given to introduce the new 
 officers of the International Cough Drop Association. If you were 
 here last week, you could have met virtually the same people 
 who're also the new officers of the International Nose Drop As- 
 sociation. And their guests are virtually the same, too. 
 
 The room, the drinks, the canapes, the bartenders — all the 
 same. 
 
 249 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 The man at the door — this is the Federal Room of the Statler 
 Hilton — is not the ICDA president, but a Lutheran pastor look- 
 ing for a meeting, on the same mezzanine floor, of a group dedi- 
 cated to the International Control of Drug Addiction (also 
 ICDA). Because he sees dimly familiar faces streaming before 
 him, he thinks he's in the right place, but he'll catch on in a few 
 minutes when a half-smashed Congressman arrives, claps him on 
 the back and says, "You old son of a bitch, how's the cough-drop 
 business?" 
 
 That fellow moving toward you with a broad, hearty smile and 
 arms outstretched, well-dressed, well-groomed but with slightly 
 crossed eyes? The reason for his effusive hospitality is that you're 
 a stranger. Not knowing you, he's taking no chance that you 
 might be important. This gentleman has no known means of 
 existence, but he's always on hand — in the front row of Congres- 
 sional hearings, at prominent funerals (sometimes the less promi- 
 nent, if there's nothing much doing in town), in the box seat 
 section of the baseball park although he never sits. He is as typical 
 of Washington as the majority leader of the Senate. His hidden 
 means of livelihood, and a miserable one it is, involve the mixed 
 duties of tout, pimp, gossip and errand boy. (One of our earlier- 
 mentioned Charlies.) 
 
 This particular fellow claims to know every cop. He should, 
 for the manner in which he patrols the hotels, checking up on 
 scheduled parties for the evening. He made $100 yesterday for 
 taking a senile Oregon lumberman to the International Plywood 
 Association offices in a .$15 limousine ("I'll get you in with no 
 trouble at all"). 
 
 That glamorous woman by the buffet, stoking away fried oysters 
 and hot cheese balls. She's also typical of Washington. How does 
 she keep that wonderful figure and eat all that stuff? First, that's 
 all she does eat, and man, if you covered territory like that baby, 
 you'd stay slim, too. She's a stenographer down at Agriculture 
 and she heard about this party through her boss in the Sugar 
 
 250 
 
A Great Town for Drunks 
 
 division (cough drops use an important amount of sugar). She 
 and the seven girls with whom she shares a two-room apartment 
 operate an efficient intelligence service on the location of free 
 food and hooch. 
 
 Sure, she's well-dressed — her cocktail sheath must have cost 
 somebody $300. It did, the original owner. This girl bought it 
 secondhand. These are her working clothes. She can get falling- 
 down stewed but never spill a drop of cocktail sauce on the dress. 
 She has what must be a ten-gallon stomach. She hopes to meet a 
 Credit Card who'll take her to dinner, but against the possibility 
 of a miss-out, she'll put away at least 2,000 calories at the buffet 
 table. 
 
 Does she sleep around? Not as much as you might think. Of 
 course, every now and then you run into a Miss Punchboard at 
 one of these cookouts, but the percentage is low. There's a reason. 
 This girl and many like her in Washington are playing for keeps. 
 They do this sort of party-hopping to stay in circulation, to cut 
 the cost of groceries, and, more important, to spot a husband. In 
 the office where she works, most of the men are married and make 
 little more than she does. 
 
 After a few exploratory jousts when she first arrived here from 
 Chattanooga, she learned there was little future in backseat love 
 with one of the office Romeos. She's on the party circuit as an 
 alternative to the girls' bowling league or Y.W.C.A. cooking 
 school. If you want to take a try at her, walk on over, introduce 
 yourself, invite her to dinner. Don't worry about where, she'll 
 know a good place. And take money. But this girl is not a gold 
 digger in the classic sense. She doesn't want your cash, but when 
 you look at the tab in the flickering light of the cherries jubilee, 
 take it like a man. 
 
 Those four men together at the bar. They're junior officials in 
 the same office where the girl works. True, they look like average 
 guys from your town of Scranton. They are. Each has a wife, a 
 young child and a leaden mortgage on identical 1 13,500 shacks 
 
 251 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 in Barony Estates. They get to only a couple of these parties a 
 year (they usually make the Beet Sugar Producers reception) and 
 for an hour or two (time makes little difference since they are 
 the car pool) they can get a little spiffed and escape the dreadful 
 sameness of their lives. 
 
 You'll notice that with fresh drinks (fine bourbon with ginger 
 ale because they've become accustomed to drinking cheap blended 
 rye and ginger on Saturday nights) they move in a group toward 
 the food. Yes, one might think they'd split up and try to meet new 
 people, possibly open a way to advancement or opportunity out- 
 side the government. Not these poor guys. They're out of their 
 league, they know it and they'd be struck dumb before a man of 
 importance. Their world is horribly limited. Listen to their con- 
 versation. 
 
 "When Mr. Giles brought the QM-4 reports in to me today, I 
 thought I'd had it." 
 
 "Why, Jer? What's so tough about QM-4's? Y'oughta have some 
 of my ID-8's." 
 
 "Yeah, Jer, I've just worked through a stack of AR-50's and, 
 brother, a QM-4 would be a relief." 
 
 "Rob, you know as well as I do — the QM-4 may be bulky but 
 it's simple. When Mr. Giles came in, however, I'd just finished 
 my QM-5's and the thought of QM-4's was too much. I was about 
 ready to put in for my T-I-I." 
 
 "T-I-I? What's that, Jer?" 
 
 "This Is It." 
 
 They broke into uproarious laughter, and, almost choking on 
 a stalk of stuffed celery, Rob whooped, "Holy cow, I must re- 
 member that." 
 
 There are thousands of men and women in Washington who 
 can and do talk like this for hours, days and even years. It is the 
 language of certain levels of government, a dismally sparse argot 
 of serial numbers, initials and bloodless symbols which guide the 
 flood of forms where there is never enough space for your full 
 
 252 
 
A Great Town for Drunks 
 
 name and home address; the make-work credentials of bureauc- 
 racy; the papers of our existence. 
 
 We'll have time to study only one or two more of the guests 
 here if we're going to get to the next party. The Shovel-Makers 
 League, down the hall. This crowd will move there, anyway, so 
 you won't miss much. 
 
 That man working his way through the crowd like a fellow giv- 
 ing away money? He's the Congressman who ran into the Lutheran 
 preacher. The biggest cough-drop plant in America is in this 
 Congressman's district. There are 452 workers in the plant, and 
 every two years he goes to the front gate of the plant and shakes 
 hands with employees as they leave for the day, smelling of 
 licorice, horehound, menthol and wild cherry. 
 
 Notice the way he shakes hands. A simple handclasp for a 
 stranger. For a casual acquaintance, the handshake with the other 
 hand at the acquaintance's elbow; for any woman under eighty, 
 a handshake with both hands; for a real friend, the shake with 
 one hand and vigorous shoulder-slapping with the other. And for 
 another Congressman who only this afternoon denounced him as 
 a scab on the behind of progress, the double-armed embrazo with 
 a cry of delirious joy, "Why, Clyde, you old son of a bitch, how's 
 that beautiful wife of yours?" 
 
 We'll be visiting other wigwams as this baleful Baedeker con- 
 tinues, but, for the moment, the guide must step outside for a 
 breath of fresh air. Oh, those three lonely men over in the corner? 
 They have not spoken to a soul for the past thirty minutes, not 
 even to each other. This is understandable. They're the honor 
 guests. The new officers of the ICDA. 
 
 Because our survey has been largely limited to the more distaste- 
 ful type of Washington drink-outs, mention should be made as a 
 matter of fairness of a device that marks the upper echelon as- 
 semblies. This is the eternal champagne punch fountain. 
 
 These gurgling re-circulators are seen in other cities as conver- 
 sation pieces for wedding receptions, but they are used frequently 
 
 253 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 in Washington to ram home the idea that this is a cut above other 
 cocktail parties. This could be very well true — until a bibber 
 bibs some of the frothy fluid trickling from silver spouts into a 
 catch basin suggestive of the swirling bowl beside a dentist's chair. 
 The liquid apparently at one time contained a few jiggers of 
 champagne mixed with orange juice and corn syrup, but any 
 early life has been flailed thoroughly from the champagne by the 
 time it makes several trips through the pump. 
 
 Observing one of these horrors piddling its faint song of con- 
 viviality at a party away from the White House, the then President 
 Truman said to a friend, with deep feeling that could have come 
 only from bitter experience, "That, my boy, is pure slop. It'll rust 
 your innards." 
 
 254 
 
CHAPTER NINETEEN 
 
 Sights and Sounds 
 Unavailable on the 
 $3 Tour 
 
 Before ending this visit with the New People and their Washing- 
 ton, it might be wise to accent some of the positive rather than 
 depart in a mood of cynicism and hooting. 
 
 It is impossible to poke fun at the N.P., because they are fun 
 in many of their moments; but this isn't to say they are to be 
 measured solely by superficialities. 
 
 History takes care of the more definitive appraisal of a political 
 era, but sadly, the historians sometimes become so overburdened 
 with monumental matters that they fail to tell us how the people 
 lived or behaved. 
 
 Obviously all Washington today does not consist of clever 
 young marrieds leaping into distinguished swimming pools or 
 shouting flawless French from Porsche to Porsche. 
 
 Our town contains important human elements and countless 
 scenes which are never heard or seen by millions of tourists who 
 trail through the capital each year from California to Chad. They 
 see handsome buildings and majestic monuments; chambers of 
 
 255 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 Congress, art galleries and museums; historic residences such as 
 Mount Vernon and the home of Robert E. Lee. During the spring 
 and summer they tour public rooms of the White House at a rate 
 of better than five thousand persons an hour. 
 
 This is the proud and handsome face of Washington. Behind 
 it are countless and deeply interesting sights and sounds which 
 could never be available on a $3 tour — or, for that matter, |300 
 or $3,000. 
 
 Being in town for relatively short periods, tourists start their 
 sightseeing early in the morning after jamming hotel coffee shops 
 and cafeterias for breakfast. Those four fellows at the next table 
 in the Statler coffee shop look like businessmen here to confer 
 with the Commerce Department. Also, they may be some of the 
 government's top administrators jamming in a 7 a.m. breakfast 
 conference before getting to their offices a little after eight o'clock. 
 
 Probably in no major city in the world are so many gilt-edged 
 celebrities so hard to recognize. Tourists, for example, stare at 
 big limousines in street traffic, not realizing that many of the 
 government's more important officials move in fleets of black 
 Fords or Chevrolets. 
 
 Sightseeing buses would never see my next-door neighbor, Sen- 
 ator Carl Curtis of Nebraska, a decidedly conservative Republi- 
 can, standing patiently in line with his cart of groceries in a 
 suburban supermarket. The public at times forgets or fails to 
 realize that prominent political figures, leaders of government, 
 and diplomats have families and home responsibilities. 
 
 Carl Curtis certainly is not cited here as an example of the N.P. 
 We mention him fleetingly to illustrate that Senators have stepped 
 far from their broad-rimmed, string-tied image of a few decades 
 ago and are now found quite commonly in habitats other than 
 the Mayflower and Sheraton Park hotels. 
 
 The cartoon image of Washington personalities persists in 
 many minds, the shape depending largely on the source of in- 
 
 256 
 
Sights and Sounds Unavailable on the $3 Tour 
 
 formation — glamorous slick magazines, newspaper society sec- 
 tions, weekly news magazines, TV and radio accounts and com- 
 mentaries. 
 
 The typical wife of a Washington official is, to many non- 
 Washingtonians, a vivacious, ever-active lady, always stunningly 
 gowned, squired by a handsome husband in dinner clothes, and 
 more important to the out-of-town housewife, the typical Wash- 
 ington official couple seem always together except during bother- 
 some daytime working hours. Even then, we see the Washington 
 wife at exciting luncheons or standing in receiving lines for visit- 
 ing dignitaries. 
 
 Naturally, the story-tellers — the sightseers — miss Mrs. Smiling 
 Little Cabinet on more representative evenings when she dines 
 with the children after Father's good-night call from the office; 
 driving kids to various schools; endless telephone chants entreat- 
 ing her to help at still another charity bazaar; weekly Spanish 
 class; Chinese cooking school; occasional urgent calls from Henry 
 — ^jump into a dinner dress and make it from Spring Valley to the 
 Pentagon in twenty minutes with his evening clothes; they've 
 just been asked to sub for a cancellation at the Secretary's dinner. 
 
 Neither would it make particularly attractive reading or telling 
 to go into the dreary, low-paid loneliness of wives on a much 
 lower echelon, the slowly neurotic wives of federal men whose 
 jobs are highly classified and require frequent, unheralded and 
 prolonged absences from home. 
 
 These are the wives of the law enforcement and intelligence 
 agency men, trouble-shooters for the armed forces, investigators 
 of everything vile and sad from narcotics to airline crashes. 
 
 There are literally thousands of such job-widows in Washing- 
 ton. Their comfort and ability to stave off unstabilizing worry 
 must come in great part from each other, and from the sometimes 
 blessed daytime preoccupation with children. Many have jobs. 
 This may help ease pressure on Mike's paycheck, but there comes 
 
 257 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 a time at night when money and children are no substitute for 
 the man. 
 
 Starting in World War II but reaching new heights of re- 
 sponsibility and prominence in more recent years is a seldom- 
 seen group which in time might become the new aristocracy of 
 government — the friendly killers. This is perhaps an unkind 
 label for scientists who devote themselves largely to developing 
 better nuclear weapons — the missile designers and space experts. 
 
 I have a friend who lives in our suburban section of Chevy 
 Chase, outwardly one of the most peaceable, conventional civic 
 club and youth movement types imaginable. His rambling house 
 is a clutter of dogs and children, where seldom is heard even a 
 phrase that might identify his profession. He and his wife devote 
 long hours to church and neighborhood activities. When he 
 stands bony-kneed in shorts that make him seem thinner than he 
 is, and calls with affectionate gruffness to a pack of Cub Scouts, 
 "Let's get a move on, men," it is hard to realize his professional 
 hours are devoted to designing and testing some of the more 
 murderous rockets and missiles in the arsenal of the West. 
 
 Even before Eisenhower left office, this man and his wife were 
 decidedly N.P. in political philosophy, behavior and intellectual 
 taste. Seen on the street by out-of-town visitors, it would be amaz- 
 ing if he attracted even a passing glance, because he looks for all 
 the world like another tourist. 
 
 Dr. Glenn T. Seaborg, chairman of the Atomic Energy Com- 
 mission, or John A. McCone, director of Central Intelligence, two 
 of the more important officials in our teeter-board avoidance of 
 conflict no nation can afford, move freely about the city with 
 little or no recognition, even from long-time residents. 
 
 In a hotel lobby, one might take tall, gangling Seaborg for a 
 touring professor. Compact, gray-haired and with noticeably as- 
 sured, penetrating eyes, McCone has the look of an all-business 
 banker. 
 
 258 
 
Sights and Sounds Unavailable on the $3 Tour 
 
 Ted Sorensen, one of the closer and more constant advisers to 
 President Kennedy and certainly one of the more influential 
 figures on the New Frontier, seems like the headmaster of a good 
 boys' school or a competent slide-rule man from the Budget 
 Bureau as he strolls across Lafayette Square to the quiet dining 
 room of the Hay Adams House for lunch. 
 
 The Hay Adams dining room, incidentally, probably has more 
 influential figures from the executive branch of government and 
 journalism per square inch during the midday hours than most 
 comparable eating establishments. 
 
 The Hay Adams is a quietly venerable hotel just across the 
 square from the White House. The dining room has an atmos- 
 phere of hushed conservatism which often is counterimage to 
 some of the torrid issues being discussed at its lamp-lighted lunch- 
 eon tables. A taproom in the basement where lunch also is served 
 might be a better place to seek out the sports-car wing of the N.P. 
 The mood below stairs at the Hay Adams has zip. 
 
 And speaking of new or current modes in Washington food 
 and drink purveyors, note was made earlier of the Red Fox Tavern 
 in Middleburg which would darned well be spoiled if much more 
 note is made. We've also mentioned The Place Where Louie 
 Dwells as a better boite. 
 
 The Red Fox is about an hour to ninety minutes from the center 
 of Washington, depending on traffic conditions, and thus would 
 be rather difficult to reach for luncheon if one had to return to 
 work. For the visitor, however, it is a somewhat surprising ex- 
 perience in haute cuisine at lunch or dinner. 
 
 Louie's is another matter. Take money, but prepare to eat well. 
 It is one of the darkest restaurants since the discovery of elec- 
 tricity. This may well be one of the prime attractions for so many 
 top political figures. Vice President Johnson and Dick Nixon 
 could be dining at adjoining tables and never see each other. 
 
 The restaurant is a wasp-waisted series of tiny red-walled (I'm 
 
 259 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 told) dining rooms on the ground floor. The owner-operators are 
 Bill and Pat Reisinger, an affable couple who seemed to have 
 gotten in the boite business because they were tired of being 
 gouged by others. The Reisingers are now getting even, but feed- 
 ing their clients extremely well. At midday they feature a special 
 luncheon for New Frontier women — two vodka Martinis, a low- 
 calorie salad and iced coffee. This keeps the young matron slim 
 and sluiced. 
 
 Upstairs at Louie's is an even darker area. It is a living-room 
 type of bar, lighted in dark blue. Ghostly streaks of dim white at 
 about knee level are long, narrow cocktail tables of marble ob- 
 viously obtained from a headstone establishment during a slack 
 season. All drinks — cocktails, highballs, sarsaparilla — are served 
 in enormous brandy inhalers. 
 
 Drinking in the dark apparently can be fun, but seasoned 
 patrons manage to leave before 2 a.m. when, I also am told, the 
 lights suddenly flare up to full mazda, women scream into their 
 compact mirrors, and kindly attendants begin shepherding the 
 flock down a flight of narrow stairs matched in pitch only by those 
 of the Washington Monument. 
 
 Louie's is at Third and G Streets, NW, and no more unlikely 
 neighborhood for a fine spa could have been selected. On the 
 other hand, one would expect Georgetown to abound in sophisti- 
 cated dining and drinking spots — and it does. Billy Martin's Car- 
 riage House, for one, is a handsome oaken reminder of colonial 
 tavern days. Martin's appears just old enough to be fashionable 
 for the N.P. 
 
 One of the newer Georgetown shrines is a spanking modern 
 hotel, which we mentioned before, the Georgetown Inn. The 
 decor and service, however, are quite Old World. Some Wash- 
 ingtonians have been struck more by the parking-lot attendants 
 than four restaurants in the Inn. 
 
 One alights from his car in a covered driveway to confront a 
 
 260 
 
Sights and Sounds Unavailable on the $3 Tour 
 
 platoon of husky young men, all of whom appear to be blood 
 relatives of Jungle Jim. After adjusting to the sight of white T- 
 shirts, khaki shorts and simulated cork helmets, the next step is 
 the doorman, a startling vision of scarlet uniform which seems to 
 have drawn together the finer points of dress from the 'Lasses 
 White Minstrels, Guarde Republicaine of Elysees Palace and the 
 Canadian Royal Mounted. There are other scenic treats inside 
 which we won't attempt to spoil for potential visitors, except to 
 say the decor is a most welcome relief from too-functional mod- 
 ernity that marks many newer hotels. 
 
 Before we veered off into a dilute version of Duncan Hines, 
 there was, at least, the start of an effort to correct possible im- 
 pressions that because the social customs and behavior patterns 
 of Washington N.P. frequently are so entertaining and attractive 
 that a tendency develops to judge them superficially. 
 
 To their credit, the N.P. have injected a long-needed element 
 of firsthand knowledge of international affairs into life of the 
 American political community which for too many years had 
 deferred to diplomats in this field. 
 
 Speaking of a new political fashion whereby candidates of the 
 sixties enhance their position at home by far-swinging field trips 
 overseas, the New York Times noted not long ago: 
 
 "Nobody stays home any more talking about stopped drains or 
 other local problems, but moves out on the world stage and lets 
 the voters see him yonder brooding prominently on the larger 
 fate of mankind." 
 
 There are conformists, conservatives and the generally un- 
 comfortable who would prefer to see their political figures less 
 preoccupied with foreign affairs. While this attitude may warrant 
 a certain amount of sympathy, it fails to consider the way in 
 which nations are being pushed closer together by high-speed 
 transportation and such instantaneous communications as Tel- 
 star. 
 
 261 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 Aside from destructive gadgets which have been under constant 
 development since the dawn of the sharpened stick, one of the 
 truly great marks of the Good New Days was Telstar. 
 
 After this intercontinental space relay system for television and 
 telephone calls is perfected to put us in instantaneous audio- 
 visual contact with the rest of the world, it might develop into a 
 great deterrent to savagery. Should man's social development 
 continue to lag behind scientific progress, Telstar also might be 
 able to keep us posted pictorially and with up-to-the-second audio 
 on genuine killing as it happens from Southeast Asian jungles to 
 the Berlin Wall. 
 
 This, of course, would make it difficult to keep kiddies in- 
 terested in make-believe bloodletting of some of the current TV 
 favorites. Even box-top premiums could not be expected to com- 
 pete for youthful viewer interest with the actual sight and sound 
 of an East German refugee being riddled by submachine-gun fire 
 while attempting to swim the canal leading to West Berlin. 
 
 It may offend the O.P., but the N.P. have been responsible for 
 a more informal atmosphere in Washington and less rigorous 
 conduct of government, particularly its ceremonial aspects, along 
 inflexible lines of protocol and tradition. Preservation of mean- 
 ingful tradition is one thing, and desirable, but to continue an 
 uncomfortable custom simply because it has been in effect for 
 years is inconsistent with other areas of progress in the sixties. 
 
 Rightly or wrongly, the N.P. have injected into national life a 
 steady stream of new schemes, plans and ideas, some so advanced 
 as to defeat practicality; others startingly simple. 
 
 In any loosely contained flood of new ideas lies danger for a 
 national administration. Political opponents invariably select the 
 wilder, more impractical suggestions as representative of an over- 
 all program. This, of course, distorts the true picture, but it 
 frequently makes for good negative politics. 
 
 With zest, zeal and intellectual overtime displayed in abun- 
 
 262 
 
Sights and Sounds Unavailable on the $3 Tour 
 
 dance by the N.P., they also have their moments of shortsighted- 
 ness, bias, prejudice and needlessly argumentative verbosity. 
 
 As we pointed out earlier, some N.P. are so overflowing in the 
 intellectual endowment, to say nothing of financial security, that 
 they regard government as a marvelous game. Some of their 
 women folk view political recruitment with the gleeful excite- 
 ment of a Junior League Tag Day. 
 
 Some N.P. seem surprisingly impressed by the appurtenances 
 of high federal station; the social rights and privileges that go 
 with even middle-rank government jobs. Professors who are back 
 in good Washington graces again after having spent some years 
 as underground eggheads seem to be among the larger suckers 
 for local social bait. This may be understandable, if not for- 
 givable, considering some of their unglittering moments in 
 campus social life. 
 
 Morally, the N.P. seem to be about as good as any politically 
 motivated faction but they profess to such high dedication that 
 there is always a danger their purity may interfere with detection 
 of termites that bore into any political structure. Referring back 
 to Sherman Adams, it seemed to some relatively dispassionate 
 students of his plight that, as one of the prime architects of the 
 Eisenhower Crusade, he inveighed against evil (particularly as 
 he found it under Truman) for so long that he developed an air 
 of some immunity. 
 
 Although Adams might want to quarrel with this idea, it 
 seemed to some competent outsiders that his vision became so 
 directed to sins of the other side that similar faults in those allied 
 with him became difficult to detect. 
 
 This is meant as no Adams analogy but the politicians crying 
 out against sin in others may bring to mind the classic tragedy of 
 the preacher who hurls fire and brimstone from the pulpit, then 
 pads around the choir loft after hours with a toothsome beauty. 
 
 The analogy of the miscreant pastor, however, might be ap- 
 
 263 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 plied in a loose way to some of the more vocal N.P. who see total 
 evil and/or granite stupidity in the O.P.; the particularly young 
 N.P. who date history from Jan. 20, 1961. To this history-blind 
 sect, Eisenhower represented eight lost years; Truman a period of 
 crude valor; F.D.R., the Leader, without question, but primarily 
 great for his time. 
 
 Unrelieved totality of political belief also is a mark of awkward 
 newness. The more experienced activist does not attempt balance 
 in his beliefs but he reaches a stage where he accepts an occasional 
 point for the opposition. He may go so far as to confide to a 
 highly trusted associate, "I wish we had a man like Joe Blow 
 gunning for our side." 
 
 We have catalogued the N.P. largely as Democrats but Re- 
 publicans are working energetically to recruit their own N.P. and, 
 while Frontiersmen dislike the thought, the G.O.P. is making 
 what its leaders regard as heartening progress. 
 
 Should Republican efforts in this direction bear fruit in any 
 volume, the intellectual traffic jam in Washington could be ter- 
 rifying. God knows what would happen to real estate prices in 
 Georgetown with a second wave of eggheads. Establishment of a 
 second Youth Front in Washington would mean still more new 
 styles, new oracles and new thought; probably more of those 
 annoying foreign motorcars; new guest lists; unreliable stag lines. 
 
 It would be awful for the O.P. and particularly the Cave Dwel- 
 lers if the Republicans entice hundreds of bright young people 
 to the city. For one thing, it would be a trying experience just in 
 keeping the two Youth Fronts well and separately identified. The 
 Young Republicans would have money, too, and clutter every 
 club in town. 
 
 This would leave Constitution Hall and possibly the Sulgrave 
 Club available for meetings where the O.P. could recall with in- 
 dignant anger, as well as nostalgia, what they refer to in their 
 softly complaining voices as the Good Old Days. 
 
 264 
 
Sights and Sounds Unavailable on the $3 Tour 
 
 Nostalgia may have certain comforts but not among them is 
 the ability to resurrect time. The O.P. know this in their hearts 
 but when they look out on what once was such a graceful city, 
 where one knew position and stuck to it, little wonder they recoil 
 from sounds of so many new languages, strange dark men in 
 striped robes, brisk young strangers looking out from the society 
 pages, new talk, or what was that word he used the other day — 
 "dialogue?" 
 
 265 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY 
 
 Eventide on the 
 Potomac 
 
 In a third-floor rented bedroom of a slightly bowed Georgetown 
 house two girls gabbed excitedly as they stood bare shoulder to 
 shoulder in their slips before a single murky mirror, busily fluffing, 
 combing and anointing for the evening ahead. 
 
 "You'll love Ab," Doris said as she carefully lined the upper 
 lid of an eye in luminescent blue. "He's a fifteen." 
 
 "Funny, I've never been out with a fifteen before," Milly said 
 to her hairbrush. "Is he old or queer or something?" 
 
 Doris shifted to the other eye with jeweler's precision. 
 
 "Why do you have to say something like that? Why should Ab 
 be queer?" 
 
 "He's not married and he's a fifteen." 
 
 "Sure, lots of them in that grade are not married. He had a 
 good job in electronics and got blanketed in when the Democrats 
 were elected." 
 
 "A fifteen makes an awfully good salary." 
 
 "You're not kidding. If I weren't going with Joe who's just a 
 
 267 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 ten, I sure wouldn't be fixing you up with Ah. He's cute, and a 
 fifteen at that. . . ." 
 
 Three blocks away in another Georgetown establishment a 
 remotely similar appraisal was in progress. It was a handsome 
 house on Prospect Place, elegantly furnished. The attention of 
 all who entered was forced to a ceiling-high picture window at 
 the southern end of the living room. 
 
 A pouchy man with carefully combed, thinning gray hair stood 
 beside the window gazing idly at early season canoeists on the 
 Potomac and the drab, squat outline of the Arlington business 
 buildings on the other side. While he sipped a Martini with one 
 hand, a handsome woman put a cuff link in the other sleeve of his 
 frilly dinner shirt. 
 
 With the remaining cuff link in her mouth, her words were a 
 trifle garbled. 
 
 "Vi, I cannot translate your gibberish," he said. One sleeve 
 finished, she spat the cuff link into her hand and addressed him. 
 
 "If I had been quoting a price on mollybend steel, you would 
 have understood," she said with laughter flickering in her shrewd 
 brown eyes. Her dress, a short dinner sheath of white raw silk, 
 showed a tanned, firm bosom. Her teeth spoke of physical good 
 fortune or a fortunately good dentist. 
 
 The man made a kissing motion toward her. 
 
 "Switch hands so I can get the other sleeve," she said. He obeyed 
 with a quiet smile. 
 
 "What I said," she continued, "was why is the man Duncan so 
 important to us?" 
 
 With the second cuff link placed, the man walked to a rolling 
 bar with its own electric ice chest and freshened his drink from a 
 crystal pitcher. 
 
 "He is highly important if you want to travel this summer in 
 the style to which you have become accustomed," he said. 
 "Duncan is quite a bore. In fact, he's something of a shit. We are, 
 however, thirty days from the end of the fiscal year and Mr. 
 
 268 
 
Eventide on the Potomac 
 
 Duncan is in charge of one phase of the space program which still 
 has some twenty million dollars in uncommitted funds. 
 
 "If this money is not committed very shortly, it will revert to 
 the general treasury and one of the companies I represent will 
 have lost a golden opportunity to place a highly lucrative contract 
 for something the government will have to buy sooner or later. 
 Now, my dear sister, are you convinced that Mr. Duncan is a man 
 of superb charm, exquisite taste and a joy to behold?" 
 
 Her smooth helmet of golden hair shone in the fading sun- 
 light reflected from the river. 
 
 "Mr. Duncan just became Tab Hunter, my sweet," she said. 
 "But please, Paul, when there's just the two of us like this, don't 
 call me your sister. . . ." 
 
 At the White House, a suddenly called meeting of the National 
 Security Council was breaking up. Most of the participants moved 
 across the lawn to government cars waiting in the south driveway 
 while the President paused at his door for a few final words with 
 the Secretary of State. 
 
 The meeting had been in the Cabinet room. Trusted Negro 
 messengers walked around the coffin-shaped table, carefully pick- 
 ing up scratch pads in hard leather holders with automatic 
 pencils. The top sheet of each pad, some with doodles and scrib- 
 bled words, were ripped off and stuffed in a canvas bag for later 
 burning in a special basement furnace. 
 
 "Be sure to call me tonight if we hear from Bangkok," the Presi- 
 dent said. 
 
 "By all means," said the Cabinet officer, fastening the catch on 
 his brief case, "but it might be late." 
 
 "I'll be up late anyway," the President said resignedly. "We're 
 having a small dinner, some of my wife's friends. I know I'll be 
 up until after midnight. . . ." 
 
 In an enormous mansion astride a low wooded hill on Foxhall 
 Road, a fat old woman walked with puffed-ankle effort around 
 
 269 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 her sparkling dinner table. She was trailed by a milky young man 
 in a white dinner jacket. She jabbed a wrinkled finger at a gleam- 
 ing wineglass. 
 
 "That one is chipped," she said in a flat voice. Her brown lace 
 gown caught on the edge of one of the twenty dinner chairs. The 
 household manager bent quickly to free it. 
 
 She checked a place card. 
 
 "Yes," she said absently. "He wanted his sister seated by Mr. 
 Duncan. . . ." 
 
 In the society department of a newspaper downtown, a middle- 
 aged woman ruffled her sheaf of notes and began to type, "Mrs. 
 Edgar Landsdown chose a Space Age motif last night for her 
 season's curtain call. It was the last of her traditional dinners-for- 
 twenty before the famous hostess flies away to Switzerland for a 
 restful summer at her chalet. . . ." 
 
 Out in the suburbs, the fast check-out counter for no more 
 than six items at the Giant Food Market buzzed with action. A 
 short, perspiring man in heavy spectacles put down three cans of 
 dog food, a steak, a box of frozen peas and a carton of Cokes. 
 
 "Does the carton of Cokes violate your six-item rule?" he asked 
 the checker. 
 
 "No sir, they're all in one package," the youth replied. "Say, 
 aren't you a Senator or something?" 
 
 The customer smiled weakly. "Yes, thank you, I'm Senator 
 Berkstrom of Iowa." 
 
 "I had you spotted, Senator," the checker said. "I seen you on 
 'Meet the Press' or 'Huntley-Brinkley' or one of them shows. My 
 wife and me watch TV all the time. That will be five twenty- 
 five. . . ." 
 
 Late afternoon also was a busy time in other parts of the capital. 
 Not far from Chevy Chase Circle, in the wing of a house that 
 
 270 
 
Eventide on the Potomac 
 
 served as the doctor's office, a patient leaned back in a comfortable 
 leather chair and toyed with his cigaret lighter as he talked to 
 a psychiatrist. 
 
 "There is nothing wrong," said the doctor in a firm, low voice, 
 "with being a Congressman and still trying to improve one's 
 mental health." 
 
 "But if it ever gets out that I've been seeing a psychiatrist — " 
 
 "What so terribly awful would happen?" 
 
 "I'd get my pants licked in the next election, that's what." 
 
 "Do you think you're the only member of Congress receiving 
 psychiatric treatment?" 
 
 "I've heard about one Senator, but those fellows only run every 
 six years; and besides, he's just a drunk." 
 
 "And you are to be censured for trying to help your wife and 
 children have a better life?" 
 
 "You don't know what a backwoods politician can do with a 
 thing like this — 'I've never said my opponent was crazy, but I 
 don't know about this sick-ee-attry stuff.' I can just hear 'em." 
 
 "What else do you hear?" 
 
 "Now, by God, you're getting as bad as my opposition." 
 
 Five blocks from the shining Capitol dome, two police officers 
 in summer shirts stood inside a jumbled, fetid living room where 
 a negress lay sobbing on a lumpy couch, one side of her formless 
 cotton dress ripped in an angry tear. One of the officers stepped 
 across the room and cut off the TV set. There was an empty bottle 
 and glass on top of the set. 
 
 "The man is alive," the policeman said coldly. "He didn't have 
 any heart attack. He was just drunk." 
 
 "You'll get him down there to the jail and kill him," she 
 moaned without raising her head. 
 
 "No," the officer said wearily, "but you better go down to the 
 jail tomorrow if you have enough money to get him out. How 
 many times is this for him?" 
 
 271 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 She sat up and turned angrily on the officers. 
 
 "You police always know when it's payday, don't you? . . ." 
 
 In the patio of a pleasant low -roofed home in Virginia, just 
 south of Alexandria, a young woman in khaki shirt and denim 
 shorts brushed the hair from her eyes as she retrieved a tennis 
 shoe from the driveway. The last of several station wagons pulled 
 away bearing fudge-smeared Brownies as a small car zipped into 
 the drive. 
 
 The woman walked swiftly with a clean, assured stride to throw 
 her arms around the handsome man who stepped from the auto. 
 
 "And how is my great bureaucrat this lovely night?" she asked. 
 
 "Delighted," he said, "utterly delighted — and a bit shocked, I 
 might say, to find the wife of the Assistant Secretary of Interior 
 looking like a beautiful teen-ager — a teen-ager who's been 
 around." 
 
 "Don't kid me, mister, I've had my moments — you've never 
 lived until you have made fudge with a pack of Brownies." 
 
 "Where's Karen?" 
 
 "Soaking off ten pounds of chocolate." 
 
 "Did the office call just before I got here?" 
 
 "Unless they called loudly, I don't think I could have heard 
 over the Brownies." 
 
 "There's a meeting I may have to look in on tonight." 
 
 Her pretty, mobile face deadened. 
 
 "Not again." 
 
 "At least, I'll be able to eat at home. . . ." 
 
 The meeting which the Assistant Secretary might attend, if his 
 boss, the Secretary of Interior, could not, was in early progress at 
 one of the large mid-town hotels. There was the inevitable cock- 
 tail party at six to be followed by dinner at eight, all under the 
 auspices of an organization of petroleum producers. 
 
 The first guests were arriving in an enormous cocktail room 
 
 272 
 
Eventide on the Potomac 
 
 across a red-carpeted corridor from the banquet hall. Impassive, 
 mess-jacketed bartenders waited behind four imitation bamboo 
 bars, two men at each station. 
 
 One of the bartenders, a Cuban understandably nicknamed 
 Fidel, sliced lemon peel slowly as he chatted with his partner, a 
 Filipino known to thousands of Washington cocktail party guests 
 as MacArthur. 
 
 "What's this thing tonight, Mac?" 
 
 Scooping ice into highball glasses in preparation for the on- 
 coming crush, MacArthur replied languidly, "Something about 
 oil." 
 
 "Christ, another load of oil men." 
 
 "You don't like oil men?" 
 
 "Oh sure, buddy, I like everybody. Is this the same bunch that 
 tore the clothes off some girl after dinner last year?" 
 
 "No, that was concrete." 
 
 "I musta been off for the oil thing last year." 
 
 "They tip good, real good." 
 
 "That makes 'em A-okay in my book." 
 
 "Lotsa girls. Good-lookin' ones, too." 
 
 "Lotsa government brass?" 
 
 "Oh sure, the same — Congress, a few Supreme Court. . . ." 
 
 As the hour neared seven, the alternating current of Washing- 
 ton life cast lights and shadows of many colors. 
 
 In the spacious, quiet office of the Secretary of Interior, a tired 
 man reached for a white telephone. 
 
 "Get me Jackson at home, please." 
 
 He put down the telephone and picked up a voluminous re- 
 port bound in stiff black cardboard. A light blinked on the base 
 of the instrument and he picked up the receiver. 
 
 "Jack, I'm sorry as hell, but you'll have to make that oil dinner 
 for me. I've already called them. Give them our straight pitch on 
 resource development, but stay out of trouble on import quotas. 
 
 273 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 I explained, but you'd better explain again— I'm tied up on a 
 matter of national security, but as Assistant Secretary, you're fully 
 authorized to present my views. 
 
 "Sure, Jack. And one thing more. Stay away from that fellow 
 McCabe if you can. He may not know it, but he has us by the balls 
 on that land deal in Idaho. Until we figure a way out, let's keep 
 our distance. Okay, good boy. Jack. Give 'em hell. My love to your 
 wife and Karen. . . ." 
 
 In a brightly lighted fourth-floor apartment atop one of the 
 new buildings in southeast Washington overlooking the putrid 
 Anacostia River, two couples were drinking beer in the living 
 room. 
 
 "By golly, I've waited a full year for some of Mabel's chili," 
 said one of the men. 
 
 His wife backed up his point. 
 
 "Mabel, Joe isn't kidding. He must have mentioned your chili 
 a dozen times." 
 
 Mabel smiled with proper modesty and glanced at her husband, 
 Sinclair. She was shamefully proud of him. Sinnie was four years 
 younger than Joe, but both of them had entered the F.B.I, at the 
 same time; both earned the same salary. 
 
 A telephone rang in the apartment's only bedroom and Sinclair 
 went to answer. The wives exchanged brief glances while Joe 
 swirled the beer in his sweaty can. After several minutes, Mabel, 
 the hostess, got up and smoothed her new rayon knit dress. 
 
 Sinclair walked back into the room, beer can still in hand. He 
 took a last gulp and looked at Mabel almost imploringly as he 
 spoke to Joe. 
 
 "The girls better go ahead and eat, Joe. We've got business." 
 
 "Not again," said Mabel with a frown. 
 
 "It's always this way," said the other wife. 
 
 "Overnight?" Joe asked. 
 
 "Several. I'll pack a bag in a couple of minutes and pick you 
 
 274 
 
Eventide on the Potomac 
 
 up at your place. I'll drive and we can leave your car here for the 
 girls " 
 
 Across the Anacostia and down Pennsylvania Avenue at the 
 Justice Department, the Attorney General sat behind his table- 
 like desk, face drawn and worried in the greenish glow of a single 
 desk lamp. Across from him with stone-idol impassiveness and 
 tapping a heavy blue file folder on his knee, sat the F.B.I, director. 
 
 "These are two of our best men, as you know," the director 
 said, "and if any of our agents can handle this one, these men can. 
 They're quite familiar with the situation." 
 
 "Yes, I know, Charlie," the Attorney General said impatiently. 
 "But be sure you back them up with plenty of support." 
 
 "Everything of that nature will be in order," the director said 
 drily. 
 
 "Don't give me that 'everything in order' crap," the Cabinet 
 officer said loudly. Then he drooped. "I'm sorry, Charlie, but 
 these cases are piling up, aren't they?" 
 
 "There's no closed season for sabotage or espionage, Gen- 
 eral. . . ." 
 
 Several blocks down Pennsylvania Avenue, in the grill of one 
 of the hotels, four young people sat around a corner table, away 
 from the full effects of the electric organ played on a dais behind 
 the bar by an intently smiling woman who in two more pounds 
 would be mildly overweight. 
 
 Two young men, two younger women. Heads together over 
 bottles of Dutch beer. The men had short haircuts, button-down 
 narrow-striped shirts, small dark ties, subdued and unpadded 
 jackets. The girls were in similar good, but in somewhat un- 
 decorative dark dresses, their hair done rather plainly, and little 
 makeup except mascara. 
 
 Their common denominator was intensity in conversation, 
 their utter imperviousness to the cocktail clutter and sounds 
 
 275 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 around them. The men worked at C.I. A., the girls at the State 
 Department. 
 
 "I don't care what he says," said one of the men, staring straight 
 into the rapt eyes of his date across the table, "the M.G. without 
 a doubt is a vastly superior buy to any Karman-Gia made." 
 
 "But you'll never get the mileage and still the performance that 
 I get out of my Gia," the other man insisted. . . . 
 
 Many lights still burned in the new Senate Office Building; and 
 in one of the more select offices, location of which indicated rank 
 of the lawmaker, three Senators sat around a paper-piled desk. 
 There was space cleared for a bourbon bottle, ice dish, a water 
 pitcher and several plain tumblers. 
 
 "Gentlemen, the company and the whisky are grand," said one 
 of the men, "but I think we've about exhausted the subject." 
 
 "I guess you're right, Frank. There's no point in rushing tear- 
 ass into hearings until we get some solid word from the White 
 House." 
 
 "The President is hoping for something tonight from Bangkok." 
 
 "I'd feel a lot better if he'd sent someone else to Bangkok. That 
 fellow really disturbs me. I don't care if he's the world's greatest 
 trouble-shooter — he talks funny. He can't say a simple declarative 
 sentence unless he's on television." 
 
 "Say, friend," the host Senator exploded, "you might have an 
 idea. Tell the President to keep a TV camera with that guy while 
 he's negotiating. . . ." 
 
 At a church not far from the center of Washington, the rector 
 was in his upstairs study with a weeping woman. She was over the 
 hill in looks, but well-dressed. Through the cracked emulsion of 
 her face there was evidence that she'd once been quite attractive as 
 would befit a so-called leader of society. 
 
 She tried to smooth away her tears with tissue. 
 
 "I'm dreadfully sorry, John." 
 
 276 
 
Eventide on the Potomac 
 
 "Grace, we've known each other many years." 
 
 "John, you're the first person I've breathed this to. . . ." 
 
 "Where is he now?" 
 
 "Here in town, at our — or his apartment." 
 
 "Do you know she's there with him?" 
 
 "Well, there was the letter and then the telephone calls. I've 
 driven by the place." 
 
 "If you suspect this, why do you remain in Warrentown?" 
 
 "I suppose I just don't want to face the awful truth." 
 
 "Maybe there isn't any awful truth, Grace. Maybe it is just as he 
 says — he's tied up so late in town and so tired that he just can't 
 drive that distance every day." 
 
 "But these horrible, nasty calls." 
 
 "These things happen, Grace. Why don't you do this? — when 
 he's home next weekend, say to him that you want to spend sev- 
 eral nights in town and will come to the apartment with him." 
 
 "John, I simply cannot, I simply can't." 
 
 "Why not, my dear?" 
 
 "I hate to say it, but he has only a double bed there." 
 
 By now her tears had stopped and she fished in her bag for a 
 mirror. 
 
 "It would make no difference, John. I wouldn't get a wink of 
 sleep. I cannot — I'm sorry, but I'm so high-strung — I absolutely 
 cannot sleep in a bed with another person. I haven't for years. . . ." 
 
 In the church basement, a room used during morning hours 
 for nursery school, more than two dozen men hunched awkwardly 
 in small, bright red chairs around the low-level tables. 
 
 A man at the head of the room tapped a pencil against a soft 
 drink bottle. 
 
 "Fellows, it is seven-thirty and we'd better get started because 
 we have some new men here tonight. Before we begin, I think we'd 
 should revert to our old rule of first names only. I haven't had a 
 chance to meet all of our visitors and they may not appreciate the 
 
 277 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 fact that us old drunks gave up long ago on anonymity because 
 we're so damned proud of being sober. 
 
 "Like I say, I don't know all you new guys. Some of you prob- 
 ably are in government and you're saying to yourselves, 'I'll get 
 the boot if my boss finds I've turned to A.A. for help with my 
 drinking. . . .' 
 
 "It may make you feel better to know that among us tonight is 
 a line admiral on active duty, a man pretty high at State." 
 
 In a night duty office at the Pentagon across the Potomac, two 
 Army colonels stood before a top-secret war map covering an 
 entire side of the room. 
 
 "There she is, buddy, and you're welcome to her," said the 
 colonel going off duty. 
 
 "I'm glad to see the pins haven't moved since last night." 
 
 "You may get to move a pin yet." 
 
 "Not tonight?" 
 
 "Yep, tonight. Maybe. That thing in Southeast Asia is touch- 
 and-go. You'll find a mess of orders. The Secretary is downriver 
 on the Sequoia with the German defense people. Give the Sequoia 
 a hot rocket the minute anything comes in from Bangkok. I don't 
 think the Secretary will want to use the scrambler, but he may 
 want to hightail it home. There's all the poop." 
 
 "Say, our wives have a big drill worked up for Sunday. 
 Rita tell you?" 
 
 "No, we've been busy as hell all day and I couldn't get out to 
 call her." 
 
 "She'll tell you tonight, Ev, and get ready to spend and spend 
 and spend. They want to do the Shoreham Terrace." 
 
 "Okay, fellow, I'll go rob my money belt. And peace. . . ." 
 
 One of nation's more famous TV news shows was about to go 
 on the air from a large air-cooled studio over in town. The com- 
 mentator, toupee in place and light tan pancake makeup saving a 
 
 278 
 
Eventide on the Potomac 
 
 late shave, mumbled a dry run over his script ". . . the future of 
 world peace may well depend tonight on a meeting scheduled to 
 start within a few hours in the steamy Asian city of Bangkok . . . 
 say, Hoot, or whoever wrote this crud . . . isn't 'steamy Asian city' 
 a little corny? . . . why not just plain Bangkok?" 
 
 A voice came over the flat-toned studio intercom. 
 
 "Don't forget, Clyde, you're the world's most colorful reporter." 
 
 "Color-schmolor. I'm not Lowell Thomas." 
 
 An assistant director on the brightly lighted set muttered not 
 too softly to a camerman, "Brother, you can say that again." 
 
 "I heard that, you bastard," the commentator said without 
 looking up from his script. 
 
 The camera crew cackled appreciatively. The old boy was in a 
 good mood. The show oughta swing tonight. 
 
 "One minute to air," the loudspeaker blurped. 
 
 "How about that Bangkok line?" the commentator wanted to 
 know. 
 
 "Clyde, will you settle for 'ancient Bangkok'? Don't forget 
 you're over film at that point." 
 
 "Ancient Bangkok it is." 
 
 He reached behind the aspirin sign which proclaimed the 
 show's sponsorship and swigged at a small medicine bottle filled 
 with sherry. 
 
 "Fifteen seconds," the hidden voice boomed. . . . 
 
 In Lafayette Square facing the White House, a police corporal 
 came to the door of the men's comfort station and motioned to his 
 partner waiting in a squad car at the curb. 
 
 "There's two of 'em in here about to claw each other to pieces," 
 the corporal said, "and I ain't tackling two queens alone with my 
 bare hands." 
 
 "Why don't you let 'em finish it and we just send for the 
 ambulance?" the other cop said as he climbed from the cruiser. 
 
 "We may have to do that anyway. They got beer openers." 
 
 279 
 
The Good New Days 
 
 "This a little early at night for 'em, isn't it?" 
 
 "Watch it inside. There may be a third one in the toilet." 
 
 From the eighth floor of one of the cheaper hotels, visiting high 
 school boys bombed passers-by with paper bags of water. On the 
 lobby level, there were delighted squeals by girls in the party 
 from Elmhurst, Long Island, as they peered daringly through the 
 door. An Indian couple glared up from the sidewalk, dark 
 splotches of water showing on the woman's purple sari. . . , 
 
 In the penthouse of a nearby modernistic office building, the 
 president of a powerful labor union was calling it a day. He pushed 
 a buzzer on his desk and a motherly-looking woman came through 
 the paneled door. 
 
 "Well, Margaret, what say we close shop?" 
 
 "I still have a few letters." 
 
 "Leave them till morning. You know there isn't a member of 
 this union who would put in the hours we do, is there?" 
 
 "But you never strike." 
 
 The union president laughed and reached for a box on his desk. 
 
 "By golly, Margaret, that's good. I think I'll have a cigar on that. 
 Will you call my car for me, please? . . ." 
 
 "You're not going to change clothes?" 
 
 "For that old Landsdown woman? Hell, I won't even wash for 
 her." 
 
 "If you dislike her so much, Mr. Edwards, why do you go to her 
 house?" 
 
 "This is only the second time in three years. I'll tell you why 
 I'm going tonight. The guest list interests me. There just might 
 be something going on that I ought to know about. . . ." 
 
 This was eventide in Washington, capital of the nation and, 
 some say, of the world. The free world, or what we call the free 
 world. 
 
 280 
 
Eventide on the Potomac 
 
 Quite obviously much of the foregoing must be allegorical lest 
 an author find himself looking down the business end of a libel 
 suit. But the allegory is neither invalid nor farfetched. Aside from 
 literary liberty with names and places, it IS our town at the close 
 of a fairly normal day. Not all of the town, of course. But the 
 selected components are faithful. 
 
 As Frank Carpenter wrote nearly seventy years ago, the town 
 is a living curiosity, almost make-believe in its instability. 
 
 281 
 
Postlude 
 
 The Good New Days was written largely as a contemporary 
 sketchbook and not a definitive effort at socio-political analysis. 
 
 For the highly sensitive participant, there may be sections of 
 the book which seem too raffish, too given to rock-throwing. Be at 
 peace, dear friends. This is an anti-monument book. 
 
 Too often learned history tends to resemble monuments in that 
 one sees the classic outline without being able to capture the flavor 
 or personality of those memorialized. 
 
 And as any sensible sightseer would agree, Washington has 
 entirely too many monuments. 
 
 283 
 
Acknowledgments 
 
 The author is deeply grateful to those who assisted in preparation 
 of The Good New Days, including Mrs. Eleanor Baustien of 
 Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania, and Miss Susie Silverman of Wash- 
 ington. 
 
 A special note of appreciation, too, to Timothy and Allison 
 Smith for their help. 
 
 Written 1961-62 at: 
 Washington 
 Swiftwater Lake 
 Middleburg 
 Hyannis 
 Newport 
 Palm Beach 
 Boothbay Harbor 
 And other rugged outposts. 
 
 285 
 
University of 
 Connecticut 
 
 Libraries