Following a candidate for President of the United States for the thirteen months as a freelance writer had proven to be a roller coaster ride of fast ups, fast downs, curves when you were not quite ready and, mostly, a renewed belief in the motto, “Expect the unexpected.” Gennifer Flowers focused the media mindset on sex almost from the start, and my being from Little Rock caused my own prominence at hushed meetings with journalists at Josephine's restaurant in Arkansas' Excelsior Hotel or Ashley's Restaurant in the exclusive Capitol Hotel. Of course, I was there to get a story like everyone else so anything I said was off-the-record; all I needed was to see my name in print just once, and I'd never get another interview with the candidate.
Thursday, October 3, 1991, was one of those Indian Summer days Arkansans know all too well. The sky was blue with a temperature in the mid-eighties when the governor walked onto the platform at the Old State House. Thirteen minutes into his speech he announced his candidacy to the mostly loyal 4,500 gathered under the shade trees. I had opted not to join the media on their platform, preferring to stand with the crowd and record this historic moment from the John Doe perspective. Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow, the Fleetwood Mac hit song, began blaring from the loudspeakers just as the speech ended. Thirteen months later the entire nation would see the newly elected First and Second Couples dancing to the same music when they claimed victory.
The music was still blaring as hundreds of people walked the hundred yards to a fund-raising reception at the Excelsior. I smiled when members of the national media were told they would have to contribute at least ten bucks for admittance to the reception. It was, after all, a fund raiser. To me, however, it was a classic political move on the candidate's part. As each ten dollar bill was pulled from pockets, wallets and purses belonging to reporters, the campaign was beginning to exercise control over those who would become crucial in Bill’s attempt to unseat an incumbent president.
Maggie was trying to borrow money from her cameraman when I moved up beside her. "Here, darling," I drawled in my best south Arkansas dialect. "Allow me to introduce you to the next president," I said while pressing a ten into her palm.
Every time I reflect on the New Hampshire primary and remember the young man holding the sign proclaiming Hillary is a Fox I think of Maggie because that lovely Network brunette was truly, in all aspects, a fox. She had the bluest eyes; I cannot tell you how many times in the thirteen months following that initial meeting that I lost all grasp of reality while staring deeply into those clear, Caribbean-blue windows to her soul.
Of course I did not have to make any introduction; he knew who she was. A few minutes passed while we moved through the throng of people to a less crowded area.
"He called you Eric," Maggie said. "How well do you know him."
"I met him back in '78 when he began the successful part of his political career, and I've talked to him at dozens of functions since then. I've visited with him out at the capitol a few times and even attended a party at the mansion once."
"What sort of party," the reporter asked.
"Nothing really special. You see, once a year Bill had a little punch-and-cookies party for retiring state workers, and I just happened to get invited one year," I answered.
She smiled. "You know, Eric. I think you're someone I need to keep in close touch with."
"The closer and touchier, the better," I drawled. "After all, I got ten bucks invested in you."
The cameraman caught up with us and told Maggie they needed to get some shots of her in the crowd. She excused herself, but called back, "Are you going to Des Moines Saturday?"
"No, I plan to stay in Little Rock till things get going hot and heavy. Probably won't venture out till the New Hampshire primary next year," I answered.
A broad smile revealed her perfect white teeth and made her even prettier. "Okay, I'll see you in Concord," she said. She took two steps then turned back to find my eyes still following her. "If not before," she added with a wink.
Maggie followed her cameraman into the crowd; I turned my attention to working the crowd: listening intently, interrupting when necessary to clarify the notes gleaned from eavesdropping. I was talking to a well-known TV producer when Maggie walked up, microphone in hand.
"Eric, here's someone you can introduce me to," she said, posing that zipper-busting smile at the producer.
"Maggggieeeee," he beamed. His arms folded around the network reporter. "How are you, hon?"
"I guess you two know one another already," I said.
The Hollywood producer smiled. "Oh, yeah. I've known Mag for...how many years?" he said while turning back toward the beautiful brunette.
"Who's counting?" she replied.
Maggie assumed her reporter persona rather quickly. "How does it feel to have etched your place in presidential history by giving the longest introductory speech of anyone on the platform today?" There was that smile again.
"Hon, you just remember one thing that I said today; that's what history will see: the president has just met his worst nightmare. Mark it down...and watch," he replied.
Almost immediately he was drawn away by a campaign staffer.
"Listen, Eric," she said. "Yesterday I heard some talk about a nightclub singer. Do you know anything about her?"
I glanced around to make sure the cameraman wasn't taping us. "How 'bout us finding a dimly lit bar somewhere, and I'll give you my take on that?"
She glanced at her watch. "I've got to go live in a couple of hours. Would you settle for a bottle of wine being sent up to my room?"
I tried my level best to conceal the excitement I felt, even though I could see the hair on my arms standing at attention. "Sure," I answered. "But only if you will remember one thing."
"What?" she asked with an inquisitive expression.
"We're in Arkansas. I'm from Arkansas. Born and bred in Arkansas. Mind if we order a six-pack?"
She guffawed. "No problem," she answered with a pretty good Caribbean imitation.
Her room was on the ninth floor of the Excelsior and looked out over the Arkansas River. I walked to the opened drapes. "If you look real hard, you can almost see where I live over there on the horizon," I said.
Maggie was beside me, handing me a Bud Light. "I'll be sure to come to the window tonight before I go to bed and say goodnight to you."
The beating of my heart shifted into overdrive. There was a moment of awkward silence before Maggie spoke again.
"Okay, bud...spill your guts!" she said, this time with a Jimmy Cagney imitation.
We moved to the sofa; I with a beer, her hand cradling a glass of Kendall Jackson Chardonnay. The beautiful brunette curled onto the sofa after kicking off her shoes, sitting on her feet, her knees pointed at me. The skirt had pulled about six inches above those marvelous knees, pulling my gaze as well.
I cleared my throat and raised my eyes to hers. "Off the record?" She nodded.
"Back in '88, I believe it was, we had our own little Nicaragua-Contra scandal in state government. A state employee reportedly had used state phones to make dozens of calls to Latin America. When he was caught, he was fired. When he was fired, he tried to protect himself and get reinstated to his job by threatening to reveal all sorts of sexual affairs. For some reason, the number eighteen sticks in my mind. Black, white, beauty queens, government employees... the whole shooting match. But he couldn't or at least didn't produce proof that anyone ever had sex with anyone else."
"And the local press killed the story," Maggie said.
"Well, it didn't look like there was a story. You just sort of expect pissed-off people to vent frustrations. Anyway, the local Republican party has been a joke forever. But, in 1990, they offered a decent gubernatorial candidate. They knew they'd get the thirty-three percent negative vote. Finding something to grab another seventeen-plus percent would not be an easy matter. The claims were brought up again. Names were named and tape recordings were said to exist.
