I walked down the hall, wondering what the man would look like, now, after all that had happened in his life. I had seen pictures, of course, but I had never met him. Few of us had. I was not prepared properly, I felt, to be about to do so now. Was my dress acceptable? The two large men escorting me had suits and were well groomed, but of course they were- they worked here. My denim shirt and torn, brown boots seemed a little vulgar in this fine house, but what could I do now? I was here. And I would just have to deal with whatever the hell it was that He wanted with me.
We arrived, after a lengthy walk down the corrider, at two very imposing oak doors, separated by three feet of mahogany wall. The guards stopped, and waited, saying nothing. Finally a buzzer on the other side of the left door could be heard, and the door swung open slowly and automaticaly. One of the guards motioned to me, and I stepped through.
The office was not dark and deep, as I had imagined, but lit with the sun through a massive window on the far back wall, about thirty feet away. I was slightly blinded for a moment after the darkness of the hallway, and as I shielded my eyes I heard a voice that sounded exactly like John Huston coming from my left, saying "There he is at last- the man of the hour." I turned quickly, and saw the old devil himself leaning against a plain table- desk, just a large flat suface of light wood and four sturdy legs. His legs were very long, and he had the tree-branch-like fingers of a basketball player, which were draped over the edge of his perch.
"Man of the hour?" I asked. I stepped closer to him, recognizing the look in his eyes from the one photo portrait I had seen. He was much older now, but still looked vigorous and active, as if he had just been doing something important the moment before I came in. As I approached, he pushed himself off the edge of the desk and drew up to his full height. His face, as I looked closer,looked like some twisted cross between Lon Chaney and Mark Twain- eyes crazy and wide, but jaw set, his mouth closed. He didn't hesitate to open it, either, and this was something else I hadn't expected, for I had always thought of him as some old sorcerer, sitting alone in a tower somewhere and never divulging his terrible wisdom to anyone, and certainly not to the upstart manager of a very freaky and much criticized campaign.
We said nothing for a moment, but stood and looked into the eyes of the other. It was an awkward few seconds, for me, but not in any way negative is my memory of that strange moment. I felt that this man perhaps had the capability of being above, morally speaking, some of the horrible pigs that were essentially his underlings, but then I had barely spoken with him, much less figure out what this was all about, so I figured I had better not assume anything. Finally he stuck out his hand, and we shook. As he released my hand, I spoke.
"What can I do for you, sir?" I said.
"Don't you know?" he replied.
I thought for second, then said with total sincerity, "No, sir, I don't."
"Have you ever been to the Middle East, Mr.White?"

It was late in the day, and the sun was beginning to sink. I had gone home early from work, so I was naturally very deep into a contemplative combination of whiskey and Moroccan black hash when I recieved a call from some loud woman who called herself Sarah Parker. The name seemed familiar, as did the brutish voice, thick with a Carolina preacher's daughter's accent, but in my haze I couldn't place the person.
"Have we met?" I belligerently interrupted. She didn't mind.
"Well, hell yes, Mr. White," she said, "as a matter of fact we have. I was on the staff for Dukakis in '88- so you may not remember me, but I surely do remember yousir." She said "sir" not in deference to my standing in Washington or something but in the southern way of combining yes or you with sir, to make yessir or yousir.
Something in her tone and this accent jarred my memory.
"Ah yes, dear girl," I began drunkenly. "So nice to hear from your pretty face again," I struggled a bit here, if I remember right," and what can I do for you?"
"Actually, Mr. White, we were hoping that you could come for a speech. Next week, in Nashua."
"Nashua, Nashua New Hampshire? well, I'd love to, but that's about a thousand miles outside my current affordable range...and who's we?"
She ignored the last part, but went on: "Mr. White, my boss has already sent you a plane ticket. It should be in your mailbox. She paused. "Come to Nashua, sir. You'll be surprised. I was." Then she hung up.
I sat there for a moment with the phone glued to my ear. What the fuck?, I thought. Of course, in my line of work, proposals like this came often, but who the hell was Sarah working for that got my home number, which I took great pains to conceal from the public as well as from most people in politics.
This was, of course, no small feat, and I took it seriously, because I wanted to know that there was somewhere I could go at my own will where no senator, staffer, or unknown person of any kind could reach me for whatever reason. This kept me effectively disembodied from the Machine, and it helped me a good deal in observing It with a clear head.