Chapter I

November, Washington DC 

     Hoping I could arrive without being recognized, I flew in the night before on the last flight to D.C. A few people at the airport recognized me, but since it was almost eleven and they were anxious to get to their destinations, they didn’t ask for selfies or insist on shaking my hand. 

I’ve received far more recognition than a congressman from a tiny town in upstate New York typically receives. 

     I’ve been lucky. Over the years, when a television program or newspaper needed a puff piece – a lighthearted segment to fill unused time or space – they chose me. I was “Jimmy Fitzpatrick, a favorite of Merv Griffin and Johnny Carson,” “now Congressman Jimmy Fitzpatrick, who prefers the subway over chauffeur-driven cars and limos, and can be seen playing Simon Says with children in the park.” Variations on that theme might include mentioning my thick white hair, lean angular frame, said to resemble a leprechaun and my “advanced age.” All fine with me, although I fail to see any resemblance to a leprechaun. What used to be free publicity for me and the charities I support, was now unwelcome attention. 

     After a breakfast of dry cereal, petrified raisins and black coffee with three teaspoons of sugar to kill the taste, I returned my kitchen to its former state before checking my desk containing my important papers, including my will and the note from my doctor stating that I had early stage dementia – everything just as I’d left it. I had all last week to plan a boring day. 

     Call in my order to Good Luck Garden: wonton soup for lunch, subgum chow mein for dinner. The last can of pineapple for dessert. After lunch – pack. Fill two large suitcases with most every article of clothing I own, plus toiletries and odds and ends from the medicine cabinet. Destroy my pc. Dispose of half in the incinerator. Place the remainder in a doubled paper bag; take it to the airport and dispose of it there. Around four o’clock, arrange to be picked up at six pm and taken to the airport in time for the last flight to Seabrite, Florida. Eat dinner at four thirty. Finally, double check the kitchen and bathroom, dust, vacuum and mop. “No excuse for leaving my condo a mess,” I reminded myself. Five forty-five, place luggage, plus bag in elevator, wait for driver on the sidewalk and depart. Watch news on television in between. 

     “I talk to myself. So what!” I'm not senile, no matter what the idiot doctor I saw believes.” It was so easy to convince him. If I’m apprehended, not killed, I’m hoping to be declared senile. An old-age home for a confused old man has to be preferable to jail. My designated legal guardians will make certain the lodgings are comfortable and the meals, if not gourmet, are palatable. 

     I often talk to my wife Isabel who died eleven years ago. Isabel was an intelligent, exceptionally kind woman. I wonder if she would consider killing the current president a despicable crime or a heroic act. I truly hope, a heroic act, since I anticipate being killed in the process. 

     Yesterday, before leaving the cabin, I discussed recent modifications to my plan to assassinate Griff with Einstein, the nickname I deliberately chose to annoy my good friend when we argue. It’s not easy debating a genius. “I realize that I’m not the only one who would like to assassinate the man,” I’d said, “but I’m the best candidate for the job. Do you know anyone who could design and make a concealable lethal weapon that wouldn’t set off metal detectors? No! And look at me. Every assassin whose age I can trace is thirty-five years old or younger. At eighty-three, I’m the least likely person to be considered a threat. Other than our Tuesdays’ friends, I have no one, not one family member who remembers I’m alive. And I’ve gone to great lengths to protect you, and our mutual friends, from suspicion of complicity or collusion.” 

     It’s not as though we’re unaware of the Grifter’s intentions. He’s had three of the last four years to show us exactly who he is – an unscrupulous, greedy, dangerous man – and for the next four years, the most dangerous man in the world. After decimating every federal department, he’s replaced respected civil servants, from top to bottom, with lackeys. 

     Three weeks ago, my worst fears had become reality. Elliot Griff won and Republicans retained their hold on both branches. Griff personally campaigned for the opponent of every Republican in office who had opposed him in any way. 

     “The man is a vindictive SOB.” Our Constitution, with its checks and balances, should have been able to stop him, but complicit or intimidated Republicans have the majority in the House and Senate. I’m only one of four hundred thirty-five representatives in the House. I’m not deserting under fire. My one vote is useless. His new tactic is issuing executive orders and memorandums, thereby bypassing any need for congressional approval. Our Constitution is under assault and crashing. 

     Forget the icing on the cake. A far better picture: cherries on manure. Griff’s horde of thugs looking for any excuse for violence. People of color, immigrants, and Asian Americans were their favorite targets, but opposing elected officials and their families were not immune. Griff has only to suggest displeasure with an individual or group and his Bully Boys, my name for them, attack. He promises pardons to any supporter jailed.

     And if that wasn’t enough to inspire assassination, we have Griff’s Supreme Court. As long as I can remember, whether we agreed with the Court’s rulings or not, Americans used to believe, if Supreme Court Justices of both parties weren’t godlike, they were principled human beings intent on protecting Democracy. Not any more. He has six of the nine Supreme Court Justices under his thumb doing his bidding. 

     “There’s a lot to learn from history, despite the Grifter’s disdain for it.” The man is unable to discuss WWI, WWII, NATO, the Iron Curtain or G11. I watched in disgust when he couldn’t come up with the names of the current German Chancellor or the Prime Minister of Great Britain on a television interview. But he had no difficulty remembering the name of his buddy Vladimir Putin. 

I looked at my watch. Too early to call Good Luck Garden. I walked into my bedroom, removed a suitcase from the closet, removed the dust with a dirty sock from the laundry basket and placed it on my bed. 

     “Plenty of time. No need to rush,” I reminded myself, as I sank into my recliner. One thing I know for certain and accept, I will not be described sympathetically by history. One cannot commit murder and claim the moral high ground, no matter the justification. Political assassins are usually seen to be insane, zealots, attention-craving loners or power-seeking opponents. I’ll probably be assigned someplace in that group. You’d have to search far and wide to find anyone able to recall the name of the man who killed Archduke Ferdinand and his wife, in Sarajevo Austria. I can’t. The year? I think it was 1914. A very bad day for the royal couple. The first unsuccessful attempt was a bomb thrown at their car. The second go at it: the perpetrator stood on the car’s running board, leaned in and fired a pistol at point-blank range. Since both efforts were attempts to free Bosnia and Herzegovina of Austria-Hungarian rule, I’d have to admit their motives were political – ill-thought out – but political. Country after country was dragged into WWI for no good reason. Even worse, it led to WWII, which took millions of lives. 

     In my opinion, Caligula and Julius Caesar's assassinations were the only defensible assassinations in history. March 15th, 44 BC, senators, including several Caesar considered friends, stabbed him. Surely, they considered their motive justifiable. Five years earlier, before Caesar had declared himself Dictator for Life, the Roman Empire was a Republic governed by elected senators. His assassination was intended to restore the Republic. The effort was futile. The Republic was never restored. 

     “Assassinating Lincoln was a stupid despicable crime.” John Wilkes Booth was an actor. I read that he was depressed after a spate of critical newspaper reviews. I understand the frustration. “Lousy reviews can make you question your talent, your sanity, your agent, your decision to pursue your career.” I understand the frustration but not the response. I’ve had my share of disappointing reviews and I think twice before stepping on a cockroach. Even when I was drunk. leave 

     I was thirty-nine when life doing stand-up was over. I didn’t quit show business, show business dumped me. For almost two years, my professional life slowly disappeared. I arrived late at bookings, too plastered to speak intelligibly, or not at all. Harry, my agent, dragged me to AA meetings, without success. Other people’s sad stories sailed past me. I had no interest in being rewarded with chips. My personal Higher Power, the Guy who was supposed to help me get sober, led me to the liquor store. 

     I remember being in my cabin, when I read the letter from Fran, my ex-wife of five years. It said that she refused to send our daughter Jennifer to me for her summer vacation. In addition, Fran threatened to have the court declare me an unfit parent if I objected or attempted to see my daughter. After reading it a second time, I placed the letter on my desk, walked into the shower fully dressed and turned on the cold water.       

     “Fitzpatrick men don’t blubber. That ends with diapers,” my father had told me as he walked past my bedroom. I’d taken a pummeling in the schoolyard from a boy a grade ahead. I’d managed to hold back the tears during the fight, but thinking I wouldn’t be heard and recalling my humiliation, I cried. I was six and hadn’t wept since that day.

     When I left the shower, at thirty-nine, I became a recovering alcoholic. Easier decided than accomplished. I lost track of the days I spent drenched in sweat, trembling, vomiting, hallucinating and rereading Fran’s letter. Maybe three weeks had passed, I decided to take stock of my life. It was too late to become a high school history teacher. 

     I needed a plan. To my astonishment, a sober clear head helped. I could sublet my apartment. I owned the cabin outright, purchased shortly after I had my first gig in Vegas, where I never hit the tables. I was too busy staring at the television set in my room and drinking, to gamble. 

     Back then, three or four times a year, I was doing two shows a night in Vegas, at the Desert Inn, plus a midnight spot wherever Harry booked me. If I was lucky I did a few television gigs a year. When I wasn’t in Vegas, I was in New York, working the comedy clubs in Manhattan, Brooklyn and Queens, where the pay ranged from pathetic to decent. In the Seventies, I worked where I’d started, in the Catskills, except that now I was booked at the biggest and best borscht belt hotels. An Irish comedian featured on the Borscht Belt? The Borsch Belt didn’t discriminate. It didn’t matter if the entire audience was Jewish, top acts were welcome and well paid. Back then, the money was rolling in. 

     In upstate New York, we’re raised to be thrifty. I performed in bars but I never hung out in them. Despite my alcohol consumption, I paid the bills and banked the rest. But living in New York City was expensive. Rent, airfare, food, taxies, tips, alimony, child support, and of course, liquor. It all added up. I had pitifully little left in my bank account. But, if I could convince Fran to be patient for her alimony, when I got back on my feet, I would pay every cent I owed her. If my plan succeeded. 

     I should never have let that wonderful woman go. Fran agreed before explaining that she was seeing someone – a widower who didn’t wander around the country chasing fame, had a reliable income and was unfailingly kind to our daughter. He also dressed better than I did. No surprise there. Most every man I know dresses better than I do.

     Alimony payments would end in May, when they tied the knot. Child support would continue. 

     “What do I have to do for you to allow Jennifer to stay with me? Even for a week. I miss her terribly. I hate not being able to see her.” 

     “One year sober. Twelve months. Don’t even think about trying to fool me. I know you tipsy, sloshed, fall down drunk, passed out and everything in between. No bloodshot eyes. Outstretched hands steady. One year, Jimmy.” 

     “I hear the Vatican has you on the shortlist for sainthood, Fran.” 

     “This has to be my third time on that list. When should I expect to hear from the Vatican?” 

     “You’re a saint in my book, Fran. Please tell my Sweet Jenny that I love her and miss her. Kiss her for me. Thank you. Thank you.” 

     Equal parts excited and terrified, thirty minutes later, tightening my sphincter, I dialed my agent: groveled, begged, whined, pleaded and described the disgusting effects of attaining sobriety. Finally, Harry bought it. 

     I called his office every Monday morning, at eleven am, to check on progress. By noon I considered becoming a monk. 

     After eight months of hounding casting directors, swearing that I would be stone-cold sober, Harry succeeded. He had booked my first television gig in over two years. 

“You owe me, big time, Jimmy. Big time! Are you listening? Big Time!” Harry shouted. “You’re going on The Tonight Show.” 

     I moved the receiver a half inch from my ear and managed to croak, “The Tonight Show? Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show?” 

     “You know another Tonight Show you’d prefer to be booked on?” Harry cackled. 

     “No! That’s great. Fabulous! Beyond fabulous! What’s beyond fabulous?”

     “Calm down! You’re going to shit yourself. I spoke to one of his people, a guy I know, who actually bought this. I told this guy you’re going to be a comedian with a fresh act. You’re going to tell your story – a reformed alcoholic funnyman. A lovable come-back comedian. And bring your cane. Felix specifically mentioned the Irish cane. Okay?” 

     “Does he expect me to tell jokes about being a drunk? Do I get to tell my sob story standing or seated next to Carson? How much time do I get? When is this going to take place? I can’t believe someone wants me to sit there and whine. I can’t do that. That’s not my schtick. I do impressions combined with political humor. Besides, I need time to prepare material.” 

     “That’s how you repay for getting this shot as a comeback with Carson? You’re going to whine? You’ve had eight months to prepare material. You have two weeks. Don’t forget, Jimmy, I’m risking my reputation on you. I can name a hundred hungry kids that would kill for the chance I managed to get you. Don’t make me regret it!” Harry roared. “Blow this and you don’t get another chance! Not with me! Understand?” 

     Phones ringing. Voices shouting. His usual office bedlam. “Harry, please don’t hang up,” I pleaded. “I won’t interrupt. Just give me the basics.” 

     The basics were: I would be the last act, which, depending on the time, might have to wait until the following night, or a free time slot in the future. I’d do four minutes stand-up, before sitting down with Carson and whichever of his guests were still there and “tell my story,” while trying to retain the remnants of my self respect. 

     I got busy immediately, which translated after controlling the panic. I found a pad and started jotting down notes. 

     The good news: Bringing my shillelagh was the easy part. I began using a cane nine or ten years ago, when I came down with a bad case of vertigo, possibly exacerbated by excessive alcohol consumption. With vertigo I was certain that the walls and furniture were moving. I needed something to steady me. To deflect attention from my teetering, I tapped the stage and either shrugged, shook my head or grimaced. As soon as I realized its value as a comedic prop, I swapped the cane for my even more distinctive grandfather’s shillelagh. 

     The bad news. One impressionist/comedian in particular was getting significant time and attention on television. He was that good. And my impressions were dated. Audiences were no longer interested in hearing anyone do James Cagney, Jimmy Duranate or Gary Cooper. With only two weeks to prepare, I didn’t have time to develop new ones. 

     I decided to use my precious four minutes solely on political jokes, before taking my place with undeniably the most powerful host on television. In the last ten years, Johnny Carson had made countless unknowns famous. For the next two weeks, every morning I scoured Millerville looking for every newspaper I could get my hands on. On the return drive, I tried to find an iota of humor in being a drunk who finds Jesus. 

     Jesus had to be taking pity on this miserable sinner, because I surprised the one and only Johnny Carson. He had been told to expect a sob story. He collapsed laughing during my four minute bit. “Where do you get your material?” he asked, wiping his eyes, after I’d sat down. 

     “You can find my material on every newsstand. The Times. The Tribune, The Wall Street Journal. Looking to save money? Ride the subway. By six o’clock you can find as many copies as you want, free, on the floor.” 

     After the show, as I was returning to the Green Room a man in his forties, with headphones around his neck stopped me. 

     “Johnny loved your set, especially the bit about Texas Senator Longhorn,” didn’t have to guess who that was. Felix Meyson,” he said. “Tell Harry that I was right to trust him.” Then, taking my arm and pulling me close, he whispered in my ear, “Nine years eleven months sober. In one month, I get my ten year chip.”

     “Wow! Nine years and eleven months. Impressive, Felix, Mr. Meyerson. I have you to thank, and Harry, of course. Thank you. You can’t imagine what this means to me.” 

     “It sounds like you know around Washington, kid. Did you ever consider running for office?” 

I laughed and shook my head. “I’m grateful to have a second chance. Comedy is all I know.” 

     Now that I was sober, late night talk show hosts loved having me on. My material was perfect for television. I wasn’t mean, vulgar or raunchy. I didn’t have to clean up a single joke. My wise mother, rest her soul, often said, “James Xavier Fitzpatrick, never use foul language or touch your privates where you will be seen or heard.” She was right. And now, I had an inspirational tale to relate, the come-back story of a lovable comedian, generously padded with self-deprecating humor. It paid the bills, including what I owed Fran, child support and regular deposits to my savings account. 

     But truth be told, I’m a far better comic when I'm slightly inebriated. New bits come to me as I’m working. My timing is deadly. Every impersonation is dead-on. For years, the audience never knew I was drunk. Sober, I’m clever, witty. At times, I wondered if I should’ve listened to my father and forget comedy. He tried to convince me to teach history, a subject I always enjoyed, to bored teenagers. 

     In 1984, I appeared with Merv Griffin and found myself talking with him after the show, still on the set. On stage he was funny. Off stage, he was known to be an outstanding businessman. I can’t recall how we got on the subject, but I remember parts of the conversation. 

     “Do I think you have a shot at Congress and you want my opinion?” he asked. “You’re doing great. No trouble getting gigs. Why now?” 

     “Frankly, I worry. Television isn’t like doing Vegas or comedy clubs, where I can use the same bits for a year. I’m going through material at the speed of light. Also, I have to admit, lacking alcohol to suppress common sense, running for Congress has been on my mind.” 

     “As a Democrat or Republican?” 

     “My family are all registered Republicans. Mostly I vote Republican, but I’ve been known to stray. Like you, I’m Irish. I had to vote for John Kennedy. Never regretted it. I would've voted for his brother Robert, if I had the chance.” 

     “Where do you currently vote?” 

     The question surprised me. “I promise, you’ve never heard of it. Millersville. Upstate New York. It’s so small we don’t have a stop sign, let alone a traffic light.” “Great! Assume you know many people there.” 

     I nodded. “The list that I don’t know you could write on your palm.” “Any dumb teenage pranks that got you arrested?” 

     “I was a choir boy. But there’s no way to hide that I’m a recovering alcoholic.” “Provided you don’t fall off the wagon, you should be able to make it work for you. People love the comeback kid, the underdog who walks away with the sterling silver trophy, the love of the fair maiden.” 

“No way that I’m falling off the wagon. Been there. Didn’t work for me.” “Thanks to television, people in little Millersville will recognize you. They know that you’re a funny guy and likable. Terrific! Now, what are you going to tell potential voters? They’re going to want to know what you have to offer them.” I had been increasingly optimistic until then. That stunned me. My mouth was open but silent. 

     “My advice? Forget political tap dancing. I can’t imagine you being good at it. Stick with the truth. Tell me anything true about you that might appeal to a voter.” I sighed. “I can’t be bought. Everyone knows that I’ve been up and hit rock bottom. What they don’t know is that money has never been my goal. I went into comedy because I enjoy making people laugh. I drive an old Ford which I don’t intend to replace until it dies a well deserved death. Wouldn’t know what to do with a custom made suit,” I said, pleased with myself. I was on a roll. “My cabin is furnished with stuff that I found on the side of the road or the town dump. I’m very good at resuscitating things. Needless to say, I take limousines only when they’re free, like the one you sent this evening.” 

     “An honest man who can’t be bought. You can sell that. I’d vote for you. And it doesn’t hurt that you’re a nice looking fellow. It’s not fair or logical, but people are far less likely to trust an ugly person,” were his final words to me. 

     I often wondered if he was serious or kidding. Merv Griffin was a brilliant complex man. 

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