ASSASSINATION

November 1963

Everyone knows where they were when they heard the news that John F. Kennedy had been assassinated.

I’m in Sacramento working at Fulton Trailer Sales. My job is to clean mobile homes. I mop the floors, wash the windows, swab the toilets, and polish the stainless steel. I also put air in the tires, patch the leaky roofs, repair wiring, unclog drains, and flush sewage tanks. It’s a good clean job. I don’t really want a good clean job or any other job, but having to do something for money, this job is as good as any. I like Roger and Ferderburger, the salesmen who mostly play gin rummy in the office and tell each other lies. I admire them for getting paid for hanging around doing nothing. Someday I’ll do that.

Two or three nights a week I play bass with a young jazz group led by a curly headed kid they call BeBop. BeBop is actually kind of bashful, fresh out of High School, innocent, a nice kid. But when he picks up his saxophone all that is gone. He’s assertive, daring, sometimes losing himself, sometimes becoming monstrous. His sound is big and sweet in the Coltrane style. He practices technique constantly until he can run the scales with abandon, trusting his instincts, usually landing on his feet. But even when he falls off the stand, so to speak, pushing the tune beyond its limits, beyond a containable form and leaving the rest of us squinting at him with that “where the fuck are you” look, he is unapologetic, shrugging it off with a foolish grin and busting ahead into the next tune.

I clean toilets in the day time and play music at night. I sometimes hang out with the musicians and odd balls that gravitate around jazz and the jazz mind. But most of the time I am a loner because I know I can trust myself best.


About noon that day I am eating my lunch on the steps of the office when Ferderburger calls out that I have a phone call. It is my sister.

“They shot the President!” she says.

“They what?”

“They shot President Kennedy. He might be dead!” My sister is very upset.

“It’s on TV!”, she wails.

“OK, I’m going home to watch”, I say, “I can’t believe it.”

All the major news casters are on the story. They are very serious. Dallas, Texas. Riding in a convertible waving to the crowds that line the streets. Two or three shots, they don’t know how many. Secret Service agents. Nation in shock. President Lyndon Baines Johnson.

A couple of hours later, when I can’t look at the TV any more, I smoke a joint, climb into the car and go for a drive. The whole city is hushed. At a stop sign I notice a woman in the car next to me crying openly. She looks at me and shakes her head in grief, and I do the same back to her in sympathy. We share something intimate. She drives on while I sit there for a moment.

Driving past the Alhambra Theater I impulsively pull to a stop in front of a Sambo’s Pancake House to look up at the moving neon sign that sits atop the entrance. It is of a little black boy dressed only in blue shorts being chased around a palm tree by a tiger. The little boy’s eyes are big and white; the tiger is snarling. Around and around they spin day and night without stopping. I am fascinated. The tiger never stops snarling. The boy never gets caught.

As if on cue, a young woman walks out of the restaurant and up to my car. She opens the passenger door, looks in, sweet smile on a friendly face, and climbs in without a word. She shuts the door, points down the boulevard and says, “Drive”. It is Jessie, the wife of a trombone player named Jerry Stone. Occasionally Jerry and I play together, sometimes on gigs, sometimes in a rehearsal band called Big Foot. I have met Jessie a few times before but don’t know her well. After a couple of blocks I look over at her wondering what’s going on. She gives me a long personal smile that tells me something is stirring. I say nothing.

“Where’s Jerry?” I finally ask.

“On the road with Maynard Ferguson.”

“Mr. Screech.”

“I guess”

She chews her gum tightly for a moment.

I feel a twitch. (Stay cool, Mickey.)

Her hair is cut even just above the shoulders, sandy, straight and hip. She reminds me a little of Peggy Lee – the eyes and the silky hair, face of experience, a few new crow’s feet. Not the high cheek bones that Peggy had, and Jessie’s mouth is warmer and slightly wet. Her cool stare shows that she is not yet tamed, and doesn’t intend to be. Sitting next to her I am attracted by her warmth, while being cautioned by her otherness, her unknowable femininity. It is her power. She is not unusually beautiful but her light hazel eyes create a mystery that catches me. I peek at her breasts, mature and still smiling out at the world. My mind can feel her sex vibrating the car. Another twitch. (Stay cool Mickey, just stay cool.)

“Turn here”, she says, leading me into a residential neighborhood where I presume she lives. But I’m wrong. After another turn she says, “Stop here”, and I pull up to the curb in front of a vacant lot in the middle of the block. There is a huge oak tree in the center of the lot reaching out over the sidewalk forming a canopy over the car. In one smooth motion her skirt comes up and her panties come down. She pulls me over to the passenger side, unbuckles my pants, slips her hand into my shorts, and puts her tongue in my mouth. She straddles me, raises herself up and over Mickey, teasing him for a moment, looking into my eyes with a mischievous sexy smile, and then guides him home as her eyes roll back. She sinks her teeth into my neck just below the left ear and does not let go. Here we are in the middle of Sacramento at six-fourteen PM on November 22nd in the fading evening light, fucking like insanity itself! Anyone might walk by, the mailman, kids on bikes, a funeral march, a clutch of Nuns. But we are alone, invisible. We are in a world where there is no car, no oak tree, no mailman, no neighborhood, no Little Black Sambo, no assassination of the President, no mobile homes or trailer salesmen, or bone players, or even John Coltrane! In this moment we are locked together like flying birds, melting and then silent as we rise to the surface.

We share a feeling of gratitude for one another. We are together in this world, for this moment, in this time. There is a whiteness, like that light at the end of the tunnel one sees upon death. We know this is a death, a beautiful, sweet moment of death into which we have stepped instinctively without forethought or plan. An impulse to fly.


“Where to?”, I ask, pulling away from the curb.

She studies me for a moment and says, “Reno”.

“Are we getting married?”

“Absolutely, but first I’ve got to call my mother and see if she’ll keep the kids tonight”.

We pull into a gas station where I gas up while she makes the call.

“She’s the best. Knows me like a book”, says Jessie, slipping back into the car.

She slides over next to me putting her hand on my leg like we have been together for years. I pull out into the traffic, find highway 80 and head east into the foothills. It’s cold, there might be snow, we’re in my ’47 Chevy, I don’t have chains, I’m supposed to work tomorrow at the lot, but there’s magic in the air. Let it be.


Eastward into the mountains. There is hardly a sign of life, animal or human. This is a national day of silence, disbelief, shock. But inside the Chevy the heater is on, music on the radio, the gas tank is full and a lady named Jessie sits close to me with her hand resting on my leg. Two hours ago I was roaming the streets without a purpose. Things change.

Jessie takes two smokes from my pack of Pall Mall, lights them both and puts one in my mouth. It is a gesture of familiarity, and coming from a woman I hardly know it gets me to wondering about her.

“OK”, I ask, “what’s going on with you?”

She looks at me with a sweet grin but says nothing.

“I mean, you jump into my car, fuck me in the front seat in a residential neighborhood, and now you’re taking me to Reno. What’s going on, lady?” I’m smiling.

“Are you complaining?”, she asks.

“Not in the least, just wondering what’s happening.”

“It is what it is”, she says and looks away, out the window.

“Don’t wonder so much”, she adds.

Then she turns to me and says. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-four, want to see my ID?”

“I think I like you better with your mouth closed and your pants unzipped”, she says, but with a little Peggy Lee grin. She leans over and bites my ear really hard and I yelp.

“That’ll teach you to mind your own business”, she says, and then kisses me on the mouth while I strain to watch the road.

She gives Mickey a squeeze and whispers in my ear, “It is what it is”. I say no more.


In a couple of hours we reach the summit and pull in to the rest stop where there are no other cars. The air is cold and sharp as we head to the restrooms. In a few minutes she joins me where I am shivering but happy sitting on a picnic bench breathing in the fresh mountain air. The stars hang clear and sharp, a shield of diamonds. There is no evidence of a moon. The heavens shed a silver light on the tall fir, standing silent like witnesses in the darkness. I start to go back to the car but she stops me, puts her arms inside my jacket, pulls up my shirt and slides her cold hands up my back. She gives me a long soft kiss and I slip my hands inside her sweater and hold her close. Here we stand alone in the purity of the cold air among the dark trees in the glow of starlight. This is peace, a long moment of peace and purity, and absolutely nothing else exists. Time has stopped in a beautiful way. The warmth of a woman. Two creatures standing together on the top of a high mountain, drifting silently through the universe, alone.


As the highway winds down to Clear Lake and then further down the mountain into Nevada, leveling out just before reaching Reno, she begins to tell me about herself. “I’m four years older than you”, she says, lighting another smoke. The radio is off leaving us with only the hum of the Chevy to frame the silence. “From the time I was ten years old I wanted to be a singer. My father was a tenor player and would often go out with the Stan Kenton band when they were still doing tours. One time I went to a rehearsal and met June Christy. I was nineteen and when my dad told her I wanted to be a singer she said, ‘Sing something for me’. Of course I was embarrassed but I was also brazen. Without hesitating I sang, ‘Something cool, I’d like to order something cool’. She clapped with joy hearing me sing one of her most famous songs and joined me for a few lines, and then they had to go back to work.” She stops now, looking away again and I can feel her emotion. I had no idea that she was a singer and that her dad was an accomplished saxophone player. “About a year later my dad got cancer and we moved up from L.A. to Sacramento so my mom could work as a Legal Secretary in the Capitol Building. When he died I decided I didn’t want to be a singer any more. I just wanted to get married and have kids. Then I met Jerry.” She stops talking. “So why are we together tonight?”, I ask. She considers me for a moment and replies, “You talk too much.”


Reno sits like an oasis on the edge of the Mojave desert, glowing like a distant Christmas tree in the darkness. Finally we glide under the glittering arch that names the town, “The Biggest Little City In The World”. There doesn’t seem to be much to the place other than a few streets of brashly lit casinos and hotels. It isn’t until years later that I discover that the beautiful Truckee River runs along the edge of the casinos, dividing the tourist traps from the residential and general business districts. We check into the El Dorado as Mr. and Mrs. and look around for something to eat.

In Reno the food is plentiful and cheap. I suppose they want you to be happy with a full belly when you step into the gaming rooms. Nothing to distract you from your goal of striking it rich. Get rich quick! It’s easy. Just look at the posters of happy men and women who are just like you with piles of gold coins gleaming in front of them. It’s that easy. Who’s next to walk away rich? Occasionally a slot machine rings boisterously alerting everyone of another big winner. From around a roulette wheel a woman whinnies with delight.

I pull a twenty out of my jeans and say to Jessie, “Let’s see how long it takes to lose this”. I change the bill for twenty silver dollars and head for the big dollar machine with the long arm and large images of fruit, bells, and stars. The machine emits a recorded clicking sound and colored lights flash when it is engaged. Earning two dollars an hour, the twenty represents ten hours work for me; ten hours of cleaning trailers and swabbing toilets. I drop in a buck and spin the wheels. Two cherries. Five silver dollars clang into the tray. “Hey, that was easy”, I say dropping in another buck. A lady wearing a tutu and fish net stockings comes by and asks if we want a drink. Drinks are free when you are spending your money. We order scotch and water. The next coin doesn’t pay off, nor do the next ten. I give Jessie five coins, but she wins nothing. This isn’t going to last long, I am thinking, and that’s just fine with me. I’ve got my mind set on a long night between the sheets with Jessie. It’s been two years since I have spent an entire night with a woman, and I’m looking forward to this.

With just a few coins left in my pocket we pass by a dice table with a small crowd gathered around. I’ve never played craps before and have no idea how to make a bet. Casually, as if I have it all figured out, I toss a silver dollar on the table having no idea what kind of bet I am making. I look at Jessie and give her small shrug of my shoulders. “Let’s see what happens”, I say, ordering two more scotches as the drink lady passes by. A skinny woman with fire in her eyes throws the dice down the table. They bounce off the padded walls and finally come to rest. “Easy four”, says the dealer, and puts two silver dollars on top of my bet. I nudge Jessie, “Look at that. Two dollars. Not bad.” I let the three dollars ride as the dice roll again. “Six n two is eight!”, calls the dealer with a nasal voice, and puts six more dollars on my spot and I’ve got nine dollars total! I let it ride again. “Ten!” he shouts and stacks eighteen dollars more around my bet. The drink lady brings our scotch and I’m feeling a little cocky. “Fuck it”, I say like a millionaire, “let it ride”. I win again and feel a shiver run through my body. A shiver of panic. I reach for the money but before I can get it all off the table I win again and the silver dollars begin to pile up. Jessie is laughing now and clapping. The whole crowd around the table is stirring as my coins continue to multiply. I don’t even know what the bet is. Over or under, hard or soft, odd or even, I have no idea what any of that means, but after two more wins the money is in a big pile on the table and the dice keep rolling. “Hard six!” The crowd roars, Jessie laughs, and I grab at the dollars and start filling my pockets. Soon my jacket pockets are full and then my jeans pockets, front and back until I feel like my pants might collapse around my ankles. Laughter and applause, “Double fives!” Mayhem. I am losing my cool. I see myself running out into the street and throwing the money into the air. People come pouring out of the clubs and restaurants, having forgotten the assassinated President, franticly fighting for the money. And the dollars keep coming. They have no value to me anymore. They are just round coins with images stamped on them. “E Pluribus Unum”. It might as well say “Have A Nice Day”, as far as I am concerned. “Double sixes!” More mayhem. There is a riot in the streets where everyone is fighting for the money, clawing each other, punching their friends and neighbors, their own wives and children, stepping on fingers and hands. Noses bleeding; teeth shattered. A silver dollar rolls through a grate and down the sewer. Two men and a boy snatch off the sewer grate and dive in after the dollar. I can hear them fighting for it down below, their voices echoing down the sewer pipes, reverberating, magnifying, until finally the police arrive with batons at the ready. Once they see what’s going on they dive into the melee swinging their clubs and cracking skulls randomly, grabbing for the coins. And since it is money that is in question, here come the politicians in tailor made suits and red white and blue neck ties with a carnation in each lapel. “Whoa”, they shout and pile in with the cops and the gamblers and the bar tenders and cab drivers and prostitutes and maids and still the dollars flow like gravel down a shoot into the street. The two men and the boy are punching and scratching below the street until finally the boy emerges, wet and putrid, with the silver dollar between his teeth, and the screams of the two men fade away down the endless sewer pipes of Reno, Nevada, The Greatest Little City In The World!


Finally, I start to lose. “Fifty four is nine!” says the dealer. “Oh”, sighs the crowd around the table. “Here”, I say to Jessie, “take twenty to cover our original investment and then we’ll be playing on their money”. I begin to empty my pockets as I continue to lose the dollars. “Here, take another twenty to cover the room. And another twenty for the meals and gas.” Frantically I am trying to empty my pockets. I don’t want all these things. I have no need for these silver symbols that have no value. I feel heavy and slightly ill. There are six scotch and waters waiting to be swallowed as I haven’t had time to drink.

And then finally, it is over. My pockets are dry. My head is woozy. The people ignore me. The streets are empty. The politicians are tucked away in their beds. The sewer is unclogged. The dead President is in his casket awaiting burial. And Jessie is tugging at my sleeve.

“Let’s go to the room”, she urges.

Yes, yes. To the room. To the refuge of our third floor hotel room with the clean sheets and the puffy pillows and new carpet, and the freshly scrubbed toilet seat. Yes, let’s get up to the room, Jessie, and slide in between those sheets. I need you tonight. I need to burry my head between your warm breasts and slide Mickey between your thighs, dear lady. I need to swim with you beneath the surface, flowing with the current that urges us together, halleluiah, floating us down into the depths of our dream. Glide with me down deep, Jessie, with your blond hair and those hazel eyes gleaming like jewels in this opaque silence. I want to know nothing, Jessie, hear nothing, and feel only your body and your soul enveloping the man that I am, filling me with wonder, and grace, and the peace of your love.

I want to die with you, Jessie, at least for this long night – this night of assassination, this night of the gleaming bright stars, this night of mayhem and confusion, this night of the mystery of your sex, your kiss, your touch, your voice.

I want to die with you, Jessie, down here on the ocean floor where the current rocks us gently to sleep, and the silent fish watch over us with eyes that never blink.