Nixon’s The One!

From My Father, Myself; A Memoir

By Richard Humphries

The roadside orange juice stands began to

appear as soon as we crossed into Florida. I had

never seen such spots before and glided the

Oldsmobile Delta 88 to the third or fourth one we

came upon.

This wasn’t the usual A. & P. Supermarket’s

frozen yellow sludge. This juice was like none I had

ever tasted and was incredibly slaking to my sixteen

year old gulps.

The Drunk Couple lay snoring in each other’s

arms as my Timex read six-thirty in the morning.

So far my entire hitchhiking trip, solo, from

Pontiac had surprised me at every turn.

The friendliest was the salesman going from

Detroit to Knoxville. He was a father of three boys

and insisted on buying me two meals before

dropping me off and handing me five bucks and good

luck, kid.

The scariest was flying down the hills of

Kentucky, hanging on and sitting shotgun in a ’57

Chevrolet Belair, slightly under the influence of

moonshine. It was the first time I had ever been in

a car doing a hundred miles per hour.

The Drunk Couple were good enough sports. The

deal was, I would drive as they sat in the back seat,

taking long pulls from pints in paper bags. They

played grab-ass and murmured sex stuff while I

drove for the fifth time on my fresh State of Michigan

Operator’s License.

When the cop in Georgia pulled me over, I

explained I was getting used to the car, thus the

erratic lane changes.

 “How long you been driving, son?’ the Trooper

asked.

“About two months,” I replied and he stifled a

laugh and explained he meant driving today? He

was all right, told me to take it carefully and took off

in his cruiser. In 1968 such things happened.

The Drunk Couple were fat and kept that way by

insisting I stop at the next Sambo’s I saw. The

coffee shops in this chain were easily identified by

their colorful logo; a Black Sambo, in britches,

running from a tiger ‘round and ‘round a Palm tree.

The Drunk Couple loved Sambo’s famous

pancakes. They would treat to stacks of flapjacks

with all kinds of syrups. I encouraged this as I

viewed the caloric wonders as good booze sponges

and, Jesus, did they put the Wild Turkey away. The

whisky came from a case of pints in the trunk, each

a full one hundred and one proof alcohol. Good God,

they could drink.

We parted, at long last, when I took a wrong

exit that night, ending up at the end of a road, on a

beach, facing the ocean not thirty yards distant. The

Drunk Couple got a bit belligerent and I said my

goodbyes. We had made it to the outskirts of Miami.

Michigan was getting too small for me, yet I

possessed a certain degree of caution, as large as

my adventures were.

The Republicans were holding their National

Convention in Miami Beach, a somewhat legitimate

excuse with Mom whose approval was fundamental

to all major undertakings.

I faked up some ‘press credentials’ as a

photojournalist by way of a letter from my pal on the

school newsletter staff. This document, combined

with my fascination for a new-to-me Canon 35

millimeter camera represented enough proof of my

qualifications to my mother; a woman not adverse to

catching a break from her sixteen year old son’s

shenanigans.

Miami. Sun. Beaches. Girls.

And the Republican National Convention.

It was that or the Democrats and the Democrats

were holding their Convention in Chicago. Any guy

on vacation from Detroit who chooses Chicago over

Florida should have his head examined. So I closed

the deal with Mom and pointed my thumb South.

Miami Beach, man.

A room in an Art Deco hotel in South Beach—it

appeared merely decrepitly old in 1968—set me back

twelve bucks for the two-night minimum. Things

would improve, I was always sure back then.

 Her name was Christy. I am certain of it as

her name added an unnecessary layer of religious

guilt to our activities.

Christy was three years older than I, a light year

when you are sixteen.

She was an older woman and a virgin.

She would remind me of her maiden state three

or four times a day as we madly made out in the

stairwell of the Fontainebleau Hotel. She would gasp

about her condition between kisses as our legs

became entwined. Then she would bolt off, like

Sambo escaping the tiger’s clutches.

Deep down, part of me didn’t mind having a

limit to our activity. My mother had raised her boys

to try to be good.
 Besides, Christy’s enthusiastic Young

Republicanism seemed so innocent. From her

American flag cardboard hats to the red and white

bows on her blue patent leathers, she was a

believer.

I had met her five roommates, fellow Nixon

volunteers and equally politics-crazy, on this second

day of the Convention. It was my fourth day in

Miami and the sun and the warm ocean water had

given my teenager skin a healthy glow.

Wandering the halls of the hotel, Nixon

Headquarters, I had come upon this covey the

previous day and found I was the only male of my

generation present. I was made to feel welcome.

“Welcome, Mister Nixon,” the Woman-In-

Charge of the volunteers—and eventually responsible

for providing me a free double bed—said. “You’ll get

a kick out of this.”

I was about to again allow the woman’s little

joke. Pitiful, but I wanted to stay around for more

sessions with Christy.

“This young man’s name is Richard Wallace

Humphrey,” she would giggle with girlish wonder.

“Isn’t that a hoot?”

Our routine would be met with a good-natured

shake of the head on the hearer’s part. The punch

line lay in the fact that Richard was shared with

Nixon’s name, Wallace was a Southern Governor

running on his own and Humphries could be slurred

to represent the supposed Democratic candidate

Hubert Humphrey. My hormones persuaded me to

go along with the mispronunciation.

 Ex-Vice President Nixon seemed all right, to tell

the truth. The visit was a combined Goodwill, Press

and Comeback Tour.

The newspaper guys went along with the bit and

my mother was amazed to read the UPI item about a

high school reporter of the name Richard Wallace

Humphrey in the Detroit Free Press at work the next

day.

Impressed by her son’s adventures, she

sportingly accepted my expensive late-night collect

call to tell her of my meeting both Nixon and John

Wayne in the same day. She was not so impressed

with this report.

But Nixon was friendly, asked me where I was

from and thanked me for my non-existent Young

Republican support. Christy glowed at me from

across the room.

 I almost felt like a fake but reminded myself I

was there not only as a horny teenager but also as a

Journalist.

Christy wasn’t the only Republican full of

surprises.

Nixon pulled it off, somehow getting the

nomination on the first ballot. He owned the

Convention until surprising everyone with his Vice

Presidential choice the next day.

The Young Republicans surprised me with a paid

bus ticket home. All this after they comped my non-

shared Fontainebleau Hotel room.

And Christy would shyly visit my flocked-wall-

paper lair where we improvised intimate excursions

that circumnavigated her sexual obstacles.

‘NIXON’S THE ONE!’ her red-white-and-blue

sash proclaimed, hanging from the bathroom door.

 I did my part to help to earn my keep. When I

was out and about taking photos, I’d often run an

errand for the ladies; pick up Convention tickets at

another hotel, get some more pizzas.

The huge Fontainebleau Hotel squatted facing

the long white stretch of sand and aqua waters in

Miami Beach. It was packed with happy Republicans

smelling of tobacco smoke and perfume and drinks

and aftershave.

The pool was a blast and I found the cabana

guys would simply ignore my non-tipping presence if

Christy came with. I recall her wearing a very non-

virginal red, white and blue bikini.

I was really enjoying myself.

. . .

I was beginning to feel miserable.

 My new job, at age 30, was an executive

position at New York’s oldest art gallery. But

something about my boss, ‘The ‘Doctor’, troubled

me.

A very rich man, he had recruited me based on

my reputation in San Francisco as an accomplished

art gallery director.

But, three months after moving to Manhattan

from Mill Valley, I felt I might have been hired to

amuse my employer; like a trained monkey.

And I couldn’t pin him down on the money

promises. I’d get a run-around. How do you think he

got so rich? I’d remind myself.

I’d traipse along on our weekly visit to La

Goulue, anxious to broach the subject of money. A

Croque Monsieur for me and a Caesar salad, no

dressing or anchovies, for The Doctor.

 It became a familiar dance.

I’d try to pin him down.

He’d remind me to think BIG. Think of sales,

not salary.

What did I think of the current project?

And I’d respond with some positive sounding

bullshit about the Current Project.

The Current Project consisted of my being

present during his sittings for a Park Avenue portrait

painter.

“How’s it looking?” he asked me from his seat on

the studio’s riser as The Artist worked at his easel.

I’d be standing in the rear of the room and

cringed every time he asked.

“Gosh,” I’d say in wonder, “I’ve never seen such

use of burnt sienna.”

 New to New York, I could still be fame-struck

at times.

“Hello, Mister President,” I said to the man

getting out of the limo. Nixon turned and looked at

me. “I met you in Miami in 1968.”

His daughter, Julie, lived with her husband

David Eisenhower in a co-op building directly across

the street from the gallery. We were all in the same

block as the Frick, between Fifth and Madison

Avenues. I rented a parking space in the building’s

garage.

Politically, I had nothing in common with the

disgraced former President of The United States.

But I just had to say ‘Hello.’ Out of politeness or

fascination.

He silently smiled and nodded past the security

man next to him, moving to shake my hand.

 “Richard Wallace Humphries,” I said idiotically as

we briefly shook hands. “Wonderful to see you, Sir.”

Mother would have approved of my manners.

It was again time for our weekly La

Goulue pilgrimage and surely The Doctor had

straightened out my employment contract by now. I

hadn’t paid my Amex account on time and was

wondering if the plastic card would withstand the

lunch tab.

The Doctor never reached for the bill and

Accounting took their time with the reimbursements.

Was I was low-key enough in my dark blue,

double-breasted designer suit? Was I dressing too

well for these outings? Maybe a more financially

stressed look?
 No. You have to Dress For Success. ‘He Who

Dies With The Most Toys Wins’, we liked to think in

1982.

I met The Doctor at the elevator and we went

down two stories to the gallery’s main floor.

“Mister Humphries?” A very clean-cut guy asked

as we walked by the reception desk. “President

Nixon would like to have a word with you.”

The man flipped out his badge. Secret Service is

such a nineteenth century sounding agency.

I don’t remember crossing the street, but I do

remember the agents asking The Doctor to stand

back, please, Sir? And I remember Richard Milhous

Nixon pointing the index finger of his right hand at

me.
 “You were there as a Young Republican, weren’t

you?” he said between the two of us, sure of himself.

“I remember you.”

The ex-President smiled and strolled away,

leaving my boss and me to walk the five blocks to

the restaurant in silence. My new status in The

Doctor’s eyes inspired him to finally confirm my pay

package over lunch.

. . .

The first stop on my Bahamas honeymoon the

next year was Miami for one night.

We stayed at the Fontainebleau. They have a

Marilyn Monroe suite and a JFK suite, but not a room

named after Nixon. Not one.

Cover design: www.ryanhumphries.com

Cover image: Library of Congress; Prints Coll., Washington, D.C